CRIER OF THE COURT. 
Silence!

MARGRAVE (turning to GODFREY, who is gazing
at JUDGE BOLTON). 
You seem surprised.  Has he outlived the likeness
Kept in your mind?  Seems he another man?

                    GODFREY. 

He is another man.  The soul has wrought
Its work, as ’twere, with fire, and purified
The dross of selfish passion from his aims. 
I read the victory on his open brow,
And in the deep repose of his calm eye.

MARGRAVE. 
His was a noble nature from the first.

                    GODFREY. 

He had a searching mind, a strong, warm heart,
And impulses of nobleness and truth. 
But Nature sets her favorite sons a task: 
We are not good by chance.  Bolton had pride—­
An overweening pride in his own powers. 
This pride obeys the will; and when the brain
Is mean and narrow, like a low-roofed dungeon,
And only keeps one image there confined—­
The image of self—­the heart soon yields its truth,
And makes this self its idol, aim, and end. 
Such is the Haman pride that mars the man,
And makes the wise contemn and hate him too—­
Hate and contemn the more, the more he prospers.

MARGRAVE. 
This is not Bolton’s picture?

GODFREY. 
No.  His pride,
Now his strong lion will has curbed the jackals—­
Those appetites and vanities of self
That mark the coxcomb rare wherever seen—­
Is all made up of generous sentiments,
The father’s, citizen’s, and patriot’s pride.

MARGRAVE. 
You read him like a book.

GODFREY. 
An art we learn
Of reading men when we have few books to read.

CRIER OF THE COURT. 
Silence!

Enter two OFFICERS OF THE COURT, attending the twelve JURYMEN, who take their seats.  A crowd follows. PROFESSOR OLNEY trying to press through the crowd:  young HENRY BOLTON makes room for him.

                  YOUNG BOLTON. 

Stand here, Professor Olney—­take this place;
Here you will not be crowded.  Ah! your cough
Is troublesome to-day.  Pray, take this seat;
You’ll see as well, and be much more at ease.

        PROFESSOR OLNEY (taking the seat). 
  Thank you! thank you!  This is kind, indeed. 
  I am not well to-day, but could not lose
  This chance of listening to your father’s voice. 
  His eloquence is classic in its style;
  Not brilliant with explosive coruscations
  Of heterogeneous thoughts at random caught,
  And scattered like a shower of shooting stars
  That end in darkness—­no; Judge Bolton’s mind
  Is clear, and full, and stately, and serene. 
  His earnest and undazzled eye he keeps
  Fixed on the sun of Truth, and breathes his speech
  As easy as an eagle cleaves the air,
  And never pauses till the height is won. 
  And all who listen follow where he leads.