The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly
Magazine, June 1844, by Various

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Title: The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, June 1844
       Volume 23, Number 6

Author: Various

Editor: Lewis Gaylord Clark

Release Date: May 15, 2008 [EBook #25475]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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    T H E  K N I C K E R B O C K E R.

VOL. XXIII.      JUNE, 1844.       NO. 6.




THE PLAGUE AT CONSTANTINOPLE.

BY AN EYE-WITNESS.


In 1837 I was a resident in Galata, one of the faubourgs of Constantinople,
sufficiently near the scenes of death caused by the ravages of the plague
to be thoroughly acquainted with them, and yet to be separated from the
Turkish part of the population of that immense city. It is not material to
the present sketch to dwell upon the subject of my previous life, or the
causes which had induced me to visit the capital of the East at such a
period of mortality; and I will therefore only add, that circumstances of
a peculiarly painful nature obliged me to locate myself in Galata, where
there were none to sympathize in my feelings, or any one with whom I could
even exchange more than a word of conversation. I saw none but the widowed
owner of the house in which I had a chamber, her daughter Aleukâ, and
Petraki, her little son.

While the epidemic raged, we four endeavored to keep up a rigid
quarantine. Each recommended to the other the strictest observance of our
mutual agreement not to receive any thing from without doors, except the
necessaries of life; and whenever we left the house, which was to be as
seldom as possible, not to come in contact with any one. Whenever I went
out I invariably wore an oil-cloth cloak, and by the aid of my cane
prevented the dogs of the streets, which are there so numerous, from
rubbing against me. If I visited any one, which I seldom did, I always sat
on a bench or chair to prevent conveying or receiving contagion; and
before even entering the house, I always underwent the preparation of
being smoked in a box, which during the prevalence of the plague is placed
near its entrance for that purpose. These boxes were some eight feet high
by three square, the platform on which the feet rested elevated about a
foot above the earth, so as to admit under it a dish containing the
ingredients of the prophylactic, and a hole in the door to let the face
out during the smoking of the clothes and body. We procured our daily
supply of provisions from a _Bak-kal_, a retail grocer, whose shop was
directly under our front window; an itinerant _Ekmekjer_, or bread-man,
brought our bread to the door; our vegetables were procured from a
gardener close by, and our water we drew from a cistern under the house:
in fine, our food was either smoked or saturated before we touched it, and
every possible precaution observed to cut our little family off from the
dreadful scourge, 'the pestilence which walketh in darkness and the
destruction which wasteth at noon day.' The mother and daughter throughout
the day spun silk, knitted woolen suits, or embroidered kerchiefs for head
dresses, called in Romaic _fakiolee_, and even to a late hour of the night
they frequently continued the same employment, until the plague prevented
the sale of their handiwork, and their materials were all used up. All day
long they would sit upon the sofa of their little apartment, facing the
street, and while their hands toiled for a subsistence, the widow's
daughter hummed a plaintive air, or occasionally broke the silence by
conversing with her mother. The son was yet too young to be of assistance
to his desolate mother and sister, and except when he said his letters to
them, spent the day in idleness. As to my own employment, the dull period
of time passed with them was a blank in my existence; and yet, such is the
influence of past penury and pain, that I now recall them with pleasure.

The weather was generally very warm, and south-west breezes over the sea
of Marmora prevailed. From our highest windows we could observe sluggish
seamen lounging on the decks of their vessels in the port, afraid to land
amid the pestilence. Here and there a vessel strove against the current of
the Bosphorus to gain an anchorage; or would slowly float down that stream
into the open sea, on its way to healthier and happier Europe. The
starving dogs at nightfall would howl dismally, bewailing the loss of the
benevolent hands from which they usually received their food; the gulls
and cormorants floated languidly over our dwelling, overpowered by the
heat; and the dead silence, which in the afternoon and evenings prevailed,
made a most melancholy and affecting impression on my mind.

The plague that summer, (I may limit the period to three months,) carried
off more than fifty thousand persons. For some time the mortality amounted
to a thousand _per diem_. The number of corpses which passed the limited
range of my window daily increased; and after witnessing the spectacle for
some time, I always insensibly avoided the sight of the dead, and felt a
cold shudder run over my frame whenever the voice of the priest
accompanying the corpses struck my ear. So dreadful is the malady, so
surely contagious, and so mortal, that so soon as attacked, the
unfortunate being is deserted by relatives and friends, and when dead, two
or four porters beside a priest were generally the only persons who
attended the body to the grave. When the deceased is a Mussulman, he is
more frequently attended during his illness, and after death to his tomb,
than if a Christian. With the former, the plague is a visitation of
Providence, from which it is both useless and a sin to escape, while with
the latter not only is it deemed necessary to provide for one's own life,
but even to do so at the sacrifice of the dearest friend. Often I noticed
a dead body tied on a plank which a single porter carried on his back; at
other times the object would be concealed within a bag, and then the grave
was a ditch common to all, into which the porter would shake off his load
and return for another. No priest or Imam there presided over the funeral
scene; few or none were the prayers that were said over the remains: he
who but a short week before had been proud of his strength or condition,
or she who in the same short space of time previous excelled in beauty and
grace, there lay confounded in one neglected, unhonored, and putrefying
mass. The air became impregnated with the effluvia; the houses around the
Turkish cemeteries, which are mostly in the heart of the city, where the
dead are interred, but some three feet beneath the surface, were soon
deserted, their owners dead. The ever-green cypress trees under whose
umbrageous quiet the beautiful children once played, now moaned over their
little graves; and in fine, every one in the deserted city walked with
measured steps, apprehensive of threatening death: awe and consternation
filled the minds of all.

The Sultan's own household was not free from the scourge. By some means it
found access to his servants and carried off about fifty of them. Their
bodies were cast into the Bosphorus, and the Sultan fled to another
palace. The ministers of the Sublime Porte suffered severely in their
families; their wives and slaves died off in numbers; and even the
minister of foreign affairs is said to have taken it and narrowly escaped.
Few survived when once attacked, and the chances of recovery were scarcely
worth calculating. And yet among the Mussulmans little or no precaution
was taken; for although by a government order all the principal offices
were provided with fumigatory boxes, they were seldom used. The Mussulman
Sheiks declared that the contagion came from Heaven, and could only be
averted by Almighty power. Yet it was a well-known fact that cleanliness
of habits went far toward preserving against the disease; and frequent
change of apparel, with ordinary precautions, sufficed to preserve many
who otherwise would doubtless have taken it.

But I think the reader will be able, from the preceding sketch, to form
some idea of the nature and extent of the mortality of the plague in 1837.
While it raged, every feeling approaching to a similarity with what is
known to denote an attack, excites apprehension. A pimple, through the
medium of the imagination, is transformed into a horrid _bubo_; a cold or
a simple head-ache, however trifling, are attributed to the dreaded
malady; and even the firmest mind at such times quails under trifling
appearances. In some cases the scene of agony closes in a few hours--even
minutes; they fall down and almost immediately expire. Others linger for
twenty-four or forty-eight hours, or several days elapse before death puts
an end to their sufferings. Some again bear it in their systems for
several days, and attend to their usual occupations: at length it appears,
they fall ill and expire, or recover. Few account for their being
attacked; they do not remember having touched any one suspected or
exposed; and again, the porters, whose duty it is to convey the attacked
to the hospitals and the corpses to their graves, escape. The mother
attends upon her dying child, sacrifices every apprehension to her
affection, and yet escapes, or the child brings it to its parent, who
dies, while the innocent cause survives. No cure has yet been found for
it; and Nature must be left to take her course. Extreme heat or cold have
a favorable effect upon it; but the temperate climate of Constantinople,
with the frequent dearth of water, the dust, and other impurities, tend
greatly to its dissemination.

It was therefore during this painful period that I resided in Galata;
free, as I had hoped, from the contagion; and yet it found its way into
our little family, accompanied by all its horrors.

One morning in the latter part of the month of October, invited by the
clearness of the air and a fresh breeze which had scarcely strength
sufficient to ruffle the water of the harbor, I left my humble apartment
and ascended the steep hill of Pera. The view--from the small tuft of
graves near the Galata tower, some of which were fresh; of the surrounding
villages and the great city itself, where, although devastation had been
and still was being carried on with horror, there seemed to reign the most
perfect tranquility, resembling the calm bosom of the treacherous sea,
quiet over the lifeless bodies of its victims and the wreck of the noble
vessels which had furrowed its surface--relieved the monotony of my
existence. I gazed longingly upon the many ships lying before me at anchor
in the stream, which could in a few days bear me far away from the scenes
of death and desolation that surrounded me; or I exchanged a word with any
passing acquaintance who ventured from Pera to his counting-house in
Galata. A longer walk gave rise to too many sad reflections. Farther on
was the _Petit Champ des Morts_, a small Turkish cemetery, here and there
spotted with new-made graves, over which more than one aged female mourned
the loss of her life's companion, or perhaps it would be one of fewer
years, who wept the fatal destiny of her young husband, brother, sister,
or child.

After spending the best part of the day in walking about, I returned to
the house of my residence. As usual, I found the door fastened; I knocked,
but no one answered me. Again I knocked, and called repeatedly before my
voice was heard. At length a low moan, and then a scream, issued from
within. Petraki, the widow's son, opened the door, and with a pale and
frightened countenance told me his mother had suddenly been taken very
ill. There was no alternative. I entered her sitting-room, where in the
company of the family I had spent many quiet hours. Now how changed! The
mother lay upon the sofa, pale; and breathing with difficulty. Aleukâ, the
daughter, knelt by her side on the floor, though greatly agitated herself,
and endeavoring to calm her mother's apprehensions. Without once
reflecting on the possible consequences, I sat down on a chair beside the
sufferer, felt her pulse, and as well as I could, made inquiries after her
health. Her pulse was quick, her tongue white and thickly furred, and
extreme lassitude was shown by her dejected countenance. Uncertain as to
the nature of her disease, and unable to offer any alleviation of her
sufferings, I retired to my apartment. There I _did_ reflect on the danger
which I had incurred, and the possibility of the widow having caught the
plague.

Every hour she became worse; her sufferings were intensely painful; and to
shorten the recital of the sad scene of that night, I will only add, that
the horrid disease showed itself on her person before midnight, and at
break of day her spirit fled. Of course my mind now prepared for death. I
felt confident that I also should soon be a victim to the plague. Early in
the morning I called a passing priest and had the widow's remains conveyed
to their last abode--I knew not where. I had no place to fly to; every
door would be closed against me; and I retired to my apartment, feeling
that I was stepping into my tomb while yet alive. There I was not long
kept in suspense, for soon the plague attacked first Petraki then myself.
When giddiness, the first symptom of the plague, seized me, and I could no
longer stand, but fell despairingly on my bed, what were my feelings! But
let me not recall them _now_; the mental agony which I suffered it is
impossible to describe, and I shudder at the recollection. Aleukâ attended
upon me and her brother with all the tenderness and care and forgetfulness
of self which is so characteristic of the female character. I begged her
to leave me to die alone, to place water by my side and depart, but she
would not hear of it.

The first night after his attack Petraki expired, and on the following
morning was borne away; and I have an indistinct recollection of being
visited on the evening of the same day by the priest and porters. They
endeavored to prevail upon Aleukâ to desert me, saying that in a few hours
I would cease to exist. But she constantly refused, determined she
replied, to remain by my side until my sufferings were ended.

       *       *       *       *       *

For several days I was delirious. I remember I knew of nothing; nothing
but water passed my lips. Sores broke out over my body, and those on my
groins and arm-pits were not closed for some months. My neck however was
free, and this no doubt saved my life. On the seventh day I regained my
senses, and found myself in my apartment, the wasted figure of my guardian
angel still watching over me. I remember, on perceiving in me a favorable
change, how her countenance was lit up with joy! Oh, Friendship! how
seldom are you found with the sincerity which I then beheld in an humble
and uneducated girl! Just when I thought all my prospects in life were
blighted; when I had keenly felt the unkindness of mankind, and despaired
of ever again finding any thing in this world worth living for; when I had
already bidden it farewell, and the other world was full in view; I found
what alone can make life delightful even in poverty and
misfortune--friendship and love. Soon the violence of the disease abated,
and I was saved.

I must hastily pass over my long and painful convalescence. A month
elapsed before I could venture to go beyond doors. Aleukâ attended upon
me, and through her economy my purse yet held out. The plague had greatly
subsided; the month of December set in with uncommon severity of cold, and
checked its progress. Oh! the exquisite delight with which I left my hard
and burning bed and close apartment, the scenes of all my sufferings, for
the first time! With a prayer of thankfulness on my lips, I crossed the
threshold of the humble dwelling, and once more slowly mounted the steep
hill of Pera.

It was a bright, sunny, clear morning; the fresh, cool breeze from the
Black Sea blew over me, infusing new strength and life into my shattered
frame. The streets were again re-peopled, and business renewed. No one
recognized me in my pale, haggard and swollen countenance; and when I
presented myself at the door of a countryman in Pera, he drew back with an
exclamation of surprise, as if he had beheld a spirit.

My short story is told. I have comprised in a few words the tale of many
long days of agony and suffering, both mental and corporeal. I fast
regained my strength and vigor; the hollow furrows of my forehead and
cheeks soon gave way to the effects of a generous diet; and I once more
stood forth in health and full powers.

