He gave the musicians
instruction as to the tunes, how they were to be played, in what
succession, at what hour of the night. The melodists grouped
themselves in the middle of the street, and the Judge came out on a
little veranda under one of his doors and stood there, a great
silver-haired figure, looking down. The moonlight shone upon him.
He remained for a while motionless, wrapped loosely in what looked
like a white toga. Then with a slight gesture of the hand full of
mournful dignity he withdrew.
It was during these days that Barbee, who always watched over him
with a most reverent worship and affection, made a discovery. The
Judge was breaking; that brave life was beginning to sink and
totter toward its fall and dissolution. There were moments when
the cheerfulness, which had never failed him in the midst of trial,
failed him now when there was none; when the ancient springs of
strength ceased to run and he was discovered to be feeble.
Sometimes he no longer read his morning newspaper; he would sit for
long periods in the front door of his office, looking out into the
street and caring not who passed, not even returning salutations:
what was the use of saluting the human race impartially? Or going
into the rear office, he would reread pages and chapters of what at
different times in his life had been his favorite books: "Rabelais"
and "The Decameron" when he was young; "Don Quixote" later, and
"Faust"; "Clarissa" and "Tom Jones" now and then; and Shakespeare
always; and those poems of Burns that tell sad truths; and the
account of the man in Thackeray who went through so much that was
large and at the end of life was brought down to so much that was
low.
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