Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

When I arrived in New-York after _ten_ days and _ten_ nights of continuous posting, (the distance is now accomplished I am told cleverly in _three_,) the flavour of that wine still regaled my palate; there was a spiritual vineyard flourishing within my heart; the fragrant blossom, the young grape, the purple cluster, the yielding pressure, and the nectareous juice; the autumnal grape-leaf with its magic dyes, and all the long history of joy which it is given to one or two rare specimens of the wines of this life to impart to the spirit of man; to impress upon his nerves; and to be recalled in sensations that make glad the fountains of his heart, and dispense his affections among his fellow men; all these were present to my senses, and delighted me with a varied, an intellectual, and constantly reviving joy. I had never known so perfect a beverage; and I wrote at once to my friend, offering him in exchange any description of wine that he could name to me, bottle for bottle.

He returned for answer an expression of regret that one only bottle remained of the batch; and intreating my acceptance of what I prized so highly, sent it on without delay. This was that lonely bottle, that stood, in vague and uncertain light like a Hero of Ossian, upon that upper shelf, in that chamber closet, of that upper story. Often did I gaze upon it, often apostrophize it, praise it with a recollected gladness, remember its acquirement, delight in its possession, and wonder when the time might come, and when the friends, that should deserve the peerless, the incomparable offering.

Upon a certain memorable day, and punctual to the moment, came a chosen party of my most honored and distinguished friends. The dinner was beyond praise, and all the appointments good. No crowd, no tumult, no excuse, no delay in serving, no vacant seat, no chair with small open hexagons of split rattan to disfigure the person of the guest for three successive days when the dress is thin, or to torture him when the weather is cold with pains which he is ashamed to complain of or even to mention----a practice, Mr. Editor and all who hear me, still obtaining in some houses in New-York, and at times, especially in winter, more abhorrent to the thoughts than is the martyrdom of St. Lawrence, since heat upon a gridiron is in many of its appliances preferable to cold upon sharp rattan. No; each guest had his cushioned chair, 'with ample room and verge enough;' and course after course, and wine after wine, appeared, and was enjoyed, discussed, and quietly disappeared, alike without want or waste.

Well, the time of the repast came for my selected wines: they were all prepared, and all in the finest order and condition. The series was a perfect one; a veritable ladder of transport; up which the spirits of my guests ascended gracefully, step after step, as each higher and higher flavour presented itself to their gratified and entranced palate. At the last, sole remaining bottle of the list, came my Charleston acquisition. It is certainly in bad taste to expatiate upon one's wine from the chair, but as this was the only bottle of it's kind in the world, it seemed necessary to introduce it with a word that should at least perform that ceremony.

I told the story of its acquisition, and expressed the pleasure it gave me to present on this occasion the one remaining bottle of the world. We had been conversing a moment or two before, I remember, on the comparative advantages in drinking wine, between the _sip_ and the _throw_, and had come to the conclusion, (which I think every man of sense must ultimately arrive at,) that the latter is the true way to enjoy the full _aroma_ of the beverage, and at once to gain that gratifying descent, and that ascent to the wits; in short that satisfying blessedness of taste, which the mere sipper of potations of whatever kind must vainly aspire to know; say what you may to the contrary, Mr. T. G.!

The bottle was uncorked, decanted, and the wine came forth, in the profound silence and expectation of the guests, bright as the beam of your mistress's eye! The attention of all present was so absorbed by their interest in this only bottle, that until every man's glass was filled, hardly a sound was perceptible except the gurgling of the long-necked decanter as it distributed its glorious contents and passed with wings from hand to hand around the board and returned drained to the head of the table. Toasts were at that time in vogue; and as soon as I had said, '_Our hospitable friend in South Carolina, may his own last bottle reward him for the pleasure of this gift_,' each man did ample justice to the wine.