But you will ask, 'And where is she who watched over you during your
moments of suffering?--whom you called your guardian angel, and of whose
friendship and love you spoke in such feeling terms?' I reply, that she
sits even now at my side; her handsome and intelligent countenance reading
in my face the varied emotions to which the tracing of these lines give
rise. Devoted Aleukâ is my loving and much-loved wife.

                                                              J. P. B.




A SONG

BY JOHN WATERS.


Time was I thought that precious name
  Less meet for Court than Alley;
But now, no thrilling sound hath Fame,
  No clarion note, like SALLY!

There seems at first, within the word,
  Some cause to smile, or rally;
But once by her sweet glance preferr'd,
  Ev'n Heaven itself loves SALLY!

The world moves round when move her Eyes,
  Grace o'er each step doth dally,
The breath is lost in glad surprize;
  There is no belle, like SALLY!

Old hearts grow young, off flies the gout,
  Time stops, his Glass to rally;
I hardly know what I'm about--
  When lost in thought on SALLY!

Sometimes she's small, sometimes she's tall,
  I can't tell how, vocally;
For there's a spirit over all,
  That beams abroad from SALLY!

A spirit bright, a beam of light,
  Ah! fear not that I rally--
No man can Evil think in sight
  Of this pure-hearted SALLY!

And yet Time was, I thought the name
  For Court less fit, than Alley;
While now, no herald sound hath Fame,
  No clarion note, but SALLY!




REMINISCENCES OF A DARTMOOR PRISONER.

NUMBER THREE.


Under the circumstances related in my last number, it will readily be
inferred that sleep was out of the question. The only alternative was to
sit or lie down and meditate upon the next change which might befal us.
There was but little disposition for merriment at such a time and place;
yet there was one man, named John Young, but called by his companions 'Old
John Young,' who in despite of empty stomach and aching limbs, amused
himself and annoyed all others by singing a line of one and a verse of
another, of all the old songs he could recollect from his earliest
boyhood; dispensing his croaking melody with such untiring zeal as to keep
the most weary awake had they been inclined to sleep.

At break of day we began to try to move about, and gradually straighten
ourselves, which was something of an effort, stiffened and benumbed as we
were with remaining in our wet clothing so many hours. We had now an
opportunity of examining our habitation. It was a building of about four
hundred feet long, by seventy-five or eighty wide, three stories high, and
built of stone, with massive doors and strongly-grated windows, the floors
being of stone or cement, and perfectly fire-proof. Each floor formed one
entire room, except being divided by five rows of posts running the whole
length of the building, by which the prisoners slung their hammocks. The
prisoners were divided off in 'messes' or families of six or eight, each
occupying room sufficient to sit around one of their chests, which usually
served as a mess-table. One row or tier of these messes were ranged next
to the walls on each side, and two rows down the centre, back to back, as
it were, leaving two avenues, or thoroughfares, the whole length of the
building. The entire arrangement resembled the stalls in a stable, more
than any thing else I can compare it to.

There were seven of these prisons, all of about the same size and
construction, one of which was not occupied. The whole was enclosed in a
circular wall of about twenty feet high, and covering a space of from
eight to ten acres of ground. This was divided in three parts by a wall
similar to the outside one. The centre yard was occupied by No. 7,
allotted to the colored prisoners, and the other two yards had three
prisons in each. On the outside wall were platforms and sentry-boxes at
short distances, for the guards. About fifteen feet within that wall was a
high iron railing. In front of the main entrance was a large square, used
for drilling soldiers and other purposes, and twice a week as a market for
the country people; and on each side of this were the barracks and
hospital, and in front of these were the officers' quarters. This dépôt
was situated upon a hill, surrounded by a vast common of many miles in
extent, without a bush or tree to relieve the dreary waste; and from its
elevated position it was generally shrouded by clouds, rendering it chilly
and uncomfortable the greater part of the year.

The daily allowance of food consisted of a pound of beef, a pint of soup,
and a pound of bread to each man; that is to say, at the rate of one
hundred pounds of raw beef to an hundred men. The meat was cut up and put
into large boilers, with sufficient barley to thicken it for soup. This
was boiled until the meat would leave the bone, and the barley was well
cooked; and when ready, was served up to the different messes. By the time
each person got his beef it was almost too small to be seen, being shrunk
up by long boiling; and the bone being taken out, it was no larger than a
small-sized tea-cup. The pound of bread was not much larger: it was made
of barley, slack-baked, and very dark, though sweet. Indeed it was good
enough, what there was of it. On Fridays the fare was varied by the same
amount in fish and potatoes.

As some require more nutriment than others, the same quantity of fare did
not satisfy all the prisoners alike. I frequently saw many of them devour
their day's allowance at one meal without appeasing their hunger; and
before the next day's rations were served out, they would be almost
frantic from starvation. Some became so exhausted that they were compelled
to go to the hospital until they recovered strength. Those who possessed a
little money fared somewhat better, as they could indulge in the luxury of
bullock's liver, fried in water for the want of fat, or a hot pumgudgeon
fried in the same material. This exquisite dish is not appreciated
according to its merits. It commonly bears the undignified title of
'codfish-balls;' and is well known at the present day among our eastern
brethren, though not held in the same veneration by them as clam-chowder.
'Dartmoor pippins,' or potatoes, were also held in high estimation with
us.

Dartmoor prison was a world in miniature, with all its jealousies,
envyings and strife. How shall I describe the scenes enacted within its
walls? how portray the character of its inhabitants? If I but held the pen
of DICKENS or the pencil of MOUNT, I might hope so to bring the objects
before the mind's eye of the reader, that they would stand forth in full
relief, inducing him almost to imagine that he stood in their midst.
Though many years have rolled by since those events occurred, they still
linger in my memory like the vivid scenes of a high-wrought drama; and
often in the 'dead waste and middle of the night' do I revisit in my
dreams scenes which I should be sorry to survey when awake.

I think it one of the greatest blessings granted by an all-wise and
benevolent CREATOR, that He has bestowed upon man an intellectual and
physical capacity, which enables him to pass in comparative happiness many
a lonely hour. Many were the aërial maps and charts laid down for our
future journeyings through life, and plans formed, which were never to be
realized. And perhaps all was for the best; for we are all creatures of
circumstance. Not one in a thousand follows out his plans through life.
Half of our existence is imaginary; and wise-acres may scoff as much as
they please at what they term 'castle-building,' I believe all mankind
indulge in it more or less; and it is an innocent, harmless pastime, which
injures no one. I consider it the 'unwritten poetry,' the romance of life,
which all feel; but many, like the dumb, strive in vain to give utterance
to their thoughts.

Many of the prisoners busied themselves in making some trifling article,
which, while it afforded amusement, aided in obtaining for them a little
money, and thereby added to their comfort. Many of the most ingenious
specimens of art I ever saw were made there; some of which were models of
vessels, of various classes, from the clipper-built brig to the
line-of-battle ship; made too of beef bones, obtained from the cook. They
were built up precisely like a large vessel; human hair twisted into ropes
of suitable sizes being employed for rigging. When completed, they made a
beautiful toy. Desks, work-boxes, etc., were also made here; violins, some
of which were of excellent tone, were likewise constructed. But it would
be useless to enumerate the endless variety of queer things made at this
multifarious manufactory. Some organized a music-society, with various
instruments, and used occasionally to give concerts; others got up a
theatre, screening it off with bed covering. I recollect some pretty good
performances among them. In short, all were employed in some way, to
divert their minds from the contemplation of their miserable condition.
Some would read while others listened; some practice fencing; some sing,
some dance. Others would relate their adventures, many of which savored
rather too strongly of the marvellous to be readily believed, while others
partook in an equal degree of the ludicrous. One of these latter was
related by 'Old John Young'--a tale of his early courtship. In his
youthful days he lived somewhere in Pennsylvania, where also resided an
old farmer, with his wife and two daughters, one of whom, contrary to the
old gentleman's wishes, he used to visit. One night while there, unknown
to the old people, they having retired, a huge pot of mush was left
boiling over the fire, getting ready for the next day. Late in the evening
the old gentleman called out for the girls to go to bed; and as they did
not retire in time to suit him, he began to stir round, to see why his
orders were not obeyed. Young, hearing him coming, took off his shoes to
prevent a noise, and glided silently up a ladder into the loft above. The
old farmer, having sent the girls to bed, lifted off the boiling pot,
which by accident he placed at the foot of the ladder; then putting out
the light, and covering the fire, he retired again to bed. When all was
still and quiet, Young, with shoes in hand, stole down the ladder, and
landed in the pot! Although badly burned, he escaped in some degree by
having his stockings on. He left his tracks on the floor, but got out of
the house unobserved. He had 'put his foot in it' in good earnest; and
mounting his horse, he bade a final adieu to the old farmer and his
family.

Winter was now pretty well advanced, and many suffered for the want of
clothing. After considerable delay, however, a small portion was sparingly
dealt out, but was accepted by those only who stood in the utmost need.
The cause was, that the agent or contractor, having a quantity of garments
on hand, over what had been a sufficient supply for some English convicts,
who had been confined here at some former period, they were now offered to
us, but were rejected by all who could do without them. Those who did
receive them, cut a curious figure! I can almost imagine one standing
before me now, dressed in a jacket and trowsers of bright yellow cloth;
and as they were served out indiscriminately, the consequence was, that
large stalwart men were crammed into trowsers which looked more like
breeches, and jackets with sleeves terminating at the elbows; and small
men with jackets, the sleeves of which dangled far below the hands, and an
extra length of pantaloons turned up to the knees; the whole figure
surmounted by a knit-woollen cap, resembling an inverted wash-basin;
coarse brogans completed the costume. Just pause a moment, reader, and
contemplate the figure!

What with starving and freezing, many became ill, and had to be removed to
the hospital. This was what all dreaded; and the consequence was, they
were so far gone before they went, that they survived but a short time
after getting there, although it was understood that the physician was a
skilful and humane man, and did all in his power to alleviate their
distress. I was taken very ill with the dysentery. I know of no disease
which brings a man down more rapidly. Two or three days weakened me so
much that I could scarcely move; and with it came a despondency of mind
that was almost insupportable. I had been for years a wayfarer in strange
lands, but never, during the whole time, did I so forcibly feel the want
of a home, and the solace and care of friends, as now. How did I long to
be once more under my father's roof, with an affectionate mother and kind
sister! I had a sad forboding that I should soon be numbered among the
multitude whose spirits had ascended from their prison-house, and whose
bodies were deposited outside the walls, in the ground assigned for that
purpose.

The small-pox had also appeared in our midst, spreading havoc on all
sides; and despair seemed to rule triumphant. Of those who left for the
hospital, but few returned to their comrades. Among those taken ill, was a
young man who had been brought up on a farm. Like many others, he had left
home to 'go a-privateering,' and was taken prisoner. He never saw home
again. He messed just opposite to me, and was I think one of the most
exquisite amateur performers on the violin that I ever heard. For hours
have I listened with rapture to his delightful music. He was absent a day,
and his instrument was silent. The next day I enquired for him; he had
been taken suddenly ill, was removed to the hospital, and the second
evening brought me tidings of his death. There was another one, who had
been for weeks sullen and gloomy. Despair seemed to have thrown its pall
over him. He conversed with none, but shunning his companions, spent the
day muttering to himself. Early one morning he was discovered in a
secluded part of the prison, cold and stiff. He had hung himself.

And was there no one to look after the spiritual or temporal welfare of
this mass of isolated beings? Was there none to soothe the troubled mind,
to cheer the drooping spirit, nor to whisper hope in the ear of the
desponding? Was there none of God's 'messengers of glad tidings' to offer
consolation to the dying, and a prayer for mercy on the departing spirit
of his suffering fellow-being? No; not one minister of the gospel, of any
denomination, did I see while I was there; nor did I hear of any having
been there, at any time; nor was there any person to see that the
prisoners had suitable beds and clothing, or that their food was
wholesome, during the many months that I was there. I was told that REUBEN
G. BEASLY, who was appointed by our government, and who received its pay
to see to American interests, had been there some months before, but had
done nothing for them; and to the letters of remonstrance written to him,
stating their wants, their insufficiency of food and clothing, etc., he
turned a deaf ear. He did not deign a reply to them; and what more could
be expected of a man who could be so base as to do what I will here state?

About three years ago I met an old ship-mate. We went to India in the same
ship. He held a midshipman's warrant in the United States' navy, and went
out on this voyage for practice in seamanship. He was made prisoner at the
same time I was. In the shiftings and changes which took place, we were
separated; and when I saw him, several years after, he stated that after
parting with me he remained in London, endeavoring in vain to get
employment on board some ship; that becoming destitute, he went to Mr.
Beasly, (_Beastly_ it should be,) to get advice and assistance, stating
who and what he was; and that, in consequence of the unsettled mode of
life in which he had been living, he had unfortunately lost his warrant;
and urged him, as an act of humanity, to point out some method whereby he
might help himself. He turned away from him with indifference, saying he
could do nothing for him. After a lapse of several days, finding no hope
of extricating himself from his embarrassed situation, as a last resource
he went once more to Mr. Beasly, and asked assistance. The reply was: 'Be
off! and if you trouble me again I will put you on board of an English
man-of-war!' This gentleman[1] is now Lieutenant Commandant in our navy.
He told me he had seen Mr. Beasly not long before, in his official
capacity as consul at Havre, but did not make himself known to him. Is it
not strange, that one who was so regardless of the duties of his office
and the feelings of humanity should hold so lucrative and responsible a
situation as the one which he enjoys to this day? There have been serious
complaints made against him, within a year or two, by several respectable
captains of vessels.

