Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

As I told you, my sojourn in the midst of students had filled my head with notions of an evil tendency. But each day I saw Eva in the same attitude, and each day my reflections were recalled to the same subject. By degrees I began to think that hers was a pleasant dream; and I even regretted that I could not believe it a true one. The soul, heaven, an eternity, all that my curate had formerly impressed on me, passed through my mind, as I sat at eve before the open window, and I said, “What the old curate taught me is more consoling than the cold realities which science discloses;” and then I would look on Eva, who still gazed on the heavens, whilst the bell of the village church sounded in the distance, and the rays of the setting sun shone brightly upon the cross of the steeple. And often did I return and sit near that poor widow, firm in her grief as in her holy hopes.

What! thought I, is so much love no longer attached but to a little dust already mingled with the earth; do these sighs all tend to no good?

William is gone, in the flower of his youth, and with him his strong affections, and his heart where all was still in bloom; she loved him but a year, one little year, and all is told. There is naught above us but the air—love, that feeling so deep within us, is but a flame placed in the dark prison of our body, where it shines and burns, but dies away when the frail wall around it crumbles! A little dust is all that remains of our loves, our hopes and thoughts and passions, of all that breathes and moves and elevates within us!

And there was a long silence in my breast.

In truth, I had ceased to think. I was as one stupefied, between that which I no longer denied nor yet believed. At last, on a beautiful starlight evening, when Eva clasped her hands in prayer, I could not account for it, but my hands too closed, and my lips opened to breathe a prayer. Then, through a happy chance, for the first time, did Eva Meredith see what was passing around her, as if a secret instinct had warned her that my soul was united in harmony with her own.

“Thanks,” said she, extending her hand to me, “remember him, and pray for him sometimes.”

“Oh! madame,” I cried, “may we all find a better world, whether our lives be long or short, happy, or sorely tried.”

“The immortal soul of William is on high,” she said, in a grave tone; and her gaze, at once sad and bright, was again fixed on heaven.

Since that day, in accomplishing the duties of my profession, I have often seen men die, but to them who survived, I have ever spoken consoling words of a better life—and those words I truly felt.

A month after these silent events, Eva gave birth to a son. When, for the first time, they brought the child to her, the widowed mother pronounced the name “William,” and tears, ready tears, too long refused to her grief, gushed in torrents from her eyes. The infant bore the beloved name of William, and its little cradle was placed close by the bed of its mother. Then Eva’s gaze, which had been directed to heaven, returned once more to earth. She now looked on her son as she had on heaven. She would bend over him to trace the likeness to his father, for God had permitted a perfect resemblance between William and the son he was never destined to see. A great change took place. Eva, who had consented to live till her babe was born, I could see wished still to live, since she felt how much it needed the protection of her love. She passed whole days and nights by its cradle, and when I came to see her, O! then she spoke to me, questioned me as to the duties requisite for her son; when he suffered told me of it, and asked me what ought to be done to spare him the smallest pain. She feared for the babe the heat of a ray of the sun or the cold of the least breeze. She would hug him to her bosom and warm him with her caresses; once I even thought I perceived a smile on her lips, but she never would sing to him while rocking the cradle—she called the nurse and told her to sing his lullaby, during which time her tears would flow over her darling William. Poor babe! he was beautiful, mild, tractable, but, as though his mother’s grief had even before his birth had an effect on him, he rarely cried and never smiled. He was calm, and calmness at that age makes us think of suffering. It seemed to me that the tears shed over his cradle had chilled his little soul. I wished that his caressing arms should already be thrown round his mother’s neck; I could have wished him to return the kisses lavished on him. But what am I dreaming? thought I, can one expect that this little creature, scarcely a year old, should have an idea that it was born to love and console this woman?

It was, I assure you, ladies, a touching sight to look upon, this young mother, pale, exhausted, having renounced all the future for herself, returning as it were to life for a little infant which could not even say “thanks, mother.” What a mystery is the human heart! that of so little it can make so much! Give it but a grain of sand, it will raise a mountain; or in its last throb show it an atom to love, and it again commences to beat; it does not cease its pulsations forever till nothing is left around it but space, and even the shadow of what was dear to it has fled from earth!

Eva placed her child on a rug at her feet, then looking at it, she would say to me—“Doctor, when my son is grown up I wish him to become distinguished, and when once taught I will choose for him a noble career. I will follow him everywhere—on the sea if he is in the navy, in India if in the army: he must win glory and honors; and I will lean on his arm and proudly say—I am his mother! Will he not let me follow him, doctor? a poor woman who needs but silence and solitude that she may weep, can incommode no one, is it not so?”

