Chapter III (4)

In a village some miles from Mr. Parkett’s residence, lived a young man of great wealth and little principle, named Lander, who had been fascinated by Lucy’s beauty, and exasperated on finding that her affections were bestowed upon another; Mr. Parkett had been much in the habit of visiting this village of late, for the purpose of indulging an unfortunate passion for gambling, which had almost ruined him in his youth, but which for many years he had entirely restrained. This passion, however, had been lulled, not extinguished; a slight indulgence was sufficient to rekindle it, and it soon raged more fiercely than ever; and he became an easy prey to a brace of gamblers who were the intimate associates of Lander.

“How now,” said Lander, to one of these gamblers, one morning, “what success had you last night.”

“Better than ever. The old man is completely infatuated, and grows more desperate every day. If his daughter is as easily won as her father’s money, your siege will be a short one—she will soon surrender.”

“She will not surrender while she can help it,” said Lander; “but go on as you have begun, and I will have her yet. I will have her, or I will crush the whole family to the earth; they shall learn that the hand of Charles Lander is not to be spurned with impunity. But how do his accounts stand now?”

“We have won all the money he could raise, and he has commenced giving us his notes.”

“Good! bring me the notes and I will cash them for you. But have you followed my instructions, and let him win occasionally, to keep up his courage? Remember, you have no claim on me until you have brought him to the brink of ruin.”

“We have taken care of that, and he has the most unbounded confidence in his own skill. He attributes all his losses to ill-luck, when the silly old fool could not win a dollar if we chose to prevent him.”

Thus was this unfortunate man led on from one stage of ruin to another, by the constant hope of retrieving his past losses until his obligations to pay were no longer worth receiving. Lander, in the meantime, had been lifting these notes, and so disposing of them that he could use them for the accomplishment of his purposes. Without appearing as a party himself, he caused Mr. Parkett to be urgently pressed for payment. Harassed and threatened with exposure, the old man endeavored to borrow money to pay off the most urgent of these claimants; but rumors had got abroad of secret embarrassments and doubtful titles, which made it impossible for him to obtain a loan on any terms.

During all this time Lander had been assiduous in his attentions to Lucy, and employed every artifice to make a favorable impression upon her and upon her father. But Mr. Parkett was far from admiring his character, and above all he knew that Lucy’s heart was wholly devoted to Burton. Having brought affairs to this crisis, Lander one day said to Mr. Parkett, in a tone of great delicacy,

“I understand, sir, that you have been endeavoring to negotiate a loan; and I have been sorry to learn that you were not successful. Now, sir, I have means under my control which are entirely at your disposal.”

“You are very kind, sir,” said Mr. Parkett; “but you must excuse me for saying that it would not be proper for me to accept of such a favor at your hands.”

“I hope, sir,” said Lander, biting his lip, “that you do not consider me unworthy of the privilege of doing you a kindness.”

“It is painful for me to explain,” replied Mr. Parkett, “but after what has passed between you and my daughter, although we shall both always take pleasure in treating you as a friend, common delicacy forbids that we allow you to place us under any obligation.”

“But there is now a weight of obligation on the other side; and you must allow me to make some return for the many acts of kindness I have received under your roof. You have heretofore treated me as a friend; treat me so still, and allow me to serve you.”

Mr. Parkett felt that in honor he could not accept this offer; but ruin stared him full in the face, and he saw no other means of escaping the exposure which he dreaded—for when his bankruptcy became known, the cause could not be long concealed. He therefore no longer absolutely refused, but took time to consider. This Lander felt confident would lead to acceptance; and he returned home triumphing in the successful progress of his plot, and sanguine of final success. But Burton came again to mar his prospects. He, too, had heard of Mr. Parkett’s difficulties, and tendered his services. It was finally agreed that he should raise several thousand dollars, to be secured by mortgage; and that in the following autumn, when he and Lucy were to be married, the establishment should be delivered over to them. Burton, by turning his means (which were not great) into cash, and borrowing on the credit of his future prospects, succeeded in raising the necessary sum, and placed it in Mr. Parkett’s hands. Lander’s offer was, of course, declined.

With this money in his possession the old gentleman went to the village to make arrangements for the payment of the most importunate of his creditors. As he walked along the street, he came in front of the house which had been the scene of his ruinous losses. An irresistible temptation seized him to make one more effort to retrieve his fortunes. He would try his luck; if fortune smiled, all would yet be well; if she frowned, after losing a small sum, he would abandon the gambling-table forever. With this resolution, he entered, and was soon wholly absorbed in the chances of the game. Fortune _did_ smile, and, with unwonted success, he became bold and desperate. The stakes grew heavy, and he fearlessly increased them. His wily competitor marked his time, and made them still higher; Parkett again increased them. His competitor doubled them. Parkett, now mad with excitement, threw down all that he had brought, and all that he had won. There was a breathless pause. The result was announced—and he had lost! For several minutes he stared vacantly around him, then, pulling his hat over his brows, he rushed from the house.

