Chapter VI: Conclusion (1)

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.

The solitude and pleasant walks were eminently suited to the mind of Professor Shaw. The babbling of the rills which came down the hill sides and washed the pebbles at his feet, were soothing to the sense, and the birds sang sweetly on the trees, which were covered with the blossoms of the spring. Only a single dwelling was seen on one of those swelling hills which rose above each other, gently and far away, till their last undulating lines were limited by the horizon's blue verge. The eye wandered with pleasure over the diversified prospect, which included the boundaries of three sovereign states, with various rivers, valleys and fertile fields. On such a spot, where Nature reigned and developed herself in quiet beauty, whether in the voluptuous budding of the spring, or in the year's gorgeous decline, Charity had taken the hint and erected an asylum for the insane. Happy invocation of Nature, most kind and gentle saviour of the sick, who meeting her in her quiet haunts may touch her beautiful garments and be whole! In the exhilarating sunshine, in the fields garnished so exquisitely by our good God, in the religious woods, the circling hills, and the unbounded sky, there is a force of healing, when Art has consigned the victim to despair, and the soothing hand aggravates the deep-rooted sorrow. Nature gently re-conducts the lost mind through its labyrinth of error, speaking sweet consolation in the passing breeze, and a volume of beauty in each unclasping flower.

Professor Shaw was doubling up his grotesque figure over the stones, gathering garnets. With the intent look of a gold digger, or an alchymist prying into his crucible, he was seeking for treasures, cracking up rocks into the size of sugar-lumps, and Macadamizing all the place for yards round. His shadow stalked with him with colossal strides, according to the declension of the sun, and the hammer in his shadowy arm fell on the projection of the shadowy rocks. But not farther off than where his grotesque head and slanting extremity were measured on the next wall, two clowns had gee'd their oxen under a tree, and left their basket of potatoes in the furrow, (w--hoy--gee, there--I tell yer to gee!) for the sake of giving their undivided attention to the Professor. Geology they had never heard of, beyond its application to stone fence; so they considered the conduct of a man very queer indeed, who was muttering to himself, and filling his pocket full of stones. After a little silence, they nodded to each other with a knowing look, and said with one consent, 'He's as crazy as a coot.' They approached Mr. Shaw, dubiously. 'See his eyes!' said they; 'aint they wild? Mister?' said the elder clown.

Shaw made no reply.

'Mister, look a-here; aint you--aint you----?'

'Fel-spar,' said Shaw, cabalistically.

'Oh dear me! that's enough! My dear feller, we've got a duty to perform. I guess we know where you come from. Mister, aint you----?'

'Are you addressing me?' said Professor Shaw, mildly, looking up. 'Are you addressing your remarks to me, my friend?

'Wonderful cunnin', but it wont do. 'T wont sarve you; I'm a-feard we shall have to----'

'Well, Sir, my name is Shaw.'

'What's that you got onto your cane? What you doin' in Queens ceounty? Do tell, aint you----got loose from somewhar? Honor bright!'

The professor, lost in amazement, answered only by a broad stare. He then bethought him that two lunatics had escaped from yonder mansion. The idea satisfied his mind, and surprise gave way at once to a smile, full of benevolence and pity. 'My poor friends,' said he, 'do go back; you have surely wandered from home; do go up the hill--do go up the hill.' Then stamping his foot with an air of authority, he exclaimed, stretching out the hammer of his cane, 'Go back to the asylum, in-stan-taneously!'

'I guess the one in the loft will be long enough,' whispered the rustic; 'but fetch the longest of the two _ropes_, and make haste. Oh, he's stark!'

'Ah! how sad!' soliloquized Professor Shaw, as both of his new friends retreated, and one hurried out of sight, 'how sad a spectacle! the deluded, wandering mind, told by such unerring symptoms; the wild eye, strange words, and fantastic pleasantness; reason hurled from her own throne, and that steady light exchanged for the fitful flickering over decay! They mistake me for one of their melancholy fraternity, poor lunatics! whereas my lamp of life, and reason, it appears to me, never shone brighter. I shall yet work out something of which my country will be proud, and which shall inscribe on an enduring pedestal the name of SHAW.' The professor (with his hammer) split a rock. 'If those men come back, what had I better do with them? I will contemplate the remarkable phenomenon of the mind in ruins. Humanity suggests to me that I ought to coax them back with sophistry as far as the garden-gate, and then holler for help.' Shaw was the best hearted of men; he would not hurt a human being in the world, cruel as he was to bugs, and to centipedes an 'outer barbarian.' In the course of ten minutes he was at the base of a large rock, scooping out garnets, and thinking casually of that 'great work which his country would not willingly let die,' when a rope was let over his head and shoulders from above, and the professor was noosed. The countrymen jumped down, and began to drag him from the other end, squeezing his bowels, and winding him round and round, till coming to close quarters, they knocked his hat off, wrested his hammer out of his hand, and seizing him by the collar, almost throttled him with the knuckles of their immense fists.

