BY THE SAME AUTHOR
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BRIEFLESS BALLADS AND LEGAL LYRICS
BY JAMES WILLIAMS
"You will think a lawyer has as little business with poetry as he has with justice. Perhaps so. I have been too partial to both." —THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK, in Melincourt
LONDON ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK 1895
[All Rights Reserved]
Hyphenation has been standardised. Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. The oe ligature is represented by [oe].
(The First Series was published anonymously in 1881, and is now out of print. Some of the following pieces have already appeared in periodicals.)
PAGE JUSTINIAN AT WINDERMERE 9 A VISION OF LEGAL SHADOWS 15 THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER 21 HER LETTER IN CHAMBERS 25 LAW AND POETRY 27 SOMEWHERE 30 ROMAN LAW 34 BOLOGNA 36 A GARDEN PARTY IN THE TEMPLE 37 THE SPINNING-HOUSE OF THE FUTURE 41 HOW WE FOUND OUR VERDICT 44 A GREEK LIBEL 47 LE TEMPS PASSE 50 LAWN TENNIS IN THE TEMPLE GARDENS 52 A BALLADE OF LOST LAW 53 COM[OE]DIA JURIS 56
CASES— MYLWARD v. WELDON 59 HAMPDEN v. WALSH 61 WILLIS v. THE BISHOP OF OXFORD 62 DASHWOOD v. JERMYN 66 EX PARTE JONES 70 FINLAY v. CHIRNEY 71 POLLARD v. PHOTOGRAPHIC COMPANY 71 THE MINNEAPOLIS CASE 73 COMMONWEALTH v. MARZYNSKI 77
TRANSLATIONS— GREEK ANTHOLOGY 81 MARTIAL 89 CINO DA PISTOIA 92 PEDRO LOPEZ DE AYALA 94 PIRON 94
Interioris amat Templi jam Pegasus aulas Pieria in Medio plenior unda ruit.
Justinian at Windermere
We took a hundredweight of books To Windermere between us, Our dons had blessed our studious looks, Had they by chance but seen us.
Maine, Blackstone, Sandars, all were there, And Hallam's Middle Ages, And Austin with his style so rare, And Poste's enticing pages.
We started well: the little inn Was deadly dull and quiet, As dull as Mrs. Wood's East Lynne, Or as the verse of Wyatt.
Without distraction thus we read From nine until eleven, Then rowed and sailed until we fed On potted char at seven.
Two hours of work! We could devote Next day to recreation, Much illness springs, so doctors note, From lack of relaxation.
Let him read law on summer days, Who has a soul that grovels; Better one tale of Thackeray's Than all Justinian's novels.
At noon we went upon the lake, We could not stand the slowness Of our lone inn, so dined on steak (They called it steak) at Bowness.
We wrestled with the steak, when lo! Rose Jack in such a hurry, He saw a girl he used to know In Suffolk or in Surrey.
What matter which? to think that she Should lure him from his duty! For Jack, I knew, would always be A very slave to beauty.
And so it proved, alas! for Jack Grew taciturn and thinner, Was out all day alone, and back Too often late for dinner.
What could I do? His walks and rows All led to one conclusion; I could not read; our work, heaven knows, Was nothing but confusion.
Like Jack I went about alone, Saw Wordsworth's writing-table, And made the higher by a stone The "man" upon Great Gable.
At last there came a sudden pause To all his wanderings solus, He learned what writers on the laws Of Rome had meant by dolus.
The Suffolk (was it Surrey?) flirt Without a pang threw over Poor Jack and all his works like dirt, And caught a richer lover.
We read one morning more to say We had not been quite idle, And then to end the arduous day Enjoyed a swim in Rydal.
Next day the hundredweight of books Was packed once more in cases, We left the lakes and hills and brooks And southward turned our faces.
Three months, and then the Oxford Schools; Our unbelieving college Saw better than ourselves what fools Pretend sometimes to knowledge.
Curst questions! Jack did only one, He gave as his opinion That of the Roman jurists none Had lived before Justinian.
I answered two, but all I did Was lacking in discretion, I reckoned guardianship amid The vitia of possession.
My second shot was wider still, I held that commodata Could not attest a praetor's will Because of culpa lata.
We waited fruitlessly that night, There came no blue testamur,[A] Nor was Jack's heavy heart made light By that sweet word Amamur.
[A] Since the above was written, the testamur, like many other institutions dear to the old order of Oxford men, has been superseded.
A Vision of Legal Shadows
A case at chambers left for my opinion Had taxed my brain until the noon of night, I read old law, and loathed the long dominion Of fiction over right.
I had consulted Coke and Cruise and Chitty, The works where ancient learning reigns supreme, Until exhausted nature, moved with pity, Sent me a bookman's dream.
Six figures, all gigantic as Gargantua, Floated before my eyes, and all the six Were shades like those that once the bard of Mantua Saw by the shore of Styx.
The first was one with countenance imperious, His toga dim with centuries of dust; "My name," quoth he, "is Aulus and Agerius,[B] My voice is hoarse with rust.
"Yet once I played my part in law proceedings, And writers wrote of one they never saw, I gave their point to formulae and pleadings, I lived but in the law."
