HIS LAST COURT.

Patea Mail, Volume IX, Issue 1086, 14 September 1883, Page 2

HIS LAST COURT.

[A Prize Story from ‘ Rare Bits.’]

Old Judge Grepson, a Justice of the Peace, was never known to smile. He came to Arkansas years ago, before the “ carpel-baggers ” began their reckless sway, and year after year, by the will of the voters, he held Iris place as Magistrate. The lawyers who practised in his Court never joked with him, because everyone soon learned that the old man never engaged in levity. Every morning, no matter how bad the weather might be, the old man look his place behind the bar, which, with his own hands, he had made, and every evening just at a certain time he closed his books and went home. No one ever engaged him in private conversation, because he would talk to no one. No one ever went to his house, a little cottage among the trees in the city’s outskirts, because he had never shown a disposition to make welcome the visits of those who even lived in the immediate vicinity. His office was not given him through the influence of “ electioneering,” because he never asked any man for his vote. He was first elected because, having once been summoned in a case of arbitration, he exhibited the executive side of such a legal mind that the people nominated and elected him. He soon gained the name of the “ hard Justice,” and every lawyer in Arkansas referred to his decisions. His rulings were never reversed by the higher Courts. He showed no sentiment in decision. He stood upon the platform of a law which he made a study, and no man disputed him.

Several days ago a woman charged with misdemeanor was arraigned before him.

“ The old man seems more than ever unsteady,” remarked a lawyer as the Magistrate took his seat. “ I don’t see how a man so old can stand the vexations of a Court much longer.” “ I am not well to-day,” said the Judge, turning to the lawyers, “ and any cases that you may have you will please despatch them to the best, and let me add, quickest of your ability.” Everyone saw that the old man was unusually feeble, and no one thought of a scheme to prolong discussion, for all the lawyers had learned to reverence him. “Is this the woman ?” asked the Judge. Who is defending her ?” “ I have no defence, your Honor,” the woman replied. “In fact Ido not think that I need any, for I am hero to confess my guilt. No man can defend me,” and she looked at the Magistrate With a curious gaze. I have been arrested on a charge of disturbing the peace, and I ani willing to submit my case. I am dying of consumption, Judge, and I know that any ruling made by the law can have but little effect on me,” and she coughed a hollow, hacking cough, and drew around her an old black shawl that she wore.

The expression on the face of the Magistrate remained unchanged, but his eyelids dropped, and he did not raise them when the woman continued—

“ As I say, no man can defend me. I am too near that awful approach, to pass which wo know is everlasting death to soul and body. Years ago I was a child of brightest promise. I lived vtith my parents in Kentucky. Wayward and lighthearted, I was admired by all the gay society known in the neighborhood. A man came and professed his love for mo. . I don’t say this, Judge, to excite your sympathy. 1 have many and many a time been drawn before Courts, but I never spoke of my past life.” She coughed again and caught a flood of blood on a handkerchief which she pressed to her lips. “ I speak of it know, as I know that this is the last Court on earth before which I shall be arraigned. I was fifteen years old when I fell in love with the man. My father said he was bad, but I loved him. He came again and again ; and when my father said that

he should come no more, I ran away and married him. My father said that I should never come home again. I had always been his pride, and had loved him dearly , but he said that I must never again come to his home—my home, the home of my yonlh and happiness. How I longed to see him ; how I yearned to put my head on his breast. My husband became addicted to drink ; he abused me. I wrote to my father asking him to let mo come home, but the answer that came was * I do not know yon 1’ My husband died yes, cursed God and died I Homeless and wretched, and with my liille boy, I went out into the world My child died, and I boW'd down and wept over a pauper’s grave. I wrote to my father again, but he answered * I know not those who disobey my commandments !’ I turned away from that letter hardened. I spurned my teachings. Now I am here.”

Several lawyers rushed forward. A crimson tide flowed from her lips. They leaned her lifeless head back against the chair. The old magistrate had not raised his eyes, “ Great God,” said a lawyer, “ he is dead 1” The woman was his daughter.