SHAW. (Kicking violently.) Murder! murder! murder!

RUSTICS. It won't do no good; we got yer; you may as well come fust as last. You're crazy as a coot, and wuss now than when we fus see you. Your eyes shows it.

SHAW. I'll go with you, my friends, but don't kill me; oh! I beseech you don't kill me!

RUSTICS. No, we wont hurt you; only come along to the house. Come along.

SHAW. Take your knuckles out of my throat, please. _Aside._ Their hallucination is extreme; the symptoms of their disease have taken a form the most vindictive. Yes, my friends, conduct me safe. We shall soon reach the house; then all will be explained.

At this very hour an amusing scene was enacting among the lunatics in the large hall of the asylum. One who professed magnetism was trying his skill upon a subject, to the great entertainment of his fellows. He was making the passes after a singular fashion, upon a docile fellow who sat bolt upright in a chair with a face of the most stolid gravity. Standing at a distance, he would rush up with long strides, make a wavy flourish with his hands over the face of the subject, and retreat as rapidly. Then with eager, swelling eyes, aiming with the fore-finger of each hand, he would run up and point at some phrenological bump upon the cranium. But the patient sat immovable, and was neither to be soothed into slumber, nor coaxed into giving any indication that the organs were excited; as is the case with the well-drilled _proteges_ of your itinerant lecturers.

Nearly all the inmates were witnesses of this scene, except a few who were restricted, and one fair girl who walked in the garden sobbing; and never did tears fall out of more beautiful eyes, or shed over such a sweet face the interest of sorrow. They gushed profusely on the rosebud in her hand; fit emblem of herself; for she had not yet broke into the bloom of womanhood. Where tears flow, despair has been already softened to sorrow, and smiles may yet shine out of the darkness, as the bow of promise bridges only a firmament of cloud. This poor creature, frightened at a disturbance at the gate, fled like a fawn to her own apartment. The professor was lugged in by the head and ears, with unnecessary roughness. Appearances were much against him, as he always had a crazy look. His strange dress and equipments, his unshaven beard, his long hair straggling over his forehead, his long nose and long legs, his much-abused and bunged-up hat, which yawned wide open at the crown and showed the lining, wore the external tokens of a mind ill at ease. Added to this, a sickly smile shed a yellow glare over his features, of which the effect was neither natural nor pleasant; and as the lunatics pressed around, and the clowns still clutched him by the throat, even that passed away, and left an expression of bewilderment and undisguised dismay. At that moment the physician arrived, and glancing at the new subject just brought to the establishment, and concluding that his present wildness would need some coercion at first, requested him to be brought into the nearest apartment. The four formed a singular group. 'Sit down,' said the doctor, nodding calmly to the professor, as he prepared to study the case. 'Ha! ha!' exclaimed Professor Shaw, dropping into a chair, and striving hard to be amused at his predicament, 'ha! ha! ha! My dear Sir, ha! ha! yes, I think I may say ha! ha! ha!'--and he laughed so obstreperously as to set the whole company in a roar. 'This excursion for scientific purposes; near coming to an unpleasant termination; some of your poor fellows, doctor,' casting a knowing look at the clowns, 'are strongly possessed they brought me here against my will.'

The doctor smiled.

'Let me explain all,' said Mr. Shaw, recovering breath, and speaking with preternatural calmness. 'Oblige me first by having those men removed. Their presence disturbs me. I pity them from my lowest soul; but they have--it is ridiculous--ha! ha! ha! yes, it _is_ ridiculous--but they have hurt me very much and disturbed my equanimity. You should confine them more strictly, Sir, and not let them go at large to murder strangers by the way-side.'

The doctor smiled.

'In search of relaxation, during the intervals of a great work which I have in hand, having been made an honorary member of the Tinnecum Association, I came here for the prosecution of scientific purposes, and for the collection of botanical and mineralogical specimens, which I have at present in my breeches pocket.'

