ACT I.

SCENE I.—­A Doctor’s study.  Books and instruments scattered around.  Table in the centre, strewn with books and pamphlets. DR. MARGRAVE seated by the table, cutting the leaves of a pamphlet.

                  DR. MARGRAVE. 
  Thus, ever on and on must be our course: 
  Even as the ocean drinks a thousand streams,
  And never cries “enough!”—­the human mind
  Would drain all sources of intelligence,
  Yet ne’er is filled, and never satisfied. 
  And theory succeeds to theory
  As regular as tides that ebb and flow. 
  This treatise will disprove the last I read. 
  Shade of Hippocrates! what creeds are formed,
  What antics practiced with your “Healing Art!”
  I will not sport with fate, nor tamper thus
  With man’s credulity and nature’s strength. 
  No:  I will gently coincide with nature,
  And give her time and scope to work the cure—­
  Strengthening the patient’s heart with trust in God,
  And teaching him that genuine health depends
  On true obedience to the natural laws
  Ordained for man—­not on the doctor’s skill.

Enter DENNIS, with a card to the Doctor.

DENNIS. 
The gentleman awaits you in the hall.

      DR. MARGRAVE (reading the card). 

“Reverend Paul Godfrey”—­my old college chum! 
Is’t possible! (To DENNIS.) Bring him up, instantly.

          
                                                                            [Exit DENNIS.

I have not seen him since our hands were clasped
In Harvard Hall:—­I wonder if he’ll know me.
(Enter REV.  PAUL GODFREY.)
Ah! welcome! welcome!—­You are Godfrey still. 
The changes of—­how many years have passed
Since last we parted?

GODFREY. 
Thirty years;—­and you—­

                    MARGRAVE. 

Are altered, you would say.  I know it well. 
My hair, that then was black as midnight cloud,
Is now as white as moonbeams on the snow. 
The image that my mirror gives me back
I scarce believe my own—­so pale and worn. 
Would you have known me had we met by chance?

                    GODFREY. 

Ay, ay—­among a million—­if you spoke. 
There’s the old touch of kindness in your voice;
And then your eye from its dark thatch looks out
Like beacon-light, soul-kindled, as of yore. 
Warm hearts will hold their own, tho’ frosts of age
May lay their blighting fingers on our hair.

                    MARGRAVE. 

Thank Heaven ’tis so!—­But you are little changed,
Save the maturing touch that manhood brings
When health and strength have won the victory,
And laid their trophies on the shrine of mind!