In our ambition for a high intellectual training for our youth, isthere not danger that we may forget that moral and spiritual discipline, without which learning and education are a curse? Better is it that the child remain untaught in human learning, and be left to the influences and teachings of nature, than to be so engaged in the works and inventions and plans of man, that he rarely thinks of or regards the great purpose for which he was born, and received a living soul.
We are so bigoted and sectarian, that religious instruction is excluded from our common schools, for fear some sect should get the advantage of the others. We know it is allowed to teach the great principles of morality and religion, the existence of a God, and a future state of rewards and punishments; but these a child gets any where in a Christian land; he drinks them in with his mother's milk. But what folly it is to suppose that the teacher can help giving the bias of his own mind to the children, in teaching even the general principles of religion! He is aware himself that he cannot, and so he abstains from the subject altogether, or alludes to it in such a manner that it would be better let alone. At the present time no wonder there is no reverence in the young. The name and laws of God are not taught as the first and most important lessons in our common schools.
When Walter Scott was asked how he educated his sons, he said, 'he taught them to ride and to speak the truth;' showing the high value he placed upon moral and physical training, and not even noticing their intellectual pursuits. For he undoubtedly meant to convey the idea that so good principles are established in the hearts of the young, and their physical health properly cared for, there is but little fear that they will be deficient in those elevated studies whose tendency is so kindred with virtue, and whose essence is the great immutable truths of creation. Seek first the kingdom of heaven, and every thing shall be added unto you; even knowledge and power.
THE STORE.
''This is the latest fashion, ma'am,' said the young clerk, with obsequious politeness, to a raw country girl,as he spread out before her some damaged calicoes.''Stories for the People.'
''This is the latest fashion, ma'am,' said the young clerk, with obsequious politeness, to a raw country girl,as he spread out before her some damaged calicoes.'
'Stories for the People.'
Therewas no subject which Rufus had more at heart, than to connect with the farm a place of trade for his company and such of the neighboring farmers as chose to benefit by it. Brought up in a country store himself, he felt a thorough disgust for the extortions, tricks, and lures of the class calling themselves country merchants. He knew well that the largest profits are almost invariably put upon the most useless articles; that every inducement is held out to the vain and weak to buy; the temptation of credit, the fanciful adjustment of flimsy fabrics to catch the eye and bewilder the fancy of ignorant servant maids; that what an article will fetch is the priceof it, and not what it is really worth. If any one doubts these statements, let him inquire, and he will find that flour pays hardly any profit at all; that sugars, teas, and most of the heavy articles, are sold in the country store at barely enough to pay the cost of transportation, clerk-hire, and store-rent. How then does the merchant amass his gains? By the sale of wines and liquors, which he manufactures himself from alcohol; by selling at exorbitant profits things which cost him scarcely any thing; by obtaining mortgages on the farms for his store accounts, and ultimately getting the land into his possession for half its value.
To obviate these evils, and to secure a fair price for the products of the farm, and to be able to buy at a reasonable profit; to secure the young and giddy against temptation; he drew up a plan which he submitted to a number of the farmers in his neighborhood, who began to show themselves favorably disposed toward him. The main features of the plan were these: A capital of ten thousand dollars was divided into shares of one hundred dollars, and these shares were to be taken up by individuals; no person being allowed to hold more than four shares. Each share was to have one vote in the affairs of the concern.
When all the shares should be taken up, the company were to hire a person who, under a board of directors, was to manage the store. He was to buy and sell goods at such prices as the board should allow; exchange goods for produce, and carry on the general business of a country store as usual, only that the interest so many had in the store should secure them against exorbitant prices and unjust profits. Every holder of a share became so far the merchant; and if he paid a profit upon the goods which he bought, a part of the profit belonged to him. So in selling produce at the store; if he demanded an unjust price, he was robbing himself as well as others; and thus honest prices and profits were made his interest as well as duty.
The plan met with instant approval, and was put into immediate operation. Meadow-Farm began to assume the appearance of a village. Saving a tavern-stand, it had all the appurtenances of one. Work-shops were erected, mills set a-going, and neat cottages peeped from among luxuriant shrubbery in this amphitheatre of hills. The sounds of industry were heard where a few years before all was the unbroken silence of nature; and songs of joy and thanksgiving gushed from many hearts whose youth had been laden with sighs and tears.
Successful beyond his hopes, Rufus looked over the whole, and his conscience told him, 'This is my work; under the blessing of heaven my design is answered; truly may we cast our bread upon the waters, and find it after many days.' He felt at the moment that he had paid back to society all that his father had taken from it, and his heart was at peace.
But what were his own domestic relations, it may be asked, in this kind of common life? Did not his heart pine for a home of his own? Did he not long for the seclusion, the freedom of a hearthhe could call exclusively his own? Did not this constant watchfulness over so many, distract his attention from his wife and children? By no means. The domestic arrangements of the house were such that he could retire and be as solitary as a hermit. No member of the band lost his individuality any more than men do by living in cities and villages. The association and its laws did not merge the domestic relations or destroy the family bond. On the contrary, the father had more time to give to his wife and the education of his children than is usual, because both himself and wife were freed from much of that domestic drudgery which so much occupies the time of the middle ranks of men. Three women, by a judicious distribution of labor, can cook and keep house for thirty persons with more ease and much greater economy than one woman can do all the work for five persons, the average number of households. And if the outlay in conveniences and labor-saving machinery which a large establishment authorizes, be taken into account, this truth becomes still more apparent.
Ruth heartily from the first coöperated with her husband, and took her full share of all the hard work; and by her example and readiness at the outset, procured for herself all the leisure she desired in the end. Here the women were not the mere lookers-on at the operations of their husbands. They had an interest in the profits of the concern, and voted upon all questions which involved the general conduct of affairs. Being responsible for their opinions, in one sense, they took care to inform themselves upon subjects which unhappily are too often considered out of the reach and beyond the capacity of the female mind. Woman at Meadow-Farm was not the mere cook of her husband's food, his house-keeper, his plaything, or his drudge; the nurse and convenience of the lord, one or the other of which offices most women fill in society. Her time was considered equally valuable with that of the males; and her heart and ambition were not crushed by receiving for her best exertions the paltry pittance, about one third the wages of males, which the highest civilization awards to her.
At the end of five years John Stewart was worththethousand dollars, and the union with Clara Welton was consummated, amid much rejoicing and real happiness of all parties concerned.
Philip Welton still continues to this day to be the school-master, preacher, playmate and friend of all persons who need such offices at the farm. The writer has made several visits to his chance friends since the time when he first became acquainted with them; and now, in conclusion, and by way of apology, would say to the reader that he has been led to undertake this simple and unadorned narration of theorigin of one of the finest villages in the country, because he thought it remarkable that a scheme of association should have been carried out and accomplished, without making any noise in the world, just prior to the time of a great movement among some leading and philosophic minds upon the same subject.
The village now looks much like other villages; but if you examine into the character of the people there, you will find great unionof heart and hand in all philanthropic effort. It is a remarkable place. Rufus Gilbert still lives, and his gentle wife is the happy mother of a numerous offspring. May they long live to bless and adorn the world; but not for ever; for we feel sure that for such hearts and characters there is prepared, in that other world, a blissful reward for their exertions in this, and free from its trials and perplexities; where there is no more sorrow and sighing, and all tears are wiped away for ever.
BY MISS H. J. WOODMAN.
I.
Veiltenderly the pale and placid brow,Round which the floating hairGleams like a sunbeam, moving lightly nowIn the soft summer air!
