Volume 25 — THE POTMAN AND THE PRÆTOR.—(A LAY OF THE MIDDLESEX SESSIONS).

Flatuleius, the advocate, His client's cause hath sped, And Adamus, the stern Prætor, Hath reared his learned head; He hath summed up to the jury With digressions, by the way, On juvenile offenders And the topics of the day.

Till Bibulus, the foreman, That was beer-bemused before, By the Prætor's various learning Is mystified still more; And with the eleven, his comrades, More obfuscate e'en than he, Hath been led forth by the lictor, On their verdict to agree.

They have sworn another jury, They have called another case, An hour hath passed, but Bibulus Hath not yet shown his face, And the learned Prætor wonders What the fools can be about, For he told them what their verdict Ought to be when they went out.

When, sudden, a plebeian Excited, rushes in, And, in a voice that drowneth E'en Flatuleius' din, Exclaimeth to the Prætor, "My Lord, a party here Says, as how them blessèd jury Is a drinkin' pots o' beer."

"Ho! call the recreant lictor!" The angry Prætor cried. "'Twas his to guard the doorway That nought might be supplied— Nor meat, nor drink, nor firing, Excepting candle-light; For so the Law enacteth, And the Law is always right!"

The lictor comes—"Thou traitor! The law dost thou deride? How came liquor to the jury? How was the beer supplied?" "My lord, I heard 'em drinking, And found out that their lay Was to summon forth the potman Of the public o'er the way, Who through the open window The pewter did convey."

One moment paused the Prætor, And with an angry blush, For the Common Law thus outraged, His awful face did flush. One moment you had fancied He was about to swear; But he checked the rising impulse, And spoke with awful air:

"Bring forth to me the landlord Of the public o'er the way; Say 'tis the Law that calls him, And the Law brooks no delay. And summon, too, the potman— Him who supplied the beer— And now bring foreman Bibulus And his bold comrades here!"

With stealthy hand, still wiping The froth from off his chin, They have brought forth beery Bibulus, And his fellows in the sin. You had not guessed the burden Upon their thirsty souls, Though the Prætor's eye clean through them Its gathered lightning rolls!

Then, in Olympic thunders, The hoarded tempest broke: "Ye seem to take it easy; I'll show ye 'tis no joke! Think ye, in this its temple The Law to flout and jeer, Getting in through the window Pots of illegal beer?

"The Common Law of England Blushes for you, through me; Little thought I that these Sessions Would e'er such scandal see! Go, shameless men! I'll teach ye Your appetites to balk, In a room whereto no pewter Can through the windows walk; And when you bring your verdict, About the fine we'll talk."

Bibulus knows the Prætor, Nor idly pardon begs; But goeth forth crest-fallen— His tail between his legs— When sudden in the lobby Is heard a mighty din, And before the awful Prætor That potman is dragged in!

A loud irreverent laughter Through all the Court-house ran, As pot in hand he stood there, A blank bewildered man! And so sternly looks the Prætor, That the potman knoweth not If he be not going straightway Himself, at last, to pot.

"Thou caitiff!" roared the Prætor, (And mirth was changed for awe) "How answerest thou this outrage On the majesty of Law?" Right humbly spoke the potman— "Your worship—that's my Lord— The beer some gem'men ordered, And in course the beer was drored.

"But as for 'Law,' and 'majesty,' That's neither here nor there: The beer was served as called for, And paid for straight and fair. And what I say, your Lordship— And I means to put it strong— Is what was I brought 'ere for, When I ha'n't done nuffin wrong?"

"No wrong!" quick spoke the Prætor. "Ho! gaoler—let him see, That in justice's high precinct, Right and wrong depend on me! Go, bear him to the dungeon— Be the lowest cell his lot! Meanwhile to thee, chief lictor We give in charge the pot."

They have haled him from the Court-house, And have locked him up below; And the lictor guards the pewter, With its head of froth like snow. And never while our Prætor Dealeth stern justice here, Will the most thirsty jury Venture to call for beer, Or the most reckless potman Bring it from public near!