How shall I recount the catastrophe that ensued! We are all sinful men born to trouble as the sparks fly upward, and it seemed as if the wine had also dealt ample and instant justice upon us! Every soul present was struck through the heart and liver to the spine! All rose instantly from the table, speechless, aghast, and terrified with the effect! There was a napkin or handkerchief over the mouth of each, and if we could have articulated a word, we might have exclaimed with the sons of the prophets at the feast in Gilgal, 'Oh my Lord, there is death in the pot!'

But it was impossible to relieve ourselves by words; it was literally in tears and groans that the guests made for the door, vanished from the room, escaped from the house, and left me, appalled, transfixed, incapable of utterance, standing at the head of my deserted table, and feeling that 'No man said, 'God bless him!''

For a fortnight, three weeks, a month, no one of my guests had his mouth _right_! I was afraid to walk in the streets lest I should meet one of them; there was a paralytic stricture in the countenance of each member of that sad party; in some it wore an expostulatory, an admonitory, in some a remonstrant, and in all the look of _a much injured person_. I must except one gentleman whom however I did not get a glimpse of until six weeks had elapsed. He was a well-bred Frenchman, with all the suavity and grace of manner that belongs to his class and nation. I shall ever feel grateful to him for the first kind word I had received since the discomfiture; though I have sometimes had doubts, judging from the reïnstated appearance of his lips, whether he had taken more than half a glass: 'My dear Sir,' said he, 'when I had the pleasure to dine with you at your very agreeable party, there was one wine that had flavour very exemplary, ma foi!' I acknowledge it, I said. 'I think you did say it was American wine?' I did, I replied. 'What is the name if you please, as I pay much attention to the _sujet_ of wines?' I named it. 'Will you be so very kind as write it in my tablet?' I prepared to comply; and telling him that I was not quite certain of the correct orthography of the word, wrote in large characters, the word, 'SCUPPERNONG.'

JOHN WATERS.

ON THE DEATH OF A CLASSMATE.

'OH! what a shadow o'er the heart is flung,
When peals the requiem for the loved and young!'

W. G. CLARK.

WE waste no sorrow o'er the verdant tomb
When whitened Age is called to meet its doom;
With shattered bark, on life's wild current driven,
The tempest, threat'ning death, but wafts to heaven;
And the freed spirit, borne on eagle wing,
Mounts to the regions of eternal spring.
No; 'tis not Age we mourn; life's course is run,
And soon, at best, must set its sinking sun.

We weep no sad adieu when infant years
Fly this cold vale, where joy still ends in tears;
Ere yet a cloud has dimmed their morning sky
Which hangs outspread so clearly blue on high;
That sky the tempest's wrath will soon deform,
And the day, dawned in sunshine, close in storm.
Oh! who would bid that wandering spirit stay,
Which seeks a fairer realm, a brighter day!

But when th' Avenger in his withering track
Strikes in its bloom the pride of Manhood down,
The heart's sad strings, but faintly echo back
The plaintive murmurings of Sorrow's moan.
'Unhappy youth!' ere life was well begun,
And thy brief day had seen scarce half a sun,
The roses from thy fading cheek have flown,
And DEATH, the spoiler, marked thee for his own!

GLEANINGS FROM THE GERMAN.

BY WILLIAM PITT PALMER.

COUNSEL.

SOUL of light in stone enthroned
Is the precious diamond;
Son of light, do thou endure,
Like this gem, still strong and pure!

EPITAPH.

READ, wanderer, a husband's moan:
My wife was young and fair!
Now lies upon her heart a stone,
And mine--is light as air!

ON THE EPITAPHS IN A CHURCH-YARD.

FALSEHOOD, O man! delights thine eye:
Thou teachest even stones to lie!

ON BAVIUS.

GIVE him to drink of Lethe's wave! why not
Let the poor bard forget that he's forgot?

LADIES' TONGUES.

FRANKLY, ladies' tongues, confess
Ye must wag perforce:
Faith! the sex might, as I guess,
Without tongues discourse!