    [1] STEPHEN B. WILSON, Esq.

The number of prisoners on my arrival at the dépôt I understood to amount
to about three thousand; notwithstanding the deaths had gradually
increased, the number was kept good by detachments sent in from time to
time, many of them from English ships of war, who had been impressed into
the service; and although they had frequently asked for a discharge, they
could not get it until the European war had ended, and there was but
little farther use for them. But they obtained their dismissal, and with
it the pay and prize-money due to them at the time.

Such occasions afforded a kind of jubilee, as the money they brought was
soon put in circulation through the prisons, from whence it speedily
evaporated, being spent in provisions, vegetables, and fruits, brought
there by the country-people for sale, and for which an enormous price was
paid. Many of the men thus delivered up, had spent several years of the
prime of life in fighting the battles of a foreign nation, and were then
dismissed with the most brutal treatment. As an instance: a man by the
name of SLATER, a tall, robust man, just such an one as they like to get
hold of, in the service where he had been several years, had made frequent
but unavailing applications for a discharge. At length when the war broke
out, he made more urgent solicitations for a release. The answer was,
'Yes, you shall have it; but we will first give you something to remember
us by.' And tying him up, they gave him three dozen lashes, and sent him
to Dartmoor. Such was the reward of his services!




THE SONG OF DEATH.


  I.

  Silent and swift as the flight of Time,
  I've come from a far and shadowy clime;
  With brow serene and a cloudless eye,
  Like the star that shines in the midnight sky;
  I check the sigh, and I dry the tear;
  Mortals! why turn from my path in fear?


  II.

  The fair flower smiled on my tireless way,
  I paused to kiss it in summer's day,
  That when the storm in its strength swept by
  It might not be torn from its covert nigh;
  I bear its hues on my shining wing,
  Its fragrance and light around me cling.


  III.

  I passed the brow that had learned to wear
  The crown of sorrow--the silver hair;
  Weary and faint with the woes of life,
  The tempest-breath and fever-strife,
  The old man welcomed the gentle friend
  Who bade the storm and the conflict end.


  IV.

  I looked where the fountains of gladness start,
  On the love of the pure and trusting heart;
  On the cheek like summer roses fair,
  And the changeful light of the waving hair;
  Earth had no cloud for her joyous eye,
  But I saw the shade in the future's sky.


  V.

  I saw the depths of her spirit wrung,
  The music fled, and the harp unstrung;
  The love intense she had treasured there,
  Like fragrance shed on the desert air:
  I bore her to deathless love away;
  Oh! why do ye mourn for the young to-day?


  VI.

  I paused by the couch where the poet lay,
  Mid fancies bright on their sparing way;
  The tide of song in his heaving breast
  Flowed strong and free in its deep unrest;
  His soul was thirsting for things divine--
  I led him far to the sacred shrine.


  VII.

  The sage looked forth on the starry sky,
  With aspiring thoughts and visions high,
  He sought a gift and a lore sublime
  To raise the veil from the shores of Time,
  To pierce the clouds o'er the soul that lie;
  I bade him soar with a cherub's eye.


  VIII.

  And now, neath my folded wing I bear
  A spotless soul like the lily fair;
  The babe on its mother's bosom slept;
  Ere I bore it far, I paused and wept;
  'T was an angel strayed from its fairer home:
  Peace to the mourner!--I come! I come!

_Shelter-Island._                                       MARY GARDINER.




MARY MAY: THE NEWFOUNDLAND INDIAN.

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.


The tribe of aborigines to which MARY MAY, the heroine of our little
sketch, belonged, has been named by the Newfoundlanders, 'Red Indians;'
for what reason, I could never learn. This tribe, or probably the
miserable remnant of it, since the English have settled the island has
been regarded as altogether remarkable and undefinable. They have never,
in a single instance, been induced to visit the white settler since
British subjects have resided there. Little is known of their numbers,
habits, or general spirit, although the most sedulous exertions have been
made to bring about an amicable understanding and a reciprocal
intercourse. They have chosen to remain isolated and insolated; keeping
their history, their wisdom, and their deeds to themselves. They will hold
no communion with others of their own race. There are the Esquimaux, very
near their northern boundary; a people disposed to extend the rites of
hospitality in peace, and a trading tribe; but these have no more
knowledge of the 'Red Indian' than the white man; and they remain wrapt up
in a historical mantle as dark as the shades of their own impenetrable
complexion.

Much, of a marvellous character, has been said about the Red Indians. The
fishermen of the island, as a mass, believe that these poor creatures are
semi-human. They will tell you of their having been seen one moment
cooking their venison, and composedly regaling themselves, and the next,
upon learning the contiguity of the white man, they would vanish from
sight, and not a trace could be found of their departure; that they
descend far under ground in winter, and lead a kind of fairy life; that
they have power to change themselves into birds and fishes, and to sustain
life for hours together under water. But all this is of course unnatural
and absurd. The Indians of Newfoundland are flesh and blood, and partake,
in common with other races of rational beings, of properties holding them
within 'delegated limits of power.' And in my opinion, they are as much
entitled to a character of consistency as the generality of tribes on our
continent. The secret of their shyness, and their unsocial and vindictive
disposition, may better be accounted for, from the probable fact that they
were inhumanly treated by the early discoverers of the island, the
Portuguese and Spaniards. These monsters without doubt butchered and made
havock of these poor natives as they did the South American Indians, and
indeed wherever their lawless adventures led them, in this new world.

Various governors have been appointed to the Newfoundland station since
Great-Britain has possessed the island, and all have used more than
ordinary means to reach the Red Indians, and reconcile them to the
pale-faces, who have taken possession of the bays and harbors of their
bold and rugged coast. The last, of any magnitude, that was made, was
during the summer of 1830, and immediately preceding the administration of
Sir Thomas Cochran. It consisted of a regular exploring expedition,
numbering about fifty persons, a part of whom were regular soldiers, and a
part volunteer citizens, which left St. John's, the capital of the island,
with instructions to explore the interior, and traverse every portion of
it in quest of the Indians, and to bring some back with them; but to use
no cruelty, unless absolutely necessary. After traversing the internal
wilds for some ten days, the expedition discovered smoke in the distance,
and in a few hours came upon a party of Indians in their wigwams. The red
men were greatly surprised, and appeared much alarmed. But upon being
presented with some showy ornaments, accompanied by smiles, and other
friendly indications, their fears somewhat subsided, and two of them
became apparently willing to accompany the expedition into St. John's, on
learning by signs that two of the white men would remain as guarantees of
their good treatment and return. The white men left were supplied with a
large quantity of ornaments and trinkets to distribute among other Indians
whom they might find during the absence of their party, a period which was
not to be prolonged beyond a month. The good-bye was given, and the
expedition started on their return home. It had not travelled many hours
before an uncontrollable disposition seized them to go back again to the
spot of separation to see if all was well, for some declared that they had
a presentiment that there had already been foul play. Back they went, and
when they reached the spot where good wishes had just been interchanged,
the first spectacle which met their eyes was the mutilated dead bodies of
their faithful hostages! Without any consultation, or a moment's delay,
the commander of the expedition ordered the two Indians in their keeping
to be shot, and their bodies left exposed, as they had found those of
their comrades. This order was promptly executed.

Soon after Sir Thomas Cochran was appointed governor of Newfoundland, he
offered a reward of one hundred pounds for the harmless capture of a Red
Indian, the person to be brought him at the capital. This reward was
advertised in the summer of 1832; and the next spring a fisherman, at a
distant, unfrequented part of the island, saw on a pleasant afternoon a
young female Indian, laving at the edge of the water. She was alone, and
unconscious of danger, and went through the offices of the bath with
singular grace and activity. After watching her for some time, he took his
measures for her capture. He first cut off her retreat, then approached
her carefully, and at the instant of surprise, obtained possession of her
person. She made no resistance, but acted as one paralyzed by fear or
wonder. He brought her to Sir Thomas, and received his reward. It being
the month of May when she was captured, she was given the name of MARY
MAY. She was apparently about eighteen years of age; an angelic creature,
tall, with perfect symetry of proportion, agreeable features, good
complexion, and as agile and graceful as a fawn. The governor and the
officers of the garrison, and the élite of St. Johns, vied with each other
in plans and devices for her gratification. She was taken to parties, to
the theatre, to military reviews; in short, she was flattered, caressed,
and made the reigning belle. But the poor Indian showed an almost blank
indifference to the various schemes devised for her pleasure. She was not
_at home_. Every face, every habit, every object was new, and appeared
strange to her. She undoubtedly pined to go back again into the dark wilds
among her own people. Perhaps her heart, that wonderful controller of
human destiny, was in the keeping of some extolled brave: at all events,
it was not in the scenes that were passing before her; and the efforts so
generously put forth for her amusement and happiness were like the crystal
droppings upon the hard insensible stone, falling in full profusion, but
leaving no impress.

Mary was detained about a year, and was then given in charge of the
fisherman who captured her, with express directions that she should be
taken to the spot where he found her, and there be left to her own
guidance. She was richly clad and profusely decorated before she was given
her liberty, and was furnished with a large quantity of finery for
distribution among the members of her tribe. It was hoped that this
treatment, when communicated by one of their own blood, would cause a
change of feeling among the Red Indians, and that gradually a reciprocity
of confidence and intercourse would be established. But this experiment
and this hope proved futile and delusive. In 1836 I left the island of
Newfoundland, and up to that time not a glimpse of the red race had
flitted across the vision of civilization since the dark captive was
permitted again to bound over hill and dale without let or hindrance. Many
idle reports and tales were circulated about Mary May, after meeting with
her tribe; but little reliance is placed upon them, as they are for the
most part contradictory, and strongly savor of the marvellous. But I will
give the reader one, which is as well authenticated as any, and quite as
probable.

On the second day after Mary was liberated, she found a portion of her
people; and when they first saw her, they were much alarmed, judging from
her fanciful, brilliant habiliments that she was some celestial visiter.
But hearing their own language addressed to them, the parentage of the
girl, and the cause of her absence, they became gradually calm, and
curiosity took the place of fear, and this gave place to admiration, until
the lost one was fairly constituted by acclamation a goddess, and to her
surprise and grief, worshiped as such! The daughter's return had been
communicated to the father, with such exaggerations and extravagances as
pertain to the grossly superstitious; and he, instead of falling upon his
child's neck, and receiving her as the lost found, came bowing and doing
reverence and worship. Mary was bewildered, and almost wished herself back
again with the pale-faces.

But there was one link in the chain of her destiny yet to be proved; if
_that_ should be found true, she had not returned in vain. About a year
previous to her capture, on a sunny afternoon, she had strayed a mile or
two from her father's camp, invited partly by the romance of her own
nature, and partly by the novelty of new scenery, opened up by a change of
camping-ground. While hesitating concerning her return, and gracefully
leaning against a young sapling, she heard a rustling of leaves near her;
and quickly directing her eyes to the spot whence the alarm came, she saw
with terror a full-grown panther steadily and cautiously approaching her.
She had no weapon of defence, and Indian though she was, had never
participated in blood and strife. She knew that flight would be vain, for
what human being could outrun a hungry panther? She raised one
alarm-whoop, and awaited her fate. At the loud, piercing cry, the fierce
animal seemed alarmed in his turn, and paused in his progress. But after
some five minutes, he recovered his courage, and was making ready for the
fatal spring, when an arrow pierced his heart; and the next moment a
young, athletic brave sprang from the thicket, and clasped the dark damsel
to his breast. She remained an instant, passive and bewildered; the next,
she sprang from the embrace of the stranger, and with Indian dignity
thanked him for his kind and timely aid. She then turned her face toward
her father's camp, and with the fleetness of an antelope passed the
intervening space, and soon found herself safe in her changing habitation.

But notwithstanding the assumed dignity and apparent coldness with which
she addressed the young stranger, Mary in that moment of rescue was
awakened to a new and impassioned existence. The image of the stranger was
before her by day and in her dreams by night. Six or eight months passed,
when the chiefs of the tribe celebrated a great festival, to which all the
members were invited. The ceremonies were to last a week; many did not
arrive until after the first day, and the father of Mary, and his camp,
were of this number. But toward the evening of the first day of the
festivities, a tall, graceful young brave stalked into the assembly, and
with cool solicitude scanned the faces of the female visiters; and not
appearing satisfied, he folded his arms upon his breast, and leaning
against a rude post, listlessly observed the sports. But a close observer
would have seen his eye lit up with unwonted interest when any new arrival
was announced. No one knew him; his dress was peculiar; still he spoke
their language, and the old chiefs passed him by for a future examination.

