CHAPTER IV.

Mrs. Darlington was a woman of refinement herself, and had been used to the society of refined persons. She was, naturally enough, shocked at the coarseness and brutality of Mr. Scragg, and, ere an hour went by, in despair at the unmannerly rudeness of the children, the oldest a stout, vulgar-looking boy, who went racing and rummaging about the house from the garret to the cellar. For a long time after her exciting interview with Mr. Scragg, she sat weeping and trembling in her own room, with Edith by her side, who sought earnestly to comfort and encourage her.

"Oh, Edith!" she sobbed, "to think that we should be humbled to this!"

"Necessity has forced us into our present unhappy position, mother," replied Edith. "Let us meet its difficulties with as brave hearts as possible."

"I shall never be able to treat that dreadful man with even common civility," said Mrs. Darlington.

"We have accepted him as our guest, mother, and it will be our duty to make all as pleasant and comfortable as possible. We will have to bear much, I see--much beyond what I had anticipated."

Mrs. Darlington sighed deeply as she replied--

"Yes, yes, Edith. Ah, the thought makes me miserable!"

"No more of that sweet drawing together in our own dear home circle," remarked Edith, sadly. "Henceforth we are to bear the constant presence and intrusion of strangers, with whom we have few or no sentiments in common. We open our house and take in the ignorant, the selfish, the vulgar, and feed them for a certain price! Does not the thought bring a feeling of painful humiliation? What can pay for all this? Ah me! The anticipation had in it not a glimpse of what we have found in our brief experience. Except Mr. and Mrs. Ring, there isn't a lady nor gentleman in the house. That Mason is so rudely familiar that I cannot bear to come near him. He's making himself quite intimate with Henry already, and I don't like to see it."

"Nor do I," replied Mrs. Darlington. "Henry's been out with him twice to the theatre already."

"I'm afraid of his influence over Henry. He's not the kind of a companion he ought to choose," said Edith. "And then Mr. Barling is with Miriam in the parlor almost every evening. He asks her to sing, and she says she doesn't like to refuse."

The mother sighed deeply. While they were conversing, a servant came to their room to say that Mr. Ring was in the parlor, and wished to speak with Mrs. Darlington. It was late in the afternoon of the day on which the Scraggs had made their appearance.

With a presentiment of trouble, Mrs. Darlington went down to the parlor.

"Madam," said Mr. Ring, as soon as she entered, speaking in a firm voice, "I find that my wife has been grossly insulted by a fellow whose family you have taken into your house. Now they must leave here, or we will, and that forthwith."

"I regret extremely," replied Mrs. Darlington, "the unpleasant occurrence to which you allude; but I do not see how it is possible for me to turn these people out of the house."

"Very well, ma'am. Suit yourself about that. You can choose between us. Both can't remain."

"If I were to tell this Mr. Scragg to seek another boarding-house, he would insult me," said Mrs. Darlington.

"Strange that you would take such a fellow into your house!"

"My rooms were vacant, and I had to fill them."

"Better to have let them remain vacant. But this is neither here nor there. If this fellow remains, we go."

And go they did on the next day. Mrs. Darlington was afraid to approach Mr. Scragg on the subject. Had she done so, she would have received nothing but abuse.

Two weeks afterwards, the room vacated by Mr. and Mrs. Ring was taken by a tall, fine-looking man, who wore a pair of handsome whiskers and dressed elegantly. He gave his name as Burton, and agreed to pay eight dollars. Mrs. Darlington liked him very much. There was a certain style about him that evidenced good breeding and a knowledge of the world. What his business was he did not say. He was usually in the house as late as ten o'clock in the morning, and rarely came in before twelve at night.

Soon after Mr. Burton became a member of Mrs. Darlington's household, he began to show particular attentions to Miriam, who was in her nineteenth year, and was, as we have said, a gentle, timid, shrinking girl. Though she did not encourage, she would not reject the attentions of the polite and elegant stranger, who had so much that was agreeable to say that she insensibly acquired a kind of prepossession in his favor.

