Chapter IV: Part 4

THE fiery bark that brought your missives o'er,
Brought the sad news that MURRAY was no more.
From still Hoboken, where I chanced to stray,
I marked the monster belching up the bay,
And guessed (already have I learned to _guess_,)
From her black look, she told of some distress.
Tidings of gloom her sable streamer spoke,
And the long train of her funereal smoke;
And soon the bulletins revealed the grief:
'JOHN MURRAY'S dead! of book-sellers the chief!'

In all the strange events that Rumor sends,
By flood and flame, to earth's remotest ends;
War, famine, wreck, and all the varying fates
Of rising cottons or of falling states;
Revolts at home, and troubles o'er the seas,
Among the Affghans, Chartists, and Chinese;
In all the recent millions that have gone
To the dark realm, and still are hastening on,
That one small tradesman should have joined the throng
Seems a mean theme to babble of in song.
Yet such is Fame! and such the pow'r of books,
To make small names as deathless as the Duke's:[B]
Yes, the same volume that recordeth you,
Ye mighty chiefs! embalms the printer's too;
And wheresoe'er the poet's fame hath flown,
There too the poet's publisher is known;
So shall our friend enjoy, to endless ages,
An immortality of title-pages.

[B] In England there is but one Duke who is universally and
deservedly known as 'THE Duke.'

Ev'n here, in Scythia, where the slighted Muse
Gets but cold greeting from the rude Yahoos;
Ev'n here is faintly heard a public sigh,
Ah, that Childe Harold's accoucheur should die!
That he who made such elegant editions
Should be past help from parsons or physicians;
Dead as the most defunct of all the verse
For which erewhile he tapped his liberal purse;
No more a bargainer for true sublime,
Himself a subject for a scrap of rhyme.

Methinks I see his melancholy ghost
Near his old threshold, at his ancient post;
Watching with eager and obsequious grin,
The pensive customers that enter in.
With curious eye selecting from the throng,
Each who has dabbled in the realm of song;
And offering, as of yore, for something nice
In way of Epitaph, the market price.
And now his bones the sculptured slab lie under,
What generous bard will _give_ him one, I wonder?
For all the golden promises he made;
For all the golden guineas that he paid;
For all the fame his counter could afford
The rev'rend pamphleteer and author-lord;
For all the tricks he taught the friendless muse;
For all his purchased papers in Reviews;
For all the pleasant stories he retailed;
For all the turtle when the stories failed;
For all the praises, all the punch he spent,
What grateful hand will deck his monument?

CAMPBELL'S too proud the compliment to grant:
SOUTHEY, for sundry weighty reasons, can't.
Should MOORE attempt it, he'd be sure to damn
John's many virtues in an epigram.
ROGERS' blank verse so very blank has grown,
'T would scarce be legible on Parian stone;
WORDSWORTH would mar it by inscribing on it
A little sermon--what he calls a sonnet.
Alas! for all the guineas that he paid,
For all the immortalities he made,
For all his venison, all his right old wine,
Will none contribute one sepulchral line?

In truth I'm sad, although I seem to laugh,
To think that John should need an epitaph.
The greatest blows bring not the truest tear,
These minor losses touch the heart more near;
As fewer drops gush over from the eyes
When heroes fall than when your valet dies;
They, of another, an immortal race,
Ne'er seemed on earth well suited with their place,
And though they yield their transitory breath,
We know their being but begins with death:
So winter ushers in the new-born year,
So the flowers perish ere the fruits appear.
When common men, when men like MURRAY, thus
Are snatched away, 't is taking one of us;

And more in his we feel our own decay
Than if a WELLINGTON were snatched away.
'T is not lost genius we lament the most,
No; but the man, the old companion lost:
Who'd not give more to bring back GILBERT GURNEY,
Or SMITH or MATTHEWS from their nether journey,
Than all your MILTONS or your BACONS dead,
Or all the BONAPARTES that ever bled?
So, were the blue rotundity of heaven
By some muck-running, outlawed comet riven,
Should any orb, say yonder blazing Mars,
Be blotted from the muster-roll of stars,
HERSCHEL might groan, or SOMERVILLE might sigh,
But what would London care?--or you, or I?
Far more we vulgar mortals might lament,
Should some starved earthquake gulp a slice of Kent.

Now let no pigmy poet, in his pride,
The humble mem'ry of our friend deride:
More than he dreams, his little species owe
Those good allies, the Patrons of the Row:
They, only they, of all the friends who praise,
All who forgive, and all who love your lays,
Of all that flatter, all that wish you well,
Sincerely care to have your volume sell.
How oft, when Quarterlies are most severe,
And every critic aims a ready sneer,
And young Ambition just begins to cool,
And Genius half suspects himself a fool,
The placid publisher, the more they rail,
Forebodes the triumph of a speedy sale,
And gently lays the soul sustaining balm
Of twenty sovereigns in your trembling palm;
While more than speech his manner seems to say,
As bland he whispers, 'Dine with me to-day.'

Or when some doubtful bantling of your brain,
Conceived in pleasure but achieved with pain,
A bit of satire, or a play perchance,
A fresh, warm epic, or new-laid romance,
Receives from all to whom your work you show
Civil endurance, or a faint 'so so;'
When men of taste, men always made of ice,
Cool your gay fancies with _a friend's advice_,
And prudent fathers, yawning as you read,
Knit the sage lips, and wag the pregnant head,
And bid you stick to your molasses tierces,
And leave sweet ladies to concoct sweet verses:
How oft your MURRAY, with a keener eye,
Detects the gems that mid your rubbish lie;
Instructs you where to alter, where to blot,
And how to darn and patch your faulty plot;
Then bravely buys, and gives you to the town
In duodecimo, for half a crown.