Veiltenderly the pale and placid brow,Round which the floating hairGleams like a sunbeam, moving lightly nowIn the soft summer air!
II.
Around her pillow ye have strown fresh flowers,And her small pulseless handClaspeth white rose-buds, as in childhood's hours,With her own bright-eyed band!
Around her pillow ye have strown fresh flowers,And her small pulseless handClaspeth white rose-buds, as in childhood's hours,With her own bright-eyed band!
III.
Upon her pallid lip a smile is set,The spirit's parting boon!Why mourn that flow'rs with heaven's own dew-drops wetPerish before their noon?
Upon her pallid lip a smile is set,The spirit's parting boon!Why mourn that flow'rs with heaven's own dew-drops wetPerish before their noon?
IV.
The soft, dark lashes rest upon her cheek,Like shadows on the snow;Hiding the full blue orbs whose light we seek—But shall we find?—ah, no!
The soft, dark lashes rest upon her cheek,Like shadows on the snow;Hiding the full blue orbs whose light we seek—But shall we find?—ah, no!
V.
There is less beauty in the glowing skies,Less music in the vale;The streams flow onward in a sadder guise,The springs of pleasure fail.
There is less beauty in the glowing skies,Less music in the vale;The streams flow onward in a sadder guise,The springs of pleasure fail.
VI.
Give back the precious dust, so still and fair,Unto the waiting earth!Hallow her couch with song and tearful prayer—Tributes to love and worth.
Give back the precious dust, so still and fair,Unto the waiting earth!Hallow her couch with song and tearful prayer—Tributes to love and worth.
VII.
A flood of radiance from the spirit-landDispels the gathered gloom;Near to her God the spotless soul shall stand,Forgetful of the tomb!
A flood of radiance from the spirit-landDispels the gathered gloom;Near to her God the spotless soul shall stand,Forgetful of the tomb!
BY PETER VON GEIST.
Nightupon the waters! The blue waves of Old Erie are black, and loud, and angry; and the good ship sits uneasily, as though they were trying by incessant, convulsive throbs to shake the encumbrance from their bosom. The Heavens above are as though a pall were settling down upon us; and the horizon on all sides is marked by a zone of lurid light, like the distant fires of a conflagration. The light-house, far behind us, glimmers like the rising evening star, and its ray flashes along the dim and swelling surface, revealing the wide and heaving waste that intervenes. The strained masts quiver, and the vessel bends like an overmatched, but unyielding gladiator, before the blast. It is a night to make the timid tremble, and the bold to shout out a wild 'Halloo!' to the winds as they sweep past.
Onward the barque drives; and I sit myself down on the bowsprit, over the water, and look down on the boiling surges beneath. Eternally, in quick succession, the white-capped waves come foaming in, and hurl themselves against the reeling bow. High are they flung back, in broken fragments, and madly, like grape-shot, is the spray dashed far out on either side. Now the ship rears up her head, as if affrighted and seeking to escape from the encounter, and in a moment she plunges desperately down into the foaming mass, which leaps up to receive her.
'On high the winds lift up their voices,' and howl, and shriek, and moan, and rage; and on high I lift upmyvoice too, but it sounds like the soft notes of a lute amid the smoke and thunder of artillery. Oh! ye spirits that ride on the wings of the wind! and ye spirits of the deep, that roll, and twist, and writhe, like serpents, on the water! who taught you to combat so furiously? The blue sky, that is wont to smile down on your repose, or on your peaceful sports, is veiled by the smoke of your battle; and under a dark canopy, as is most befitting strife, whether of spirits or of men, you wage fierce war. The petty distinctions of society; the vanity, the acquirements, the skill of man, are in your presence awed and abashed. But have their ambition and the evil passions which fill and degrade his heart taken possession of you also? I will not believe it; for Nature never conceived nor uttered an unholy thought. Or perhaps your rage is kindled against this fabric of human construction, which invades your ancient domain? Ah! well; howl and fight on; the cunning handiwork of him who calls himself your master defies your rebellious ravings!
What a stirring thing it is, to throw out a hearty defiance to the thunder and tempest! When a man flings his gauntlet into theface of the storm, all the strength there is in him is strained up; he feels himself rigid, and braced to meet the impending shock. If I were disposed, I might pause here to show, that in the everyday moulding of mind and character, a kindred principle is perceivable; that it is gigantic opposition that makes the gigantic man; that every man who has done great things in the worldhasmet such opposition; and that he was a great man, because his mind was taught to despise them, and to go forth, trusting in its own strength to meet them. I do not wonder that Ajax, when he defied the lightning, felt himself a god.
Undismayed, the stout ship struggles on, driving through the rolling sea, as if determined to force her way into, and loose herself in, the unmeasured and unexplored tract of darkness that lies before us. At length the night and the elements are beginning to assume something like their accustomed tranquillity; and now the wind, wearied with the contest, forgets its anger, and sweeps by only in short, irregular growls; while the sea continues to heave up its long, black, unbroken waves; as though the passion which penetrates and rages in a deep bosom, does not its work so quickly and lightly. The heavy clouds that seemed to embrace the lake gradually lift, and are borne swiftly and in fragments away toward the north. One by one, and for a moment at a time, the stars come out, and the rising crescent moon sends down her first trembling rays; trembling, indeed, but like the timid smile of the loved one, when it shines on the troubled sea of doubt and despair in our hearts, how brightening! The darkness is illumined by that gentle light, and we go on our way with new hopes and new courage.
The light which is thrown on the scene is like that of dawn, dim but steady, and sufficient to reveal, as far as it can be revealed, its magnificence. On the left, and at but a little distance, rise perpendicular bluffs, an hundred feet in height, and nearly as many miles in length, against which the swell is breaking, with hollow thunder, and spray dashed far up its jagged rocks. On the other side, far as the eye can reach, the waves come rolling in, grim and gray, seeming to proceed from where the edge of the horizon rests on the bosom of the waters. Occasionally, one which lifts its crest above the others, may be seen far off bursting into foam; in a single place, at first, and then the white streak winding along its summit mile after mile, till the eye is tired with following it.
There is grandeur in the unvarying sameness of these parallel ridges, which sway the ship up and down as though it were a cork, as well as in the deep monotone of their voice. This same voice, this same tone, has been given forth in storm and calm, in the darkness of night and in the light of day, for uncounted ages! When there was no created eye or heart to see and be moved, deep has here called unto deep, and storm has answered storm!
These cliffs have always felt the gentle wash, or the leaping weight of the waters. This lake felt no change when its surface was first broken by the keel of civilized man; its voice is as loud in wrath, and as soft in calm, and its pulsations are as deep, aswhen it made music to solitude, and disported itself alone! And by this is taught the enquirer one useful lesson (and on what page of her great book, does not Nature speak such instruction?) in human life. When a man is great, he is elevated above the heads of his fellow men so far, that the objects and passions which are so vast to them seem to him, from the distance, very small. And one of the first things that he loses sight of, is love of the approbation of the world. If he ever manifests this love, it is a sign that he has descended; and it is not surprising that he should sometimes; for he cannot be expected to be so elevated, except periodically. But when he is doing a great work, he goes forward like these waves, in his own strength, and in the majesty of his own purposes; and the breath of the crowd, whether sent forth to applaud or condemn, is like the idle wind, which passes by and touches him not. The history of every poet, or philosopher, or politician, who has himself gone before, and hastened on the slow footsteps of his generation in the march of improvement, would illustrate this principle. They have, each one, forgotten the world, and toiled to discover and elaborate some new truth, for its own sake, or for the sake of others; and when the gem was duly set, luminous, to shed light on man's pathway, and beautiful, to elevate and refine his mind, purify and warm his heart, it has been cast down with a careless hand, for those who will, to pick up.
