University of Virginia Library

3. THE JURYMAN.

Peter Barker belonged to that numerous class,
who are neither better nor worse than other men.
Left an orphan in his infancy, the paths of life
were rough and lonely at the outset. He had
a violent temper and a good heart. The first was
often roused into activity, and punished with
energy kindred to its own; the last remained almost
undeveloped, for want of genial circumstances
and reciprocated affection. One softening gleam
fell upon his early path, and he loved it like the
sunshine, without comprehending the great law of
attraction that made it so very pleasant. When
he attended school in the winter months, he always
walked home with a little girl named Mary Williams.
On the play-ground he was with her,
always ready to do battle with anybody who
disobliged her. Their comrades laughed, and
called him Mary's beau; and they blushed and
felt awkward, though they had no idea what courting

meant. Things had arrived at this state of
half-revealed consciousness, he being fourteen years
old, and Mary twelve, when her friends removed
to the West, and the warm, bright influence passed
out of his life. He never rightly knew whether he
was in love with Mary; but years afterwards,
when people talked to him about marrying, he
thought of her, wondering where she was, and
whether she remembered him. When he drove
his cows home from pasture, the blackberry bushes
on the way brought up visions of his favourite
school-mate, with her clean cape-bonnet thrown
back, her glossy brown hair playing with the
winds, and her innocent face smiling upon him
with friendly greeting. “She was the best and
prettiest child I ever saw,” he often said to himself;
“I wonder whether she would be as pleasant
now.” Sometimes he thought of going to the
West and seeking her out. But he knew not
where to find her; his funds were small, and his
courage fell at the thought; “Oh, it is many years
ago since we were children together. Perhaps I
should find her married.” Gradually this one ray
of poetry faded out of his soul, and all his thoughts
fell into the common prosaic mould. His lot was
cast with rough people, who required much work,
and gave little sympathy. The image of his little
mate floated farther and farther away, and more
and more seldom her clear blue eyes smiled upon
him through the rainbow-mists of the past, or from
the air-castles of the future. In process of time,
he married, after the same fashion that a large proportion
of men do; because it was convenient to
have a wife, and there was a woman of good character
in the neighbourhood, willing to marry whoever
first offered her a respectable home. Her
character bore the stamp of harmless mediocrity.
She was industrious and patient, but ignorant, dull,
and quietly obstinate. The neighbours said she was
well suited to him, he was so rough and passionate;
and in the main he thought so himself; though her
imperturbable calmness sometimes fretted him, as a
rock chafes the lashing ocean into foam. The
child that was born to them, they both loved better
than they had ever loved; and according to their
light, they sincerely strove to do their duty. His
bodily wants were well supplied, often at the cost
of great weariness and self-sacrifice; but their own
rude training had given them few good ideas concerning
the culture of an immortal soul. The
infant did more for them, than they for him.
Angelie influences, unseen and unheard amid the
hard struggles of their outward life, became visible
and audible through the unconscious innocence of
their little one. For the second time in his life, a
vision of beauty and love gleamed across the rugged
path of that honest, laborious man. Vague impressions
of beauty he had constantly received from
the great panorama of the universe. His heart
sometimes welcomed a bright flower in the sunshine,
or a cluster of lilies on the stream; he marvelled
at the splendor of the rainbow, and sometimes
gazed reverently at the sun sinking to
rest in his rich drapery of purple and gold. But
these were glimpses of the Infinite; their beauty
did not seem to appertain to him; it did not enter
like a magic charm into the sphere of his own
existence, as did the vision of Mary Williams and
his own little Joe. The dormant tenderness there
was in him leaped up at the smile of his babe, and
every pressure of the little fingers made a dimple
in the father's heart. Like the outbursts of spring,
after a long cold winter, was this revelation of infancy
to him. When he plodded home, after a
hard day's work, it rested him body and soul to
have the little one spring into his arms for a kiss,
or come toddling along, tilting his little porringer
of milk, in eagerness to eat his supper on father's
knee.