And then we would discuss the different pursuits to be chosen; we placed twenty years on that infant’s head, both of us forgetting that those twenty years would make us old. But, alas! we rarely dwell on ourselves, and never think of being otherwise than young and happy, when youth and happiness abide within us.

In listening to those bright anticipations, I could not help regarding with fear the child on whom another’s existence so materially depended. An indefinable dread crept over me in spite of myself; but, thought I, she has shed tears enough, and God, whom she implores, owes her some happiness.

Things were in this situation when I received a letter from my uncle, (the only surviving relation I had.) My uncle, a member of the faculty at Montpellier, sent for me that I might in that learned city perfect myself in the secrets of my profession. This letter, worded like a request, was in fact a command, and I was forced to go. The next morning, with a heart swelling at the thought of the isolation in which I should leave the widow and orphan, I repaired to the white house, to bid adieu to Eva Meredith. When I told her that I was about to quit her for a long time, I scarcely know if a shade of sadness passed over her features, her beautiful face since William’s death had worn a look of such deep melancholy, that it was impossible ever to trace on it more than the faintest smile; as for sadness, it was always there.

“Are you going to leave us,” she said, “your services were so beneficial to my child!”

The poor woman had no word of regret for her only friend who was leaving her, the mother alone grieved for the doctor so useful to her son; I did not complain. To be of use is the sweetest recompense for our devotion to others.

“Farewell,” she said, giving me her hand. “Wherever you may be, may God bless you; and if at any time it is his will that you should be unhappy, may He provide you a heart as compassionate as your own.” I bent my forehead to her hand and retired deeply affected.

The child lay sleeping on the lawn before the steps, I took him in my arms and embraced him over and over again; I gazed on him for a long time attentively, and sadly, and a tear dimmed my eye. “Oh! no, it cannot be, I am deceived,” I murmured, and hurried from the house.

“Heavens! doctor,” simultaneously exclaimed all the listeners of the village doctor, “what then did you fear for this child?”

“Allow me, ladies,” replied the doctor, “to finish this narrative in my own manner—every thing shall be told in its place; I am relating the events in the order in which they happened.”

[_Conclusion in our next._

* * * * *

BRAIN WORK AND HAND WORK.

BY CHARLES STREET.

In a garret cold and dreary
Sat a laborer deep in thought,
And his brow looked worn and weary.
As though hardly he had wrought;
And I watched his throbbing brain,
Like a wild bird to be free,
Struggling to fly back again
To its cageless liberty—
And the muscles and the fibres,
And the flesh upon the bone,
Like a mass of burning embers
Self-consumingly they shone.

And I turned my vision backward
To the scenes of other days,
While the sword within the scabbard
Of the mind yet feebly lays;
Ere the boy, grown into manhood,
Felt the cravings of his soul,
Ere keen hunger shivering stood
On his threshold crying _fool_!
For the midnight oil he’d wasted
Scanning books o’er page by page,
For neglect of luxuries tasted
In this money-making age.

And I saw an infant sleeping,
Softly pillowed by the side
Of a widowed mother weeping,
Fearing death might take its guide,
And to stranger hands and cold
Leave the darling of her heart;
To the swearer—to the scold—
’Mid the rocks without a chart—
God of mercy! help the helpless,
Teach them how to earn their bread;
Oh to trust alone—’tis madness—
To the labor of the head.

By the willing arm that fails not,
By the workings of the hand,
In this free and hallowed spot,
In this great and mighty land,
Where before us rivers deep,
Forests wide and mountains high,
Where, beneath the rocky steep,
Treasures all exhaustless lie,
By a will of stern resolve,
Making all things own his sway,
Man may thus the mystery solve
How to live—while live he may.

Not to fling away existence,
Toiling early—toiling late—
Not to succumb for subsistence,
Calling penury your fate.
Brain alone will not support thee—
Trace the history of the past—
Study well and study deeply,
You will find the truth at last.
Brain and Hand and Hand and Brain,
Let each urge the other on,
And—_the dollars_ shall again
Reward thee when thy work is done.

* * * * *

THE GENERAL COURT AND JANE ANDREWS’ FIRKIN OF BUTTER.

BY SEBA SMITH, THE ORIGINAL AUTHOR OF MAJOR DOWNING.

