THE KNICKERBOCKER.

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.

 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 gentleman1 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.

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.

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.

C.

 THE HOUSEHOLDER.

BY JOHN WATERS.

 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:

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.

E. G.

 THE HEARTH OF HOME.

BY MARY E. HEWITT.

 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. ’Twont 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
the garden-gate, and then holler for help.’ Shaw was the best hearted
of men; he would not hurt a human being in the world, cruel as he
was to bugs, and to centipedes an ‘outer barbarian.’ In the course of
ten minutes he was at the base of a large rock, scooping out garnets,
and thinking casually of that ‘great work which his country would not
willingly let die,’ when a rope was let over his head and shoulders from
above, and the professor was noosed. The countrymen jumped down,
and began to drag him from the other end, squeezing his bowels, and
winding him round and round, till coming to close quarters, they knocked
his hat off, wrested his hammer out of his hand, and seizing him by the
collar, almost throttled him with the knuckles of their immense fists.

Shaw. (Kicking violently.) Murder! murder! murder!

Rustics. It won’t do no good; we got yer; you may as well come
fust as last. You’re crazy as a coot, and wuss now than when we fus
see you. Your eyes shows it.

Shaw. I’ll go with you, my friends, but don’t kill me; oh! I beseech
you don’t kill me!

Rustics. No, we wont hurt you; only come along to the house.
Come along.

Shaw. Take your knuckles out of my throat, please. Aside. Their
hallucination is extreme; the symptoms of their disease have taken a
form the most vindictive. Yes, my friends, conduct me safe. We shall
soon reach the house; then all will be explained.

At this very hour an amusing scene was enacting among the lunatics
in the large hall of the asylum. One who professed magnetism was
trying his skill upon a subject, to the great entertainment of his fellows.
He was making the passes after a singular fashion, upon a docile fellow
who sat bolt upright in a chair with a face of the most stolid gravity.
Standing at a distance, he would rush up with long strides, make a wavy
flourish with his hands over the face of the subject, and retreat as rapidly.
Then with eager, swelling eyes, aiming with the fore-finger of
each hand, he would run up and point at some phrenological bump upon
the cranium. But the patient sat immovable, and was neither to be
soothed into slumber, nor coaxed into giving any indication that the organs
were excited; as is the case with the well-drilled protegés of your
itinerant lecturers.

Nearly all the inmates were witnesses of this scene, except a few who
were restricted, and one fair girl who walked in the garden sobbing;
and never did tears fall out of more beautiful eyes, or shed over such a
sweet face the interest of sorrow. They gushed profusely on the rosebud
in her hand; fit emblem of herself; for she had not yet broke into
the bloom of womanhood. Where tears flow, despair has been already
softened to sorrow, and smiles may yet shine out of the darkness, as the
bow of promise bridges only a firmament of cloud. This poor creature,
frightened at a disturbance at the gate, fled like a fawn to her own apartment.
The professor was lugged in by the head and ears, with unnecessary
roughness. Appearances were much against him, as he
always had a crazy look. His strange dress and equipments, his unshaven
 beard, his long hair straggling over his forehead, his long nose and
long legs, his much-abused and bunged-up hat, which yawned wide
open at the crown and showed the lining, wore the external tokens of a
mind ill at ease. Added to this, a sickly smile shed a yellow glare over
his features, of which the effect was neither natural nor pleasant; and
as the lunatics pressed around, and the clowns still clutched him by the
throat, even that passed away, and left an expression of bewilderment
and undisguised dismay. At that moment the physician arrived, and
glancing at the new subject just brought to the establishment, and concluding
that his present wildness would need some coercion at first, requested
him to be brought into the nearest apartment. The four formed
a singular group. ‘Sit down,’ said the doctor, nodding calmly to the
professor, as he prepared to study the case. ‘Ha! ha!’ exclaimed Professor
Shaw, dropping into a chair, and striving hard to be amused at
his predicament, ‘ha! ha! ha! My dear Sir, ha! ha! yes, I think I
may say ha! ha! ha!’—and he laughed so obstreperously as to set the
whole company in a roar. ‘This excursion for scientific purposes;
near coming to an unpleasant termination; some of your poor fellows,
doctor,’ casting a knowing look at the clowns, ‘are strongly possessed
they brought me here against my will.’

The doctor smiled.

‘Let me explain all,’ said Mr. Shaw, recovering breath, and speaking
with preternatural calmness. ‘Oblige me first by having those men removed.
Their presence disturbs me. I pity them from my lowest
soul; but they have—it is ridiculous—ha! ha! ha! yes, it is ridiculous—but
they have hurt me very much and disturbed my equanimity.
You should confine them more strictly, Sir, and not let them go at large
to murder strangers by the way-side.’

The doctor smiled.

‘In search of relaxation, during the intervals of a great work which I
have in hand, having been made an honorary member of the Tinnecum
Association, I came here for the prosecution of scientific purposes,
and for the collection of botanical and mineralogical specimens,
which I have at present in my breeches pocket.’

Rustics. He! he! he! that’s enough—see his eyes!

Shaw. (Smiling.) Doctor, how long have these subjects been in
your institution? Their insanity has not taken a very mild form.
Will you oblige me by removing them from the room? Indeed it hurts
me to see the immortal mind astray.

The doctor smiled.

Shaw. (Enthusiastically.) As I entered these doors, a most lovely
being shot across my path. It was but an instant; a quick light, a
momentary flash, and all was gone! But it was enough! I saw her!
I never shall forget her. Who is she? That sweet girl has impressed
her image on my soul!

Doctor. My friend, be calm.

Shaw. Oh, my dear Sir! understand me. I am calm, I am calm.

Doctor. Perhaps you will be so kind as to inform me where your
friends reside, and when you left them upon this journey.

‘My friends!’ exclaimed the professor, with a bitter sneer; ‘who are
 my friends? Where have I found any whose friendship was other than
a name? My books, my cabinet, my studies, the great work on which
I am now laboring—these are my friends; it is only through these
that I shall be raised to fame. Sic itur ad astra.’

Doctor. I am satisfied that we had better secure——

Shaw. Do you want any assistance, Sir? I will willingly help you
to get these poor fellows to their rooms.

Rustics. He’s the cunningest we ever seen.

Doctor. Yes, he would deceive any one. Wait a minute my men.

Shaw. If you don’t need me I’ll bid you good day; I can’t stay
any longer.

Doctor. Oh no, we can’t let you go, in common humanity, till we
have communicated with your friends.

Professor Shaw, in the utmost alarm, attempted to plunge out of the
room. He was laid violent hands on by all three; his indignation boiled
over; he struggled most desperately, knocked down the doctor, and attempted
to jump out of the window, but in the end was overcome, a
straight-jacket put on him, the stones were taken out of his pocket, he
was conducted to a separate apartment, and as the shades of night fell
around him, he almost doubted himself whether he was in his sound
mind. His wits seemed to be indeed scattered. In vain he tried to collect
them, and to realize his present position, which was the most false
and unfortunate one in which he had ever been placed. He charged
the Devil with conspiracy. He had already sneered at the suggestion
of having friends; how should he be the victim and laughter of his enemies!
He imagined them holding their gaunt sides and shaking with a
spectre-like malignity. Then he thought of the fair girl whom he had
seen in the garden shedding tears on roses, and strove to weave a chaplet
of verse which should be more unfading than flowers. What a
strange destiny was his! The victim of untoward accidents, persecuted
by some evil spirit, and leading an aimless, desultory life, which he
yet feared would lead on to lunacy. What should he do in the present
instance? Be patient? Yes, he would be calm, forgiving, philosophical
as ever. Footsteps are approaching; the door of his cell opens;
perhaps it is already the token of his release. Yes, one of his own
townsmen enters. Alas! he owed the professor a grudge, and assured
the doctor that he was cracked, and begged him to hold on to him by all
means; he would go and inform his friends. ‘Ha! ha! ha!’ exclaimed
Shaw, as the door closed; ‘there it is again; in luck as usual;
ha! ha! ha!—ha! ha! ha!’

