The Rising of the Court

The Rising of the Court

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Title: The Rising of the Court
Author: Henry Lawson
Release Date: February, 2005 [EBook #7447] [Yes, we are more than
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The Rising of the Court, by Henry Lawson
Note: Only the prose stories are reproduced here, not the poetry.
The Rising of the Court
Oh, then tell us, Sings and Judges, where our meeting is to be, when the
laws of men are nothing, and our spirits all are free when the laws of
men are nothing, and no wealth can hold the fort, There'll be thirst for
mighty brewers at the Rising of the Court.
The same dingy court room, deep and dim, like a well, with the clock
high up on the wall, and the doors low down in it; with the bench,
which, with some gilding, might be likened to a gingerbread imitation
of a throne; the royal arms above it and the little witness box to one
side, where so many honest poor people are bullied, insulted and
laughed at by third-rate blackguardly little "lawyers," and so many
pitiful, pathetic and noble lies are told by pitiful sinners and
disreputable heroes for a little liberty for a lost self, or for the sake of a
friend--of a "pal" or a "cobber." The same overworked and underpaid
magistrate trying to keep his attention fixed on the same old miserable
scene before him; as a weary, overworked and underpaid journalist or
author strives to keep his attention fixed on his proofs. The same row of
big, strong, healthy, good-natured policemen trying not to grin at times;
and the police-court solicitors ("the place stinks with 'em," a sergeant
told me) wrangling over some miserable case for a crust, and the
"reporters," shabby some of them, eager to get a brutal joke for their
papers out of the accumulated mass of misery before them, whether it
be at the expense of the deaf, blind, or crippled man, or the alien.
And opposite the bench, the dock, divided by a partition, with the
women to the left and the men to the right, as it is on the stairs or the

block in polite society. They bring children here no longer. The same
shaking, wild-eyed, blood-shot-eyed and blear-eyed drunks and
disorderlies, though some of the women have nerves yet; and the same
decently dressed, but trembling and conscience-stricken little wretch up
for petty larceny or something, whose motor car bosses of a big firm
have sent a solicitor, "manager," or some understrapper here to
prosecute and give evidence.
But, over there, on a form to one side of the bench-opposite the witness
box--and as the one bright spot in this dark, and shameful, and useless
scene--and in a patch of sunlight from the skylight as it happens--sit
representatives of the Prisoners' Aid Society, Prison Gate and Rescue
Brigades, etc. (one or two of the ladies in nurses' uniforms), who are
come to help us and to fight for us against the Law of their Land and of
ours, God help us!
Mrs Johnson, of Red Rock Lane, is here, and her rival in revolution,
One-Eyed Kate, and Cock-Eyed Sal, and one or two of the other
aristocrats of the alley. And the weeping bedraggled remains of what
was once, and not so long ago, a pretty, slight, fair-haired and
blue-eyed Australian girl. She is up for inciting One-Eyed Kate to resist
the police. Also, Three-Pea Ginger, Stousher, and Wingy, for some
participation in the row amongst the aforementioned ladies. (Wingy, by
the way, is a ratty little one-armed man, whose case is usually