As now constituted, the family of Mrs. Darlington was not so pleasant and harmonious as could have been desired. Mr. Scragg had already succeeded in making himself so disagreeable to the other boarders that they were scarcely civil to him; and Mrs. Grimes, who was quite gracious with Mrs. Scragg at first, no longer spoke to her. They had fallen out about some trifle, quarreled, and then cut each other's acquaintance. When the breakfast, dinner, or tea bell rang, and the boarders assembled at the table, there was generally, at first, an embarrassing silence. Scragg looked like a bull-dog waiting for an occasion to bark; Mrs. Scragg sat with her lips closely compressed and her head partly turned away, so as to keep her eyes out of the line of vision with Mrs. Grimes's face; while Mrs. Grimes gave an occasional glance of contempt towards the lady with whom she had had a "tiff." Barling and Mason, observing all this, and enjoying it, were generally the first to break the reigning silence; and this was usually done by addressing some remark to Scragg, for no other reason, it seemed, than to hear his growling reply. Usually, they succeeded in drawing him into an argument, when they would goad him until he became angry; a species of irritation in which they never suffered themselves to indulge. As for Mr. Grimes, he was a man of few words. When spoken to, he would reply; but he never made conversation. The only man who really behaved like a gentleman was Mr. Burton; and the contrast seen in him naturally prepossessed the family in his favor.

The first three months' experience in taking boarders was enough to make the heart of Mrs. Darlington sick. All domestic comfort was gone. From early morning until late at night, she toiled harder than any servant in the house; and, with all, had a mind pressed down with care and anxiety. Three times during this period she had been obliged to change her cook, yet, for all, scarcely a day passed that she did not set badly-cooked food before her guests. Sometimes certain of the boarders complained, and it generally happened that rudeness accompanied the complaint. The sense of pain that attended this was always most acute, for it was accompanied by deep humiliation and a feeling of helplessness. Moreover, during these first three months, Mr. and Mrs. Grimes had left the house without paying their board for five weeks, thus throwing her into a loss of forty dollars.

At the beginning of this experiment, after completing the furniture of her house, Mrs. Darlington had about three hundred dollars. When the quarter's bill for rent was paid, she had only a hundred and fifty dollars left. Thus, instead of making anything by boarders, so far, she had sunk a hundred and fifty dollars. This fact disheartened her dreadfully. Then, the effect upon almost every member of her family had been bad. Harry was no longer the thoughtful, affectionate, innocent-minded young man of former days. Mason and Barling had introduced him into gay company, and, fascinated with a new and more exciting kind of life, he was fast forming associations and acquiring habits of a dangerous character. It was rare that he spent an evening at home; and, instead of being of any assistance to his mother, was constantly making demands on her for money. The pain all this occasioned Mrs. Darlington was of the most distressing character. Since the children of Mr. and Mrs. Scragg came into the house, Edward and Ellen, who had heretofore been under the constant care and instruction of their mother, left almost entirely to themselves, associated constantly with these children, and learned from them to be rude, vulgar, and, in some things, even vicious. And Miriam had become apparently so much interested in Mr. Burton, who was constantly attentive to her, that both Mrs. Darlington and Edith became anxious on her account. Burton was an entire stranger to them all, and there were many things about him that appeared strange, if not wrong.

So much for the experiment of taking boarders, after the lapse of a single quarter of a year.

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY OF SIXTEEN.

BY MRS. L.G. ABELL.

Oh, I cannot, cannot think of her without a starting tear; So late, in youthful loveliness, I felt her presence near: Her healthful form of fairest mould, I seem to see her still, And to hear her sweet and gentle voice, as the voice of summer rill.

Her eye of blue, like azure sky of clear pure light above, With soft silk fringes on the lids, shading the deepest love, Was a light that gleamed from out the heart, and its rainbow hues revealed-- A ray from its own full happiness, too full to be concealed.

At twilight's calm and silent hour, on the hushed lake's quiet breast, I saw her gliding joyously, as glide the waves to rest-- And music, too, was on the air, soft as Eolian strain; But I thought not then that Death was near, a victim soon to gain.

Oh, can it be that this is life!--a thing so frail as this! Like a lovely flower that only smiles to give one thought of bliss-- That blooms in light and beauty a fleeting summer day, Then closes up its sweetness, and passes thus away?

How still she lies! her ringlets droop, of pale and soft brown hair-- Parted upon her marble brow, they fall neglected there; Her cold hands folded on her breast, her round arms by her side-- How sad all hearts that knew her well that she so soon has died!