And oh! how oft when some dyspeptic swain
Pours forth his agonies in sickly strain,
Mistaking, in the pangs that through him dart,
A wretched liver for a breaking heart;
And prates of passions that he never felt,
And sweats away in vain attempts to melt;
Or takes to brandy, and converts his verse,
From sad to savage, nay, begins to curse,
And raves of Nemesis and hate and hell,
And smothered woes that in his bosom swell;
When Newstead is the name his fancy gives
The snug dominion where he cheaply lives,
And aping still th' aristocratic bard,
With 'Crede Jenkins' graved upon his card,
When with his trash he hurries to the press,
Crying 'O print me! print me!' in distress,
Some bookseller, perhaps, most kindly cruel,
Uses the dainty manuscript for fuel.
Ah! Ned, hadst thou, when once with rhyme opprest,
Found such a friend, (pray pardon me the jest,)
Hadst thou but been as friendly to thyself,
Thy Poems never had adorned thy shelf.

But all is ended now! John's work is o'er;
He praises, pays, and publishes no more.
Henceforth no volume, save the Book of fate,
Shall bear for him an interest small or great:
And if in heaven his literary soul
Walk the pure pavement where the planets roll,
Few old acquaintances will greet him there,
Amid the radiant light and balmy air;
Since few of all who wrote or sang for him
Shall join the anthem of the seraphim.
Yet there might Fancy, in a mood profane,
Behold him listening each celestial strain,
Catching the cadences that sweetly fall,
Wond'ring if such would sell, below, at all,
And _calculating_, as they say on earth,
How much those heavenly hymns would there be worth.

Or if in Proserpine's more sultry sky
For his misdeeds the Publisher must sigh,
Though much good company about him stand,
And many an author take him by the hand,
And swarms of novelists around him press,
And many a bard return his warm caress,
Though there on all the sinners he shall gaze
Who ever wrote, or planned, or acted plays;
On all the wits, from Anna's time to ours,
Who strewed perdition's pleasant way with flowers;
On BURNS, consumed with more substantial fire
Than ever love or whisky could inspire;
On SHELLEY, seething in a lake of lead,
And BYRON stretched upon a lava bed;
Little shall he, or they, or any there,
Of magazines or morning journals care;
Little shall there be whispered or be thought,
About the last new book and what it brought;
Little of copyright and Yankee thieves,
Or any wrong that CHARLIE'S bosom grieves;
But side by side reviewer and reviewed,
Critic and criticised must all be--stewed;
Alas! they groan--alas! compared with this,
Ev'n BLACKWOOD'S drunken surgery was bliss.
How less than little were the direst blows
Dealt by brute GIFFORD on his baby foes!
How light, compared with hell's eternal pain,
The small damnation was of Drury Lane!

Down! down! thou impious, dark Imagination,
Forbear the foul, the blasphemous creation;
Whate'er John's doom, in whatsoever sphere,
Wretched or blest, 't is not for us to hear.
Not many such have dignified his trade,
So boldly bargained and so nobly paid.
Oh may his own Divine Paymaster prove
As kind and righteous in the realms above!

THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.

Harry Harson.

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

AT about eleven o'clock, on a fine day, a tall elderly man, habited in a long-skirted blue overcoat, with a broad-brimmed hat on his head, his neck enveloped in the ample folds of a white cravat, the ends of which toyed pleasantly with the morning air; and having in his hand a cane, whose top was carved in a miniature likeness of a dog with a distressing countenance, slowly descended the precipitous flight of stone steps which form the rear mode of egress from the City Hall. Having safely landed himself, the elderly gentleman paused, rubbed one hand gently over the other, as if congratulating himself that one of the perils of the day was over, and then walked out into the Park, and deliberately set his watch by the town-clock. Being a cautious man, however, and a man of experience, and one who piqued himself on doing every thing better than any one else, and upon being always right when all the rest of the world was wrong, and on being in general in all respects somewhat--but not too much, merely a trifle--superior to the ordinary run of mankind; and being aware that the town-clock had four faces, which always differed in opinion as to the hour; and being too knowing to be taken in by any small trick of that kind, he winked to himself, and took the pains to make the circuit of the building, and successively to inspect each face of the aforesaid public time-keeper; and having ascertained that the majority was with the one which he had first consulted, he pulled his waistcoat very high up in front and dropped his watch into a small pocket in the waistband of his trowsers. After which, he buttoned his coat and set about his day's work with no little complacency and good humor.

The direction which he took led to one of the poorer parts of the town; and although he walked slowly, it was not long before he was in the thick of those narrow, ill-ventilated streets, hemmed in by decaying houses and reeking cellars, which proclaim, plainer than words, that vice and want, and a thousand other ills which canker the heart, and eat up all that is noble in human nature, are lurking in their dark recesses.

Mr. Chicken, for he it was, paused in front of one of the dim holes, where a dozen wretched beings, ill clad and ill fed, were herding together, and wondered why they _would_ live in such places; and why they did not pay more attention to their dress; really, it was exceedingly shocking; some of them were half naked. 'It's quite indelicate, quite!' said he, mentally: 'Mrs. Chicken would die if she saw it. I declare, I won't be positive--no, yes--no; yet I do think one of them is a woman; I really _do_ think that rug is meant for a petticoat. It _must_ be a woman,' said he, continuing his investigations in a cautious manner. 'It _is_ a woman. Ah! it's agin natur.'

