Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 3
"May it please your Honor," began the District Attorney, "I do not deem
it necessary to submit any evidence in this case. Under the law of the
land you sit here as a committing magistrate. It is therefore your duty
to commit. Testimony and argument alike would imply a doubt that your
Honor means to perform your sworn duty. That is my case."
My counsel, a brother of the deceased Coroner, rose and said: "May it
please the Court, my learned friend on the other side has so well and
eloquently stated the law governing in this case that it only remains
for me to inquire to what extent it has been already complied with. It
is true, your Honor is a committing magistrate, and as such it is your
duty to commit--what? That is a matter which the law has wisely and
justly left to your own discretion, and wisely you have discharged
already every obligation that the law imposes. Since I have known your
Honor you have done nothing but commit. You have committed embracery,
theft, arson, perjury, adultery, murder--every crime in the calendar and
every excess known to the sensual and depraved, including my learned
friend, the District Attorney. You have done your whole duty as a
committing magistrate, and as there is no evidence against this worthy
young man, my client, I move that he be discharged."
An impressive silence ensued. The Judge arose, put on the black cap and
in a voice trembling with emotion sentenced me to life and liberty. Then
turning to my counsel he said, coldly but significantly:
"I will see you later."
The next morning the lawyer who had so conscientiously defended me
against a charge of murdering his own brother--with whom he had a
quarrel about some land--had disappeared and his fate is to this day
unknown.
In the meantime my poor father's body had been secretly buried at
midnight in the back yard of his late residence, with his late boots on
and the contents of his late stomach unanalyzed. "He was opposed to
display," said my dear mother, as she finished tamping down the earth
above him and assisted the children to litter the place with straw; "his
instincts were all domestic and he loved a quiet life."
My mother's application for letters of administration stated that she
had good reason to believe that the deceased was dead, for he had not
come home to his meals for several days; but the Judge of the Crowbait
Court--as she ever afterward contemptuously called it--decided that the
proof of death was insufficient, and put the estate into the hands of
the Public Administrator, who was his son-in-law. It was found that the
liabilities were exactly balanced by the assets; there was left only the
patent for the device for bursting open safes without noise, by
hydraulic pressure and this had passed into the ownership of the Probate
Judge and the Public Administrator--as my dear mother preferred to
spell it. Thus, within a few brief months a worthy and respectable
family was reduced from prosperity to crime; necessity compelled us to
go to work.
In the selection of occupations we were governed by a variety of
considerations, such as personal fitness, inclination, and so forth. My
mother opened a select private school for instruction in the art of
changing the spots upon leopard-skin rugs; my eldest brother, George
Henry, who had a turn for music, became a bugler in a neighboring asylum
for deaf mutes; my sister, Mary Maria, took orders for Professor
Pumpernickel's Essence of Latchkeys for flavoring mineral springs, and I
set up as an adjuster and gilder of crossbeams for gibbets. The other
children, too young for labor, continued to steal small articles exposed
in front of shops, as they had been taught.
In our intervals of leisure we decoyed travelers into our house and
buried the bodies in a cellar.
In one part of this cellar we kept wines, liquors and provisions. From
the rapidity of their disappearance we acquired the superstitious belief
that the spirits of the persons buried there came at dead of night and
held a festival. It was at least certain that frequently of a morning we
would discover fragments of pickled meats, canned goods and such d�bris,
littering the place, although it had been securely locked and barred
against human intrusion. It was proposed to remove the provisions and
store them elsewhere, but our dear mother, always generous and
hospitable, said it was better to endure the loss than risk exposure: if
the ghosts were denied this trifling gratification they might set on
foot an investigation, which would overthrow our scheme of the division
of labor, by diverting the energies of the whole family into the single
industry pursued by me--we might all decorate the cross-beams of
gibbets. We accepted her decision with filial submission, due to our
reverence for her wordly wisdom and the purity of her character.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|