his usual post for a whole day together, and particularly on Christmas,
that busiest of all days, failed to excite a degree of general curiosity
and inquisitiveness as to the cause of his absence; but to the many
inquiries of his friends touching that subject, he only replied by shaking
his head and saying that time would show. Enough had leaked out, however,
to satisfy the public that the affair was shrouded in a mystery that was
worth the trouble of penetrating; so that when on the morning of the first
of January immediately succeeding the year that had just closed, Mr.
Thomas Hardesty and Miss Margaret Sidebottom were summoned each by three
lusty cheers from the town-crier to appear before his worship the police
judge of Idleberg, the populace rushed to the scene of judicial conflict,
until the humble and contracted audience-chamber was crowded to
overflowing.
The witnesses summoned in the case were Mrs. Jenkins, Jake Crow, and
Master Dick Sidebottom. In due time the defendant came into court, leaning
on the arm of her next friend and privy counsellor, Mrs. Jenkins, who as
usual was attended by a bevy of young Jenkinses. Before embarking in this
trying embassy, the ladies, by the way, had gone to the Madeira bottle;
the one complaining of a pain in the breast, and the other of general
nervousness. Mr. Hardesty was unattended, and so were his remaining
witnesses.
The warrant gravely charged the defendant with stealing or causing to be
stolen from the plaintiff, on the night of the twenty-fourth of December
last past, a pair of boots and a pair of breeches, whose respective values
were duly set forth. The reading of this document created quite a
sensation throughout the court-room. Mrs. Jenkins was called and sworn.
She deposed that on the night specified in the warrant, she had taken tea
at the defendant's house; that she was suddenly called home, missing
thereby a great deal of anticipated pleasure; that the defendant passed
the next day, being Christmas-day, at her (witness's) house; and witness
did not at any time see defendant steal or cause to be stolen from
plaintiff the said boots and breeches, nor did she believe Miss Sidebottom
to be capable of such an act; 'and particular,' she said in conclusion,
'from such a pitiful old scamp as Tom Hardesty;' and glancing around
triumphantly at the audience, and scornfully at the plaintiff, she waited
for the court's cross-questions.
'Is that all you know about the case, Madam?' inquired his worship,
smiling.
That was all.
'You can retire. Call Jake Crow.'
Mr. Crow stood in no need of being called, as he marched up to the judge
immediately, and deposed that on the last Christmas-eve night, he had
called at defendant's house for Mrs. Jenkins, as old Jenkins had been
knocked on the head and carried home drunk. (At this Mrs. Jenkins looked
like a carnation pink, and commenced fanning herself violently with her
pocket-handkerchief.) Witness, however, did not enter the house, and knew
nothing whatever of the matter in dispute.'
'You can retire, Mr. Crow. Call Richard Sidebottom.'
Dick had managed, with his usual restlessness, to retire some time before
this from the crowded room, and was breathing the pure air and playing his
boyish pranks in a distant part of the town. The officer who was
despatched for the young gentlemen returned presently, lugging him by the
coat-collar. After being introduced to the court by the usual solemnities,
Dick proceeded to give in detail the events of the memorable night, as
already known to the reader. He also gave an interesting account of the
defendant's oft-repeated cruelties to himself personally; how on Christmas
night he had restored the stolen articles to plaintiff, and how the
rightful proprietor was wearing the same in court.
A general hurrah and stamping of feet succeeded the delivery of this
testimony; at which the judge frowned, and the constable cried 'Order!'
with all his lungs.
'Mr. Hardesty,' said the judge, when order was restored, 'do you feel
disposed to prosecute this suit? I fear I must dismiss the warrant, on the
ground that the court can furnish no relief in the case. What say you?'
Mr. Hardesty arose. 'May it please your worship, the time was, and I care
not who knows it, when I entertained for the defendant in this cause
feelings of the most profound respect and admiration. And I had been led
to hope that my passion was not altogether disregarded; that Miss
Sidebottom would one day become Mrs. Hardesty. And this, Sir, as detailed
to you by the last witness, her own nephew, is the treatment I have
received!' The speaker paused and applied his pocket handkerchief to his
eyes. The audience was touched. 'It ain't the temporary loss of my
breeches; it ain't the long weary hours I spent shivering in that closet;
it ain't the wading home bare-footed in the snow; it ain't the finger of
scorn some gentlemen may p'int at me now, that wounds my heart; but it's
feeling and knowing that the woman I loved better than my own life; the
woman I would have lived for, or died for, to make her happy; that that
very woman----' He could say no more; his feelings overpowered him, and he
sat down.