The second had a countenance perfidious; What wonder? Praetors launched their formulae In vain against Numerius Negidius, And not a whit cared he.
With voice of high contempt he greeted Aulus; "In interdicts thou wast mine enemy, Once passed no day that students did not call us As parties, me and thee.
"On paper I was plaintiff or defendant, On paper thou wast evermore the same; We lived apart, a life that was transcendant, For it was but a name.
"I hate thee, Aulus, hate thee," low he muttered, "It was by thee that I was always tricked, My unsubstantial bread I ate unbuttered In dread of interdict.
"And yet 'twas but the sentiment I hated: Like thee I ne'er was drunk e'en vi or clam,[C] With wine that was no wine my thirst was sated. Like thee I was a sham."
Two country hinds in 'broidered smocks next followed, Each trundled him a cart-wheel by the spokes, Oblivion now their names hath well-nigh swallowed, For they were Stiles and Nokes.
They spake no word, for speech to them was grievous, With bovine eyes they supplicated me; "We wot not what ye will, but prithee leave us, Unlettered folk are we."
"Go," said I, "simple ones, and break your fallows, Crush autumn apples in the cider press, Law, gaffer Stiles, thy humble name still hallows, Contracted to J. S."
Another pair of later time succeeded, With buckles on their shoes and silken hose, A garb that told it was to them who heeded John Doe's and Richard Roe's.
"Ah me! I was a casual ejector,[D] In the brave days of old," I heard one say; "I knew Elizabeth, the Lord Protector I spake with yesterday."
To whom in contradiction snarled the other, "There was no living blood our veins to fill. Both you and I were nought but shadows, brother, And we are shadows still."
Room for a lady, room, as at Megiddo The hosts made way for passage of the king, For from the darkness crept there forth a widow In weeds and wedding ring.
"I am the widow, I, whereof the singers Of Scotland sang, their cruel words so smote My tender heart, that ofttimes itched my fingers To take them by the throat.
"He scoffed at me, dour bachelor of Glasgow,[E] If I existed not for him, the knave, 'Twas all his fault who let some bonnie lass go Unwedded to her grave."
[B] Aulus Agerius and Numerius Negidius are names continually occurring in the Roman institutional writers as typical names of parties to legal process, corresponding very much to the John Stiles and John Nokes of the older English law-books, and the Amr and Zaid of Mohammedan law. John Stiles was frequently contracted to J. S.
[C] Vi and clam were part of the form of the interdict, which was a mode of procedure by which the praetor settled the right of possession of landed property.
[D] The casual ejector was John Doe, who was, like Richard Roe, an entirely imaginary person, of much importance in the old action of ejectment abolished in 1852.
[E] The allusion is to the "Advocates' Widows Fund," subscribed to by all members of the Scottish bar, married or unmarried. The non-existent widow of the unmarried advocate has been a frequent subject of legal verse. See "The Bachelor's Dream," by John Rankine, (Journal of Jurisprudence, vol. xxii. p. 155), "My Widow," by David Crichton (id. vol. xxiv. p. 51).
The Squire's Daughter
We crawled about the nursery In tenderest years in tether, At six we waded in the sea And caught our colds together.
At ten we practised playing at A kind of heathen cricket, A croquet mallet was the bat, The Squire's old hat the wicket.
At twelve, the cricket waxing slow, With home-made bow and arrow We took to shooting—once I know I all but hit a sparrow.
She took birds' nests from easy trees, I climbed the oaks and ashes, 'Twas deadly work for hands and knees, Deplorable for sashes.
At hide and seek one summer day We played in merry laughter, 'Twas then she hid her heart away, I never found it after.
So time slipped by until my call, For out of the professions I chose the Bar as best of all, And joined the Loamshire Sessions.
The reason for it was that there Her father, short and pursy, Doled out scant justice in the chair And even scanter mercy.
As Holofernes lost his head To Judith of Bethulia, So I fell victim, but instead Of Judith it was Julia.
My speech left juries in the dark, Of Julia I was thinking, And once I heard a coarse remark About a fellow drinking.
I practised verse in leisure time Both in and out of season, It was indubitably rhyme, Occasionally reason.
I lacked the cheek to tell my woes, Had not concealment fed on My damask cheek, but left my nose With twice its share of red on?
Too horrible was this suspense, At last, in desperation I went to Loamshire on pretence Of death of a relation.
The Squire was beaming; "Julia's gone To London for a visit, But with a wedding coming on That's not surprising, is it?
"Old friends like you will think, no doubt, That she is young to marry, But ever since she first came out, She's been engaged to Harry."
Her Letter in Chambers
I sat by the fire and watched it blaze, And dreamed that she wrote me a letter, And for that dream to the end of my days To Fancy I owe myself debtor.
Next day there came the postman's knock, The morning was bright and sunny, And showed me a sheaf of circulars, stock Attempts to get hold of my money.
'Mid correspondence of this dull kind A dainty notelet lay hidden, It seemed as though it had half a mind To consider itself forbidden.
The writing was like herself, complete, With a touch of her queenly bearing, So Venus wrote when she ordered in Crete Her doves to take her an airing.
Inside it was just as promising, 'Twas a pressing invitation To dine at her house to-morrow, and bring My book for her approbation.