But though this new influence seemed to have
an almost miraculous power over his nature, it
could not quite subdue the force of temperament
and habit. As the darling babe grew into boyhood,
he was sometimes cherished with injudicious
fondness, and sometimes repelled by bursts of passion,
that made him run and hide himself from the
over-indulgent father. Mr. Barker had himself
been educated under the dispensation of punishment,
rather than attraction, and he believed in
it most firmly. If his son committed a fault, he

thought of no other cure than severity. If a neighbour
did him an ill turn, he would observe, in presence
of the boy, “I will watch my chance to pay
him for it.” If the dog stole their dinner, when
they were at work in the woods, he would say,
“Run after him, Joe, and give the rascal a sound
beating.” When he saw the child fighting with
some larger lad, who had offended him, he would
praise his strength and courage, and tell him never
to put up with an insult. He was not aware that
all these things were education, and doing far
more to form his son's character than any thing he
learned at school. He did not know it, because
his thoughts had never been directed toward it.
The only moral instruction he had ever received,
had been from the minister of the parish; and he
usually preached about the hardheartedness of
Jews two thousand years ago, rather than the
errors and temptations of men and boys, who sat
before him.

Once he received an admonition from his neighbour
Goodwin, which, being novel and unexpected,
offended him, as an impertinent interference with
his rights. He was riding home with Joe, then a
lad of thirteen, when the horse took fright at a
piece of white paper, that the wind blew across the
road. Mr. Barker was previously in an ill humor,
because a sudden squall of rain had wet some fine
hay, all ready for the barn. Pursuing the system
on which he had himself been educated, he sprang

to the ground and cudgelled the poor beast unmercifully.
Mr. Goodwin, who was passing by, inquired
the cause of so much severity, and remonstrated
against it; assuring him that a horse was
never cured of bad habits by violence. He spoke
mildly, but Mr. Barker was irritated, and having
told him to mind his own business, he continued
to whip the poor frightened animal. The humane
neighbour turned away, saying, “That is a bad
lesson for your son, Mr. Barker.”

“If you say much more, I will flog you, instead
of the horse,” muttered the angry man. “It is'nt
his horse. What business is it to him?” he added,
turning to his son.

He did not reflect in what a narrow circuit he
was nailing up the sympathies of his child, by such
words as those. But when he was reseated in the
wagon, he did not feel altogether pleased with himself,
and his inward uneasiness was expended on
the horse. The poor bewildered animal, covered
with foam, and breathing short and hard, tried his
utmost to do his master's will, as far as he could
understand it. But, nervous and terrified, constantly
in expectation of the whip, he started at
every sound. If he went too fast, he was reined
in with a sudden jerk, that tore the corners of his
mouth; if he went too slow, the cruel crack of the
whip made him tear over the ground, to be again
restrained by the violent jerk.

The sun was setting, and threw a radiant glow

on every tree and little shrub, jewelled by the
recent shower. Cows grazed peacefully in verdant
hollows; birds sang; a little brook rippled cosily
by the wayside; winds played gently with the
flowers, and kissed the raindrops from their faces.
But all this loveliness passed unheeded by those
human hearts, because they had at the moment no
inward beauty to harmonize with nature. Perhaps
the familiar landscape seemed quite otherwise to
the poor horse, than it would have done, had he
travelled along those pleasant paths guided by a
wise and gentle hand.

Had Joseph continued to be little Joe, his eager
welcome and loving prattle might soon have tamed
the evil spirit in his father's soul that night. But
he was a tall lad, who had learned to double up
his fists, and tell other boys they had better let
him alone, if they knew what was good for themselves.
He still loved his father better than any
thing else in the world, but the charm and the
power of infancy were gone. He reflected back the
vexed spirit, like a too faithful mirror. He was no
longer a transparent, unconscious medium for the
influence of angels.

Indeed, paternal affection gradually became a
hardening, rather than a softening influence. Ambition
for his son increased the love of accumulation;
and the gratification of this propensity narrowed
his sympathies more and more. Joseph had
within him the unexpanded germs of some noble

qualities; but he inherited his father's passionate
temperament with his mother's obstinacy; and the
education of such circumstances as I have described
turned his energies and feelings into wrong channels.
The remark, “It is'nt his horse; what business
is it to him?” heard in his boyhood, expressed
the views and habits of his later years. But his
mental growth, such as it was, pleased his father,
who often said exultingly, “There is no danger of
Joe. He knows how to fight his own way through
the world.”

