The judge took the first papers. It was Dudley’s writing, and, at arm’s length, looked frightfully like poetry. He examined it closely, and found a lyric of seventeen verses, of an amorous, mystic character. The reader must not think me romancing if I give as specimens a few lines of the best. Men in love will spin out just such gossamer threads, that, floating in the merry sunlight of youth, look very beautiful. A steady member of the bar, who, I doubt not, is at this moment in his dull, grim office, pouring over musty law books, looking as if the jingle of a rhyme would be as annoying as a poor client, did, once upon a time, address volumes of verse to me, until he found that I was in a fair mood to label all as “rejected addresses,” when he suddenly took to special pleading with eminent success. To poor Dudley’s poetry. ’Tis sad, sweet May, to part with thee, More sad than words may tell; To give thy form to Memory, To breathe a last farewell; How long thy every thought and tone Of mine have been a part; And now to tread life’s path alone, Oh! well may break my heart. As dew is to the drooping flower, As night-stars to the sea, As sunlight to the summer hour, Is thy sweet voice to me. Oh! gentle May—soul of my heart— Oh! wild-bird of the wood; Thy holier nature grows my part Of all that’s pure and good. “Did you write this stuff?” asked the father, after he had, with cruel deliberation, read the seventeen verses, while Dudley stood by, his face covered with blushes. “I did, sir.” “And what do you mean by it—am I to understand that you have been secretly addressing this man’s daughter?” “Yes, sir. I love Mary Wickley, and intend to marry her.”