RUSTICS. He! he! he! that's enough--see his eyes!

SHAW. (_Smiling._) Doctor, how long have these subjects been in your institution? Their insanity has not taken a very mild form. Will you oblige me by removing them from the room? Indeed it hurts me to see the immortal mind astray.

The doctor smiled.

SHAW. (_Enthusiastically._) As I entered these doors, a most lovely being shot across my path. It was but an instant; a quick light, a momentary flash, and all was gone! But it was enough! I saw her! I never shall forget her. Who is she? That sweet girl has impressed her image on my soul!

DOCTOR. My friend, be calm.

SHAW. Oh, my dear Sir! understand me. I _am_ calm, I _am_ calm.

DOCTOR. Perhaps you will be so kind as to inform me where your _friends_ reside, and when you left them upon this journey.

'My friends!' exclaimed the professor, with a bitter sneer; 'who are my friends? Where have I found any whose friendship was other than a name? My books, my cabinet, my studies, the great work on which I am now laboring--these are my friends; it is only through these that I shall be raised to fame. _Sic itur ad astra._'

DOCTOR. I am satisfied that we had better secure----

SHAW. Do you want any assistance, Sir? I will willingly help you to get these poor fellows to their rooms.

RUSTICS. He's the cunningest we ever seen.

DOCTOR. Yes, he would deceive any one. Wait a minute my men.

SHAW. If you don't need me I'll bid you good day; I can't stay any longer.

DOCTOR. Oh no, we can't let you go, in common humanity, till we have communicated with your friends.

Professor Shaw, in the utmost alarm, attempted to plunge out of the room. He was laid violent hands on by all three; his indignation boiled over; he struggled most desperately, knocked down the doctor, and attempted to jump out of the window, but in the end was overcome, a straight-jacket put on him, the stones were taken out of his pocket, he was conducted to a separate apartment, and as the shades of night fell around him, he almost doubted himself whether he was in his sound mind. His wits seemed to be indeed scattered. In vain he tried to collect them, and to realize his present position, which was the most false and unfortunate one in which he had ever been placed. He charged the Devil with conspiracy. He had already sneered at the suggestion of having friends; how should he be the victim and laughter of his enemies! He imagined them holding their gaunt sides and shaking with a spectre-like malignity. Then he thought of the fair girl whom he had seen in the garden shedding tears on roses, and strove to weave a chaplet of verse which should be more unfading than flowers. What a strange destiny was his! The victim of untoward accidents, persecuted by some evil spirit, and leading an aimless, desultory life, which he yet feared would lead on to lunacy. What should he do in the present instance? Be patient? Yes, he would be calm, forgiving, philosophical as ever. Footsteps are approaching; the door of his cell opens; perhaps it is already the token of his release. Yes, one of his own townsmen enters. Alas! he owed the professor a grudge, and assured the doctor that he was cracked, and begged him to hold on to him by all means; he would go and inform his friends. 'Ha! ha! ha!' exclaimed Shaw, as the door closed; 'there it is again; in luck as usual; ha! ha! ha!--ha! ha! ha!'

As it grew dark, and he lay on his pallet, a crowd of thoughts and imaginations pursued him through a long sleep, and when he opened his eyes to the morning light, he gazed around the strange place with astonishment, and tried in vain to persuade himself that his present position was not a dream.

In three days he was released from limbo; retracing his steps, with all the bugs and specimens which he had collected. And, for those who feel an interest in Professor Shaw, it may be agreeable to know, that in his wanderings, having discovered in a green lane, on the margin of a duck-pond, a district school in want of a pedagogue, he forthwith assumed the birch, and may be now seen at almost any hour of the day, in the midst of his noisy populace, commanding silence, or dusting them on their least honorable parts. 'Tough, are you? I'll see if I can find a tender spot. Come, no bawling, or I'll flog you till you stop. Thomas Jones, take your book, and stick your nose in the c-o-rner. First division may go out. First class in geography----'

F. W. S.

STANZAS

TO THE SPIRITS OF MY THREE DEPARTED SISTERS.

WRITTEN AT MID-WINTER.

Sweet sisters! ye have passed away,
In solemn silence one by one,
And left a brother here to stray,
In doubt and darkness--and alone!
For like three lamps of holy flame,
Ye shone upon my weary way,
Till a chill breath from heaven came,
And quenched for aye the kindly ray.

