because, in his declaration, he had not specified what color he was of; for
thus wisely, and thus learnedly, spoke the counsel:--"My lord, if the bull
was of no color, he must be of some color; and, if he was not of any color,
what color could the bull be of?" I overruled this motion myself, by
observing the bull was a white bull, and that white is no color; besides,
as I told my brethren, they should not trouble their heads to talk of color
t in law, for the law can color anything. This cause being afterwards left
to a reference, upon the award, both bull and boat were acquitted, it being
proved that the tide of the river carried them both away; upon which I gave
it as my opinion, that, as, the tide of the river carried both bull and
boat away, both bull and boat had good action against the water-bailiff.
My opinion being taken, an action was issued, and, upon the traverse, this
point of law arose: How, wherefore, and whether, why, when, and what,
whatsoever, whereas, and whereby, as the boat was not a compos mentis
evidence, how could an oath be administered? That point was soon settled by
Boatum's attorney declaring that, for his client, he would swear anything.
The water-bailiff's charter was then read, taken out of the original record
in true law Latin; which set forth in their declaration, that they were
carried away either by the tide of flood or the tide of ebb. The character
of the water-bailiff was as follows: "Aquæ bailiffi est magistratus in
choici, sapor omnibus fishibus qui habuerunt finos et scalos, claws,
shells, et talos, qui swimmare in freshibus, vel saltibus riveris, lakos,
pondis, canalibus et well-boats, sive oysteri, prawni, whitini, shrimpi,
turbutus solus;" that is, not turbots alone, but turbots and soles both
together. But now comes the nicety of the law; for the law is as nice as a
new-laid egg. Bullum and Boatum mentioned both ebb and flood, to avoid
quibbling; but, it being proved that they were carried away neither by the
tide of flood nor by the tide of ebb, but exactly upon the top of high
water, they were nonsuited; but, such was the lenity of the court, that,
upon their paying all costs they were allowed to begin again de novo.
G. A Stevens.
CCCLII.
PLEADING EXTRAORDINARY.
May it please the Court--Gentlemen of the Jury--You sit in that box as the
great reservoir of Roman liberty, Spartan fame, and Grecian polytheism. You
are to swing the great flail of justice and electricity over this immense
community, in hydraulic majesty, and conjugal superfluity. You are the
great triumphal arch on which evaporates the even scales of justice and
numerical computation. You are to ascend the deep arcana of nature, and
dispose of my client with equiponderating concatenation, in reference to
his future velocity and reverberating momentum. Such is your sedative and
stimulating character. My client is only a man of domestic eccentricity and
matrimonial configuration, not permitted, as you are, gentlemen, to walk in
the primeval and lowest vales of society, but he has to endure the red-hot
sun of the universe, on the heights of nobility and feudal eminence. He has
a beautiful wife of horticultural propensities, that hen-pecks the
remainder of his days with soothing and bewitching verbosity that makes the
nectar of his pandemonium as cool as Tartarus.
He has a family of domestic children, that gathers around the fireplace of
his peaceful homicide in tumultudinous consanguinity, and cry with
screaming and rebounding pertinacity for bread, butter, and molasses. Such
is the glowing and overwhelming character and defeasance of my client, who
stands convicted before this court of oyer and terminer, and lex non
scripta, by the persecuting pettifogger of this court, who is as much
exterior to me as I am interior to the judge, and you, gentlemen of the
jury.
This Borax of the law here has brought witnesses into this court, who swear
that my client has stolen a firkin of butter. Now, I say, every one of them
swore to a lie, and the truth is concentrated within them. But if it is so,
I justify the act on the ground that the butter was necessary for a public
good, to tune his family into harmonious discord. But I take no other
mountainous and absquatulated grounds on this trial, and move that a quash
be laid upon this indictment.
Now I will prove this by a learned expectoration of the principle of the
law. Now butter is made of grass, and, it is laid down by St. Peter Pindar,
in his principle of subterraneous law, that grass is couchant and levant,
which in our obicular tongue, means that grass is of a mild and free
nature; consequently, my client had a right to grass and butter both.