Such was their mutual product of character,
when Mr. Barker was summoned to a jury, in a
case involving life or death. He was vexed to be
called away from his employments, and had never
reflected at all upon the fearful responsibility of a
juryman. James Lloyd, the prisoner, was a very
young man, and his open, honest countenance gave
no indication of capacity for crime; but he was accused
of murder, and circumstantial evidence was
strong against him. It was proved that a previous
quarrel had existed between him and the murdered
man; and that they had been seen to take the same
road, the prisoner in a state of intoxication, the
night the violent deed was committed. Most people
thought there was no doubt of his guilt; others
deemed the case by no means certain. Two of the
jury were reluctant to convict him, and wished to
find the evidence insufficient; the penalty was so
dreadful, and their feelings were so much touched

by the settled misery of his youthful countenance.
Others talked sternly of justice, and urged that the
Scripture demanded blood for blood. Of this number
was Peter Barker. From the beginning, he
was against the prisoner. The lawyer who pleaded
for him had once been employed in a law-suit
against Mr. Barker, and had gained the cause for
his client. The juryman cherished a grudge against
him for his sarcastic eloquence on that occasion.
Moreover, it so happened that neighbour Goodwin,
who years ago had reproved his severity to the
horse, took compassionate interest in the accused.
He often consulted with his lawyer, and seemed to
watch the countenances of the jury anxiously. It
was a busy season of the year, and the jury were
impatient to be at their workshops and farms. Mr.
Barker would not have admitted it, even to himself,
but all these circumstances helped to increase
his hardness against the prisoner. By such inconceivably
slight motives is the conduct of men often
swayed on the most important occasions.

“If the poor young fellow really did commit the
act,” said one of the jury, “it seems likely that he
did it in a state of intoxication. I was once drunk
myself; and they told me afterward that I had quarrelled
with a man, and knocked him down a high
flight of steps; but I had no recollection of it. If
I had killed him, and they had hung me for it, what
an awful thing it would have been for my poor
father and mother. It taught me a good lesson,

for I was never again intoxicated. Perhaps this
poor youth might profit by his dreadful experience,
if a chance were allowed him. He is so young!
and there is nothing bad in his countenance.”

“As for his womanly face,” replied Mr. Barker,
“there is no trusting to that. The worst villains
are not always the worst-looking. As for his being
intoxicated, there is no telling whether it is true or
not. That cunning lawyer may have made up the
story, for the sake of exciting compassion; and the
witnesses may be more than willing enough to believe
every thing strange in the prisoner's conduct
was the result of intoxication. Moreover, it won't
do to admit that plea in extenuation; for then, don't
you see, a man who wants to kill his enemy has
only to get drunk in the first place? If anybody
killed my Joe, drunk or not drunk, I should want
him to swing for it.”

By such remarks, urged in his vehement way,
he swayed minds more timid and lenient than his
own, without being fully aware of what he was doing.
He was foreman of the jury; and when the
awful moment arrived on which depended the life
of a fellow being, he pronounced the word “Guilty,”
in a strong, firm voice. The next instant his
eye fell on the prisoner, standing there so pale, and
still, looking at him with such fixed despair. There
was something in the face that moved him strongly.
He turned quickly away, but the vision was, before
him; always, and everywhere before him. “This

is weakness,” he said to himself. “I have merely
done my duty. The law required it. I have done
my duty.” But still the pale young face looked at
him; always, and everywhere, it looked at him.

He feared to touch a newspaper, for he wished
not to know when the day of execution would arrive.
But officious neighbours, ignorant of his state
of mind, were eager to talk upon the subject; and
when drawn into such discourse, he strove to fortify
his own feelings by dwelling on all the worst
circumstances of the case. Notwithstanding all his
efforts, the night preceding the execution, he had
troubled dreams, in which that ghastly young face
was always conspicuous. When he woke, he saw
it in the air. It walked beside him as he ploughed
the fields, it stood before him on the threshold of his
own door. All that the merciful juryman had suggested
came before him with painful distinctness.
Could there be a doubt that the condemned had
really committed murder? Was he intoxicated?
Might he have happened to be intoxicated for the
first time in his life? And he so young! But he
drove these thoughts away; saying ever to himself,
“The law required it. I merely did my duty.”
Still every thing looked gloomy to him. The evening
clouds seemed like funeral palls, and a pale
despairing face gazed at him forever.