THE GRAY-BEARD.

NEARCH is blind, and deaf, and lame,
The prey of time's corrosive greed,
And long of crafty heirs the game;
When will the dead man die indeed?

GARLANDS.

YOUTH, with chaplets grace thy brow,
But the garland choose with care;
Wreathed with laurel fadeth late,
Wreathed with myrtle soon, the hair.

FRIEND AND FOE.

LET warning wisdom's kindly speech
Thy friend his faults and failings show;
But let thy mute example teach
The love of virtue to thy foe.

PLEASURE.

LIST a mortal's quest, sweet Pleasure!
Why so fleeting?--answer, pray:
Lost as soon as found, thy treasure!
None can thy dear presence stay.

Thank thou, Fate, she cried, whose minions,
All the gods, love me alone;
Were I fashioned without pinions,
They would keep me for their own!

THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.

Harry Harson.

CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

MORE than a week had elapsed since the rupture between Rhoneland and Rust; and during that period Jacob neither saw him nor heard from him. But in that interval he had become confirmed in his purpose of resistance; and had resolved, come what might, to risk any thing, rather than submit to the mental bondage which had hitherto crushed him. Steadfast in this purpose, he quietly awaited the movements of his adversary.

On one fine afternoon, the bright rays of a setting sun streaming through the window fell upon the face of the old man, as he was dozing in his room, and awakened him. Starting to his feet, and casting his eyes hurriedly about him, he exclaimed; 'I tell you no; I tell you _no_, Michael Rust. It shall never be! Ah Kate!' said he, looking about the room, and seeing no one except his daughter, 'it's you, is it?--only you? And I've been dreaming? Well, well; thank God it was no worse! It's strange I should have dreamed that Michael Rust wanted you, Kate, and asked for you. But no matter; kiss me, child. We've done with him. There's a comfort in that. We shall be quite happy--happy as we once were. Shall we not, Kate?'

Kate's lips quivered, as she pressed them to his forehead; and there was a busy little voice at her heart, which whispered a name, and brought up recollections that nearly choked her, as she said, in a low tone, 'Quite happy.'

'But Kate,' said her father, placing an arm about her waist, while he put back her hair with his other hand, and looked anxiously in her face, 'you don't say happy, _as in old times_.'

Kate was silent. What could she say, when her young heart was breaking? But at last she _did_ say:

'It certainly will make me happier, much happier, than I have been, to know that you are once more yourself; that that evil, daring man has lost his influence over you, never to regain it; and that there is nothing to harrass you and break you down, as there once was. All this makes me quite happy. Indeed it does!' But there was that in her tone which belied her words, and Rhoneland observed it.

'Ah! child, child!' said he, shaking his head sorrowfully. 'I see it all. Ned Somers has much to answer for. I loved and trusted him. God forgive him that he meditated so vile a wrong! He was to me as my own son. Had he loved you, Kate, openly and honorably as a man should, and as you deserve to be loved, and had he asked you from me, I would not have said _no_, Kate. But he acted like a villain; and I've cast him off forever.'

Kate became very pale, and her voice grew thick and husky, as she asked: 'Father, will you answer me a question?'

'Yes Kate, a hundred,' said he, drawing her more closely to him. 'I'll sit here all day long, and answer you. Now that _he_ is gone, I feel quite young and boyish again; and nothing gladdens me more than your voice. Now go on. What is it?'

The girl took his hand in both her's, and looking steadily in his face, asked: 'Who told you the tale which set you against Ned?'

'Who?' inquired Rhoneland; 'who? Why, he--Rust.'

'And have you never found, in the course of your dealings with that man, that he could forget or pervert the truth; or even invent a falsehood, when it served his own purpose?'

Jacob Rhoneland laughed to himself, in a low chuckling tone, and rubbed his hands. 'What, lie?--Rust lie? Bless you, child, he does that more than any thing else. Ha! ha! He's a deep one, depend on it.'