The fame of “blue laws,” does not belong to Connecticut alone; nor is her claim to the title of “land of steady habits,” so pre-eminent over her neighbors, as to throw them entirely in the shade. Were the early judicial records of the old Bay State, and even of her daughter, Maine, while she was a young province, duly examined, they would afford ample evidence of enactments as numerous, and as strong, and as rigidly enforced in favor of good order and decorous deportment, as those which have conferred everlasting honor upon the early character of good old Connecticut.

We beg leave here to quote a few examples in proof of our position.

1654. “The Court doth order that Jane Berry is to acknowledge that she hath done goodman Abbit wrong, in dealing without witness. And that Sarah Abbit is to acknowledge that she hath done goodwife Berry wrong in evil speeches.”

1655. “The Grand Jury do present Thomas Furson, for swearing ‘by God,’ and cursing his wife, and saying, ‘a pox take her.’ Sentenced to pay ten shillings, and to be bound unto his good behavior in a bond of ten pounds.”

“The Grand Jury do present the wife of Matthew Giles for swearing, and reviling the constabell when he came for the rates, and likewise railing on the prudenshall men and their wives. Sentenced to be whipped seven stripes, or to be redeemed with forty shillings, and to be bound to her good behavior.”

“The Grand Jury do present Jane Canney, the wife of Thomas Canney, for beating her son-in-law, Jeremy Tibbets, and his wife; and likewise for striking her husband in a canoe, and giving him reviling speeches. Admonished by the Court, and to pay two shillings and sixpence.”

“The Grand Jury do present Philip Edgerly for threatening his wife to break her neck if she would not go out of doors; that for fear she came into goodman Beard’s house in the night on the Lord’s day, as she complained to William Beard the next morning. Sentenced to be bound to his good behavior in a bond of forty pounds.”

1657. “Thomas Crowlie is presented for calling constable Alt, constable rogue; is admonished by the Court, and to pay fees two shillings and sixpence.”

1670. “The Grand Jury present Thomas Taylor for abusing Capt. Francis Rayns, being in authority, by _theeing and thouing of him_, and many other abusive speeches.”

“The Grand Jury present Mrs. Sarah Morgan for striking of her husband. The delinquent to stand with a gag in her mouth half an hour at Kittery, at a public town-meeting, and the cause of her offence writ and put upon her forehead, or pay fifty shillings to the Treasurer.”

“Richard Gibson, for striking Capt. Frost at the head of his company, is appointed to receive twenty-five stripes on the bare back, which were given him this day in presence of this court.”

“The Grand Jury do present Charles Potum, for living an idle, lazy life, following no settled employment. Major Bryant Pembleton is joined with the Selectmen of Cape Porpus, to dispose of Potum according to law, and to put him under family government.”

Small chance was there, in the primitive times of which we speak, for any rogue or knave to escape punishment for his offences. There was no complaint then “of the law’s delay.” Justice was meted out with certainty and despatch. Could this great and wicked city of New York be blest with an administration of justice as prompt, as searching, and as effective, what a world of crime might be prevented. Now, in the multiplied refinements of law and legislation, there are a thousand chances for the culprit to escape the punishment he deserves. The labor of government is now so much divided and subdivided, that the villain, before he meets with his deserts, has to go through almost as many hands as a brass pin does in being manufactured; and it is ten to one if he does not slip through the fingers of some of them, and escape at last.

In the first place we must have a Legislature to make up a batch of laws to keep on hand ready for use, for the regulation of society, and the punishment of wrong-doing. After that, the Legislature has no more care over the laws than the ostrich has over her eggs, but leaves them to hatch out as they may. Then we must have a judiciary; and the culprit who has committed a crime or misdemeanor, must be carried into court for trial. After the matter is clearly proved out, fair and square, the court hunts up the laws that the Legislature has made, and if there is one that exactly applies to the case in every point and tittle, the fellow may stand some chance of being punished. If the law does not so apply, he is told he may go. When the law suits the case, the court orders the delinquent to be punished; and he is then handed over to another set of officers, who belong to the executive branch of the government; and if these all happen to do their duty throughout, and no mistake, punishment after a while follows the crime.

Two hundred years ago, in the New England colonies, things were not left at such loose ends. Then the work of government was bound up in a snug bundle. The legislative, judicial, and executive powers were all vested in the same body, who, of course, always knew what they had to do, and could always tell when that work was done. This omnipotent body in a number of instances was styled the General Court; an appellation which is applied to the legislative department in the old Bay State unto this day.

When a fellow was found committing depredations of any description whatever upon his neighbor, or upon the peace and good order of society, he was taken before the court, and the witnesses were examined; and if the thing was proved, and there was no law at hand that told how the fellow should be punished, the court instantly made one on the spot, and ordered its officers to carry it into execution.

