The Rising of the Court and Other Sketches in Prose and Verse
THE RISING OF THE COURT
Oh, then tell us, Sings and Judges, where our meeting is to be,
when the laws of men are nothing, and our spirits all are free
when the laws of men are nothing, and no wealth can hold the fort,
There'll be thirst for mighty brewers at the Rising of the Court.
The same dingy court room, deep and dim, like a well, with the clock
high up on the wall, and the doors low down in it; with the bench,
which, with some gilding, might be likened to a gingerbread imitation
of a throne; the royal arms above it and the little witness box to one
side, where so many honest poor people are bullied, insulted and
laughed at by third-rate blackguardly little "lawyers," and so many
pitiful, pathetic and noble lies are told by pitiful sinners and
disreputable heroes for a little liberty for a lost self, or for the
sake of a friend--of a "pal" or a "cobber." The same overworked
and underpaid magistrate trying to keep his attention fixed on the
same old miserable scene before him; as a weary, overworked and
underpaid journalist or author strives to keep his attention fixed on
his proofs. The same row of big, strong, healthy, good-natured
policemen trying not to grin at times; and the police-court solicitors
("the place stinks with 'em," a sergeant told me) wrangling over
some miserable case for a crust, and the "reporters," shabby some of
them, eager to get a brutal joke for their papers out of the
accumulated mass of misery before them, whether it be at the expense
of the deaf, blind, or crippled man, or the alien.
And opposite the bench, the dock, divided by a partition, with the
women to the left and the men to the right, as it is on the stairs or
the block in polite society. They bring children here no longer. The
same shaking, wild-eyed, blood-shot-eyed and blear-eyed drunks and
disorderlies, though some of the women have nerves yet; and the same
decently dressed, but trembling and conscience-stricken little wretch
up for petty larceny or something, whose motor car bosses of a big
firm have sent a solicitor, "manager," or some understrapper here to
prosecute and give evidence.
But, over there, on a form to one side of the bench-opposite the
witness box--and as the one bright spot in this dark, and shameful,
and useless scene--and in a patch of sunlight from the skylight as it
happens--sit representatives of the Prisoners' Aid Society, Prison
Gate and Rescue Brigades, etc. (one or two of the ladies in nurses'
uniforms), who are come to help us and to fight for us against the Law
of their Land and of ours, God help us!
"1114757227"
Oh, then tell us, Sings and Judges, where our meeting is to be,
when the laws of men are nothing, and our spirits all are free
when the laws of men are nothing, and no wealth can hold the fort,
There'll be thirst for mighty brewers at the Rising of the Court.
The same dingy court room, deep and dim, like a well, with the clock
high up on the wall, and the doors low down in it; with the bench,
which, with some gilding, might be likened to a gingerbread imitation
of a throne; the royal arms above it and the little witness box to one
side, where so many honest poor people are bullied, insulted and
laughed at by third-rate blackguardly little "lawyers," and so many
pitiful, pathetic and noble lies are told by pitiful sinners and
disreputable heroes for a little liberty for a lost self, or for the
sake of a friend--of a "pal" or a "cobber." The same overworked
and underpaid magistrate trying to keep his attention fixed on the
same old miserable scene before him; as a weary, overworked and
underpaid journalist or author strives to keep his attention fixed on
his proofs. The same row of big, strong, healthy, good-natured
policemen trying not to grin at times; and the police-court solicitors
("the place stinks with 'em," a sergeant told me) wrangling over
some miserable case for a crust, and the "reporters," shabby some of
them, eager to get a brutal joke for their papers out of the
accumulated mass of misery before them, whether it be at the expense
of the deaf, blind, or crippled man, or the alien.
And opposite the bench, the dock, divided by a partition, with the
women to the left and the men to the right, as it is on the stairs or
the block in polite society. They bring children here no longer. The
same shaking, wild-eyed, blood-shot-eyed and blear-eyed drunks and
disorderlies, though some of the women have nerves yet; and the same
decently dressed, but trembling and conscience-stricken little wretch
up for petty larceny or something, whose motor car bosses of a big
firm have sent a solicitor, "manager," or some understrapper here to
prosecute and give evidence.
But, over there, on a form to one side of the bench-opposite the
witness box--and as the one bright spot in this dark, and shameful,
and useless scene--and in a patch of sunlight from the skylight as it
happens--sit representatives of the Prisoners' Aid Society, Prison
Gate and Rescue Brigades, etc. (one or two of the ladies in nurses'
uniforms), who are come to help us and to fight for us against the Law
of their Land and of ours, God help us!