For I have published, be it confessed, A little volume of verses, And in the volume whatever is best The praise of herself rehearses.
I sit by the fire, and again I dream A happier dream than ever, I see her beautiful eyes soft gleam As she murmurs, "How lovely—how clever!"
Her criticism may be commonplace, But who can be angry after Now sweet with pity he marks her face, Now bright with impulsive laughter?
Law and Poetry
In days of old did law and rime A common pathway follow, For Themis in the mythic time Was sister of Apollo.
The Hindu statutes tripped in feet As daintily as Dryads, And law in Wales to be complete Was versified in triads.
The wise Alfonso of Castile Composed his code in metre Thereby to make its flavour feel A little bit the sweeter.
But law and rime were found to be A trifle inconsistent, And now in statutes poetry Is wholly non-existent.
Still here and there some advocate Before his fellows know it Has had bestowed on him by fate The laurel of the poet.
Let him who has been honoured so, In truth a rara avis, Find precedents in Cicero And our Chief Justice Davis;
And more than all in Cino; he, So plaintive a narrator Of fair Selvaggia's cruelty, Won fame as a glossator.
Let him remember Thomas More And Scott and Alciatus, And Grotius with an ample store Of most divine afflatus.
But let him, if his bread and cheese Depend on his profession, Bethink him that the art of these Was not their sole possession.
The stream that flows from Helicon Is scarcely a Pactolus, A richer prize is theirs who con Dull treatises on dolus.
'Tis well that some bold spirits dare To cut themselves asunder From bonds of law like old Moliere, While lawyers gaze in wonder.
The world had been a poorer place Had Goethe lived by pleading Or Tasso won a hopeless case With Ariosto leading.
Somewhere in a distant star, Cities of Cocaigne there are, Paradises of the Bar.
Somewhere 'neath another sun Counsel cease to see the fun Lurking in a judge's pun.
Somewhere courts are fair to see, Beauty joins utility, Ushers answer courteously.
Somewhere there are bailiwicks Which for dock defences fix Nothing under three-five-six.
Somewhere rises struggle sore For revisorships no more, Every shire has half a score.
Somewhere educated thought Scientifically taught Cross-examines as it ought.
Somewhere judgments are obeyed, Executions are not stayed, Fees are almost always paid.
Somewhere County Councils press Banquets on the circuit mess, Fleshpots in the wilderness.
Somewhere at Assizes grow Prosecutions row on row, Every man has six or so.
Somewhere, eager but for right, Court and counsel cease to cite Pointless cases recondite.
Somewhere headnotes give the ground Whereupon the judges found Judgments generally sound.
Somewhere juries use their sense, Basing on the evidence Verdicts of intelligence.
Somewhere rich embroideries Woven cunningly of lies Part in twain at truth's clear eyes.
Somewhere justice grows from wrong, Till the right that suffered long Sings at last its triumph song.
Somewhere—even in a place Peopled by a perfect race— One side holds a losing case.
Somewhere since the world began Heaven hath made an honest man, Somewhere in Aldebaran.
I am a "coach" in Roman law by fate, But Nature must have meant me for a poet, And while I struggle with a rule or date, Poetic thoughts intrude before I know it.
The changing sunshine on the summer sea Drives forth the law of cessio bonorum, Peculium castrense speaks to me Of Horace and his Dulce et decorum.
I see the matine bee among the flowers Instead of testamentum militare, And wander far away from agent's powers To picture me again some Maud or Mary.
In truth there is no sequence in the thought, Why should the title De Societate Suggest, not trading partners, as it ought, But visions of my last night's valse with Katie?
But worse than this, when I have done my task, Stern law again asserts her domination, 'Tis cruel 'mid the new-mown hay to bask, And find one's mind is running on novation;
Or in the dusk, when glow-worms light the moss, To hear the distant voice of Philomela Expound the three varieties of dos And wax right eloquent about tutela.
I had a little respite yesterday, Dining with one who well knew how to dine us, But when I slept, the charm soon fled away, I dreamed I was a praetor peregrinus.
Dismasted in the deep of law I lie, A poor reward it is to stand confessed as The Virgil of the interdict de vi, The Petrarch of the patria potestas.
I go from colonnade to colonnade In streets that Dante trod, and past the towers Aslant toward heaven, and listen to the hours Chimed by the bells of choirs where Dante prayed. They cease; then lo! the foot of time seems stayed Five hundred years and more, I find me bowers Where sweet and noble ladies weave them flowers For one who reads Boccaccio in the shade. The cowled students halt by two and threes To hear the voice come thrilling through the trees, Then tear themselves away to themes more trite. Anon I mark the diligent hands that turn Unlovely parchment scrolls whereby to learn The beauty of inexorable right.
A Garden Party in the Temple
On hospitable thoughts intent To me the Inner Temple sent An invitation, A garden party 'twas to be, And I accepted readily And with elation; Good reason too, but oft the seeds Of reason flower in senseless deeds.
I stood as savage as a bear, For not a human being there Knew I from Adam I heard around in various tones, "So glad to see you, Mr. Jones;" "Good morning, Madam." It seemed so painfully absurd To stand and never speak a word.
I brought my doom upon myself, And there I was upon the shelf In melancholy. Why, say you, did I go at all? I once met Chloris at a ball, And in my folly I went and suffered all this pain In hopes to see her once again.