Where are ye now?--where are ye now?
Those loving hearts and spirits, where!
O'er three new graves in grief I bow,
But ye are gone--ye are not there!
The winds that sigh while wandering by,
Curl the bright snow in many a wreath,
And sing in mournful melody,
O'er the cold dust that sleeps beneath.

The birds that sang when ye were here,
Are singing in another clime;
Have left the hedge and forest sere,
And gone where all is summer-time.
The frail bright flowers that bloom'd around,
When ye were blooming bright as they,
Lie crushed and withered on the ground,
Their fragrance heavenward passed away.

And ye are gone where genial skies
And radiant suns eternal shine,
Where peaceful songs forever rise,
From saintly tongues and lips divine.
And like the flowers whose sweet perfume
Has left the soil and risen above,
Has risen from your silent tomb
The holy fragrance of your love.

But often when the silver beams
Of the pale stars are on my bed,
Ye come among my sweetest dreams,
And bend in silence o'er my head;
And throngs of bright imaginings
Float round and o'er me till the dawn;
I hear the fluttering of wings!
I start--I wake! but ye are gone.

Oh! I am sad; yet still the thought
That when this tired though willing hand
Its earthly destiny hath wrought,
Ye wait me in that distant land,
And that ye long to have me there,
More that I pine your absence here,
Shall heal the touch of every care
And quench the sting of every fear.

No marble stands with towering shaft
To catch the stranger's curious eye;
No tablet graved with flattering craft,
Tells where your silent ashes lie;
But there is one secluded spot
In the deep shadows of my soul,
Where stranger foot intrudeth not,
Nor winter's wanton tempests roll.

And there in Friendship's burial-ground
The willow of remembrance bends,
And ye my sisters there have found
A home among my choicest friends;
And modelled with etherial grace,
The form of HOPE with heavenward eyes,
Stands calmly on your burial-place,
And points her finger to the skies.

I. G. HOLLAND.

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE PRAIRIE HERMIT.

EDITED BY PETER VON GEIST.

It happened on the twenty-seventh day of July, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and forty-two, that I, PETER VON GEIST, found myself, in the natural course of events, journeying on horse-back along the northern bank of the Ohio river, in the state of Illinois. The space between me and the house where I designed to stop, and the time between then and sun-down, were somewhat disproportionate; so I pricked gallantly forward; as gallantly at least as could be expected from a tired horse, and a knight whose recreant thoughts were intensely fixed on dollars and cents, supper, and other trifling affairs. By dint however of much patience in the steed, and much impatience in the rider, we got over the ground, and approached a house that had been in sight for some distance.

It was placed on the summit of a steep, conical hill; there was no smoke from its chimney, or voices to be heard, or persons to be seen, or other signs of life, in its precincts. The grass grew high and green all around the hillock, and there was no road, not even a foot-path, visible on its side. Nevertheless, I dismounted, left my horse to improve the opportunity of snatching a light repast on the abundant herbage, and forced my way up to the top of the knoll.

The building was constructed in the rude fashion of the country; but the chinking had fallen out from between the logs; the chimney had partly tumbled down; tall weeds sprung up between the stones of the door-steps; the door itself was fastened with a huge padlock; the windows were nearly all beaten in, and every thing about it gave evidence that it had not been inhabited for several years. The summit of the hill was smooth and level. A few stumps grew around the edge; and the ground seemed to have been, at some former time, a garden.

The situation was exceedingly fine, and the view on all sides very beautiful. The eminence commanded on one hand three or four miles of the river, and on the other an unlimited tract of prairie. At the particular moment when I first visited it, the level sun-light came glancing over the face of flood and field, tinging every thing that it touched with its own mellow hue, and casting gigantic and ill-defined shadows of the hill, the house, and myself, on the plain beyond. At the distance of a mile and a half below, stood a couple of one-story houses, the logs of which they were built newly hewed, evidently of recent construction. The inhabitants of this old building, then, must have stood where I am standing, and gazed over the vast extent of country that is spread out before me, without meeting a single habitation of man, or any thing having life, except perhaps a wolf or a buffalo. And it could not have been desire of wealth that induced a family of refinement and taste, such as the little decorations and ornaments show that this was, to select this solitude for their home; for not more than an acre of land, at the foot of the hill, had ever been invaded by the plough.