It may not be amiss in this place to go a little more into detail, and trace one of these General Courts from its origin, and show how it was constituted and made up.

After the failure of Sir Walter Raleigh’s attempts to colonize Virginia, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, the spirit of discovery and settlement of the New World was greatly revived under the reign of King James. In the year 1606, that monarch granted two charters to companies of gentlemen, who united for the purpose, dividing the country into two districts, called North and South Virginia. The limits of the northern district were within thirty-eight and forty-five degrees of north latitude. This charter was granted to gentlemen of Plymouth and other towns in the west of England, who were denominated the Plymouth Company, and afterward, under a new modification of their charter, “The Council of Plymouth.”

Some of the first attempts by this company to colonize New England were very unsuccessful; the company soon grew discouraged, and were inactive a number of years. One member of the company, however, Sir Ferdinando Gorges, never “gave up the ship.” He alone remained undiscouraged by their ill success, and when the company would do nothing, he kept at work upon his own hook. He sent out vessels several times at his own expense, to explore the coast of New England with a view of making settlements. In 1616, one of his vessels, under the command of Richard Vines, wintered on the coast at the mouth of Saco river in Maine. The harbor which gave them shelter was afterward called Winter Harbor.

In 1620, the Plymouth Company received a new impulse. Their charter was renewed, their powers enlarged, and their boundaries extended from the fortieth to the forty-eighth degree of north latitude, and from sea to sea. This year the first permanent settlement was commenced in Massachusetts by the pilgrim band at Plymouth.

In 1622, the Council of Plymouth, as the company in England was now styled, made a grant to their active member, Sir F. Gorges, in company with John Mason, of all the territory between the Merrimac and Kennebec rivers, and under their auspices settlements now began to be scattered along the coast. In 1629, Mason and Gorges divided their possessions, and, like Abraham and Lot, one went to the right and the other to the left. Mason took that portion of the territory lying west of the Piscataqua river, to which he gave the name of New Hampshire, while the country east of the Piscataqua remained in the possession of Gorges, and was called for some years New Somersetshire, and afterward the Province of Maine.

After this, various grants were made along the coast of Maine to different individuals and companies, and the limits of these grants, often being very indefinite, led to many long and bitter controversies. In 1635, Gorges attempted to establish a General Court for the government of his province, and sent over commissions to several persons for that purpose. Understanding, however, that affairs were not well managed, a year or two after he sent over an order to the authorities of Massachusetts Bay “to govern his province of New Somersetshire, and to oversee his servants and private affairs.”

The authorities of Massachusetts Bay, however, declined interfering in the matter, and the province remained without a good and efficient local government till 1640, when Sir Ferdinando commissioned the following persons to be his counsellors for the administration of the government of his province: viz. “his trusty and well beloved cousin, Thomas Gorges, Esq., Richard Vines, Esq., his steward-general, Francis Champernoon, his loving nephew, Henry Jocelyn and Richard Bonython, Esqrs., and William Hook and Edward Godfrey, gentlemen.”

These persons constituted a General Court, with legislative, judicial, and executive powers, and in the name of “Sir Ferdinando Gorges, Knight, Lord Proprietor of the Province of Maine,” exercised entire control over all the affairs of the province. The first court was held at Saco, on the 25th of June, 1640; and another was holden in September following.

Among the earlier weighty matters that came under the cognizance of this court was the affair of Jane Andrews and her firkin of butter. The General Court was in session, and the judges, or the counsellors, as their commissions styled them, were seated round a long table, looking over some accounts that were in dispute between two neighbors, when Mr. Nicholas Davis came in, with a look and air of unusual agitation. He stood for a minute looking round the room, which was pretty well filled with spectators, and then he looked at the judges with an earnestness that showed he had something uncommon on his mind.

Mr. Davis was a short, thick man, inclined to be fleshy; the day was warm, and large drops of sweat stood upon his face. He drew a checked cotton handkerchief from his pocket and wiped and rubbed his face till it was as red as a boiled lobster. Then he stepped up to one of the judges and began to whisper in his ear. Presently the judge rolled up his eyes and looked astonished. Mr. Davis put his hand down into his right-hand coat pocket and pulled out a stone as large as his two fists. And then he drew another from his left-hand pocket, a little larger, and handed it to the judge. And then they whispered together again. The people looked wild, and the rest of the judges impatient. At last the judge turned round and whispered to the rest of the court for the space of two minutes. And then they called Mr. Constable Frost and told him to show Mr. Davis into the room with the grand jury.

