“The world outside, the busy world, its dear familiar rounds may tread,
But vain are dreams of pleasant life, when life’s long-lingering hope has fled.
Then, prisoner, cease to shake thy bars: no mercy cold mute iron shows;
In torments, terrors, threats, and tears, thy few remaining days must close.
Thy doom is sealed; the gaolers stern may never more their grip relax,
Until the headsman comes to claim thee for his hungry axe.”
I avow, ye gentlemen of the press, that the sort of enthusiasm of which this miserable Wolf became the object, inspired me with sad reflections. I have heard of unfortunate Nightingales, who for long years together have poured forth the most sublime songs without ever rising from obscurity, or obtaining a wider fame than that embraced in their native woodland shade, and yet this Wolf, because he has committed a foul crime, saw his clumsy doggerel rapturously applauded. I know of some good animals who, though they have proved themselves heroes of virtue, have never got a single line from the public press. Nevertheless the minutest sayings and doings of this condemned wretch have been chronicled to please the public craving. Mammas who would have thought twice before placing the fables of Florian in the hands of their daughters—mammas strict even in the choice of their own reading, have in the family circle freely discussed details which initiated their children into all the refinements of crime and depravity. Without ignoring evil, could not the reports of crime be so framed as to avoid the ghastly pomp and morbid parade with which they appear in the newspapers?
If an editor were to confine himself exclusively to the relation of good actions, he would frequently have to supply blank sheets to his readers.
As soon as the prisoner was able to appear at the bar, the proceedings began anew, and continued eight days. Twenty-eight witnesses were heard for and against the Wolf, while judges, jurymen, counsel, and defendants poured out their questions, interruptions, and observations in a never-ceasing flood. The result was that the whole affair, clear and simple as it had been at first, became gradually so confused as to be almost incomprehensible.
Most lawsuits are like the water of a fountain—the more it is stirred up, the muddier it grows.