There was no doubt of the truth of his suspicion; half of them were females. Squatting and crouching there, they raised their blear eyes toward him in sullen indifference; too miserably wretched to heed or resent the look of disgust and surprise which met theirs, other than by a heartless laugh or a ribald jest; too callous to feel, and too broken down in body and soul to taunt. The deputy-sheriff shook his head, for although he had often been amid scenes where the strong heart was wrung; where the debtor, ground down by creditors with hearts of flint, and eyes greedy of gold, was struggling beneath the fangs of the law, and crying for indulgence and mercy: although he had seen the calm, pale look of despair; the silent but resolute face of the man who had parted with his all, and finally yielded his body for the gold which he could not pay; and the wife clasping his neck, and his children clinging to him; ay, actually showing marks of affection to a man who was penniless; yet he had rarely encountered a den like this. He had only witnessed suffering and despair in their first stages. Had he desired to see the human soul when hope had darkened into desperation; when friends had fallen off, or less painful than that, had died; when the body had been wasted, and the blood dried up, and yet had yielded no gold; when even that untiring thing, a creditor, had grown weary of his prey, and had flung his victim adrift, to find none to sympathize, no path open, no home left, and even hope dead; he should have lingered a little longer; and in common with the born thief, the hardened courtezan, the reeling drunkard, and the savage brawler, he would have found those whom the sun of prosperity had once warmed, and who once had little dreamed in what foul haunts they would linger out the remnant of life which was yet in store for them.

Mr. Chicken, however, having already expressed his opinion, merely shook his head disapprovingly, on concluding his investigation, and said nothing, but kept on, now turning into one narrow street to the right, then striking into another to the left; now stumbling along broken pavements, and dilapidated steps; at one time half stifled with exhalations which steamed up from reeking kennels and under-ground dwellings, until he finally emerged into a broader street; but still the dwellings were of a meaner cast. Stopping in front of one of these, he stealthily drew out his pocket-book, took from it a small slip of paper, looked at it, then at the house; coughed several times; cleared his throat emphatically and fixed his hat firmly on his head; buttoned his coat to the chin, placed his cane under his left arm, and grasping the small paper firmly in his right hand, like one preparing for a mortal struggle, precipitated himself headlong into a dark alley. Stumbling over a broken pail, a log of wood, and a few minor articles of a domestic description, which usually beset benighted alleys and dim stairways, the sheriff's deputy finally caught sight of daylight in a small yard, with which the passage communicated, and found himself at the door of a dilapidated house, built in the rear of one fronting on the street.

It was a small faded building, two stories high, sinking and crumbling away, like a person weak in the side. Narrow windows, cracked and dust-covered, looked out into the dark yard. A broken flower-pot stood on a window sill with a stunted bush in it, bearing a single yellow leaf; and in another, was a half-starved shrub endeavoring to keep the life in a drooping flower. On the roof, which abutted on other roofs, and was overlooked by tall buildings, a lean cat was dozing in the sun, as if endeavoring to forget hunger in sleep. Every thing bore the stamp of starvation. The windows too were patched with rags, or pieces of paper; the bricks from ruined chimneys had toppled down, and were lying in masses on the roof; there were great, gaping seams between the boards, showing the plaster within; the door had sagged away, and the shutters of more than one window hung by a single hinge. On the door-steps a child was sleeping, and from a narrow window a thin face peeped cautiously out, wondering what a stranger could want in that dreary quarter.

The sheriff's deputy, however, was familiar with the ground. He was in the habit of fishing in troubled waters; and it was not the first time that he had drawn from this very place food for the gaol.

Without asking a question, he quietly stepped over the sleeping child, and stooping as he entered, to prevent his hat coming in contact with the top of the low door-way, he ascended a crooked staircase, carefully picking his way; grumbling at its inconvenient formation, and indulging a few mental anathemas against old houses in general. At the head of the stairs a door was ajar; and without knocking, he pushed it open, entered, and shut it; standing ready to place his back against it, in case he should observe any indication of an attempt on the part of the occupant to escape. This precaution, however, was unnecessary; for the only person there was a man of about forty, with a stern, resolute face, a sharp, gray eye, and strongly built, who was writing at a table, which, with the exception of a bed in a corner, and two chairs, constituted the entire furniture of the room; who merely looked up as his visitor entered, and without removing his eyes from him, said:

'Methinks that common courtesy entitles a man to a knock at his door before his room is entered. Though perhaps,' he added, bitterly, 'the owner of such quarters as these is only entitled to courtesy according to his means.'

To neither of these remarks did Mr. Chicken make any reply; but gradually sidling up to the speaker, until he came within arm's length, he tapped him on the shoulder, and said:

'I arrest you, Sir. It's a very onpleasant duty; but it _is_ a duty, and must be did. Here's the writ.'

The man eyed him for a moment; apparently meditating what course to pursue; while Mr. Chicken grasped the head of the dog on his cane, and assumed an air of desperate determination. At last the man took the paper from his hand, and read it through, without moving or speaking, although his face became somewhat flushed, as he read. Then he merely uttered the words, 'Michael Rust!'

'He's the plaintiff,' said Mr. Chicken, 'and you are the defendant, Enoch Grosket. It's onpleasant, Sir, quite onpleasant; but I'm a deputy-sheriff, Sir; and you're a defendant; and here's the writ; and duty must be did. That's the long and short of it.'

