the enemy. I could see them distinctly as they moved from tree to tree. I
heard B---- call in a whisper, 'Jamison! Jamison!' Jamison came out of his
tent but without his arms. B---- told him of our danger, and directed his
attention to the Indians in the grove. As he spoke Jamison stretched out
his arms and gave a yawn, remarking, 'These Injuns are mighty unsartin
critters; there's no knowing about their motions;' crawled into his tent
again. B---- returned; neither of us spoke. We lay down and drew our
blankets over us; at length B---- said:
'Harry?'
'What?'
'Hoaxed! by thunder!'
The whole truth, which had been breaking in upon my mind by degrees, now
flashed upon me, and I raised a shout of laughter. At this instant, poor
'Doings,' who had been awake from the commencement, but who was so scared
that he had rolled himself under the eaves of the tent, and contracted
himself into a space scarcely larger than my arm, and who in his terror
would have lain still and had his throat cut without wagging a finger in
defence; this poor, miserable 'Doings' exclaimed 'Haw! haw! haw! I knew it
all the time; I never see fellows so scared!' This was too bad. However,
we had our laugh out, discussed plans for vengeance, went to sleep and had
quiet slumbers for the rest of the night.
The next morning we ascertained that the whole story about the Sioux
encampment had been fabricated for the purpose of trying our mettle, and
that all save B----, myself and 'Doings,' were in the secret. The moving
objects which I had seen in the grass were Indian dogs prowling around for
food, and the Indians in the timber existed only in our excited
imaginations.
* * * * *
I may hereafter give an account of the _modus operandi_ of our revenge,
and of our mode of hunting the buffalo, in which we met with much success;
and of other matters of interest which fell under my observation during
the sixty days we spent with this tribe of Indians.
H. T. H.
LIFE'S YOUNG DREAM.
'There is no Voice in Nature which says 'Return.''
Those envious threads, what do they here,
Amid thy flowing hair?
It should be many a summer's day
Ere they were planted there:
Yet many a day ere thou and Care
Had known each other's form,
Or thou hadst bent thy youthful head
To Sorrow's whelming storm.
Oh! was it grief that blanched the locks
Thus early on thy brow?
And does the memory cloud thy heart,
And dim thy spirit now?
Or are the words upon thy lip
An echo from thy heart;
And is _that_ gay as are the smiles
With which thy full lips part?
For thou hast lived man's life of thought,
While careless youth was thine;
Thy boyish lip has passed the jest
And sipped the sparkling wine,
And mingled in the heartless throng
As thoughtlessly as they,
Ere yet the days of early youth
Had glided swift away.
They say that Nature wooeth back
No wanderer to her arms;
Welcomes no prodigal's return
Who once hath scorned her charms.
And ah! I fear for thee and me,
The feelings of our youth
Have vanished with the things that were,
Amid the wrecks of truth.
Oh! for the early happy days
When hope at least was new!
Ere we had dreamed a thousand dreams,
And found them all untrue;
Ere we had flung our life away
On what might not be ours;
Found bitter drops in every cup,
And thorns on all the flowers.
Ye who have yet youth's sunny dreams,
Oh guard the treasure well,
That no rude voice from coming years
May break the enchanted spell!
No cloud of doubt come o'er your sky
To dim its sunny ray,
Be careless children, while ye can,
Trust on, while yet ye may.
_Albany, January, 1844._ A. R.
THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.
HARRY HARSON.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST.
In the same room from which Craig and Jones had set out on their ill-fated
errand, and at the hour of noon on the following day, the latter was
crouching in front of the fire-place, which had been so bright and cheery
the night before, but which now contained nothing except ashes, and a few
half-burned stumps, charred and blackened, but entirely extinguished. Over
these Jones bent, occasionally shivering slightly, and holding his hands
to them, apparently unconscious that they emitted no heat, and then
dabbling in the ashes, and muttering to himself. But a few hours had
elapsed since he had left that room a bold, daring, desperate man; yet in
that short time a frightful change had come over him. His eyes were
blood-red; his lips swollen and bloody, and the under one deeply gashed,
as if he had bitten it through; his cheeks haggard and hollow, his hair
dishevelled, his dress torn, and almost dragged from his person. But it
was not in the outward man alone that this alteration had taken place. In
spirit, as well as in frame, he was crushed. His former iron bearing was
gone; no energy, no strength left. He seemed but a wreck, shattered and
beaten down--down to the very dust. At times he mumbled to himself, and
moaned like one in suffering. Then again he rose and paced the room with
long strides, dashing his hand against his forehead, and uttering
execrations. The next moment he staggered to his seat, buried his face in
his hands, and sobbed like a child.