I might exhibit this position more familiarly, by appealing to the consciousness of every writer; the present writer, for instance; and assuringhimif he ever wrote or thought any thing really good, when he was pondering all the while what other people would think or say concerning it? It is impossible: he paints a scene or landscape, or analyzes passion, because he loves to do so; and of course, does it best when he forgets for the moment that his picture or reasoning will come under the eye of any one else. Man can make music fit for the stars to hear, only when he makes ittothe stars; and then when men hear it, they will call it the music of the spheres.
The night-lamps of the firmament are unveiled, and shine down as calmly as they did on the garden of Eden. I wonder that they are not tired, and do not grow dim with long watching; the more that their watch is over such a world as this. They look down steadily on scenes of crime, and folly, and suffering; and yet their pure eyes are never seen obscured with grief, or to grow brighter through anger. Perhaps, like some noble men, they see in the mass of unclean things with which man has filled his soul the spirit of Divinity, which was breathed into it at the first, not yet wholly corrupted or cast out; and keep hoping on, that he will before long purify himself, and that they shall again shine down on the garden of Eden. We love them for this, because they love us. LikeGod, they are present to every heart that looks up toward Heaven. Like the countenance of a friend, too, they speak to us; rejoicing with a dancing ray, when we rejoice; pouring down a warm, steady flood of light, when we are full of quiet and happiness;and they have a cheering, reviving beam for the afflicted and despairing—a beam that speaks of constancy and hope.
But morning approaches; the wearied powers demand repose; and it is sweet to lie down like a cradled child, and sleep with the ceaseless wash of waters, for a lullaby, and rocked by their ceaseless roll!
WITH A BRAN-NEW MORAL.
A Liononce, by hunters pressed,He jumped out of his skin:A Donkey found it, passing by,And straightway he jumped in.He stretched his legs, he switched his tail,He grinned in triumph vain,And snugly hid a foot of earsAmong the shaggy mane.At sight of him, on every sideThe beasts began to 'shin it;'As frightened at the lion's hideAs if himself were in it.Nor sight alone contented him,But try his voice he would;And brayed as like a lion's roarAs ever a jackass could.Just then upon the road he sawHis master, honest man;Quoth would-be lion to himself,'I'll scare him, if I can!'An extra flourish then he flung,Too lustily no doubt,For, shaken from their hiding-place,Lo! his long ears stuck out!His master took the timely hint,And ere the joke was done,He curried off the lion-skin,And laid the cow-skin on.
A Liononce, by hunters pressed,He jumped out of his skin:A Donkey found it, passing by,And straightway he jumped in.
He stretched his legs, he switched his tail,He grinned in triumph vain,And snugly hid a foot of earsAmong the shaggy mane.
At sight of him, on every sideThe beasts began to 'shin it;'As frightened at the lion's hideAs if himself were in it.
Nor sight alone contented him,But try his voice he would;And brayed as like a lion's roarAs ever a jackass could.
Just then upon the road he sawHis master, honest man;Quoth would-be lion to himself,'I'll scare him, if I can!'
An extra flourish then he flung,Too lustily no doubt,For, shaken from their hiding-place,Lo! his long ears stuck out!
His master took the timely hint,And ere the joke was done,He curried off the lion-skin,And laid the cow-skin on.
Withempty heads in borrowed locks,Thus Dandies throng Broadway,And strut as if they were in truthThe Lions of the day.And why the cow-skin follows not.Would you the reason know?Dame Nature has encased them allIn calf-skin long ago.
Withempty heads in borrowed locks,Thus Dandies throng Broadway,And strut as if they were in truthThe Lions of the day.
And why the cow-skin follows not.Would you the reason know?Dame Nature has encased them allIn calf-skin long ago.
J. Rheyn Piksohn.
Savannah, Georgia, 1843.
J. Rheyn Piksohn.TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE.
Saratoga Springs, July 4, 1843.
Sir: Being now located at the Springs, amid all the gayety and elegance and aristocracy of the land, I found last evening, among the ladies in the drawing-room, the July number of your periodical. Again was I shocked and overwhelmed at the gross impudence with which you persist in the promulgation of my private affairs. That you should have published my second personal epistle to yourself, is a tremendous aggravation of your audacity. I shall take care to frame this in a style which will preclude all possibility of your printing it, and disclosing your own rascality.
I have heard moreover that well-known individuals in England have been highly disgusted at the cool, hyena-like, editorial ferocity with which you and your greedy subscribers feed upon this foul dish of scandal. Such heartless conduct cannot fail to confirm our neighbors across the 'great Atlantic privilege' in their uncomplimentary opinion of American probity.Repudiationwas a virtue compared with this infamous violation of the rights of man. Even here, amid all the soothing magnificence of the surroundings; in the solemn stillness of the woods, or by the stainless bosom of Saratoga Lake, or by that salubrious fount of which half a dozen tumblers are so invigorating to the spirits and beneficial to the bowels, I am sick at soul when I realize the wickedness and worldly-mindedness of Magazine Editors.
You have not hinted one syllable aboutpecuniary compensation; and how, under such a load of ingratitude, can you expect that you will be long permitted to pursue your fiendish career? A reasonable sum would satisfy me; but I forbear to urge it, for I doubt if you are a Christian. This is the last time I shall address you; nor should I now write, except to charge you immediately to return the remaining manuscripts, or to forward the customary fee for articles of equal value. You will not dare to publish this letter, I am sure, unless you are a fool as well as a fraudulent and evil-minded person.
Yours, by no means, —— ——.'
Atthe risk of our reputation, we have ventured to publish the above severe remonstrance; and in reply, we take pleasure in soothing the lacerated nerves of our financial friend by the following statement:
Some days ago, about sherry-cobbler time, a middle-aged individual,between five and six feet high, not very stout, although far from slim; of an open countenance; a nose Greco-Gothic, inclining to the Roman, and eyes neither light nor dark, called at our sanctum, and claimed to be the author of the poetical epistles in question. Before we had time to apologize for our part in this curious affair, the stranger, so far from producing a horse-whip, assured us, with a benignant smile, that he forgave the liberty we had assumed, and moreover, that he wished to extend his pardon to the gentleman whose late indiscretion had put us in possession of the papers. Far be it from himself, the stranger said, to remain behind the age; he supposed it was the custom of the country; and this apology, as in the aforementioned case of Repudiation, must content his friends in London. It was true, he added, that some offence had been taken abroad by this truly American proceeding; but on the whole, as he found theKnickerbockera conveyance considerably safer than the steamboat-mail, and as it was beside an immense saving in the matter of postage, he would permit us to continue the correspondence. As for those letters which we still retained in our keeping, he assured us that we were perfectly free to enlighten with them our 'Principes' or the public. Beside all this, he placed in our hands a fresh epistle, which he had intended to have sent by the next packet, but which, by his generous permission, we are happy to insert in the present number.
We trust that this will quiet the sensibilities of our Saratoga friend, and that he will return to the city with an invigorated conscience, a healthful moral sense, and a stomach improved by the waters.
Ed. Knickerbocker.
TO EDWARD MOXON, PUBLISHER, LONDON.