Miss Sidebottom's sympathies were evidently touched throughout this
harangue. Until now, she had been rocking to and fro in her seat, and when
Mr. Hardesty concluded, she rushed through the crowd, threw herself on his
neck, and kissed him passionately.
'Clear the room!' bawled his worship, starting to his feet. 'Clerk,' he
continued, addressing that official personage, who was standing near,
'write me a license to unite Thomas Hardesty and Margaret Sidebottom in
the holy bands of matrimony. I know they are of age, and don't need any
guardeens.'
The judge sat down, convulsed by his own wit, while the clerk proceeded to
his task. The loving pair looked up and smiled through their tears. 'I
loved you, Tom, all the time; I did indeed. It was all in fun, dear
man--indeed it was!' Tom Hardesty threw his arms around her neck, and
pressed her head to his bosom.
'Come!' said his worship, after reading the license, 'none of your
hysterics here, but stand up and be married.' And married they were; and
the bride, in consideration of her cruelty, paid the costs of the suit and
the marriage fees; and off they marched homeward, amid the deafening
huzzas of the multitude that was gathered in the street.
Happy New-Year! that sealed Tom Hardesty's happiness! Many a changing
season has come and gone since then, and nobody knows but they are the
happiest couple in Idleberg. Mr. Hardesty's first domestic advice to his
bride was to decline Mrs. Jenkins's farther acquaintance, which she did
most readily. The old gentleman has long since despaired of having an heir
direct, but has promised John, who is prospering behind his old master's
counter, that he and Belinda shall marry before long. Mr. Richard
Sidebottom is one of the 'reformed drunkards,' and eschews Madeira
especially. He is now an attorney, _in embryo_, and gives ample promise of
carrying into his profession all the acuteness and cunning which
distinguished his exploits on the memorable night that opened this chapter
in the biography of Mr. Tom Hardesty.
WINTER EVENING.
The fire is burning cheerly bright, the room is snug and warm,
We keep afar the wintry night, and drive away the storm;
And when without the wanderer pines, and all is dark and chill,
We sit securely by the fire, and sparkling glasses fill.
And ever as the hollow wind howls through the moaning trees,
Strange feelings on the boding heart with sudden chillness seize:
But brightly blazes then the hearth, and freely flows the wine;
And laugh of glee, and song of mirth, then wreathe their merry twine.
We think not how the dashing sleet beats on the crusted pane,
We care not though the drifting snow whirls o'er the heath amain;
But haply, while our hearts are bright, far struggling through the
waste,
Some traveller seeks our window's light, with long and fruitless haste.
Hark his halloo! we leave the fire, and hurry forth to save:
A short half hour, and he had found beneath the snow a grave.
Pile on the wood!--feed high the flame!--bring out our choicest store!
The traveller's heart grows warm again; his spirit droops no more.
J. G. P.
SONG OF THE NEW YEAR.
BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS.
I have come, I have come from a shadowy clime,
An heir of the monarch Earth's children call TIME;
With years yet unborn, I have stood in the hall
That was reared by our sire, awaiting his call:
Last eve, as I lay on his bosom at rest,
I saw slowly rise a white cloud in the west;
Now through the blue ether, through regions of space,
It floated up softly, with fairy-like grace,
And paused 'neath the light of the white-shining stars,
Whose rays pierced its centre, like clear silver bars;
The winds revelled round it, unchecked in their mirth,
As it hung, like a banner, 'mid heaven and earth.
The soft fleecy folds of the clouds swept aside,
The winds ceased their revels, and mournfully sighed;
A car slowly rolled down the pathway of Time,
A bell slowly tolled a funereal chime:
A sound in the air, and a wail on the breeze,
Swift as wave follows wave on tempest-tossed seas;
Thin shadows swept by in that funeral train,
As glide o'er old battle-grounds ghosts of the slain.
I saw the dim spectres of long-buried years--
The Seasons close followed, in mourning and tears.
Arrayed in his armor, death-darts in his hand,
The grim King of Terrors strode on with the band,
While cold, stark and ghastly, there lay on his bier
The death-stricken form of the hoary OLD YEAR!
How bent was his figure, how furrowed his brow,
How weary he looked from his pilgrimage now!
