from his usual one, that the lawyer was in doubt whether he was in jest or
earnest. Then he added, in a bitter tone: 'You ask what brought me here.
Destiny, folly, revenge perhaps against my own heart's blood. Call it what
you will; here I am; and ready to assist in the very matter which now
perplexes you. What more do you want?'
Holmes replied with a sarcastic smile: 'The assistance of Michael Rust is
likely to be as great as his sincerity. We certainly should place great
reliance on it.'
Rust, perfectly unmoved by the taunt, answered in a tone so bitter, so
full of hatred to himself, so replete with the outpouring of a cankered
heart, so despairing and reckless, that the lawyer felt that even in him
there might be some truth:
'I care not whether you trust me or not; I care not whether you believe me
or not. If Michael Rust could ever have been swayed by the opinions of
others, it would have been before this; it's too late to begin now. I came
here because I have failed in all I undertook; because I am beginning to
hate the one for whom I have toiled, until I grew gray with the wearing
away of mind and body; because the soul of life is gone. I do it out of
revenge against that person. There is no remorse; no conscience; but it's
revenge. Look at me; that person has blasted me. Do I not show it in every
feature and limb? Now you understand me. My schemes are abandoned; and I
shall soon be where neither man nor law can reach me. My secret can do me
no good; why should I keep it? Perhaps the recollection of past days and
of past favors from one whom I have wronged, may have had its weight;
perhaps not. I've come to tell the truth. If you will hear it, well; if
not, I go, and it goes with me.'
Holmes and Harson exchanged looks, and Harson nodded, as if in
acquiescence to some proposition which he supposed the looks of the other
to indicate.
'Well, Sir,' replied Holmes, 'we will hear what you have to say.'
'Stop,' said Rust; 'before uttering a word, I must have a promise.'
The lawyer looked at him, and then at Harson, as much as to say: 'I
expected it. There's some trick in it.'
Rust observed it, and said: 'Spare your suspicions; I have come here to be
frank and honest in word and deed; and Michael Rust can be so, when the
fancy seizes him. The promise I require is this; whatever I may reveal, no
matter what the penalty, you will not set the blood-hounds of the law on
my track within forty-eight hours. I have yet one act to perform in the
great farce of life. _That_ accomplished, you may do your worst.'
'This is all very strange,' said Holmes, eyeing the thin, excited features
of his visitor, as if not altogether sure of his sanity; 'if you fear the
punishment of your misdeeds, why reveal them? Why place yourself in our
power, or run the risk of our interfering with your future movements?'
Rust replied bitterly: 'You shall hear. My whole life has been spent for
one person, my own child. Every faculty of mind and body has been devoted
to her, and every crime I have committed was for her. Scruples were
disregarded; ties of blood set at defiance; every thing that binds man to
man, that deters from wrong, were disregarded, if they stood in the way of
that one grand aim of life. _She_ forgot all! She has broken me down,
heart and spirit. Love and devotion were crushed with them, and revenge
has sprung up from their ruins. Ay! revenge against my own child! Should
any thing prevent my doing what I have yet to do, and should my brother
die, and his children not be found, _she_ would be his heir. _I_ would
have labored and _succeeded_, for one who has disgraced me, and made me
what you see me!'
He stretched out his thin hands, displaying the large veins, coursing
beneath the skin, and apparently full to bursting. 'How wasted they are!'
He smiled as he looked at them, and then asked: 'Will you promise?'
The lawyer turned to Harson, and then said: 'I promise; do you, Harson?'
Harry nodded.
'Good!' said Rust, abruptly. 'You know my name, and much of my history.
All the facts which you detailed to me at my office a short time since are
true--true almost to the very letter. Michael Rust and Henry Colton are
one. The plodding, scheming, heartless, unprincipled Henry Colton, who
could sell his brother's own flesh and blood for gold; who could forget
all the kindnesses heaped upon him, and stab his benefactor, and this
wreck of Michael Rust, are one!'
He struck his hand against his chest, and strode up and down the room,
biting his lips. '_He_ was rich, and _I_ was poor: he gave me the means of
living, but I wanted more. I had my eye on his entire wealth, and I wanted
him to be in his grave. But he thwarted me in that. Feeble and sickly, so
that a breath might have destroyed him, he lived on, and at last, as if to
balk me farther, he married. Two children were born; two more obstacles
between me and my aim. Two children!--two more of the same blood for me to
love. Ho! ho! how Michael Rust loved those babes!' exclaimed he, clutching
his fingers above his head, and gasping as he spoke. He turned, and
fastening his glaring eye on the lawyer, griped his fingers together, with
his teeth hard set and speaking through them, said in a sharp whisper: 'I
could have strangled them!'