How she is missed from out each spot where she so late has been; Her silent chamber thrills the heart with keenest throbs of pain; Her music, too, of voice and string seems ling'ring on the ear, Only to fill the heart with woe that its sound ye cannot hear.

How long life looked to her; its far and distant day Seemed like the rosy path she trod, and perfumed all the way; No tear but those for others' woe had ever dimmed her eye, For her youth was cloudless as the morn, and bright as noonday sky.

But ah! how soon the light is quenched that shone so sweetly here-- And oh! if love to God was hers, it glows in a brighter sphere! That strange, mysterious spark of mind, shrined in the frailest clay, Now flames amid the seraph band in a "house" that will not decay.

This world we know is full of tombs, covered with fairest flowers; But yet how soon we all forget, and think them _rosy bowers_! We build our hopes of pleasure here, select a fairy spot; But Death soon proves to our pierced souls that he has not forgot!

Oh! wisely, wisely let us learn that this earth is not our home; 'Tis but the trial-place of life--a race that's swiftly run:-- Our precious hours are links of gold in that mysterious chain, That fastens to our life above its _pleasure_ or its _pain_.

Reclining on a Saviour's arm, we then walk safely here; He whispers holiest words to us, and wipes the falling tear: If Death appears, He takes away his cruel, poisonous sting-- Then for a home of perfect bliss He plumes the spirit's wing.

* * * * *

THE JUDGE; A DRAMA OF AMERICAN LIFE.

BY MRS. SARAH J. KANE.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

JUDGE BOLTON. HENRY BOLTON, _son of the Judge_. DR. MARGRAVE, REV. PAUL GODFREY, _Classmates and friends of the Judge_. PROF. OLNEY, _Teacher of a Classical School_. FREDERICK BELCOUR, _son of Madame Belcour_. CAPT. PAWLETT, _friend of Fred. Belcour_. LANDON, _Counselor at Law_. SHERIFF. CLERK OF THE COURT. CRIER OF THE COURT. OFFICERS OF THE COURT. TWELVE JURYMEN. DENNIS O'BLARNEY, _servant of Dr. Margrave_. MICHAEL MAGEE, _servant of the Judge_. CITIZENS, MESSENGERS OF THE COURT, WATCHMEN, &c. MADAME BELCOUR, _a widow, cousin of the Judge, and presiding in his household_. BELINDA, _daughter of Madame Belcour_. LUCY, _daughter of the Judge_. MRS. OLNEY, _wife of Prof. Olney_. ISABELLE, _reputed daughter of Prof. Olney_. RUTH, _waiting-maid at Judge Bolton's_.

SCENE--partly in the city; partly at Rose Hill, near the city.

TIME OF ACTION, twenty-four hours, commencing at 10 o'clock, A.M., and ending at the same hour on the following day.

ACT I.

SCENE I.--_A Doctor's study. Books and instruments scattered around. Table in the centre, strewn with books and pamphlets._ DR. MARGRAVE _seated by the table, cutting the leaves of a pamphlet_.

DR. MARGRAVE. Thus, ever on and on must be our course: Even as the ocean drinks a thousand streams, And never cries "enough!"--the human mind Would drain all sources of intelligence, Yet ne'er is filled, and never satisfied. And theory succeeds to theory As regular as tides that ebb and flow. This treatise will disprove the last I read. Shade of Hippocrates! what creeds are formed, What antics practiced with your "Healing Art!" I will not sport with fate, nor tamper thus With man's credulity and nature's strength. No: I will gently coincide with nature, And give her time and scope to work the cure-- Strengthening the patient's heart with trust in God, And teaching him that genuine health depends On true obedience to the natural laws Ordained for man--not on the doctor's skill.

_Enter_ DENNIS, _with a card to the Doctor_.

DENNIS. The gentleman awaits you in the hall.

DR. MARGRAVE (_reading the card_). "Reverend Paul Godfrey"--my old college chum! Is't possible! (_To_ DENNIS.) Bring him up, instantly. [_Exit_ DENNIS.

I have not seen him since our hands were clasped In Harvard Hall:--I wonder if he'll know me. (_Enter_ REV. PAUL GODFREY.) Ah! welcome! welcome!--You are Godfrey still. The changes of--how many years have passed Since last we parted?

GODFREY. Thirty years;--and you--

MARGRAVE. Are altered, you would say. I know it well. My hair, that then was black as midnight cloud, Is now as white as moonbeams on the snow. The image that my mirror gives me back I scarce believe my own--so pale and worn. Would you have known me had we met by chance?

