Dwight Henry is another writer of letters, Stirred by the Murray inquest; writes a screed "The House that Jack Built," read by Merival To entertain his jury, in these words: THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT Why don't they come to me to find the cause Of Elenor Murray's death? The house is first; That is the world, and Jack is God, you know; The malt is linen, purple, wine and food, The rats that get the malt are nobles, lords, Those who had feudal dues and hunting rights, And privileges, first nights, all the rest. The cats are your Voltaires, Rousseaus; the dogs, Your jailers, Louis, Fredericks and such. And O, you blessed cow, you common people, Whom maidens all forlorn attend and milk. Here is your Elenor Murray who gives hands, Brain, heart and spirit to the task of milking, And straining milk that other lips may drink, Revive and flourish, wedding, if she weds, The tattered man in church, which is your priest Shaven and shorn, and wakened with the sun By the cock, theology that keeps the house Well timed and ruled for honor unto Jack, Who must have order, rising on the hour, And ceremony for his house. If rats Had never lived, or left the malt alone, This girl had lived. Let's trace the story down: We went to France to fight, we go to France To get the origin of Elenor's death. It's 1750, say, the malt of France And Europe, too, is over-run by rats; The nobles and the clergy own the land, Exact the taxes, drink the luscious milk Of the crumpled horns. But cats come slinking by Called Diderot, Voltaire, Rousseau. Now look! Cat Diderot goes after war and taxes, The slave trade, privilege, the merchant stomach. In England, too, there is a sly grimalkin, Who poisons rats with most malicious thoughts, And bears the name of Adam--Adam Smith, By Jack named Adam just to signify His sinful nature. But the cat Voltaire Says Adam never fell, that man is good, An honest merchant better than a king, And shaven priests are worse than parasites. He rubs his glossy coat against the legs Of Quakers, loving natures, loathes the trade Of war, and runs with velvet feet across The whole of Europe, scaring rats to death. The cat Rousseau is instinct like a cat, And purrs that man born free is still in chains Here in this house that Jack built. Consequence? There is such squeaking, running of the rats, The cats in North America wake up And drive the English rats out; then the dogs Grow cautious of the cats, poor simple Louis Convokes a French assembly to preserve The malt against the rats and give the cow Whose milk is growing blue and thin some malt. And all at once rats, cats and dogs, the cow, The shaven priest, the maiden all forlorn, The tattered man, the cock, are in a hubbub Of squeaking, caterwauling, barking, lowing, With cock-a-doodles, curses, prayers and shrieks Ascending from the melee.