A Vision of Legal Shadows

A case at chambers left for my opinion             Had taxed my brain until the noon of night,         I read old law, and loathed the long dominion                                         Of fiction over right.         I had consulted Coke and Cruise and Chitty,             The works where ancient learning reigns supreme,         Until exhausted nature, moved with pity,                                         Sent me a bookman's dream.         Six figures, all gigantic as Gargantua,             Floated before my eyes, and all the six         Were shades like those that once the bard of Mantua                                         Saw by the shore of Styx.         The first was one with countenance imperious,             His toga dim with centuries of dust;         "My name," quoth he, "is Aulus and Agerius,[B]                                         My voice is hoarse with rust.         "Yet once I played my part in law proceedings,             And writers wrote of one they never saw,         I gave their point to formul and pleadings,                                         I lived but in the law."         The second had a countenance perfidious;             What wonder? Prtors launched their formul         In vain against Numerius Negidius,                                         And not a whit cared he.         With voice of high contempt he greeted Aulus;             "In interdicts thou wast mine enemy,         Once passed no day that students did not call us                                         As parties, me and thee.         "On paper I was plaintiff or defendant,             On paper thou wast evermore the same;         We lived apart, a life that was transcendant,                                         For it was but a name.         "I hate thee, Aulus, hate thee," low he muttered,             "It was by thee that I was always tricked,         My unsubstantial bread I ate unbuttered                                         In dread of interdict.         "And yet 'twas but the sentiment I hated:             Like thee I ne'er was drunk e'en vi or clam,[C]         With wine that was no wine my thirst was sated.                                         Like thee I was a sham."         Two country hinds in 'broidered smocks next followed,             Each trundled him a cart-wheel by the spokes,         Oblivion now their names hath well-nigh swallowed,                                         For they were Stiles and Nokes.         They spake no word, for speech to them was grievous,             With bovine eyes they supplicated me;         "We wot not what ye will, but prithee leave us,                                         Unlettered folk are we."         "Go," said I, "simple ones, and break your fallows,             Crush autumn apples in the cider press,         Law, gaffer Stiles, thy humble name still hallows,                                         Contracted to J. S."         Another pair of later time succeeded,             With buckles on their shoes and silken hose,         A garb that told it was to them who heeded                                         John Doe's and Richard Roe's.         "Ah me! I was a casual ejector,[D]             In the brave days of old," I heard one say;         "I knew Elizabeth, the Lord Protector                                         I spake with yesterday."         To whom in contradiction snarled the other,             "There was no living blood our veins to fill.         Both you and I were nought but shadows, brother,                                         And we are shadows still."         Room for a lady, room, as at Megiddo             The hosts made way for passage of the king,         For from the darkness crept there forth a widow                                         In weeds and wedding ring.         "I am the widow, I, whereof the singers             Of Scotland sang, their cruel words so smote         My tender heart, that ofttimes itched my fingers                                         To take them by the throat.         "He scoffed at me, dour bachelor of Glasgow,[E]             If I existed not for him, the knave,         'Twas all his fault who let some bonnie lass go                                         Unwedded to her grave."