BRAIN WORK AND HAND WORK.

———

BY CHARLES STREET.

———

Ina garret cold and drearySat 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 againTo its cageless liberty⁠—And the muscles and the fibres,And the flesh upon the bone,Like a mass of burning embersSelf-consumingly they shone.And I turned my vision backwardTo the scenes of other days,While the sword within the scabbardOf the mind yet feebly lays;Ere the boy, grown into manhood,Felt the cravings of his soul,Ere keen hunger shivering stoodOn his threshold cryingfool!For the midnight oil he’d wastedScanning books o’er page by page,For neglect of luxuries tastedIn this money-making age.And I saw an infant sleeping,Softly pillowed by the sideOf a widowed mother weeping,Fearing death might take its guide,And to stranger hands and coldLeave 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 solveHow 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 dollarsshall againReward thee when thy work is done.

Ina 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 backwardTo the scenes of other days,While the sword within the scabbardOf the mind yet feebly lays;Ere the boy, grown into manhood,Felt the cravings of his soul,Ere keen hunger shivering stoodOn his threshold cryingfool!For the midnight oil he’d wastedScanning books o’er page by page,For neglect of luxuries tastedIn this money-making age.

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 cryingfool!

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 sideOf a widowed mother weeping,Fearing death might take its guide,And to stranger hands and coldLeave 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.

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 solveHow to live—while live he may.

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 dollarsshall againReward thee when thy work is done.

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 dollarsshall 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.

———

Thefame 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, bytheeing 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. Whenthe 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 minutelooking 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’llbe 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 justas 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, andit 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 tocut 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 gavethatall my worship. It wassoul.

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 itssoftened imagefrom 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.

———

Cincinnati, Ohio, June 4.