On the second day of the gathering, toward noon, Mary May arrived, and
with her father, mother and sisters, entered that enclosure of merry
hearts. She hoped to see at the festival the youth who had so strongly
impressed her; and the moment she entered the rude structure, her eyes
eagerly ranged round the assembly until they rested upon the person of her
rescuer, who as eagerly returned her significant glance. During the
continuance of the feast and frolic, the lovers had many interviews; and
before it closed, their faith and vows were exchanged. They were to have
been married the month after her capture; and now, since her return and
deification, she had not learned a word about her 'brave,' and had come to
the determination if he proved false to destroy herself. Day after day
passed without the presence of the only one who could drive the dark cloud
from her mind, and it was becoming every day more dense and oppressive,
until she gave way to utter despondency, and bitterly bewailed her fate.
One afternoon, about two months after her return, while some of her
kindred were bowing before her in heathenish worship, hasty steps were
heard approaching; the next moment the young brave appeared and clasped
his lost treasure to his heart; and taking advantage of the bewilderment
of the worshippers, occasioned by his sudden appearance, the happy pair
escaped to the sea-coast, and passing over a portion of the bay, found a
secure retreat among the Mickmacs, to which tribe the young brave
belonged.

And there may they rest. I sometimes, though quite infrequently, meet with
some one from Newfoundland; and among the first questions I ask is one
touching the 'Red Indians;' and although I have not heard any thing which
went to confirm the hope that they may yet be brought to place confidence
in the white man, yet I still trust that I shall; and when this result is
brought about, or any other thing of interest shall be learned of these
strange mortals, I shall take much pleasure in communicating the
information, for the benefit of the readers of the KNICKERBOCKER.




BIRTH-DAY MEDITATIONS.


    I stand upon the wave that marks the round
    Of Life's dark-heaving and revolving years;
    Still sweeping onward from Youth's sunny ground,
    Still changed and chequered with my joys and fears,
    And colored from the past, where Thought careers,
    Shadowing the ashes in pale Memory's urn;
    Where perished buds were laid, with frequent tears,
    That on the cheek of Disappointment burn,
  As blessed hours roll on, that never may return.

    What have they seen, those changed and vanish'd years?
    Uplifted, soaring thoughts, all quelled by fate;
    Affection, mournful in its gushing tears;
    And midst the crowd that at the funeral wait,
    A widowed mother's heart made desolate
    O'er a war-honor'd Sire's low place of rest;
    These are the tales that Memory may relate:
    They have a moral for the aspiring breast,
  A lesson of Decay on earthliness impress'd.

    Yet Hope still chaunts unto the listening ear
    The witching music of her treacherous song;
    Still paints the Future eloquent and clear,
    And sees the tide of Life roll calm along,
    Where glittering phantoms rise, a luring throng;
    And voiceful Fame holds out the laurel bough:
    Where rapturous applause is loud and long,
    Frail guerdon for the heart!--which lights the brow
  With the ephemeral smile of Mind's triumphant glow.

                                                                    C.




THE HOUSEHOLDER.

BY JOHN WATERS.

    'For the kingdom of Heaven is like unto a man that is an
    householder, which went out early in the morning to hire labourers
    into his vineyard. And when he had agreed with the labourers for a
    penny a day, he sent them into his vineyard. And he went out about
    the third hour, and saw others standing in the market-place, and
    said unto them; Go ye also into the vineyard, and whatsoever is
    right I will give you; and they went their way. Again he went out
    about the sixth and ninth hour, and did likewise. And about the
    eleventh hour he went out and found others standing idle, and
    saith unto them, Why stand ye here all the day idle? They say unto
    him, Because no man hath hired us. He saith unto them. Go ye also
    into the vineyard; and whatsoever is right that shall ye
    receive.'--ST. MATTHEW: XX, 1-7.


  O thou blest Householder! the starry dawn,
  The light crepuscular, the roseate morn,
    Long since had melted into day!
  Long since the glow of Youth's THIRD hour,
  And the bird's song, and Fancy's magic power,
    Long since have, traceless, pass'd away!

  Ent'reth the sun into its zenith height!
  Ent'reth the mortal into manhood's might!
    Op'neth again the vineyard Gate
  And Labourers are call'd! but Honour's dream
  Entranc'd my soul, and made Religion seem
    As nought, Glory was man's Estate!

  The NINTH hour found me in the market place;
  Fierce passion ruled my heart, care mark'd my face;
    In vain, in vain, Thy blessed call!
  To glitter, to achieve, to lose or gain,
  Form'd every hope, or thought, delight, or pain:
    The world, the world, was still my All!

  The TENTH hour sounded in my startled ear!
  Thy gracious Spirit touched my heart with fear!
    The harvest ended with the day;
  That thought imbued my mind--'not saved? too late?'
  I left the throng; I sought the Vineyard Gate;
    'Twas shut-- Death-struck, I turn'd away!

  Low sank the Sun adown the Western Sky!
  Each cherish'd hope had prov'd its vanity!
    Now neither Earth, nor Heaven was mine.
  Rejected, sad, abandon'd, and forlorn;
  Of God it seem'd not lov'd; of Hell, the scorn!
    No hope, or human or Divine,

  Brighten'd my dark, cold, doubting, wretched mind;
  The world, a wilderness; Heaven's self, unkind!
    'Blackness of darkness' seem'd my way:
  Slow struck the ELEVENTH! Thy light around me broke!
  And deep, unto my soul, these words were spoke:
    'Why stand ye idle all the day?'

  'Enter and work through the waning hour!'--
  Lord of the Vineyard! grant Thy servant power
    To labour, love Thee, and obey.
  Let every thought, plan, word, deed, wish, be Thine!
  Thine be all honour, glory, praise divine,
    And let thy pardon close my day!




THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.

Harry Harson.


CHAPTER XXVIII.

On the day but one after Rust's death, Mr. Kornicker was very busy in his
office. His coat was off; his hat was on a chair, and in it was his
snuff-box, a black silk neckcloth, and a white handkerchief, not a little
discolored by the presence of snuff and the absence of water. In one
corner of the room lay a confused heap, consisting of bed, bedding, and
various odds and ends of wearing apparel; and from these Mr. Kornicker,
after due reflection and calculation as to the order in which to make his
choice, selected article after article. First, he spread upon the floor
his counterpane, then his blanket, then a sheet not a little akin in
appearance to his handkerchief, and then his bed: upon these he piled his
apparel, in a confused heap, and proceeded to roll the whole into a large
ball, which he secured with a piece of rope. 'Now then, the moving's
begun,' said he, opening the door and rolling the bundle into the entry.
'The premises are ready for the next tenant.'

Having brushed his knees with the palm of his hands, and then dusted his
hands by knocking them together, he put on his neckcloth, coat, and hat;
pocketed his snuff-box and handkerchief, walked into the entry, locked the
door, put the key over it, as he had always been in the habit of doing;
seated himself upon his bundle, with his back leaning against the wall;
and immediately lapsed into a fit of deep abstraction, which he
occasionally relieved by kicking his heels against the floor, shaking his
head, in a sudden and emphatic manner, or inhaling his breath rapidly and
violently, producing a sound blending the harmonious qualities of a snort
and a whistle.

'So,' said he, after indulging in one of the last mentioned performances
with so much energy as to arouse him from his abstraction, at the same
time nodding his head at Rust's office, '_his_ cake being dough, our
bargain's up; and here am I, Edward Kornicker, Esquire, attorney and
counsellor at law, a man of profound experience, severe knowledge of the
world, of great capacity in various ways, though of small means--I think I
may say of d----d small means--once more in the market; for sale to the
highest bidder. Such a valuable commodity is not met with every day. If
any gentleman,' continued he, raising his hand and looking round at an
imaginary audience, 'is extremely desirous of securing the eminent talents
of one of the most prominent young men of the day--not exactly new,' added
he, running his eye over his rusty coat, 'but wonderfully serviceable; no
cracks, nor flaws, no pieces broken off--here is an opportunity which will
not occur again. This is only a scratch on the surface,' said he, as he
thrust his finger into a small hole in his coat-sleeve; 'the article
itself is warranted to be perfectly sound, and of the best quality. How
much is bid?--how much for the promising young man aforesaid? How much?
One thousand dollars? Five hundred? Two fifty?--one?--fifty? It wont do,'
said he, in a melancholy tone; 'strike him down to me. The gentleman's
bought himself in; there being no demand for the article in this market,
he thinks of disposing of himself to some respectable widow lady with a
small family and a large purse. He may alter his mind, but that's his
present intention.'

Here Mr. Kornicker concluded his rather extraordinary soliloquy by
plunging his hands in his pockets, and dropping into a subdued whistle; in
the course of which his thoughts seemed to have taken altogether a
different channel; for it was not long before he said, as if in
continuance of some unuttered train of thought:

'Well, old fellow, I promised you to look after your girl, although you
didn't seem much struck with the offer. But I'll stick to my promise;
although, to tell the truth, I don't exactly know how to commence. But
nothing will be done by sitting on this bundle. So I'll to my work at
once.'

He rose up hastily, and was descending the stairs when he abruptly turned
back, went up to his luggage, and after eyeing it for a minute, said:

'It's a hazardous business to leave you here. You can't be distrained on,
nor levied on, because you're exempt by law. So you are safe from
landlords and creditors; the law makes you exempt from being stolen too;
but thieves consider themselves like members of parliament, out of the
reach of law. There's the rub. You might be stolen; and I very much regret
to say, that the gentleman who should lay violent hands on you would walk
off with all my goods, chattels, lands, tenements, and hereditaments; but
I've no where to take you, and as I expect to sleep in this entry, you
must take your chance. So, good bye, old acquaintance, in case you and I
should never meet again.'

Having in a very grave manner shaken one corner of the counterpane, as if
it were the hand of an old friend, he gave his head a sudden jerk, to
settle his hat in the right place, and descended the stairs.

The task which Kornicker had imposed upon himself was by no means easy;
but firm in his purpose of fulfilling his promise, he shut his eyes to all
difficulties, and commenced his pursuit.

The first place to which he went was the prison, for he hoped that the
keeper of it might know something about her, or that she might have left
her address there, in case her father wished to see her when he was
imprisoned. But he was disappointed. They could tell him nothing, except
that Rust neither asked for her, nor mentioned her, and had always refused
to see her. She had never succeeded in gaining admittance to him, except
on the night of his death, when the jailer, a fellow unfit for his office,
for he had some human feeling left, unable to resist her tears and
entreaties, had let her in unannounced, as mentioned in the last chapter.
She had left the cell abruptly, had hurried off, and had never returned.
'God help the poor child!' exclaimed the man, as he told the story. 'Such
hearts as hers were made for heaven, not for this world. I have a daughter
of her age; and even if she had robbed a church, I couldn't have treated
her as that man treated his child.'

The man looked at Kornicker, as if to observe the effect of his last
remark; but probably that gentleman viewed the robbing of a church in a
less heinous light than the jailer, for he made no comment on it, but
after a pause said:

'So that's all you know?'

The man nodded.

'Good morning to you, Sir,' said Kornicker; and he walked straight out of
the building, and had crossed several streets before he had made up his
mind what to do next. This however was soon settled, and he buttoned his
coat tightly, pulled his hat firmly on his head, drew on a pair of shabby
gloves, and performed a number of those little acts which in ancient times
were known under the head of 'girding up the loins,' preparatory to
setting out to his next point of destination, which was the girl's former
home, the place where Rust had committed the murder. It was many miles
off; and the distance which Rust, under the whip and spur of fierce
passions, had traversed without trace of fatigue, drew from his clerk many
a sigh, and many an expression of weariness.

When he got there he found the house deserted. He entered it, for there
was no one there to hinder it, but the rooms were empty and dismantled.
The house had been hired by Rust, and no sooner was he in the gripe of the
law, than creditors innumerable, who like birds of prey were biding their
time, kept in check by the unbending character of their debtor, came
flitting in from every quarter; seized and sold the furniture, and left
the house desolate. A single dark stain upon the library floor, where the
murdered man had fallen, was all that was left to tell a tale of the past.
The dust had gathered thickly on the walls, as if preparing to commence a
slumber of years; and as Kornicker went out, the rats raced through the
hall, startled at the tread of a stranger.

With a heart as heavy as his limbs, as he thought of the past life of the
girl who had once tenanted this house, and then fancied what her present
fate must be, Kornicker set out on his return. 'If it had been me,' said
he, pausing to take a last look at the lonely house, 'if it had only been
Edward Kornicker who was thus cast adrift, to kick his way through the
world with empty pockets, and without a soul to say to him God speed, or
'I'm sorry for you,' it would have been right and proper, and no one would
have any cause to grumble or find fault; but this being a girl, with no
money, and consequently with no friends, no experience, as _I_ have, it's
a very hard case--a very hard case, indeed.'

Having arrived at this conclusion, Kornicker took off his hat, wiped his
forehead, snuffed, and set out on his return.

Day after day for several weeks he prosecuted his inquiries without
success; and just when he was in despair, chance led him to success. In
the course of his rambles, he encountered a person who had been at Rust's
trial, and happened to speak about him; for now that the criminal was dead
and in his grave, when public opinion could be of no service to him, many
who had hunted him down began to view less harshly the crime which had led
to his death; and this man was one of the number. He said that, although
he deserved punishment for his previous evil deeds, yet the best and
purest act of his life had been that by which he had struck down the
destroyer of his child.

'Poor thing!' said he, 'she must have led a miserable life since her
father's death. I have met her several times since then in the street, but
that was several weeks ago; and then she was very feeble, scarcely able to
walk: perhaps she's dead now.'

Kornicker waited only long enough to ascertain that she lived in a certain
out-of-the-way part of the town, which the man designated, and thither he
directed his steps, and resumed his search; and after several days spent
in fruitless inquiries, he discovered her.