There were several circumstances like these, that were unusual and unaccountable; but not being in a mood just then to be much perplexed about it, I descended the knoll, remounted, and hurried on towards the more hospitable dwellings below.

Of course, the traveller was received with a welcome, and his bodily wants speedily and abundantly cared for. After this most important duty had been satisfactorily performed, and quietude of spirit consequent thereon was restored to my breast, it chanced that the host and his blue-eyed, golden-haired, neatly-dressed, smiling-faced, half-matron, and half-girlish young wife, who had lately set up business on their own account, and I, seated ourselves without the door, to feel the cool air of the evening. It chanced too that the door faced the east; and the old house towered up darkly in the distance before us. In answer to my inquiries, they were able to give but little information concerning it, and that chiefly derived from others.

It appeared that there was on the other side of the river, and a little lower down, a small settlement. It had stood there from time immemorial; at least, the memory of the tidy little wife did not run to the contrary, and she had received her birth and education there, and ought to know. She remembered, one of the first things that she could remember, a middle-aged gentleman, in a black hat and coat, who used to row over the river from the other shore in a small skiff, and walk into her father's store to make his purchases, with a grave, but not cold or forbidding face, and used to pat her on the head, with such a fatherly smile, and say a few words in such a kind tone, as to fill her little breast quite full with delight. She remembered more distinctly, a few years later, how this same gentleman used to come into the settlement as often as once-a-week, and how glad every one appeared to meet him and shake hands with him. The villagers seemed to repose unlimited confidence in him. The moment he landed, half-a-dozen were ready to ask his advice, or to show him papers, to see if all were correctly done. He was the umpire in all differences and quarrels, and seldom failed to send away the disputants at peace with each other. If there was a wedding, he of course must be present. On May-day, when the boys and girls went out into the woods to romp, and afterward to sit down to a rustic pic-nic, he was sure to walk into their midst, just at the right moment, bearing in his hand a wreath of flowers, so beautiful, and so tastefully made, that all the girls cried when at length it fell to pieces; and he would place it on the head of the Queen of May with such a gentle, sweet little speech, that she would blush up to the tips of her ears, and all her subjects would clap their hands and laugh out with pleasure.

At Christmas parties his place was never empty; and while he was there, mirth never flagged. Perhaps their sports were not so boisterous as they would have been if he had not been a spectator; but they were quite as pleasant at the time, and a great deal pleasanter when looked back upon from the next day. He used to sit in one corner, by the huge, roaring fire, and look on, apparently as much interested as they themselves were. Nothing went amiss; and there was never wanting some slight, good-natured remark or act, to rectify mistakes and set them all going again.

But much as he was loved by the villagers, he was no less respected. They did not even know his name. Many would have been glad to, and wearied themselves by indirect methods to find it out. But as no one had courage to ask him, and as it never happened to fall from him incidentally, they remained in the dark about it. He was known and addressed however, by the appellation of 'the Lawyer,' as their conversation with him was chiefly asking his advice on points of law too knotty for them, which he freely gave. He affected no mystery or reserve; yet there was something in his bearing, affable and unaristocratic as it was, that caused those very men--who, if the governor of the state had come among them, would have slapped him on the back, and offered him a glass of liquor--to rise in his presence and approach him with respect.

My bright-eyed informant, with her musical voice, recollected, a good while ago, when she was about ten years old, and he had become gray and wrinkled--though he never needed a staff, nor was his eye dim--that he rowed over one spring afternoon, and requested the men to leave their work for a few minutes, and hear something that he had to say to them. Accordingly, they collected 'considerable of a little crowd' around her father's store. The lawyer stood in the door, while she made her way through the throng and sat down on the door-step, at his feet. She did not remember all that he said; only that he talked to them for about half an hour, in a calm, conversational tone, on the importance of building school-houses and educating their children. They seemed to be much pleased with what he said; and after another half hour's free discussion, the whole village turned out, and went to work felling trees and hewing timber; and in the course of a few days a substantial school-house was erected. From that time forth, she and all her brothers and sisters, and all her play-mates, at stated hours and seasons, were rigidly imprisoned therein, and diligently instructed in the rudiments of science.