The phantoms of Passion, of Hope and Despair,
With dark, waving plumage, encircled him there;
The Months stood around, and the bright dancing Hours
On spirit-wings floated, like birds among flowers.
A voice sweet as music now smote on my ear:
'Go forth in thy beauty, thou unspotted Year!
The old Year hath died 'mid rejoicings and mirth,
That rocked the stern heart of the rugged old Earth!
The midnight is passing; away to thy car!
Thou'lt sail by the lustre of morning's bright star;
Away!' And I rose from the bosom of Time,
And fled through the gates of that shadowy clime;
My car sped along on the wings of the wind,
While Winter, old man! tottered slowly behind.
The sky's eastern portals impeded my flight,
When Morning rose up from the arms of the Night;
The dawn faintly glowed, and I saw the old Earth,
And sailed in my kingdom, a monarch at birth!
'Then give me wild music, the dance and the song,
For ever!' I shouted, while whirling along:
'I have come, I have come from a shadowy clime,
A breath of the monarch Earth's children call TIME!'
_Cincinnati, December, 1843._
ON COLOUR.
Full angel-like the birdis sang their hours[1]
Within their curtains green, within their bowers
Apparelled with white and red, with bloomys sweet.
Enamell'd was the field with all coloùrs:
The pearlit drops shook as in silver showers,
While all in balm did branche and leavis fleit.[2]
Depart fra' Phoebus did Aurora greit;
Her chrystal tears I saw hing on the flowers
Which he, for love, all drank up with his heat.
DUNBAR.
[1] Heures, prayers.
[2] Float.
1. The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.
2. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me
beside the still waters; He restoreth my soul.
A PSALM OF DAVID.
As I walk over the surface of this fair Earth, an erring and a wayward
being, at times dejected by the trials of a solitary and an almost
abortive life, or sustained or elevated by its prosperous incidents; I
sometimes think that no one other blessing of existence hath ever
comforted my heart and restored my soul so much, as the pleasures and
delights of COLOUR. It is my wealth, my joy, my faculty, my fountain!
The recreative pleasure that others find in Music, although this is not
denied is less to me than to them, a restorative and a balm. Music excites,
arouses me; melts me into weakness, or animates me into passionate
exertion; but it is in the green pasture and beside the still waters, in
bowers apparelled with white and red; it is in the tints with which autumn
is bedecked, and Day expires; that I feel I shall not want, and that GOD
restoreth my soul! And it is among huge and solitary mountain masses of
grey castellated rock, in the crevices of which the stinted pine, and the
cedar with its brown and tattered trunk, struggle out a hard and scanty
existence and are yet covered with never-fading verdure--mountains to
which the Saviour of mankind might have retired to meditate and pray--that
I feel that the Lord is my Shepherd, and shall bring me to the green
pastures, and lead me beside the still waters; my Rock! my fortress! and
my high tower!
Sometimes my heart takes a fancy altogether for _brown_ hues; and as you
cannot at all times command these in the country, I seat myself down
quietly in front of a precious Cuyp with which GOD hath endowed me, and
that (except the sky and water) is composed entirely of them in every
gradation and shade; and when I rise up from the contemplation of it, I
feel that it is in brown hues that GOD restoreth my soul.
Sometimes I dwell upon the silvery trunk of the birch-tree, or upon the
darker hue of the beech. Sometimes my soul drinks the full beauties of the
umbrageous chestnut; or revels in the golden berries, and the graceful
branches that seem overladen with them, of the mountain-ash. As I grow old
I wave often in the grey pendulous mosses of the South, or stand in
thought under the gigantick branches of the live oak, with all its leaves
of laurel, and its heroick gesture. GOOD GOD! I say, when I think that we
might all have been born, ate, drank, smoked, grown up, built, propagated,
and died, as thoroughly and effectually as we now do, and all these
precious objects of our sight and joy been made for us--out of the one
desolate colour of an old pipe!
And WATER--that element of Life, that upon the plaintain-leaf looks so
like a molten mass of diamond that you can hardly persuade yourself it is
aught else, might as well have been created of a mere drab quaker-colour;
or not even as bright as a bit of Quartz Rock! and yet have satisfied our
thirst as well as if it had gushed forth from the limpid sources of the
Croton; or been drawn from the transparent body of Lake George; or from
those mountain streams of sparkling chrystal that, in alternate shade and
gleams of light of tropical brilliancy, bound and gush and dance their way
downward from rock to rock to the sound of their own musick, and make
themselves into rivers of joy as they descend along the _Grand Etang_ of
the Island of Grenada!