'So this is the end of the game,' said Grosket to himself; 'this is the reward of five years of servitude, the most vile and degraded that ever bound man to his fellow man. A noble harvest have I reaped, for seed that I have sown!--a glorious close to my labors! But it is what I might have looked for. Ah! Michael Rust! well have you carried out your schemes!--a pleasant part have you played in my family! You have sent child and wife both to their graves; the one dishonored, the other broken-hearted; and now, a prison for the father. Be it so, Michael Rust; but the game is not yours yet. If you win it, it must be at the cost of a struggle, which will rack all your sinews. I do not understand this claim,' said he, in a musing tone; 'three thousand dollars?' I owe _him_ nothing. What can it be? 'Edward Kornicker, attorney.' Who's he?' he asked, raising his eyes from the paper to those of Mr. Chicken. 'I never heard of him.'

Mr. Chicken drew down the corners of his mouth, and smiled; at the same time saying, that Mr. Kornicker was a young man of some merit, but rather wild--a _little_ wild.

Having said this, he took a seat in the vacant chair, and placed his hat on the table; at the same time telling Mr. Grosket that he did not wish to hurry him, but that if he had any bail to offer, he would go with him in search of it. If he hadn't, he would be under the less pleasant necessity of escorting him to gaol; and in either case, that he, the said Mr. Chicken, being a public functionary, and much pressed by business, would take it as a personal favor if Mr. Grosket would hasten his movements as much as possible.

Grosket shook his head, despairingly.

'No,' said he; 'the sum is too large--six thousand dollars! I know of no one who will become bail for me in such an amount. Had it come but a day later, one single day later,' said he, clasping his hands tightly together, 'and _he_, not _I_ would have been the victim!'

'Well, Sir,' said Mr. Chicken, 'there being no bail, in course there is no alternative. You must go to gaol; rooms small, but well ventilated. You'll find yourself very comfortable there arter a fortnight or so. There _is_ folks that quite like the place.'

Grosket made no reply to this comforting remark; but stood with his hand resting on the table, and his brows knit in deep thought. At last he said, as if coming to some sudden resolution:

'At least, it's worth the trial. I am working for _him_, and if I fail I shall be no worse off than I now am. Come,' said he; 'I know a man who I think will become bail for me. If he don't--if he don't,' said he in an under tone. 'Well, well, I'll try it.'

'Who is he?' inquired Mr. Chicken, cautiously.

'No matter,' replied Grosket; 'you'll see presently.'

Mr. Chicken felt far from satisfied with this reply. It had a tincture of evasion about it; and a vague apprehension of receiving no other bail than that cheap and convenient kind, generally known as 'Leg-bail,' flitted across his imagination, puzzling him not a little; for Grosket was a brawny fellow, whose thews and sinews were not to be trifled with. Mr. Chicken thought that he was in a crisis; and was beginning seriously to deliberate on the propriety of raising a hue-and-cry on the spot, without waiting for farther indication of a disposition to escape, when the prisoner, apparently observing his perplexity, cut it short, by adding:

'Don't be frightened, my old fellow; I'm acting in good faith. If I don't get bail, I'll go with you as quietly as you could wish.'

'And you are out-and-out in earnest? You mean to get it? No gammon, is there?'

'I'll get it if I can: If I can't, I'm your prisoner. I'll play you no tricks.'

'Good!' ejaculated the deputy-sheriff, quietly pocketing his writ, and placing his hat on his head. 'I'm your man now; which way do you want to go?'

Grosket named the direction; and in a few moments they were on their way to Jacob Rhoneland's.

* * * * *

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

FOR a long time Enoch Grosket and the sheriff's deputy walked on without exchanging a word; but as they proceeded, Grosket's brow began to darken, his lips were firmly set together, and his pace quickened until his companion could scarcely keep up with him.

'Come on, Sir,' said Enoch, abruptly turning to him. 'Michael Rust is the devil, but he has driven to desperation one whom he has drilled in all his ways; and who has had a hand in all his dark doings for years. Let him look to himself. He may chain the body, but my tongue shall speak. Ah! Michael Rust! Michael Rust! you were never nearer destruction than when you thought me in your power!'

His speed soon increased to such a degree, that although Mr. Chicken had apparently been constituted with an especial eye to rapid locomotion, yet that gentleman's lower members were kept at their full stretch. Once or twice the deputy suggested to his companion that the day was warm for the season, and that he had been more active twenty years ago; to both of which remarks Grosket assented, without in the least diminishing his speed; nor did he pause to draw breath until they had reached Rhoneland's house.

'This is the place,' said Grosket. 'If he's wise, he'll not refuse me.'

He knocked at the door, which was opened by Kate. She knew neither of them; and in reply to his question, informed him that her father was at home. Grosket paused for a moment as his eye rested on her bright face; and something like a tear rose in it, as he thought of his own lost child; but he checked the feeling which induced it, and turning, said:

'So you're his daughter?'

'His only child,' replied Kate, anxiously.

'Poor child!' muttered Grosket; 'God help her!'

He muttered this rather to himself than to her; and passed in; but neither his manner nor the words, low as was the tone in which they were spoken, escaped her; and with a heart sinking with apprehension, of she knew not what, for the appearance of any stranger at the house filled her with dread now, she admitted him into the room where her father was.

It was the same poorly-furnished apartment in which the old man was when first introduced to the reader. He occupied the same seat, and sat almost in the same attitude, with his hands clasped over his knees, his chin bowed down on his breast, his dark eyes peering from beneath his shaggy white brows, and apparently watching the crumbling embers in the fire-place. His face was wan and haggard, even beyond its wont; and he had a watchful, suspicious look, which was not natural to him. As the door opened, he started, glanced quickly at the strangers, then at his daughter, as if she and they were in some manner associated in his mind.

'Don't go, Kate! don't go! I want you here,' said he, in a quick, anxious tone, seeing that she was closing the door without entering; 'don't go, my child. Our business is no secret.'