'Tim,' said he, in a low broken voice, 'poor old Tim; I killed you, I know
I did; but blast ye! I loved you, Tim. But it's of no use, now; you're
dead, and can never know how much poor Bill Jones cared for you. No, no;
you never can, Tim. We were boys together, and now I'm alone; no one
left--no one, _no_ one!'
In the very phrenzy of grief, that succeeded these words, he flung himself
upon the floor, dashing his head and hands against it, and rolling and
writhing like one in mortal pain. This outbreak of passion was followed by
a kind of stupor; and crawling to his seat, he remained there, like one
stunned and bereft of strength. Stolid, scarcely breathing, and but for
the twitching of his fingers, motionless as stone; with his eyes fixed on
the blank wall, he sat as silent as one dead; but with a heart on fire,
burning with a remorse never to be quenched; with a soul hurrying and
darting to and fro in its mortal tenement, to escape the lashings of
conscience. Struggle on! struggle on! There is no escape, until that
strong heart is eaten away by a disease for which there is no cure; until
that iron frame, worn down by suffering, has become food for the worm, and
that spirit and its persecutor stand before their final judge, in the
relations of criminal and accuser.
A heavy step announced that some one was ascending the stairs. Jones moved
not. A loud knock at the door followed. Still he did not stir. The door
was then flung open, in no very gentle manner, for it struck the wall
behind it with a noise that made the room echo: but a cannon might have
been fired there, and Jones would not have heard it.
The person however who had thus unceremoniously opened the way to his
entrance, seemed perfectly indifferent whether his proceedings were
agreeable or otherwise. His first movement on entering the room was to
shut the door after him and lock it; his next was to look about it to see
whether it contained any other than the person of Jones. Having satisfied
himself on that score, he walked rapidly up to him and tapped him on the
shoulder.
Jones looked listlessly up at him, and then turning away, dabbled in the
ashes, without uttering a word.
'Hello! Bill Jones,' said the stranger, after waiting a moment or two in
evident surprise, 'what ails you?'
The man made no reply.
'Are you sulky?' demanded the other; 'Well, follow your own humor; but
answer me one question: where's Craig?'
Jones shuddered; and his hand shook violently. Rising up, half tottering,
he turned and stood face to face with his visiter.
'Good day to ye, Mr. Grosket,' said he, with a ghastly smile, and
extending his hand to him. 'Good day to ye. It's a bright day, on the
heels of such a night as the last was.'
'Good God! what ails you, man?' exclaimed Grosket, recoiling before the
wild figure which confronted him; and then taking his hand, he said: 'Your
hand is hot as fire, your eyes blood-shot, and your face covered with
blood. What have you been at? What ails you?'
Jones passed his hand feebly across his forehead, and then replied: 'I'm
sick at heart!'
He turned from Grosket, and again crouched upon the hearth, mumbling over
his last words, 'Sick at heart! sick at heart!'--nor did he appear to
recollect Grosket's question respecting Craig. If he did, he did not
answer it, but with his arms locked over his knees, he rocked to and fro,
like one in great pain.
'Are you ill, man, or are you drunk?' demanded Grosket, pressing heavily
on his shoulder. 'Speak out, I say: what ails you? If you don't find your
tongue, I'll find it for you.'
Jones, thus addressed, made an effort to rally, and partially succeeded;
for after a moment he suddenly rose up erect, and in a clear, bold voice,
replied:
'I'm not drunk, Mr. Grosket, but I _am_ ill; God knows what's the matter
with me. Look at me!' he continued, stepping to where the light was
strongest; 'Look at me well. Wouldn't you think I'd been on my back for
months?'
'You look ill enough;' was the blunt reply.
'Well, then, what do you want?' demanded Jones, in a peevish tone; 'why do
you trouble me? I can't bear it. Go away; go away.'
'I will, when you've answered my question. Where's Craig?'
'I don't know. He was here last night; but he went out, and hasn't been
here since.'
'Where did he go?'
Jones shook his head: 'He didn't say.'
'Was he alone?'
'No,' replied the other, evidently wincing under these questions; 'No;
there was a man with him, nigh about my size. He went with him. That's all
I know about either of them. There, there; get through with your
questions. They turn my head,' said he, in an irritable tone.
