er had reached the last stages of shabby gentility. Time had
told sadly on his garments, originally of fine material and fashionable
cut. His black, curly hair was whitened out by contact with whitewash,
and his nose had become a garden for the culture of blossoms by far more
common than they are proper. But Mr. Warbler, despite the reverses which
he had evidently suffered, stood proudly and gracefully erect. If the
external man was in a state of dilapidation, the spirit still was
unhurt. He smiled gracefully when the Judge addressed him and told him
that he was charged with having been arrested in a state of drunkenness.

"Officers Clinch and Holdem were the witnesses against Mr. Warbler. They
stated substantially that about one o'clock that morning they found Mr.
Warbler standing in a garbage-barrel, on the edge of the sidewalk,
extemporizing doggerel to an imaginary audience. They insisted upon his
stopping, when Mr. Warbler told them that it was a violation of
etiquette to interrupt a gentleman when he was delivering a poem before
the alumni of a college. He was evidently under the influence of liquor,
and quite out of his mind. They thought, for his own safety, that they
had better bring him to the station-house.

"_Judge._--Mr. Warbler, you have heard what the officers have stated
about your eccentric course of conduct; how did you happen to get drunk?

"_Mr. Warbler._--'Twas night, and gloomy darkness had her ebon veil
unfurled, and nought remained but gas-lamps to light up this 'ere world.
The heavens frowned; the twinkling orbs, with silvery light endowed,
were all occult on t'other side a thunderin' big black cloud. Pale Luna,
too, shed not her beams upon the motley groups which lazily were
standing round like new disbanded troops--

"_Judge._--It's not to hear such nonsense that I occupy this seat--

"_Mr. Warbler._--A death-like stillness e'er prevailed on alley, pier
and street.

"_Judge._--To listen to such stuff, sir, I can't sacrifice my time--

"_Mr. W._--Don't discombobilate my thought and interrupt my rhyme; I
think that when misfortune is put on its defence, poetic justice, logic,
law, as well as common sense, demand its story all be heard, unless _ex
parte_ proof is to send poor friendless cusses underneath the prison's
roof. Shall I proceed?

"_Judge._--Proceed; but don't make your tale too long.

"_Mr. W._--I'll heed your words, depend upon't. I own that I was wrong
in rushing headlong as