'And can you see no reason for his traducing Ned?' said she, the blood mounting to her face, as she spoke. 'Was there no plan of his, which Ned's presence here crossed, and which rendered it necessary to prejudice you against him?'

The old man pondered; looked at her, and then at the floor; and at last sank back in his chair, in a deep and unpleasant reverie; from which he was only aroused by a knock at the door. 'Go to your room, Kate. It's Enoch. I'll open the door myself.'

Kate had scarcely left the room, and Jacob had not yet risen to obey the summons, when the door of the apartment opened, and Michael Rust walked in, as quietly and serenely as if nothing had happened.

'Good evening, friend Jacob,' said he, bowing low, and speaking in his softest tone. 'I'm here again, you see. I could not give you up so soon. I could not let a trifling misunderstanding break off old friendship. I had'nt the heart to do it, good Jacob. There was a severe struggle between pride and friendship, but friendship gained the day; and I have come with an open heart to offer you my most humble apology, and to ask you to forget and forgive. I feel that I took an unwarrantable liberty with Kate; but I loved her, Jacob, and was hurried too far by my feelings. I was wrong, and you acted as a father should. Let us forget the past, and be as we were.'

Michael stretched out his hand, as he spoke, and even held it so, for some moments; but Rhoneland neither took it, nor looked at it, nor at him, nor uttered a word in reply; but with both hands resting on the top of his cane, which he had taken to assist him in rising, and his chin on them, sat looking out of the window, as if there were no other person than himself in the wide world.

What was it that bowed the bold, bad man, who had never yielded to him before?--who had trodden on his very neck, mocking his sufferings, jeering at his agony of mind; returning threats for supplications, and revilement for tears; and now brought him a suppliant to his feet? Was it that strange, mysterious feeling which sometimes tells a man that the hour of his fate is approaching, and that his time is measured? Was the coming storm flinging its shadow over his path, even before the bursting of the tempest? Did he feel the earth sinking beneath his feet; and was he glad to grasp, even at a decayed and shattered branch to hold him up? Or was it a part of a deeper policy; and was there yet something to be gained by clinging to his former dupe? It may have been a mixture of all these feelings; but certain it is, that there he was; the same thin, bowing, cringing hypocrite, with a tongue of oil and a heart of flint, endeavoring by soothing words and fawning lies once more to win back the man who had turned his back upon him. And equally certain it is, that a more unyielding, impenetrable, imperturbable piece of humanity he had never met with; for to all his fine sentences, allurements, and artifices of every kind, he received no reply.

'This tack won't do,' thought Rust. 'He won't swallow honey. I'll give him wormwood; but before that, one more attempt.'

'Jacob, my friend,' said he, drawing a chair nearer to him, seating himself, and sinking his voice; 'perhaps you think I meant ill about your daughter?'

The old man moved restlessly, but was silent. Rust saw that he had touched the theme which would arouse him.

'You were mistaken, my friend. Would that the intentions of all were as pure as mine.'

'Speak of something else,' replied Rhoneland, abruptly. 'I'll not hear you on that subject.'

'But you must,' said Rust; 'indeed you must, my old friend. Not that I would annoy you; but I came here for that express purpose; and _must_ speak of her.'

Rhoneland looked keenly at him, and then at the floor, grasping the sides of the chair firmly; as if to restrain himself from violence, and Rust went on.

'I'm a man of few words, Jacob. Kate's a dear, sweet girl. I love her; she loves me. Will you give her to me for a wife?'

'It's false!' said Rhoneland, starting to his feet. 'If there be a single person in this world whom Kate hates more than another, it is you! Give her to _you_ for a wife!' exclaimed he, in a bitter tone; 'give _her_ to _you_--YOU! I'd see her in her coffin first! Go, Michael Rust,' said he, extending his hands toward him; 'your power is at an end in this house. Go!'

