The Knickerbocker, Or New-York Monthly Magazine, June 1844 Part 6

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. 'G.o.d bless thee, my child!' said he, pressing Annie in his arms. The next moment he stepped on sh.o.r.e; 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 a.s.sociated tended in a great measure to soften his character, and temper his fierce pa.s.sions--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, reopened her 'seminary for lambs;'

and from the great quant.i.ty 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 pa.s.sers-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 pa.s.ses 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. St.i.tes' ma.n.u.script 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 St.i.tes; never did, and never will; and that a single hair of Slaughter's tail was worth St.i.tes' 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 ma.n.u.script, and finally concludes with a warm panegyric upon Mr. St.i.tES 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. St.i.tes, 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 pa.s.sing 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 a.s.sured, propped up in a straight jacket, his eye fiery with vengeance; the innocent victim of 'circ.u.mstances,' 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 b.u.t.terflies 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.