To prove my second great principle, "let facts be submitted to a candid
world." Now butter is grease, and Greece is a foreign country, situated in
the emaciated regions of Liberia and California; consequently my client
cannot be tried in this horizon, and is out of the benediction of this
court. I will now bring forward the ultimatum respondentia, and cap the
great climax of logic, by quoting an inconceivable principle of law, as
laid down in Latin, by Pothier, Hudibras, Blackstone, Hannibal, and
Sangrado. It is thus: Hæc hoc morus multicaulis, a mensa et thoro, ruta
baga centum. Which means; in English, that ninety-nine men are guilty,
where one is innocent.
Now, it is your duty to convict ninety-nine men first; then you come to my
client, who is innocent and acquitted according to law. If these great
principles shall be duly depreciated in this court, then the great North
pole of liberty, that has stood so many years in pneumatic tallness,
shading there publican regions of commerce and agriculture, will stand the
wreck of the Spanish Inquisition, the pirates of the hyperborean seas, and
the marauders of the Aurora Blivar! But, gentlemen of the jury, if you
convict my client, his children will be doomed to pine away in a state of
hopeless matrimony; and his beautiful wife i will stand lone and delighted
like a dried up mullen-stalk in a sheep-pasture.
Anonymous.
CCCLIII.
FUSS AT FIRES.
It having been announced to me, my young friends, that you were about
forming a fire-company, I have called you together to give you such
directions as long experience in a first-quality engine company qualifies
me to communicate. The moment you hear an alarm of fire, scream like a pair
of panthers. Run any way, except the right way,--for the furthest way round
is the nearest way to the fire. If you happen to run on the top of a
wood-pile, so much the better; you can then get a good view of the
neighborhood. If a light breaks on your view, "break" for it immediately;
but be sure you don't jump into a bow window. Keep yelling, all the time;
and, if you can't make night hideous enough yourself, kick all the dogs you
come across, and set them yelling, too; 't will help amazingly. A brace of
cats dragged up stairs by the tail would be a "powerful auxiliary." When
you reach the scene of the fire, do all you can to convert it into a scene
of destruction. Tear down all the fences in the vicinity. If it be a
chimney on fire, throw salt down it; or if you can't do that, perhaps the
best plan would be to jerk off the pump-handle and pound it down. Don't
forget to yell, all the while, as it will have a prodigious effect in
frightening off the fire. The louder the better, of course; and the more
ladies in the vicinity, the greater necessity for "doing it brown." Should
the roof begin to smoke, get to work in good earnest, and make any man
"smoke" that interrupts you. If it is summer, and there are fruit-trees in
the lot, cut them down, to prevent the fire from roasting the apples. Don't
forget to yell! Should the stable be threatened, carry out the cow-chains.
Never mind the horse,--he'll be alive and kicking; and if his legs don't do
their duty, let them pay for the roast. Ditto as to the hogs,--let them
save their own bacon, or smoke for it. When the roof begins to burn, get a
crow-bar and pry away the stone steps; or, if the steps be of wood, procure
an axe and chop them up. Next, cut away the wash-boards in the basement
story; and if that don't stop the flames, let the chair-boards on the first
floor share a similar fate. Should the "devouring element" still pursue the
"even tenor of its way," you had better ascend to the second story. Pitch
out the pitchers, and tumble out the tumblers. Yell all the time!
If you find a baby a-bed, fling it into the second story window of the
house across the way; but let the kitten carefully down in a work-basket.
Then draw out the bureau drawers, and empty their contents out of the back
window; telling somebody below to upset the slop-barrel and rain-water
hogshead at the same time. Of course, you will attend to the mirror. The
further it can be thrown, the more pieces will be made. If anybody objects,
smash it over his head. Do not, under any circumstances, drop the tongs
down from the second story; the fall might break its legs, and render the
poor thing a cripple for life. Set it straddle of your shoulder, and carry
it down carefully. Pile the bedclothes carefully on the floor, and throw
the crockery out of the window. By the time you will have attended to all
these things, the fire will certainly be arrested, or the building be burnt
down. In either case, your services will be no longer needed; and, of
course, you require no further directions.
Anonymous.
CCCLIV.
MR. PEPPERAGE'S PERORATION.
The Union! Inspiring theme! How shall I find words to describe its
momentous magnificence and its beatific lustre? The Union!--it is the ark
of our safety!--the palladium of our liberties!--the safeguard of our
happiness!--and the ægis of our virtues! In the Union we live and move and
go ahead It watches over us at our birth--it fans us in our cradles--it
accompanies us to the district school--it gives us our victuals in due
season--it selects our wives for us from "America's fair daughters," and it
does a great many other things; to say nothing of putting us to sleep
sometimes, and keeping the flies from our innocent repose.
