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:
