Chapter 7

Wife, an infant in her arms, and his Sister, both in deep mourning, near him_. LANGDON, _counsel for the prisoner;_ SHERIFF; CLERK _of the Court_; CRIER _of the Court;_ CONSTABLES. _Enter_ JUDGE BOLTON, _followed by two other_ JUDGES. _All take their places on the bench. Then enter_ DENNIS _and_ MICHAEL.

DENNIS (_staring at the_ JUDGE). I' faith, 'tis a _purty_ thing to be a judge, And sit so high and cool above the crowd. And your good master well becomes his seat. He looks, for all the world, like Dan O'Connell.

MICHAEL. He looks like a better man, and that's himself. I wish he was judge of Ireland.

DENNIS. So do I; And my good _masther_ was her doctor too. They'd set the _ould_ country on her legs right soon. He's coming now. _Pointing to_ DR. MARGRAVE, _who is entering, followed by_ REV. PAUL GODFREY.

MICHAEL. Who's with your master? He looks as he had mettle in his arm.

DENNIS. He is my master's friend--a sort o' priest.

MICHAEL. And sure can battle with the fiend himself. He looks as strong as Samson.

DENNIS. Well for him Living away in the West, 'mong savages, And bears, and wolves, and--

CRIER OF THE COURT. Silence!

MARGRAVE (_turning to_ GODFREY, _who is gazing_ _at_ JUDGE BOLTON). You seem surprised. Has he outlived the likeness Kept in your mind? Seems he another man?

GODFREY. He is another man. The soul has wrought Its work, as 'twere, with fire, and purified The dross of selfish passion from his aims. I read the victory on his open brow, And in the deep repose of his calm eye.

MARGRAVE. His was a noble nature from the first.

GODFREY. He had a searching mind, a strong, warm heart, And impulses of nobleness and truth. But Nature sets her favorite sons a task: We are not good by chance. Bolton had pride-- An overweening pride in his own powers. This pride obeys the will; and when the brain Is mean and narrow, like a low-roofed dungeon, And only keeps one image there confined-- The image of self--the heart soon yields its truth, And makes this self its idol, aim, and end. Such is the Haman pride that mars the man, And makes the wise contemn and hate him too-- Hate and contemn the more, the more he prospers.

MARGRAVE. This is not Bolton's picture?

GODFREY. No. His pride, Now his strong lion will has curbed the jackals-- Those appetites and vanities of self That mark the coxcomb rare wherever seen-- Is all made up of generous sentiments, The father's, citizen's, and patriot's pride.

MARGRAVE. You read him like a book.

GODFREY. An art we learn Of reading men when we have few books to read.

CRIER OF THE COURT. Silence!

_Enter two_ OFFICERS OF THE COURT, _attending the twelve_ JURYMEN, _who take their seats. A crowd follows._ PROFESSOR OLNEY _trying to press through the crowd: young_ HENRY BOLTON _makes room for him_.

YOUNG BOLTON. Stand here, Professor Olney--take this place; Here you will not be crowded. Ah! your cough Is troublesome to-day. Pray, take this seat; You'll see as well, and be much more at ease.

PROFESSOR OLNEY (_taking the seat_). Thank you! thank you! This is kind, indeed. I am not well to-day, but could not lose This chance of listening to your father's voice. His eloquence is classic in its style; Not brilliant with explosive coruscations Of heterogeneous thoughts at random caught, And scattered like a shower of shooting stars That end in darkness--no; Judge Bolton's mind Is clear, and full, and stately, and serene. His earnest and undazzled eye he keeps Fixed on the sun of Truth, and breathes his speech As easy as an eagle cleaves the air, And never pauses till the height is won. And all who listen follow where he leads.

YOUNG BOLTON. I hope you will be gratified. Are all-- All well at home?

PROFESSOR OLNEY _(smiling)_. I should not else be out. And Isabelle will hear the recitations.

YOUNG BOLTON _(aside)_. I'll go, and see, and help her. Not to conquer As Cæsar boasted--she has conquered me. I'll go and yield myself her captive. [_Exit_ YOUNG BOLTON.

CRIER OF THE COURT. Silence!

CLERK OF THE COURT. Gentlemen of the jury, are you ready To give the verdict now?

FOREMAN. We are ready.

CLERK OF THE COURT. Prisoner, stand up and look upon the jury. Jury, if and up and look upon the prisoner. The man you now behold has had his trial Before you for a crime. What is the verdict? Is he, the prisoner, guilty or not guilty?

FOREMAN _(reading the verdict)._ Guilty of murder in the second degree.

[_A deep silence, broken only by the sobs of prisoner's wife and sister. Prisoner sinks down on his seat_. CLERK OF THE COURT _records the sentence_.

CLERK OF THE COURT. Gentlemen of the jury, listen to The verdict as recorded by the court The prisoner at the bar is therein found For crime committed--and that has been proven-- Guilty of murder in the second degree. So say you, Mister Foreman? So say all?

FOREMAN AND JURY. All (_bowing_).

JUDGE BOLTON. A righteous verdict this, and yet a sad one A fellow-being banished from our midst, To pass his days in utter loneliness Prisoner you've heard the verdict. Have you aught To say why sentence should not now be passed? Speak; you may have the opportunity.

LANGDON _counsel for the prisoner, confers with him then addresses the_ JUDGE.

LANGDON He cannot speak; his heart o'erpowers his tongue; The tide of grief seeps all his strength away, As rising waters drown the sinking boat. And he entreats that I would say for him, The court permitting me, a few last words.

JUDGE BOLTON Go on. You are permitted.

LANGDON. May it please The court, the jury, and all these good people, The prisoner prays that I would beg for him, As on his soul's behalf, your prayers and pardon: That is, while he in penitence will yield To the just punishment the law awards, You'll think of him as one misled--not cruel. The murderous deed his hand did was not done With heart consent--he knew it not. The fiend That _rum_ evokes had entered him, and changed His nature. So he prays you will never brand His innocent boy with this his father's guilt; Nor on his broken-hearted wife look cold, As though his leprous sin defiled these poor And helpless sufferers. Then he prays that all Would lend their aid to root intemperance out, And crush the horrid haunts of sin and ruin, Where liquid poison for the soul is sold! And while the victims of this deadly traffic Must bear the penalty of crimes committed, Even when the light of reason has been quenched, That you would frame a law to reach the tempter, Nor let those go unscathed who cause the crime. And then he prays, most fervently, that all Who may, like him, be tempted by the bowl, Would lake a warning from his fearful fate, And "touch not, taste not" make their solemn pledge, And so he parts with all in charity.

[_A pause--the sobs of the prisoner's wife and sister are heard._

CRIER OF THE COURT. Silence!

CLERK OF THE COURT. Prisoner, stand up and listen to the sentence.

