An Alibi

A famous journalist, who longHad told the great unheaded throngWhate'er they thought, by day or night.Was true as Holy Writ, and right,Was caught in--well, on second thought,It is enough that he was caught,And being thrown in jail becameThe fuel of a public flame.

"Vox populi vox Dei," saidThe jailer. Inxling bent his headWithout remark: that motto goodIn bold-faced type had always stoodAbove the columns where his penHad rioted in praise of menAnd all they said--provided heWas sure they mostly did agree.Meanwhile a sharp and bitter strifeTo take, or save, the culprit's lifeOr liberty (which, I suppose,Was much the same to him) aroseOutside. The journal that his penAdorned denounced his crime--but thenIts editor in secret triedTo have the indictment set aside.The opposition papers sworeHis father was a rogue before,And all his wife's relations wereLike him and similar to her.They begged their readers to subscribeA dollar each to make a bribeThat any Judge would feel was largeEnough to prove the gravest charge--Unless, it might be, the defensePut up superior evidence.The law's traditional delayWas all too short: the trial dayDawned red and menacing. The JudgeSat on the Bench and wouldn't budge,And all the motions counsel madeCould not move him--and there he stayed."The case must now proceed," he said,"While I am just in heart and head,It happens--as, indeed, it ought--Both sides with equal sums have boughtMy favor: I can try the causeImpartially." (Prolonged applause.)

The prisoner was now arraignedAnd said that he was greatly painedTo be suspected--he, whose penHad charged so many other menWith crimes and misdemeanors! "Why,"He said, a tear in either eye,"If men who live by crying out'Stop thief!' are not themselves from doubtOf their integrity exempt,Let all forego the vain attemptTo make a reputation! Sir,I'm innocent, and I demur."Whereat a thousand voices criedAmain he manifestly lied--Vox populi as loudly roaredAs bull by picadores gored,In his own coin receiving payTo 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 heAs any babe unborn was freeFrom prejudice, opinion, thought,Respectability, brains--aughtThat could disqualify; and someExplained 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 becameRed with the consciousness of shame.

Whenever one of them approachedThe truth, "That witness wasn't coached,Your Honor!" cried the lawyers both."Strike out his testimony," quothThe learned judge: "This Court deniesIts ear to stories which surprise.I hold that witnesses exemptFrom coaching all are in contempt."Both Prosecution and DefenseApplauded the judicial sense,And the spectators all averredSuch wisdom they had never heard:'Twas plain the prisoner would beFound guilty in the first degree.Meanwhile that wight's pale cheek confessedThe nameless terrors in his breast.He felt remorseful, too, becauseHe wasn't half they said he was."If I'd been such a rogue," he musedOn opportunities unused,"I might have easily becomeAs wealthy as Methusalum."This journalist adorned, alas,The middle, not the Bible, class.

With equal skill the lawyers' pleasAttested 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 roarHad silenced the judicial snoreThe speaker suffered for the sportBy fining for contempt of court.Twelve jurors' noses good and trueUnceasing sang the trial through,And even vox populi was spentIn rattles through a nasal vent.Clerk, bailiff, constables and allHeard Morpheus sound the trumpet callTo arms--his arms--and all fell inSave counsel for the Man of Sin.That thaumaturgist stood and swayedThe wand their faculties obeyed--That magic wand which, like a flame.Leapt, wavered, quivered and becameA wonder-worker--known amongThe ignoble vulgar as a Tongue.

How long, O Lord, how long my verseRuns on for better or for worseIn meter which o'ermasters me,Octosyllabically free!--A meter which, the poets say,No power of restraint can stay;--A hard-mouthed meter, suited wellTo him who, having naught to tell,Must hold attention as a troutIs held, by paying out and outThe slender line which else would breakShould one attempt the fish to take.Thus tavern guides who've naught to showBut some adjacent curioBy devious trails their patrons leadAnd make them think 't is far indeed.Where was I?

While the lawyer talkedThe rogue took up his feet and walked:While all about him, roaring, slept,Into the street he calmly stepped.In very truth, the man who thoughtThe people's voice from heaven had caughtGod's inspiration took a changeOf venue--it was passing strange!Straight to his editor he wentAnd that ingenious person sentA Negro to impersonateThe fugitive. In adequateDisguise he took his vacant placeAnd buried in his arms his face.When all was done the lawyer stoppedAnd silence like a bombshell droppedUpon the Court: judge, jury, allWithin that venerable hall(Except the deaf and dumb, indeed,And one or two whom death had freed)Awoke and tried to look as thoughSlumber was all they did not know.

And now that tireless lawyer-manTook breath, and then again began:"Your Honor, if you did attendTo what I've urged (my learned friendNodded concurrence) to supportThe motion I have made, this courtMay soon adjourn. With your assentI've shown abundant precedentFor introducing now, though late,New evidence to exculpateMy client. So, if you'll allow,I'll prove an alibi!" "What?--how?"Stammered the judge. "Well, yes, I can'tDeny your showing, and I grantThe motion. Do I understandYou undertake to prove--good land!--That when the crime--you mean to showYour client wasn't there?" "O, no,I cannot quite do that, I find:My alibi's another kindOf alibi,--I'll make it clear,Your Honor, that he isn't here."The Darky here upreared his head,Tranquillity affrighted fledAnd consternation reigned instead!