As he said this, he cast an inquiring look at the two, to ascertain that he was correct, and pointed with a hesitating finger to a chair.

Mr. Chicken bowed gratefully, took it immediately, removed his hat, placed his cane between his knees, ran his fingers through his hair, and looked up at the ceiling, after the manner of persons who are occasionally present at interviews in which they have no concern, and in which they have no intention of meddling.

Grosket, however, stood where he was, with his hat on, looking steadily in the agitated face of the old man. At last he said:

'So you don't know me?'

Rhoneland eyed him for a long time; at last he shook his head.

'Yet you _ought_ to,' said Grosket, in the same tone. 'Look at me again.'

Again the old man bent his eyes upon his face, and studied his features; and certainly they were not of a character to be easily forgotten; but again he was at fault; he did not know him.

'It's strange!' muttered the other; 'a friend is often forgotten, but an enemy rarely. My name is Grosket--Enoch Grosket.'

A bright flush passed over the old man's face, as he heard the name, and he half rose from his chair. 'Yes, yes,' said he, quickly; 'I know now; the friend of Michael Rust. Kate,' said he, suddenly turning to the girl, who was leaning over his chair; 'you can go--go, Kate; leave the room, my child. This is only a friend of Mr. Rust's.'

'It's scarcely worth while,' said Grosket, 'for what I have to say of Rust will soon be spoken in the open day; ay, in his teeth will I fling my charges; before the whole world will I make them; I will brand him with a mark that he will carry to his grave! No, no, Jacob Rhoneland. I'm _not_ a friend of Michael Rust, and he'll find it so. I've too many wrongs to settle with him, for that.'

'Not a friend of his!' ejaculated Rhoneland; 'then what brings you _here_? Don't you know that I am his friend?--an old friend? He calls me his best friend.'

Grosket's lip curled, as he answered:

'_That_ friendship has lasted too long for the good of one of you. I need not mention who that one is. I am come to end it. He was my friend once. God save me from another like him! God! how he loved me!' said he, setting his teeth; 'and in return,' added he, in a cold tone, 'don't I love him now? Such a love! Give me but life and liberty, life and liberty,' said he, dropping his assumed tone, and breaking out in a burst of fierce vehemence, 'and by every hope that man can have, I swear to crush him; to grind him to the earth, body and soul; to blight him as he has blighted others; and as far as man can do so, to thwart every scheme, wither every hope, and to make him drag out his life, a vile, spurned, detested object, hated by man, driven from the pale of society, with every transgression stamped upon him, and beyond redemption in this world! What his prospects may be hereafter, none can tell but HIM.' He raised his hat reverently as he spoke, and his tone from high excitement, calmed into deep solemnity.

'My errand here,' said he, turning to Rhoneland, 'is simple; my story a short one. I was Michael Rust's friend--his tool, if you will. Through his agency I am a beggar, and my wife and child are in their graves. This did not satisfy him. I am now arrested at his suit for a debt of three thousand dollars, of which I know nothing. I cannot pay it. I have not that sum in the world; but I cannot go to prison. It would frustrate all my views. I must be at large to work. Let me have but a month of freedom, and Michael Rust will be glad to exonerate me from all claims, and to beg me on his knees to stand his friend. I am come to ask you to be my bail. The sum is six thousand dollars.'

'Me! _me!_' exclaimed Rhoneland; 'ME your bail! and against Michael Rust!--my friend Rust! Oh, no; never, never!'

'It's more for your interest than mine,' replied Grosket, calmly. 'If you do not, you'll repent it.'

Rhoneland twisted his fingers one in the other, and looked irresolutely at his daughter, and at the deputy, and then at Grosket, as if seeking counsel in their faces. At last he said, in a querulous tone:

'You're a stranger to me. I don't know you. Why do you speak in riddles? Why do you come here to harass a broken-down old man? What do you mean?'

'I mean _this_,' replied Grosket: 'Michael Rust is your friend because you _dare_ not be his enemy. You _love_ him because you dare not _hate_ him. You pray night and day to be rid of him. You would think it the brightest day in your life when, all connection between you dissolved, he left your door to darken it no more. He has a hold on your fears, with which he sways you to his will, and which he will make the means of ruin to you, and of wretchedness to those dearer to you than yourself. I speak of _her_,' said he, seeing the old man looking timidly up in the face of Kate, who still hung over his chair, pale as death, but listening to every word. 'I know his secrets, his crimes, the tools with which he works; the very falsehood which he has fabricated against you, which you cannot disprove, but which _I_ can.'

'Falsehoods!' ejaculated Rhoneland.

'Yes, falsehoods. The time is come when, even with you, he must stand revealed in his true character.'

He stepped close to Rhoneland and whispered a few words in his ear. The old man sank back in his chair, as if seized with sudden faintness; his jaw relaxed, and his eyes half started from his head. His prostration lasted but for a moment. The next instant he started up, made a step toward Grosket, and grasped his hand in both of his. 'Can you save me? can you save me?' gasped he; 'Oh! do--_do_, for God's sake!'

'I can,' replied Grosket.

'And her, _her_? my own child?' exclaimed he, pointing to his daughter.

'So help me God, I think I can!' said Grosket, earnestly; but to do so, I must be free; free only for one month. At the end of that time, if I fail, the gaol may have its prey. Get me that delay, and I have no fears for the rest.'

'Here's the document,' said Mr. Chicken, emerging from a profound revery, at the very moment that it was most requisite that his wits should be present, and producing a paper. 'I'll fill it up; you can sign it to once-t, and acknowledge it arterward.'