Of strawberries a pound at least I ate, and made myself a beast With tea and sherry; And raspberries I ate and trembled, Until I felt that I resembled Myself a berry, But 'twas the berry that at school We used to call a gooseberry fool.
The I. C. R. V.[F] band droned on, While guests had come and guests had gone Since my arrival; My brow grew gloomier with despair, And on it sat the guilty air Of a survival Of some remorse for ancient crimes Wrought in the pre-historic times.
My seventh cup of tea was done, My seventh glass of wine begun, Then of her coming I was aware, nor shall forget How she and that brown sherry set My brains a-humming; Well should I be rewarded soon For all the weary afternoon.
Her eyes looked vaguely into mine Without as much as half a sign Of recognition. My heart, my heart! the blow was sore, But you have often been before In this condition; As said the bard of old, those eyes Are not my only Paradise.[G]
[F] Inns of Court Rifle Volunteers.
[G] Dante, Par. xviii. 21.
The Spinning-House of the Future
"Cada puta hile."—Don Quixote, i. 46.
Without my dinner here I lie, And all because that proctor With her stout bull-dogs passed, and I Mocked her.
For Clara is at Girton too, That dragon is her tutor, I threatened once what I would do, Shoot her.
Her life by Clara's tears was saved, Wherefore she doth detest me, And hither hungry and unshaved Pressed me.
I would that I could have commenced An action 'gainst that devil, Like that once brought by Kemp against Neville.[H]
To her I owe the statute framed That one against it sinning Should dwell within the house that's named Spinning.
Ah me! it runs in sections three: Who speaks to Girton student Is fined to teach him how to be Prudent.
Who loves a Girton girl must do Twelve months on bread and water, From a digestive point of view Slaughter.
Who kisses her commits a crime By hanging expiated, And she in tears must spend her time Gated.
Would that at Oxford I had been, At Balliol or at Merton, And then I never should have seen Girton.
Go down I must, no more shall I And Clara cross the same bridge; Still, Granta, art thou her and my Cambridge.
Some day on this her eyes may light, This doggerel stiff and jointless, And she may own it is not quite Pointless.
[H] An action brought in 1861 by a dressmaker at Cambridge against the Vice-Chancellor for false imprisonment in the Spinning-House (the University prison). The Court of Common Pleas held inter alia that no action lies against a judge for a judicial decision on a matter within his jurisdiction (10 Common Bench Reports, New Series, 523).
How we found our Verdict
We sat in the jury-box, twelve were we all, And the clock was just pointing to ten in the hall, His Lordship he bowed to the jury, and we Bowed back to his Lordship as gravely as he.
The case of De Weller v. Jones was the first, And we all settled down and prepared for the worst When old Smithers, Q.C., began slowly to preach Of a promise of marriage and action for breach.
A barmaid the plaintiff was, wondrous the skill Wherewith she was wont her tall tankards to fill, The defendant, a publican, sought for his bride Such a paragon, urged by professional pride.
But the course of true love ran no smoother for her Than the Pas de Calais or the bark of a fir, The defendant discovered a widow with gold In the bank and the plaintiff was left in the cold.
An hour Smithers spoke, and he said that the heart Of the plaintiff at Jones's fell touch flew apart, But a cheque for a thousand might help to repair The destruction effected by love and despair.
Miss de Weller was called, and in ladylike tones She described all the injury suffered from Jones, How he called her at first "Angelina," and this Soon cooled to "Miss Weller," and lastly to "Miss."
But the jury were shaken a little when Gore Cross-examined about her engagements before, For Jones was the sixth of the strings to her bow And with five other verdicts she solaced her woe.
Re-examined by Smithers, she won us again, For the tears of a maid are a terror to men, Then his Lordship awoke from his nap and explained How love that is frequent is love that is feigned.
Miss de Weller looked daggers, and under the paint Of her cheeks she grew pale and fell down in a faint, She played her trump-card in the late afternoon, For damages satisfy girls who can swoon.
Till she fainted most thought that a farthing would do, Though I was in favour of pounds—one or two; But after the faint—and she was so well dressed— At a hundred the void in her heart was assessed.
A Greek Libel
Neobule, yesternight Saw I thee in beauty dight, On thy head a myrtle spray Cast its shadow as the day By the stars was put to flight. Twining on thy temples white Roses gave the myrtle light, Sign thou wilt not say me nay, Neobule. Loosened from its coiled height Streamed thy hair in thy despite On thy shoulders soft to stray And to bid the bard essay Never but of thee to write, Neobule.
Sorry poet, who dost dare Cast bold glances on my hair, Let thy most presumptuous eyes Seek another enterprise, Ceasing now to linger there. Hearken, I can tell thee where Grow the bushes that will spare Rods to teach thee humbler guise, Sorry poet. Know I not that I am fair? Need thy halting verse declare What my mirror daily cries? Rid me of thy silly sighs, Rid me of thy hateful stare, Sorry poet.
Neobule, poets see Dreams of things that are to be. Vengeance is the poet's trade, Come, iambus, to my aid 'Gainst the fools who scoff at me. All the world will laugh with glee When they mark my verses free Grasp thee like a pillory, And thy scorn with scorn repaid, Neobule. E'en in death thou canst not flee From the doom the Fates decree. When my satire's keenest blade Cuts thee to the heart, fond maid, I shall laugh, but what of thee, Neobule?