'Why did he take a stranger?' demanded Grosket, without paying the least
attention to his manner. 'You forget that I know you and he generally hunt
in couples.'
It might have been the cold of the room striking through to his very bones
that had so powerful an effect on Jones, but he shook from head to foot,
as he answered:
'Look at me! God! would you have a man out in such a night as that was,
when he's almost ready for his winding-sheet?'
Grosket's only reply was to ask another question.
'What was the name of the man who went with him?'
'I don't know.'
'What did they go to do?'
Jones hesitated, as if in doubt what answer to make, and then, as if
adopting an open course, he said: 'I've know'd you a good while, Mr.
Grosket, and you won't blab, if I tell you what I suspect, will ye? It's
only guess-work, after all. Promise me that; I know your word is good.'
Grosket paused a moment before he made the promise; and then said: 'Well,
I'll keep what you tell me to myself. Now then.'
'It was a house-breaking business,' said Jones, sinking his voice. 'They
took pistols with them; and I heard Tim tell the other one to take the
crow-bar and the glim. That's all I know. I was too much down to listen.
There; go away now. I've talked till my head is almost split. Talking
drives me mad. Go away.'
Grosket stood perfectly still in deep thought. The story might be true;
for the city was ringing with the news of the burglary, and of the death
of one of the burglars by the hands of his comrade. It was rumored too,
that the dead man had been identified by some of the officers of the
police, and that his name was Craig. It was this, taken in connection with
the facts that the attempt had been made on Harson's house; that an effort
had been made to carry off a child who lived with him, and of its being
known to Grosket that Rust had often employed these two men in matters
requiring great energy and few scruples, that had induced him thus early
to visit their haunt, to ascertain the truth of his suspicions; and to
endeavor, if possible, to ferret out the plans of their employer. The
replies of Jones, short and abrupt as they were, convinced him that his
suspicions respecting Craig were correct; but who could the other man be?
Engrossed with his own thoughts, he appeared to forget where he was and
who was present; for he commenced walking up and down the room; then
stopped; folded his arms, and talked to himself in low, broken sentences.
Again he walked to the far end of the room and stopped there.
Jones, in the mean time, to avoid farther questioning, seated himself; and
leaning his elbows on his knees, hid his face in his hand. He was
disturbed, however, by feeling himself shaken roughly by the shoulder.
'What you've just been telling me, is a lie!' said Grosket, sternly. 'You
should know me well enough not to run the risk of trifling with me. I want
the truth and nothing else. Where were _you_ last night?'
Jones looked up at him and then answered in a sullen tone: 'I've told you
once; I was here.'
Grosket went to a dark corner of the room and brought back Jones'
great-coat, completely saturated with water. 'This room scarcely leaks
enough to do that,' said he, throwing it on the floor in front of Jones.
'Ha! what's that in the pocket?'
He thrust in his hand and drew out a pistol. The hammer was down, the cap
exploded, and the inside of the muzzle blackened by burnt powder.
'Fired off!' said he. 'You told the truth. The man who went with Craig
_did_ look like you. I know the rest. Tim Craig is dead, and you shot
him.'
An expression of strange meaning crossed the face of the burglar as he
returned the steady look of his visiter without making any reply. But
Grosket was not yet done with him; for he said in a slow, savage tone:
'Now mark me well. If you lie in what you tell me, I'll hang you. Who
employed you to do this job?'
Jones eyed him for a moment, and then turned away impatiently and said, 'I
don't know what you're talking about. Don't worry me. I'm sick and half
crazy. Get away, will ye!'
'_This_ to me! to _me!_' exclaimed the other, stepping back, his eyes
flashing fire; 'you forget yourself.'
Jones rose up, his red hair hanging like ropes about his face, and his
bloodshot eyes and disfigured features giving him the look rather of a
wild beast than of a man. Shaking his finger at Grosket, he said, 'Keep
away from me to day, I say. There's an evil spell over me. Come to-morrow,
but don't push me to-day, or God knows what you may drive me to do. There,
there--go.'
Still Grosket stirred not, but with a curling lip and an eye as bright as
his own, and voice so fearfully quiet and yet stern that at another time
it might have quelled even the strong spirit of the robber, he said 'Enoch
Grosket never goes until his object is attained.'
'Then you won't go?' demanded Jones.
'No!'
Jones made a hasty step toward him, with his teeth set and his eyes
burning like coals of fire; but whatever may have been his purpose, and
from the expression of his face, there was little doubt but that it was a
hostile one, he was diverted from it by hearing a hand on the latch of the
door and a voice from without demanding admittance.
