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 protege, 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, reoepened her 'seminary for lambs;'
and from the great quantity of her disciples which frequent the
thoroughfares of the city at present, I should judge is getting along
prosperously. Mr. Snork was extremely desirous of becoming a partner in
the concern, and made several overtures to that effect, which might have
been accepted by the lady, had he not objected to being deprived of his
eye-sight, and seated at a corner to receive pennies from passers-by. It
was in vain that the lady represented to him that this would be the making
of their respective fortunes; that blind beggars, particularly if they
were remarkably disgusting, as was the case with him, had been known to
retire with handsome fortunes, and that some of them even bought snug
little farms in the country, and kept a horse and 'shay.' Mr. Snork
however, was obstinate; his proposals were accordingly rejected, and he
returned disconsolately to his abode, which was now lonely, his wife
having paid a visit to the penitentiary, for the benefit of the country
air.
The widow, Mrs. Chowles, still lives in her quiet, blinking little house,
as cheerful and contented as ever; as happy as ever to hear Harry's heavy
step, and to see his honest face in his old corner in her parlor; and
although he is no longer accompanied by Spite, who has grown old and
rheumatic, so that he is unable to stir from the chimney-corner, where he
passes his time in crabbed solitude, except when he turns up his dim eyes
to his old master, as he hears his voice, and feels his caressing hand on
his head: all else is as it was in that little household; and that it may
long continue, is our warmest wish.
CONCLUSION.
Mr. Stites' manuscript was written at different times, and in different
hands. The little man was evidently troubled with a defective memory,
(although I would not tell him so for the world,) and has permitted many
strange mistakes and anachronisms to creep into his tale, which inclines
me to think that the whole matter is not so authentic as he pretends, but
has been gleaned in various parcels from the regions of romance. But as he
is not a little tetchy on the score of his veracity, I can only suggest
that the tale be regarded by his good natured readers rather as a fiction
than sober truth.
From beginning to end, strong disapprobation has been expressed by Mr.
Snagg, who says that 'that d--d dog is enough to kill any story, and that
for his part, he doesn't think much of Stites; never did, and never will;
and that a single hair of Slaughter's tail was worth Stites' marrow, fat
and kidneys, all done up together.'
It is useless to argue with him; and I find the most judicious mode of
disposing of the matter is to let the question remain unanswered; by which
means he soon comes round, begins to discover a few merits in the
manuscript, and finally concludes with a warm panegyric upon Mr. STITES
himself, always however with a reservation as to the dog, whom he swears
'he never shall be able to stomach.'
In all respects, my quiet old home remains as it was. The same mystery
hangs about it as formerly. The interest which for a time was excited
respecting it, when I gave an account of the murder which had left it
shunned and tenantless, has died away; and with the exception of Mr.
Snagg, Mr. Stites, and my dog, I have few visiters. Perhaps it is best
that it should be so; for I have the spectres of no hard feelings nor
bitter thoughts, nor painful recollections to haunt me, requiring
excitement and bustle to drive them off; and old age demands time for
solemn thought and serious meditation, to enable it to wean itself from
the past, and look cheerfully forward to the future.
But no more of myself. My task is ended; and I now bid you farewell!
JOHN QUOD.
THE PAST.
I.
Despair not, though thy course is drear,
The past has pleasures for us all;
Bright scenes and things to hearts most dear,
And those how fondly we recall.
II.
Such as some lovely girl we knew;
Such as some touching song we heard;
Such as some evening spent, when flew
The hours as swift as passing bird.
III.
Such as some well-tried friend we had;
Such as some acts of kindness done,
Yet rising up to make us glad,
And so will rise when years are gone.
IV.
Despair not! still be innocent;
Admire the beautiful, the good,
And when the cry of woe is sent,
Turn to relieve, in pitying mood.
V.
So shall the present, when 'tis past,
Rich with harmonious scenes appear,
No gloomy shadows o'er it cast,
No spectres there, to make thee fear.
E. G.
THE HEARTH OF HOME.
BY MARY E. HEWITT.
The storm around my dwelling sweeps,
And while the dry boughs fierce it reaps,
My heart within a vigil keeps,
The warm and cheering hearth beside;
And as I mark the kindling glow
Brightly o'er all its radiance throw,
Back to the years my memories flow,
When Rome sat on her hills in pride;
When every stream and grove and tree
And fountain had its deity.
The hearth was then, 'mong low and great,
Unto the Lares consecrate:
The youth arrived to man's estate
There offered up his golden heart;
Thither, when overwhelmed with dread,
The stranger still for refuge fled,
Was kindly cheered, and warmed, and fed,
Till he might fearless thence depart:
And there the slave, a slave no more,
Hung reverent up the chain he wore.
