Once upon a time there lived at Hamburgh a certain merchant of the name
of Meyer--he was a good little man; charitable to the poor, hospitable
to his friends, and so rich that he was extremely respected, in spite
of his good nature. Among that part of his property which was vested
in other people's hands, and called debts, was the sum of five hundred
pounds owed to him by the Captain of an English vessel. This debt had
been so long contracted that the worthy Meyer began to wish for a new
investment of his capital. He accordingly resolved to take a trip to
Portsmouth, in which town Captain Jones was then residing, and take that
liberty which in my opinion should in a free country never be permitted,
viz. the liberty of applying for his money.
Our worthy merchant one bright morning found himself at Portsmouth; he
was a stranger to that town, but not unacquainted altogether with the
English language. He lost no time in calling on Captain Jones.
"And vat?" said he to a man whom he asked to show him to the Captain's
house, "vat is dat fine veshell yondare?"
"She be the Royal Sally," replied the man, "bound for Calcutta--sails
to-morrow; but here's Captain Jones's house, Sir, and he'll tell you
all about it."
The merchant bowed, and knocked at the door of a red brick house--door
green--brass knocker. Captain Gregory Jones was a tall man; he wore a
blue coat without skirts; he had high cheek bones, small eyes, and his
whole appearance was eloquent of what is generally termed the bluff
honesty of the seaman. Captain Gregory seemed somewhat disconcerted at
seeing his friend--he begged for a little further time. The merchant
looked grave--three years had already elapsed. The Captain demurred--the
merchant pressed--the Captain blustered--and the merchant, growing
angry, began to threaten. All of a sudden Captain Jones's manner
changed--he seemed to recollect himself, begged pardon, said he could
easily procure the money, desired the merchant to go back to his inn,
and promised to call on him in the course of the day. Mynheer Meyer went
home, and ordered an excellent dinner. Time passed--his friend came not.
Meyer grew impatient. He had just put on his hat and was walking out,
when the waiter threw open the door, and announced two gentlemen.
"Ah, dere comes de monish," thought Mynheer Meyer. The gentlemen
approached--the taller one whipped out what seemed to Meyer a receipt.
"Ah, ver well, I vill sign, ver well!"
"Signing, Sir, is useless; you will be kind enough to accompany us. This
is a warrant for debt, Sir; my house is extremely comfortable--gentlemen
of the first fashion go there--quite moderate, too, only a guinea
a-day--find your own wine."
"I do--no--understand, Sare," said the merchant, smiling amiably,
"I am ver vell off here--thank you--"
"Come, come," said the other gentleman, speaking for the first time,
"no parlavoo Monsoo, you are our prisoner--this is a warrant for the
sum of 10,000l. due to Captain Gregory Jones."
The merchant stared--the merchant frowned--but so it was. Captain
Gregory Jones, who owed Mynheer Meyer 500l., had arrested Mynheer Meyer
for 10,000l.; for, as every one knows, any man may arrest us who has
conscience enough to swear that we owe him money. Where was Mynheer
Meyer in a strange town to get bail? Mynheer Meyer went to prison.
"Dis be a strange vay of paying a man his monish!" said Mynheer Meyer.
In order to wile away time, our merchant, who was wonderfully social,
scraped acquaintance with some of his fellow-prisoners. "Vat be you in
prishon for?" said he to a stout respectable-looking man who seemed in
a violent passion--"for vhat crime?"
"I, Sir, crime!" quoth the prisoner; "Sir, I was going to Liverpool
to vote at the election, when a friend of the opposite candidate had
me suddenly arrested for 2,000l. Before I get bail the election will
be over!"
"Vat's that you tell me? arrest you to prevent your giving an honesht
vote? is that justice?"
"Justice, no!" cried our friend, it's the Law of Arrest."
"And vat be you in prishon for?" said the merchant pityingly to a thin
cadaverous-looking object, who ever and anon applied a handkerchief to
eyes that were worn with weeping.
"An attorney offered a friend of mine to discount a bill, if he could
obtain a few names to indorse it--_I_, Sir, indorsed it. The bill
became due, the next day the attorney arrested all whose names were
on the bill; there were eight of us, the law allows him to charge two
guineas for each; there are sixteen guineas, Sir, for the lawyer--but
I, Sir--alas my family will starve before _I_ shall be released.
Sir, there are a set of men called discounting attorneys, who live upon
the profits of entrapping and arresting us poor folk."
"Mine Gott! but is dat justice?"
"Alas! No, Sir, it is the law of arrest."
"But," said the merchant, turning round to a lawyer, whom the Devil had
deserted, and who was now with the victims of his profession; "dey tell
me, dat in Englant a man be called innoshent till he be proved guilty;
but here am I, who, because von carrion of a shailor, who owesh me five
hundred pounts, takes an oath that _I_ owe him ten thousand--here am
I, on that schoundrel's single oath, clapped up in a prishon. Is this
a man's being innoshent till he is proved guilty, Sare?"
"Sir," said the lawyer primly, "you are thinking of criminal cases;
but if a man be unfortunate enough to get into debt, that is quite a
different thing:--we are harder to poverty than we are to crime!"
"But, mine Gott! is that justice?"
"Justice! pooh! it's the law of arrest," said the lawyer, turning on
his heel.
Our merchant was liberated; no one appeared to prove the debt. He flew
to a magistrate; he told his case; he implored justice against Captain
Jones.
"Captain Jones!" said the magistrate, taking snuff; "Captain Gregory
Jones, you mean!"
"Ay, mine goot Sare--yesh!"
"He set sail for Calcutta yesterday. He commands the Royal Sally.
He must evidently have sworn this debt against you for the purpose of
getting rid of your claim, and silencing your mouth till you could
catch him no longer. He's a clever fellow is Gregory Jones!"
"De teufel! but, Sure, ish dere no remedy for de poor merchant?"
"Remedy! oh, yes--indictment for perjury."
"But vat use is dat? You say he be gone--ten thousand miles off--to
Calcutta!"
"That's certainly against your indictment!"
"And cannot I get my monish?"
"Not as I see."
"And _I_ have been arreshted instead of him!"
"You have."
"Sare, I have only von vord to say--_is_ dat justice?"
"That I can't say, Mynheer Meyer, but it is certainly the law of
arrest," answered the magistrate; and he bowed the merchant out of
the room.
_New Monthly Magazine_.
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