The house in which he found her was a small ruinous building, sagged and
jutting forward, as if struggling to sustain itself against time and
dilapidation. The windows were broken; the doors and shutters unhung,
except a solitary one of the latter, which creaked as it flapped to and
fro in the wind; and this was the home of Rust's child.

Kornicker ascended the ricketty stairs and paused at the door of a room,
which a slipshod woman had pointed out as that of the 'murderer's
daughter.' He knocked, but there was no reply; he knocked again, but all
was silent. Then he opened the door and looked in.

It was a small dingy room, unfurnished, with the exception of a bed on the
floor, and a single chair, on which stood a candle whose flaring light
served only to add to the gloom of the room by revealing its wretchedness.
The girl was in bed; her hair lying in tangled masses about the pillow.
Her cheeks were sunken and colorless, and her eyes deep-set and glowing,
as if all that was left of life was concentrated in them.

Kornicker hesitated for a moment, and then pushed the door open and walked
in. The girl looked listlessly up, but did not notice him; for she turned
her head away with a weary, restless motion, and did not speak. Kornicker
went to the bed, got on his knees beside it, and took her hand in his. As
he did so he observed that it was very thin and shrunken, and that the
large veins stood out like cords. It was hot as fire. 'You're very ill,'
said he, in a low tone. 'I'm afraid you're very ill.'

'I'm dying of thirst,' said the girl, pointing to an empty pitcher, which
stood on the floor. 'Give me water; the want of it is driving me mad. No
one has been near me to-day. I tried to get it myself, but could not
stand.'

Kornicker waited to hear no more, but seizing the pitcher, darted out to a
pump, and in a very few minutes came back again with it filled to the
brim. The girl's eye grew even more lustrous than before, as she saw it,
and she attempted to rise, but was unable.

'You must excuse ceremony,' said Kornicker, as he placed his arm under her
back and supported her while he held the pitcher to her lips. 'Nursing
isn't in my line.'

The girl swallowed the water greedily, and then sank back on the pillow
exhausted.

'Have you a doctor?' inquired Kornicker, placing the pitcher on the floor.

'No,' answered she feebly; 'I have no money: the last went yesterday. I'm
deserted by all now.'

'Not quite,' exclaimed Kornicker, slapping his hand earnestly on his knee,
while he experienced a choking sensation about the throat; 'not while I'm
left. I'm sorry I a'nt a woman, for your sake; but as I don't happen to
be, I hope you'll make no objections on that score; I'll look after you as
if you were my own sister.'

It was the first word of kindness that the girl had heard for a long time,
and the tears came in her eyes.

'There, there, don't cry,' said Kornicker. 'It bothers me; I don't know
what to do when women cry. But you haven't a doctor; that will never do.
Keep up your heart,' said he, rising; 'I'll return presently.' Saying
this, and without waiting for a reply, he left the room.

Arriving in the street, his first impulse was not only to feel in his
pockets, but with the utmost care to turn them inside out, and to examine
them narrowly.

'Not a copper--pockets to let!' said he, restoring them to their former
condition, after a long and unsuccessful search. 'But this girl must be
looked after; that's settled. Now then,' said he, in a very meditative
mood, 'who's able to do it and _will_?'

This seemed a question not easily answered, for he stood for more than a
minute in profound thought, in endeavoring to solve it; but apparently
making up his mind, he hurried along the street. The direction which he
took was toward the upper part of the city, and he was some time in
reaching his destination, which was no other than Harry Harson's house. He
crossed the court-yard and knocked at the door, which was opened by
Harson.

'I want a word with you,' said Kornicker, abruptly.

Harson told him to come in; led the way to his sitting-room, and pointing
to a chair, told him to be seated.

'I haven't time,' said Kornicker, shaking his head. 'Do you know me?'

'I've seen you, but I can't recollect where.'

'_Here_,' said Kornicker, 'here, in this room. I breakfasted here. I'm
Michael Rust's clerk.'

'Then you can scarcely expect a cordial reception from _me_,' said Harson,
coldly.

'I don't care what sort of a reception you give _me_,' replied Kornicker;
'you may kick me if it will be any comfort to you, provided you only do
what I ask. Michael Rust is dead, and his daughter is now dying, with
scarcely clothes to cover her, or a bed to lie in; without a cent to buy
her food or medicine; without a soul to say a single word of comfort to
her. I wouldn't have troubled you, old fellow,' continued he, with some
warmth, at the same time turning out his pockets, 'if I had a cent to give
her. The last I had I spent in getting a breakfast this morning; and
although it's the only meal I've eaten to day, damme if I would have
touched it if I had thought to have found her in such circumstances. But
since you won't help her, you may let it alone; I'm not so hard run but
that I can do something for her yet.'

Kornicker had worked himself up into such an excitement, owing to Harson's
cold reception of him, that he took it for granted his request was to be
refused; and having thus vented his feelings he turned on his heel to go,
when the old man laid his hand on his shoulder.

'Nature puts noble hearts in very rough cases,' said Harson, his eyes
glistening as he spoke. 'You're a good fellow, but rather hasty. I didn't
say I would not assist the poor girl; on the contrary, you shall see that
I will. She has no doctor?'

'No.'

'No nurse?'

'No.'

Harson rang the bell. The house-keeper answered it.

'Martha, put on your things,' said Harson; 'I want you to sit up with a
sick person to-night. Bring a basket, and lights, and cups, and every
thing that's necessary for one who has nothing. I'll return in five
minutes; you must be ready by that time. Now then, Sir, come along; you
shall see what I'll do next.'

He went into the street, and walked rapidly on, turning one or two
corners, but without going far, and at last knocked at the door of a small
house.

'A very excellent fellow lives here,' said he to Kornicker; 'he's a
doctor; and if this girl can be saved he'll do it. Hark! there he comes. I
hear his step.'

The door was opened by the doctor himself, and a few words sufficed to
explain matters to him.

'I'll be ready in a minute,' said he, darting in the room and as suddenly
returning, struggling his way into the arms of a great-coat. 'Now then,'
exclaimed he, buttoning a single button, and dashing into the street,
'which way?'

'Where does she live?' asked Harson. 'I'll go back and bring the nurse.'

Kornicker told him, and was hurrying off, when Harson touched his arm, and
leading him a few steps aside, said in a low voice: 'You seem somewhat
straitened for money, Mr. Kornicker; I wish you would accept a loan from
me.' He extended a bank-note to him.

Kornicker buttoned his pockets up very closely, not omitting a single
button, and then replied coldly: 'I ask charity for others, not for
myself.'

'Come, come,' said Harson, kindly, 'you mustn't bear malice. I did not act
well toward you at first; you must forget it; and to show that you do so,
you must take this loan from me.'

'I don't wish to borrow,' replied Kornicker.

'Well, I'm sorry for it,' said Harson, taking his hand; 'but you're not
angry?'

'No no, old fellow; it's not an easy matter to keep angry with you; you're
a trump!'

'Perhaps you'll sup with me when we return?' said the old man, earnestly.

'I'll see how the girl is,' replied Kornicker; 'good bye. We're losing
time.'

Saying this, he shook hands with Harson, and joining the doctor, they set
out at a rapid pace for the girl's abode.

They reached it without interruption, other than a short delay on the part
of the doctor, who being of a belligerent disposition, was desirous of
stopping to flog a man who had intentionally jostled him off the sidewalk.
Kornicker, however, by urging upon him the situation of the girl, had
induced him to postpone his purpose, not a little to the relief of the
offender, who in insulting him had only intended to insult an inoffensive
elderly person, who could not resent the affront.

'Can it be possible that any thing human tenants such a den as this?' said
the doctor, looking at the half-hung door of the girl's abode, and
listening to the wind as it sighed through broken window-panes and along
the entry.

'Come on, and you'll see,' replied Kornicker; and seizing him by the arm,
he led him half stumbling up the stairs, and finally paused at the girl's
room.

'Look in there, if you want to see comfort,' said he, with an irony that
seemed almost savage, from the laugh which accompanied it. 'Isn't that a
sweet death-chamber for one who all her life has had every thing that
money could buy?'

The doctor glanced in the room, then at the fierce, excited face of his
companion. 'Come, come,' said he, in a kind tone, taking Kornicker's hand;
'don't give way to these feelings. She'll be well taken care of now. Harry
Harson never does a good action by halves. Come in.'

He pushed the door open very gently, and went to the bed. The girl seemed
sleeping, for she did not move. He took the candle, and held it so that
the light fell on her face. He then placed his hand gently upon her wrist.
He kept it there for some moments, then held up the light again, and
looked at her face; after which he placed it on the floor, rose up, and
took a long survey of the room.

'It's a wretched place,' said he, speaking in a whisper. 'She must have
suffered terribly here.'

'This is the way the poor live,' said Kornicker, in a low, bitter tone;
'this is the way _she_ has lived; but we'll save her from dying so.'

The doctor looked at him, and then turned away and bit his lip:

'What are you going to do for her?' demanded Kornicker, after a pause:
'have you medicine with you?'

'She requires nothing now,' said the doctor, in a tone scarcely above a
whisper. 'She's dead!'

Kornicker hastily took the light, and bent over her. He remained thus for
a long time; and when he rose, his eyes were filled with tears.

'I'm sorry I left her,' said he, in a vain effort to speak in his usual
tones. 'It was very hard that she should die alone. I acted for the best;
but d--n it, I'm always wrong!'

He dashed his fist across his face, walked to the window and looked out.

At that moment the door opened, and Harson entered, his face somewhat
attempered in its joyous expression; and close behind followed the
house-keeper with a large basket.

'How is she?' asked he, in a subdued tone.

Kornicker made no reply, but looked resolutely out of the window, and
snuffed profusely. It would not have been manly to show that the large
tears were coursing down his cheeks. Harson threw an inquiring glance at
the doctor, who answered by a shake of the head: 'She was dead when we got
here.'

Harson went to the bed, and put back the long tresses from her face. There
was much in that face to sadden the old man's heart. Had it been that of
an old person, of one who had lived out her time, and had been gathered
in, in due season, he would have thought less of it; but it was sad indeed
to see one in the first blush of youth, scarcely more than a child,
stricken down and dying in such a place, and so desolate.

'Was there no one with her--not a soul?' inquired Harson, earnestly, as he
rose; 'not one human being, to breathe a word of comfort in her ear, or to
whisper a kind word to cheer her on her long journey?'

The doctor shook his head: 'No one.' Harson's lips quivered, but he
pressed them tightly together, and turning to Kornicker said:

'Come, my good fellow, you must struggle against your feelings; you must
not be downcast about it. She's better off than if she had lived--much
better off.'

'I'm not in the least downcast,' replied Kornicker, in a very resolute
manner; 'I don't care a straw about it. She was nothing to me; only it's a
little disagreeable to be living in this world without a soul to care for,
or a soul that cares for you; and then there was some satisfaction in
being of use to some one, and in feeling it was your duty to see that no
one imposed on her, or ill treated her; but no matter; it's all over now.
I suppose it's all right; and I feel quite cheerful, I assure you. But
you'll look to her, will you? I can be of no farther use here, and I'd
rather go.'

'I will,' said Harson.

'You won't let her be buried as a pauper, I hope?'

'No, upon my honor she shall not,' replied Harry.

'Very well--good night.'

Harson followed him down the stairs, and again endeavored to force a sum
of money upon him; but Kornicker was resolute in his refusal, nor could he
be induced to go home with Harson that evening. He said that he was not
hungry.

After several ineffectual efforts, the old man permitted him to depart,
with the internal resolution of keeping his eye on him, and of giving him
a helping hand in the world; a resolution which we may as well mention
that he carried out; so that in a few years Mr. Kornicker became a very
vivacious gentleman, of independent property, who frequented a small
ale-house in a retired corner of the city, where he snuffed prodigally,
and became a perfect oracle, and of much reputed knowledge, from the
sagacious manner in which he shook his head and winked on all subjects.


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

It was a clear, cloudless night without, and the stars twinkled and
glistened as if the sky were full of bright eyes, looking gladly down upon
the world, and taking a share in all its gayety and happiness. There was
no moon, or rather the moon was a reveller, and kept late hours, and might
be detected sneaking through the sky at about one or two in the morning,
when she should have been a-bed; and in consequence of her neglect of duty
the streets were dark, except where here and there the shop windows threw
out bright streams of light, revealing now a wrinkled brow, now a fat,
jolly face, and now a pair of bright sparkling eyes, glowing cheeks, and
lips like a rose-bud, as the throng of people flitted past them; for an
instant clear, distinct, with face, feature, and form plainly visible, and
then lost in the darkness. Some paused to look in the windows, some to
chat; and it might have been observed, that those who lingered longest in
the light, were young, and such whose faces could bear both the test of
light and scrutiny. But amid that crowd was a single man, who followed the
same course as the rest; skulking in the dark corners, darting rapidly
across the streams of light, with his head bent down and his hat slouched,
as if he desired to avoid notice. When he reached those places which were
comparatively less thronged, he paused and leaned against the iron
railings of the houses, and more than once turned and retraced his steps,
as if he had changed or mistaken his route. He was, as far as could be
judged from the sudden and uncertain glimpses afforded of his person, tall
and gaunt, with sunken eyes, long unshorn beard, and a face disfigured by
a deep gash. He had the appearance of one broken down by ill health or
suffering, and his panting breath, as he stopped, showed that he was
taxing his strength by the pace at which he went. Although he paused
often, and often turned back, yet in the end he resumed his journey, and
finally reached the upper part of the city. There he struck into a dark
cross-street. Once free from the crowd, and where few could observe him,
his smothered feelings broke out; and muttering to himself, grating his
teeth, blaspheming, now striking his clenched fists as if aiming a blow,
he darted on. He did not pause until he came to the house of no less a
person than Harry Harson. He crossed the door-yard hastily, as if he
feared his resolution might give way; opened the front door, for Harry had
no enemies, and his door was unbolted, and entered the outer room. The
door communicating with the inner room was open, so that he could see
within; and perhaps never was there a greater contrast than between the
occupants of those two rooms. In one was a man eaten up by fierce
passions, desperate and hardened, with all that is noble in the human soul
burnt out as with a hot iron; in the other sat an old man whose benevolent
features beamed with good will to all mankind. There was scarcely a
wrinkle in the broad full brow; the hair was sprinkled with gray; but what
of that? His eye was bright; his mouth teemed with good nature; and his
heart--God bless thee, old Harry Harson! what need to speak of thy heart?