Full many a change the hearth hath known;
The Druid fire, the curfew's tone,
The log that bright at yule-tide shone,
The merry sports of Hallow-e'en;
Yet still where'er a home is found,
Gather the warm affections round,
And there the notes of mirth resound,
The voice of wisdom heard between:
And welcomed there with words of grace,
The stranger finds a resting place.
Oh! wheresoe'er our feet may roam,
Still sacred is the hearth of home;
Whether beneath the princely dome,
Or peasant's lowly roof it be,
For home the wanderer ever yearns;
Backward to where its hearth-fire burns,
Like to the wife of old, he turns
Ever the eyes of memory.
Back where his heart he offered first--
Back where his fond young hopes he nursed.
My humble hearth though all disdain,
Here may I cast aside the chain
The world hath coldly on me lain;
Here to my LARES offer up
The warm prayer of a grateful heart;
THOU that my household guardian art,
That dost to me thine aid impart,
And with thy mercy fill'st my cup;
Strengthen the hope within my soul,
Till I in faith may reach the goal.
PROFESSOR SHAW.
A SKETCH.
PLUTARCH SHAW, the naturalist, was lately in the stocks, which has been a
matter of much talk among the virtuosi, and a good deal of malicious
laughter on all hands. He cut a devil of a figure, rest assured, propped
up in a straight jacket, his eye fiery with vengeance; the innocent victim
of 'circumstances,' and that very common error of putting the saddle on
the wrong horse. A very little explanation will serve to place this matter
in the right light, and show by what a fantastic adventure an honest man,
who was alway given to roam over much territory, was suddenly placed upon
the limits, and one of the most profound explorers of the curious became
himself for the time being a curiosity.
Mr. Shaw is so much of an enthusiast, that it is very unpleasant to stand
near him when he is talking about his bugs, or exhibiting his specimens,
on account of being spattered all over with the spray of his eloquence. A
bat shot down in the dusk of the evening is enough to set him half crazy,
and make the saliva fly all over; it rolls and surges against the bulwarks
of his jagged teeth in a rabid foam, showers out with his descriptions,
and makes him only tolerable at arm's length. The beetles and butterflies
which he has transfixed are innumerable; and he is perpetually syringing
down the humming-birds, as stationary on vibrating wings, these beautiful
creatures of the air plunge their beaks deep into the cups of flowers.
With him pin-money is an item. If he marks any thing curious in the
natural world, he 'sticks a pin there,' and keeps it for future reference;
any thing from a lady-bug ready to unfold suddenly the gauze upon its hard
back, where you would think no wings existed, and fly away, to an
offensive black beetle that snuffs the candle, or cracks its head against
the wall, thence upward in the scale to the bird which Liberty loves as
her sublimest emblem, the proudest of the proud, the bird of our own
mountains, and the eagle of our own skies.
'I would not heedlessly set foot upon a worm,'
writes Cowper: not so however with the great Shaw, whose collection of
worms is most disgusting; exceeded only by his reptiles preserved in
spirits, with all their sickening exhibition of claws. He has got some
dragons that fall little short of the Devil himself in general hideousness
and outrageous tails; some noots brought from Nootka Sound; some green
monsters from Green Bay; some devilish things from Van Diemon's land; and
finally, Plutarch is himself hideous, and ought to be put in a collection,
which by the by, he lately _was_. It was a great era in his life time when
he shot a wild-cat; that however has nothing to do with the present story,
and must be told shortly. He threw a stone at him, it seems, to frighten
him out of the bushes, where by dint of sneaking he discovered something
with a white and black fur, moving about in a short compass. Breathless
with excitement, standing on tip-toe, dodging his head among the brambles,
all ready, and meaning to have a shot at him 'pretty soon,' he was
whispering to himself, telling himself in a mysterious voice to 'hold
fast,' not to budge, but wait for the next movement; when this
_pole-cat_--there is a distinction, it is well known in the species, nor in
the present instance was it a 'distinction without a difference'--opened
the batteries with the precision of an artillery officer. 'O my eyes!' was
the exclamation of Professor Shaw, 'my eyes! my eyes! my eyes!' It was a
great era in his life time also when he shot a plover; _that_ however has
little to do with the present story, and must be told shortly. It was on
the Big Plains, where not a tree nor shrub may be seen for miles around;
where ambuscades are unknown, and it is very hard to steal a march upon
the timid birds which are frightened at a very shadow; only they do not
fear the flocks and herds which pasture upon the plains, but tamely pick
up the worms beneath their feet. Professor Shaw hit upon an expedient to
surprise them, which no other person would have thought of, than one of
his extreme ingenuity: a big box, opened at both ends, into which he
crawled with fowling-piece in hand. First, however, he procured an ox-hide
at the stall of a neighboring farm, with all its apparatus of horns, and
placed it over the box, to give it the appearance at a distance, of a
_bona 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.