For the first time in his manhood, he craved a
companion in the darkness. Neighbours came in,
and described the execution; and while they talked,

the agitated juryman beat the fire-brands into a
thousand pieces, and spoke never a word. They
told how the youth had written a long letter to his
mother, and had died calm and resigned. “By the
way, perhaps you knew his mother, Mr. Barker,”
said one; “they tell me she used to live in this
neighbourhood. Do you remember a girl by the
name of Mary Williams?”

The tongs dropped from Mr. Barker's hand, as
be gasped out, “Mary Williams! Was he her son?
God forgive me! Was he her son?” And the
strong man laid his head upon the table and wept.

There was silence in the room. At last, the loquacious
neighbour said, in a subdued tone, “I am
sorry I hurt your feelings. I didn't know she was
a friend of yours.”

The troubled juryman rose hastily, walked to the
window, looked out at the stars, and, clearing his
choked voice, said, “It is many years since I knew
her. But she was a good-tempered, pretty girl;
and it seems but yesterday that we used to go together
to pick our baskets full of berries. And so
she was his mother? I remember now there was
something in his eye that seemed familiar to me.”

Perhaps the mention of Mary's beauty, or the
melting mood, so unusual with her husband, might
have excited a vague feeling of jealousy in Mrs. Barker.
Whatever might have been the motive, she
said, in her demure way, without raising her eyes
from her knitting, “Well, it was natural enough

to suppose the young man had a mother; and other
mothers are likely to have hearts that can feel, as
well as this Mary Williams.”

He only answered by shaking his head slowly,
and repeating, as if to himself, “Poor Mary! and
so he was her son.”

Joseph came in, and the details of the dreadful
scene were repeated and dwelt upon, as human beings
are prone to dwell on all that excites strong
emotion. To him the name of Mary Williams conjured
up no smiling visions of juvenile love; and
he strove to fortify his father's relenting feelings,
by placing in a strong light all the arguments in
favour of the prisoner's guilt. The juryman was
glad to be thus fortified, and replied in a firm, reassured
voice, “At all events, I did my duty.”
Yet, for months after, the pale young face looked
at him despairingly from the evening air, and came
between him and the sunshine. But time, which
softens all things, drifted the dreary spectre into dim
distance; and Mr. Barker's faculties were again
completely absorbed in making money for his son.

Joseph was called a fine, promising young man;
but his conduct was not altogether satisfactory to
his parents. He was fond of dress and company,
and his impetuous temperament not unfrequently
involved him in quarrels. On two or three of these
occasions, they feared he had been a little excited
by drink. But he was, in reality, a good-hearted
fellow, and, like his rough father, had undeveloped

germs of deep tenderness within him. His father's
life was bound up within his; his mother loved
him with all the energy of which her sluggish nature
was capable; and notwithstanding the inequalities
of his violent and capricious temper, the neighbours
loved him also.

What, then, was their consternation, when it was
rumoured that on his twenty-fourth birth-day he
had been arrested for murder! And, alas! it was too
true that his passions had thus far over-mastered
his reason. He wished to please a young girl in
the vicinity; and she treated him coolly, because
a rival had informed her that he was seen intoxicated,
and in that state had spoken over-boldly of
being sure of her love. He drank again, to drown
his vexation; and while the excitement of the
draught was on him, he met the man who informed
against him. His exulting rival was injudicious
enough to exclaim, “Ho! here you are, drunk
again! What a promising fellow for a husband!”
Unfortunately, an axe was at hand, and, in the
double fury of drink and rage, he struck with it
again and again. One hour after, he would have
given all he ever hoped to possess, nay, he would
gladly have died, could he have restored the life
he had so wantonly destroyed.

Thus, Mr. Barker was again brought into a court
of justice on an affair of life and death. How differently
all questions connected with the subject
presented themselves now! As he sat beside that

darling son, the pride of his life, his only hope on
earth, oh, how he longed for words of fire, to plead
that his young existence might be spared for repentance
and amendment! How well he remembered
the juryman's plea for youth and intoxication! and
with what an agony of self-reproach he recalled his
own hard answer! With intense anxiety he watched
the countenance of the jury for some gleams of
compassion; but ever and anon, a pale young face
loomed up between him and them, and gazed at
him with fixed despair. The vision of other years
returned to haunt him; and Joseph, his best beloved,
his only one, stood beside it, pale and handcuffed,
as he had been. The voice that pronounced
his son guilty sounded like an awful echo of his
own; and he seemed to hear Mary Williams whisper,
“And my son also was very young.”