His ruin was now complete; but what explanation could he give to Burton? and, what would become of his darling child? He returned home, and going directly to his private room, sent for Burton, who, observing his extraordinary emotion, remained a wondering and anxious listener.

“You asked me for my daughter’s hand,” said he, “and I gave it to you, because I thought you worthy of her. You then supposed me to be an honest man, and the owner of valuable possessions. It is my duty now to inform you, that I am a villain and a beggar.”

“I beg you will compose yourself,” said Burton, believing that his mind had become disordered; “you allow your pecuniary difficulties to affect you too deeply. However they may result, they cannot affect either your honor, or my affection for your daughter. She has given me her heart, and I ask nothing from you but her hand.”

“My honor, it is true, is beyond the reach of circumstances,” said Parkett, bitterly. “You this morning loaned me five thousand dollars, to pay the most pressing claims against my property. That money is gone—no matter how—and the claims are not staid. I have not only brought ruin upon myself, but upon you also. My property will be sacrificed, and your money lost; What say you now? Am I not a villain?”

“I must again entreat you to compose yourself,” replied Burton; “and, I repeat, that I love your daughter for herself alone; and, if all that you have said were true, I would not the less claim her for my wife.”

“Young man,” said Parkett, seizing Burton eagerly by the hand, “she is yours; and may God Almighty bless your union. The dread of bringing sorrow and wretchedness upon my innocent lamb wrung my heart most of all. You have relieved me from that care, and the grave will soon hide my shame.”

To prevent the property from being sacrificed, it was thought best to advertise it for private sale. Lander came forward and became the purchaser, at a price which, after paying off the prior claims, left a very small balance to reimburse Burton; who, however, soon became rich in the possession of Lucy. Mr. Parkett lived to see his daughter married, and soon after went down to a peaceful but melancholy grave.

“This is an humble dwelling, Lucy,” said Burton, when they had moved into their new home, “but, it is said, that happiness is oftener found in the cottage than in the palace. So philosophers teach, but I believe women generally think differently.”

“You shall represent the philosopher, and I the woman,” said Lucy, “and we’ll see.”

“In spite of philosophy,” continued Burton, “I confess that I would prefer a somewhat larger house, and furniture of a better quality than this.”

“And I confess,” said Lucy, “that in spite of your opinion of women, I shall be happier as it is.”

“Alas! my sweet wife,” said Burton, “you have never known what care or trouble was; you have lived all your life amongst happy friends, and been the gayest of them all; every wish of your heart has been gratified as soon as formed. Heaven grant it may be as you now think!”

“But you doubt it. Really, for a philosopher, you know but little of woman’s heart. To have all her frivolous wishes gratified, to live in the midst of gayety and idleness, and be free from care, and, I suppose, from all reflection, seems to be your opinion of her highest state. But you do her injustice; her heart throbs with ambition as well as man’s, though its object may be different.”

“Ambition is not formed of such habitations as this,” said Burton, sadly.

“Woman’s ambition may be,” said Lucy. “Suppose she were able to make this humble cottage a more delightful dwelling than the most luxurious mansion, to smooth her husband’s brow, and cause him to forget poverty and toil? Would not this be an object worthy of ambition?”

“It is,” said Burton, kissing her affectionately, “and you have gained that object already. When I spoke of women, I should not have included _all_ women, and you shall prove that there are exceptions.”

At this moment there was a knock at the door, one of the sheriff’s officers entered and handed Burton a paper. The latter read it, then calmly folded it, and put it in his pocket. But his wife’s eye had been on him, and when the officer had withdrawn, she said:

“This is some new calamity; do not conceal it from me, Sydney; your cheek grew pale as you read that paper—let them take all we have, for whilst you are spared I shall be happy.”

“My matchless wife,” said Burton, “you have borne our past trials so bravely, that I am not afraid of your sinking under this new misfortune: but summon up all your fortitude, for you will need it. Our persecutor, Lander, has not exhausted his arts yet, but is determined to humble us still more. He has power over us now, and employs it to gratify his cowardly malice. But let him beware! That power may one day change hands, and then, so help me Heaven! I will bruise his serpent head beneath this heel;” and he stamped his foot fiercely on the floor.

“Now you distress me, indeed,” said Lucy; “but, oh, Sydney! you will not forget your promise, that there shall be no violence between you and that wicked man.”

“Forgive me,” said Burton, “I forgot myself; that promise is sacred, and never will I grieve your gentle heart by breaking it. But see what this villain has done! He has managed, by some artifice, to get possession of claims against me, which I never dreamed would be pressed, until I should be able to pay them without inconvenience. He has brought suit, and we must prepare to surrender up even the poor remnants that are left us.”

“I understand it all,” said Lucy. “Oh, my poor father!”

“Let him rest in peace,” said Burton; “if he acted unwisely he paid the penalty of a broken heart: let us not disturb his ashes.”

Lucy threw her arms around her husband’s neck, and wept like a child.

“You forgive him then,” she said, “for the sake of his daughter’s love and duty. Oh, Heaven will bless you for your generosity.”