JUDGE BOLTON (_solemnly_). Laws hitherto are framed to punish crime All legislators have been slow to deal With vice in its first elements; and here Lie the pernicious root and seeds of sin. That children are permitted to grow up From infancy to youth without instruction, Is a grave wrong, and ne'er to be redeemed By penal statutes and the prisoner's cell. We leave the mind unfortified by Truth, And wonder it should fill with wayward Error. There's no blank ignorance, as many dream; Each soul will have its growth and garnering. As the uncultured prairie bears a harvest Heavy and rank, yet worthless to the world, So mind and heart uncultured run to waste; The noblest natures serving but to show A denser growth of passion's deadly fruit. Another error of our social state-- We charter sin when chartering temptation. We see the ensnarer, like a spider, sit Weaving his web; and we permit the work. How many souls Intemperance has destroyed, Lured to his den by opportunities The law allows! The prisoner at the bar Is one of these unhappy instances. The testimony offered here has shown He bore a character unstained by crime. Nay, more--an active, honest, prudent man, Prisoner, you have appeared, since you came here Five years ago. You came with us to share, In this free land, the blessings we enjoy; Blessings by law secured, by law sustained; The impartial law that, like the glorious sun, Sends from its central light a beam to all, And binds in magnet interest all as one. And you had married here, and were a father And prospered in your plans, and all was well. Nay, more--'tis proved you had a generous heart, And had been kind to your poor countrymen, The homeless emigrants who gather here, Like men escaped from sore calamities, Where only life is saved from out the wreck. And one of these, an early friend, who died Beneath the kindly shelter of your roof, Left to your care his precious orphan child-- His only child, his motherless, his daughter. And you received the gift, and vowed to be A father to the little lonely one. Where is that orphan now?--Must I go on? 'Tis not to harrow up your trembling soul. I would not lay a feather on the weight Stern memory brings to crash the guilty down. But I would stir your feelings to their depths. And bring, like conscience in your dying hour, The sense of your great crime, that so you may Repent, and Heaven will pardon. Here on earth, Man has no power t' absolve such guilty deed. Prisoner, one month ago, and you were safe-- A man among your neighbors well beloved, And in your home the one preferred to all. No monarch could have driven you from the throne You held in th' loving hearts of wife and child. Your coming was their festival; your step, As eve drew on, was music to their ears. The little girl, the adopted of your vow, Was always at the door to claim the kiss That you, with father's tenderness, bestowed. Alas! for her--for you--the last return! One fatal night you yielded to the tempter, And drained the drunkard's cup till reason fled, And then went reeling home, your brain on fire, And, raging like a tiger in the toils, You fancied every human form a foe. And when that little girl, like playful fawn, Unconscious of your state, came bounding forth To clasp your knee and welcome "father home"-- You, with a madman's fury, struck her dead! [_A shriek is heard from prisoner's wife._ Prisoner, for this offence you have been tried, And every scope allowed that law could grant To mitigate the awful punishment. No one believes that malice moved your mind; But murdering maniacs may not live with men; And therefore, prisoner, you are doomed for life To solitary toil. Alone! alone! alone! Love's music voice will never greet your ear; Affection's eye will never meet your gaze; Nor heart-warm hand of friend return your grasp; But morn, and noon, and night, days, months, and years, Will all be told in this one word--alone! Prisoner, the world will leave you as the dead Within your closing cell--your living tomb. But One there is who pardons and protects, And never leaves the penitent alone. Oh, turn to Him, the Saviour! so your cell, That opens when you die, may lead to heaven:-- And God have mercy on your penitence! [_Prisoner sinks down, as the curtain slowly falls_.]

END OF ACT I.

* * * * *

SABBATH LYRICS.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.

GOD THE GUARDIAN.--PSALM XI.

How say ye to my soul, As a mountain bird depart? For the wicked bend the bow, With the aim upon the heart. In the Lord I put my trust-- The Great Giver of my breath-- He is mighty as he's just, He wilt guard my soul from death.

On his holy throne he sits, With his eye o'er all the earth; But his shaft, that slays the vile, Never harms the breast of worth. The man of wrath he dooms To the terror and the blight; But his love the soul sustains That walks humbly in his sight.

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LET WELL ENOUGH ALONE.

BY MRS. EMMA BALL.

"A word spoken in due season, how good is it!" and how often is its influence more lasting and more beneficial than at the time of its utterance either speaker or hearer dreams of.