After Mr. Davis had retired into the jury-room, the court seemed restless and unfitted to go on with business. One of the judges got up, and putting both hands into his coat pockets, walked gravely back and forth from one end of the table to the other. Two more sat whispering very earnestly to each other; and the rest were tipped back in their chairs, with a settled frown upon their brows, and looking unutterable things upon the multitude in the court-room. The people in low whispers began to speculate upon the mysterious business of Mr. Davis in the grand jury-room.

One guessed somebody “had been throwing stones at him, and he was going to bring ’em up to the ring-bolt.” Another “didn’t believe but what somebody had been breaking his windows, and if they had, they’d got to buy it.” And some guessed that “somebody had been stoning his cattle; and if they had, they’d got to hug it, for there was nothing would rouse Mr. Davis’ dander quicker than that, for he was very particular about his cattle.” In all their speculations, however, the imaginations of none of them reached the height of the enormity that had occurred.

After the lapse of about half an hour, the door of the grand jury-room was opened, and Mr. Davis walked out and took a seat on a bench in front of the court. In about three minutes more the grand jury came out in a body, with long and solemn faces, and arranging themselves upon the benches appropriated for their use, the foreman rose with a piece of paper in his hand and read as follows:

“We present Jane, the wife of John Andrews, for selling of a Firkin of Butter unto Mr. Nic. Davis; that had two stones in it, which contained fourteen pounds, wanting two ounces, in weight.”

This came upon John Andrews, who was sitting there right in the middle of the court-room with the rest of the folks, like a heavy thunder-clap. Everybody turned and looked at him, and in half a minute his face turned as red as a coal of fire.

“Mr. Andrews,” said the first judge, “is your wife at home?”

“Well—ah—I don’t know,” said John; “yes, I believe she is; I’ll go and see;” and he rose to leave the court-house.

“No, you needn’t go and see,” said the judge; “come back to your seat again.” John returned to his seat.

“How far is it to your house?” said the judge.

“About four miles,” said John.

“It is too far,” said the judge, “to bring her into court this afternoon. Which will you do, come under bonds of ten pounds to bring her into court to-morrow morning for trial, or have two constables go and take charge of her to-night?”

“I’ll come under bonds to bring her into court, if she’ll come,” said John.

“But you must bring her, whether she will come or not,” said the judge; “or else the officers must go after her immediately, and put her into confinement to-night.”

“Well, then,” said John, “I’ll come under bonds; rather than have the constables going to the house to frighten the children.”

The bonds were accordingly taken, in the sum of ten pounds, and acknowledged by John, and he was ordered to have his wife in court the next morning at nine o’clock. Mr. Nicholas Davis was ordered to be present at the same hour with his witnesses.

After adding up a few more accounts, the court adjourned till next morning. In the meanwhile John Andrews went home to break the matter to his wife.

“Now, Jane,” said he, “here’s a pretty kettle of fish we’ve got to fry. What under the sun could induce you to put them stones into the firkin of butter you sold to Mr. Davis?”

“Hang his old picter,” said Jane, “I don’t know any thing about the stones.”

“Now, what’s the use of denying it?” said John; “you know you did it. You know I see you putting of ’em in once, and made you take ’em out again and throw ’em away. And you went and put ’em in again afterward, I know, or else he’d never gone into the General Court about it, and swore to it.”

“He haint been into the Gineral Court though?” said Jane, rolling up the white of her eyes.

“I guess you’ll find he has though, by to-morrow,” said John; “and you’ve got me into as bad a scrape about it as can be, and yourself into a worse one.”

“But if there was stones in the butter,” said Jane, “he can’t prove that I put ’em in, and he can’t swear that I put ’em in.”

“Well, he can swear that he had the butter of you, and that he found the stones in it; and that’ll be enough to fix your flint for you. And you’ve got to go to court to-morrow morning and have your trial.”

“I swow I wont go into court,” said Jane, “for nobody; if he wants to settle it he may come here.”

“But he wont come here,” said John; “he has carried it into court, and the grand jury has presented you, and the judges say you must be there to-morrow morning at nine o’clock for your trial.”

“I don’t care for the grand jury, nor none of ’em,” said Jane; “I wont go to court; I’ll go off into the woods first, and stay a week, or stay till the court is over.”

“But you can’t do that,” said John. “I’m under bonds of ten pounds to carry you to court to-morrow morning.”

“You under bonds!” said Jane; “I should like to know what business you have to be under bonds to carry me to court?”