“Heaven has blessed me,” said he, fondly embracing her; “and I would not give one throb of this loving heart for all the gold Lander ever owned.”

But the sad reality at length came, and their relentless creditor advertised the poor furniture of their cottage for sale. Burton found, as is usual under such circumstances, that his friends had grown remarkably polite and formal; but they kept at a distance, and no one offered him assistance; nor could he ask it, as the claims were much greater than he could possibly pay, and his income from his profession little more than afforded him a subsistence. He was, therefore, “sold out,” all but the scanty articles which the law allows the poor.

But although the world had grown cold, his own fire-side was still as bright as ever; and when he thought of Lucy, as he had first seen her—a gay, mischievous girl, raised in the lap of luxury, and then looked upon her as his wife—serene and cheerful in the midst of poverty and worldly disgrace, he admired and reverenced the depths of woman’s affection. And this deep, pure fountain of love flowed only for him! Well might he prize it above rivers of gold!

* * * * *

Some time after, Burton was one day searching among the old records in one of the public offices, when his eye fell upon a time-worn, mutilated will, which bore the name of Thomas Parkett inscribed on the back. Knowing that Lucy’s grandfather had borne that name, his curiosity led him to open the paper, and examine its contents. After reading on for some time, deciphering the words with great difficulty, he suddenly started back, as if he had seen the ghost of his wife’s ancestor. Then returning to the paper, he eagerly read it over again, pausing and reflecting long upon each sentence. Then carefully making a copy of it, he returned the papers to their place, and went directly home with a rapid step and a beating heart.

Whilst Burton was reading the paper which produced so strange an effect on him, there sat near him one of those wretched men who disgrace an honorable profession by hanging upon its outskirts, gaining an infamous livelihood by stirring up litigation, and practising schemes of fraud and villany. Dissipated and unprincipled, Witherman was equally reckless in his means of getting money, and prodigal in spending it. He was consequently at times reduced almost to starvation, and ready for any desperate enterprise. Happening to look up at the moment, he observed Burton’s emotion, and watched his subsequent movements until he left the room. Then taking down the same bundle of papers, he began to look through them to see if he could find what had so much interested Burton. The name of Parkett soon attracted his attention, for he knew that that had been the name of Burton’s father-in-law. Opening the will, therefore, he read on until he came to the part which had startled Burton:

“Aha!” he exclaimed to himself, “I see the game now, and I’ll find some means to have a hand in it. So much for reading men’s looks and motives; I shall make a good day’s work of this.”

* * * * *

“Lucy, my dear,” said Burton, after he reached home, “how would you like to become mistress again of the old homestead?”

“Ah, Sydney, why do you ask me such a question? you know that I am reconciled to living here, but then I don’t like to think of my old home.”

“It is certainly a delightful place, especially at this season of the year, with its green fields and blooming orchards. Suppose we go and spend the summer there?”

“I have no wish ever to see it again.”

“Suppose you could call it your own, would it have none of its former attraction?”

“As that can never be, it is hardly worth while to answer your question. But what is the matter with you? You seem to be strangely excited; tell me what it is, I can bear it.”

“Prepare yourself then, for startling news; you _are_ the mistress and owner of the old homestead.”

“Oh, why do you mock me with such a tale,” said Lucy, tears starting into her eyes; “do let me forget that ever I lived there.”

“I should be sorry to trifle with you on so tender a subject,” said Burton, “but I mean what I say. You have borne adversity like a heroine; let us now see what effect prosperity will have. Here is copy of your grandfather’s will, which I have just seen for the first time. By it his property is _entailed_, as lawyers call it; that is, it is settled upon your father and his immediate descendants, to pass from one generation to another, according to the English rule of primogeniture. Your father could not sell it in the way he did, (of which he was no doubt ignorant,) and you, being his only child, have a full and perfect right to it under the will.”

“But if it was sold and paid for, would it be right for me to claim it from the purchaser?”

“It will be right, at all events, to defend yourself from persecution. The property is yours by the law of the land, and if Lander obtained it, as we have good reason to believe he did, he ought not to be allowed to keep it. I will advise you to nothing that is not becoming in a dutiful child. Better this poverty than the consciousness of having acted unjustly: but we will consult with some discreet friend, and then do what we may conclude to be right.”

Lucy was grave and thoughtful; she had long been accustomed to suppress her feelings of vanity and pride, and had become entirely reconciled to her humble fortunes; but her heart fluttered at the thought of being the owner of ample possessions, and of those scenes, too, from which she had never been able entirely to wean her affections. But then came other reflections. Was it possible that her father had practiced a fraud for her benefit? And, if so, would it be right for her to take advantage of it? The law might give her the property, but would truth and justice allow her to take it?

After careful inquiry, it was deemed proper that suit should be brought; and Burton, remembering the maxim that “the lawyer who pleads his own cause has a fool for his client,” employed counsel to conduct it for him.

No sooner had this suit been brought, than Witherman hastened to Lander:

“I see, sir,” said he, “that Burton has brought suit in the name of his wife for the recovery of the property you purchased from her father.”