'Not quite, good Jacob!' said Rust, in a low, fierce tone. 'Not _quite_, good Jacob! I know what your plans are; what your hopes are. I know what Enoch Grosket can do; and in what he'll fail. He'll fail to vindicate Jacob Rhoneland. He'll fail to vindicate himself. He'll fail to overthrow Michael Rust. He and Jacob will soon be cheek by jowl with those whose good deeds have placed fetters on them. It's well, Jacob, it's well. We'll see who'll win the race. Pause, good Jacob, pause before you decide. I give you five minutes. With Michael Rust for a son-in-law, you are safe.'

Rhoneland grew exceedingly pale; and then summoning his resolution, said:

'I _have_ decided. Though it cost me my life, you shall not marry Kate. Go!'

'Jacob Rhoneland, one word.'

'Not a syllable!' said the old man, grasping his heavy cane, and his face becoming purple with anger: 'viper! begone! If you darken my doors one moment longer, I'll fling you into the street!'

'Good-by, Jacob,' said Rust; but not another word did he utter, as he left the house. His face was ashy pale; his features pinched and sharp; and he gnawed his lip until the blood came from it. Regardless of his appearance; with his long locks hanging in tangled flakes about his face, he hurried on. Dead and corpse-like as his features were, never was a fiercer spirit at work, to give life and energy to human frame; never was there a stronger concentration of dark passions in a human heart. His pace was quick and firm; there was no loitering; no pausing at corners, to think; no sign of irresolution. Darting along the street where the old man lived, and striking into one of the wider cross-streets of the city, he followed it until it brought him into Broadway. This he crossed, and plunged into that labyrinth of narrow streets which run between that and the Bowery. Threading them, with the ready step of one familiar with their turns and windings, he neither paused to inquire his direction, nor to read the sign-boards; but even in the darkest and dreariest corners, his knowledge seemed certain and accurate. The twilight had darkened into night, and the streets were narrow; and as he proceeded in the direction of the more fated parts of the city, dim figures, which like bats were shrouded in holes and dark hiding-places in the day time, were beginning to flit about, yet he felt no hesitation nor fear. In the most gloomy and blighted of all these places, he paused, cast a quick suspicious glance about him, to see that none watched him, and then darted up an alley between two houses, so ruined and sagged that their gables met over it like a gothic arch. Groping his way along, he came to a door at the foot of a flight of stairs which terminated the passage. He did not pause to knock; but pulling a string, opened it, and ascended a pitch-dark staircase, which in like manner was terminated at the upper end by a door. At this he knocked loudly. He was answered by a gruff voice which inquired:

'Is that you, Joe?'

'No,' replied Rust.

'Well, if you ain't Joe, who are you? If you ain't got a name, peg away; for blow me, if I open till I hear it.'

There was a noise, as if the speaker, in conclusion of his observation, drew a chair or bench along the floor, and seated himself.

'Come Bill,' said another voice, 'this won't do. You'd better open it.'

A muttering from Bill showed that he thought otherwise; but the person who had spoken, apparently not heeding his disapprobation, got up and opened the door, giving to Rust as he did so a full view of the interior of the room.

At a table sat a man with coarse red hair, and a beard of several days' growth. He was a brawny fellow, six feet high, with a cast in one eye, which seemed to have been injured by a deep gash; the scar of which still remained, commencing on the very eye-lid, crossing one cheek, and his nose, and giving an air of sternness to features which needed not this addition, to express much that was bad. His companion, who had opened the door, was a man of smaller build, with broad, square shoulders, dark sharp eyes, narrow forehead, and overhanging brows, and a thin, tremulous lip; and though possessed of less physical strength than his comrade, looked much the most dangerous man of the two.

They both eyed Rust for a moment, without speaking, and then the larger of the two said to his comrade: 'Tim Craig, hand the gentleman a chair.'

'I don't want one,' said Rust abruptly. 'Have you seen Enoch?'

They both shook their heads.