That vigorous off-shoot from his own existence,
so full of life and feeling, and, alas, of passion,
which misguides us all—he must die! No earthly
power can save him. May the All Merciful
sustain that poor father, as he watches the heavy
slumber of his only son in that dark prison; and
while he clasps the cold hand, remembers so well
the dimpled fingers he used to hold in his, when
little Joe sat upon his knee, and prattled childish
love.

And the All Merciful was with him, and
sent influences to sustain him through that terrible
agony. It did not break his heart; it melted

and subdued him. The congealed sympathies of
his nature flowed under this ordeal of fire; and,
for the first time, he had a realizing sense that every
human being is, or has been, somebody's little Joe.

“How kind you are to me!” said the prisoner,
in answer to his soothing words and affectionate
attentions.

He replied meekly, “Would I had always been
so!” Then turning his face away, and earnestly
pressing Joseph's hand, he said, in an agitated
voice, “Tell me truly, my son, does it ever occur
to you, that I may have been to blame for this
great misfortune that has befallen you?”

“You, dear father!” he exclaimed, “I do not
understand what you mean.”

Still keeping his face turned away, and speaking
with effort, Mr. Barker said, “Do you remember
once, when I was beating my horse cruelly, (you
were a boy of twelve then) neighbour Goodwin remarked
to me, that I was giving a bad lesson to
my son? I was angry with him at the time; and
perhaps that resentment helped to make me hard
toward a poor young fellow who is dead and gone;
but his words keep ringing in my ears now. May
God, in his mercy, forgive me, if I have ever done
or said any thing to lead you into this great sin!
Tell me, Joseph, do you ever think it might have
happened otherwise, if you had had a less violent
father?”

“My poor father!” exclaimed the prisoner, pressing

his hand convulsively, “it almost breaks my
heart to hear you thus humble yourself before me,
who so little deserve it at your hands. Only forgive
me my violent outbreaks, dear father! for in
the midst of them all, I always loved you. You
have always sought to do me good, and would
rather have died, than have led me into any harm.
But since I have been here in prison, I have
thought of many things, that never occurred to me
before. The world and all things in it are placed
before me in a different light. It seems to me men
are all wrong in their habits and teachings. I see
now that retaliation and hatred are murder. I
have read often, of late, the exhortation of Jesus
to forgive our brother his offences, not only seven
times, but seventy times seven; and I feel that
thus it ought to be with human beings in all their
relations with each other. What I have done
cannot be undone; but if it will be any satisfaction
to you, rest assured that I did not intend to kill
him. I was wretched, and I was fool enough to
drink; and then I knew not what I did. Violent
as my temper has been, I never conceived the
thought of taking his life.”

“I know it, my son; I know it,” he said; “and
that reflection consoles me in some degree. While
I have a loaf of bread, I will share it with the
mother and sister of him you —” he hesitated,
shuddered, and added in a low deep tone—“you
murdered.”

“I was going to ask that of you,” replied the
prisoner; “and one thing more, dear father; try
to bear up bravely under this terrible blow, for the
sake of my poor patient mother.”

“I will, I will,” he answered; “and now my dear
misguided boy, say you forgive your poor father
for the teachings of his violent words and actions.
I did not foresee the consequences, my child. I
did it in my ignorance. But it was wrong, wrong,
all wrong.”

The young man threw himself on his father's
bosom, and they had no other utterance but tears.

After his only strong link to life was broken by
the violent arm of the law, Mr. Barker was a
changed man; silent, and melancholy, patient,
gentle, and forgiving to all. He never complained
of the great sorrow that wasted away his life; but
the neighbours saw how thin and sad he looked,
and the roughest natures felt compassion for him.

Every year, she who had been Mary Williams
received a hundred dollar note. He never whispered
to any mortal that it was sent by the juryman
who helped to condemn her son to death; but
when he died, a legacy of a thousand dollars to her
showed that he never forgot the pale despairing
face, that for years had haunted his dreams.