“He has; and what can it mean? The claims which I had against him were notes given at the gambling table, but they had been put in circulation, and I understood you, that he couldn’t dispute them in my hands. Or has he discovered that I knew for what they were given?”

“He has made a worse discovery than that.”

“What! do you really think he has the means of supporting his claim?”

“I am sure of it, unless you choose to employ my skill to baffle him. If you had entrusted the investigation of the title and the papers to me, I might have saved you from this difficulty; but you preferred a bungler, who gave you a title that expired with Parkett himself. For this want of confidence you must now either lose the property or pay me my own price for saving it.”

“You know that I never scrupled to pay you well when an emergency required your services; but what is the defect in this title?”

“By the will of Parkett’s father, which Burton has recently discovered among the old papers in the office—for it has never been recorded—and which I have seen, it appears that Parkett himself merely held the property as tenant in tail. A particular kind of deed was therefore necessary, under our laws, to convey a complete title. Your deed is in the common form, and conveyed only a life interest; and the instant Parkett died the property became vested in his daughter.”

“In his daughter! Oh, miserable blunderers! then all my schemes of vengeance recoil on my own head. But stay; you say that your skill can provide a remedy; if you can save me from the humiliation of this defeat, you _shall_ have your own price. What is your plan?”

“Among the modes of barring an entail is a deed of warranty with assets; that is, if Parkett gave you a deed warranting the title for himself and his heirs, and on his death left to his daughter other property equal in value to that which he sold you, then her claim cannot be sustained, but your title is good.”

“This is excellent consolation! He gave me a deed of warranty, it is true, but you know that he left his daughter and her husband only the privilege of paying some thousands of dollars which Burton had borrowed for him a few months before.”

“I know all that; and if he had left them the necessary property you would not need my services to enable you to baffle them.” Then taking up a pen, and writing a few lines, Witherman continued: “There, sign that, and I pledge myself to make your title good.”

“When I promised that you should have your own price,” said Lander, “I did not expect such a demand as this; but I will stand to what I have said, and see that you keep your pledge;” and he signed a note for an exorbitant sum.

* * * * *

The day of trial at length came; and Burton repaired to the Court with the confidence of a man who knows that his cause is good, and his evidence conclusive. The _law_ was well settled, and the _fact_, a matter of record. His cause was, therefore, quickly and triumphantly made out, by simply reading the will in evidence. Nothing could be more satisfactory: the court, the jury, the by-standers, all saw at a glance that the question was settled; and nothing was now wanting but the formality of a verdict.

“Gentlemen,” said the judge to Lander’s counsel, “I suppose it is hardly necessary to pursue this matter any further.”

“I beg your honor’s pardon,” said one of the leading members of the bar, whose services Witherman had secured, and who acted under his instructions, and in perfect good faith; “our defense shall be brief, but I hope decisive.”

He then proceeded, to Burton’s utter amazement, to declare that he was prepared to prove, that Mr. Parkett, on his daughter’s marriage, had settled property on her far exceeding in value that which was now in controversy. That the settlement had been drawn by a member of the bar, now dead, and was recently found among his papers, duly signed, sealed and witnessed; that Mr. Parkett had been reputed a man of wealth, and yet, to the surprise of every body, died poor. Here, then, was the explanation of this great wonder. He and the present plaintiff alone knew that the property now in controversy was entailed. He might, therefore, sell it for its full value, and yet, on his death, it would pass by descent to his daughter. It was necessary, however, that he should leave no property behind him; for if his daughter should receive _other_ property of equal value from him, it would bar her claim to this. His other property was, therefore, clandestinely conveyed to her, and he died apparently without possessing any.

Fully believing this statement, as he did, the learned counsel followed it up with a stream of burning invective. Turning upon Burton, he scourged him with a whip of scorpions. He represented him as the contriver and adviser of the infamous project, and the recipient of all the benefits, if it should be successfully accomplished. Being perfectly honest and sincere, he believed that in covering Burton with infamy, he was only vindicating the honor of his profession. The evidence which Witherman had put into his hands was then produced. The hand-writings of Parkett and of the subscribing witness, were satisfactorily proved by several unexceptionable witnesses, who, as is usual in such cases, were as positive as if they had seen the names written. The manner in which the paper had been found, and many other circumstances, so strongly corroborated this view of the subject, that the opinions of all present were soon reversed; and Burton, whom they had lately considered a wronged and persecuted man, now stood before them a sordid villain, baffled and unmasked. The judge indulged in some sharp reflections on the iniquity of the plaintiff’s claim, and the jury promptly and indignantly rejected it. Witherman had kept his promise, and Lander was again triumphant.