He paused; and then went on: 'At last came the thought of removing them.
At first it was vague: it came like a shadow, and went off; then it came
again, more distinct. Then it became stronger, and stronger, until it grew
into a passion--a very madness. At last my mind was made up, and my plans
formed. I trusted no one, but carried them off myself, and delivered them
to the husband of that woman,' pointing to Mrs. Blossom. 'I told him
nothing of their history: he was paid to take charge of them, and asked no
questions. Then came the clamor of pursuit. I daily met and comforted my
broken-hearted brother and his wife: I held out hopes which I knew were
false; I offered rewards; I turned pursuit in every direction except the
right one. They both thanked me, and looked upon me as their best friend;
and so I was, for I kept up hope; and what is life without it? At last the
search approached the neighborhood where the children really were, and
they were sent to the country. A man by the name of Craig took them. The
only person who was in the secret was Enoch Grosket; but he knew nothing
respecting the history of the children, nor where they went.'
'Where was it?' inquired Holmes, anxiously, 'and to whom did you entrust
them?'
'I have prepared it all,' said Rust; he drew a letter from his pocket and
handed it to him. 'You'll find it there, and the names of the persons;
they know nothing of the children; but they can identify them as those
left with them four years ago; and they still have the clothes which they
wore at the time; but the girl's resemblance to her mother will save all
that trouble.'
He paused, with his dark eyes fastened on the floor, and his lips working
with intense emotion.
'And is it possible that the love of gold can lead one to crimes like
these!' said Holmes, in a subdued tone.
'Love of gold!' exclaimed Rust, fiercely; 'what cared I for gold? Ho! ho!
Michael Rust values gold but as dross; but it is the world; the cringing,
obsequious, miser-hearted world, that kisses the very feet of wealth,
which set Michael Rust on; it was this that lashed him forward; but not
for himself. I married a woman whom I loved,' said he, in a quick, stern
tone; 'she abandoned me and became an outcast, and paid the penalty by an
outcast's fate: she died in the streets. The love which I bore her I
transferred to my child. I was poor, and I resolved that she should be
rich. Can you understand my motive now? I loved my own flesh and blood
better than my brother's. I have now relinquished my plans, and have told
you why.'
A pause of some moments ensued, and Rust said: 'Is there any thing more
that you want? If so, tell me at once, for after to-day we shall never
meet again.'
Holmes ran his eye over the papers, and selecting two letters, handed them
to Rust, and said:
'How do you account for the difference of that hand-writing, if Michael
Rust and Henry Colton are one?'
'Michael Rust wrote one hand, Henry Colton another,' said Rust; 'but _I_
wrote both.' He seized a pen, wrote a few words, signed the names Michael
Rust and Henry Colton, and flung it on the table. 'The game had been well
studied before it was played.'
'Your writing is well disguised indeed,' said the lawyer, comparing it
with the letters; 'it solves that difficulty.'
'Any thing else?' demanded Rust, impatiently; 'my time is limited.'
Holmes shook his head; but Harson said: 'A few words about Jacob
Rhoneland.'
'Well?'
'You accuse him of forgery; what does that mean?'
'He was a fool: I wanted to marry his daughter; I represented myself to
him as very rich, to tempt his avarice; that failed. I added entreaties;
_they_ failed. Then I tried the effect of fear. He was not deaf to that
for a long time, but at last he overcame even that.'
'And the tale?'
'Was well fabricated, but false.'
'And Ned Somers?'
'I had to get rid of him: what could I do while he was dallying round the
girl? I _did_ get rid of him: a few lies whispered to the old man sent him
adrift. But I'm tired of this; I came to tell what I pleased, and nothing
more, and I must be at work. You must respect your promise,' said he,
turning to Holmes.
'I shall, and I hope your present errand at least is an honest one.'
'It is,' said Rust, with a strange smile; 'it is to punish a criminal.' He
opened the door and went off without another word.
NIGHT AND MORNING.
'To-morrow to fresh fields and pastures new!'
LYCIDAS.
Yes! I have been for many a changeful year,
Studious or sensual, gay or wild, or sad,
An earnest votary of Evening. She
Had something wondrous winning to my eye,
So soft she was, and quiet. Often too,
Absorbed in books, which were perchance a bane,
Perchance a blessing; or in glittering crowds,
Gazing all rapt on woman's eloquent face,
Nature's most witching and most treacherous page;
Or high in mirth with those whose senseful wit
Outflashed the rosy wines that warmed its flow,
I've held my vigils till the brow of Night
Grew pale and starless, and her solemn pomp,
Out-glared by day, faded in hueless space.