Le Temps Passe
Those brave old days when King Abuse did reign We sigh for, but we shall not see again. Then Eldon sowed the seed of equity That grew to bounteous harvest, and with glee A Bar of modest numbers shared the grain. Then lived the pleaders who could issues feign, Who blushed not to aver that France or Spain Was in the Ward of Chepe;[I] no more can be Those brave old days.
O'er pauper settlements men fought amain, And golden guineas followed in their train, John Doe then flourished like a lusty tree, And Richard Roe brought many a noble fee, We mourn in unremunerated pain Those brave old days.
[I] See, for instance, the well-known case of Mostyn v. Fabrigas, in which the plaintiff declared that the defendant on the 1st of September, in the year 1771, made an assault upon the said plaintiff at Minorca, to wit, at London, in the parish of St. Mary-le-bow, in the Ward of Cheap.
Lawn Tennis in the Temple Gardens
Not in contempt but to our sport inclined Smile on us, shades of Judges short and tall Portrayed on windows of the Temple Hall; There was a time that ye grave thoughts resigned, Then, warm with sack, the Serjeants' hearts waxed kind, In mirth Lords Keepers danced the galliard all, Not in contempt.
Of pleasures past the shadows here we find, Gay strife on brighter swards we thus recall, Where maiden laughter winged the flying ball; Declare us, fair ones, with a merry mind Not in contempt.
A Ballade of Lost Law
(Spirit of Lord Eldon speaks)
This England is gone staring mad, She hath abolished Chancery,[J] See the long lines of suitors, sad To find themselves unwontedly After one day of trial free. Pleading and seals have gone their way. "I know," said I, "that after me Too quickly comes the evil day."
(Spirit of Lord Lyndhurst speaks)
I was Chief Baron, and I had A Court of Law and Equity,[K] The Courts at Westminster were clad With ancient glory fair to see. Now County Courts have come to be Exalted high on our decay, And every whit as good as we; Too quickly comes the evil day.
(Shade of Butler speaks)
In days of yore we used to pad Our deeds with words of certainty; Alas! that now the office lad Is qualified to grant in fee! Lost is our old supremacy, Lost is the delicate display Of learning on pur autre vie; Too quickly comes the evil day.
(The Three in Chorus)
Thurlow, to thee we bend the knee, When law was law, then men were gay, 'Tis down with port and up with tea, Too quickly comes the evil day.
[J] The Court of Chancery was merged in the High Court of Justice in 1875.
[K] In the days of Lord Lyndhurst the old Court of Exchequer had equitable as well as common law jurisdiction.
Est omne jus forense quasi com[oe]dia; Hic advocatus maximas partes agit Laudatus undique a procuratoribus, Labore vocis redditus ditissimus; Cui brevia nil forensis et quaestus valent Silenter ille spectat, at pro praemio Fruitur quietus optime com[oe]dia.
MYLWARD v. WELDON
[The plaintiff was committed to the Fleet Prison on Feb. 8, 1596, by order of the Lord Keeper, for drawing a replication of sixscore sheets containing much impertinent matter which might well have been contained in sixteen. On Feb. 10 the Lord Keeper ordered that on the following Saturday the Warden of the Fleet should cut a hole through the replication, and put the plaintiff's head through the hole and let it hang about his shoulders with the written side outwards, and lead the plaintiff bareheaded and barefaced round about Westminster Hall, and show him at the bar of all the courts, and so back to the Fleet.—Abridged from Spence's Equitable Jurisdiction, vol. i. p. 376.]
'Gainst Weldon Mylward files a bill, But doth his replication fill With scandalous and idle matter, That would disgrace the maddest hatter. Woe is me for Mylward!
'Twas sixscore sheets, it might have been Contained, and amply, in sixteen; So after that the court hath risen Must Mylward Fleetward go to prison. Woe is me for Mylward!
And two days afterwards 'tis meet That by the Warden of the Fleet He be led on in slow progression Through every court that sits in session. Woe is me for Mylward!
The pleading writ with words so fair Must Mylward like a tabard wear, A hole therein, the Warden cuts it, A head put through it, Mylward puts it. Woe is me for Mylward!
The bar makes merry at his shame; What careth he? He winneth fame, Three hundred years his reputation Hath rested on that replication. Woe is me for Mylward!
HAMPDEN v. WALSH
(1 Queen's Bench Division, 189)
"Five hundred pounds as stake I'll lay," Says Hampden, "that by such a day No man of science proves to me That earth not flat but round must be; The earth is flat, and flats are they." The sum Walsh holds right willingly; But Wallace by philosophy Proves roundness, and would take away Five hundred pounds.
"Proof me no proofs," quoth Hampden, "Nay, Let Wallace get it if he may, I'll sue Walsh for it." So sues he. "Let Wallace," hold the judges three, "Take nought, let Walsh to Hampden pay Five hundred pounds."