The intruder had come in so noiselessly, although his motions were rapid
and bold, that Harson had not heard him, but sat reading a newspaper, and
was not a little startled in looking over it to see a man seated within a
few feet of him, and gazing at him with eyes as wild and bright as those
of a maniac.

'Who are you, in the name of heaven?' ejaculated he, too surprised even to
rise, and looking at the stranger as if he still doubted the reality of
his being in that spot.

The man laughed, savagely: 'Look at me, my master; look at me _well_;
you've seen me afore. Try and recollect it.'

Harson's embarrassment was not of long duration, and he examined the man
from head to foot. A vague recollection of having met him somewhere,
mingled with an indefinable feeling of suspicion and pain, crossed
Harson's mind as he studied the sunken features which were submitted
unshrinkingly to his scrutiny. He thought, and pondered, and wondered; and
still the man remained unmoved. He looked again; the man changed his
position, and the light fell upon him from another direction. Harson knew
him at once. He started up: 'Murderer, I know you!'

The man was on his feet at the same moment.

'Down to your seat, Sir!' said he, in a loud, savage tone. 'You're right;
but you cannot take me alive, nor will mortal man. In that room,' said he,
in a low tone, and pointing toward the dark stair-case which led to the
upper part of the house, 'I killed Tim Craig--the only man that ever loved
me. He's been after me ever since!' He leaned his face toward Harson, and
looking stealthily over his shoulder said in a whisper: 'He's waiting for
me at the door. He sat down on the stoop when I came in. I don't know why
I came here, but _he_ made me do it, and I must see where I killed him. It
wasn't me. It was Rust; it was Rust. Hark!' He cast a hasty glance in the
room behind him. 'I'm going, Tim, I'm going,' said he. 'Quick! quick! give
me the light!'

Seizing the candle, before Harson could prevent him, he rushed out of the
room, and sprang up the stairs two at a time. Harson followed; but before
he reached the door of the upper room, with a yell so loud and unearthly
that it made the old man's heart stand still, the murderer darted out; his
face livid; his hair bristling, his eyes starting with horror. With a
single bound he cleared the stairs; crossed the antechamber, the gate
swung heavily to, and he was gone! And this was the last that was ever
known of Bill Jones. A few months afterward, the body of a man was found
floating in one of the docks, and was supposed to be his; but it was so
mutilated and disfigured, that it was impossible to ascertain the fact
with any certainty, and it was deposited in the earth with none to claim
it or care for it, and with no mark to designate that the soil above it
shrouded a heart which had once throbbed with all the hopes and fears and
passions that were burning in the bosoms of those who were carelessly
loitering above its resting place.


CHAPTER THIRTY.

Ned Somers had followed Harson's advice in not making his visits to
Rhoneland's too frequent. But whatever may have passed between him and
Kate, and even if they did occasionally meet in the street and stop to
speak, and sometimes to hold conversations which were neither short nor
uninteresting to themselves, that is a matter between themselves with
which we have nothing to do. Certain it is, however, that as Ned cooled
off in his intimacy with Rhoneland, he appeared to rise in the old man's
estimation; and he grew more cordial when they _did_ meet. It may have
been that the suspicions implanted by Rust were gradually giving way
before the frank, honest nature of the young man; or it may have been that
gratitude for the assistance which Somers had lent, (and which Harson was
very particular to give its full weight) in disentangling him from the
toils of Rust; or it may have been the secret influence of Harson, who
ventured, whenever it could be done, to speak a good word for Ned; or it
may have been the drooping face of his child, which he was wont more than
ever to study anxiously, that gradually softened his feelings; but there
is no doubt that, to Kate's surprise, he one day told her to get him pen,
ink and paper, and to draw the table in front of him, as he was going to
write a letter. And it must be confessed, that Kate's color heightened,
and her heart beat fast when he had finished the letter, directed it to
Mr. Edward Somers, and then asked if she knew the address of Somers, which
of course she did; although she hesitated and stammered as if it were a
profound secret, and the answer the most difficult thing in the world.

But her surprise was scarcely greater than that of Ned himself, when a boy
came to him with a letter which ran thus:

    'MY DEAR EDWARD: Come to me as soon as you can; I wish to see
    you on a matter of much importance to both of us.

                               Yours truly,
                                                 JACOB RHONELAND.'

Ned felt something bouncing about in a very queer manner directly under
his ribs, as he read this note; but the sensation was not so painful as to
prevent his obeying it with a speed that was perfectly marvellous; for to
Rhoneland it seemed that the letter could scarcely have reached its
destination before Ned was back with it in his hand.

'You got my note,' said he gravely, as Somers entered, his face flushed
with the rapidity with which he had come.

'I have.'

'Don't go, Kate,' said he to his daughter, who with an inkling of what was
to follow, was stealing away. 'What I have to say relates to both of you.'

'Some time since,' said he, rising, and standing in front of Ned, 'I
wronged you, by making charges against you which I am now convinced were
false. My mind was poisoned by one who has gone to his long account, and
whose evil deeds may sleep with him. For this,' said he, extending his
hand, 'I ask your pardon; much more frankly and freely than I did on the
day when we met at Mr. Harson's.'

Ned took the proffered hand; at the same time pouring out a confusion of
words, the sum and substance of which was intended to be, that he had
taken no offence; that he knew Jacob was misled by others; that he was not
only perfectly willing, but very happy, to make up the matter, and say no
more about it; which no doubt was very true, for within six feet of him
stood Kate, with her soft eyes fixed on his face, and her little mouth
dimpled with smiles, as she observed how swimmingly matters were going on.
And could he be crusty and dogged? or could he cherish a grudge against
_her_ father? The thing was impossible. The extended hand was grasped, and
grasped warmly.

'Another thing I have to speak of,' said Rhoneland, relaxing somewhat at
the cordial tone of Ned's feelings. 'It is but a short time since I learnt
the full extent of my obligations to you, for the part you took in
unmasking the character of Rust, and in obtaining from him a disavowal of
charges against me, which, false as they were, were hard indeed to bear,
and were breaking me down. I have not finished,' said he, raising his hand
to prevent the interruption which Somers was endeavoring to make; 'let me
complete what I have to say, and you may speak as much as you like,
afterward. I will not thank you, for thanks are but words, and too often
mean nothing. Is there any thing that I can _do_, to lessen my
indebtedness to you?--or is there any way in which I can pay it off
altogether?'

He stopped, and looked earnestly in Ned's face. The red blood dashed up to
Somers' very forehead, and he could scarcely breathe for the thumping of
his heart, as the idea crossed him that now was the time to ask for Kate;
nor was his agitation at all diminished by casting a glance at her, and
seeing her cheeks crimson and her eyes downcast, as if she anticipated
what was going on in his mind. It must be confessed, however, that had
Rhoneland had no other clue to his wishes than that afforded by his words,
he would have been very much in the dark; for although Ned attempted to
speak out boldly, his lips trembled very much, and his voice was not as
obedient as he could wish; and all that was distinctly audible was the
girl's name.

'Why lad, what ails thee?' asked Rhoneland, unbending, as he observed the
embarrassment of his guest. 'You used to be as bold as a lion. Come here
Kate,' said he to his daughter; 'this young fellow has lost his voice; can
_you_ tell me what he wants?'

It was now Kate's turn to grow confused, and the color to deepen on her
cheek; nor did she utter a word.

'Young man,' continued Rhoneland, in a grave tone, 'I did not send for you
to trifle with your feelings. You love my daughter, and would ask for
_her_, and you fear to do so lest the request should be refused. She is
yours. Treat her kindly, and keep even a shadow of sorrow from falling
upon her brow. If you do not, an old man's curse will rest upon you; and
even though I be dead, and mouldering in my grave, where my voice cannot
reach you, that silent curse will follow you.' He turned abruptly away,
and left the room.

Ned Somers took Kate's hand in his; passed his arm about her waist, and
drew her to him in so singular a manner, that their lips could not but
meet; and not only once, but at least some half-a-dozen times.

'So you're mine at last, Kate!' said he, looking into her very eyes,
whenever they were raised enough for him to do so. 'Did I not tell you to
cheer up; and that all would be well? Did I not say so; and wasn't I
right? And now, Kate,' said he, in a less confident tone, 'your father,
though a most worthy old gentleman, is somewhat whimsical, and might
change his mind; so when shall _it_ be?'

Kate's reply was so very low, that it reached no ears except those of Ned;
but whatever it was, it is certain that on that day month they had been
married a week, and were deep in preparations for a merry-making to be
held on that very evening at Rhoneland's old house, which had been so
furbished up and renovated, under the auspices of the young couple, that
every thing in it seemed to shine again. A party at Jacob Rhoneland's! It
was a thing unheard of, and produced quite a sensation in the drowsy part
of the town where he lived. Never had a household been in such a fluster
as his was. What deep consultations were held to prevent the old man--who
seemed to have grown quite cheerful and light-hearted, and chirruped about
the house like some gay old old cricket--from meddling in every thing, and
to throw dust in his eyes, so as to make him suppose that he was having
every thing in his own way, when in fact he was having nothing. And then
what a time it took, and what entreaties, to prevail on him to let the
great wooden chest, studded with brass nails, which he never took his eye
from, be removed to an upper-chamber, to make room for their guests. But
Harry Harson, who was in the thick of all the doings, in and out a dozen
times in an hour; rubbing his hands and enjoying the bustle, giving
advice, suggesting this thing and that, and setting every thing wrong;
managed to get the great chest out of the way, for he dragged it up stairs
under Rhoneland's very nose, and in the teeth of his remonstrances; and
depositing it in a little out-of-the-way room, very difficult of access,
by reason of the angles and turns in the entry, and the size of the chest,
told Rhoneland that if he wanted it below he might take it there himself;
but that it was better where it was, and much more safe and out of the
way; in which opinion Rhoneland finally coincided.

Betimes Kate came down stairs to receive her guests, looking so
charmingly, and her eyes flashing with such malicious brightness, that on
meeting her in the entry Ned stopped to kiss her, and tell her that she
was looking 'gloriously;' a performance and observation by the way, which
he had already repeated half-a-dozen times in the course of the last hour.
By twos and threes the guests began to arrive, and went up stairs. There
was a great clatter above, where they were taking off their things. It
took a wonderful time to remove the hats and shawls; for although for a
long time up they went, none came down. There must have been thirty
assembled above stairs. At last Harry Harson, who was in the room with Ned
and Kate, dressed in his best black suit, and looking as young and merry
as any of them, vowed that he would not stand it, and sallied up stairs
and sent them down in a drove. How bright and cheerful they all were! how
the congratulations poured in upon Ned and Kate; and hopes for his future
happiness, and that he might have a large fortune, and a large family to
help him take care of it.

A loud scraping and jingling announced that the music was there, and put a
stop to such flummery as conversation. The young folks were going into the
business of the evening. The little stunted black fiddler with rings in
his ears, was mounted on one chair; the big, fat fiddler, who fiddled with
his eyes shut, was seated on another; and the goggle-eyed negro, with a
self-satisfied face, who simpered on every body, and flourished the
tambourine, was placed like an umbrella in the corner, to be out of the
way.

The fat fiddler called out for the gentlemen to choose their partners for
a quadrille. Then came the long premonitory screeching of the fiddle-bow
across the cat-gut; then the slight, tremulous jingle of the tambourine,
as if the goggle-eyed negro were dying to begin; then the bustling and
hustling, and squeezing of the couples, until they had obtained their
places in the dance. Then the scientific look of the fat fiddler, as he
opened his eyes and surveyed the whole, to see that all was right; then
the slight clearing of his throat, as he threw his head on one side,
bellowed out 'right and left,' and forthwith plunged into the matter,
might and main. Away he went, but fast and furious at his heels followed
the little stunted fiddler; and loud above the din of both, rose the
rattle of the tambourine. 'Right hand across! forward two; balancez;
ladies chain; forward four; dos-à-dos; chassez to the right; cross over;
all round;' here, there, every where, and all over--he was up to it all.
In vain the dancers fairly flew; the fat fiddler was equal to all
emergencies; he never lagged; he was sometimes too fast, but never--no,
not for a single instant--was he behind.

'Whew!' said he, as he gave the final flourish of his bow, and laying it
aside, wiped his forehead on his coat-sleeve, and called for a tumbler of
cold water. And thereupon the stunted fiddler and the tambourine made the
same request; the latter suggesting that his glass might be tempered with
a 'small spirt of gin,' without hurting his feelings.