As it grew dark, and he lay on his pallet, a crowd of thoughts and imaginations
pursued him through a long sleep, and when he opened his
eyes to the morning light, he gazed around the strange place with astonishment,
and tried in vain to persuade himself that his present position
was not a dream.

In three days he was released from limbo; retracing his steps, with
all the bugs and specimens which he had collected. And, for those who
feel an interest in Professor Shaw, it may be agreeable to know, that in
his wanderings, having discovered in a green lane, on the margin of a
duck-pond, a district school in want of a pedagogue, he forthwith assumed
 the birch, and may be now seen at almost any hour of the day, in
the midst of his noisy populace, commanding silence, or dusting them on
their least honorable parts. ‘Tough, are you? I’ll see if I can find a
tender spot. Come, no bawling, or I’ll flog you till you stop. Thomas
Jones, take your book, and stick your nose in the c-o-rner. First division
may go out. First class in geography——’

F. W. S.

STANZAS

TO THE SPIRITS OF MY THREE DEPARTED SISTERS.

WRITTEN AT MID-WINTER.

I. G. Holland.

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE PRAIRIE HERMIT.

EDITED BY PETER VON GEIST.

It happened on the twenty-seventh day of July, in the year of our
Lord one thousand eight hundred and forty-two, that I, Peter Von
Geist, found myself, in the natural course of events, journeying on
horse-back along the northern bank of the Ohio river, in the state of Illinois.
The space between me and the house where I designed to stop,
and the time between then and sun-down, were somewhat disproportionate;
so I pricked gallantly forward; as gallantly at least as could
be expected from a tired horse, and a knight whose recreant thoughts
were intensely fixed on dollars and cents, supper, and other trifling
affairs. By dint however of much patience in the steed, and much impatience
in the rider, we got over the ground, and approached a house
that had been in sight for some distance.

It was placed on the summit of a steep, conical hill; there was no
smoke from its chimney, or voices to be heard, or persons to be seen, or
other signs of life, in its precincts. The grass grew high and green all
around the hillock, and there was no road, not even a foot-path, visible
on its side. Nevertheless, I dismounted, left my horse to improve the
opportunity of snatching a light repast on the abundant herbage, and
forced my way up to the top of the knoll.

The building was constructed in the rude fashion of the country; but
the chinking had fallen out from between the logs; the chimney had
 partly tumbled down; tall weeds sprung up between the stones of the
door-steps; the door itself was fastened with a huge padlock; the windows
were nearly all beaten in, and every thing about it gave evidence
that it had not been inhabited for several years. The summit of the
hill was smooth and level. A few stumps grew around the edge; and
the ground seemed to have been, at some former time, a garden.

The situation was exceedingly fine, and the view on all sides very
beautiful. The eminence commanded on one hand three or four miles
of the river, and on the other an unlimited tract of prairie. At the
particular moment when I first visited it, the level sun-light came glancing
over the face of flood and field, tinging every thing that it touched
with its own mellow hue, and casting gigantic and ill-defined shadows
of the hill, the house, and myself, on the plain beyond. At the distance
of a mile and a half below, stood a couple of one-story houses, the logs
of which they were built newly hewed, evidently of recent construction.
The inhabitants of this old building, then, must have stood where I am
standing, and gazed over the vast extent of country that is spread out
before me, without meeting a single habitation of man, or any thing
having life, except perhaps a wolf or a buffalo. And it could not have
been desire of wealth that induced a family of refinement and taste,
such as the little decorations and ornaments show that this was, to select
this solitude for their home; for not more than an acre of land, at the
foot of the hill, had ever been invaded by the plough.

There were several circumstances like these, that were unusual and
unaccountable; but not being in a mood just then to be much perplexed
about it, I descended the knoll, remounted, and hurried on towards
the more hospitable dwellings below.

Of course, the traveller was received with a welcome, and his bodily
wants speedily and abundantly cared for. After this most important
duty had been satisfactorily performed, and quietude of spirit consequent
thereon was restored to my breast, it chanced that the host and his blue-eyed,
golden-haired, neatly-dressed, smiling-faced, half-matron, and
half-girlish young wife, who had lately set up business on their own
account, and I, seated ourselves without the door, to feel the cool air of
the evening. It chanced too that the door faced the east; and the old
house towered up darkly in the distance before us. In answer to my
inquiries, they were able to give but little information concerning it,
and that chiefly derived from others.

It appeared that there was on the other side of the river, and a little
lower down, a small settlement. It had stood there from time immemorial;
at least, the memory of the tidy little wife did not run to the contrary,
and she had received her birth and education there, and ought to
know. She remembered, one of the first things that she could remember,
a middle-aged gentleman, in a black hat and coat, who used to row
over the river from the other shore in a small skiff, and walk into her
father’s store to make his purchases, with a grave, but not cold or forbidding
face, and used to pat her on the head, with such a fatherly smile,
and say a few words in such a kind tone, as to fill her little breast quite
full with delight. She remembered more distinctly, a few years later,
how this same gentleman used to come into the settlement as often as
 once-a-week, and how glad every one appeared to meet him and shake
hands with him. The villagers seemed to repose unlimited confidence
in him. The moment he landed, half-a-dozen were ready to ask his
advice, or to show him papers, to see if all were correctly done. He
was the umpire in all differences and quarrels, and seldom failed to send
away the disputants at peace with each other. If there was a wedding,
he of course must be present. On May-day, when the boys and girls
went out into the woods to romp, and afterward to sit down to a rustic
pic-nic, he was sure to walk into their midst, just at the right moment,
bearing in his hand a wreath of flowers, so beautiful, and so tastefully
made, that all the girls cried when at length it fell to pieces; and he
would place it on the head of the Queen of May with such a gentle,
sweet little speech, that she would blush up to the tips of her ears, and
all her subjects would clap their hands and laugh out with pleasure.

At Christmas parties his place was never empty; and while he was
there, mirth never flagged. Perhaps their sports were not so boisterous
as they would have been if he had not been a spectator; but they were
quite as pleasant at the time, and a great deal pleasanter when looked
back upon from the next day. He used to sit in one corner, by the
huge, roaring fire, and look on, apparently as much interested as they
themselves were. Nothing went amiss; and there was never wanting
some slight, good-natured remark or act, to rectify mistakes and set
them all going again.

But much as he was loved by the villagers, he was no less respected.
They did not even know his name. Many would have been glad to,
and wearied themselves by indirect methods to find it out. But as no
one had courage to ask him, and as it never happened to fall from him
incidentally, they remained in the dark about it. He was known and
addressed however, by the appellation of ‘the Lawyer,’ as their conversation
with him was chiefly asking his advice on points of law too knotty
for them, which he freely gave. He affected no mystery or reserve;
yet there was something in his bearing, affable and unaristocratic as it
was, that caused those very men—who, if the governor of the state had
come among them, would have slapped him on the back, and offered him
a glass of liquor—to rise in his presence and approach him with respect.

