Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 537, March 10, 1832», страница 5
"His costume even now was foppish and recherché. Much time had evidently been spent in adjusting the drooping leathers of his jewelled toque, and no pains had been spared in properly disposing the plaits of his fraise and ruffles, or in arranging the folds of his broidered mantle. The snow-white slippers, with the sky-blue roses, the silken hose and braided doublet, seemed better fitted for the parade of the courtly saloon than the privacy of the closet. The hand he extended to the Count was like that of a youthful beauty, rather than of one who had once wielded sword with the bravest. Every finger was adorned with a costly jewel, which flashed and sparkled in the light as he waved his hand in token of welcome, and, pointing to a chair, bade his visiter be seated."
SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS
THE LAW OF ARREST. A TALE FROM FACTS
Once upon a time there lived at Hamburgh a certain merchant of the name of Meyer—he was a good little man; charitable to the poor, hospitable to his friends, and so rich that he was extremely respected, in spite of his good nature. Among that part of his property which was vested in other people's hands, and called debts, was the sum of five hundred pounds owed to him by the Captain of an English vessel. This debt had been so long contracted that the worthy Meyer began to wish for a new investment of his capital. He accordingly resolved to take a trip to Portsmouth, in which town Captain Jones was then residing, and take that liberty which in my opinion should in a free country never be permitted, viz. the liberty of applying for his money.
Our worthy merchant one bright morning found himself at Portsmouth; he was a stranger to that town, but not unacquainted altogether with the English language. He lost no time in calling on Captain Jones.
"And vat?" said he to a man whom he asked to show him to the Captain's house, "vat is dat fine veshell yondare?"
"She be the Royal Sally," replied the man, "bound for Calcutta—sails to-morrow; but here's Captain Jones's house, Sir, and he'll tell you all about it."
The merchant bowed, and knocked at the door of a red brick house—door green—brass knocker. Captain Gregory Jones was a tall man; he wore a blue coat without skirts; he had high cheek bones, small eyes, and his whole appearance was eloquent of what is generally termed the bluff honesty of the seaman. Captain Gregory seemed somewhat disconcerted at seeing his friend—he begged for a little further time. The merchant looked grave—three years had already elapsed. The Captain demurred—the merchant pressed—the Captain blustered—and the merchant, growing angry, began to threaten. All of a sudden Captain Jones's manner changed—he seemed to recollect himself, begged pardon, said he could easily procure the money, desired the merchant to go back to his inn, and promised to call on him in the course of the day. Mynheer Meyer went home, and ordered an excellent dinner. Time passed—his friend came not. Meyer grew impatient. He had just put on his hat and was walking out, when the waiter threw open the door, and announced two gentlemen.
"Ah, dere comes de monish," thought Mynheer Meyer. The gentlemen approached—the taller one whipped out what seemed to Meyer a receipt. "Ah, ver well, I vill sign, ver well!"
"Signing, Sir, is useless; you will be kind enough to accompany us. This is a warrant for debt, Sir; my house is extremely comfortable—gentlemen of the first fashion go there—quite moderate, too, only a guinea a-day—find your own wine."
"I do—no—understand, Sare," said the merchant, smiling amiably, "I am ver vell off here—thank you—"
"Come, come," said the other gentleman, speaking for the first time, "no parlavoo Monsoo, you are our prisoner—this is a warrant for the sum of 10,000l. due to Captain Gregory Jones."
The merchant stared—the merchant frowned—but so it was. Captain Gregory Jones, who owed Mynheer Meyer 500l., had arrested Mynheer Meyer for 10,000l.; for, as every one knows, any man may arrest us who has conscience enough to swear that we owe him money. Where was Mynheer Meyer in a strange town to get bail? Mynheer Meyer went to prison.
"Dis be a strange vay of paying a man his monish!" said Mynheer Meyer.
In order to wile away time, our merchant, who was wonderfully social, scraped acquaintance with some of his fellow-prisoners. "Vat be you in prishon for?" said he to a stout respectable-looking man who seemed in a violent passion—"for vhat crime?"
"I, Sir, crime!" quoth the prisoner; "Sir, I was going to Liverpool to vote at the election, when a friend of the opposite candidate had me suddenly arrested for 2,000l. Before I get bail the election will be over!"
"Vat's that you tell me? arrest you to prevent your giving an honesht vote? is that justice?"
"Justice, no!" cried our friend, it's the Law of Arrest."
"And vat be you in prishon for?" said the merchant pityingly to a thin cadaverous-looking object, who ever and anon applied a handkerchief to eyes that were worn with weeping.
"An attorney offered a friend of mine to discount a bill, if he could obtain a few names to indorse it—I, Sir, indorsed it. The bill became due, the next day the attorney arrested all whose names were on the bill; there were eight of us, the law allows him to charge two guineas for each; there are sixteen guineas, Sir, for the lawyer—but I, Sir—alas my family will starve before I shall be released. Sir, there are a set of men called discounting attorneys, who live upon the profits of entrapping and arresting us poor folk."