“I had to,” said John, “or else the constables were coming right over here to take you and put you into confinement to-night. So I had to give a bond of ten pounds that you should be there to-morrow morning.”

“Well, I can’t go,” said Jane; “you may pay the ten pounds.”

“But I can’t pay it,” said John; “I could not raise it any way in the world.”

“Well, what’ll they do if you don’t pay it?” said Jane, “and I don’t go to the court?”

“They’d put me in jail,” said John, “till it was paid; and that would be longer than I should want to stay there. So you’ve got to go to court to-morrow morning, and that’s a settled pint.”

When John said any thing was “a settled pint,” Jane always knew the thing was fixed, and it was no use to have any more words about it. So she sat down and gave herself up to a hearty crying spell.

When morning came, John tackled up his wagon and took Jane in and carried her to the General Court. When he arrived, the court-room was already full of spectators; the judges were seated by the long table, and Mr. Davis was there with his wife and daughter and hired girl. The case was immediately called, and the prisoner, being put to the bar, was told to hearken to an indictment found against her by the grand jury.

The clerk then read the indictment, and ended with the usual question; “Jane Andrews, what say you to this indictment, are you guilty thereof or not guilty?”

“I don’t know nothin’ at all about it, sir,” said Jane, “any more than the child that’s unborn; as for that are firkin of butter that I sold to Mr. Davis, if there was any stones in it, they must be put in by somebody’s else hands besides mine, for I packed it all down myself, and—”

“Stop, Mrs. Andrews,” said the first judge, “you must not talk; you must give a direct answer to the question; are you guilty or not guilty?”

“I’m as innocent as the man in the moon,” said Jane; “I never was accused before; I can bring folks to swear to my character ever since I was a child; I think it is too bad—”

“Stop,” said the judge; “if you don’t give a direct answer to the question immediately, you shall be sent to prison; are you guilty or not guilty?”

“No, I aint guilty,” said Jane.

“She pleads not guilty,” said the judge; “now let the witnesses be sworn. Mr. Davis, you take the stand, and tell the court and the jury what you know about this affair.”

Mr. Davis was sworn and took the stand.

“Whereabouts shall I begin?” said he, hesitating, and rubbing his sleeve over his face to brush away the perspiration.

“Tell the whole story just as it happened,” said the judge, “from first to last: that is, what relates to this particular transaction about the firkin of butter.”

“Well, it was a week ago last Saturday mornin’,” said the witness, putting one foot up upon the bench that stood before him, “I’d been down to the mill with my wagon, and was going home, I should say about nine o’clock in the mornin’; it might be a little more, and it might be a little less, but I should say it wasn’t much odds of nine o’clock, judging from my feelin’s, for I hadn’t been to breakfast; I generally go to mill before breakfast, when I go, and I commonly get back about nine o’clock; but I judged I was about half an hour later that mornin’ than common, owing to a kind of warm dispute I got into with the miller about his streakin’ the toll-dish. I told him he ought to streak it with a straight stick, but he always would take his hand to streak with, and always kept the roundin’ side of his hand up, and that made the dish a little heapin’—”

“But I don’t see what all this has to do with the tub of butter, Mr. Davis,” said the judge; “you must confine yourself to the case before the court. What was this transaction about the tub of butter?”

“Well, I was coming along to it byme by,” said the witness.

“But you must come along to it now,” said the judge; “relate what you know about the case presented by the grand jury, and not talk about any thing else.”

“Well,” said Davis, “I should judge it wasn’t much odds of nine o’clock, when I come along up by Mr. Andrews’ house, and I see Miss Andrews out to the door feedin’ the chickens; and says I, ‘good mornin’, Miss Andrews;’ and says she, ‘good mornin’, Mr. Davis;’ and says I, ‘how’s all to home?’ and says she, ‘middlin’; how does your folks do?’”

“But that isn’t coming to the butter,” said the judge, with an air and tone of great impatience.

“Yes ’tis,” said Davis, “I’m close to the butter now; for then says I, ‘Miss Andrews, have you got another firkin of butter to sell?’ And says she, ‘yes.’ I said another firkin, because I bought one of her last winter, that weighed about twenty pounds, and it turned out to be a very good firkin of butter, though it was rather hard salted; but I think that’s a good fault in butter; it makes it spend better, and I like the taste of it full as well, though my wife doesn’t. That firkin of butter lasted us—”

“No matter how long it lasted,” said the judge; “that is not the firkin with which we have to do now. You must come right down to the particular firkin that was the cause of this trial.”