'He'll blow on me, and you, and others.'

The two men looked at him, and then at each other, but said nothing.

'He's set himself up against me--_me_!' said Rust, his thin lip curling and yet trembling as he spoke.

'He's a dark man, that Enoch,' said Craig, in a low tone. 'There's no good in crossing him, Mr. Rust.'

'Crossing him! crossing _him_!' exclaimed Rust. 'He has crossed _me_. Who ever did _that_, and prospered! Ho! ho! Enoch, Enoch! you mistook your man!'

The two looked anxiously at each other, but did not speak; and although they had the thews and sinews which could have torn the thin form before them to shreds, it seemed as if they both shrank from him with something like fear.

'It has come to the death-struggle between us,' said Rust; 'one or the other must fall.'

'If you're the one?' inquired Craig.

'Others must go too,' replied Rust; 'they _must_.'

Craig gnawed his lip.

'If Enoch goes, he goes alone,' continued Rust. 'He must be out of my way; he knows too much.'

The men exchanged looks; but the larger of the two seemed to leave all the speaking to the other, merely listening with great attention, and occasionally favoring his comrade with a glance, whenever it seemed necessary.

'I have no time to stay now,' said Rust, turning to Craig: 'I've told you enough. Grosket is in my way. I must be rid of him.'

Craig put his finger to his throat, and deliberately drew it across it. 'You're a ticklish man to deal with, Mr. Rust. Is that what you mean?' said he.

'I say I must be rid of him,' replied Rust, fiercely. 'Are you deaf? Are your brains addled? Rid of him--_rid_ of him--RID of him!' exclaimed he, advancing, and hissing the words in the man's ear, while there was something in his look and manner that caused even the bold villain he addressed to draw back and assume a somewhat defensive attitude. 'Do you understand me now? Law won't do what I want. I prescribe no mode; but Enoch Grosket must be out of my path.'

'You're growing red-hot, my master,' said the man, bluntly. 'But I must have what you want spoken out. Shall he be knocked on the head?'

'Hasn't he committed a murder, burnt a house, stolen, embezzled? I think I've heard of his having done something of the kind,' said Rust, earnestly.

'Of course he has. He's done 'em all, if you like. Bill knows something about them. Don't you, Bill?'

'Oh! yes,' said Bill, refreshing himself from a large pitcher of water. 'This 'ere vorter is very weak. Blowed if I ain't forgot what liquor smells like; and it's so long since I see'd a dollar, that bless me, if I think I'd know one. I'd have to go to some obligin' friend to ax what it was.'

This declaration of ignorance was accompanied by a look of consummate disgust into the pitcher, and another of a very peculiar character at Rust.

That worthy, however, seemed not unused to meeting with gentlemen in similar trying circumstances; for he gave both the look and language an interpretation which, considering the enigmatical mode in which they were expressed, fully met the views of the man who uttered them; and thrusting his hand in his pocket, he drew out a handful of silver, which he flung into the pitcher, and said:

'Perhaps that will improve the water.'

Bill made no other response than a broad grin; and then said in a more business-like tone:

'Well, about that murder, and house burnin', and all that. What do you want?'

'I want proof of it against Grosket, if he did it.'

'In course he did it,' replied the man, with a knowing look.

'Well, bring me the proof of it, and bring it soon. You know where to find me.'

He turned on his heel, and even before they were aware that he had left the room, he was on his way through the street.

His course was now to his old den. When he reached it, he found even that paragon of clerks, Mr. Kornicker, absent. This was a relief; for he was too much excited to care to have any witness of his appearance.

'It struck seven as I passed the town-clock,' said he. 'It wants an hour to the time fixed. I'll wait.'