WILLIS v. THE BISHOP OF OXFORD
(2 Probate Division, 192)
Aid me, Muses! my endeavour is to sing a woful song, How a very learned bishop in the Arches Court went wrong. Aid me, for duplex querela is an uninviting theme, And the practice of the Arches raises no poetic dream. 'Tis the Reverend Child Willis, child in name but not in age, Comes he to the Court of Arches burning with a noble rage, Filing his duplex querela, claiming for himself thereby Vicarage of Drayton Parslow, or to know the reason why. "Reason why?" the bishop answers; "that is not so far to seek. Little Latin have you, Willis, innocent are you of Greek. You were specially examined by my good Archdeacon Pott; He reported to me promptly, 'Greek and Latin all forgot, Non idoneus is Willis, minus et sufficiens, He may have a sanum corpus, but he lacks a sana mens.'" "Nay," says Willis, "such an answer is but trifling with the court, I have preached a Latin sermon, and the classics are my forte, You must name the books I failed in, you must give me every chance Of a fresh examination at the hands of Lord Penzance." Lord Penzance supported Willis: "Bishop, you must file," said he, "Some more tangible objection, some less vague and general plea. As it stands I cannot gather what it is you ploughed him in, Whether Hellenistic aorists or the Latin word for sin." But alas! the world has never known as yet what Willis did, In the breast of the Archdeacon still it lies a secret hid. Was his Latin prose defective? Did his style of writing show More resemblance to Tertullian than to Tullius Cicero? Were his dates a little shaky? Could it, could it be that he Confidently made Augustine flourish at a date B.C.? None will know save Pott, Archdeacon, for alas! the patroness Showed no mercy to Child Willis in the day of his distress. She revoked the presentation, leaving Willis in the lurch, One of undisputed learning preached in Drayton Parslow church. Doubly barren was his triumph, it was not a twelve-month ere Death set up his Court of Arches, Willis did not triumph there.
DASHWOOD v. JERMYN
(12 Chancery Division, 776)
Captain Dashwood, who had been In the service of the Queen, Sick of "Eyes front" and "Attention," Came to London on his pension. At the "Portland" as he stayed, Firm the friendship that he made With one William Richards, who Put up at the "Portland" too. Passed six years, then he was wrapped in Love's embraces, vanquished captain! "Yes," he cried, "I will; no bar shall Stop my wedding Edith Marshall." But there was a bar, 'twas that He was poorer than a rat; Indian pensions do not run More than just enough for one. Edith, too, had not a cent, Who would pay the rates and rent? Two more years, and Richards moved (He perchance had sometime loved), Promised them an income clear, 'Twas five hundred pounds a year For his life; when he was dead, Then ten thousand pounds instead. This to Dashwood in a letter Wrote he, deeming it was better They should marry soon while he Lived their happiness to see. 'Twas a modest sum, but marriage May be blest without a carriage, Forty pounds a month and more Keep the wolf from near the door. So they wed for worse or better, On the faith of Richards' letter. Scarcely was a quarter's payment Due when mourning was their raiment. Richards died. Alas! no cash would Find its way to Captain Dashwood. Dashwood's head began to swim— Not a shilling left to him! "Ha, I'll have it still," cried he; "Justice dwells in Chancery." So the case was straightway taken To the court of V.-C. Bacon. Vainly Dashwood cash expended The executors defended, Claiming that what Richards wrote Was not worth a five-pound note; First because the dead testator Well, not wisely, loved the "cratur," More than that, had often been In delirium tremens seen; Secondly, because he signed When he did not know his mind; Third, because pollicitation Is not good consideration. Law, of justice independent, Gave its judgment for defendant. Poorer than he was at first, That unhappy plaintiff cursed, With a special satisfaction Cursed the day he brought his action. Would that he'd in India tarried! Would that he had never married! He, alas, is tied for life Pauper to a pauper wife, Scarce consoled that on his name Equity reports shower fame, Bearing down to endless ages Dashwood's story on their pages.
EX PARTE JONES
(18 Chancery Division, 109)
Oh for the wily infant who married the widow and made Profit of coke and of breeze, and never a penny he paid! Oh for the Corporation of Birmingham cheated and snared, Taking orders for coke that the widow and infant prepared! Oh for the Court of Appeal, and oh for Lords Justices three! Oh for the Act that infants from contracts may shake themselves free! Oh for the common law with its store of things old and new! Birmingham coke is good and good Coke upon Littleton too.
FINLAY v. CHIRNEY
(20 Queen's Bench Division, 494)
When love-sick man descends to folly And gets engaged, he must not stray, The jury takes the part of Polly, And if he jilts her, he must pay.
The only way his fault to cover, From damages and costs to fly, To leave his jilted lady-lover Without an action is—to die![L]
[L] The decision was to the effect that in most cases an action for breach of promise of marriage does not survive against the representatives of the promiser.
POLLARD v. PHOTOGRAPHIC COMPANY
(40 Chancery Division, 345)
"Shall I take your photograph, my pretty maid?" "You may if you like, kind sir," she said.
"Do you like your photograph, my pretty maid?" "It is more than flattering, sir," she said.
"I'll publish your photograph, my pretty maid." "Indeed but you won't, kind sir," she said.
"As a Christmas card, my pretty maid." "The very idea, kind sir!" she said.
"But what if I've done it, my pretty maid?" "I'll get an injunction, sir," she said.