In that dance, the lightest step and merriest voice was that of Harson,
who led out the bride, and footed it there with the best of them; and who
through the whole evening was bustling around the room, with a kind word
for every one, and as much at home as if the house, and the company, and
even the bride, belonged to him. And in fact, one or two of the
guests--but they were unsophisticated people from the country--were for
some time under the delusion that Harry was the bridegroom, instead of the
quiet young fellow who was seen walking about the rooms, talking to the
disagreeable old women, and getting partners for the ugly young ones,
without their knowing it; but all in such an unobtrusive manner that he
seemed quite a nobody when compared with Harson.

But there must be an end even to the merriest meetings; and when they had
kept it up until the night had got among the small hours, they began to
drop off. And here, amid the adieus of departing guests, we will take our
leave of the young couple; for it is far pleasanter to bid farewell to
those whose friendship we have cherished when hope is strong and bright,
than when care or disappointment has flung its shadow over their hearts.


CHAPTER THE LAST.

A few weeks had elapsed, and a small group were gathered one evening at
Harson's fireside. It was composed of three persons beside Harson. The
first was a man of about fifty; he might have been younger; and the heavy
wrinkles which were scored across his forehead may have been the fruit of
trouble and care, for they were almost too deep for his years; his mouth
was firmly compressed, like that of one in the habit of mastering strong
feelings; and the whole character of his face would have been stern, but
for his dark, gray eye, which at times brightened up almost to childish
playfulness. This was Mr. Colton, the father of Harson's protegé, Annie.
The child herself was seated on Harson's knee, sound asleep, with her head
resting on his breast. The only other person in the group was the wife of
Mr. Colton. She was quite young, and had once possessed great beauty--the
beauty of youth and happiness; but that was gone, and in its place was the
patient look of one who had suffered much, and in silence. She spoke
seldom, and in a low tone, so soft and musical that one regretted when the
voice ceased.

'Your letter,' said Mr. Colton, in continuation of a previous
conversation, 'put an end to all my plans respecting my poor niece. I had
hoped to assist her; for knowing her father's hostility to her, I feared
that she might be in want. Her death was a very melancholy one.'

He looked in the fire in deep thought, and for a short time a silence
ensued which no one seemed inclined to break.

'I never saw her,' said his wife, after some moments; 'I think _you_ did.'

'Yes, once--at the trial,' replied he, uttering the last words with an
effort, as if the subject were painful. 'She was very beautiful.'

'Did she resemble her father?' inquired Mrs. Colton.

'Perhaps I can settle that question more easily than any one,' said
Harson, rising up, 'by letting you judge for yourself.'

He went to a small curtain which hung against the wall, and drawing it
aside, disclosed a portrait of Rust's daughter--the same which Rust had
brooded over with such mingled emotions on the night previous to the
murder. The same childlike, innocent smile, played round the small,
dimpled mouth; the same calm, thoughtful expression of intellect mingled
with gentleness, shone out of the eyes. All was as it was when father and
child last looked upon it--the criminal and her accuser. Every line was
unaltered; but where were they? DUST! They had acted their part on earth;
their love, their hate, their fears, their remorse, were past. The tide of
time was hurrying on, bringing life and death, and hopes and fears to
others, but sweeping from the earth all trace of their footsteps. To them
forever, aye even until the last trump, time and thought, and care and
feeling, had no existence!

Mrs. Colton's eyes filled with tears as she gazed upon the picture. 'She
deserved a happier fate,' said she, in a subdued tone, as if she feared to
disturb the spell which seemed to hang about it.

'It was ordained for the best,' replied Harson, in a grave tone, as he
regarded the portrait with a kind of solemn interest. Then, after a
moment, he added: 'That _was_ her, before want and suffering had laid
their iron finger upon her. When I saw her, she was dead. She was very
beautiful even then; but in the short time that had elapsed since her
father's imprisonment, the work of years had been performed; she seemed
much older and thinner, and more care-worn.'

'How did you get this?' inquired Mr. Colton, pointing to the picture.

'A friend of mine, the person who aided the girl in her last moments,
accidentally learned that it was for sale, and begged me to buy it. He was
too poor to do it, and I was willing to gratify him; and so the picture
became mine.'

Mr. Colton looked at him for a few moments, as if on the point of making
some remark, and then walked to the other end of the room and took a seat
without a word. He was aroused by the child climbing on his knee, and
putting her arms about his neck.

'God protect you, my child!' said he, laying his hand affectionately on
her head; 'may you never know the misery which has fallen upon that poor
girl!'

The words were intended to be inaudible, but they reached the ear of his
wife, who going up to him, and laying her hand on his arm, said in a low
voice: 'Come, come, George, do not give way to these feelings. You must
not be gloomy.'

He looked at her sadly, and then placing his finger on his heart, said:
'Is not what has been going on here, for years, enough to wither to the
root every feeling of cheerfulness, so that it should never again put
forth a blossom?'

'Hush! hush!' interrupted his wife, in a whisper; 'if you _have_ suffered,
you have gained at last what you have always prayed for; while _he_, the
one who caused it all, has paid the penalty of his misdeeds. Remember what
his fate was.' She pointed to the picture: 'Remember too, the fate of his
only child. George, George! his punishment has been terrible, even in
_this_ world!'

'You are right, Mary--GOD forgive me! I'll think of it no more. _He_ and I
were nursed in the same arms, and watched by the same fond mother. From
the bottom of my heart I forgive him. It would be sacrilege to her memory,
for me to harbor an unkind feeling toward even a stranger, if she had
loved him.'

He was silent for a moment, and then addressing Harson, enquired:

'Who is this Mr. Kornicker?'

'A poor fellow, with little to help him through the world but careless
habits and a good heart.'

'What character does he bear?' inquired the other.

'Such as might be expected from his position,' replied Harson; 'full of
flaws, but with a vein of gold running through it. Nature has given him
fine feelings, and fortune, unluckily, has placed him in a situation where
such feelings are impediments rather than otherwise. But he is a noble
fellow for all that.'

'Where can he be found?' asked his guest.

Harson probably anticipated the object of this inquiry, for he said with a
laugh:

'He has been taken care of; he has been placed where the means of
livelihood and competence are in his grasp, if he will but work for them.
And what is better yet, he seems disposed to do so, although not much can
be expected of him at first. I do not think,' added he, 'that it
contributes to the happiness of a young man, with a long life before him,
to be altogether idle. I will do all that I can to help him; but he must
work. It will be more easy for him as he gets used to the traces.'

The stranger acquiesced in this remark, and then added: 'I will take his
address, nevertheless, for I must see him when I return to the city, which
will be very shortly; but you seem to have anticipated me in every thing.
Even the lawyer, Mr. Holmes, declined to be paid for his services. He said
that _this_ was not strictly a business matter, and that what he had done
was out of friendship for you, and that I had better pocket the fee and
drop the subject; at the same time, he said he was going to dinner, and
asked me to join him, which I did, and a very pleasant time we had of it.'

A good-natured laugh was indulged at the peculiarities of the old lawyer,
and many stories told of him, and of others who have figured in this
history. Nor was it until the little clock over the mantel-piece seemed to
give a very vehement wag of its pendulum as it struck twelve, and Spite,
who had been asleep in the corner, bounced up, alarmed at the lateness of
the night, and barked vociferously, that they dreamed of going to bed.

The strangers were Harson's guests that night; and the old man, having
escorted them to their room, and wished them good night, was himself soon
in bed and asleep.

Bright and early the next morning, they were astir; for they were to leave
the city, and Harson was up and ready to see them off. It was a fine
morning; the trees were just beginning to put forth their spring leaves,
and the grass in the public squares was looking quite fresh and green, as
they drove down to the wharf, where the steamer lay, whizzing and puffing,
and groaning as if in mortal pain, and tugging at its cable like some
shackled sea-monster struggling to escape to its home in the deep. Early
as it was, crowds were hurrying to and fro; carts driving up and
unloading; porters staggering along with trunks and bales on their
shoulders; carriages dashing up at a gallop, filled with people afraid of
being too late, and going off more leisurely after the passengers were
deposited on the wharf. People were bustling hither and thither, elbowing
their way to one place, merely to find out where to elbow it to the next;
friends were bidding each other adieu; and in particular, a stout lady
from the country, in yellow ribbons, from the upper part of the boat was
sending a confidential message to her family and friends by a gentleman
who stood in the crowd some sixty yards off.

Through this throng the coach containing our friends drove, and just in
good time, for as they stepped on board, the last bell rang.

'All aboard!' shouted the captain; 'take in the plank.'

Harson shook hands with his friends. 'God bless thee, my child!' said he,
pressing Annie in his arms. The next moment he stepped on shore; and the
boat glided from the dock, and shot out upon the green water.

'Ah, Annie!' said the old man, as he stopped waving his hand, and turned
away from the river, 'I had hoped that you would have been mine own as
long as I lived; but it's all right as it is. Your brother,' added he, 'I
did not miss much, when his parents took him, but _you_ had become a part
of my home. Well, well!'

No doubt there was a great deal of hidden consolation in these last words;
for Harson's face soon recovered its usual cheerful character, and he
steadily trudged toward his home.

A few words respecting the other characters, and our task is ended.

Grosket was induced by Mr. Colton to remove to the country, where an
intercourse with different and better men than those with whom he had
hitherto associated tended in a great measure to soften his character, and
temper his fierce passions--the offspring of persecution and suffering.

Mrs. Blossom, at first alarmed by the fear of the law, grew penitent and
rigorous in the discharge of her moral obligations to society; but the Law
being a notorious sleepy-head, and never appearing to have its eyes open,
she gradually fell into her old habits, reöpened her 'seminary for lambs;'
and from the great quantity of her disciples which frequent the
thoroughfares of the city at present, I should judge is getting along
prosperously. Mr. Snork was extremely desirous of becoming a partner in
the concern, and made several overtures to that effect, which might have
been accepted by the lady, had he not objected to being deprived of his
eye-sight, and seated at a corner to receive pennies from passers-by. It
was in vain that the lady represented to him that this would be the making
of their respective fortunes; that blind beggars, particularly if they
were remarkably disgusting, as was the case with him, had been known to
retire with handsome fortunes, and that some of them even bought snug
little farms in the country, and kept a horse and 'shay.' Mr. Snork
however, was obstinate; his proposals were accordingly rejected, and he
returned disconsolately to his abode, which was now lonely, his wife
having paid a visit to the penitentiary, for the benefit of the country
air.

The widow, Mrs. Chowles, still lives in her quiet, blinking little house,
as cheerful and contented as ever; as happy as ever to hear Harry's heavy
step, and to see his honest face in his old corner in her parlor; and
although he is no longer accompanied by Spite, who has grown old and
rheumatic, so that he is unable to stir from the chimney-corner, where he
passes his time in crabbed solitude, except when he turns up his dim eyes
to his old master, as he hears his voice, and feels his caressing hand on
his head: all else is as it was in that little household; and that it may
long continue, is our warmest wish.


CONCLUSION.

Mr. Stites' manuscript was written at different times, and in different
hands. The little man was evidently troubled with a defective memory,
(although I would not tell him so for the world,) and has permitted many
strange mistakes and anachronisms to creep into his tale, which inclines
me to think that the whole matter is not so authentic as he pretends, but
has been gleaned in various parcels from the regions of romance. But as he
is not a little tetchy on the score of his veracity, I can only suggest
that the tale be regarded by his good natured readers rather as a fiction
than sober truth.

From beginning to end, strong disapprobation has been expressed by Mr.
Snagg, who says that 'that d--d dog is enough to kill any story, and that
for his part, he doesn't think much of Stites; never did, and never will;
and that a single hair of Slaughter's tail was worth Stites' marrow, fat
and kidneys, all done up together.'

It is useless to argue with him; and I find the most judicious mode of
disposing of the matter is to let the question remain unanswered; by which
means he soon comes round, begins to discover a few merits in the
manuscript, and finally concludes with a warm panegyric upon Mr. STITES
himself, always however with a reservation as to the dog, whom he swears
'he never shall be able to stomach.'

In all respects, my quiet old home remains as it was. The same mystery
hangs about it as formerly. The interest which for a time was excited
respecting it, when I gave an account of the murder which had left it
shunned and tenantless, has died away; and with the exception of Mr.
Snagg, Mr. Stites, and my dog, I have few visiters. Perhaps it is best
that it should be so; for I have the spectres of no hard feelings nor
bitter thoughts, nor painful recollections to haunt me, requiring
excitement and bustle to drive them off; and old age demands time for
solemn thought and serious meditation, to enable it to wean itself from
the past, and look cheerfully forward to the future.

But no more of myself. My task is ended; and I now bid you farewell!

                                                            JOHN QUOD.




THE PAST.


  I.

  Despair not, though thy course is drear,
    The past has pleasures for us all;
  Bright scenes and things to hearts most dear,
    And those how fondly we recall.


  II.

  Such as some lovely girl we knew;
    Such as some touching song we heard;
  Such as some evening spent, when flew
    The hours as swift as passing bird.


  III.

  Such as some well-tried friend we had;
    Such as some acts of kindness done,
  Yet rising up to make us glad,
    And so will rise when years are gone.


  IV.