Although it was dark, he flung himself on a chair, without striking a light, and sat for some time in silence, tapping the floor with his foot. But rest was not the thing for his present mood; and he soon started up, and paced the room, muttering to himself. At last the clock struck eight. The lights, which shining from the windows in different parts of the building, somewhat relieved the gloom of his room, were extinguished one by one, and it became pitchy dark. Rust lighted a candle; placed it on the mantel-piece, and stood looking at it for some moments. He heard a step on the stairs; but it ascended to the floor beyond, then descended, and went out in the street. He looked at his watch; it was but five minutes after eight. 'God! how slow the time went!' Perhaps his watch had stopped. He put it to his ear: tick, tick, tick! There seemed an interval of a minute between every stroke. 'Five minutes past eight; ten minutes more, and _she_ will be here,' muttered he; 'and then I shall know the worst.'

He put the watch in his pocket; and looking at the ceiling, attempted to whistle; but it would not do. His blood was in a fever. Hark!--was that a footstep on the stairs? No, it was only the tread of a person overhead. Hist! what's that? He stood stock-still, and listened. There was a slight shuffling noise in the passage; and then a faint tap at the door.

Rust sprang forward, and opened it. A female, muffled in an old cloak, stood cowering on the outside.

'Ha! it's you at last!' exclaimed he, in that abrupt, energetic manner, which suited his character better than his more usual tones. 'What news?'

The woman, either to gain time, or because she was really exhausted, staggered to a chair, and turning her face to the light, revealed the features of Mrs. Blossom.

'Ah's me! ah's me!' said she, leaning back, and sighing heavily. 'It's a wearisome way I've come, old and feeble as I am--old and feeble, old and feeble--a very wearisome way.'

There must have been something in the look of Rust, who stood before her with his black, glowing eye fixed on her's, that was peculiarly startling; for she paused in her whining, and turning to him, said:

'What do you look at me so for?'

'Is there no reason for it?' said Rust, in a low voice. 'Is there no trust betrayed? Have you done all that you swore to do?'

Mrs. Blossom, hardened as she naturally was, and as she had become, by long following a pursuit which requires no little assurance, was not without some signs of trepidation at this question.

'No, no; I haven't. I swear I haven't,' said she.

'I placed two children in your charge,' continued Rust, in the same low tone. 'They were never to leave it, except for one place--the grave.'

Mrs. Blossom's wan features grew paler, as she whispered: 'Not so loud, Mr. Rust, not so loud.'

'As you please; I'll whisper,' said Rust, suiting the action to the word; and speaking in a whisper, yet so distinct and thrilling, that each word seemed to come like a blow. 'I placed two children under your charge; and unless I required them, and unless they grew ill, and died, they were to become what you are. Where are they? I want them.'

Mrs. Blossom looked hopelessly about her, as if she meditated an escape; but seeing no chance of any, she cast a deprecating eye at Rust, shook her head, and said nothing. Rust went on in the same strain:

'They were with you two months since; going on gloriously; travelling at a hand-gallop to the grave. I have heard strange stories of them since. Are they true?'

Still the woman was silent.

'Answer me!' said Rust, his fury gradually getting the mastery of him, and his voice bursting out loud and clear. 'Where are they?'

Mrs. Blossom clasped her hands and looked at him, but uttered not a word.

'Where are the children? Answer me!' said he, starting to his feet, and darting up to her, his eyes perfectly blood-shot with fury, and the foam standing round his lips; 'the children, I say--_the children_! GOD d--n you!--do you hear me?'

Mrs. Blossom cowered down in the chair, and made one or two futile efforts to speak; her thin blue lips quivered; but no sound came from them; while a kind of idiotic smile fixed itself on her features.

'THE CHILDREN, I say!' exclaimed Rust, gnashing his teeth with rage; and seizing the woman by the shoulders in his paroxysm of fury, he shook her until she reeled and fell to the floor. 'What have you done with them? Answer me; or by the God of Heaven I'll crush you beneath my feet!'