Thefiery bark that brought your missives o'er,Brought the sad news thatMurraywas no more.From still Hoboken, where I chanced to stray,I marked the monster belching up the bay,And guessed (already have I learned toguess,)From her black look, she told of some distress.Tidings of gloom her sable streamer spoke,And the long train of her funereal smoke;And soon the bulletins revealed the grief:'John Murray'sdead! of book-sellers the chief!'In all the strange events that Rumor sends,By flood and flame, to earth's remotest ends;War, famine, wreck, and all the varying fatesOf rising cottons or of falling states;Revolts at home, and troubles o'er the seas,Among the Affghans, Chartists, and Chinese;In all the recent millions that have goneTo the dark realm, and still are hastening on,That one small tradesman should have joined the throngSeems a mean theme to babble of in song.Yet such is Fame! and such the pow'r of books,To make small names as deathless as the Duke's:[B]Yes, the same volume that recordeth you,Ye mighty chiefs! embalms the printer's too;And wheresoe'er the poet's fame hath flown,There too the poet's publisher is known;So shall our friend enjoy, to endless ages,An immortality of title-pages.Ev'n here, in Scythia, where the slighted MuseGets but cold greeting from the rude Yahoos;Ev'n here is faintly heard a public sigh,Ah, that Childe Harold's accoucheur should die!That he who made such elegant editionsShould be past help from parsons or physicians;Dead as the most defunct of all the verseFor which erewhile he tapped his liberal purse;No more a bargainer for true sublime,Himself a subject for a scrap of rhyme.Methinks I see his melancholy ghostNear his old threshold, at his ancient post;Watching with eager and obsequious grin,The pensive customers that enter in.With curious eye selecting from the throng,Each who has dabbled in the realm of song;And offering, as of yore, for something niceIn way of Epitaph, the market price.And now his bones the sculptured slab lie under,What generous bard willgivehim one, I wonder?For all the golden promises he made;For all the golden guineas that he paid;For all the fame his counter could affordThe rev'rend pamphleteer and author-lord;For all the tricks he taught the friendless muse;For all his purchased papers in Reviews;For all the pleasant stories he retailed;For all the turtle when the stories failed;For all the praises, all the punch he spent,What grateful hand will deck his monument?Campbell'stoo proud the compliment to grant:Southey, for sundry weighty reasons, can't.ShouldMooreattempt it, he'd be sure to damnJohn's many virtues in an epigram.Rogers' blank verse so very blank has grown,'T would scarce be legible on Parian stone;Wordsworthwould mar it by inscribing on itA little sermon—what he calls a sonnet.Alas! for all the guineas that he paid,For all the immortalities he made,For all his venison, all his right old wine,Will none contribute one sepulchral line?In truth I'm sad, although I seem to laugh,To think that John should need an epitaph.The greatest blows bring not the truest tear,These minor losses touch the heart more near;As fewer drops gush over from the eyesWhen heroes fall than when your valet dies;They, of another, an immortal race,Ne'er seemed on earth well suited with their place,And though they yield their transitory breath,We know their being but begins with death:So winter ushers in the new-born year,So the flowers perish ere the fruits appear.When common men, when men likeMurray, thusAre snatched away, 't is taking one of us;And more in his we feel our own decayThan if aWellingtonwere snatched away.'T is not lost genius we lament the most,No; but the man, the old companion lost:Who'd not give more to bring backGilbert Gurney,OrSmithorMatthewsfrom their nether journey,Than all yourMiltonsor yourBaconsdead,Or all theBonapartesthat ever bled?So, were the blue rotundity of heavenBy some muck-running, outlawed comet riven,Should any orb, say yonder blazing Mars,Be blotted from the muster-roll of stars,Herschelmight groan, orSomervillemight sigh,But what would London care?—or you, or I?Far more we vulgar mortals might lament,Should some starved earthquake gulp a slice of Kent.Now let no pigmy poet, in his pride,The humble mem'ry of our friend deride:More than he dreams, his little species oweThose good allies, the Patrons of the Row:They, only they, of all the friends who praise,All who forgive, and all who love your lays,Of all that flatter, all that wish you well,Sincerely care to have your volume sell.How oft, when Quarterlies are most severe,And every critic aims a ready sneer,And young Ambition just begins to cool,And Genius half suspects himself a fool,The placid publisher, the more they rail,Forebodes the triumph of a speedy sale,And gently lays the soul sustaining balmOf twenty sovereigns in your trembling palm;While more than speech his manner seems to say,As bland he whispers, 'Dine with me to-day.'Or when some doubtful bantling of your brain,Conceived in pleasure but achieved with pain,A bit of satire, or a play perchance,A fresh, warm epic, or new-laid romance,Receives from all to whom your work you showCivil endurance, or a faint 'so so;'When men of taste, men always made of ice,Cool your gay fancies witha friend's advice,And prudent fathers, yawning as you read,Knit the sage lips, and wag the pregnant head,And bid you stick to your molasses tierces,And leave sweet ladies to concoct sweet verses:How oft yourMurray, with a keener eye,Detects the gems that mid your rubbish lie;Instructs you where to alter, where to blot,And how to darn and patch your faulty plot;Then bravely buys, and gives you to the townIn duodecimo, for half a crown.And oh! how oft when some dyspeptic swainPours forth his agonies in sickly strain,Mistaking, in the pangs that through him dart,A wretched liver for a breaking heart;And prates of passions that he never felt,And sweats away in vain attempts to melt;Or takes to brandy, and converts his verse,From sad to savage, nay, begins to curse,And raves of Nemesis and hate and hell,And smothered woes that in his bosom swell;When Newstead is the name his fancy givesThe snug dominion where he cheaply lives,And aping still th' aristocratic bard,With 'Crede Jenkins' graved upon his card,When with his trash he hurries to the press,Crying 'O print me! print me!' in distress,Some bookseller, perhaps, most kindly cruel,Uses the dainty manuscript for fuel.Ah! Ned, hadst thou, when once with rhyme opprest,Found such a friend, (pray pardon me the jest,)Hadst thou but been as friendly to thyself,Thy Poems never had adorned thy shelf.But all is ended now! John's work is o'er;He praises, pays, and publishes no more.Henceforth no volume, save the Book of fate,Shall bear for him an interest small or great:And if in heaven his literary soulWalk the pure pavement where the planets roll,Few old acquaintances will greet him there,Amid the radiant light and balmy air;Since few of all who wrote or sang for himShall join the anthem of the seraphim.Yet there might Fancy, in a mood profane,Behold him listening each celestial strain,Catching the cadences that sweetly fall,Wond'ring if such would sell, below, at all,Andcalculating, as they say on earth,How much those heavenly hymns would there be worth.Or if in Proserpine's more sultry skyFor his misdeeds the Publisher must sigh,Though much good company about him stand,And many an author take him by the hand,And swarms of novelists around him press,And many a bard return his warm caress,Though there on all the sinners he shall gazeWho ever wrote, or planned, or acted plays;On all the wits, from Anna's time to ours,Who strewed perdition's pleasant way with flowers;OnBurns, consumed with more substantial fireThan ever love or whisky could inspire;OnShelley, seething in a lake of lead,AndByronstretched upon a lava bed;Little shall he, or they, or any there,Of magazines or morning journals care;Little shall there be whispered or be thought,About the last new book and what it brought;Little of copyright and Yankee thieves,Or any wrong thatCharlie'sbosom grieves;But side by side reviewer and reviewed,Critic and criticised must all be—stewed;Alas! they groan—alas! compared with this,Ev'nBlackwood'sdrunken surgery was bliss.How less than little were the direst blowsDealt by bruteGiffordon his baby foes!How light, compared with hell's eternal pain,The small damnation was of Drury Lane!Down! down! thou impious, dark Imagination,Forbear the foul, the blasphemous creation;Whate'er John's doom, in whatsoever sphere,Wretched or blest, 't is not for us to hear.Not many such have dignified his trade,So boldly bargained and so nobly paid.Oh may his own Divine Paymaster proveAs kind and righteous in the realms above!