My bright-eyed informant, with her musical voice, recollected, a good
while ago, when she was about ten years old, and he had become gray
and wrinkled—though he never needed a staff, nor was his eye
dim—that he rowed over one spring afternoon, and requested the men
to leave their work for a few minutes, and hear something that he had
to say to them. Accordingly, they collected ‘considerable of a little
crowd’ around her father’s store. The lawyer stood in the door, while
she made her way through the throng and sat down on the door-step, at
his feet. She did not remember all that he said; only that he talked to
them for about half an hour, in a calm, conversational tone, on the
importance of building school-houses and educating their children.
They seemed to be much pleased with what he said; and after another
half hour’s free discussion, the whole village turned out, and went to
work felling trees and hewing timber; and in the course of a few days
 a substantial school-house was erected. From that time forth, she and
all her brothers and sisters, and all her play-mates, at stated hours and
seasons, were rigidly imprisoned therein, and diligently instructed in the
rudiments of science.

About this time, she and a brother who was about two years older
embarked on a voyage of discovery. They pulled up the river, at least
he did, for she only held the rudder, two miles, till they come in sight
of the residence of the Great Unknown. There stood the old house, as
she had often gazed at it with wondering eyes from the opposite bank,
just as grim, and dark, and gloomy. It had been their intention to make
an open descent upon it, and boldly beat up the premises. But now, the
building was so silent, and deserted, and frowning, their hearts failed
them, and they crept cautiously along up the southern shore till they
were concealed by a bend in the river; then striking across, they floated
down, by accident as it were, close under the northern bank. When
they arrived under the hill, on the top of which the object of their curiosity
was placed, they looked anxiously up at it; but every thing was
as silent as the grave. Seeing it thus unguarded, they took courage,
ran the skiff ashore, and prepared to land. But when on the point of
stepping on the beach, the door of the house opened, the man himself
walked out therefrom and advanced to the brow of the eminence. There
he stood; black all over, except his face, which at that instant appeared
to wear a peculiarly terrible and ferocious aspect. The children were
frightened, and hastily shoved off their little cockle-boat. But the man
came down to the edge of the water, and called them by name to return.
She thought how far off home was, and no one near to afford assistance
in case of need; and when she thought, she would have been glad to
have retreated as fast as possible; but her brother was commander of
the expedition, and without more words he pushed back to land.

They went ashore, neither of them altogether devoid of fear and
trembling, and sat down on the grassy bank, by the side of their venerable
friend. He soon talked away their timidity; and seemed so mild
and affectionate, that in a few minutes they were chatting and laughing
as merrily as ever children could. He showed them his garden, his
trees, and flowers, and fruits. He gave them a little basket, which
they filled with strawberries, some of which he squeezed between his
fingers and rubbed on her cheeks, to see he said, if they could be made
any redder. In fine, he amused them so much with his stories, and
was so pleasant and kind, that they fell more than ever in love with
him; and after promising a dozen times to come and see him every
week while it was summer, they returned gaily home.

But the old man died at last. The children went up one sunshiny
morning to pay him a visit, and found the house all still, and the door
locked. They knocked and knocked, but no one answered. They
peeped in at the window and saw him stretched at length on the bed,
fully dressed, with a handkerchief over his face, and his gray hair lying
dishevelled on the pillow. They called to him; but still there was no
answer. Then they became alarmed, and hurried home. Some men
came up, broke open the door, and found him dead. Without sickness,
or premonition of any kind, he had calmly passed away.

 They dug his grave by the side of the cottage, and laid him in it,
with his feet to the east and his head to the west; and left him to rest
there, unknown and unnamed in death, as he had been in life. The
whole village, men, and women, and children, mourned for him many
days. But when the days of lamentation were ended, and they saw his
face no more, though their grief abated, his memory did not, and has not
yet passed from their hearts.

I observed the voice of my hostess to falter more than once, while
telling this simple and dream-like story of her childhood. I could see
by the night-lights too that her bright eyes sometimes became brighter
and sometimes dimmer; both of which circumstances made it only the
more pleasant for me to sit and listen to her words.

‘There were no letters,’ she said, found in his possession from which
they could learn his name. There were no writings of any kind, except
a bundle of old papers, which she had looked into, but they seemed
to be only disconnected thoughts and memoranda of events and feelings,
and threw no light on his history. At my request she produced a lamp
and spread out the papers on the table. I turned over the worn and
time-stained manuscripts; but the leaves were loose, unnumbered, and
put together at random, and it was some time before I could find a place
to begin at.

At length, however, I managed to bring a few sheets in juxtaposition,
such, that with a little stretch of the imagination I could discern a
slight connection between them. And thus, by dim lamp-light, alone,
with the silence of night around, and the old house lifting up its dark
and shadowy form in the distance, I read some of the old man’s papers.

Those which I read I took the liberty of putting into my portmanteau,
arguing that though they might be of no use to me, they certainly would
be of none to their present possessors. Some of these papers having
appeared in the Knickerbocker, and met with ‘acceptance bounteous,’
I am induced to transcribe for the edification of the reader, a portion of
the autobiography of the writer. It is contained in the last chapter, or
sheet, and is written in a different and more aged hand than the rest;
and gives the ‘moving why’ of the old man, in isolating himself from his
kind, in one of the great green deserts of the West, ‘for which the
speech of England hath no name.’

A DREAM OF YOUTH.

Sixty years old! Many sorrows, many storms encountered, both
within and without, and much journeying along the road of life, have
left their traces on my features and on my head; but I am thankful
that they have not touched my heart. I live alone, but not solitary;
for I hold daily communion with the absent and beloved; communion
also, sad but sweet, with the departed. The forms of those once hated
too, are ready to rise up at my bidding; but they are never summoned.
For I wish all within me to be gentleness and repose; and it ill becomes
me on this my last failing foothold on the verge of the grave, to allow
thoughts of hatred to stir up the turbid waters of bitterness which have
been slumbering so many years in my heart.

 So I stand up here calmly at the end of my journey, and look back
on the path which I have trodden. And what a path! Far back it runs,
growing fainter and narrower, till I lose sight of it, an indistinct line,
in the distance. I shall not say how many steep hills it crosses, where
it might better have kept in the plains; how many deviations it makes
from a straight course, apparently for the sole purpose of wandering
through difficult places; or how often it runs along over burning sandy
deserts, parallel with, and but a few steps from, the verge of a cool and
pleasant meadow. I shall say nothing of this; for of the million of
paths that intersect this vast plain of Life, there is probably not one
which, when the traveller looks back upon it, does not like mine seem
marked out by the veriest caprice of chance. Each one gropes its way
along, like the crooked track of a blind man; and when it would appear
the easier and almost the only way to keep on up the gentle eminence,
whereon might have been found renown and happiness, by that same
constant fatality, it suddenly turns short off to one side, plunges down
into the rocky ravine, and pants on, for many a weary mile. That man
shapes not his own ends, is a truth which I felt long since, and which
each day’s experience brings home to me with the freshness of a new
discovery. It is a truth which rises up and mocks us, when we sit
down to calculate or plan for the future; and it almost staggers our
confidence in the connection between human means and the desired
result.