Rhoneland had reached out his hand to take the paper, but suddenly he hesitated and drew it back.

'Must _he_ know this?' inquired he. 'Is there no way in which it can be kept from _him_?'

Grosket looked at the deputy, who looked at the wall, and said that he 'didn't know as it could be perwented, convenient.'

'Then you must choose between us,' said Grosket, coldly; 'I have said enough to satisfy you that I have the same power over you that Rust has, did I but choose to exert it. In suffering me to go to prison you are permitting him to fetter the only person who can defeat his schemes, who can free you from his control, and prevent your child from being--Mrs. Rust.'

'I'd die first! I'd die first!' exclaimed the old man, franticly. 'Me he might do with as he pleased, but he shall not harm _you_, Kate. I'll do it, I'll do it, for _your_ sake, my child!' said he, turning to her, and clasping her convulsively to him. 'Come what may, I'll do it. Come, Sir; I'm ready,' said he. 'I'll go at once. Lose no time, not a minute. Why do you wait?' said he, impatiently.

Without heeding him, Grosket went up to Kate, and took her hand respectfully: 'Trust me, no harm will come of this to him. At all events, none compared with what would have befallen both of you, had Michael Rust succeeded in his plans. If ever there was a man in this world in whom the devil seems to live and move, it is Michael Rust. His sagacity and shrewdness have hitherto given him success; and hitherto he has laughed at law, and baffled detection; but his race is nearly run. He or I must fall; and of this one thing I am certain, _I_ shall not. Now, Sir,' said he, turning to Rhoneland, 'we'll go. But I'm puzzled where to look for another bail.'

'I shan't be perticklar about that,' said Mr. Chicken, quietly; 'I know something about Jacob Rhoneland, and he's good enough for me. We'll get this acknowledged, and then you may go.'

Rhoneland went to the door, and opening it, led the way into the street.

Many important events in life balance upon the doings of a moment; and had Rhoneland lingered but five minutes longer he would never have linked himself to Grosket; for not that time had elapsed after their departure, when the door of the room where Kate was still sitting alone was thrown open, and Michael Rust entered. His look was eager, and his usually slow, shuffling step was rapid.

'Where's Jacob?' said he, looking round.

'He's gone out,' replied Kate, coldly.

'Gone out!' repeated he; and then suddenly changing his manner, he said: 'Well, I wanted him; but he has left you in his place. It was kind in him. He knew that I was coming, Kate; that I doted on you; that there was nothing I loved like a little chat with you, and he couldn't have the heart to disappoint me; so he let you remain. Ah! Kate! troubles are thickening upon me. Don't you sympathize with me, Kate? I _know_ you do. I'm _sure_ you do. You're a noble girl!'

As he spoke, he advanced and took her hand. Kate drew it from him with an air of marked coldness; but not at all discouraged, he said:

'The sweetest hour of my life is when I steal away to sit by your side, Kate; to gaze in your face, and watch your eye as it peeps from under its long lashes, and the smile of your pouting, cherry lip. Ah! Kate!'

'Mr. Rust, this is really very unpleasant,' said Kate, with some anger in her manner. 'As my father's friend, you are welcome to this house. As his friend, also, you should not forget what is due to his daughter, and should refrain from a style of conversation which cannot but be offensive.'

'How sweetly she speaks!' continued Rust, in his old strain; 'how charmingly she looks when excited! Ah! Kate, you're a little devil; you've made sad havoc here!' said he, placing his hand on his heart--'sad havoc!'

'Mr. Rust,' returned Kate, angrily, 'unless you end this conversation, either you or I must leave the room.'

'Well, well, I don't believe you're in earnest, Kate; on my soul I don't; but I will drop it; but one favor--grant me only one favor. It's not a great one. I know you'll grant it, you're such an angel.'

Kate looked at him without speaking, and he went on:

'One kiss, Kate; one single, sweet kiss from my own dear darling, to comfort me amid my misfortunes!'

Kate Rhoneland started up, her eyes flashing fire. 'Leave this house, Sir!'

'Ho! ho! how sweetly she orders!' exclaimed Rust, advancing toward her; 'how bright her eyes are! how the rich color plays along her cheek! how beautiful my own Kate is! 'Leave this house,' indeed! The thing's impossible, with such a charmer within it. Come, Kate; one kiss--_only_ one; I'll tell no one, not even Ned. Upon my soul, I won't tell Ned.'

Kate made an attempt to spring past him, but he caught her by her dress, drew her to him, threw his arms about her waist, and pressed his lips to hers.

It was a dear kiss to him; for while she was struggling in his grasp, the door opened, a heavy blow lighted on his head, and he fell like a stone on the floor.

'If he's dead, be it so!' said a stern voice. But it was not so.

For a moment he lay like one who had seen his last sun; then he staggered up, pressed his hands to his temples, looked about him with a bewildered air, until his eyes encountered those of Jacob Rhoneland, bright with passion, and his whole frame quivering with rage. Gradually Rust's faculties began to rally, until he and Rhoneland stood gazing face to face.

'So it was _you_, was it, good Jacob?' said he, moving to the door. 'Thank you, my kind friend; I'll not forget you! Farewell, good Jacob. To your dying day you shall have cause to remember that you struck Michael Rust.' He bowed profoundly to them, shut the door, and went out.

EPIGRAM: FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.

THOU gazest on the stars, my Star,
And would I were the sky,
To view thy lovely face afar
With many a burning eye!

W. H. W.

THE PRINTER.