The Rising of the Court and Other Sketches in Prose and Verse
THE RISING OF THE COURT
Oh, then tell us, Sings and Judges, where our meeting is to be,
when the laws of men are nothing, and our spirits all are free
when the laws of men are nothing, and no wealth can hold the fort,
There'll be thirst for mighty brewers at the Rising of the Court.
The same dingy court room, deep and dim, like a well, with the clock
high up on the wall, and the doors low down in it; with the bench,
which, with some gilding, might be likened to a gingerbread imitation
of a throne; the royal arms above it and the little witness box to one
side, where so many honest poor people are bullied, insulted and
laughed at by third-rate blackguardly little "lawyers," and so many
pitiful, pathetic and noble lies are told by pitiful sinners and
disreputable heroes for a little liberty for a lost self, or for the
sake of a friend--of a "pal" or a "cobber." The same overworked
and underpaid magistrate trying to keep his attention fixed on the
same old miserable scene before him; as a weary, overworked and
underpaid journalist or author strives to keep his attention fixed on
his proofs. The same row of big, strong, healthy, good-natured
policemen trying not to grin at times; and the police-court solicitors
("the place stinks with 'em," a sergeant told me) wrangling over
some miserable case for a crust, and the "reporters," shabby some of
them, eager to get a brutal joke for their papers out of the
accumulated mass of misery before them, whether it be at the expense
of the deaf, blind, or crippled man, or the alien.
And opposite the bench, the dock, divided by a partition, with the
women to the left and the men to the right, as it is on the stairs or
the block in polite society. They bring children here no longer. The
same shaking, wild-eyed, blood-shot-eyed and blear-eyed drunks and
disorderlies, though some of the women have nerves yet; and the same
decently dressed, but trembling and conscience-stricken little wretch
up for petty larceny or something, whose motor car bosses of a big
firm have sent a solicitor, "manager," or some understrapper here to
prosecute and give evidence.
But, over there, on a form to one side of the bench-opposite the
witness box--and as the one bright spot in this dark, and shameful,
and useless scene--and in a patch of sunlight from the skylight as it
happens--sit representatives of the Prisoners' Aid Society, Prison
Gate and Rescue Brigades, etc. (one or two of the ladies in nurses'
uniforms), who are come to help us and to fight for us against the Law
of their Land and of ours, God help us!
Oh, then tell us, Sings and Judges, where our meeting is to be,
when the laws of men are nothing, and our spirits all are free
when the laws of men are nothing, and no wealth can hold the fort,
There'll be thirst for mighty brewers at the Rising of the Court.
The same dingy court room, deep and dim, like a well, with the clock
high up on the wall, and the doors low down in it; with the bench,
which, with some gilding, might be likened to a gingerbread imitation
of a throne; the royal arms above it and the little witness box to one
side, where so many honest poor people are bullied, insulted and
laughed at by third-rate blackguardly little "lawyers," and so many
pitiful, pathetic and noble lies are told by pitiful sinners and
disreputable heroes for a little liberty for a lost self, or for the
sake of a friend--of a "pal" or a "cobber." The same overworked
and underpaid magistrate trying to keep his attention fixed on the
same old miserable scene before him; as a weary, overworked and
underpaid journalist or author strives to keep his attention fixed on
his proofs. The same row of big, strong, healthy, good-natured
policemen trying not to grin at times; and the police-court solicitors
("the place stinks with 'em," a sergeant told me) wrangling over
some miserable case for a crust, and the "reporters," shabby some of
them, eager to get a brutal joke for their papers out of the
accumulated mass of misery before them, whether it be at the expense
of the deaf, blind, or crippled man, or the alien.
And opposite the bench, the dock, divided by a partition, with the
women to the left and the men to the right, as it is on the stairs or
the block in polite society. They bring children here no longer. The
same shaking, wild-eyed, blood-shot-eyed and blear-eyed drunks and
disorderlies, though some of the women have nerves yet; and the same
decently dressed, but trembling and conscience-stricken little wretch
up for petty larceny or something, whose motor car bosses of a big
firm have sent a solicitor, "manager," or some understrapper here to
prosecute and give evidence.
But, over there, on a form to one side of the bench-opposite the
witness box--and as the one bright spot in this dark, and shameful,
and useless scene--and in a patch of sunlight from the skylight as it
happens--sit representatives of the Prisoners' Aid Society, Prison
Gate and Rescue Brigades, etc. (one or two of the ladies in nurses'
uniforms), who are come to help us and to fight for us against the Law
of their Land and of ours, God help us!
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The Rising of the Court and Other Sketches in Prose and Verse
The Rising of the Court and Other Sketches in Prose and Verse
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940016177809 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication date: | 03/03/2013 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 94 KB |
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