But what a path! Proceeding out of the darkness of morning, it
struggles through a brief day, sometimes in sunshine, and sometimes in
shade, and ends in the darkness of night. I glance along it, and the
care-worn faces of the companions of my manhood rise up, on either
side, and farther back, the speaking countenances of the friends of
my youth. It is but a narrow space, the land of Youth, and soon passed;
but pleasant, and full of images of beauty. The sun is not so bright
and hot upon it as on some other parts of the path; but we do not expect
happiness in the garish light of mid-day and reality. The mellowness
of a summer evening sunset lays on it, and thereby it becomes a
faëry land, a land of bliss and dreams. How throng up, as I gaze, the
forms of those early and best-loved friends! How distinct and life-like,
even at this distance, are their characters and features! They are all
there; not one name has been erased, and not one picture dimmed, on
the tablet of memory. The same warm smile of kindling pleasure
greets me; the same hands are thrown out, as if to touch my own; and
those bright eyes grow brighter as they are turned toward me.

It is with such companions that I spend the last days of my earthly
pilgrimage; and thus, as I said before, though alone I am not solitary.
Is not such companionship sweet? When they visit me, I throw off old
age, as a garment. Smiling thoughts come gently over me, and life
and happiness, as of wont, course like the mad blood of fever through
my veins. I feel over again those old feelings, repass through those
same scenes, and my heart beats faster or grows pale in the same places
and in the same manner as it once did. The old fields and houses and
roads come up too, clothed at my command, in the snows of winter, or
in the beauty of summer. Old scenes, but still fresh and young; and
 I am sometimes tempted to believe that the intervening years have been
the illusion of a dream, and that I am awakening in their midst.

All this, some will say, is the weakness of age. It seems to me to
be rather its strength. The future in life is nothing; and what is the
bare present to any one? The past, then, alone is left me. And if
by living in it I can keep my affections alive, instead of letting their
fires, according to the course of nature, or rather of custom, die down
into cold ashes, I do not call myself weak if I do as much as possible
forget the present.

I had, when I was young, many dreams; such as I dare say all have.
They seem such to me now, only not at all shadowy. On the contrary,
they become more and more like reality as my distance from them
increases, while their hues are as well marked and distinct as ever.
Many and bright; but the brightest of all, the dream of my youth, is
that which flashes across my recollection, when there comes into my
heart the thought of my cousin Jane!

My cousin Jane! Her form comes up before me, light and elastic
and joyous, as though summoned for the first time, and as though it had
not been my daily visitor for many a long year. Time writes no
wrinkle on thy snowy brow, my first love! That glad smile knows
no weariness, and I know no weariness in gazing on it. Those deep
eyes, full of feeling; those soft words that thrill; I see and hear and
feel them now, as I saw and heard and felt them first. Wilt thou never
be tired of looking up to me, with that sweet, timid, confiding, tearful
glance? Will the rising flush of thy cheek and thy subdued smile, be
always fresh as now, and as in that hour when first we met? Thou
hast been my companion, my unmurmuring, ever-present, unchanging
companion, through many a dark time and stormy scene; and thou and
the heart in which thou livest will die together.

We met, my cousin Jane and I, when she was just putting on womanhood;
had begun to find out the depths of her own heart, to doubt
whether those depths ever could be filled, and to feel that unless they
were, life would be but a blank. Not that there were not many willing
enough to love her and be loved; the beauty of her form and character
drew around her a crowd of admirers. But among them all, her nice
perception saw that there was not one, of whom the exterior did not
form by far the largest part of the man. Her admirers were good,
honorable men; she respected and esteemed them; but still, gentle and
timid and humble as she was, without knowing why, she felt that there
was an impassable gulf between her and them. Their thoughts were
not like her thoughts. Her social disposition led her much into their
way, and though she tried to avoid it, she was told more than once, that
the happiness or misery of her devoted lover depended on her smiles.
It was a painful situation for one of her retiring and benevolent disposition,
to be sure; and it is doubtful to which of the two, the lover or the
mistress, every such rejection caused the keenest pang.

But this was not the end of it. Malice soon prefixed to her name
the epithet scornful; and among her school-girl friends there were
some who always passed by on the other side. Poor girl! She wept
bitter tears over these sneers and slights, for she had not studied the
 world enough to learn and despise its despicable things. Even then,
dear girl! too, she tried to love all the world, that is, all her native
village. And she succeeded, at least far enough to forgive them all,
and thus to feel her own mind at peace and resigned. But there was a
tinge of sadness left on her Grecian face after all; for to the young,
when the out-stretched hand of kindly feeling is coldly put aside, the
grief is as great as though the repulse were deserved.

And I—I hardly know what I was, when I first saw my cousin. I
was without father or mother; the world seemed wide and rather
cheerless; and there was a settled impression on my mind, that it was
my business to glide along through life, calmly and noiselessly; attach
my affections to no external object; exist without being the cause of
joy, and die without being the cause of tears, to any human being. I
came and took up my abode in the pleasant village where my uncle
resided, and set down to gain some knowledge of that noble science,
civil law. I took up the study, not because I had any intention of engaging
in the active duties of the profession, but for the name’s sake,
and because I loved it for itself. My uncle, he was a kind, good man,
showed himself a father to me, took me into his family, tried to encourage
and rouse me; and for his kindness, though it failed of its end, he
had at the time, and has always had, my sincere though unexpressed
thanks.

I had hardly become acquainted with my relatives, uncle, aunt, and
their three children, when I entered my office, shut the door, and immersed
myself in books and my own thoughts. That those thoughts
were not of the most joyous nature, I need hardly say. Still, looking
back to that period, from where I stand now, I cannot say they were
misanthropic. If I did not love all my species, it was because I saw
nothing lovely in any body; but I did not hate them. I felt that I was
an insignificant, an unnoticeable drop in the great world; that it was
my misfortune to be so constituted as to be incapable of uniting closely
and mingling with other drops; and that, without offending my neighbors,
it would be my duty and pleasure to keep myself distinct from the
rest, and hidden in some obscure corner. In one word, the prevailing
feeling was, that nobody cared for me, and I cared for nobody.

And yet, strange as it may appear, I was far from being unhappy.
Sometimes, it is true, my in-turned thoughts became weary, and pined
for human fellowship; and I grew sick at heart, as I contemplated the
future, a vast, dry, waste, desolate desert of parched sand, over which
I must toil and thirst, without one single being to speak a word of kindness,
or give me a drop of water. But these were fits, fits of wildness,
I called them, and seldom lasted long. And when they came over me,
one attempt to link my sympathies with others was always sufficient
to throw me back into a state of mind harder and colder than before.
For it was so fated, that all my overtures, and they were not many,
were met with open repulse or wary suspicion. It is true, suspicion is
a necessary ingredient in human character; but I did not think of this
then, and so it had the same effect as though I had found, indeed I
thought I had found, that coldness and insensibility were the prominent
characteristics of the race.

 And yet, as I said before, I was not unhappy. If there was no happiness,
there was at least no unhappiness, in sitting down for hours, and
brooding over my own idiosyncrasies. It made me proud, to see and
despise the weakness of others; and it gave me stern joy, to walk about
and feel that there was a kind of armed neutrality between them and
me. By degrees there arose, also, a gloomy pleasure in dwelling on,
and picturing in deeper colors, the failings and baseness of my neighbors.
Humble and weak as I knew myself to be, I exulted in my
strength, because there were some still more weak and humble. Far
back as my recollection ran, there had never been any thing in the
world that seemed to me worthy of very much exertion or toil to obtain;
but now I first learned to despise others for possessing feeble energies,
as well as for directing them to the attainment of little objects. I am
afraid, if left to myself, I should have hardened into a genuine hater;
but I was not left to myself.