About this time, she and a brother who was about two years older embarked on a voyage of discovery. They pulled up the river, at least he did, for she only held the rudder, two miles, till they come in sight of the residence of the Great Unknown. There stood the old house, as she had often gazed at it with wondering eyes from the opposite bank, just as grim, and dark, and gloomy. It had been their intention to make an open descent upon it, and boldly beat up the premises. But now, the building was so silent, and deserted, and frowning, their hearts failed them, and they crept cautiously along up the southern shore till they were concealed by a bend in the river; then striking across, they floated down, by accident as it were, close under the northern bank. When they arrived under the hill, on the top of which the object of their curiosity was placed, they looked anxiously up at it; but every thing was as silent as the grave. Seeing it thus unguarded, they took courage, ran the skiff ashore, and prepared to land. But when on the point of stepping on the beach, the door of the house opened, the man himself walked out therefrom and advanced to the brow of the eminence. There he stood; black all over, except his face, which at that instant appeared to wear a peculiarly terrible and ferocious aspect. The children were frightened, and hastily shoved off their little cockle-boat. But the man came down to the edge of the water, and called them by name to return. _She_ thought how far off home was, and no one near to afford assistance in case of need; and when she thought, she would have been glad to have retreated as fast as possible; but her brother was commander of the expedition, and without more words he pushed back to land.

They went ashore, neither of them altogether devoid of fear and trembling, and sat down on the grassy bank, by the side of their venerable friend. He soon talked away their timidity; and seemed so mild and affectionate, that in a few minutes they were chatting and laughing as merrily as ever children could. He showed them his garden, his trees, and flowers, and fruits. He gave them a little basket, which they filled with strawberries, some of which he squeezed between his fingers and rubbed on her cheeks, to see he said, if they could be made any redder. In fine, he amused them so much with his stories, and was so pleasant and kind, that they fell more than ever in love with him; and after promising a dozen times to come and see him every week while it was summer, they returned gaily home.

But the old man died at last. The children went up one sunshiny morning to pay him a visit, and found the house all still, and the door locked. They knocked and knocked, but no one answered. They peeped in at the window and saw him stretched at length on the bed, fully dressed, with a handkerchief over his face, and his gray hair lying dishevelled on the pillow. They called to him; but still there was no answer. Then they became alarmed, and hurried home. Some men came up, broke open the door, and found him dead. Without sickness, or premonition of any kind, he had calmly passed away.

They dug his grave by the side of the cottage, and laid him in it, with his feet to the east and his head to the west; and left him to rest there, unknown and unnamed in death, as he had been in life. The whole village, men, and women, and children, mourned for him many days. But when the days of lamentation were ended, and they saw his face no more, though their grief abated, his memory did not, and has not yet passed from their hearts.

I observed the voice of my hostess to falter more than once, while telling this simple and dream-like story of her childhood. I could see by the night-lights too that her bright eyes sometimes became brighter and sometimes dimmer; both of which circumstances made it only the more pleasant for me to sit and listen to her words.

'There were no letters,' she said, found in his possession from which they could learn his name. There were no writings of any kind, except a bundle of old papers, which she had looked into, but they seemed to be only disconnected thoughts and memoranda of events and feelings, and threw no light on his history. At my request she produced a lamp and spread out the papers on the table. I turned over the worn and time-stained manuscripts; but the leaves were loose, unnumbered, and put together at random, and it was some time before I could find a place to begin at.

At length, however, I managed to bring a few sheets in juxtaposition, such, that with a little stretch of the imagination I could discern a slight connection between them. And thus, by dim lamp-light, alone, with the silence of night around, and the old house lifting up its dark and shadowy form in the distance, I read some of the old man's papers.

Those which I read I took the liberty of putting into my portmanteau, arguing that though they might be of no use to me, they certainly would be of none to their present possessors. Some of these papers having appeared in the KNICKERBOCKER, and met with 'acceptance bounteous,' I am induced to transcribe for the edification of the reader, a portion of the autobiography of the writer. It is contained in the last chapter, or sheet, and is written in a different and more aged hand than the rest; and gives the 'moving why' of the old man, in isolating himself from his kind, in one of the great green deserts of the West, 'for which the speech of England hath no name.'

A DREAM OF YOUTH.

Sixty years old! Many sorrows, many storms encountered, both within and without, and much journeying along the road of life, have left their traces on my features and on my head; but I am thankful that they have not touched my heart. I live alone, but not solitary; for I hold daily communion with the absent and beloved; communion also, sad but sweet, with the departed. The forms of those once hated too, are ready to rise up at my bidding; but they are never summoned. For I wish all within me to be gentleness and repose; and it ill becomes me on this my last failing foothold on the verge of the grave, to allow thoughts of hatred to stir up the turbid waters of bitterness which have been slumbering so many years in my heart.