Burton was almost stupefied by this new and unexpected blow, and sat for some time gazing vacantly at the clerk who announced the verdict; then, quietly leaving the court house, and avoiding all observation, with a heavy heart and a gloomy brow he hastened homewards. His wife had been impatiently awaiting his arrival, and hastened to receive him and congratulate him on his victory—for she never had dreamed of any other result. But a single glance of his eye was enough to fill her heart with dismay, and cause her to turn from him in tears. She read there the emotions of a soul in torture, and knew that his strong mind and regulated passions could not be _thus_ moved by any thing else than what he deemed a signal calamity. Burton silently threw himself into a chair, and struggled hard to recover his usual serenity of mind and countenance. But all in vain. The anguish of his spirit was insupportable. At length he groaned out,

“Lucy, I am a ruined man.”

“Alas! Sydney, why do you speak thus? Why do you look thus? If your hopes of wealth are defeated, surely there are other sources of happiness left to us, far more precious than this. Have we not been happy in this little cottage? and if we lose it, we shall be happy in one that is humbler still. If they have robbed us of our property, they cannot at least deprive us of our good name. Whilst you continue to be loved and respected by the whole community you are more than rich. Your talents and known integrity will soon bring you riches and honors. Oh,” continued she, unconscious that her words went like poisoned arrows to his heart, “if you could have heard the language of praise that has so often made my heart beat high with pride, you would feel that a reputation for truth, honor, and a high and noble spirit, does not need the ornament of wealth to make it honorable.”

Burton covered his face with his hands, as Lucy continued her loving but torturing exhortation:

“Suppose,” said she, “that instead of a paltry loss of money, your reputation had been stained, your character blackened, your name dishonored; how trifling would then have seemed such a loss as that you have now suffered? Think, then, of what you still possess, rather than of what you have lost or failed to gain; and let us be grateful to a kind Providence for having spared you at least an unsullied reputation.”

“Ay,” said he, mechanically pursuing her train of reflection, “you are right. Reputation, reputation, reputation! all the rest is dross compared with that. I would not have exchanged the good opinion of one honest man for all the property I have been contending for; I would not have forfeited the esteem of the community in which I live, for millions of acres. Disappointment has been my portion from childhood; I have often groaned and wept in sorrow; to-day, for the first time, I have blushed and hung my head in shame. Reputation! it has been the balm of my wounded spirit; the light of my life, the star of my hope. This morning it was mine by the agreement of all the world; but where is it now?”

At this moment an officer of the court entered and handed him a slip of paper. He glanced at it for a moment, and then handed it to his wife, repeating, “Ay, where is my reputation now?” It was an order of court, directing him to appear and show cause why his name should not be stricken from the roll of attorneys for dishonorable and fraudulent conduct. Lucy had no sooner read it, than, with a sharp cry, she sunk insensible on the floor. Burton flew to her assistance, reproaching himself with want of consideration in subjecting her to so sudden a shock, and feeling a new sense of desolation come over him at the prospect of losing his dearest, best, only remaining friend. He began to fear, too, that his conduct had caused even her to conceive suspicions of his integrity; and this reflection was the bitterest drop in all the cup. She presently revived, and he hastened to assure her of his innocence. He explained to her all that had happened. The signature which had been produced in court as her father’s, was so much like it that, under other circumstances, he would himself have sworn to it without hesitation. He could not tell how it was, but he was entangled in a net from which he saw no hope of escape. Every thing was against him; the testimony of respectable witnesses, all appearances, and all opinions.

“Sydney,” said Lucy, at length smiling through her tears, “there are two great subjects on which I have often heard you discourse with more enthusiasm than on any other—the one was faith, and the other moral courage. In such moments I sometimes thought that your eye pierced through the mists of time, and realized the glories of eternal truth and justice; and I believed, (for such was your language,) that your heart would never quail before the presence of men, so long as you possessed an approving conscience. Have you forgotten these principles, or were they mere flights of imagination?”

“They were great truths; but, alas! the clouds of adversity have darkened even my moral perceptions.”

“Oh, Sydney,” she continued, “I have heard you maintain, that adversity was the chief agent in developing the human soul; that virtue was not worthy of the name, until it had been tried in the furnace of affliction; and how often have I heard you say, that the highest and truest courage, was that which calmly and firmly sustains itself against the current of popular opinion.”

“Very true! very true!” said Burton, his countenance almost relaxing into a smile.

“Why,” continued Lucy, “there have been times when I almost wished to see you under such circumstances, that I might apply your glorious pictures to yourself; that I might behold in you the hero, the philosopher, the man whose faith never wavered, though friends betrayed; whose heart never failed, though all the world opposed him. I dreamed that you were all these; and, oh! how my heart swelled with love and admiration. Nay, it was not a dream; you were, you _are_ all these, my own brave and true-hearted Sydney.”

Burton’s eye recovered its wonted fire, and, as he paced the room with a firm and energetic step, he felt his spirit return unto him.

“Sweet monitor,” he said, “you have recalled me to myself. Alas! that I should have forgotten my philosophy, the moment an opportunity occurred for putting it in practice. This is my first practical lesson. It is a stern one; but, (thanks to your cheering voice,) I am now prepared to receive it and to profit by it. Whilst all continues right here, (laying his hand upon his heart,) I am prepared for any extremity of fortune. When the sky is curtained with clouds, men say that the stars have gone out, because they can no longer see them; but, in truth, they shine on with the same calm, steady light, whether seen or unseen by mortal eyes. And so it is with virtue; though calumny may render it invisible from without, it never ceases to warm and illuminate the heart in which it dwells.”