I have mentioned my uncle’s kindness; his whole family were not
less kind. My cousin Jane, especially, saw that I was silent, and fancied
that I was unhappy, and tried, by a thousand little devices and arts,
to lull me into forgetfulness of myself, and entice me into a more
sociable frame of mind. I will not say that I was insensible to her
enticements; I rather liked her, she was so gentle and mild and considerate.
There was an air of truth and simplicity about her; she
would sit herself down so cheerfully to amuse me, and there was such
a sparkle in her blue eyes when, as she said, I condescended to interest
myself in her little affairs, that I began, at length, to love to be with
her. But proud as I was, when I viewed mankind at a distance, I no
sooner came in contact with any one, who was not immeasurably beneath
me, than I felt myself sinking immeasurably beneath him; and
so, like a fool as I was, I fancied that all my cousin’s kindness was the
result of her sense of duty to her relation; or, what was worse, of pity
for his moroseness. This faint suspicion became, in a little while, a
strong certainty; and I confined myself more closely to my books, and
looked into my cousin’s guileless, enthusiastic face, with coldness.

I had known her now a year, and yet I hardly knew her at all; for
I had seen her scarcely ever, except when it was impossible to avoid it,
and those occasions were not frequent or long enough to enable me to
learn perfectly her mind and character. From every such meeting, I
went away resolved to see her no more in future; which resolution was
sure to be overruled by second and more bitter thoughts. How I lived
during that year, I scarcely know; or how it was that I grew uneasy
away from her, and frequently surprised myself courting her society.
But as time rolled on, so it was. There was a fascination about her,
the magic of which was, that it charmed to sleep my vigilant suspicion.
I did not perceive any change in myself, when night after night I was
with her, talking to her about poetry, beauty, love, and the thousand
themes that interest the unrestrained youthful heart; or that I was different
from what I used to be, when I listened to her, with a gush of
pleasure, as she spoke at once with lips and eyes, and in speaking, disclosed
the unimagined riches of her mind and heart. So gradual was
the change, that I was wholly unaware of it.

 But of one thing I was aware; the face of nature and of man underwent
a strange and sudden change in appearance. I looked into the
face of my neighbor, and lo, he was my brother! The fire of benevolence
and sympathy warmed every vein, and a new life animated every
nerve within me. I felt no longer that I was alone, but that indissoluble
cords bound me to the whole human family, to every being in whose
nostrils was the breath of life; and that for his good, as well as for my
own, it was my business to labor. New motives of action, (or rather
motives of action, for there were none before,) were set before me; and
I felt light of heart and wing; eager to bound forward and lend the
strength of my arm to the cause of the race. The face of nature too
was altered. Every part that came within the range of my vision, her
seasons, her vestments in winter and summer, her sunshine and clouds,
each one was a melody, and all together made harmony. Still, I was
scarcely sensible that I was different from what I was a year ago; for
at each period I felt that I was in my natural and proper state of mind.
So slight are the influences necessary to turn the young heart into the
permanent channel of selfishness, hatred and unhappiness, or into that
of love and peace!

It was not long before I found out that I loved my cousin Jane. How
I first discovered it I do not remember; but I do remember a firm and
abiding resolution, even then, that I would not love her. I sat down by
her side, I listened to her music, with that distinct impression. I would
not for the world have had any body suspect my feelings, because I was
ashamed of the weakness. I had persuaded myself, and could not convince
myself to the contrary, that there was no hope of her returning
my passion. And yet, with the words on my lips, ‘This is folly—I will
not!’ I yielded myself to the delicious current, forgot all the world and
myself, and in the intoxication of the hour, saw visions and dreamed
dreams.

But there came a shock; one which awoke me from a trance like
that of the Opium-eater. It was when I saw that my cousin’s smiles
and attentions were not all devoted to me. There was another, a young
man of promise and expectations, a year or two my senior, and far
beyond me in the graces and polish of society, who had lately become
intimate in my uncle’s family. Engaged in the same pursuits, and
being much with him, I had rather liked him; in fact I liked him very
much. He had seen, admired, and in less than six months, loved my
Cousin Jane: this I knew, for jealousy is keen-eyed. You will not
wonder then that I hated him; not on his own account—alter his feelings
toward her, and I should have felt toward him as before; but on
account of his love—hated him with a deadly hatred.

It would be useless to tell how often I have sat down and watched
them, when my cousin’s sensitive countenance would brighten at his
bright thoughts, or burst forth into a merry laugh at his brilliant wit
and ready repartee; or how often the iron has entered into my soul when
I have seen her hang on his arm, and listen in breathless attention to
his lightest word, and testify in a thousand ways her pleasure at his
coming, and in his presence. And he, he looked on me with the most
immovable indifference. He did not seem to consider me worthy of his
 attention; even as a rival. He went straight forward, calmly and quietly,
as though I had not existed; and if he ever glanced at my pretensions,
it was perhaps with a smile of confident success. I knew he
loved her; I fancied that she loved him, and I hated them both for it.

I went into my office one day—if it were not part of the dream I
would not tell it—in a state of partial insanity. I knew, saw, heard,
felt nothing but one unalterable purpose of revenge. There happened
to be a small pistol lying in the back room; I took it up, and carefully
loaded it; loaded it without the tremor of a single muscle, for my heart
was lead. I put it into my pocket, and walked the streets up and down,
an hour or two, or it may have been four hours. I did not take count
of the time. The heavens reeled above me, and the earth reeled beneath.
At last he came. A thrill, the first that day, a thrill of triumph ran
through my whole frame. When we met I stopped and took hold of
the pistol in my pocket, but had not power to draw my hand out again;
the strings of volition seemed broken. He stopped also; looked at me
in some surprise; made a remark that I ‘did not appear to be well,’ and
passed on. I looked after him, sick at heart with revenge deferred, and
cursed my own pusillanimity.

Well, well, we will let that pass. I had yielded my soul to the Author
of Hatred for a time; but we will let it pass, and strive to forget
it; I have been trying to ever since; I hope I shall succeed better in
future. It is pleasant if we can think that the results of our evil passions
do not extend beyond ourselves; and to me, it is pleasant to think
that I did not break my gentle cousin’s heart, by letting her know that
she had nearly driven me mad.

It was a month after this. How the intervening time had been
spent, in what thoughts, and hopes, and fears, it would not be profitable
to tell, or to recollect. I was sitting one evening by my cousin’s
side; it was growing late, and we were alone. I had been heated, as
though with wine, and had probably talked incoherently. The conversation
turned on that never-failing theme, love. She delighted to hear me
speak on that subject; she said I spoke eloquently. If eloquence consists
in earnestness, no doubt I did. It began in sportiveness, but before
long became deeply serious and interesting.

‘And you do not believe, my grave cousin,’ said she, in her own half-jesting,
wholly earnest way, ‘that a woman can love as deeply and long
as the man who loves her?’

‘Bah!’ said I, bitterly, ‘women sometimes, like men, are revengeful,
proud, or ambitious, but it is on a smaller scale. Every thing about
them, every feeling and impulse is on a small scale. Very good objects
they make for men to love; because, when one will be such a fool, it
doesn’t much matter where he places his affection.’

The poor girl looked grieved, but responded with a semblance of
gaiety nevertheless: ‘Ah, you think so now, but you will be just such a
fool yourself, one of these days; and then you will find out that it is
necessary for a woman to have a soul; and more than that—that she
has one.’

‘Much obliged for your flattering opinion,’ said I. ‘But see here,
 my bonny Jane, did it never enter into your innocent little heart to
think how you would love?’

‘Oh yes,’ she answered quickly; ‘but that is all guess-work. I
don’t know, because I haven’t yet found a man to my taste.’