"Mine Gott! but is dat justice?"
"Alas! No, Sir, it is the law of arrest."
"But," said the merchant, turning round to a lawyer, whom the Devil had deserted, and who was now with the victims of his profession; "dey tell me, dat in Englant a man be called innoshent till he be proved guilty; but here am I, who, because von carrion of a shailor, who owesh me five hundred pounts, takes an oath that I owe him ten thousand—here am I, on that schoundrel's single oath, clapped up in a prishon. Is this a man's being innoshent till he is proved guilty, Sare?"
"Sir," said the lawyer primly, "you are thinking of criminal cases; but if a man be unfortunate enough to get into debt, that is quite a different thing:—we are harder to poverty than we are to crime!"
"But, mine Gott! is that justice?"
"Justice! pooh! it's the law of arrest," said the lawyer, turning on his heel.
Our merchant was liberated; no one appeared to prove the debt. He flew to a magistrate; he told his case; he implored justice against Captain Jones.
"Captain Jones!" said the magistrate, taking snuff; "Captain Gregory Jones, you mean!"
"Ay, mine goot Sare—yesh!"
"He set sail for Calcutta yesterday. He commands the Royal Sally. He must evidently have sworn this debt against you for the purpose of getting rid of your claim, and silencing your mouth till you could catch him no longer. He's a clever fellow is Gregory Jones!"
"De teufel! but, Sure, ish dere no remedy for de poor merchant?"
"Remedy! oh, yes—indictment for perjury."
"But vat use is dat? You say he be gone—ten thousand miles off—to Calcutta!"
"That's certainly against your indictment!"
"And cannot I get my monish?"
"Not as I see."
"And I have been arreshted instead of him!"
"You have."
"Sare, I have only von vord to say—is dat justice?"
"That I can't say, Mynheer Meyer, but it is certainly the law of arrest," answered the magistrate; and he bowed the merchant out of the room.
New Monthly Magazine
SONGS FOUND IN A GRECIAN URN
THE FIRST-BORN
Beautiful, O woman! the sun on flower and tree,
And beautiful the balmy wind that dreameth on the sea;
And softly soundeth in thine ear, the song of peasants reaping,
The dove's low chant among the leaves, its twilight vigil keeping.
And beautiful the hushing of the linnet in her nest,
With her young beneath her wings, and the sunset on her breast:
While hid among the flowers, where the dreamy bee is flitting,
Singing unto its own glad heart, the poet child is sitting.
It stirreth up the soul, upon the golden waves to see,
The galley lifting up her crowned head triumphantly—
Io! Io! now she laugheth like a Queen of Araby,
While Joy and Music strew with flowers the pathway of her Chariotry!
And beautiful unto thy soul, at summer time to wait,
Till Moonlight with her sweet pale feet, comes dancing to thy gate;
Thy violet-eyes upturn'd unto thy love with timid grace,
He feels thine arm about his neck, thy kisses on his face.
Beautiful, O gentle girl, these pleasant thoughts to thee,
These chosen sheaves, long harvested within thy memory!
But when thy face grows dim, with weariness and care,
Thy heart, forgetting all its songs, awaketh but to prayer!
Thou lookest for a gleeful face, thine opening eyes to greet,
While coldness gathers on thy breast, the shadow round thy feet—
Beautiful, O woman, the green earth and the flowers may be,
But sweeter in that hour the voice of thy First-born Child to thee!
THE ATHENIAN LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS
The spirit of mine eyes is faint
With gazing on thy light;
I close my eyelids, but within,
Sweet, thou art shining bright,
Sitting amid the purple gloom,
Like a flower-bird at night!
Thy beauty walketh by my side
By the green wood, on the sea;
I hear thee in the bird that sings
Upon the orange-tree;
Thy face upon the haunted streams
Is looking up to me.
Gentle one, in grief I linger
Beside the glimmering nest,
Till evening sinketh in the flowers,
Like a weary fawn to rest,
Yea, my heart is sick with longing
To dream upon thy breast!
From the dark of their golden lids
Thy singing eyes look out,
Like doves in the olives hearing
The shepherd's jocund shout,
As he wandereth with his pipe
The sunny glen about.
I have opened mine eyes—
Thy beauty will not part,
But thy feet are dancing round me,
Lovely! that thou art—
The sweet breath of thine eyes doth fall,
Like odour on my heart!
TO AN ARCADIAN CHILD SLEEPING
Sleep on—sleep on—the silver flowers
A pillow for thy head may be,
While Evening with her band of hours
Sits by thee silently.
From Morning in the vine-yards straying—
Sweet child, so fair and meek!
She lieth down, and tired of playing,
Darkens the bright grass with her cheek.
One arm upon her eyes she foldeth,
O'er which her hair is softly fann'd,
And still with fainting grasp she holdeth
The lilies in her hand.
Oh—wake her not! the forest streams
With balmy lips are breathing rest;
Nor stir the garland of sweet dreams
Which Sleep hath bound upon her breast.