“Well, I’m jest agoing to take hold of that now,” said Davis; “and so, says I, ‘Miss Andrews, have you got another firkin of butter to sell?’ And says she, ‘Yes, I have.’ And says I, ‘How big is it?’ Says she, ‘It weighs thirty-six pounds, and the firkin weighs six pounds, and that leaves thirty pounds of butter.’ And says I, ‘How much is it a pound?’ Says she, ‘Tenpence.’ So, after I went in and looked at it, I agreed to take it. It come to one pound five, and I took out the money and paid her, and put the firkin in my wagon and carried it home. Well, we never mistrusted there was any thing in the butter; and we went right to using of it; I guess we had some of it on the table that very night for supper; didn’t we, Judy?” turning to his wife.

“You needn’t ask your wife any questions,” said the judge. “Tell what you know yourself about the matter, and then she may tell what she knows about it.”

“Well, what I know myself about the butter is, we eat out of it about a week, and then Judy comes to me, and says she, ‘Mr. Davis, the first layin’ is all out.’ Says I, ‘It can’t be out so quick, it aint but a week since we had it.’ ‘Well, ’tis out,’ says she, ‘every morsel of it; but the layin’ wasn’t more than half as thick as it was in t’other firkin.’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘Judy, if the first layin’ is out, you must dig into the second, that’s all.’ So off she went to get some butter for supper, and we was jest a setting down to the table, and byme by back she comes, all in a fluster, her eyes staring out of her head half as big as saucers, and she sot a plate on to the table with a great stone in it, half as big as my head; and says she, ‘there, Mr. Davis, if you’re a mind to eat such butter as that, you’re welcome to, but I shall wait till I get a new set of teeth before I try it.’ Says I, ‘Judy, what do you mean? where did that stone come from?’ Says she, ‘It came right out of the middle of the butter tub.’”

“You may be a little particular along here,” said the judge, “for you are getting into the very marrow of the subject now. What happened next?”

“Well, says I, ‘Judy, I should like to see the hen that lays such eggs as that; let’s go and look at it.’ So we went to the firkin, and, sure enough, there was the hole in the middle of the butter where she took the stone out. Says I, ‘Judy, I guess it’s best to probe that are wound a little more, as the doctors say.’ So I took a knife and run down into the butter a little further, and struck on another stone; and we went to work and dug that out; and after we cut round enough to be satisfied there wasn’t any more, we took the two and weighed ’em, and found they weighed fourteen pounds lacking two ounces. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘Judy, this matter aint agoin’ to stop short of the Gineral Court.’ She thought I better hush it up, cause it would hurt Miss Andrews’ feelin’s; but I told her no, honesty’s the best policy, and fair play’s a jewel, and if Miss Andrews isn’t old enough to know that yet, it is time she was larnt it, and if I don’t carry her into the Gineral Court, it’s because my name isn’t Nicholas Davis. And that’s pretty much all I know about it.”

“The case is every way clear,” said the first judge; “it seems to be hardly worth while to go any further. But Mrs. Davis may take the stand a few minutes; the court would like to ask her a few plain questions.”

Mrs. Davis was accordingly sworn, and took the stand.

“How do you know,” said the judge, “that the stones were not put into the butter after the tub was brought to your house?”

“Because they couldn’t be,” said Mrs. Davis. “I didn’t do it, and Hannah didn’t do it, and Polly didn’t do it; and there wasn’t nobody else that could do it.”

“Well, how do you know that Mrs. Andrews did it?” said the judge.

“Because,” said Mrs. Davis, “it’s jest like her. She loves fine clothes, and fine clothes costs money; and so she always will have money; and so I know as well as can be she did it.”

“Very true,” said the judge, “this love of finery is the cause of a world of crime. You may describe a little more particularly how you first found the stones.”

“Well, we sot down to the table; I guess the sun was about an hour high, we commonly eat supper this time of year about an hour before sunset; Mr. Davis always wants his supper airly, because he don’t think it’s healthy to eat jest before going to bed; he says it gives him the nightmare. Well, Mr. Davis he looks round upon the table, and says he, ‘Judy’—he always calls me Judy, ever since we’ve been married, which I don’t think is exactly the thing for a person of my age, but he seems to like it, so I don’t make a fuss about it—says he, ‘Judy, here isn’t butter enough for supper on the table, you better get some more.’ Says I, ‘I hate to disturb that are second layin’ to-day, it’s packed down so nice.’ But he insisted upon it, there wasn’t enough on the table for supper—Mr. Davis eats a good deal of butter, and he doesn’t like to see a scanty plate of it on the table. So I took a knife and a plate and went into the buttery, and took the kiver off the firkin and sot it down on the floor; and then I was een a most a good mind to go back without any, when I see how smooth the second layin’ looked, for I do hate to cut into a new layin’, it seems to go away so soon. But I knew Mr. Davis would have some, so I took the knife and begun to cut down into the middle of the butter, and instead of cutting through, as it did in the first layin’, it come down chuck on to a stone. And that’s the way I found it.”

