Shapes of Clay - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 45

AN ALIBI.

A famous journalist, who long Had told the great unheaded throng Whate'er they thought, by day or night. Was true as Holy Writ, and right, Was caught in—well, on second thought, It is enough that he was caught, And being thrown in jail became The fuel of a public flame. "Vox populi vox Dei," said The jailer. Inxling bent his head Without remark: that motto good In bold-faced type had always stood Above the columns where his pen Had rioted in praise of men And all they said—provided he Was sure they mostly did agree. Meanwhile a sharp and bitter strife To take, or save, the culprit's life Or liberty (which, I suppose, Was much the same to him) arose Outside. The journal that his pen Adorned denounced his crime—but then Its editor in secret tried To have the indictment set aside. The opposition papers swore His father was a rogue before, And all his wife's relations were Like him and similar to her. They begged their readers to subscribe A dollar each to make a bribe That any Judge would feel was large Enough to prove the gravest charge— Unless, it might be, the defense Put up superior evidence. The law's traditional delay Was all too short: the trial day Dawned red and menacing. The Judge Sat on the Bench and wouldn't budge, And all the motions counsel made Could not move him—and there he stayed. "The case must now proceed," he said, "While I am just in heart and head, It happens—as, indeed, it ought— Both sides with equal sums have bought My favor: I can try the cause Impartially." (Prolonged applause.) The prisoner was now arraigned And said that he was greatly pained To be suspected—he, whose pen Had charged so many other men With crimes and misdemeanors! "Why," He said, a tear in either eye, "If men who live by crying out 'Stop thief!' are not themselves from doubt Of their integrity exempt, Let all forego the vain attempt To make a reputation! Sir, I'm innocent, and I demur." Whereat a thousand voices cried Amain he manifestly lied— Vox populi as loudly roared As bull by picadores gored, In his own coin receiving pay To make a Spanish holiday. The jury—twelve good men and true— Were then sworn in to see it through, And each made solemn oath that he As any babe unborn was free From prejudice, opinion, thought, Respectability, brains—aught That could disqualify; and some Explained that they were deaf and dumb. A better twelve, his Honor said, Was rare, except among the dead. The witnesses were called and sworn. The tales they told made angels mourn, And the Good Book they'd kissed became Red with the consciousness of shame. Whenever one of them approached The truth, "That witness wasn't coached, Your Honor!" cried the lawyers both. "Strike out his testimony," quoth The learned judge: "This Court denies Its ear to stories which surprise. I hold that witnesses exempt From coaching all are in contempt." Both Prosecution and Defense Applauded the judicial sense, And the spectators all averred Such wisdom they had never heard: 'Twas plain the prisoner would be Found guilty in the first degree. Meanwhile that wight's pale cheek confessed The nameless terrors in his breast. He felt remorseful, too, because He wasn't half they said he was. "If I'd been such a rogue," he mused On opportunities unused, "I might have easily become As wealthy as Methusalum." This journalist adorned, alas, The middle, not the Bible, class. With equal skill the lawyers' pleas Attested their divided fees. Each gave the other one the lie, Then helped him frame a sharp reply. Good Lord! it was a bitter fight, And lasted all the day and night. When once or oftener the roar Had silenced the judicial snore The speaker suffered for the sport By fining for contempt of court. Twelve jurors' noses good and true Unceasing sang the trial through, And even vox populi was spent In rattles through a nasal vent. Clerk, bailiff, constables and all Heard Morpheus sound the trumpet call To arms—his arms—and all fell in Save counsel for the Man of Sin. That thaumaturgist stood and swayed The wand their faculties obeyed— That magic wand which, like a flame. Leapt, wavered, quivered and became A wonder-worker—known among The ignoble vulgar as a Tongue. How long, O Lord, how long my verse Runs on for better or for worse In meter which o'ermasters me, Octosyllabically free!— A meter which, the poets say, No power of restraint can stay;— A hard-mouthed meter, suited well To him who, having naught to tell, Must hold attention as a trout Is held, by paying out and out The slender line which else would break Should one attempt the fish to take. Thus tavern guides who've naught to show But some adjacent curio By devious trails their patrons lead And make them think 't is far indeed. Where was I? While the lawyer talked The rogue took up his feet and walked: While all about him, roaring, slept, Into the street he calmly stepped. In very truth, the man who thought The people's voice from heaven had caught God's inspiration took a change Of venue—it was passing strange! Straight to his editor he went And that ingenious person sent A Negro to impersonate The fugitive. In adequate Disguise he took his vacant place And buried in his arms his face. When all was done the lawyer stopped And silence like a bombshell dropped Upon the Court: judge, jury, all Within that venerable hall (Except the deaf and dumb, indeed, And one or two whom death had freed) Awoke and tried to look as though Slumber was all they did not know. And now that tireless lawyer-man Took breath, and then again began: "Your Honor, if you did attend To what I've urged (my learned friend Nodded concurrence) to support The motion I have made, this court May soon adjourn. With your assent I've shown abundant precedent For introducing now, though late, New evidence to exculpate My client. So, if you'll allow, I'll prove an alibi!" "What?—how?" Stammered the judge. "Well, yes, I can't Deny your showing, and I grant The motion. Do I understand You undertake to prove—good land!— That when the crime—you mean to show Your client wasn't there?" "O, no, I cannot quite do that, I find: My alibi's another kind Of alibi,—I'll make it clear, Your Honor, that he isn't here." The Darky here upreared his head, Tranquillity affrighted fled And consternation reigned instead!