And WINE, that GOD hath sent to make glad the heart of man, and
hath blessed it in the cup; and which might perhaps have had the same
hilarious effect, though it were of the dingy colour of the ashes of the
grate by which I sit; but which, for our more perfect happiness, He hath
made to outvie the Topaz and the Ruby, in its lustre and its varied hue!
There are many of us who have this one quality, the love of colour, in
common with the magnificent DAVID, whose precious inspiration I have
quoted at the head of my Essay, and who in a thousand passages interweaves
it like a golden thread amid his works; but as in the minds of many
others, it may be a blessing only half appreciated, I have thought that a
few words upon this subject might fall not unfruitfully upon the heart,
perchance of some one young Reader of this article, just opening to the
knowledge of this peculiar work of the great Master of mankind, COLOUR.
Even Music, although itself an occupation revealed to us as of the Angels
of Light, is, except perhaps as they enjoy it--with whom poetry and
modulated sound adapted to the thought are inseparably one--even music is
less refined, less gentle, perfect, unobtrusive. For the enjoyment of
Colour involves no possible interruption of another's tastes; no outbreak
upon the quiet stillness of the day; no intrusion on 'the ear of night;'
nor yet any expression, that by pouring abroad the sensations, might
diminish the deep earnestness of the soul; which, all sight, all ear,
becomes the Recipient. The enjoyment of colour is the Spirit within us
listening to the language of GOD! to the mute expression of His
unspeakable Love! COLOUR--the conception He hath chosen for His bow of
promise in the Heavens! by which He decorates the Earth, and tells of
Himself in the ocean, and in the sky, and by which He restoreth the Soul
of man!
And in that state of celestial existence which attends the redeemed Soul
disenthralled from 'the body of this death,' is it to be doubted, that
among the joys that 'the eye hath never seen, nor the heart conceived,'
there exist colours beautiful beyond all earthly wealth of imagination;
beyond the poet's fancy and the painter's dream? There where the pure gold
of which the city is constructed, is transparent as glass, and each gate
is one pearl, and the very foundations of the walls are of jasper, and
chalcedony, sapphire, emerald, ruby, amethyst and topaz; and the glory of
GOD is the light that lightens it!
But it is not to another world that the joys of colour are postponed, nor
even to another climate that we need look for the precious satisfaction
that they impart. We have not the carpets of flowers of rainbow tints,
that spread themselves over whole prairies of Texas and Mexico, but what a
gem upon the bosom of Earth when it is unexpectedly found among us is the
blue campanula! And the small white lily of the valley, sheltered and
concealed in its green leaves like a hidden tear of Joy, and almost as
rare! And the bright and graceful lobelia cardinalis that loves the
neighbourhood of the still waters. And the fringed gentian of a tint so
cerulean that our true poet derives it from the firmament; as his own
spirit, if left to approach its kindred element, might claim affinity with
the overshadowing expanse of celestial life![3]
[3] THIS allusion is to BYRANT'S lines 'To the Fringed
Gentian,' a poem so replete with truth and beauty, that we
cannot resist the inclination to quote it here.
ED. KNICKERBOCKER.
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
And coloured with the heaven's own blue.
That openest, when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night.
Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple dressed,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.
I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.
I speak not to thee of the gorgeous sunsets and of those piles of massy
clouds of living and ever-varying colours on which the Day pillows himself
to rest in a luxurious repose; but open thine heart upon the Eastern bank
of the Hudson at the grey of morning, and look with the Sun upon the
opposite shore; and as the mists arise and are dispelled from before thee,
there shall come change after change of colour neutral and calm and slowly
warming into beauty, until a violet haze shall rest upon the hill-tops and
the cliffs that might outvie the golden haze of Italy, and that shall
raise thy thoughts in silent thankfulness, and educate thee to enjoy the
untold treasuries of colour that glow in upper Heaven; and hope shall
spring forth renewed within thee; and sorrow shall fade from thy widowed,
or thy childless heart; the peace which passeth understanding shall come
over thee; and GOD even thine own GOD shall bless thee; and to thine eyes,
now opened to the wonders of His goodness, all the ends of the Earth shall
_shew forth_ His praise!
JOHN WATERS.
STANZAS
SUGGESTED BY GLIDDON'S LECTURES ON THE ANTIQUITIES OF EGYPT.