Dear Kate,—Here we are, all safe and sound. Mother has arranged her furniture, and set her new house in order. Father has entered on the duties of his office, and I am fast forming a circle of elegant acquaintances. I fancy we shall be very happy in this fine city. Father and mother seem delighted with every thing; and as I brought my whole heart with me, I shall have no cause for home-sickness. Some very wise people have said that I am destitute of a heart, but I do not put any faith in such sayings; and yet a heart is no very desirable possession, if one may be allowed to judge from what one sees of its demonstrations—it invariably makes a woman a fool, and a man ridiculous. For instance, there is Harry Brown, who was moping, and sighing, and rhyming, on my account, during the last six months of my stay in our dear native city—did he not make himself supremely ridiculous? I could laugh at his folly, but for a feeling of contempt, that turns mirth to bitterness. I received yesterday a dolorous letter from aunt Alice, accusing me of having broken his heart, and rendered him miserable for life, and all that. But, dear Kate, I don’t believe in broken-hearts. There was Fred Gay, who used to “worship” me, when I was a baby of fourteen. I do not know why it was, but I felt an insuperable aversion to him. I was miserable in his company, and my very hand shrunk instinctively from his touch; yet as he visited at our house, common politeness obliged me to treat him civilly, which was all the encouragement I ever gave him. At length he found opportunity to propose. I, of course, rejected him at once; but he was resolved not to take no for his answer, hepleaded, and promised, and lamented, and wept, and said he was undone forever, and took the most solemn oath that he would never,nevermarry any other woman living. Well, I did pity him very much, but I could not say him yes; yet I wept myself sick on his account, and was verily afraid that I had done wrong. So I made a confidant of my dear mother, and she said to me, you have done right, Lucy; never marry a man whom you do not love. Still I was troubled, and felt that if he was, indeed, undone, I should never know happiness. Well, what followed? Why, in less than a year, he married that old, ugly, ill-natured, Ann Bear; and I had the consolation of knowing that such a woman had consoled him for my loss. Next came Charles Grant. I did like Charley; but after a while I heard that he said he would win me if possible, but if he could not get me, there was one he could have. So, on inquiry, I found that he had been paying very particular attentions to Miss May for a long time, and that they were said to be engaged. I told him what I had heard. He denied any affection for her, said he had given no occasion for such reports, either to her or others, and protested all manner of fine things to me. However, I did not credit his avowals, and dismissed him; and, lo! in three weeks he became the husband of Miss May. This affair also gave me much pain. Then there was Robert Austin; I did think that he would win me. I had a real regard for him, but one evening as we sat together, he playfully bade me kiss him. I refused. He insisted earnestly that I should do it. I told him seriously that I would never kiss any man except my husband. Instead of respecting this resolve, he became the more importunate. I still refused, and at length he told me, in a pet, that such stubbornness was a lovely sample of my disposition. I was hurt and offended—and so we parted. He huffed a long time; and when he thought that he had punished me sufficiently, he came and asked me, in the most smiling and affectionate manner, if I would not give him a right to that exclusive kiss. But I had seen too much of his tyrannical nature to put my neck into his yoke; so I was forced to endure his lamentations and reproaches. By this time I was brandeda coquette. Now, Kate, was not that unjust? Should I have married Fred, disliking him as I did? If I had been as weak as many such young girls are, and sacrificed myself out of pity to him, should we not both have been inevitably miserable? And what would have shielded my heart in after years from that sympathy with a congenial mind, which, under such circumstances, might have led to guilt and ruin? When I permitted the attentions of Charles Grant, I did not know that I was allowing him to wrong one to whom his faith was plighted, if not by word, by the stronger language of actions. Yet if I had become his wife, the voice of the world would have laid the blame on me, and Ellen May would have cursed me as a traitor. I did sincerely purpose to become Mrs. Robert Austin, but he gave me a specimen of his temper too soon for his own peace; for it does seem that he is still unhappy. Asfor Harry, though the censors say I coqueted with him, I declare I am innocent. I never gave him any encouragement, unless it be so to treat a visiter at your father’s house with decent civility. What can a young lady do? Must she say to every gentleman that calls on her, don’t presume to fall in love with me, for I do not know as I shall like you on further acquaintance? The world is a fool on the subject of coquetry. I am sick to death of all the ridiculous cant, and milk-and-water stories about coquettes. After all, what does it amount to? Simply that a young lady is attractive, and much admired; that she has sense enough to discriminate between good and evil, and firmness of character sufficient to enable her to reject those whom she cannot love, however worthy; and those she can love when they prove themselves unworthy. If a young lady is so destitute of all attractions, as to have no expectation of ever finding a lover, she may possibly fall into the arms of the first man who professes to love her, with a yes, and thank you, too; and she is a woman with a heart, and nocoquette. Now don’t get angry, though you did accept the first offer, that first offer was every way worthy of acceptance—and your heart felt it to be so. If such had been my fortune, I should not have been a coquette either. Aunt Alice exhorts me not to resume my old business of breaking hearts here in my new location. We shall see. I certainly will not hunt, or trap, or angle for them, neither will I immure myself like a Turkish maiden, nor put on repulsive airs to frighten them; nor will I promise to accept the first or second offer that I may receive. I have grown too old a bird to be decoyed by chaff. I shall not marry lightly, for I do not think that a single life is so much to be dreaded. On the contrary, I must receive an equivalent for the careless freedom of girlhood, and the friends from whom I must be severed, as well as a balance for the inevitable sorrows, and fears, and pains, and humiliations of woman’s lot. Now I am free, my own mistress, and many are happy to do me homage. If I become a wife, I accept a master, whom it must be my study to please. I must not only defer to all his opinions and wishes, but I must make this deference my pleasure; and for thehomageof the scores who now kneel at my feet, I must be content to receive the commendation of “well done, good and faithful servant.” Knowing all this, my husband, if I have one, must be one whom I can love and honor. Now if I am pleased with a gentleman’s exterior, I shall not attribute to him all mental excellence, and so take him on trust, but shall endeavor to become thoroughly acquainted with him. If this acquaintance shall develop qualities which I cannot approve of, I shall certainly dismiss him; and if this is coquetry why I am adeterminedcoquette. I am not seeking perfection, but I will have truth, honor, a good temper, and real love. When these offer, I shall be found weak, and like another man (woman.) I know, dear Kate, that you will laugh at all this, and shake your wise head, with your old remark—a woman’s love makes any man perfect. But now I must say good-by, and write myself

Your loving,

Lucy Lee.

Cincinnati, Sept. 9.