I do repent me of my worship. Night
Was given for rest: who breaks this natural law
Wrongs body and soul alike. One vigorous hour
Of sober day-light thought is worth a night's
Slow oscitations of a drowsy mind.
'Neath Eve's pale star the desolate heart reverts
To those far moments, when the sky was blue,
And earth was green, as earth and sky to eyes
Once disenchanted, can appear no more.
We _all_ are mourners. Good men must deplore
Lost hours, lost friends, lost pleasures; and the bad
Are racked by throes of impotent remorse,
Dark, fierce, and bitter; for _themselves_ are lost,
And still neglecting what remains of life,
They strive by backward reachings to redeem
The irredeemable. _Why_ pass the hours,
The fleeting hours, in profitless regrets,
When each regret but lops _another_ bough,
Full of green promise, from the tree of life?
You, who in your bereavement truly feel
This truth, expressed so sadly and so well:
'Joy's recollection is no longer joy,
While Sorrow's memory is sorrow still;'
I counsel to recant your vows, and come
With me to worship at a better shrine,
The shrine of Morning.
Morning is the hour
Of vigorous thought, unconquerable hope,
And high endeavor. All our powers, in sleep
Bathed, nurtured, clad, and strung with nerves of steel,
Rise from their brief oblivion keen with health,
And strong for struggling, and we feel that toil
Is toil's own recompense. I deem that Man
Is not a retrospective being; for his course
Is on, still on; and never should his eyes
Turn back, but to detect his errors past,
And shun them in his future steps. Too long,
Ah! much too long, O world! and oft I've gazed
In awe and wonder on thy midnight sleep,
While magic Memory, singly or in groups,
Upon her faded tablets re-produced
Fair and familiar forms of Love and Joy.
Oh! _so_ familiar were they, and so fair,
Though dim, those blessed faces, that my eyes
Grew tremulous with the dew of unshed tears.
The gaze hath hurt me. It hath taken their rest
And natural joy from body and spirit, and worn
Too fast the wheel-work of this frail machine.
And now, oh! sleeping Nature! while the stars
Smile on thy face, and I in fancy hear
The low pulsations of thy dormant life,
And feel thy mighty bosom heave and fall
With regular breathings; through _my_ little world
I feel Disease advancing on his sure
And stealthy mission. Well I know his step,
The wily traitor! when I mark my short,
Quick respirations; and his call I know,
As, in the hush of night, my ear alarmed
By the heart's death-march notes, repeats its strange
And audible beatings.
Down! grim spectre, down!
Flap not thy wings across my face, nor let
Thy ghastly visage, horrible shadow! freeze
My staring eye-balls! Let me fly, O Death!
Thy chilling presence, and implore thy soft
And merciful brother,[2] dewy Sleep, to drip
Papaverous balsam on my eyes, and lull
My throbbing temples on his lap to rest!
* * * * *
The day-spring reddens: the first few, faint streaks,
Mingling and brightening o'er the eastern skies,
Announce the upward chariot of the Sun.
Light leaps from Darkness! In the grave of Night
Day lays aside his burial-robes, and dons
His regal crown, and Nature smiles to see
His resurrection, shouting, 'Hail! oh, hail!
Eve's younger[3] brother! and again, all hail!
Thou bright-eyed Morning! fairest among all
Of God's fair creatures! Rise, bright prince, and shine
O'er this green earth, from brooding Darkness won,
From wild, waste Chaos, and the womb of Night!'
[2] [Greek: Entha de Nuktos paides eremnês oiki echousin,
Hypnos kai Thanatos, k. t. l.] HES. THEOG. 1. 758, etc.
[3] Observe the order of collocation in Genesis I: 5.
'And the EVENING and the MORNING were the first day.'
Let _me_ too burst the leaden bands of Sleep,
And while the blinking stars, all faint and pale
With their long watch, recall their courier-rays
To their far orbits; and our earthly stars,
The stars of Fashion, sick and wan as they,
Are wheeling homeward to their feverous rest,
Let _me_ walk forth among the silent groves,
Or through the cool vales snuff the morning air.
How fresh! how breathing! Every draught I take
Seems filled with healthiest life, and sends the blood
Rushing and tingling through my quickened veins,
Like inspiration! How the fluent air,
Fanned into motion by thy breezy wings,
O, fragrant Morning! blows from off the earth
The congregated vapors, dank and foul,
By yesterday coagulate and mixed!