Of course I knew that I could not be to her taste; but a plain man
does not like to be told that he is ugly, though he may be perfectly
conscious of the fact. And so this avowal, which was made with the
most unthinking honesty and simplicity, while it added weight to my
despair, by a very usual consequence, made me desperate.

‘You are certain,’ I asked, after a pause, ‘that you do not know what
love is by experience?’

‘Perfectly,’ she answered, half laughing.

‘And that you mean to know, some time?’

‘To be sure,’ said she, ‘when the right man and the right time come.’

‘I do not know,’ said I, beginning slowly and calmly; but before the
sentence was half completed, my voice and thoughts had escaped from
under my control; ‘I do not know who the right man for you may be,
but I—I love you—love you—love you!’

She looked at me for a few seconds, with a countenance filled with
astonishment, not unmingled with alarm. She would have thought it a
jest; but my manner probably convinced her that I was far from
jesting. She tried to smile, but it was a painful effort, and she found
it much easier to conceal her face in her hands and weep.

My recollection of the subsequent events of that evening is extremely
dim. There was a confused crowd of flying thoughts; many tears and
much friendship on one side, and much love on the other. She had
received me as I knew she would, and though by the confession there
was a great weight removed from my breast, the anguish was not less
intense. One thing, however, among the hurried occurrences of that
hour, I did not lose sight of, and that was pride. She did not suspect
at the time how much of my heart, not to say existence, was bound up
in her, or how greatly both were affected by her answer.

The closing scene of the interview is the one which I most love to
remember. We were standing at the door, her hand in mine, a mournful
smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. That bright, gentle face
was pale with sorrow, and pity, and pain, and above all with fear. I
gazed on it a moment, but in that moment the picture was graven
indelibly on my memory. The ‘good night’ was spoken; and that is
the last time I ever saw my cousin Jane.

The next morning I sat down at an inn by the way-side, several miles
distant from home, and sent back a few lines of farewell:

‘My only beloved! You must pardon me for this note. The adieu
of last evening was only for the night; I wish to say good bye this
morning, for a longer time. Your answer to my suit was not unexpected;
in fact, I knew it would be as it was; and it was only a fatality,
a blind impulse, that drove me to make that disclosure. I fear that it
has given you pain, and I beg you to forgive my thoughtlessness. And
in turn, you may rest assured that I forgive you for all the anguish and
sickness of spirit that I have suffered on your account. There is nothing
to be forgiven; I know that you would not cause unhappiness to
any one, and it has been my own folly and madness. But I promise
 not to lay it up in my heart against you. I promise that in future years,
wherever my lot may be cast, you shall be in my memory, only my
pure, sweet, innocent cousin. And so, blessings be on your head! I
go forth a vagabond and a wanderer on the face of the earth. It is
probable that you will never hear from me again; and I pray you to
forget our last interview, that your thoughts may be only peace. I
would live in your remembrance as I was when we first met. And do
not think, because long years of silence and wide lands and many mountains
divide us, that your cousin has forgotten you. Your image lives
in his heart and can never die!’

STANZAS WRITTEN IN INDISPOSITION.

BY THE LATE WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.

May, 1832.

DISGUISED DERIVATIVE WORDS IN ENGLISH.

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

Derivative words in English, as in other languages, are usually
formed on regular principles. Some few of them, however, especially
those derived from foreign languages, and coming into extensive use, are
so corrupted or disguised, as greatly to obscure the derivation.

The following are examples:

1. Church and kirk: (Anglo-Sax. circ and cyric, Germ. kirche, old
   Germ. chirihha, Gr. ϰυριαϰόν, as if the Lord’s house, derived from ϰύριος,
   the Lord, and this from ϰῦρος, power, authority😉 a Christian temple.
2. Clown: (Lat. colônus, from the root col, to cultivate;) a rustic.
   Compare Germ. Köln from Lat. Colonia Agrippina; also Lat. patrônus
   from pater.
3. Dropsy: (Fr. hydropisie, Portug. and Span. hidropesia, Ital. idropisia,
   Lat. hydrops and hydropisis, Gr. ὑδρωψ, derived from ὑδωρ, water;)
   a corruption of hydropsy, an unnatural collection of water in the body.
4. Parchment: (Fr. parchemin, Portug. pergaminho, Span. pergamino,
   Ital. pergamena; also Germ. and Dutch pergament; Lat. pergamena,
   scil. charta, Gr. Περγαμηνή, scil. Χαρτή, from Pergamus, a city
   of Asia Minor;) skin prepared for writing.
5. Periwig and peruke: (Fr. perruque, Span. peluca, Ital. parruca;
   also Germ. perrucke, Dutch parruik, Swed. peruk, Dan. perryk, Tr.
   percabhaic, Gael. pior-bhuic; from Lat. pilus😉 an artificial cap of
   hair.
6. Priest: (Anglo-Sax. priost, preost, Germ. and Dutch priester,
   Iceland prestr, Dan. and Swed. præst; also old Fr. prestre, Fr. prêtre,
   Portug. presbytero, Span. presbitero, Ital. prete, Latin presbyter, Gr.
   πρεσβύτερος, comparative of πρέσβυς, old;) one who officiates in sacred
   offices.
7.  Rickets: (Fr. rachitis, Portug. rachitis, Span. raquitis, Lat. rachitis,
   Gr. ῥαχῖτις, from ῥάχις, the back or spine;) a disease of children.
8. Sciatica: (Fr. sciatique, Portug. sciatica, ciatica, Span. ciatica,
   Ital. sciatica, Lat. ischias, gen. adis, Gr. ἰσχιάς, gen. άδος, from ἰσχίον,
   the hip;) the hip-gout.
9. Such: (Anglo-Sax. swilc, Meso-Goth. swaleiks, old Germ. solîh,
   Germ. solcher; composed of swa or so, the ancient modal case of the
   demonstrative pronoun, and the ancient form of Eng. like😉 a demonstrative
   adjective of quality, denoting of that kind or sort.
10. Which: (Anglo-Sax. hulic, hwylc, hwilc, hwelc, Meso-Goth. hweleiks,
    or hwileiks, old Germ. huelih, Germ. welcher; composed of hwe
    or hwin, the ancient modal case of the interrogative pronoun, and the
    ancient form of Eng. like😉 properly an interrogative adjective of
    quality, denoting of what kind or sort? but in use an interrogative partitive
    adjective.
11. Wig: a mutilation of the word periwig; see periwig above.

NEW-ENGLAND’S SABBATH BELLS.

New-Haven, May 10, 1844. A.

 A PASSAGE

FROM A LEGEND OF THE SUBJUGATION OF SPAIN.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-BOOK.

While the veteran Taric was making his wide circuit through the
land, an expedition under Magued the renegado proceeded against the
city of Cordova. The inhabitants of that ancient place had beheld the
great army of Don Roderick spreading like an inundation over the
plain of the Guadalquiver, and had felt confident that it must sweep the
infidel invaders from the land. What then was their dismay, when
scattered fugitives, wild with horror and affright, brought them tidings
of the entire overthrow of that mighty host, and the disappearance of
the king? In the midst of their consternation, the Gothic noble, Pelistes,
arrived at their gates, haggard with fatigue of body and anguish of
mind, and leading a remnant of his devoted cavaliers, who had survived
the dreadful battle of the Guadalete. The people of Cordova knew the
valiant and steadfast spirit of Pelistes, and rallied round him as a last
hope. ‘Roderick is fallen,’ cried they, ‘and we have neither king nor
captain: be unto us as a sovereign; take command of our city, and
protect us in this hour of peril!’