To illustrate. When about seventeen, I was, at my earnest solicitation, placed in a seminary, with the understanding that for one year I should devote myself to study, and thus become better fitted for future usefulness as a teacher. How I had wished for such an opportunity! How often had my wish been disappointed! and how narrowly I had escaped disappointment even then! But I was there at last, and everything seemed to be just as I would have it. Thus far I had studied unaided, and amid incessant interruptions. Now I could obtain assistance, and command the necessary leisure. The last four years I had passed in a crowded city. Now I breathed the purest atmosphere, and the scenery around me was of surpassing beauty. My window commanded the prettiest view; and, better still, I had no room-mate to disturb me with unwelcome chit-chat. Who could be happier than I? There was but one inconvenience, one drawback to the feeling of entire satisfaction with which, day after day, I looked around "my charming little room;" and that was the position of my bedstead. I did not like that; for the head was so near the door as to leave no room for my table; and consequently, as I could not place my lamp in perfect safety near my bed, I was compelled either to waste the precious hour before broad daylight, or to rise and study in a freezing room. "If I could only turn this bedstead round," thought I, "so that the head would be near the table, how many hours I might save!" and I resolved that, on the coming Saturday, I would make the desirable change. On the afternoon of that day, I was engaged to ride home with one of the teachers, and the morning I had intended to devote to sewing and study: "but no matter," thought I; "by a little extra effort I can accomplish all." Accordingly, when Saturday came I commenced operations; but, after removing the bed and mattress I discovered, to my great concern, that, although the bedstead would stand as I wished, yet I could not turn it thither without first taking it apart; and for this a bed-key was necessary. "Well," thought I, "it is worth the trouble;" so I procured a bed-key; and at length--at length--two of the screws yielded to my efforts. The others, however, _would not_ yield. I tried and tried, but without avail; and, wearied and disappointed, I stood wondering what I should do. Just then, the door opened; and "Aunty," an old lady whose kindness and sound sense had already won my regard, stepped in. "What is the matter?" she exclaimed--"why, what has the child been about?" "I was trying to turn my bedstead so," said I, ruefully pointing towards the table; and I went on to explain why I had done so. "I dare say thou wouldst find it more convenient so," answered Aunty; "but it is quite beyond thy strength." "I see it is," sighed I. "I would have it turned for thee" she said; "but that is the most troublesome bedstead in the house: no one can do anything with it except John Lawton, and he won't be home till Monday." "What shall I do?" asked I. "I'll get Mary to come up and help thee fix it as it was before," answered Aunty. I drew a long breath. "Oh, never mind," said she, soothingly; "it is not quite so convenient this way, to be sure, but--" "I'm not thinking of the inconvenience now," interrupted I, "but of the time I've wasted. Why, I've spent nearly four hours over that foolish old bedstead. I was to have taken tea with Miss Mansell this afternoon, and I had expected to learn a good French lesson besides: but now the morning is gone, and a profitable time I've made of it!" "I should not wonder if it prove one of the most profitable mornings of thy life." rejoined the old lady, "and teach thee a lesson more valuable than thy French or thy music either." "What is that?" inquired I. "To let well enough alone." answered Aunty--and she smiled and nodded slowly as she spoke. "I'll let well enough alone after this, I promise you," said I. "People of thy ardent temperament seldom learn to do it in one lesson," replied she; "but the sooner thou dost learn it, the better it will be for thy happiness. However, I'll go now and send Mary to help thee." Mary came: but it was nearly two hours before my room resumed its usual neat appearance.

