Shapes of Clay

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!