So I stand up here calmly at the end of my journey, and look back on the path which I have trodden. And what a path! Far back it runs, growing fainter and narrower, till I lose sight of it, an indistinct line, in the distance. I shall not say how many steep hills it crosses, where it might better have kept in the plains; how many deviations it makes from a straight course, apparently for the sole purpose of wandering through difficult places; or how often it runs along over burning sandy deserts, parallel with, and but a few steps from, the verge of a cool and pleasant meadow. I shall say nothing of this; for of the million of paths that intersect this vast plain of Life, there is probably not one which, when the traveller looks back upon it, does not like mine seem marked out by the veriest caprice of chance. Each one gropes its way along, like the crooked track of a blind man; and when it would appear the easier and almost the only way to keep on up the gentle eminence, whereon might have been found renown and happiness, by that same constant fatality, it suddenly turns short off to one side, plunges down into the rocky ravine, and pants on, for many a weary mile. That man shapes not his own ends, is a truth which I felt long since, and which each day's experience brings home to me with the freshness of a new discovery. It is a truth which rises up and mocks us, when we sit down to calculate or plan for the future; and it almost staggers our confidence in the connection between human means and the desired result.

But what a path! Proceeding out of the darkness of morning, it struggles through a brief day, sometimes in sunshine, and sometimes in shade, and ends in the darkness of night. I glance along it, and the care-worn faces of the companions of my manhood rise up, on either side, and farther back, the speaking countenances of the friends of my youth. It is but a narrow space, the land of Youth, and soon passed; but pleasant, and full of images of beauty. The sun is not so bright and hot upon it as on some other parts of the path; but we do not expect happiness in the garish light of mid-day and reality. The mellowness of a summer evening sunset lays on it, and thereby it becomes a faery land, a land of bliss and dreams. How throng up, as I gaze, the forms of those early and best-loved friends! How distinct and life-like, even at this distance, are their characters and features! They are all there; not one name has been erased, and not one picture dimmed, on the tablet of memory. The same warm smile of kindling pleasure greets me; the same hands are thrown out, as if to touch my own; and those bright eyes grow brighter as they are turned toward me.

It is with such companions that I spend the last days of my earthly pilgrimage; and thus, as I said before, though alone I am not solitary. Is not such companionship sweet? When they visit me, I throw off old age, as a garment. Smiling thoughts come gently over me, and life and happiness, as of wont, course like the mad blood of fever through my veins. I feel over again those old feelings, repass through those same scenes, and my heart beats faster or grows pale in the same places and in the same manner as it once did. The old fields and houses and roads come up too, clothed at my command, in the snows of winter, or in the beauty of summer. Old scenes, but still fresh and young; and I am sometimes tempted to believe that the intervening years have been the illusion of a dream, and that I am awakening in their midst.

All this, some will say, is the weakness of age. It seems to me to be rather its strength. The future in life is nothing; and what is the bare present to any one? The past, then, alone is left me. And if by living in it I can keep my affections alive, instead of letting their fires, according to the course of nature, or rather of custom, die down into cold ashes, I do not call myself weak if I do as much as possible forget the present.

I had, when I was young, many dreams; such as I dare say all have. They seem such to me now, only not at all shadowy. On the contrary, they become more and more like reality as my distance from them increases, while their hues are as well marked and distinct as ever. Many and bright; but the brightest of all, the dream of my youth, is that which flashes across my recollection, when there comes into my heart the thought of my cousin Jane!

My cousin JANE! Her form comes up before me, light and elastic and joyous, as though summoned for the first time, and as though it had not been my daily visitor for many a long year. Time writes no wrinkle on thy snowy brow, my first love! That glad smile knows no weariness, and I know no weariness in gazing on it. Those deep eyes, full of feeling; those soft words that thrill; I see and hear and feel them now, as I saw and heard and felt them first. Wilt thou never be tired of looking up to me, with that sweet, timid, confiding, tearful glance? Will the rising flush of thy cheek and thy subdued smile, be always fresh as now, and as in that hour when first we met? Thou hast been my companion, my unmurmuring, ever-present, unchanging companion, through many a dark time and stormy scene; and thou and the heart in which thou livest will die together.