* * * * *

When the time came for Burton to appear before the court and answer the charge of fraudulent and dishonorable conduct, he found himself wholly unable to combat the array of arguments that were brought against him. It was manifest, too, that every body looked on him as a fallen and ruined man. His former friends saluted him with cold civility; as he passed along the way closed before him; wherever he went he found himself alone. He had nothing to oppose to the charge but his own solemn declaration; and that, of course, in a case so clear, could avail him nothing. The forms proper to the occasion were gone through with as an appointed ceremony; and the judge proceeded to pronounce the sentence, which he had written out beforehand. After dwelling on the importance of the legal profession; on the necessity of unsullied integrity in those who practice it; on the infamous character of Burton’s offence, and the indisputable certainty of his guilt, he was about to pronounce sentence of expulsion from the Bar, when he was interrupted by the confusion created by some one forcing his way in great haste through the crowd. It proved to be the venerable clergyman of the village, who begged that the judge, before proceeding further, would allow him to say a few words.

“I come,” said he, “from the death-bed of a member of this bar, Mr. Witherman, and I bring to your honor a message of grave importance. Though fearfully tortured with the pangs of a guilty conscience, I believe that he was perfectly sane; and with his dying voice he implored me to hasten hither and assure your honor, on the word of a dying penitent, that the charge you are this morning trying against Sydney Burton is wholly false; that being skillful in the imitation of hand-writing, he had himself forged the papers which bore the name of Richard Parkett, and contrived all the other circumstances which seemed so conclusive of Burton’s guilt. He then bade me hand your honor this paper, which he said would enable you to unravel the whole conspiracy; and these were his last words. I have thus discharged my mission; and I hope its urgency will excuse my unceremonious interruption of your proceedings.”

The cause was immediately adjourned for further consideration.

* * * * *

“I have just been thinking of it, Lucy,” said Burton, one bright spring morning, as they walked together in the garden at the old homestead, “to-morrow is the anniversary of our first fishing excursion. It is an epoch in our lives worth commemorating. Let us, therefore, get up another, as much like it as possible; except, indeed, the upsetting of the canoe—which answered a very good purpose, then, but there would be no occasion for it now. With a little stretch of imagination we can easily go back some years and fancy it to be the same day and the same occasion. You are again the mistress of this beautiful home; troops of friends will again come at our bidding; nature is clad in the same green mantle; the birds sing the same songs; and the waters murmur the same tunes. A kind Providence has also turned our darkness into light. One short hour ago, and yonder mountain was robed in mist to its very base; see, now, how it sparkles in the sunshine! But, Lucy, why are you plucking all those beautiful flowers?” Lucy pointed in silence to a distant enclosure, which contained her father’s grave. A feeling of sadness passed like a shadow over their hearts, reminding them that life is a checkered scene of joy and sorrow. And here we shall leave them, to the indulgence of those contending emotions of regret, gratitude, and bright anticipation.

* * * * *

A REQUIEM BY THE SEA.

BY HELEN IRVING.

I hear the sea-waves dashing
And roaring on the shore
But a voice is in their chorus
That I never heard before;
A voice whose sound hath power to fill
My listening soul with dread—
A voice that moans unceasingly,
A wail above my dead.

Moans of a summer midnight
Beneath a foreign sky,
When in the hush of murmuring winds,
Was heard a last, low sigh—
And a noble soul—a soul I loved,
Took flight for the starlit heaven,
And a noble form—a form I loved,
To the starlit deep was given.

Cold is the sea, but colder yet
Is the brow that its waters lave,
And the tide is still in the breast that heaves
To the rock of the restless wave:
The bloom is gone from his glowing cheek
And the love from his pleasant eye,
And none there heed on his pallid lips
_The smile that could never die_.

Oh, I pine, beloved, to hear once more
Thy cheerful loving tone,
And I pine to feel thy living heart
Throb once against mine own!
I pine for all thy brother-love,
The noble, fond and true—
And my soul is weary for the rest
That in thy heart it knew.

Ah! “nevermore and nevermore”
I hear the sea-waves moan,
And evermore, oh, evermore,
My heart repeats the tone—
And sorrow’s surges rise and fall,
And ebb to flow again,
And each returning billow sounds
Anew the wild refrain.

Oh, Thou, who wept at Bethany,
And in that anguished hour,
Drew near to heal the broken heart
With thy celestial power;
Above the moaning waves of wo
Let me not list in vain,
To hear Thy voice of love divine,
Say “He shall rise again!”

* * * * *

WOODCOCK AND WOODCOCK SHOOTING.

BY FRANK FORESTER.