  Despair not! still be innocent;
    Admire the beautiful, the good,
  And when the cry of woe is sent,
    Turn to relieve, in pitying mood.


  V.

  So shall the present, when 'tis past,
    Rich with harmonious scenes appear,
  No gloomy shadows o'er it cast,
    No spectres there, to make thee fear.

                                                                 E. G.




THE HEARTH OF HOME.

BY MARY E. HEWITT.


  The storm around my dwelling sweeps,
  And while the dry boughs fierce it reaps,
  My heart within a vigil keeps,
    The warm and cheering hearth beside;
  And as I mark the kindling glow
  Brightly o'er all its radiance throw,
  Back to the years my memories flow,
    When Rome sat on her hills in pride;
  When every stream and grove and tree
  And fountain had its deity.

  The hearth was then, 'mong low and great,
  Unto the Lares consecrate:
  The youth arrived to man's estate
    There offered up his golden heart;
  Thither, when overwhelmed with dread,
  The stranger still for refuge fled,
  Was kindly cheered, and warmed, and fed,
    Till he might fearless thence depart:
  And there the slave, a slave no more,
  Hung reverent up the chain he wore.

  Full many a change the hearth hath known;
  The Druid fire, the curfew's tone,
  The log that bright at yule-tide shone,
    The merry sports of Hallow-e'en;
  Yet still where'er a home is found,
  Gather the warm affections round,
  And there the notes of mirth resound,
    The voice of wisdom heard between:
  And welcomed there with words of grace,
  The stranger finds a resting place.

  Oh! wheresoe'er our feet may roam,
  Still sacred is the hearth of home;
  Whether beneath the princely dome,
    Or peasant's lowly roof it be,
  For home the wanderer ever yearns;
  Backward to where its hearth-fire burns,
  Like to the wife of old, he turns
    Ever the eyes of memory.
  Back where his heart he offered first--
  Back where his fond young hopes he nursed.

  My humble hearth though all disdain,
  Here may I cast aside the chain
  The world hath coldly on me lain;
    Here to my LARES offer up
  The warm prayer of a grateful heart;
  THOU that my household guardian art,
  That dost to me thine aid impart,
    And with thy mercy fill'st my cup;
  Strengthen the hope within my soul,
  Till I in faith may reach the goal.




PROFESSOR SHAW.

A SKETCH.


PLUTARCH SHAW, the naturalist, was lately in the stocks, which has been a
matter of much talk among the virtuosi, and a good deal of malicious
laughter on all hands. He cut a devil of a figure, rest assured, propped
up in a straight jacket, his eye fiery with vengeance; the innocent victim
of 'circumstances,' and that very common error of putting the saddle on
the wrong horse. A very little explanation will serve to place this matter
in the right light, and show by what a fantastic adventure an honest man,
who was alway given to roam over much territory, was suddenly placed upon
the limits, and one of the most profound explorers of the curious became
himself for the time being a curiosity.

Mr. Shaw is so much of an enthusiast, that it is very unpleasant to stand
near him when he is talking about his bugs, or exhibiting his specimens,
on account of being spattered all over with the spray of his eloquence. A
bat shot down in the dusk of the evening is enough to set him half crazy,
and make the saliva fly all over; it rolls and surges against the bulwarks
of his jagged teeth in a rabid foam, showers out with his descriptions,
and makes him only tolerable at arm's length. The beetles and butterflies
which he has transfixed are innumerable; and he is perpetually syringing
down the humming-birds, as stationary on vibrating wings, these beautiful
creatures of the air plunge their beaks deep into the cups of flowers.
With him pin-money is an item. If he marks any thing curious in the
natural world, he 'sticks a pin there,' and keeps it for future reference;
any thing from a lady-bug ready to unfold suddenly the gauze upon its hard
back, where you would think no wings existed, and fly away, to an
offensive black beetle that snuffs the candle, or cracks its head against
the wall, thence upward in the scale to the bird which Liberty loves as
her sublimest emblem, the proudest of the proud, the bird of our own
mountains, and the eagle of our own skies.

    'I would not heedlessly set foot upon a worm,'

writes Cowper: not so however with the great Shaw, whose collection of
worms is most disgusting; exceeded only by his reptiles preserved in
spirits, with all their sickening exhibition of claws. He has got some
dragons that fall little short of the Devil himself in general hideousness
and outrageous tails; some noots brought from Nootka Sound; some green
monsters from Green Bay; some devilish things from Van Diemon's land; and
finally, Plutarch is himself hideous, and ought to be put in a collection,
which by the by, he lately _was_. It was a great era in his life time when
he shot a wild-cat; that however has nothing to do with the present story,
and must be told shortly. He threw a stone at him, it seems, to frighten
him out of the bushes, where by dint of sneaking he discovered something
with a white and black fur, moving about in a short compass. Breathless
with excitement, standing on tip-toe, dodging his head among the brambles,
all ready, and meaning to have a shot at him 'pretty soon,' he was
whispering to himself, telling himself in a mysterious voice to 'hold
fast,' not to budge, but wait for the next movement; when this
_pole-cat_--there is a distinction, it is well known in the species, nor in
the present instance was it a 'distinction without a difference'--opened
the batteries with the precision of an artillery officer. 'O my eyes!' was
the exclamation of Professor Shaw, 'my eyes! my eyes! my eyes!' It was a
great era in his life time also when he shot a plover; _that_ however has
little to do with the present story, and must be told shortly. It was on
the Big Plains, where not a tree nor shrub may be seen for miles around;
where ambuscades are unknown, and it is very hard to steal a march upon
the timid birds which are frightened at a very shadow; only they do not
fear the flocks and herds which pasture upon the plains, but tamely pick
up the worms beneath their feet. Professor Shaw hit upon an expedient to
surprise them, which no other person would have thought of, than one of
his extreme ingenuity: a big box, opened at both ends, into which he
crawled with fowling-piece in hand. First, however, he procured an ox-hide
at the stall of a neighboring farm, with all its apparatus of horns, and
placed it over the box, to give it the appearance at a distance, of a
_bonâ fide_ ox. Sure enough, this scheme worked well. On came the plovers,
hopping about with much unconcern. Shaw chuckled. He flattered himself
that he should be the death of some of them, if his own life were only
spared a few moments. While he hammered the flint of his fowling-piece
with an old jack-knife, he heard a distant rumbling sound, which soon
waxed terrible, and caused him to thrust out his head. Thunder and Mars!
what should he do? If he ran, it was all up with him, and he was a dead
man if he staid where he was. A wild bull of the prairies was cutting up
shines at no great distance, tearing up the sod with hoofs and horns, and
threatening to demolish that refuge of lies. Shaw poked out his head, and
drew it in again, clutching his fowling-piece convulsively, and trembling
in an agony of fear. Involuntarily he began to say his prayers. 'Our
Father who art in heaven,' said he, with great fervor. The bull was now
up, bellowing in a tumultuous passion, galloping round and round in
circles which were diminishing with every turn, getting his horns ready to
toss the whole fiction of an ox, box, hide, horns, Plutarch Shaw and all,
into the air. 'Help! help!' shrieked the philosopher; 'I'll come out; I
must, I must, I _must!_' And he _did_ come out, by far the most sneaking
object for miles around on the Big Plains. Some men who were hunting
plover from a wagon, (which is the right way,) saw his fantastic position
with mingled laughter and alarm. They drove to his assistance, but the
horses shyed off at the terrific conduct of the bull, whose onslaught was
now made upon the box, which he attacked hoof and horn. Mr. Shaw had
barely strength to reach the shelter of the wagon, into which he was
taken, much chap-fallen, and resuscitated with brandy-and-water, which
were luckily at hand.

He was an 'odd fish,' unanimously so styled, by those who knew him, nor
did his appearance belie him, as he started forth on a geological
excursion in the month of May last, making poems and tuning pianos by the
way. He strung up the old harpsicords to the satisfaction of the country
girls, who thought he 'played on music' with great skill, but his eyes
were the very wildest. Was Professor Shaw crazy? By no means. As a proof
of it, he had written several poems as voluminous as the Fredoniad; which
were unavailing for the present, but which he _did_ hope that his 'country
would not willingly let die;' added to this, some marches in double quick
time, some intricate and inwoven harmonies in the transcendental style,
stanzas set to music, thrown forth when the excitement was upon him, and
fugitives from justice. Yet all these were nothing, to judge by dark and
mysterious hints which were given out, of some GREAT WORK at which he was
now laboring, which the world, (he said it with a presentiment of triumph)
would be _compelled_ to own. But, as I remarked, his appearance did not
belie him. Whoever might doubt his metaphysics, his legs were
unquestionably the very longest, by the assistance of which he had lately
won a foot-race on the Union course for a hundred dollars, to enable him
to pursue his studies for the ministry. 'Accoutred as he was,' on one fine
day in the month of May, he had wandered to a distant part of the country
with a walking-stick, furnished at the extremity with a small hammer.
Absorbed in revery, and constructing verses by the way, he arrived at last
in a romantic valley, where he was soon busily employed in cracking rocks,
and collecting specimens for his cabinet.

The solitude and pleasant walks were eminently suited to the mind of
Professor Shaw. The babbling of the rills which came down the hill sides
and washed the pebbles at his feet, were soothing to the sense, and the
birds sang sweetly on the trees, which were covered with the blossoms of
the spring. Only a single dwelling was seen on one of those swelling hills
which rose above each other, gently and far away, till their last
undulating lines were limited by the horizon's blue verge. The eye
wandered with pleasure over the diversified prospect, which included the
boundaries of three sovereign states, with various rivers, valleys and
fertile fields. On such a spot, where Nature reigned and developed herself
in quiet beauty, whether in the voluptuous budding of the spring, or in
the year's gorgeous decline, Charity had taken the hint and erected an
asylum for the insane. Happy invocation of Nature, most kind and gentle
saviour of the sick, who meeting her in her quiet haunts may touch her
beautiful garments and be whole! In the exhilarating sunshine, in the
fields garnished so exquisitely by our good God, in the religious woods,
the circling hills, and the unbounded sky, there is a force of healing,
when Art has consigned the victim to despair, and the soothing hand
aggravates the deep-rooted sorrow. Nature gently re-conducts the lost mind
through its labyrinth of error, speaking sweet consolation in the passing
breeze, and a volume of beauty in each unclasping flower.

Professor Shaw was doubling up his grotesque figure over the stones,
gathering garnets. With the intent look of a gold digger, or an alchymist
prying into his crucible, he was seeking for treasures, cracking up rocks
into the size of sugar-lumps, and Macadamizing all the place for yards
round. His shadow stalked with him with colossal strides, according to the
declension of the sun, and the hammer in his shadowy arm fell on the
projection of the shadowy rocks. But not farther off than where his
grotesque head and slanting extremity were measured on the next wall, two
clowns had gee'd their oxen under a tree, and left their basket of
potatoes in the furrow, (w--hoy--gee, there--I tell yer to gee!) for the
sake of giving their undivided attention to the Professor. Geology they
had never heard of, beyond its application to stone fence; so they
considered the conduct of a man very queer indeed, who was muttering to
himself, and filling his pocket full of stones. After a little silence,
they nodded to each other with a knowing look, and said with one consent,
'He's as crazy as a coot.' They approached Mr. Shaw, dubiously. 'See his
eyes!' said they; 'aint they wild? Mister?' said the elder clown.

Shaw made no reply.

'Mister, look a-here; aint you--aint you----?'

'Fel-spar,' said Shaw, cabalistically.

'Oh dear me! that's enough! My dear feller, we've got a duty to perform. I
guess we know where you come from. Mister, aint you----?'

'Are you addressing me?' said Professor Shaw, mildly, looking up. 'Are you
addressing your remarks to me, my friend?

'Wonderful cunnin', but it wont do. 'T wont sarve you; I'm a-feard we
shall have to----'

'Well, Sir, my name is Shaw.'

'What's that you got onto your cane? What you doin' in Queens cëounty? Do
tell, aint you----got loose from somewhar? Honor bright!'

The professor, lost in amazement, answered only by a broad stare. He then
bethought him that two lunatics had escaped from yonder mansion. The idea
satisfied his mind, and surprise gave way at once to a smile, full of
benevolence and pity. 'My poor friends,' said he, 'do go back; you have
surely wandered from home; do go up the hill--do go up the hill.' Then
stamping his foot with an air of authority, he exclaimed, stretching out
the hammer of his cane, 'Go back to the asylum, in-stan-taneously!'

'I guess the one in the loft will be long enough,' whispered the rustic;
'but fetch the longest of the two _ropes_, and make haste. Oh, he's
stark!'

'Ah! how sad!' soliloquized Professor Shaw, as both of his new friends
retreated, and one hurried out of sight, 'how sad a spectacle! the
deluded, wandering mind, told by such unerring symptoms; the wild eye,
strange words, and fantastic pleasantness; reason hurled from her own
throne, and that steady light exchanged for the fitful flickering over
decay! They mistake me for one of their melancholy fraternity, poor
lunatics! whereas my lamp of life, and reason, it appears to me, never
shone brighter. I shall yet work out something of which my country will be
proud, and which shall inscribe on an enduring pedestal the name of SHAW.'
The professor (with his hammer) split a rock. 'If those men come back,
what had I better do with them? I will contemplate the remarkable
phenomenon of the mind in ruins. Humanity suggests to me that I ought to
coax them back with sophistry as far as t