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.]