"The law is with you, my pretty maid," The learned judge of the Chancery said.
"You have proved the negative, my pretty maid, A difficult thing in law," he said.
THE MINNEAPOLIS CASE
(Tried in Minnesota in 1892)
Kind reader, tarry here, nor miss The law of Minneapolis. There was a carpenter called Brown, A citizen of that great town, Who stood his "inexpressive she" A dollar's worth of comedy. Was it a Gaiety burlesque, Or labour of Norwegian desk? Or did they spout in stagey tones Morality by H. A. Jones? Or tear romance to rags and set it In heavy platitudes by Pettit? I know not, and it matters not, The subject I have clean forgot. Sufficient that the pair did sit In expectation in the pit, An expectation not fulfilled, 'Twas otherwise by fortune willed. Before this loving couple sat In solitary state a hat— A hat, I say, for in their wonder They never noticed what was under, The wearer must have been a "human," But might have been a man or woman. 'Twas like a mountain crowned with trees Amid the pathless Pyrenees, Or like a garden planned by Paxton, Or colophon designed by Caxton, So intricate the work; and flowers Were trained to climb its soaring towers, Convolvulus and candytuft, And 'mid them water-wagtails stuffed. Such splendour never yet, I wis, Had shone in Minneapolis. But Brown was in a sore dilemma, A dollar he had paid for Emma To see a play, and not a hat; A dollar, it was dear at that. And Emma—disappointment racked her, She never saw a single actor. So Brown, with visage thunder-black, Demanded both his dollars back. The man who took the cash said, "Sonny, Our rule is not to give back money. But if you'll come another night, Maybe you'll get a better sight." So Brown went home and nursed his sorrow, His writ he issued on the morrow. A hundred dollars was his claim, And the young lady claimed the same. The case was argued, on revision Of pleadings, this was the decision: "The theatre's defence is bad, Brown paid for what he never had, He paid when in the pit he sat To see a play and not a hat. To bring defendants to their senses, I find for plaintiffs with expenses." Justitiae columna sis, Wise judge of Minneapolis!
COMMONWEALTH v. MARZYNSKI
(21 New England Reports, 228 [Massachusetts, 1893])
[On a complaint for keeping open a tobacconist's shop on Sunday, contrary to the law of Massachusetts, it was held that the court will take judicial notice that tobacco and cigars are not drugs and medicines, and will exclude the testimony of a witness who offers evidence that they are.]
Against the statutes of the Old Bay State Marzynski on a Sunday stood behind His counter, well content his gain to find In pipes not pills, cigars not carbonate. From breakfast till 'twas dusk at half-past eight Tobacco cheered this hardened sinner's mind, The price of it his pockets, disinclined To add their dime to the collection plate. The State Attorney claimed the penalty; "Cigars are no cigars," said the defence, "But drugs, and we have witnesses to prove it." "Cigars to be cigars judicially We notice, and reject the evidence." So said the Court, and spat, and nought could move it.
Woe to the house whose mistress was a slave! So say old saws, my own in aid I crave; Woe to the court whose judge once spake for fees, Though he were readier than Isocrates! An advocate that pleaded once for pelf Scarce on the bench forgets his former self.
This Olympicus of old Had, Sebastus, I am told Quite his share of upper gear, Nose and chin and eye and ear. All he lost, and by his fist— He became a pugilist. Loss of members with it drew Loss of patrimony too. When his birthright he would claim, Into court his brother came With a portrait, saying, "Thus Looked the old Olympicus." None could any likeness see, Disinherited was he.
A pig, a goat, an ox I lost: I want them back at any cost, And so retained, O woful fate! Menecles for my advocate. But tell me, will you, what have these In common with Othryades? The heroes of Thermopylae Have nought to do with theft from me. Against Eutychides I bring My action for a trivial thing. Let Xerxes rest a little space, And leave the Spartans in their place. For if you don't put all this by I'll go into the streets and cry, "The voice of Menecles is big, But what about my stolen pig?"
[This Epigram is probably an imitation of that of Martial, on p. 90.]
Pluto rejected at his gate The soul of Mark the advocate; "No, Cerberus my dog," quoth he, "Will make you pleasant company; But if within you needs must go, Practise on poet Melito, And you shall have, if he won't do, Tityus and Ixion too. You'll be to hell the sorest ill Of all that hell contains, until There come to us worse barbarisms When Rufus speaks his solecisms."
So soon hath Asiaticus The gift of eloquence achieved? It was in Thebes it happened thus, The story well may be believed.
The statue of an advocate, as like as like can be. And why? The statue cannot speak a word, no more could he.
Paul, dost thou wish to make thy boy An advocate like these his betters? Then let him not his time employ To useless ends in learning letters.
The parties were as deaf as deaf could be, The judge was far the deafest of the three. Said plaintiff, "Sir, I ask for five months' rent." Defendant, "Grinding corn all night I spent." "Why," quoth the judge, "dispute? Your mother's claim Is good, and you must both support the dame."
Remember justice and her yoke, and know That 'gainst the wicked votes of "Guilty" go. Thou trustest in thy cunning speech, thy power Of speaking words that vary with the hour. Hope what thou wilt, thy trifling tricks are vain, Thou canst not make the path of law less plain.