While the Union lasts, we have the most remarkable prospect of plenty of
fodder, with occasional drinks. By its beneficent energies, however, should
the present supply give out, we shall rise superior to the calculations of
an ordinary and narrow prudence, and take in Cuba, Hayti, and Mexico, and
such parts of all contiguous islands as may offer prospects for an
advantageous investment.
Palsied be the arm, then, and blistered the tongue, and humped the back,
and broken the legs, and eviscerated the stomach, of every person who dares
to think, or even dream of harming it! May the heaviest curses of time fall
upon his scoundrelly soul! May his juleps curdle in his mouth. May he smoke
none but New Orleans tobacco! May his family be perpetually ascending the
Mississippi in a steamboat! May his own grandmother disown him! And may the
suffrages of his fellow-citizens pursue him like avenging furies, till he
is driven howling into Congress. For oh! my dear, dear friends--my beloved
fellow-citizens, who can foretell the agonies, or the sorrows, or the
blights, and the anguish, and the despair, and the black eyes, and the
bloody noses, that would follows upon the dispersion of our too happy,
happy family.
The accursed myrmidons of despotism, with gnashing teeth and blood-stained
eyes, would rush at large over the planet. They would lap the crimson gore
of the most respectable and wealthy citizens. The sobs of females, and the
screams of children, would mingle with the bark of dogs and the crash of
falling columns. A universal and horrid night would mantle the skies, and
one by one, the strong pillars of the universe go crumbling into ruin, amid
the gleam of bowie-knives and the lurid glare of exploding steamboats.
Anonymous.
CCCLV.
FOURTH OF JULY ORATION.
Feller-Citizens,--I've bin honored with a invite to norate before you
to-day; and when I say that I scarcely feel ekal to the task, I'm sure you
will believe me. I'm a plane man. I don't know nothing about no ded
langwidges and am a little shaky on livin ones. There 4, expect no flowry
talk from me. What I shall say will be to the pint, right strate out. I am
not a politician and my other habits air good. I've no enemys to reward,
nor friends to sponge. But I'm a Union man. I luv the Union--it is a Big
thing and it makes my hart bleed to see a lot of ornery people a-movin
heaven--no, not heaven, but the other place--and earth, to bust it up.
Feller-citizens--I haint got time to notis the growth of Ameriky frum the
time when the Mayflowers cum over in the Pilgrim and brawt Plymouth Rock
with them, but every skool boy nose our career has bin tremenjis. You will
excuse me if I don't prase the early settlers of the Kolonies. I spose they
ment well, and so, in the novel and techin langwidge of the nusepapers,
"peas to their ashis." There was no diskount, however, on them brave men
who fit, bled and died in the American Revolushun. We need n't be afraid of
setting 'em up two steep. Like my show, they will stand any amount of
prase. G. Washington was abowt the best man this world ever sot eyes on, He
was a clear-headed, warm-harted, and stiddy goin man. He never slept over!
The prevailin weakness of most public men is to slop over! They git filled
up and slop. They Rush Things. They travel too much on the high presser
principle. They git onto the fust poplar hobby-hoss which trots along, not
caring a cent whether the beest is even goin, clear sited and sound or
spavined, blind and bawky. Of course they git throwed eventooualy, if not
sooner. When they see the multitood goin it blind they go pel mel with it,
instid of exerted theirselves to set it right. They can't see that the
crowd which is now bearin then triumfuntly on its shoulders will soon
diskiver its error and cast them into the hoss pond of oblivyon, without
the slitest hesitashun. Washington never slopt over. That was n't George's
stile. He luved his country dearly. He was n't after the spiles. He was a
human angel in a 3 cornered hat and knee britches, and we shant see his
like right away. My frends, we cant all be Washingtons, but we kin all be
patrits and behave ourselves in a human and a Christian manner. When we see
a brother goin down hill to Ruin let us not give him a push, but let us
seize rite hold of his coat-tails and draw him back to Morality.
Imagine G. Washington and P. Henry in the characters of seseshers! As well
fancy John Bunyan and Dr. Watts in spangled tites, doin the trapeze in a
one-horse circus.