Thefiery bark that brought your missives o'er,Brought the sad news thatMurraywas no more.From still Hoboken, where I chanced to stray,I marked the monster belching up the bay,And guessed (already have I learned toguess,)From her black look, she told of some distress.Tidings of gloom her sable streamer spoke,And the long train of her funereal smoke;And soon the bulletins revealed the grief:'John Murray'sdead! of book-sellers the chief!'
In all the strange events that Rumor sends,By flood and flame, to earth's remotest ends;War, famine, wreck, and all the varying fatesOf rising cottons or of falling states;Revolts at home, and troubles o'er the seas,Among the Affghans, Chartists, and Chinese;In all the recent millions that have goneTo the dark realm, and still are hastening on,That one small tradesman should have joined the throngSeems a mean theme to babble of in song.Yet such is Fame! and such the pow'r of books,To make small names as deathless as the Duke's:[B]Yes, the same volume that recordeth you,Ye mighty chiefs! embalms the printer's too;And wheresoe'er the poet's fame hath flown,There too the poet's publisher is known;So shall our friend enjoy, to endless ages,An immortality of title-pages.
Ev'n here, in Scythia, where the slighted MuseGets but cold greeting from the rude Yahoos;Ev'n here is faintly heard a public sigh,Ah, that Childe Harold's accoucheur should die!That he who made such elegant editionsShould be past help from parsons or physicians;Dead as the most defunct of all the verseFor which erewhile he tapped his liberal purse;No more a bargainer for true sublime,Himself a subject for a scrap of rhyme.
Methinks I see his melancholy ghostNear his old threshold, at his ancient post;Watching with eager and obsequious grin,The pensive customers that enter in.With curious eye selecting from the throng,Each who has dabbled in the realm of song;And offering, as of yore, for something niceIn way of Epitaph, the market price.And now his bones the sculptured slab lie under,What generous bard willgivehim one, I wonder?For all the golden promises he made;For all the golden guineas that he paid;For all the fame his counter could affordThe rev'rend pamphleteer and author-lord;For all the tricks he taught the friendless muse;For all his purchased papers in Reviews;For all the pleasant stories he retailed;For all the turtle when the stories failed;For all the praises, all the punch he spent,What grateful hand will deck his monument?
Campbell'stoo proud the compliment to grant:Southey, for sundry weighty reasons, can't.ShouldMooreattempt it, he'd be sure to damnJohn's many virtues in an epigram.Rogers' blank verse so very blank has grown,'T would scarce be legible on Parian stone;Wordsworthwould mar it by inscribing on itA little sermon—what he calls a sonnet.Alas! for all the guineas that he paid,For all the immortalities he made,For all his venison, all his right old wine,Will none contribute one sepulchral line?
In truth I'm sad, although I seem to laugh,To think that John should need an epitaph.The greatest blows bring not the truest tear,These minor losses touch the heart more near;As fewer drops gush over from the eyesWhen heroes fall than when your valet dies;They, of another, an immortal race,Ne'er seemed on earth well suited with their place,And though they yield their transitory breath,We know their being but begins with death:So winter ushers in the new-born year,So the flowers perish ere the fruits appear.When common men, when men likeMurray, thusAre snatched away, 't is taking one of us;
And more in his we feel our own decayThan if aWellingtonwere snatched away.'T is not lost genius we lament the most,No; but the man, the old companion lost:Who'd not give more to bring backGilbert Gurney,OrSmithorMatthewsfrom their nether journey,Than all yourMiltonsor yourBaconsdead,Or all theBonapartesthat ever bled?So, were the blue rotundity of heavenBy some muck-running, outlawed comet riven,Should any orb, say yonder blazing Mars,Be blotted from the muster-roll of stars,Herschelmight groan, orSomervillemight sigh,But what would London care?—or you, or I?Far more we vulgar mortals might lament,Should some starved earthquake gulp a slice of Kent.
Now let no pigmy poet, in his pride,The humble mem'ry of our friend deride:More than he dreams, his little species oweThose good allies, the Patrons of the Row:They, only they, of all the friends who praise,All who forgive, and all who love your lays,Of all that flatter, all that wish you well,Sincerely care to have your volume sell.How oft, when Quarterlies are most severe,And every critic aims a ready sneer,And young Ambition just begins to cool,And Genius half suspects himself a fool,The placid publisher, the more they rail,Forebodes the triumph of a speedy sale,And gently lays the soul sustaining balmOf twenty sovereigns in your trembling palm;While more than speech his manner seems to say,As bland he whispers, 'Dine with me to-day.'
Or when some doubtful bantling of your brain,Conceived in pleasure but achieved with pain,A bit of satire, or a play perchance,A fresh, warm epic, or new-laid romance,Receives from all to whom your work you showCivil endurance, or a faint 'so so;'When men of taste, men always made of ice,Cool your gay fancies witha friend's advice,And prudent fathers, yawning as you read,Knit the sage lips, and wag the pregnant head,And bid you stick to your molasses tierces,And leave sweet ladies to concoct sweet verses:How oft yourMurray, with a keener eye,Detects the gems that mid your rubbish lie;Instructs you where to alter, where to blot,And how to darn and patch your faulty plot;Then bravely buys, and gives you to the townIn duodecimo, for half a crown.
And oh! how oft when some dyspeptic swainPours forth his agonies in sickly strain,Mistaking, in the pangs that through him dart,A wretched liver for a breaking heart;And prates of passions that he never felt,And sweats away in vain attempts to melt;Or takes to brandy, and converts his verse,From sad to savage, nay, begins to curse,And raves of Nemesis and hate and hell,And smothered woes that in his bosom swell;When Newstead is the name his fancy givesThe snug dominion where he cheaply lives,And aping still th' aristocratic bard,With 'Crede Jenkins' graved upon his card,When with his trash he hurries to the press,Crying 'O print me! print me!' in distress,Some bookseller, perhaps, most kindly cruel,Uses the dainty manuscript for fuel.Ah! Ned, hadst thou, when once with rhyme opprest,Found such a friend, (pray pardon me the jest,)Hadst thou but been as friendly to thyself,Thy Poems never had adorned thy shelf.
But all is ended now! John's work is o'er;He praises, pays, and publishes no more.Henceforth no volume, save the Book of fate,Shall bear for him an interest small or great:And if in heaven his literary soulWalk the pure pavement where the planets roll,Few old acquaintances will greet him there,Amid the radiant light and balmy air;Since few of all who wrote or sang for himShall join the anthem of the seraphim.Yet there might Fancy, in a mood profane,Behold him listening each celestial strain,Catching the cadences that sweetly fall,Wond'ring if such would sell, below, at all,Andcalculating, as they say on earth,How much those heavenly hymns would there be worth.
Or if in Proserpine's more sultry skyFor his misdeeds the Publisher must sigh,Though much good company about him stand,And many an author take him by the hand,And swarms of novelists around him press,And many a bard return his warm caress,Though there on all the sinners he shall gazeWho ever wrote, or planned, or acted plays;On all the wits, from Anna's time to ours,Who strewed perdition's pleasant way with flowers;OnBurns, consumed with more substantial fireThan ever love or whisky could inspire;OnShelley, seething in a lake of lead,AndByronstretched upon a lava bed;Little shall he, or they, or any there,Of magazines or morning journals care;Little shall there be whispered or be thought,About the last new book and what it brought;Little of copyright and Yankee thieves,Or any wrong thatCharlie'sbosom grieves;But side by side reviewer and reviewed,Critic and criticised must all be—stewed;Alas! they groan—alas! compared with this,Ev'nBlackwood'sdrunken surgery was bliss.How less than little were the direst blowsDealt by bruteGiffordon his baby foes!How light, compared with hell's eternal pain,The small damnation was of Drury Lane!