GODFREY. Ay, ay--among a million--if you spoke. There's the old touch of kindness in your voice; And then your eye from its dark thatch looks out Like beacon-light, soul-kindled, as of yore. Warm hearts will hold their own, tho' frosts of age May lay their blighting fingers on our hair.

MARGRAVE. Thank Heaven 'tis so!--But you are little changed, Save the maturing touch that manhood brings When health and strength have won the victory, And laid their trophies on the shrine of mind!

GODFREY. My lot has been amid the wild, fresh scenes Of Nature's wide domain; where all is free. Life seems t' inhale the vigorous breath required To struggle with the elements around, And thus keeps Time at bay. Like good old Boone, The patriarch hunter, in the forest wilds I've found that God supplied, and healed, and blessed. Men live too fast in cities.

MARGRAVE. Not if they Would give their energies a noble aim. The opportunities to compass good, And good effected--these are dates that give The sum of human life.

GODFREY. True; most true. It is in cities where men congregate, And good and evil strive for mastery, The sternest strength of soul must needs be tested. But all that stirs the passions makes us old. 'Twould wear me out--this round of ceaseless toil, In the same range of artificial life; And I must greet you with a traveler's haste, And back to my free forest home again.

MARGRAVE. 'Tis well that every part and scene in life Can find its actors ready for the stage, And well that our wide land has scope for all. And yet to feel that those who raised together Their hope-swelled canvass when life's voyage began-- Like ships, storm-parted, on the world's rough sea-- Can sail no more in sweet companionship! 'Tis a sad thought! Of all our college friends, But one, beside myself, is here to greet you.

GODFREY. Who is he?--There is one would glad my heart. When college scenes arise, yourself and Bolton--

MARGRAVE. 'Tis he I mean.

GODFREY. What, Bolton? Harry Bolton? I heard some fellow-travelers in the cars Talking of one Judge Bolton, as the man Who filled his orb of duty like the sun-- Shining on all, and drawing all t' obey. Surely this cannot be our Harry Bolton-- The frank, warm-hearted, but most wayward youth. Whose mind was like a comet--now all light. Anon, away where reason could not follow. He surely has not reached this grave estate Of Judge!

MARGRAVE. The same, the same--our Harry Bolton. And better still, a man whom all men honor.

GODFREY. I must see him. Let us go at once. I feel A joy like that of Joseph's when he found That his young brother Benjamin had come. Though now the order is reversed, for here The youngest claims the honors.

MARGRAVE. No, not so. Your order should be first in estimation, And always is, where men are trained for heaven And mine would be the second, were we wise, And followed Nature as you follow God. And Law is the third station on the mount, When men are placed as lights above life's path And Bolton is, in truth, a light and guide.

GODFREY. Where shall I find him?

MARGRAVE. In his place, to-day, The seat of Justice. We'll go--it is not far The cause is one of special interest: I'll give its history as we pass along. Wilt go?

GODFREY. Ay, surely, surely. I am ready now. It is the very place and time to see him. [_Exeunt._

* * * *

SCENE II.--_A street. Crowds of people hurrying on._

_Enter PROFESSOR OLNEY and FREDERICK BELCOUR._

OLNEY. You say the sentence will be passed to-day?

BELCOUR. Most certainly; and crowds will press to hear it Judge Bolton has a world-wide reputation, And 'tis a cause to rouse his eloquence.

OLNEY. I wish I could be there.

BELCOUR. What should hinder? 'Twould but detain you for an hour or two.

OLNEY. My pupils stand between. Yet Isabelle Might hear the recitations; she does this Often, when I am ill. A dear, good child: She thinks her learning of no more account, Save as the means to help me in my tasks, Than though she only could her sampler sew Yet she reads Latin like a master, and In Greek bids fair to be a Lizzy Carter. If she but knew I was detained--

BELCOUR. A note Would tell her this. Write one, and I will send it. Here's paper, pencil-- [_Taking them from his pocket, OLNEY writes._

OLNEY. I shall trouble you.

BELCOUR. No trouble in the least. Now, hurry on. The court-room will be filled. I'll send the note-- _[Exit OLNEY._

Or bear it, rather. She shall see me, too Before she has the letter from my hand. A proud, ungrateful girl:--reject my love! [_Turns to go out_.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN PAWLETT

PAWLETT How, Belcour--what's the matter? You go wrong. 'Tis to the court-house all the world is going.

