She is quiet again. Calmly and modestly, as
her soft, meaning eyes wander over the scene before her, compelled
to encounter its piercing gaze, the crystal tears leave their wet
courses on her blushing cheeks. Her feelings are too delicate, too
sensitive, to withstand the sharp and deadly poison of liberty's
framework of black laws. She sees her uncle, so kind, so fond of her
and her absent brother; her eye meets his in kindred sympathy,
imagination wings its way through recollections of the past, draws
forth its pleasures with touching sensations, and fills the cup too
full. That cup is the fountain of the soul, from which trouble draws
its draughts. She watches her uncle as he turns toward the children;
she knows they are his; she feels how much he loves them.
The attorney--the man of duty--is somewhat affected. "I have a duty to
perform," he says, looking at the court, at the witness, at the
children, at the very red-faced clerk, at the opposing counsel, and
anything within the precincts of the court-room. We see his lips
move; he hesitates, makes slight gesticulations, turns and turns a
volume of Blackstone with his hands, and mutters something we cannot
understand. The devil is doing battle with his heart-a heart bound
with the iron strings of the black law. At length, in broken
accents, we catch the following remarks, which the learned gentleman
thinks it necessary to make in order to save his gallantry:--"I am
sorry--extremely sorry, to see the witness, a lady so touchingly
sensitive, somewhat affected; but, nevertheless" (the gentleman bows
to the judge, and says the Court will understand his position!) "it
is one of those cases which the demands of the profession at times
find us engaged in.
Pages:
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354