Down! down! thou impious, dark Imagination,Forbear the foul, the blasphemous creation;Whate'er John's doom, in whatsoever sphere,Wretched or blest, 't is not for us to hear.Not many such have dignified his trade,So boldly bargained and so nobly paid.Oh may his own Divine Paymaster proveAs kind and righteous in the realms above!
Harry Harson.
Atabout eleven o'clock, on a fine day, a tall elderly man, habited in a long-skirted blue overcoat, with a broad-brimmed hat on his head, his neck enveloped in the ample folds of a white cravat, the ends of which toyed pleasantly with the morning air; and having in his hand a cane, whose top was carved in a miniature likeness of a dog with a distressing countenance, slowly descended the precipitous flight of stone steps which form the rear mode of egress from the City Hall. Having safely landed himself, the elderly gentleman paused, rubbed one hand gently over the other, as if congratulating himself that one of the perils of the day was over, and then walked out into the Park, and deliberately set his watch by the town-clock. Being a cautious man, however, and a man of experience, and one who piqued himself on doing every thing better than any one else, and upon being always right when all the rest of the world was wrong, and on being in general in all respects somewhat—but not too much, merely a trifle—superior to the ordinary run of mankind; and being aware that the town-clock had four faces, which always differed in opinion as to the hour; and being too knowing to be taken in by any small trick of that kind, he winked to himself, and took the pains to make the circuit of the building, and successively to inspect each face of the aforesaid public time-keeper; and having ascertained that the majority was with the one which he had first consulted, he pulled his waistcoat very high up in front and dropped his watch into a small pocket in the waistband of his trowsers. After which, he buttoned his coat and set about his day's work with no little complacency and good humor.
The direction which he took led to one of the poorer parts of the town; and although he walked slowly, it was not long before he was in the thick of those narrow, ill-ventilated streets, hemmed in by decaying houses and reeking cellars, which proclaim, plainer than words, that vice and want, and a thousand other ills which canker the heart, and eat up all that is noble in human nature, are lurking in their dark recesses.
Mr. Chicken, for he it was, paused in front of one of the dim holes, where a dozen wretched beings, ill clad and ill fed, were herding together, and wondered why theywouldlive in such places; and why they did not pay more attention to their dress; really, it was exceedingly shocking; some of them were half naked. 'It'squite indelicate, quite!' said he, mentally: 'Mrs. Chicken would die if she saw it. I declare, I won't be positive—no, yes—no; yet I do think one of them is a woman; I reallydothink that rug is meant for a petticoat. Itmustbe a woman,' said he, continuing his investigations in a cautious manner. 'Itisa woman. Ah! it's agin natur.'
There was no doubt of the truth of his suspicion; half of them were females. Squatting and crouching there, they raised their blear eyes toward him in sullen indifference; too miserably wretched to heed or resent the look of disgust and surprise which met theirs, other than by a heartless laugh or a ribald jest; too callous to feel, and too broken down in body and soul to taunt. The deputy-sheriff shook his head, for although he had often been amid scenes where the strong heart was wrung; where the debtor, ground down by creditors with hearts of flint, and eyes greedy of gold, was struggling beneath the fangs of the law, and crying for indulgence and mercy: although he had seen the calm, pale look of despair; the silent but resolute face of the man who had parted with his all, and finally yielded his body for the gold which he could not pay; and the wife clasping his neck, and his children clinging to him; ay, actually showing marks of affection to a man who was penniless; yet he had rarely encountered a den like this. He had only witnessed suffering and despair in their first stages. Had he desired to see the human soul when hope had darkened into desperation; when friends had fallen off, or less painful than that, had died; when the body had been wasted, and the blood dried up, and yet had yielded no gold; when even that untiring thing, a creditor, had grown weary of his prey, and had flung his victim adrift, to find none to sympathize, no path open, no home left, and even hope dead; he should have lingered a little longer; and in common with the born thief, the hardened courtezan, the reeling drunkard, and the savage brawler, he would have found those whom the sun of prosperity had once warmed, and who once had little dreamed in what foul haunts they would linger out the remnant of life which was yet in store for them.
Mr. Chicken, however, having already expressed his opinion, merely shook his head disapprovingly, on concluding his investigation, and said nothing, but kept on, now turning into one narrow street to the right, then striking into another to the left; now stumbling along broken pavements, and dilapidated steps; at one time half stifled with exhalations which steamed up from reeking kennels and under-ground dwellings, until he finally emerged into a broader street; but still the dwellings were of a meaner cast. Stopping in front of one of these, he stealthily drew out his pocket-book, took from it a small slip of paper, looked at it, then at the house; coughed several times; cleared his throat emphatically and fixed his hat firmly on his head; buttoned his coat to the chin, placed his cane under his left arm, and grasping the small paper firmly in his right hand, like one preparing for a mortal struggle, precipitated himself headlong into a dark alley. Stumbling over abroken pail, a log of wood, and a few minor articles of a domestic description, which usually beset benighted alleys and dim stairways, the sheriff's deputy finally caught sight of daylight in a small yard, with which the passage communicated, and found himself at the door of a dilapidated house, built in the rear of one fronting on the street.
It was a small faded building, two stories high, sinking and crumbling away, like a person weak in the side. Narrow windows, cracked and dust-covered, looked out into the dark yard. A broken flower-pot stood on a window sill with a stunted bush in it, bearing a single yellow leaf; and in another, was a half-starved shrub endeavoring to keep the life in a drooping flower. On the roof, which abutted on other roofs, and was overlooked by tall buildings, a lean cat was dozing in the sun, as if endeavoring to forget hunger in sleep. Every thing bore the stamp of starvation. The windows too were patched with rags, or pieces of paper; the bricks from ruined chimneys had toppled down, and were lying in masses on the roof; there were great, gaping seams between the boards, showing the plaster within; the door had sagged away, and the shutters of more than one window hung by a single hinge. On the door-steps a child was sleeping, and from a narrow window a thin face peeped cautiously out, wondering what a stranger could want in that dreary quarter.
The sheriff's deputy, however, was familiar with the ground. He was in the habit of fishing in troubled waters; and it was not the first time that he had drawn from this very place food for the gaol.
Without asking a question, he quietly stepped over the sleeping child, and stooping as he entered, to prevent his hat coming in contact with the top of the low door-way, he ascended a crooked staircase, carefully picking his way; grumbling at its inconvenient formation, and indulging a few mental anathemas against old houses in general. At the head of the stairs a door was ajar; and without knocking, he pushed it open, entered, and shut it; standing ready to place his back against it, in case he should observe any indication of an attempt on the part of the occupant to escape. This precaution, however, was unnecessary; for the only person there was a man of about forty, with a stern, resolute face, a sharp, gray eye, and strongly built, who was writing at a table, which, with the exception of a bed in a corner, and two chairs, constituted the entire furniture of the room; who merely looked up as his visitor entered, and without removing his eyes from him, said:
'Methinks that common courtesy entitles a man to a knock at his door before his room is entered. Though perhaps,' he added, bitterly, 'the owner of such quarters as these is only entitled to courtesy according to his means.'
To neither of these remarks did Mr. Chicken make any reply; but gradually sidling up to the speaker, until he came within arm's length, he tapped him on the shoulder, and said:
'I arrest you, Sir. It's a very onpleasant duty; but itisa duty, and must be did. Here's the writ.'