The heart of Pelistes was free from ambition, and was too much
broken by grief to be flattered by the offer of command; but he felt
above everything for the woes of his country, and was ready to assume
any desperate service in her cause. ‘Your city,’ said he, ‘is surrounded
by walls and towers, and may yet check the progress of the
foe. Promise to stand by me to the last, and I will undertake your defence.’
The inhabitants all promised implicit obedience and devoted
zeal: for what will not the inhabitants of a wealthy city promise and
profess in a moment of alarm? The instant, however, that they heard
of the approach of the Moslem troops, the wealthier citizens packed up
their effects and fled to the mountains, or to the distant city of Toledo.
Even the monks collected the riches of their convents and churches,
and fled. Pelistes, though he saw himself thus deserted by those who
had the greatest interest in the safety of the city, yet determined not to
abandon its defence. He had still his faithful though scanty band of
cavaliers, and a number of fugitives of the army; in all amounting to
about four hundred men. He stationed guards, therefore, at the gates
and in the towers, and made every preparation for a desperate resistance.

In the mean time, the army of Moslems and apostate Christians advanced,
under the command of the Greek renegado, Magued, and guided
by the traitor Julian. While they were yet at some distance from the
city, their scouts brought to them a shepherd, whom they had surprised
on the banks of the Guadalquiver. The trembling hind was an inhabitant
 of Cordova, and revealed to them the state of the place, and the
weakness of its garrison.

‘And the walls and gates,’ said Magued, ‘are they strong and well
guarded?’

‘The walls are high, and of wondrous strength,’ replied the shepherd;
‘and soldiers hold watch at the gates by day and night. But there is
one place where the city may be secretly entered. In a part of the
wall, not far from the bridge, the battlements are broken, and there is a
breach at some height from the ground. Hard by stands a fig tree, by
the aid of which the wall may easily be scaled.’

Having received this information, Magued halted with his army, and
sent forward several renegado Christians, partizans of Count Julian,
who entered Cordova as if flying before the enemy. On a dark and
tempestuous night, the Moslems approached to the end of the bridge
which crosses the Guadalquiver, and remained in ambush. Magued
took a small party of chosen men, and, guided by the shepherd, forded
the stream, and groped silently along the wall to the place where stood
the fig tree. The traitors, who had fraudulently entered the city, were
ready on the wall to render assistance. Magued ordered his followers
to make use of the long folds of their turbans instead of cords, and succeeded
without difficulty in clambering into the breach.

Drawing their scimitars, they now hastened to the gate which opened
toward the bridge; the guards, suspecting no assault from within, were
taken by surprise, and easily overpowered; the gate was thrown open,
and the army that had remained in ambush rushed over the bridge, and
entered without opposition.

The alarm had by this time spread throughout the city; but already
a torrent of armed men was pouring through the streets. Pelistes
sallied forth with his cavaliers and such of the soldiery as he could collect,
and endeavored to repel the foe; but every effort was in vain.
The Christians were slowly driven from street to street, and square to
square, disputing every inch of ground; until, finding another body of
the enemy approaching to attack them in the rear, they took refuge in
a convent, and succeeded in throwing to and barring the ponderous doors.
The Moors attempted to force the gates, but were assailed with such
showers of missiles from the windows and battlements that they were
obliged to retire. Pelistes examined the convent, and found it admirably
calculated for defence. It was of great extent, with spacious courts
and cloisters. The gates were massive, and secured with bolts and
bars; the walls were of great thickness; the windows high and grated;
there was a great tank or cistern of water, and the friars, who had fled
from the city, had left behind a good supply of provisions. Here, then,
Pelistes proposed to make a stand, and to endeavor to hold out until
succor should arrive from some other city. His proposition was received
with shouts by his loyal cavaliers; not one of whom but was ready to
lay down his life in the service of his commander.

For three long and anxious months did the good knight Pelistes and
his cavaliers defend their sacred asylum against the repeated assaults
of the infidels. The standard of the true faith was constantly displayed
from the loftiest tower, and a fire blazed there throughout the night, as
 signals of distress to the surrounding country. The watchman from
his turret kept a wary look out over the land, hoping in every cloud of
dust to descry the glittering helms of Christian warriors. The country,
however, was forlorn and abandoned, or if perchance a human being
was perceived, it was some Arab horseman, careering the plain of the
Guadalquiver as fearlessly as if it were his native desert.

By degrees the provisions of the convent were consumed, and the
cavaliers had to slay their horses, one by one, for food. They suffered
the wasting miseries of famine without a murmur, and always met their
commander with a smile. Pelistes, however, read their sufferings in
their wan and emaciated countenances, and felt more for them than for
himself. He was grieved at heart that such loyalty and valor should
only lead to slavery or death, and resolved to make one desperate
attempt for their deliverance. Assembling them one day in the court
of the convent, he disclosed to them his purpose.

‘Comrades and brothers in arms,’ said he, ‘it is needless to conceal
danger from brave men. Our case is desperate: our countrymen
either know not or heed not our situation, or have not the means to help
us. There is but one chance of escape; it is full of peril, and, as your
leader, I claim the right to brave it. To-morrow at break of day I will
sally forth and make for the city gates at the moment of their being
opened; no one will suspect a solitary horseman; I shall be taken for
one of those recreant Christians who have basely mingled with the
enemy. If I succeed in getting out of the city, I will hasten to Toledo
for assistance. In all events I shall be back in less than twenty days.
Keep a vigilant look out toward the nearest mountain. If you behold
five lights blazing upon its summit, be assured I am at hand with succor,
and prepare yourselves to sally forth upon the city as I attack the gates.
Should I fail in obtaining aid, I will return to die with you.’

When he had finished, his warriors would fain have severally undertaken
the enterprise, and they remonstrated against his exposing himself
to such peril; but he was not to be shaken from his purpose. On the
following morning, ere the break of day, his horse was led forth, caparisoned,
into the court of the convent, and Pelistes appeared in complete
armor. Assembling his cavaliers in tie chapel, he prayed with them
for some time before the altar of the holy Virgin. Then rising, and
standing in the midst of them, ‘God knows, my companions,’ said he,
‘whether we have any longer a country; if not, better were we in our
graves. Loyal and true have ye been to me, and loyal have ye been
to my son, even to the hour of his death; and grieved am I that I have
no other means of proving my love for you, than by adventuring my
worthless life for your deliverance. All I ask of you before I go, is a
solemn promise to defend yourselves to the last like brave men and
Christian cavaliers, and never to renounce your faith, or throw yourselves
on the mercy of the renegado Magued, or the traitor Julian.’
They all pledged their words, and took a solemn oath to the same effect
before the altar.

Pelistes then embraced them one by one, and gave them his benediction,
and as he did so his heart yearned over them, for he felt towards
them, not merely as a companion in arms and as a commander, but as
 a father; and he took leave of them as if he had been going to his
death. The warriors, on their part, crowded round him in silence,
kissing his hands and the hem of his surcoat, and many of the sternest
shed tears.