I tell you, feller-citizens, it would have bin ten dollars in Jeff Davis's
pocket if he'd never been born!
C. F. Brown.
BOOK THIRD.
HUMOROUS SELECTIONS.
POETRY.
CCCLVI.
The DUEL.
In Brentford town, of old renown,
There lived a Mister Bray
Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,
And so did Mister Clay.
To see her ride from Hammersmith,
By all it was allowed,
Such fair "outside" was never seen,--
An angel on a cloud.
Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,
"You choose to rival me,
And court Miss Bell; but there your court
No thoroughfare shall be.
"Unless you now give up your suit,
You may repent your love;--
I who have shot a pigeon match,
Can shoot a turtle dove.
"So pray, before you woo her more,
Consider what you do:
If you pop aught to Lucy Bell,--
I'll pop it into you."
Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,
"Your threats I do explode;--
One who has been a volunteer
Knows how to prime and load.
"And so I say to you, unless
Your passion quiet keeps,
I, who have shot and hit bulls' eyes,
May chance to hit a sheep's!"
Now gold is oft for silver changed,
And that for copper red;
But these two went away to give
Each other change for lead.
But first they found a friend apiece,
This pleasant thought to give--
That when they both were dead, they'd have
Two seconds yet to live.
To measure out the ground, not long
The seconds next forbore;
And having taken one rash step,
They took a dozen more.
They next prepared each pistol pan,
Against the deadly strife;
By putting in the prime of death
Against the prime of life.
Now all was ready for the foes;
But when they took their stands,
Fear made them tremble so, they found
They both were shaking hands.
Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,
"Here one of us must fall,
And, like St. Paul's Cathedral now,
Be doomed to have a ball.
"I do confess I did attach
Misconduct to your name!
If I withdraw the charge, will then
Your ramrod do the same?"
Said Mr. B., "I do agree;--
But think of Honor's courts,--
If we go off without a shot,
There will be strange reports.
"But look! the morning now is bright,
Though cloudy it begun;
Why can't we aim above as if
We had called out the sun?"
So up into the harmless air
Their bullets they did send;
And may all other duels have
That upshot in the end.
T. Hood.
CCCLVII.
MUSIC FOR THE MILLION.
Amongst the great inventions of this age,
Which every other century surpasses,
Is one,--just now the rage,--
Called "Singing for all classes,"
That now, alas! have no more ear than asses,
To learn to warble like the birds in June--
In time and tune,
Correct as clocks, and musical as glasses!
Whether this grand harmonic scheme
Will ever get beyond a dream,
And tend to British happiness and glory
May be no, and may be yes,
Is more than I pretend to guess--
However here's my story.
In one of those small, quiet streets,
Where business retreats,
To shun the daily bustle and the noise
The shoppy Strand enjoys,
But land, joint-companies, and life-insurance
Find past endurance--
In one of these back streets, to peace so dear,
The other day a ragged wight
Began to sing with all his might,
"I have a silent sorrow here!"
Heard in that quiet place,
Devoted to a still and studious race,
The noise was quite appalling!
To seek a fitting simile, and spin it,
Appropriate to his calling,
His voice had all Lablache's body, in it;
But oh! the scientific tone it lacked,
And was in fact
Only a forty-boatswain power of bawling!
'T was said indeed for want of vocal nous
The stage had banished him when he 'tempted it,
For though his voice completely filled the house,
It also emptied it.
However, there he stools
Vociferous--a ragged don!
And with his iron pipes laid on--
A row to all the neighborhood.
In vain were sashes closed,
And doors against the persevering Stentor;
Though brick and glass, and solid oak opposed,
The intruding voice would enter,
Heedless of ceremonial or decorum,
Den, office, parlor, study, and sanctorum;
Where clients and attorneys, rogues and fools,
Ladies, and masters who attend the schools,
Clerks, agents all provided with their tools,
Were sitting upon sofas, chairs, and stools,
With shelves, pianos, tables, desks, before 'em--
How it did bore 'em!
Louder and louder still,
The fellow sang with horrible good-will,
Curses, both loud and deep, his sole gratuities,
From scribes bewildered, making many a flaw,
In deeds of law
They had to draw;
With dreadful incongruities
In posting legers, making up accounts,
To large amounts,
Or casting up annuities--
Stunned by that voice so loud and hoarse,
Against whose overwhelming force
No invoice stood a chance, of course!
