Is not this perfect? Only think of land coroners and water coroners—imagine the law defining the jurisdiction of the Tellurian as far forth into the sea as he could sit on a corpse without danger, and the Neptunian ruling the waves beyond in absolute sway—conceive the “solidist” revelling in all the accidents that befall life upon the world's highways, and the “fluidist” seeking his prey like a pearl diver, five fathoms low, beneath “the deep, deep sea.” What a rivalry theirs, who divide the elements between them, and have nature's everlasting boundaries to define the limits of their empire.
I hope to see the time when these great functionaries of law shall be provided with a suitable costume. I should glory to think of Mr. Hinde accoutred in emblems suggestive of earth and its habits—a wreath of oak leaves round his brows; and to behold Mr. Lewis in a garment of marine plants and sea shells sit upon his corpse, with a trident in his right hand. What a comfort for the man about to take French leave of life, that he could know precisely the individual he should benefit, and be able to go “by land” or “water,” as his taste inclined him.
I have no time here to dwell upon the admirable distinctions of the two verdicts given in the case I allude to. When the great change I suggest is fully carried out, the difficulty of a verdict will at once be avoided, for the jury, like boys at play, will only have to cry out at each case—“wet or dry.”
There would be probably too much expense incurred in poor localities by maintaining two officials; and I should suggest, in such cases, an amphibious coroner—a kind of merman, who should enjoy a double jurisdiction, and, as they say of half-bred pointers, be able “to take the water when required.”
A NUT FOR A “NEW VERDICT.”
Money-getting and cotton-spinning have left us little time for fun of any kind in England—no one has a moment to spare, let him be ever so droll, and a joke seems now to be esteemed a bona fide expenditure; and as “a pin a day” is said to be “a groat a year,” there is no calculating what an inroad any manner of pleasantry might not make into a man's income. Book-writers have ceased to be laughter-moving—the stage has given it up altogether, except now and then in a new tragedy—society prefers gravity to gaiety—and, in fact, the spirit of comic fun and drollery would seem to have died out in the land—if it were not for that inimitable institution called trial by jury. Bless their honest hearts! jurymen do indeed relieve the drab-coloured look of every-day life—they come out in strong colour from the sombre tints of common-place events and people. Queer dogs! nothing can damp the warm ardour of their comic vein—all the solemnity of a court of justice—the look of the bar and the bench—the voice of the crier—the blue bags of briefs—the “terrible show,” has no effect on their minds—“ruat coelum,” they will have their joke.
It is in vain for the judge, let him be ever so rigid in his charge, to tell them that their province is simply with certain facts, on which they have to pronounce an opinion of yea or nay. They must be jurymen, and “something more.” It's not every day Mr. Sniggins, of Pimlico, is called upon to keep company with a chief-justice and sergeant learned in the law—Popkins don't leave his shop once a week to discuss Coke upon Littleton with an attorney-general. No: the event to them is a great one—there they sit, fawned on, and flattered by counsel on both sides—called impartial and intelligent, and all that—and while every impertinence the law encourages has been bandied about the body of the court, they remain to be lauded and praised by all parties, for they have a verdict in their power, and when it comes—what a thing it is!
There is a well-known story of an English nobleman, desiring to remain incog. in Calais, telling his negro servant—“If any one ask who I am, Sambo, mind you say, 'a Frenchman.'” Sambo carried out the instruction by saying—“My massa a Frenchman, and so am I.” This anecdote exactly exemplifies a verdict of a jury—it cannot stop short at sense, but must, by one fatal plunge, involve its decision in absurdity.
Hear what lately happened in the north of Ireland. A man was tried and found guilty of murder—the case admitted no doubt—the act was a cold-blooded, deliberate assassination, committed by a soldier on his sergeant, in the presence of many witnesses. The trial proceeded; the facts were proved; and—I quote the local newspaper—