“It’s a very clear case,” said the judge. “It is unnecessary to proceed any further with witnesses.”

And then he turned to the jury and charged them, that the guilt of the prisoner was fairly made out, and they had nothing to do but bring in a verdict of guilty. Accordingly the jury retired, and having staid out just long enough to count noses and see that they were all present, came in with a verdict of guilty.

The court then went into deep consultation with regard to the sentence; and after a half hour’s whispering, and talking, and voting, the first judge rose and pronounced the sentence as follows:

“The court doth order, that Jane Andrews shall stand at the public town-meeting which is to be held on Monday next, and in the most conspicuous part thereof till two hours time be expired, with her offence written in capital letters and fastened upon her forehead.”

This sentence was duly executed, according to the letter and spirit thereof, on the following Monday. But it must be left to the imagination of the reader to portray the scenes that occurred on that occasion. We may simply hint, however, that the meeting was unusually thronged, being more, numerously attended than any town-meeting in the place for three years previous. Some old people, who had not been out on any public occasion for half a dozen years, came now several miles to see the crime of Mrs. Andrews justly and properly punished.

Everybody, as they went into the town-house, turned square round, and stood and looked Mrs. Andrews in the face several minutes, and read the inscription on her forehead. Old Deacon White, who was rather long-sighted, put on his spectacles and stood facing her, about a yard off, and read the inscription over three times, loud enough to be heard all over the room. And long-legged, razor-faced Peter Johnson, who was very short-sighted, put on his spectacles and stood so near her to read the inscription, that his nose almost touched hers, causing some rather rude and irreverent laughs among the younger portion of the multitude. In short, the punishment was effectual, and the sin of selling stones for butter was not repeated again by the housewives of New Somersetshire during the life-time of that generation.

* * * * *

THE INVALID STRANGER.

A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

BY MISS MARY E. LEE.

I ne’er had seen her face before, and yet
’Twas difficult to own that she was but
A common stranger; till a little while
I gave my fancy freedom, and was pleased
To shadow out some former spirit-sphere,
Where we had held companionship, and twined
A subtile link of sympathy and love.
Where lay her secret spell? What charm of hers
Thus played upon the harp-string of my mind,
Stirring it up to music? I knew not!
The maiden was all loveliness, and wore
Her beauty like a queenly robe, but yet
It was not that which won my lingering gaze,
And made me yearn to ask her tale of life,
And tell it out in poetry. ’Twas strange!—
Yet, though I studied long, I could not learn
The color of her eye, that seemed to change
Beneath the ivory lid, from brilliant black
To liquid hazel, then to full, soft gray,
Fast melting into violet: Nor the hue
Of her loose curls, to which each passing breeze
Gave some new shaping; making them appear
Within the shade, pale auburn; but when stirred
In sunny light, like sprinkling gleams of gold
Within a silken tissue. More than all,
Were I an artist, it were needless task
To seek to match the tinting of her cheek,
One moment wan to sickliness, and then
Trying which best became it, the pure snow
Of the white lily, or the delicate blush
Of the pale, perfumed wild-rose. I was blind
To all this touching beauty, and looked not
Upon the outward temple, for my mind
Had caught some glimpses of the shrine within,
And gave _that_ all my worship. It was _soul_.
High, holy, living, intellectual soul,
That lit her perfect features, like a lamp,
That burns in alabaster; or some star
Whose rays vibrating through the ether’s space,
Transmit its _softened image_ from afar.
Yes! this it was that made me read her face,
E’en as one reads the language of a book,
With a forgetful earnestness, until
The secret fountains of my heart were moved,
Unto the Giver of all good for her,
And oh! may it be answered.
God of Love!
Lend, for her sake, to winter’s frosty sky,
A genial influence, till the prisoned bird
Of health shall flatter fearlessly beyond
The narrow bars of sickness, and with life
Sparkling and clear, as diamond newly set,
The graceful stranger safely may return
Unto the fitting casket of her home!

* * * * *

WAS SHE A COQUETTE?

BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PIERSON.

LETTERS FROM MISS LUCY LEE TO MRS. KATE KING.

_Cincinnati, Ohio, June 4._