The gray of the dawning had just streaked the east, when Pelistes
took lance in hand, hung his shield about his neck, and, mounting
his steed, issued quietly forth from a postern of the convent. He
paced slowly through the vacant streets, and the tramp of his steed
echoed afar in that silent hour; but no one suspected a warrior, moving
thus singly and tranquilly in an armed city, to be an enemy. He arrived
at the gate just at the hour of opening; a foraging party was entering
with cattle and with beasts of burthen, and he passed unheeded
through the throng. As soon as he was out of sight of the soldiers who
guarded the gate, he quickened his pace, and at length, galloping at full
speed, succeeded in gaining the mountains. Here he paused, and
alighted at a solitary farm-house to breathe his panting steed; but had
scarce put foot to ground when he heard the distant sound of pursuit, and
beheld a horseman spurring up the mountain.

Throwing himself again upon his steed, he abandoned the road and
galloped across the rugged heights. The deep dry channel of a torrent
checked his career, and his horse, stumbling upon the margin, rolled
with his rider to the bottom. Pelistes was sorely bruised by the fall,
and his whole visage was bathed in blood. His horse, too, was
maimed and unable to stand, so that there was no hope of escape. The
enemy drew near, and proved to be no other than Magued, the renegado
general, who had perceived him as he issued forth from the city, and
had followed singly in pursuit. ‘Well met, señor alcayde!’ exclaimed
he, ‘and overtaken in good time. Surrender yourself my prisoner.’

Pelistes made no other reply than by drawing his sword, bracing his
shield, and preparing for defence. Magued, though an apostate, and a
fierce warrior, possessed some sparks of knightly magnanimity. Seeing
his adversary dismounted, he disdained to take him at a disadvantage,
but alighting, tied his horse to a tree.

The conflict that ensued was desperate and doubtful, for seldom had
two warriors met so well matched or of equal prowess. Their shields
were hacked to pieces, the ground was strewed with fragments of their
armor, and stained with their blood. They paused repeatedly to take
breath; regarding each other with wonder and admiration. Pelistes,
however, had been previously injured by his fall, and fought to great
disadvantage. The renegado perceived it, and sought not to slay him,
but to take him alive. Shifting his ground continually, he wearied his
antagonist, who was growing weaker and weaker from the loss of blood.
At length Pelistes seemed to summon up all his remaining strength to
make a signal blow; it was skilfully parried and he fell prostrate upon
the ground. The renegado ran up, and, putting his foot upon his
sword, and the point of his scimitar to his throat, called upon him to ask
his life; but Pelistes lay without sense, and as one dead. Magued then
unlaced the helmet of his vanquished enemy and seated himself on a
rock beside him, to recover breath. In this situation the warriors were
 found by certain Moorish cavaliers, who marvelled much at the traces
of that stern and bloody combat.

Finding there was yet life in the Christian knight, they laid him upon
one of their horses, and, aiding Magued to remount his steed, proceeded
slowly to the city. As the convoy passed by the convent, the cavaliers
looked forth and beheld their commander borne along bleeding and a captive.
Furious at the sight, they sallied forth to the rescue, but were repulsed
by a superior force, and driven back to the great portal of the
church. The enemy entered pell mell with them, fighting from aisle
to aisle, from altar to altar, and in the courts and cloisters of the convent.
The greater part of the cavaliers died bravely, sword in hand;
the rest were disabled with wounds and made prisoners. The convent,
which was lately their castle, was now made their prison, and in after-times,
in commemoration of this event, was consecrated by the name of
St. George of the Captives.

The loyalty and the prowess of the good knight Pelistes had gained
him the reverence even of his enemies. He was for a long time disabled
by his wounds, during which he was kindly treated by the Arab
chieftains, who strove by every courteous means to cheer his sadness
and make him forget that he was a captive. When he was recovered
from his wounds they gave him a magnificent banquet to testify their
admiration of his virtues.

Pelistes appeared at the banquet clad in sable armor, and with a
countenance pale and dejected; for the ills of his country evermore
preyed upon his heart. Among the assembled guests was Count Julian,
who held a high command in the Moslem army, and was arrayed in
garments of mingled Christian and Morisco fashion. Pelistes had been
a close and bosom friend of Julian in former times, and had served with
him in the wars in Africa; but when the count advanced to accost him
with his wonted amity, he turned away in silence, and deigned not to
notice him; neither during the whole of the repast did he address to
him ever a word, but treated him as one unknown.

When the banquet was nearly at a close, the discourse turned upon
the events of the war; and the Moslem chieftains, in great courtesy,
dwelt upon the merits of many of the Christian cavaliers who had fallen
in battle, and all extolled the valor of those who had recently perished
in the defence of the convent. Pelistes remained silent for a time, and
checked the grief which swelled within his bosom as he thought of his
devoted cavaliers. At length, lifting up his voice, ‘Happy are the
dead,’ said he, ‘for they rest in peace, and are gone to receive the reward
of their piety and valor! I could mourn over the loss of my companions
in arms, but they have fallen with honor, and are spared the
wretchedness I feel in witnessing the thraldom of my country. I have
seen my only son, the pride and hope of my age, cut down at my side;
I have beheld kindred friends and followers falling one by one around
me, and have become so seasoned to those losses that I have ceased to
weep. Yet there is one man over whose loss I will never cease to
grieve. He was the loved companion of my youth, and the steadfast
associate of my graver years. He was one of the most loyal of Christian
knights. As a friend he was loving and sincere; as a warrior his
 achievements were above all praise. What has become of him, alas! I
know not. If fallen in battle, and I knew where his bones were laid,
whether bleaching on the plains of Xeres, or buried in the waters of the
Gaudalete, I would seek them out and enshrine them as the relics of a
sainted patriot. Or if, like many of his companions in arms, he should
be driven to wander in foreign lands, I would join him in his hapless
exile, and we would mourn together over the desolation of our country!’

Even the hearts of the Arab warriors were touched by the lament of
the good Pelistes, and they said: ‘Who was this peerless friend, in
whose praise thou art so fervent?’

‘His name,’ replied Pelistes, ‘was Count Julian.’

The Moslem warriors stared with surprise. ‘Noble cavalier,’ exclaimed
they, ‘has grief disordered thy senses? Behold thy friend,
living and standing before thee, and yet thou dost not know him! This,
this is Count Julian!’

Upon this, Pelistes turned his eyes upon the count, and regarded him
for a time, with a lofty and stern demeanor; and the countenance of
Julian darkened, and was troubled, and his eye sank beneath the regard
of that loyal and honorable cavalier. And Pelistes said, ‘In the name
of God, I charge thee, man unknown! to answer. Dost thou presume
to call thyself Count Julian?’

The count reddened with anger at these words. ‘Pelistes,’ said he,
‘what means this mockery? Thou knowest me well; thou knowest
me for Count Julian?’

‘I know thee for a base imposter!’ cried Pelistes. ‘Count Julian
was a noble Gothic knight; but thou appearest in mongrel Moorish
garb. Count Julian was a Christian, faithful and devout; but I behold
in thee a renegado and an infidel. Count Julian was ever loyal
to his king, and foremost in his country’s cause: were he living, he
would be the first to put shield on neck and lance in rest, to clear the
land of her invaders: but thou art a hoary traitor! thy hands are
stained with the royal blood of the Goths, and thou hast betrayed thy
country and thy God. Therefore, I again repeat, man unknown! if
thou sayest thou art Count Julian, thou liest! My friend, alas! is dead;
and thou art some fiend from hell, which has taken possession of his
body to dishonor his memory and render him an abhorrence among men!’
So saying, Pelistes turned his back upon the traitor, and went forth
from the banquet; leaving Count Julian overwhelmed with confusion,
and an object of scorn to all the Moslem cavaliers.

ON SEEING A LADY WEEP OVER A NOSEGAY.

Plutarch Shaw: 1844.