The American Woodcock, _Scolopax minor_, or, as it has been subdistinguished by some naturalists, from the peculiar form of its short, rounded wing, the fourth and fifth quills of which are the longest, _Microptera Americana_, is, as the latter title indicates, exclusively confined to this hemisphere and continent. It is much smaller than its European namesake, being very rarely killed exceeding eight or nine ounces in weight, and sixteen inches in extent from tip to tip of the expanded wings; whereas the European cock averages full twelve ounces, being often found up to fifteen, and measures twenty-five or twenty-six inches.

In general appearance and color they bear a considerable affinity each to the other; the upper plumage of both being beautifully variegated, like the finest tortoise-shell, with wavy black lines on a rich brown ground, mottled in places with bright fawn color and ash-gray; but the breast and belly of the American bird are of a deep fulvous yellow, darkest on upper part and fading to a yellowish white at the vent, while its European congener has all the lower parts of a dull cream color, barred with faint dusky waved lines, like the breast feathers of some of the falcons.

It has generally been believed that the large cock of the Eastern continent is _never_ found in America; and all analogy would go to strengthen that belief, for neither of the birds range on their respective continents very far to the northward, whereas it is those species only which extend into the Arctic regions, and by no means all of them, that are common to the two hemispheres. Some circumstances have, however, come recently to my knowledge which lead me to doubt whether the large woodcock of the Eastern hemisphere does not occasionally find its way to this continent, although it is difficult to conceive how it should do so, since it must necessarily wing its way across the whole width of the Atlantic, from the shores of Ireland or the Azores, which are, so far as is ascertained, its extreme western limit.

A very good English sportsman resident in Philadelphia, who is perfectly familiar with both the species and their distinctions, assures me that during the past winter a friend brought for his inspection an undoubted English woodcock, which he had purchased in the market; it weighed twelve ounces, measured twenty-five inches from wing to wing, and had the cream-colored barred breast which I have described. The keeper of the stall at which this bird was purchased did not know where it had been killed, but averred that several birds had previously been in his possession, precisely similar to this in every respect. It is not a little remarkable that the same gentleman who saw this bird, and unhesitatingly pronounced it an European cock, was informed by a sporting friend that he had seen in Susquehanna county a cock, which he was satisfied must have measured twenty-five inches in extent, but which he unfortunately missed. There is likewise, at this time, in the city a skull and bill of a woodcock of very unusual dimensions, of which I am promised a sight, and which, from the description, I am well nigh convinced is of the European species.

It is possible that these birds may have been brought over and kept in confinement, and subsequently escaped, and so become naturalized in America; and yet it is difficult to conceive that persons should have taken the trouble of preserving so stupid and uninteresting a bird as the woodcock in a cage, unless for the purpose of transporting them from one country to another in order to the introduction of new species.

This might be done very easily with regard to some species, and with undoubted success; and it has greatly surprised me that it has never been attempted with regard to our American woodcock, which might unquestionably be naturalized in England with the greatest facility; where it would, I have no doubt, multiply extraordinarily, and become one of the most numerous and valuable species of game, as the mildness of the winters in ordinary seasons would permit the bird to remain perennially in the island, without resorting to migration in order to obtain food.

The woodcock and snipe can both be very readily domesticated, and can be easily induced to feed on bread and milk reduced to the consistency of pulp, of which they ultimately become extremely fond. This is done at first by throwing a few small red worms into the bread and milk, for which the birds bore and bill, as if it were in their natural muddy soil.

In all countries in which any species of the woodcock is found, it is a bird essentially of moderate climates, abhorring and shunning all extremes of temperature, whether of heat or of cold.

With us, it winters in the Southern States from Virginia, in parts of which, I believe, it is found at all seasons of the year, through the Carolinas, Georgia and Florida to Louisiana and Mississippi, in the almost impenetrable cane-brakes and deep morasses of which it finds a secure retreat and abundance of its favorite food, during the inclement season, which binds up every stream and boggy swamp of the Middle and New England States in icy fetters.

So soon, however, as the first indications of spring commence, in those regions of almost tropical heat, the woodcock wings its way with the unerring certainty of instinct which guides him back, as surely as the magnet points to the pole, to the very wood and the very brake of the wood in which he was hatched, and commences the duties of nidification.

I am inclined to believe that the woodcock are already paired when they come on to the northward; if not, they do so without the slightest delay, for they unquestionably begin to lay within a week or two after their arrival, sometimes even before the snow has melted from the upland. Sometimes they have been known to lay so early as February, but March and the beginning of April are their more general season. Their nest is very inartificially made of dry leaves and stalks of grass. The female lays from four to five eggs, about an inch and a half long, by an inch in diameter, of a dull clay color, marked with a few blotches of dark brown interspersed with splashes of faint purple. It is a little doubtful whether the woodcock does or does not rear a second brood of young, unless the first hatching is destroyed, as is very frequently the case, by spring floods, which are very fatal to them. In this case, they do unquestionably breed a second time, for I have myself found the young birds, skulking about like young mice in the long grass, unable to fly, and covered with short blackish down, the most uncouth and comical-looking little wretches imaginable, during early July shooting; but it is on the whole my opinion that, at least on early seasons, they generally raise two broods; and this, among others, is one cause of my very strong desire to see summer woodcock shooting entirely abolished.