Some three months after, I learned that a young lady whom I had unwillingly offended, by declining to receive her as a room-mate, had spoken of me disparagingly, and greatly misrepresented various little incidents of our every-day intercourse. Surprised and indignant, I at once resolved to "have a talk with her;" but first I made known my disquietude to Aunt Rachel. "What shall I do?" asked I, in conclusion. "Not much," she answered. "Take no notice of it. I see she has been talking ill of thee; but she can do thee little or no real injury. Those who know thee won't believe her," "But those who don't know me--" interrupted I. "Won't trouble themselves much about it," she replied; "and if ever they become acquainted with thee, they'll only have the better means of judging thee truly." "If I say nothing about it, though," urged I, "she'll feel encouraged to talk on, and worse." "If thou dost find she is really doing thee an injury," returned Aunty, "I'll not dissuade thee from taking it in hand; but, as it now stands, it is not worth disturbing thyself about." "I could make her feel so ashamed," persisted I. "I don't doubt thee," replied she, laughing; "I don't doubt thee in the least: but in doing so, won't thou get excited? Won't thou sleep better, and study better, and waste less time, if thou just 'let well enough alone?'" "That seems a favorite maxim with you," observed I. "I have found it a very useful one," she answered; "and, had I known its value earlier in life, I might have escaped a good deal of suffering. Ten years ago, I had a kind husband, and a promising son, and slowly, yet surely, they were gathering a pretty competence. We thought we could gather faster by going south; but the location proved unhealthy, and in one season I lost them both by a bilious fever." Sympathy kept me silent. "You would not discourage all attempts to better one's condition?" I at length inquired. "By no means," answered Aunt Rachel; "for that were to check energy and retard improvement. I would only advise people--impulsive people especially--to think _before_ they act: for it is always easier to avoid an evil than to remedy it. Thou art fond of History," she continued, "and that, both sacred and profane, abounds with examples of those who, in the day of adversity or retribution, have wished, oh how earnestly, that they had let well enough alone. Jacob, an exile from his father's house: Shimei, witnessing the return of David: Zenobia, high-spirited and accustomed to homage, gracing Aurelian's triumph, and living a captive in Rome: Christina, after she had relinquished the crown of Sweden; and, in our own days, Great Britain, involved in a long and losing war with her American colonies. Every-day life, too, is full of such examples." I asked her to mention some. "Thou canst see one," she answered, "in the speculator, whose anxiety for sudden wealth has reduced his family to indigence; and in the girl who leaves her plain country home, and sacrifices her health, and perhaps her virtue, in a city workshop. Disputatious people, passionate people, those who indulge in personalities, and those who meddle with what don't concern them, are very apt to wish they had let well enough alone. People who are forever changing their residence or their store, their clerks, or their domestics, frequently find reason for such a wish. Even in household affairs, my maxim saves me many an hour of unnecessary labor. Dost thou remember the bedstead?" she added, with a smile. "Yes, indeed," I answered; "I shall never forget that. The other day I was going to alter my pink dress into a wrapper, like Miss Mansell's; but the thought of that old bedstead stopped me; and I'm glad of it; for, now that I look again, I don't think it would pay me for the trouble." "Well, think again before thou dost notice Jane Ansley's talk," said Aunty. I followed her advice; and I have never regretted that I did so.

Dear old lady! I left her when that pleasant year was ended, and never saw her again. She has long since entered into her rest: but I often think of her maxim, and in many cases have proved its value.

I think of it when I see a man spending time and money, and enduring all the wretchedness of long suspense or excitement, in a lawsuit which he might have avoided; and which, whether lost or gained, will prove to him a source of continual self-reproach. When I see a business man who, by an overbearing demeanor and oppressive attempts to make too much of a good bargain, has converted a conscientious and peace-loving partner into an unyielding opponent: or, when I hear of a farmer who has provoked a well-disposed neighbor by killing his fowls and throwing them over the fence, instead of trying some neighborly way of preventing their depredations on his grain. When I have seen a teacher exciting the emulation of a jealous-minded child; or by threats, or even by ill-timed reasoning(?), converting a momentary pettishness into a fit of obstinacy--I have felt as if I wanted to whisper in her ear, "Do not seem to notice them; let well enough alone." When I see an envious mother depreciating and finding fault with a judicious and conscientious teacher till she has discouraged or provoked her, I think it likely that the day will come when both mother and children will wish that she had "let well enough alone." So, too, when I observe a mother forcing upon her daughters an accomplishment for which they have no taste: a father compelling his son to study law or physic, while the bent of his genius leads to machinery or farming: or a widow with a little property placing her children under the doubtful protection of a young stepfather. Vanitia is intelligent and well read, and appears to advantage in general society; but her love of admiration, her wish to be thought _superior_, is so inordinate, that she cannot bear to appear ignorant of any subject; hence she often tries to seem conversant with matters of which she knows nothing, and perceives not that she thereby sinks in the estimation of those whose homage she covets. Affectua is pretty and accomplished, and, two years ago, awakened goodwill in all who saw her. Latterly, however, she has exchanged her simple and natural manners for those which are plainly artificial and affected. What a pity these ladies cannot "let well enough alone!"

But I must stop, or my reader may exclaim: Enough--practice thy own precept--and let well enough alone.

* * * * *

SUSAN CLIFTON; OR, THE CITY AND THE COUNTRY.

BY PROFESSOR ALDEN.