BELCOUR (_impetuously_). Let the world go its way, and me go mine We've parted company, the world and I. When Fortune frowns, the wretch is left alone

PAWLETT. Ah! true--I've heard of some embarrassments--

BELCOUR. Embarrassments!--A puling, milliner phrase! One of those tender terms we coin to throw A sentimental interest round the bankrupt;-- As though he may recover if he choose. Why, Pawlett, man, I'm ruined, if the plan I've formed to-day should fail. It shall not fail. I will succeed. And Isabelle once mine, With cash to bear us to a foreign land, I care not for the rest, though death and hell Should stand at the goal to seize me. [_Exit violently_.

PAWLETT (_looking after him_). The fool! He's in a furious mood--and let him rave-- He'll never win his way with Isabelle. My chances there are better, but not good. Young Bolton's in my way. He loves her well; And she, I fear, loves him. But then his father Is proud as Lucifer, and selfish too. Ambition makes the generous nature selfish. He'll ne'er consent his only son should wed The portionless daughter of a pedagogue. No, no. I'll tot these bitter waters out. I'll give the judge an inkling of the matter. I'll write a note--he'll think it comes from Belcour. If I can drive young Bolton from the field, Then Isabelle is mine.--I'll do it.

(_As_ PAWLETT _is going out, Enter_ DR. MARGRAVE _and_ REV. PAUL GODFREY.)

GODFREY. You say Judge Bolton lives in princely style. Is he a married man?

MARGRAVE. He has been married;-- Most happily married, too. His wife was one Of those pure beings, gentle, wise, and firm. That mould our sex to highest hopes and aims. He loved her as the devotee his saint: And from the day he wed he trod life's path As one who came to conquer.

GODFREY. I see it now. The motive to excel was all he needed. He had a vigorous mind, a generous heart, An innate love of goodness and of truth. But he was wayward, and he hated tasks. Such men must have an aim beyond themselves, Or oft they prove but dreamers. And with such, Woman's companionship, dependence, love, Are like the air to fire:--the smouldering flame Of genius, once aroused, sweeps doubts away, And brightens hope, till victory is won.

MARGRAVE. 'Twas thus with Bolton. To his keeping given The weal of one so dear--then he bore on, Gathering from disappointments fruitful strength, As winter's snows prepare the earth for harvest. And when his angel wife was taken from him, She left him pledges of her love and trust, A son of noble promise, and a daughter To nestle, dove-like, in her father's heart, And keep her place for ever. She is blind!

GODFREY. I marvel not that Bolton has excelled, And won a station of the highest trust, If his warm heart enlisted in the work: But the small cares, the constant calculations Required to make, at least to keep, a fortune-- I never should have looked to him for these.

MARGRAVE. 'Twas luck that favored him; or Providence, As you would say. A friend of his and ours. De Vere, the young West Indian in our class-- You must remember him--he left to Bolton All his estate. A hundred thousand pounds 'Twas said he would inherit.

GODFREY. How happened this? De Vere returned to Cuba, there to marry?

MARGRAVE. He did, and had a family. But all His children died save one, and then his wife. And so he hither came to change the scene. Bolton, just widowed then, received his friend With more than brother's kindness, for their griefs Bound them, like ties of soul, in sympathy. De Vere was ill, and, with his motherless babe, He found in Bolton's home the rest he sought. And there he died, and left his little daughter To his friend's guardian care; and to his will A codicil annexed, unknown to Bolton, That gave him all if Isabelle should die Before she reached the age of twenty-one, And die unmarried.

GODFREY. She is dead, then?

MARGRAVE. She is. Her life was like the early rose, That bears th' frost in its heart. The bud is fair; The strength to bloom is wanting; so it dies But come, we shall be late.

GODFREY. What crowds are going! And Irishmen!--Are these so fond of Justice?

MARGRAVE. Ay; where they feel she holds an even scale, And is the friend alike of rich and poor, They yield a prompt obedience, and become Americans. Our motto is--"The law." [_Exeunt._

* * * *

SCENE III.--_The Court-room. A crowd of people._ PRISONER _in the dock. His 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.

* * * * *

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.