'THE printer, in his folio, heraldeth the world. Now come
tidings of weddings, maskings, mummeries, entertainments,
jubilees, wars, fires, inundations, thefts, murders, massacres,
meteors, comets, spectrums, prodigies, shipwrecks, piracies,
sea-fights, law-suits, pleas, proclamations, embassies,
trophies, triumphs, revels, sports, plays; then again, as in
a new-shifted scene, treasons, cheating-tricks, robberies,
enormous villanies in all kinds, funerals, burials, new
discoveries, expeditions; now comical then tragical matters.
To-day we hear of new offices created, to-morrow of great men
deposed, and then again of fresh honors conferred; one is let
loose, another prisoned; one purchaseth, another breaketh; he
thrives, his neighbor turneth bankrupt; now plenty, then again
dearth and famine; one runs, another rides, wrangles, laughs,
weeps, and so forth. Thus do we daily hear such like, both
public and private news.'

OLD BORTON.

HE stood there alone at that shadowy hour,
By the swinging lamp dimly burning;
All silent within, save the ticking type,
All without, save the night-watch turning;
And heavily echoed the solemn sound,
As slowly he paced o'er the frozen ground.

And dark were the mansions so lately that shone,
With the joy of festivity gleaming,
And hearts that were beating in sympathy then,
Were now living it o'er in their dreaming;
Yet the PRINTER still worked at his lonely post,
As slowly he gathered his mighty host.

And there lay the merchant all pillowed in down,
And building bright hopes for the morrow,
Nor dreamed he that Fate was then waving a wand
That would bring to him fear and sorrow;
Yet the PRINTER was there in his shadowy room,
And he set in his frame-work that rich man's doom!

The young wife was sleeping, whom lately had bound
The ties that death only can sever;
And dreaming she started, yet woke with a smile,
For she thought they were parted for ever!
But the PRINTER was clicking the types that would tell
On the morrow _the truth_ of that midnight spell!

And there lay the statesman, whose feverish brow
And restless, the pillow was pressing,
For he felt through the shadowy mist of his dream
His loftiest hopes now possessing;
Yet the PRINTER worked on, mid silence and gloom,
And dug for Ambition its lowliest tomb.

And slowly that workman went gathering up
His budget of grief and of gladness;
A wreath for the noble, a grave for the low,
For the happy, a full cup of sadness;
Strange stories of wonder, to enchant the ear,
And dark ones of terror, to curdle with fear.

Full strange are the tales which that dark host shall bear
To palace and cot on the morrow;
Oh welcome, thrice welcome, to many a heart!
To many a bearer of sorrow;
It shall go like the wild and wandering air,
For life and its changes are impressed there.

_Boston, August, 1843._ MODUS.

CÀ ET LÀ.

BY THE FLANEUR.

WHAT was Mr. Liner's plan? We will give it shortly, and hurry to a conclusion. He packed up his daughter and despatched her to Boston by Harnden's Express, in the month of September, carefully directed to a maternal uncle who resided there. With her went a letter explaining his peculiar situation. How Mrs. Liner and himself were afraid that their daughter, although now a '_dame charmante de vingt six ans moins un mois_,' might become a middle-aged, ay, a very middle-aged single lady; how all her friends had married about her, even to Frederica Frizzle, who, like the Colossus of Rhodes, was very tall and very brazen; how Shuffleshanks had loved and died, leaving no sign; how the young man from Tobolsk had offered himself and been refused, and how the _sparks_ no longer _flew up_ when she appeared. That, in short, he despaired of settling her at home, although she was rich; as the New-Yorkers have an invincible aversion to any thing that has been long on hand; and Catharine, though certainly not _passée_ was as certainly _passante_. He therefore requested the uncle to introduce her in Boston as a widow; the relict of a rich planter who died in New-Orleans of the yellow fever, leaving his wife the fee simple of all his slaves and half-breeds. To which the uncle willingly consented, as he was promised a handsome percentage if he succeeded; and Catharine herself was nothing loth, for she yearned to get married; and deceit, as we will prove one of these days, is the ground-work of the female character.

So Miss Liner was shipped; as old fashioned goods often are, in newer boxes. The bill of lading was marked thus:

=1 PACKAGE.=
/ \
L
\ / DEMOISELLE À MARIER.]

Mr. Liner was confident that she would arrive safe, as her case was the very antipodes of the vinous accident alluded to in scripture.

Here ends the authentic history of Miss Liner. All else is either fabulous or deeply tinged with mythology. But it is at least certain that her widowhood allowed her to be so much more lively and fascinating, and explained so satisfactorily why she was single at her age; and her fortune came in so strongly and opportunely to urge on admirers, that in less than a month she was engaged, and in less than two, married. Our uncle pocketed his commission and kept his secret.

After Catharine Julia had left New-York on her marital journey, a small closely-written sheet of paper was found in her room, which was evidently intended for publication. She said in a short preface that she took the idea from Shuffleshanks, and that after his death, in her pensive moments, when

... 'oft at even as she sat
In a little summer-house in the garden without a hat,'

her experience of society shaped itself into the following rules, which she resolved to leave as a legacy to the beau sexe of the beau monde, among whom she had so long been conspicuous:

'RULES FOR BECOMING A PERFECT _ZAZA_.

'The accomplished belle, flowered, flounced, fanning, figuring,
flirting, flinging herself in all directions with the timidity
of the gazelle, and its endurance, approaches to the grand ideal
of belles; the peerless _Zaza_.

'Zazas are like Pachas of one, two, or three tails; (no double
entendre meant.) A _Zaza_ of one tail has one or two regular
beaux; one of two tails has five or six; one of three tails
has as many as she pleases. This is the summit of _Zazaism_.
A demoiselle with no beaux is a nobody; (_nobeaudy_;) a poor
creature; something quite despicable.