The man eyed him for a moment; apparently meditating what course to pursue; while Mr. Chicken grasped the head of the dog on his cane, and assumed an air of desperate determination. At last the man took the paper from his hand, and read it through, without moving or speaking, although his face became somewhat flushed, as he read. Then he merely uttered the words, 'Michael Rust!'
'He's the plaintiff,' said Mr. Chicken, 'and you are the defendant, Enoch Grosket. It's onpleasant, Sir, quite onpleasant; but I'm a deputy-sheriff, Sir; and you're a defendant; and here's the writ; and duty must be did. That's the long and short of it.'
'So this is the end of the game,' said Grosket to himself; 'this is the reward of five years of servitude, the most vile and degraded that ever bound man to his fellow man. A noble harvest have I reaped, for seed that I have sown!—a glorious close to my labors! But it is what I might have looked for. Ah! Michael Rust! well have you carried out your schemes!—a pleasant part have you played in my family! You have sent child and wife both to their graves; the one dishonored, the other broken-hearted; and now, a prison for the father. Be it so, Michael Rust; but the game is not yours yet. If you win it, it must be at the cost of a struggle, which will rack all your sinews. I do not understand this claim,' said he, in a musing tone; 'three thousand dollars?' I owehimnothing. What can it be? 'Edward Kornicker, attorney.' Who's he?' he asked, raising his eyes from the paper to those of Mr. Chicken. 'I never heard of him.'
Mr. Chicken drew down the corners of his mouth, and smiled; at the same time saying, that Mr. Kornicker was a young man of some merit, but rather wild—alittlewild.
Having said this, he took a seat in the vacant chair, and placed his hat on the table; at the same time telling Mr. Grosket that he did not wish to hurry him, but that if he had any bail to offer, he would go with him in search of it. If he hadn't, he would be under the less pleasant necessity of escorting him to gaol; and in either case, that he, the said Mr. Chicken, being a public functionary, and much pressed by business, would take it as a personal favor if Mr. Grosket would hasten his movements as much as possible.
Grosket shook his head, despairingly.
'No,' said he; 'the sum is too large—six thousand dollars! I know of no one who will become bail for me in such an amount. Had it come but a day later, one single day later,' said he, clasping his hands tightly together, 'andhe, notIwould have been the victim!'
'Well, Sir,' said Mr. Chicken, 'there being no bail, in course there is no alternative. You must go to gaol; rooms small, but well ventilated. You'll find yourself very comfortable there arter a fortnight or so. Thereisfolks that quite like the place.'
Grosket made no reply to this comforting remark; but stood withhis hand resting on the table, and his brows knit in deep thought. At last he said, as if coming to some sudden resolution:
'At least, it's worth the trial. I am working forhim, and if I fail I shall be no worse off than I now am. Come,' said he; 'I know a man who I think will become bail for me. If he don't—if he don't,' said he in an under tone. 'Well, well, I'll try it.'
'Who is he?' inquired Mr. Chicken, cautiously.
'No matter,' replied Grosket; 'you'll see presently.'
Mr. Chicken felt far from satisfied with this reply. It had a tincture of evasion about it; and a vague apprehension of receiving no other bail than that cheap and convenient kind, generally known as 'Leg-bail,' flitted across his imagination, puzzling him not a little; for Grosket was a brawny fellow, whose thews and sinews were not to be trifled with. Mr. Chicken thought that he was in a crisis; and was beginning seriously to deliberate on the propriety of raising a hue-and-cry on the spot, without waiting for farther indication of a disposition to escape, when the prisoner, apparently observing his perplexity, cut it short, by adding:
'Don't be frightened, my old fellow; I'm acting in good faith. If I don't get bail, I'll go with you as quietly as you could wish.'
'And you are out-and-out in earnest? You mean to get it? No gammon, is there?'
'I'll get it if I can: If I can't, I'm your prisoner. I'll play you no tricks.'
'Good!' ejaculated the deputy-sheriff, quietly pocketing his writ, and placing his hat on his head. 'I'm your man now; which way do you want to go?'
Grosket named the direction; and in a few moments they were on their way to Jacob Rhoneland's.
Fora long time Enoch Grosket and the sheriff's deputy walked on without exchanging a word; but as they proceeded, Grosket's brow began to darken, his lips were firmly set together, and his pace quickened until his companion could scarcely keep up with him.
'Come on, Sir,' said Enoch, abruptly turning to him. 'Michael Rust is the devil, but he has driven to desperation one whom he has drilled in all his ways; and who has had a hand in all his dark doings for years. Let him look to himself. He may chain the body, but my tongue shall speak. Ah! Michael Rust! Michael Rust! you were never nearer destruction than when you thought me in your power!'
His speed soon increased to such a degree, that although Mr. Chicken had apparently been constituted with an especial eye to rapid locomotion, yet that gentleman's lower members were kept at their full stretch. Once or twice the deputy suggested to his companion that the day was warm for the season, and that he had beenmore active twenty years ago; to both of which remarks Grosket assented, without in the least diminishing his speed; nor did he pause to draw breath until they had reached Rhoneland's house.
'This is the place,' said Grosket. 'If he's wise, he'll not refuse me.'
He knocked at the door, which was opened by Kate. She knew neither of them; and in reply to his question, informed him that her father was at home. Grosket paused for a moment as his eye rested on her bright face; and something like a tear rose in it, as he thought of his own lost child; but he checked the feeling which induced it, and turning, said:
'So you're his daughter?'
'His only child,' replied Kate, anxiously.
'Poor child!' muttered Grosket; 'God help her!'
He muttered this rather to himself than to her; and passed in; but neither his manner nor the words, low as was the tone in which they were spoken, escaped her; and with a heart sinking with apprehension, of she knew not what, for the appearance of any stranger at the house filled her with dread now, she admitted him into the room where her father was.
It was the same poorly-furnished apartment in which the old man was when first introduced to the reader. He occupied the same seat, and sat almost in the same attitude, with his hands clasped over his knees, his chin bowed down on his breast, his dark eyes peering from beneath his shaggy white brows, and apparently watching the crumbling embers in the fire-place. His face was wan and haggard, even beyond its wont; and he had a watchful, suspicious look, which was not natural to him. As the door opened, he started, glanced quickly at the strangers, then at his daughter, as if she and they were in some manner associated in his mind.
'Don't go, Kate! don't go! I want you here,' said he, in a quick, anxious tone, seeing that she was closing the door without entering; 'don't go, my child. Our business is no secret.'
As he said this, he cast an inquiring look at the two, to ascertain that he was correct, and pointed with a hesitating finger to a chair.
Mr. Chicken bowed gratefully, took it immediately, removed his hat, placed his cane between his knees, ran his fingers through his hair, and looked up at the ceiling, after the manner of persons who are occasionally present at interviews in which they have no concern, and in which they have no intention of meddling.
Grosket, however, stood where he was, with his hat on, looking steadily in the agitated face of the old man. At last he said:
'So you don't know me?'
Rhoneland eyed him for a long time; at last he shook his head.
'Yet yououghtto,' said Grosket, in the same tone. 'Look at me again.'
Again the old man bent his eyes upon his face, and studied his features; and certainly they were not of a character to be easily forgotten; but again he was at fault; he did not know him.
'It's strange!' muttered the other; 'a friend is often forgotten, but an enemy rarely. My name is Grosket—Enoch Grosket.'
A bright flush passed over the old man's face, as he heard the name, and he half rose from his chair. 'Yes, yes,' said he, quickly; 'I know now; the friend of Michael Rust. Kate,' said he, suddenly turning to the girl, who was leaning over his chair; 'you can go—go, Kate; leave the room, my child. This is only a friend of Mr. Rust's.'