'It is Rust,' exclaimed Grosket, in a sharp whisper. He touched the
burglar on the shoulder and said in the same tone, 'I'm going in _there_.'
He pointed to a closet in a dark part of the room, nearly concealed by the
wainscotting. Let him in, and betray me if you dare!'
'You seem to know our holes well,' muttered Jones. 'You've been here
afore.' Grosket made no reply, but hurried across the room and secreted
himself in the closet, which evidently had been constructed as a place of
concealment, either for the tenants of the room themselves, or for
whatever else it might not suit their fancy to have too closely examined.
Jones stared after him, apparently forgetting the applicant for admission,
until a renewed and very violent knocking recalled his attention to it. He
then went to the door, drew back the bolt, and walked to his seat, without
even glancing to see who came in, or whom the person was who followed so
closely at his heels. Nor did he look around until he felt his arm roughly
grasped, and a sharp stern voice hissing in his ear:
'So, so! a fine night's work you've made of it. Tim Craig is dead and the
whole city is already ringing with the news; and _you_, you're a
murderer!'
Jones started from his seat with the sudden spasmodic bound of one who has
received a mortal thrust. He stared wildly at the sharp thin face which
had almost touched his, and then sat down and said:
'Don't talk to me so, Mr. Rust; I can't bear it.'
'Ho, ho! your conscience is tender, is it? It has a raw spot that won't
bear handling, has it? We'll see to that. But to business,' said he, his
face becoming white with rage; his black eyes blazing, and his voice
losing its smoothness and quivering as he spoke.
'I've come here to fulfil my agreement; you were to get that child for me
to-day; I've come for her; where is she?'
Jones looked at him with an expression of impatience mingled with
contempt, but made him no answer.
'Tim Craig was to have gone to that house; he was to have carried her off;
he was to have her here, _here_, HERE!' said he, in the same fierce tone.
'Why hasn't he done it?'
'Because he's dead,' said Jones savagely.
'I'm glad of it! I'm glad of it!' exclaimed Rust. 'He deserved it. The
coward! _Let_ him die.'
'Tim Craig was no coward,' replied Jones, in a tone which, had Rust been
less excited, would have warned him to desist.
'Ha!' exclaimed Rust, scanning him from head to foot, as if surprised at
his daring to contradict him, 'Would you gainsay me?'
Jones returned his look without flinching, his teeth firmly set and
grating together. At last he said:
'I _do_ gainsay you; and I _do_ say, whoever calls Tim Craig a coward
lies!'
'_This_, and from _you_!' exclaimed Rust, shaking his thin finger in his
very face; '_this_ from you; _you_, a house-breaker, a thief, and last
night the murderer of your comrade. Ho! ho! it makes me laugh! Fool! How
many lives have you? One word of mine could hang you.'
'_You'll_ never hang _me_,' replied Jones, in the same low, savage tone.
'I wish you had, before that cursed job of yours made me put a bullet in
poor Tim. I wish you had; but it is too late. You wont _now_.'
Words cannot describe the fury of Michael Rust at seeing himself thus
bearded by one whom he had been used to see truckle to him, whom he
considered the mere tool of Craig, and whom he had never thought it worth
while even to consult in their previous interviews.
'Wont I? _wont_ I? Look to yourself,' muttered he, shaking his finger at
him with a slow, cautioning gesture, 'Look to yourself.'
'You're right, I _will_; I say I _will_,' exclaimed Jones, leaping up and
confronting him. 'I say I _will_; and now I do!' He grasped him by the
throat and shook him as if he had been a child.
'I might as well kill him at once,' muttered he, without heeding the
struggles of Rust. 'It's _him_ or _me_; yes, yes, I'll do it.'
Coming to this fatal conclusion, he flung Rust back on the floor and
leaped upon him. At this moment, however, the door of the closet was
thrown open, and Grosket, whom he had entirely forgotten, sprang suddenly
out:
'Come, come, this wont do!' said he; 'no murder!'
Jones made no effort to resist the jerk at his arm with which Grosket
accompanied his words, but quietly rose, and said:
'Well, he drove me to it. He may thank _you_ for his life, not _me_.'
Relieved from his antagonist, Rust recovered his feet, and turning to
Grosket said, in a sneering tone:
'Michael Rust thanks Enoch for having used his influence with his friend,
to prevent the commission of a crime which might have made both Enoch and
his crony familiar with a gallows. A select circle of acquaintance friend
Enoch has.'