Once to Diodorus came a client in a state of doubt, And to that most learned counsel thus he set the matter out: "Alpha Beta found a slave-girl who had run away from me: To a slave of his he wed her, though she was my property, Well he knew she was my chattel; she has had a child or two; Now I cannot tell for certain whose the children are, can you?" Diodorus thought, consulted all authorities on "Slave," To his client turned his furrowed brows and slowly answer gave: "'Tis to you or to the other who, you say, has done you wrong, That the children of the handmaid rightfully of course belong, Your best plan will be the matter in the proper court to place, So you'll get a good opinion whether you have any case."
"Good Hermes, only just one cabbage plant." "Stop, stop, my thieving traveller, you can't." "What, grudge me one poor cabbage! is it so?" "Nay, I don't grudge it, but the law says no. The law says, Keep your itching palms, d'ye see, From meddling with another's property." "Well, this beats anything I ever saw! Hermes against a thief invokes the law."
Pupils seven of Aristides, Tell me, how are ye? Four of you are walls, beside is Nought but benches three.
Seven pupils of the rhetor Aristides, how are ye? Seven! Hoc et nihil praeter, Four are walls and benches three.
"Lend me sestertia, Caius, only twenty, 'Tis no great thing for you who roll in plenty." He was an old companion, and his coffers Were full enough to stand such friendly offers. "Go, plead in court," said he; "'tis pleadings pay us." "I want your money, not your counsel, Caius."
Martial, ii. 30.
'Tis said that some bold advocate Has dared to criticise my poem, His name I have not learned, his fate Will be a warning when I know him.
Martial, v. 33.
In Postumum Causidicum
No claim for trespass do I bring, Or homicide, or poisoning. I claim that by my neighbour's theft Of she-goats three I was bereft. The judge of course wants evidence, But you go wandering far from thence, And with a mighty voice declaim Of Mithridates and the shame Of Cannae, and the lies of old That Punic politicians told. And why should you pass Sylla by, The Marii and Mucii? When, Postumus, d'ye hope to reach My stolen she-goats in your speech?
Martial, vi. 19.
Is this advocacy, Cinna, this a type of lawyers' powers, This immense oration, Cinna, some nine words in some ten hours? Waterclocks I grant you asked for, Cinna, yes, you called for four; There you stopped, such wealth of silence, Cinna, ne'er was seen before.
Martial, viii. 7.
THE COURT OF REASON
A thousand doubts and pleadings in a day Are filed in Empress Reason's court supreme By angry Love—his eyes with anger gleam. "Which of us twain hath been more faithful, say. 'Tis all through me that Cino can display The sail of fame on life's unhappy stream." "Thee," quoth I, "root of all my woe I deem, I found what gall beneath thy sweetness lay." Then he: "Ah, traitorous and truant slave! Are these the thanks thou renderest, ingrate, For giving thee a maid without a peer?" "Thy left," cried I, "slew what thy right hand gave." "Not so," said he. The judge, "Your wrath abate. I must have time to give true judgment here."
Cino da Pistoia.
[Imitated by Petrarch in the conclusion of the Canzone, Quell' antico mio dolce empio signore.]
Tell me, proud Rome, why dost these edicts read, These many laws by prince or people made, Or answers by the prudent duly weighed, When now thou canst the world no longer lead? Thou readest, sad one, of each ancient deed Where thy unconquered sons their might displayed, Afric and Egypt at thy feet were laid, But slavery, not rule, is now thy meed. What boots it that thou wast of old a queen, And over foreign nations heldest rein, If thou and all thy fame no more exist? Forgive me, God, if all my days have been Devoted to man's laws, unjust and vain Unless Thy law within the heart be fixed.
Cino da Pistoia.
Ah! justice is a virtue bepraised and full of worth, It castigates the sinner, and peoples all the earth, And kings with care should guard it—instead they now forget The gem that is most precious in all the coronet. Some think they may do justice by cruelty, I wist; But 'tis an evil counsel, for justice must consist In showing deeds of mercy, in knowledge of the truth, And executing judgment it executes with ruth.
Pedro Lopez de Ayala.
THE POET AND THE ADVOCATE
Glory and gain thus mixed distract the thought, We owe to honour all, to fortune nought; The poet, like the soldier, scorns for pay Peruvian gold, but seeks the wreath of bay. How is the advocate the poet's peer? The poet's glory is complete and clear; He far outlives the advocate's renown, Patru is e'en by Scarron's name weighed down. The bar of Greece and Rome you point me out, A bar that trained great men, I do not doubt, For then chicane with language void of sense Had not deformed the law and eloquence. Purge the tribune of all this monstrous growth, I mount it, and my soul will sink, though loth, Will yield to fortune and will speak in prose. But since reform in this so slowly grows, Leave me my tastes, for I aspire to be By verse ennobled to posterity, To hold first place in arts above the law, More grave and noble than it ever saw. Fraud in this age of ours unpunished can Tread down the equity so dear to man. Can you for spirits just and generous find A fairer cause to plead before mankind? Mother or stepmother let Fortune be, The theatre and not the bar for me; For client virtue, truth for counsel's wage; For judge the present and the coming age.
Piron, La Metromanie, Act iii. Sc. 7.
MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.