Miasmas steaming up from sunless fens;
The effluvia of vegetable death;
Disease exhaled from pestilential beds,
And Lust's rank pantings and the fumes of wine;
All these, condensed in one pernicious gas
By Noon's hot efflux and the reeking Night,
Thy filtering breezes make as fresh and sweet
As infant slumbers; pure as the virgin's breath
Whispering her first love in the eager ear
Of her heart's chosen.
On this climbing hill,
While, lost in ecstacy, I stand and gaze
On the fresh beauties of a world disrobed,
How does thy searching breath, oh, infant Day!
Inspire the languid frame with new-born life,
And all its sinking powers rejuvenate,
Freshening the murky hollows of the soul!
Good Heaven! How glorious this morning hour,
Nature's new birth-time! All her mighty frame,
In lowly vale, on lofty mountain-top,
And wide savannah, stirs, with sprightful life,
Life irrepressible, whose eager thrill
Shoots to her very finger-tips, and makes
Each little flower through all her delicate threads
Each fibrous plant, each blade of corn or grass,
And each tall tree, through all its limbs and leaves,
Quiver and tremble.
The increasing light
Reveals the outlines of the shadowy hills,
And, charm by charm, the landscape all comes forth,
Wood, stream, and valley; while above that green
And waving ocean swells an endless vault
Of blue serenity, and round its verge
Kindles and flashes with rubescent gleams
The far horizon; till the whole appears
A sapphire dome, which, edged with golden rim,
Spans the green surges of an emerald sea.
The Sun is still unseen; yet far before
His chariot-wheels a train of glory marks
His kindling track, and all the air is now
A luminous ocean. Whence these floods of light,
Rich with all hues? Say! have the spheréd stars,
Powdered in shining atoms, fallen and filled
The ambient air with their invisible dews?
Or have the fugitive particles of light,
The Sun's lost emanations, which all night
Lay hid in hollows of the earth, or slept
In vegetable cells, come forth to greet
Their monarch's coming? Are they pioneers
Sent to prepare his way, and raise his bright
Victorious banner, that their sovereign's eye
From his serene pavilion may behold
No lingering shadow from the gloomy host
Of hateful Darkness, who hast westward borne
His routed army and his fading flag?
Alas! proud Science, Fancy's sneering foe,
Says they are but the Sun's refracted rays,
And scintillations from his burning wheels.
EARTH'S bride-groom rises. Round his glittering head
He shakes his streamy locks, and fast and far
Sheds showers of splendor; and his blushing bride,
Recumbent on her grassy couch, scarce opes
Her bashful eyes to meet his ardent gaze.
While at the advent of her lord, the Earth,
Marking his shining footsteps, with a smile
Remembers the espousals of her youth,
When morning stars rang out the nuptial song[4]
In jubilant chorus; on her milky breast,
All the green nurslings of his favor raise
Their dewy heads, and welcome his approach
With thankful greetings; and each gentle flower
Turns her fair face to the munificent god
Of her idolatry, and well repays
His warm caresses with her perfumed breath.
[4] 'When the morning stars sang together,' etc.
JOB: XXXVIII., 7. In the same chapter observe the
astonishing boldness of scripture personification,
and the unequalled pomp of oriental imagery.
But while inanimate nature takes the shows
Of life, and joy, and deep and passionate sense,
The animal kingdom sleeps not; all its tribes
Swell the glad anthem. Birds, that all night long
Slept and dreamed sweetly 'neath their folded wings,
At nature's summons are awakening now;
Nor unmelodiously; for from their throats,
In many a warbling trill, or mingled gush,
Comes music of such sweet and innocent strength,
As might force tears from the black murderer's eyes,
And make the sighing captive, while he weeps
His own hard wrongs, lift his chained hands, and pray
For his oppressor more than for himself.
Thou, too, my soul, if wearing years have left
Aught of high feeling in thy wasted powers,
Of gratitude for mercies undeserved,
Or hope of future favors, here and now,
Upon this breezy hill-top, in the eye
Of the bright day-god rising from his sleep,
Perform thine orisons:
'Father and King,
While here thy quickening breezes round me play,
And yonder comes thy visible delegate
With his bright scutcheon, to diffuse again
All day the rays of thy beneficence
Over this lovely earth, thy six days' work;
To Thee, ALMIGHTY ONE! thy child would raise
A loud thanksgiving. And if this, my strain
Of joy and thanks, and supplication, be
Or cold, or weak, or insincere in aught,
(As our poor hearts deceive themselves so oft,)
Thou! O OMNIPOTENT! canst make it warm,--
Warm as thy love, strong as thy Son's strong tears,
And pure as thine own essence. Formed by Thee,
Saved by thy mercy from thy wrath, we all
Are guilty ingrates, and the best of men
Hath sins perchance which might outweigh the worth
Of all the angels. _I_, at least, have sinned,
Sinned long and deeply; and if still my heart,
Warped by its own bad passions, or allured
By the world's glitter and the arts of him,
Thy foe and our destroyer, should forget
Its source and destiny, and breathe its vows
Again to idols, yet reject Thou not
This present offering. Let thy Grace surround
My steps as with a muniment of rocks,
And guide me in the uneven paths of life,
A pilgrim shielded by thy hollow hand.