From room to room, from floor to floor,
From Number One to Twenty-four,
The nuisance bellowed; till all patience lost,
Down came Miss Frost,
Expostulating at her open door--
"Peace, monster, peace!
Where is the new police?
I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray,
Do n't stand there bawling, fellow, don't!
You really send my serious thoughts astray,
Do--there's a dear, good man--do, go away."
Says he, "I won't!"
The spinster pulled her door to with a slam,
That sounded like a wooden d--n;
For so some moral people, strictly loth
To swear in words, however up,
Will crash a curse in setting down a cup,
Or through a door-post vent a banging oath,--
In fad, this sort of physical transgression
Is really no more difficult to trace,
Than in a given face
A very bad expression.
However in she went
Leaving the subject of her discontent
To Mr. Jones's clerk at Number Ten;
Who throwing up the sash,
With accents rash,
Thus hailed the most vociferous of men;
"Come, come, I say, old fellow, stop your chant;
I cannot write a sentence--no one can't!
So pack up your trumps,--
And stir your stumps."
Says he "I shan't!"
Down went the sash,
As if devoted to "eternal smash."
(Another illustration
Of acted imprecation,)
While close at hand, uncomfortably near,
The independent voice, so loud and strong,
And clanging like a gong,
Roared out again the everlasting song,
"I have a silent sorrow here!"
The thing was hard to stand!
The music-master could not stand it,
But rushing forth with fiddle-stick in hand,
As savage as a bandit,
Made up directly to the tattered man,
And thus in broken sentences began:
"Com--com--I say!
You go away!
Into two parts my head you split--
My fiddle cannot hear himself a bit,
When I do play--
You have no business in a place so still!
Can you not come another day?"
Says he, "I will."
"No--no--you scream and bawl!
You must not come at all!
You have no right, by rights, to beg-
You have not one off leg--
You ought to work--you have not some complaint--
You are not cripple in your back or bones--
Your voice is strong enough to break some stones"--
Says he, "It ain't."
"I say you ought to labor!
You are in a young case,
You have not sixty years upon your face,
To come and beg your neighbor--
And discompose his music with a noise
More worse than twenty boys--
Look what a street it is for quiet!
No cart to make a riot,
No coach, no horses, no postillion:
If you will sing, I say, it is not just
To sing so loud."
Says he, "I must!
I'm singing for the million!"
T. Hood.
CCCLVIII.
ODE T0 MY BOY, AGED THREE YEARS.
Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,)
Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry, laughing sprite,
With spirits feather light,
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin--
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)
Thou little tricksy Puck!
With antic toys so funnily bestruck,
Light as the singing bird that wings the air--
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)
Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!)
Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In love's dear chain, so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents--(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink.)
Thou cherub, but of earth;
Fit play-fellow for fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,
(That dog will bite him if he pulls his tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble!--that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping rope!)
With pure heart, newly stampt from nature's mint,
(Where did he learn that squint?)
Thou young domestic dove!
(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life--
(He's got a knife!)
Thou enviable being!
No storms, no clouds in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!
Toss the light ball--bestride the stick--
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk,
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)
Thou pretty opening rose!
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy and breathing music like the south,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as the star,--
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,--
(I'll tell you what, my love,
I cannot write unless he's sent above.)
T. Hood.
CCCLIX.
THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS.
I wrote some lines, once on a time
In wondering merry mood,
And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.
They were so queer, so very queer,
I laughed as I would die;
Albeit in the general way,
A sober man am I.
I called my servant, and he came;
How kind it was of him,
To mind a slender man like me,
He of the mighty limb!
"These to the printer," I exclaimed,
And, in my humorous way,
I added (as a trifling jest),
"There'll be the devil to pay."
He took the paper, and I watched,
And saw him peep within;
At the first line he read, his face
Was all upon a grin.
He read the next; the grin grew broad.
And shot from ear to ear;
He read the third; a chuckling noise
I now began to hear.
The fourth; he broke into a roar;
The fifth; his waistband split;
The sixth; he burst five buttons off,
And tumbled in a fit.
Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man;
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.
O. W. Holmes.
CCCLX.
THE SEPTEMBER GALE.