Unless this is done, I am convinced beyond doubt, that before twenty years have elapsed the woodcock will be as rare an animal as a wolf between the great lakes and the Atlantic sea-board, so ruthlessly are they persecuted and hunted down by pot-hunters and poachers, for the benefit of restaurateurs and of the lazy, greedy cockneys who support them. There is, however, I fear little hope of any legislative enactment toward this highly desirable end; for too many even of those who call themselves, and who ought to be, true sportsmen, are selfish and obstinate on this point, and the name of the pot-hunters is veritably legion. Moreover, it is to be doubted whether, even if such a statute were added to our game-laws, it could be enforced; so vehemently opposed do all the rural classes, who ought to be the best friends of the game, show themselves on all occasions to any attempt toward preserving them, partly from a mistaken idea that game-laws are of feudal origin and of aristocratic tendency; and so averse are they to enforce the penalties of the law on offenders, from a servile apprehension of giving offense to their neighbors.

At present, in almost all the States of which the woodcock is a summer visitant, either by law or by prescription July is the month appropriated to the commencement of their slaughter; in New York the first is the day, in New Jersey the fifth, and in all the Middle States, with the single exception of Delaware, where it is deferred until August, some day of the same month is fixed as the termination of close time. Even in Delaware the exception is rendered nugatory, by a provision permitting every person to shoot on his own grounds, whether in or out of season, in consequence of which the birds are all killed off early in June.

It may now be set down almost as a rule, that in all the Atlantic seaboard counties, and, indeed, every where in the vicinity of the large cities and great thoroughfares, the whole of the summer hatching is killed off before the end of July, with the exception of a few scattered stragglers, which have escaped pursuit in some impenetrable brake or oozy quagmire which defies the foot of the sportsman; that few survive to moult, and that the diminished numbers, which we now find on our autumn shooting-grounds, are supplied exclusively by the northern and Canadian broods, which keep successively flying before the advancing cold of winter, and sojourning among us for a longer or a shorter period, ere they wing their way to the rice-fields of the Savannah, or the cane-brakes of the Mississippi.

If my method could be generally adopted, of letting the fifteenth day of September, after the moulting season is passed, and when the birds are beginning again to congregate on their favorite feeding-grounds, be the commencement of every sort of upland shooting, without any exception, the sport would be enormous; the birds at that season are in full vigor, in complete plumage, in the perfection of condition for the table, and are so strong on the wing, so active and so swift, that no one could for a moment imagine them to be the same with the miserable, puny, half-fledged younglings, which any bungling boy can butcher as he pleases, with the most miserable apparatus, and without almost as well as with a dog, during the dog-days of July.

The weather is, moreover, cool and pleasant, and in every way well-suited to the sport at this season; dogs have a chance to do their work handsomely and well, and the sportsman can do his work, too, as he ought to do it, like a man, walking at his proper rate, unmolested by mosquitoes, and without feeling the _salt_ perspiration streaming into his eyes, until he can hardly brook the pain.

But no such hope existing as that state legislatures, dependent, not on rational but on brute opinion, should condescend to hear or listen to common sense, on matters such as game laws, are we, or are we not, to abandon our plan, to sacrifice our knowledge and enlightened views on this subject to obstinate ignorance; or shall we not take the better part, and decide, according to Minerva’s lesson in Tennyson’s magnificent Ænone,

. . . For that right is right to follow right
Where wisdom is the scorn of consequence.

We shall resist and persist; at least I shall—I, Frank Forester, who never in my life have killed a bird out of season intentionally, and who never will—who am compelled by sham sportsmen, cockney and pot-gunners to shoot woodcock in July; who have been invited, times out and over again, to shoot cock _on men’s own ground_, and therefore within the letter of the law, in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, and Maryland, before the season; who have ever refused to take the advantages, which every one takes over me; and who still intend to persist, though not to hope, that there may be sense enough, if not integrity, among the legislatures of the free states, to prevent the destruction of all game within their several jurisdictions.

As the thing stands—and by the thing I mean the law—woodcock are to be shot on or about the first day of July; and if, dear reader, you try to shoot any where within fifty miles of New York, or twenty-five of Philadelphia, much later than the tenth of June, I am inclined to think that you will find wonderfully little sport; before the season, do not fire a shot, if you will take my advice, if poachers will violate the law, and the law will not enforce itself against poachers, abstain from becoming a poacher yourself, and do not shoot before the season fairly commences.

At this period of the year woodcock are almost invariably found in the lowlands; sometimes, as, for instance, at Salem, in New Jersey, and many other similar localities along the low and level shores of the Delaware, in the wide, open meadows, where there is not a bush or brake to be seen for miles; but more generally in low, swampy woods, particularly in maple woods, which have an undergrowth of alder; along the margin of oozy streamlets, creeping through moist meadows, among willow thickets; and in wet pastures trampled by cattle, and set here and there with little brakes, which afford them shade and shelter during the heat of the day.