And as the grateful earth sends up all day
Her exhalations through the bibulous air
To the sun, her monarch; and receives them back
Rich, soft, and fertile, in the still small shower,
That falls invisible from the morning's womb:
So may my fervent heart exhale to Thee
Daily, the breathings of its thankful prayer.
And praise spontaneous; which thy heavenly grace
Shall render back in a perpetual dew
Of benedictions, making all the waste
Green with cool verdure.
Oh! the time hath been,
When thy benighted children lost the creed
Of thy true worship, and to brutes bowed down,
And senseless stones, and, kneeling in sincere
But vain devotion, to the creature gave
The adoration due to Thee alone,
The mighty Maker. Others strove to turn
Thine anger from them, by the streaming blood
Of human victims; and the reverend priest
Stood up, and in the name of people and king,
Prayed Thee, or some vain substitute, to bless
The holy murder. Even thy chosen, thine own
Peculiar nation, did forget that Thou
Lov'st the oblation of a grateful heart,
A holocaust self-sacrificed to God,[5]
And trusted to the blood of bulls and goats,
And whole burned offerings. And _still_ mankind
Kneel in blind worship. Every heart sets up
Its separate Dagon. Fierce Ambition breathes
His burning vow, and, to secure his prayer,
Makes the dear children of his heart, his own
Sweet home's affections and delights, pass through
The fire of Moloch: Avarice at the shrine
Of greedy Mammon, gluts his eyes with gold:
Some to Renown bend low the obsequious knee,
Praying to be eternized by a blast
From her shrill trumpet: in the glittering halls
Of sensual Pleasure some sing songs, and bind
Their fair young brows with chaplets steeped in wine;
Though soon the chaplets turn to chains, the wines
To gall and wormwood, and the festal song
To howls and hootings. High above these shrines
The great arch-demon and parental Jove
Of all the Pantheon, a god unknown
But every where adored, omnipotent
And omnipresent to the tribes of men,
SELF, rears his temple.
But the day shall come,
When far and wide o'er the regenerate world,
From each green vale and ancient hill, thy sons
Duly to Thee shall bring their evening thanks
And morning homage. Round each cheerful hearth,
Or kneeling in the spreading door-tree's shade,
Each human heart, brim-full of love and hope,
And holy gratitude, shall send aloft
A pure oblation, and the throbbing earth
Be one great censer, breathing praise to Thee.'
[5] This line is from one of GRIMKE'S polished and
most scholar-like orations.
THE LEGEND OF DON RODERICK.[6]
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH BOOK.
[6] See 'Editor's Table' of the present number.
When in the year of Redemption 701, WITIZIA was elected to the Gothic
throne, his reign gave promise of happy days to Spain. He redressed
grievances, moderated the tributes of his subjects, and conducted himself
with mingled mildness and energy in the administration of the laws. In a
little while, however, he threw off the mask and showed himself in his
true nature, cruel and luxurious. Considering himself secure upon the
throne, he gave the reins to his licentious passions, and soon by his
tyranny and sensuality acquired the appellation of WITIZIA the Wicked. How
rare is it to learn wisdom from the misfortunes of others! With the fate
of WITIZIA full before his eyes, DON RODERICK was no sooner established as
his successor, than he began to indulge in the same pernicious errors, and
was doomed in like manner to prepare the way for his own perdition.
As yet the heart of Roderick, occupied by the struggles of his early life,
by warlike enterprises, and by the inquietudes of newly-gotten power, had
been insensible to the charms of women; but in the first voluptuous calm
the amorous propensities of his nature assumed their sway. There are
divers accounts of the youthful beauty who first found favor in his eyes,
and was elevated by him to the throne. We follow, in our legend, the
details of an Arabian chronicler, authenticated by a Spanish poet. Let
those who dispute our facts produce better authority for their
contradiction.
Among the few fortified places that had not been dismantled by Don
Roderick was the ancient city of Denia, situated on the Mediterranean
coast, and defended on a rock-built castle that overlooked the sea.