'RULE I. When about to seat yourself, pull your dress strongly
on both sides to prevent its wrinkling; then subside.
Consequently, upon rising, the dress must be raised again with
the left hand, and three or four slaps given on each side, to
complete the circle. The gesture of smoothing the front hair
with the flat of the hand may be tolerated----in the darkest
closet of a house with stone walls, or in the centre of the
great desert of Sahara when no caravan is in sight.

'RULE II. You should always endeavor to be sportive. The lambkin
and the very young cat style take well, and are quite _Zaza_.
A frisk just tinged with the _soupçon_ of a tremble is a very
beautiful display.

'RULE III. If you perceive a friend arriving, and go to meet
her across a large room, always proceed with three skips on
the points of your toes, then two quick steps, then three more
skips, and so on alternately. Take care that your face does not
express more anxiety for the success of your _pas seul_ than
joy at greeting your friend. When you attain your très _cherè_,
groan _Zaza_, seize her hand and kiss her twice. This is a
simple and effective meeting. The _coup d'oeil_ is excellent
when both young ladies are of the Zaza school. The three-skip
gait is admirably adapted to entering a room unexpectedly; where
there is a gentleman, or in leaving one at home tolerably full
of company, when called out by a servant. It is invaluable at
pic-nics.

'RULE IV. Walk into a drawing-room behind your mamma. You appear
timid and retiring, and she acts as a standard-bearer, announces
your arrival, and people are better prepared to stare.

'RULE V. Encourage only beaux who can add to your power by
making you a great _Zaza_; such as great waltzers, singers;
men who are rich, and who seem to be attentive '_pour le bon
motif_,' must of course be fed upon faint hopes.

'RULE VI. When sitting in a drawing-room, always cross your
arms about your waist; each hand covering the small ribs on the
opposite side, as if, like the gallant old soldier in Pelham,
you wanted your hands to guard your heart. It is no objection to
this style that it is always adopted by awkward _cantatrices_ on
the stage--and off.

'RULE VII. It is well for a _Zaza_, if she lives in a
fashionable street, to read or embroider in a conspicuous
window, which she may call her _beau_-window.

'RULE VIII. In talking, do not make your lips and head go faster
than your tongue. The _Zaza_ is languid and shakes her head
slowly, looking all the while intently and impressively at the
person whom she is entertaining with----if he be a foreigner, a
fortune, or a Coryphæus.

'RULE IX. In drinking tea, coffee, or lemonade, hold the cup
with the thumb and the fore and middle fingers, and allow the
others to point rigidly into the air, at as great a distance as
possible from the three first enumerated.

'RULE X. In playing or singing, timidity and tremors are quite
out of date. The _Zaza_ glides up to the instrument as if she
had graduated at the Conservatoire, and sung three years at the
Académie Royale. The only expression of face allowable is the
smile of conscious power; such a smile as Jupiter's phiz might
wear when contemplating the feeble struggles of sublunarians. On
earth this smile may be often seen in female rope-dancers.

'RULE XI. If a person asks to be presented, the _Zaza_ 'really
don't know;' she 'has so many acquaintances;' _languidissimo_.

'RULE XII. If a _Zaza_ of three tails, always dance at the head
of a cotillon and lead off the waltz.

'RULE XIII. When a bad or an uncertain waltzer requests the
honor, the _Zaza_ is always engaged; but she may hint to a
Shuffleshanks to beg for a turn, or even ask him outright. This
has often been successfully practised by _Zazas_ of two tails.

'RULE XIV. If you have received a bouquet from an anonymous
admirer, or from your father, thank the most fashionable man, or
the _Great Catch_, or both; and loud enough to be overheard. You
believe not one word of their protestations, of course, and set
it down to modesty.

'RULE XV. When two _Zazas_, accompanied by their respective
cavaliers, meet in the ball-room, they should always stop for
a moment, interchange a few dulcet words, tell each other
'how sweetly pretty you look to-night,' and present for a
moment a lovely picture of child-like simplicity and utter
guilelessness--to the respective cavaliers and observers in
general.'

HERE the MS. ends abruptly.

THE DYING STUDENT.

I.

LET him look out upon Earth's fair domain,
And feast his spirit mid its time-worn hills,
Feeling the fresh blood flow through every vein
As the new sight his weary bosom thrills:
Oh! let him gaze beyond that shoreless sea,
Whither his spirit fain would take its flight,
To wander in those far-off depths, and be
Where the pure sky hath hung her robe of light.

II.

Oh! let him gaze upon Earth's jewelled sky,
And breathe Spring's earliest, sweetest breath again;
And once more follow with a ravished eye
Faces and forms of loved ones, loved in vain!
To catch the inspiring sound of Music's voice,
To hear the solemn chant of Ocean's roar;
To linger at the threshold of his joys,
And feel Earth's sunshine on his head once more.

III.

Life's solemn lights are dimly burning now,
And feeble shadows o'er his vision fall;
Still, one brief hour is his, and in its flow
Moments are years, and in those years his all!
Rouse him from death, without one brief delay,
And call his spirit back from Time's dark tide;
He lingers yet, as on the verge of day,
And Hope and Heaven his heart's pure home divide.

IV.

His spirit freshens at the glorious sight,
And far away his eager eyes are turning,
To those bright paths in yonder sky of light,
Where Heaven's imperial stars are brightly burning.
Back flows the life-blood to his swelling heart,
And thence again with impulse free and strong;
Old memories gather round him and depart,
Phalanx to phalanx joined, and throng to throng!

V.