Grosket, quietly, pointed to the closet and said:
'You forget that I have been there ever since you came in the room; and
have overheard every thing that passed between you and _my_ friend.'
Rust bit his lip.
'Don't let it annoy you,' continued he, 'for the most of what I heard I
knew before. I have had my eye on you from the time we parted. With all
your benevolent schemes respecting myself I am perfectly familiar. The
debt which you bought up to arrest me on; your attempt to have me indicted
on a false charge of felony; the quiet hint dropped in another quarter,
that if I should be found with my throat cut, or a bullet in my head, you
wouldn't break your heart; I knew them all; but I did not avail myself of
the law. Shall I tell you why, Michael Rust? Because I had a revenge
sweeter than the law could give.'
'Friend Enoch is welcome to it when he gets it,' replied Rust, in a soft
tone. 'But the day when it will come is far off.'
'The day is at hand,' replied Grosket. 'It is here: it is now. Not for a
mine of gold would I forego what I now know; not for any thing that is
dear in the world's eyes, would I spare you one pang that I can now
inflict.'
Rust smiled incredulously, but made no reply.
'Your schemes are frustrated,' continued Grosket. 'The children are both
found; their parentage known; _your_ name blasted. The brother who
fostered you, and loaded you with kindness will have his eyes opened to
your true character; and you will be a felon, amenable to the penalty of
the law, whenever any man shall think fit to call it down upon your head.
But this is nothing to what is in store for you.'
'Well,' said Rust, with the same quiet smile; 'please to enumerate what
other little kindnesses you have in store for me.'
'I will,' replied Grosket. '_I_ was once a happy man. I had a wife and
daughter, whom I loved. My wife is dead; what became of my child? I say,'
exclaimed he bitterly, 'what became of my child?'
'Young women will forget themselves sometimes,' said Rust, his thin lip
curling. 'She became a harlot--only a harlot.'
Grosket grew deadly pale, and his voice became less clear, as he answered:
'You're right--you're right! why shrink from the word. It's a harsh one;
but it's God's truth; she _did_--and she died.'
'That's frank,' said Rust, 'quite frank. I am a straight-forward man, and
always speak the truth. I'm glad to see that friend Enoch can bear it like
a Christian.'
A loud, taunting laugh broke from Grosket; and then he said:
'Thus much for _me_; now for yourself, Michael Rust. _You_ once had a
wife.'
Rust's calm sneer disappeared in an instant, and he seemed absolutely to
wither before the keen flashing eye which was fixed steadfastly on his.
'She lived with you two years; and then she became--shall I tell you
what?'
Rust's lips moved, but no sound came from them. Grosket bent his lips to
his ear, and whispered in it. Rust neither moved nor spoke. He seemed
paralyzed.
'But she died,' continued Grosket, 'and she left a child--a daughter;
_mine_ was a daughter too.'
Rust started from a state of actual torpor; every energy, every faculty,
every feeling leaping into life.
'That daughter is now alive,' continued Grosket, speaking slowly, that
every word might tell with tenfold force. 'That daughter now is, what you
drove my child to be, a harlot.'
'It's false as hell!' shouted Rust, in a tone that made the room ring.
'It's false!'
'It's true. I can prove it; prove it, clear as the noon-day,' returned
Grosket, with a loud, exulting laugh.
'Oh! Enoch! oh, Enoch!' said Rust, in a broken, supplicating tone, 'tell
me that it's false, and I'll bless you! Crush me, blight me, do what you
will, only tell me that my own loved child is pure from spot or stain!
Tell me so, I beseech you; _I_, Michael Rust, who never begged a boon
before--_I_ beseech you.'
He fell on his knees in front of Grosket, and clasping his hands together,
raised them toward him.
'I cannot,' replied Grosket, coldly, 'for it's as true as there is a
heaven above us!'
Rust made an effort to speak; his fingers worked convulsively, and he fell
prostrate on the floor.
THE SACRIFICE.
'One day during the bloody executions which took place at Lyons, a
young girl rushed into the hall where the revolutionary tribunal
was held, and throwing herself at the feet of the judges, said:
'There remain to me of all my family only my brothers! Mother,
father, sister--you have butchered all; and now you are going to
condemn my brothers. Oh! in mercy ordain that I may ascend the
scaffold with them!' Her prayer was refused, and she threw herself
into the Rhone and perished.'
DU BROCA.