'It's scarcely worth while,' said Grosket, 'for what I have to say of Rust will soon be spoken in the open day; ay, in his teeth will I fling my charges; before the whole world will I make them; I will brand him with a mark that he will carry to his grave! No, no, Jacob Rhoneland. I'mnota friend of Michael Rust, and he'll find it so. I've too many wrongs to settle with him, for that.'
'Not a friend of his!' ejaculated Rhoneland; 'then what brings youhere? Don't you know that I am his friend?—an old friend? He calls me his best friend.'
Grosket's lip curled, as he answered:
'Thatfriendship has lasted too long for the good of one of you. I need not mention who that one is. I am come to end it. He was my friend once. God save me from another like him! God! how he loved me!' said he, setting his teeth; 'and in return,' added he, in a cold tone, 'don't I love him now? Such a love! Give me but life and liberty, life and liberty,' said he, dropping his assumed tone, and breaking out in a burst of fierce vehemence, 'and by every hope that man can have, I swear to crush him; to grind him to the earth, body and soul; to blight him as he has blighted others; and as far as man can do so, to thwart every scheme, wither every hope, and to make him drag out his life, a vile, spurned, detested object, hated by man, driven from the pale of society, with every transgression stamped upon him, and beyond redemption in this world! What his prospects may be hereafter, none can tell butHim.' He raised his hat reverently as he spoke, and his tone from high excitement, calmed into deep solemnity.
'My errand here,' said he, turning to Rhoneland, 'is simple; my story a short one. I was Michael Rust's friend—his tool, if you will. Through his agency I am a beggar, and my wife and child are in their graves. This did not satisfy him. I am now arrested at his suit for a debt of three thousand dollars, of which I know nothing. I cannot pay it. I have not that sum in the world; but I cannot go to prison. It would frustrate all my views. I must be at large to work. Let me have but a month of freedom, and Michael Rust will be glad to exonerate me from all claims, and to beg me on his knees to stand his friend. I am come to ask you to be my bail. The sum is six thousand dollars.'
'Me!me!' exclaimed Rhoneland; 'MEyour bail! and against Michael Rust!—my friend Rust! Oh, no; never, never!'
'It's more for your interest than mine,' replied Grosket, calmly. 'If you do not, you'll repent it.'
Rhoneland twisted his fingers one in the other, and looked irresolutelyat his daughter, and at the deputy, and then at Grosket, as if seeking counsel in their faces. At last he said, in a querulous tone:
'You're a stranger to me. I don't know you. Why do you speak in riddles? Why do you come here to harass a broken-down old man? What do you mean?'
'I meanthis,' replied Grosket: 'Michael Rust is your friend because youdarenot be his enemy. Youlovehim because you dare nothatehim. You pray night and day to be rid of him. You would think it the brightest day in your life when, all connection between you dissolved, he left your door to darken it no more. He has a hold on your fears, with which he sways you to his will, and which he will make the means of ruin to you, and of wretchedness to those dearer to you than yourself. I speak ofher,' said he, seeing the old man looking timidly up in the face of Kate, who still hung over his chair, pale as death, but listening to every word. 'I know his secrets, his crimes, the tools with which he works; the very falsehood which he has fabricated against you, which you cannot disprove, but whichIcan.'
'Falsehoods!' ejaculated Rhoneland.
'Yes, falsehoods. The time is come when, even with you, he must stand revealed in his true character.'
He stepped close to Rhoneland and whispered a few words in his ear. The old man sank back in his chair, as if seized with sudden faintness; his jaw relaxed, and his eyes half started from his head. His prostration lasted but for a moment. The next instant he started up, made a step toward Grosket, and grasped his hand in both of his. 'Can you save me? can you save me?' gasped he; 'Oh! do—do, for God's sake!'
'I can,' replied Grosket.
'And her,her? my own child?' exclaimed he, pointing to his daughter.
'So help me God, I think I can!' said Grosket, earnestly; but to do so, I must be free; free only for one month. At the end of that time, if I fail, the gaol may have its prey. Get me that delay, and I have no fears for the rest.'
'Here's the document,' said Mr. Chicken, emerging from a profound revery, at the very moment that it was most requisite that his wits should be present, and producing a paper. 'I'll fill it up; you can sign it to once-t, and acknowledge it arterward.'
Rhoneland had reached out his hand to take the paper, but suddenly he hesitated and drew it back.
'Mustheknow this?' inquired he. 'Is there no way in which it can be kept fromhim?'
Grosket looked at the deputy, who looked at the wall, and said that he 'didn't know as it could be perwented, convenient.'
'Then you must choose between us,' said Grosket, coldly; 'I have said enough to satisfy you that I have the same power over you that Rust has, did I but choose to exert it. In suffering me to go to prison you are permitting him to fetter the only person whocan defeat his schemes, who can free you from his control, and prevent your child from being—Mrs. Rust.'
'I'd die first! I'd die first!' exclaimed the old man, franticly. 'Me he might do with as he pleased, but he shall not harmyou, Kate. I'll do it, I'll do it, foryoursake, my child!' said he, turning to her, and clasping her convulsively to him. 'Come what may, I'll do it. Come, Sir; I'm ready,' said he. 'I'll go at once. Lose no time, not a minute. Why do you wait?' said he, impatiently.
Without heeding him, Grosket went up to Kate, and took her hand respectfully: 'Trust me, no harm will come of this to him. At all events, none compared with what would have befallen both of you, had Michael Rust succeeded in his plans. If ever there was a man in this world in whom the devil seems to live and move, it is Michael Rust. His sagacity and shrewdness have hitherto given him success; and hitherto he has laughed at law, and baffled detection; but his race is nearly run. He or I must fall; and of this one thing I am certain,Ishall not. Now, Sir,' said he, turning to Rhoneland, 'we'll go. But I'm puzzled where to look for another bail.'
'I shan't be perticklar about that,' said Mr. Chicken, quietly; 'I know something about Jacob Rhoneland, and he's good enough for me. We'll get this acknowledged, and then you may go.'
Rhoneland went to the door, and opening it, led the way into the street.
Many important events in life balance upon the doings of a moment; and had Rhoneland lingered but five minutes longer he would never have linked himself to Grosket; for not that time had elapsed after their departure, when the door of the room where Kate was still sitting alone was thrown open, and Michael Rust entered. His look was eager, and his usually slow, shuffling step was rapid.
'Where's Jacob?' said he, looking round.
'He's gone out,' replied Kate, coldly.
'Gone out!' repeated he; and then suddenly changing his manner, he said: 'Well, I wanted him; but he has left you in his place. It was kind in him. He knew that I was coming, Kate; that I doted on you; that there was nothing I loved like a little chat with you, and he couldn't have the heart to disappoint me; so he let you remain. Ah! Kate! troubles are thickening upon me. Don't you sympathize with me, Kate? Iknowyou do. I'msureyou do. You're a noble girl!'
As he spoke, he advanced and took her hand. Kate drew it from him with an air of marked coldness; but not at all discouraged, he said:
'The sweetest hour of my life is when I steal away to sit by your side, Kate; to gaze in your face, and watch your eye as it peeps from under its long lashes, and the smile of your pouting, cherry lip. Ah! Kate!'
'Mr. Rust, this is really very unpleasant,' said Kate, with someanger in her manner. 'As my father's friend, you are welcome to this house. As his friend, also, you should not forget what is due to his daughter, and should refrain from a style of conversation which cannot but be offensive.'