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(In a 19th-century legal judgment studied by all who learn the English common law, Sturges v. Bridgeman, the court found in favour of a "nice" doctor over a "common" manufacturer, for reasons of pure snobbery.) The Candyman Can’t Some legal battles have the power to thrill, while others never have, and never will. Some touch on human themes which really matter, and some do not. We’re dealing with the latter. This present case is hardly OJ Simpson: it lacks dramatic shape, and simply limps on listlessly, with abstruse reasoning, no sex or violence to give it seasoning. One Mister Bridgman manufactures sweets, in premises where Wigmore crosses/meets its neighbour, Wimpole. Eighteen seventy-nine of our salvation, two lives intertwine when Doctor Sturges takes consulting rooms around the corner. Disagreement looms, for Bridgman’s grinding, pounding candy line’s destroying Sturges’ peace, fragging his mind. The law of nuisance really is quite funny. It says, “he did you harm? Well, here’s some money”. What if you’d rather dodge the damage, and defer the dollars? How to countermand the duty-breach-then-damages regime? Suppose we interpose a better scheme? Instead of “you must suffer, he must pay”, we stop the harm? The problem goes away! This ruse is known as “equity”. It functions by granting prior relief (they’re called injunctions). So Sturges stemmed stentorian sweetie sounds by order of the court, and Bridgman found his business gagged and bound by hoops of steel, for no good reason. What to do? Appeal! (For thus advise the lawyers. Such affairs drag on for years. The lawyers? They get theirs!) Said Bridgman: “I’ve been cranking out jujubes for decades now. It’s all gone down the tubes because some quack dislikes the earnest hum of my devices. Why, then, did he come to Wimpole Street? He wants tranquility? Go hang his shingle in Highgate Cemetery! I have a remedy for Doctor Sturges: it’s swallowing his antimony purges!” But Bridgman lost. One cannot help but feel that making toffee wasn’t quite genteel enough. Their Lordships said behaviour that’s unacceptable around Belgravia can find a home in Bermondsey. The latter has lots of lowly types. It doesn’t matter if they have noisome noise, and have to live in filthy fumes – for they’re not sensitive.

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Wimpole Street, Part 3 of 7

(In a 19th-century legal judgment studied by all who learn the English common law, Sturges v. Bridgeman, the court found in favour of a "nice" doctor over a "common" manufacturer, for reasons of pure snobbery.) The Candyman Can’t Some legal battles have the power to thrill, while others never have, and never will. Some touch on human themes which really matter, and some do not. We’re dealing with the latter. This present case is hardly OJ Simpson: it lacks dramatic shape, and simply limps on listlessly, with abstruse reasoning, no sex or violence to give it seasoning. One Mister Bridgman manufactures sweets, in premises where Wigmore crosses/meets its neighbour, Wimpole. Eighteen seventy-nine of our salvation, two lives intertwine when Doctor Sturges takes consulting rooms around the corner. Disagreement looms, for Bridgman’s grinding, pounding candy line’s destroying Sturges’ peace, fragging his mind. The law of nuisance really is quite funny. It says, “he did you harm? Well, here’s some money”. What if you’d rather dodge the damage, and defer the dollars? How to countermand the duty-breach-then-damages regime? Suppose we interpose a better scheme? Instead of “you must suffer, he must pay”, we stop the harm? The problem goes away! This ruse is known as “equity”. It functions by granting prior relief (they’re called injunctions). So Sturges stemmed stentorian sweetie sounds by order of the court, and Bridgman found his business gagged and bound by hoops of steel, for no good reason. What to do? Appeal! (For thus advise the lawyers. Such affairs drag on for years. The lawyers? They get theirs!) Said Bridgman: “I’ve been cranking out jujubes for decades now. It’s all gone down the tubes because some quack dislikes the earnest hum of my devices. Why, then, did he come to Wimpole Street? He wants tranquility? Go hang his shingle in Highgate Cemetery! I have a remedy for Doctor Sturges: it’s swallowing his antimony purges!” But Bridgman lost. One cannot help but feel that making toffee wasn’t quite genteel enough. Their Lordships said behaviour that’s unacceptable around Belgravia can find a home in Bermondsey. The latter has lots of lowly types. It doesn’t matter if they have noisome noise, and have to live in filthy fumes – for they’re not sensitive.