Aware that he does not move in that exclusively
aristocratic sphere of society awarded to lawyers in general, he is
no less entitled to respect, and being a man of honour, and an
alderman as well, he shall always insist on that respect.
"Order, order!" demand a dozen voices. His honour's face flashing
with indignation, he seizes the statutes, and rising to his feet, is
about to throw them with unerring aim at the unhandsome head of the
municipal functionary. A commotion here ensues. Felsh is esteemed
not a bad fighting man; and rising almost simultaneously, his face
like a full moon peeping through a rain cloud, attempts to pacify
his colleague, Fetter. The court is foaming with excitement; Mr.
Felsh is excited, the jury are excited to take a little more drink,
the constables are excited, the audience are excited to amusement;
Messrs. Fetter and Felsh's court rocks with excitement: the only
unexcited person present is the criminal, who looks calmly on, as if
contemplating with horror the debased condition of those in whose
hands an unjust law has placed his life.
As the uproar and confusion die away, and the court resumes its
dignity, Mr. Grabguy, again asserting his position of a gentleman,
says he is not ashamed to declare his conviction to be, that his
honour is not in a fit state to try a "nigger" of his: in fact, the
truth must be told, he would not have him sit in judgment upon his
spaniel.
At this most unwarranted declaration Fetter rises from his judicial
chair, his feelings burning with rage, and bounds over the table at
Grabguy, prostrating his brother Felsh, tables, benches, chairs, and
everything else in his way,--making the confusion complete.
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