Kate, Dear Kate!—I almost begin to think that I really have no heart. Here is a gentleman who, to all that I require in a husband, adds a very handsome and commanding person, a high and acknowledged genius, and a large fortune; and yet, Kate, I do not love him. He attached himself to me, on our very first acquaintance, and still continues his assiduities. My father is anxious to call him son, and all my friends urge me to accept him. I have received several magnificent presents from him. I could not reject them without rejecting him; and, indeed, I would like to be his wife, if I could but love him. Aunt Alice says I am a fool; that not one woman in a hundred loves her husband before marriage. Ah, Kate, if it is so, no wonder there is so much domestic misery and conjugal infidelity in the world. I do not understand how woman can endure her lot, unsupported by love; and, certainly, it is not wonderful that man should seek elsewhere the sunshine of affectionate sympathy, which is not his at home. Kate, I am half inclined to become Mrs. Melwin, but when I think seriously about it, my very heart shudders. Oh, Kate! there is a yearning for something which I have not found, a sympathy that could draw me into its very heart, with all my feelings and failings undisguised, and fearless of reproach. To stand at the altar,fearingthat he to whom you pledge your vows will discover the perjury of your heart—for is it not perjury to promise to love one whom you feel you cannot love? And yet, perhaps, my notions of love are all romance, never to be realized. Perhaps I love Mr. Melwin as well as I can ever love any man. Perhaps I had best accept his hand. Ah, me! what shall I do? I wish I could know myself. With him I certainly should have no cause of sorrow which did not spring from my own bosom. I am almost resolved to accept him. Do advise me, my dear, wise Kate, and save me from all these distracting doubts, and the fears of self-reproach, that now torment almost to distraction.

Your poor, wavering,

Lucy Lee.

Cincinnati, Jan. —.

Kate! Kate!—I have a heart, a warm, confiding, loving heart! Strange that it has slept so long. But it is awake now. I have met one at whose feet I am willing to lay down the sceptre of my pride, for whose love I am ready to forego all my girlhood’s treasures. He loves me, and I shall be his wife. Ah! dear Kate, if you could know how I am tormented now, when my heart is so happy. Father calls me a fool, an unaccountable simpleton;mother sighs whenever her eyes rest on me, and she calls me a perverse child. My friends ridicule me; and Mr. Melwin—oh, Kate! I wish he had never seen me—I believe he takes a malicious pleasure in upbraiding me whenever he can find opportunity. I tell him honestly that I could not be his, because I could not love him. Then he asks why I coqueted with him? Coqueted! Now is not that provoking. I endured his attentions, because he was every way an excellent man, and I thought that if I could learn to love him, I should be most happy as his wife. How did I know that I could never love him until I tested my feeling by being much in his society? It does seem that the world is resolved to take from woman her only prerogative—that ofchoosingwhom she will serve. Kate, love! am I not right? Since woman, on her wedding-day,loses her identity, and is thenceforth merged—name, honor, fame, fortune, every thing in him to whom she plights herself—does it not become her to be cautious to whom she thus resigns herself. Since our only freedom is this privilege of choosing a husband, should we not be suffered to exercise it? And yet if we reject one, two, or three suitors, we are heartless, and coquettes. If there were more such coquettes in the world, there would be infinitely less misery. I am of Aunt Alice’s opinion, that most girls marry before they know any thing of love. You will see a vain child, just from boarding-school, tricked out in all the pride of fashion, and introduced to theworldat some splendid ball or party. Of course, she is flattered, and admired, and complimented—she has made a splendiddébut. Presently some gentleman pays her marked attentions. She is flattered by his preference. She has imbibed the prevalent opinion that the end of all woman’s duties and aspirations is an eligible marriage. Her admirer is an unexceptionable man. She will accept him; and then, oh, how she will queen it as a bride, at the head of a splendid establishment. Her friends encourage her, applaud her choice, and she is married. Afterward, her husband discovers with astonishment, that in place of a meek, loving woman, he has got a selfish, arrogant, proud, and petulant child to manage as he best may. But then she never was a coquette! But to return. When I asked Mr. Melwin if he could desire me to give him my hand without love, he invariably replies, if you could not love me, why did you not tell me so, before I had centered in you all my hopes, and braided you in every strand of my future life! Dear me! how could I tell him before I knew it myself? I did wish to love him, and try to love him; and if I had been a silly child of fifteen, should doubtless have laid the foundation of our future misery by becoming his—shall I say wife? But, you will ask, who and what is the man of my choice? He is Horace Glynn, a young lawyer, scarcely older than myself, and, of course, unknown to fame or worldly honor. I will not say that he is handsome, and he is not rich; but he has genius, a lofty sense of honor, and unblemished character, and a heart full of all the sweet and gentle sympathies. More than all, he loves me, just as I always longed to be beloved. I feel that my pulse can echo his; that all my feelings and opinions blend and flow in the current of his. In short, that I am ready to resign my own will, and yield him a cheerful deference, and forsaking all that my young heart has known, or loved, follow him, and minister to him until death. I am so thankful that I did not marry until I felt this sweet devotion. The world will say—“Well, Lucy Lee, like all other incorrigible coquettes, has, after rejecting half a dozen excellent offers, thrown herself away upon a poor young fellow, infinitely beneath her other suitors.” But I shall be blest with a whole heart happiness, and home will be my world. Oh, Kate! am I not happy!

Lucy Lee.

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