MISS H. J. WOODMAN
Sublime hath been thy conquest o'er the past,
Stemming Oblivion's torrent by thy might,
Reading symbolic records long o'ercast
By the deep shadows of unbroken night;
Tracing with reverent finger names of kings
That long had slumbered with forgotten things.
The mists that deeply veiled historic rays,
Thou art dispelling with resistless hand;
And dynasties that flourished ere the days
When ABRAHAM forsook the promised land,
No longer noteless, nameless, boldly claim
Their lofty tablet in the arch of fame.
Thy curious finger with a magic key
Unlocked the store of ages, and the light,
Flooding the pass of time, sublime and free,
Decks ruined temples in its vesture bright:
These are the relics of _thy_ grandeur flown,
Land of the Pharaohs and their prostrate throne.
Ere the white stranger's land had trodden been
By foot of pilgrim, Egypt sat supreme,
Queen of the nations, and her realm within
Wealth, learning, power convened--a full, deep stream!
The bulwarks of her throne were safely reared
In hearts by which her greatness was revered.
And now, with Science for his trusty guide,
The stranger comes to read her mystic lore,
Tread her deserted cities, stand beside
Her sculptured temples, eloquent once more;
Not with man's voice, but with the nobler speech
Of days beyond our spirit's utmost reach.
And those proud monuments of youthful time,
The pyramids, whose lofty sides have borne
The storms of centuries in that fierce clime,
And seeming still to smile in speechless scorn,
When bow the everlasting hills with age,
Then shall they vanish from the world's bright page.
A mournful ruin to thy utmost bound,
A type of glory long since passed away,
The statue voiceless whence the thrilling sound
Of gushing music hailed the rising day;
Thus art thou now, oh Egypt! but the flame
Of new-born Science gilds thine ancient name.
And from the dust shalt thou arise once more,
Not by thine own degenerate sons upreared,
But strangers who have sought thy verdant shore
Shall hail thy fallen greatness, still revered;
Until among the kingdoms of the earth
Thou shalt appear renewed--a second birth!
THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.
HARRY HARSON.
CHAPTER NINETEENTH.
Notwithstanding his having made what most persons would have considered a
hearty meal at Harry Harson's, Mr. Kornicker had nevertheless such perfect
reliance on his own peculiar gastronomic abilities, that he did not in the
least shrink from again testing them. Leaving Michael Rust's presence with
an alacrity which bordered upon haste, he descended into the refectory
with somewhat of a jaunty air, humming a tune, and keeping time to it by
an occasional flourish of the fingers. Having seated himself, his first
act was to shut his eyes, thrust his feet at full length under the table;
plunge both hands to the very bottom of his breeches-pockets, where they
grasped spasmodically two cents and a small key, and laugh silently for
more than a minute, occasionally breaking in upon his merriment to gossip
to himself in the most profound and mysterious manner.
'A queer dog! a very queer dog! d----d queer, old Michael is! Well, that's
_his_ business, not mine.'
As soon as this idea had fully impressed itself upon him, he sat up,
became grave, and looked about in search of the waiter. In doing so, he
encountered the eyes of a short fat man at a table near him, who at the
first glance seemed to be reading a newspaper, but at the second, seemed
to be reconnoitering him over it. Mr. Kornicker observing this, not only
returned his glance, but added a wink to it by way of interest. The man
thereupon laid down his paper, and nodded.
Mr. Kornicker nodded in reply; and said he hoped he was well, and that his
wife and small children were equally fortunate.
The face of the stranger was a round, jolly face, with two little eyes
that twinkled and glistened between their fat lids, as if they were very
devils for fun; and his whole appearance was cozy and comfortable. His
chin was double; his stomach round and plump, with an air of
respectability; and he occasionally passed his hand over it, as if to say:
'Ah ha! beat that who can!' But notwithstanding his merry look, at this
last remark his face grew long; and with a melancholy shake of his head,
he pointed to his hat which hung on a peg above him, and was swathed in a
broad band of crape, terminating in two stiff skirts projecting from it
like a rudder, and giving it the appearance of a corpulent butterfly in
mourning, at roost on the wall.
'Ah!' said Mr. Kornicker, looking at the hat, 'that's it?'
'Yes,' replied the stranger, with a deep sigh, 'that's it.'
'Father?' inquired Mr. Kornicker, nodding significantly toward the hat.
'No--wife,' replied the other.
'Dead?' inquired Mr. Kornicker.
'Dead as a hammer.'