Before his amiable intention, however, could be carried into effect, Mrs. Blossom had recovered her wits, her feet, and not a little of her usual spirit; and turning upon him, with eyes flashing as brightly as his own, she said:

'They're gone, Michael Rust; gone, _gone_! Do you hear that? Gone, where when you next see them you will wish the undertaker had measured them before. Gone, gone! ha! ha! You won't see the lambs again. So much for striking an unprotected female, Michael Rust. That for ye! _that_ for ye! THAT for ye!' And she snapped her fingers in the face of the disappointed schemer, and left the room, slamming the door loudly after her.

Rust clasped his hands, as she went out, and raised his eyes to heaven.

'Gone!' repeated he, in a low tone; '_gone!_--both gone! And I--I?--what will become of me? Is it for _this_ that I have toiled and slaved for years; that I have stooped to meanness and dissimulation; have steeped myself in crime, and have had felons and miscreants of every dye for my associates? For years have I been on the rack: no more quiet hours, or peaceful dreams; no more love from those of the same blood; but cursed, hated; hated with the worst hate, the hate of one's own kindred; my schemes thwarted, my hopes blighted; a felon; my dearest hopes crumbled to dust; these two children restored to their rights; Kate married!--and I, _I_, where shall I be? God of Heaven!' exclaimed he, dashing up and down the room, 'shall these things be? _Shall_ I fall?--shall _they_ triumph? Never! never! Be yourself, Michael Rust!' said he, in a choked voice; 'be yourself! be yourself! This has happened from trusting others. Rely on yourself, Michael; be cool, Michael; and then thwart them--thwart them!'

He paused and stood in the middle of that room like a statue. Slowly and by degrees every trace of excitement disappeared from his features, until they had assumed a sharp, rigid, fixed look; and then, he said, pursuing the same theme: 'Thwart them; _thwart_ them, Michael Rust! Work, toil, cringe, lie, steal, murder--aye, do _any_ thing--but thwart them, thwart them! Good Michael Rust, don't suffer yourself to be a by-word in their mouths! And if you fail, Michael, die fighting. There's something noble in _that_. Be it so; be it so!' said he, in a stern, abrupt tone. 'They've driven me to extremities. Nothing but desperate measures can save me. Desperate measures shall be tried. Does success require a life? Well, well; the world's overloaded; it shall have one. If I attain it, it will be another's; if I fail, it will be my own: the grave is a quiet resting-place; a better one than the world, when a man's foiled in all his aims. But I'm weary, I'm weary!' said he, in a low, desponding tone; 'my head's dizzy, and my brain confused, by the troubles which have come so thickly upon me to-day. I must rest.'

Drawing a chair to the table, he seated himself upon it; bent his head down upon the table, and exhausted by the excitement of the last few days, which had taxed even his iron frame beyond its powers of endurance, he soon slept heavily.

THE SEASON OF DEATH.

OH! thou resistless and relentless power!
Mighty, mysterious in thy every form:
Unbidden thou com'st to mar the natal hour,
Stealing the heart's young pulse, with life scarce warm.
And thou art there where the green vine is turning
Its gentle fragrance from Love's rosy bower;
And thou art there where silent stars are burning,
Sweetly and calmly, o'er the bridal hour.
And thou art there where young Joy in his mirth
Presses his cup to lips of human wo,
And thou art there where Pleasure hath its birth,
Following its footsteps wheresoe'er they go!

And ah! where art thou _not_, mysterious DEATH!
The young, the fair, the pure in heart, are thine;
Beauty, and love, and power, these all have breath
But for thy conquering; and hope divine,
And bliss, and sweet affection, and the tear
That sparkles in the eye of love; the sigh
That moves soft pity in the soul sincere,
All, all are thine, O Death! for all must die!
Passing like blossoms from the earth away,
All that of life or being hath its share;
The heart hath scarce its hour of hope to pray,
For thy cold hand, O Death! is everywhere!

_New-York, September, 1843._
EDMUND BREWSTER GREEN.

THE MEMOIRS OF COUNT ROSTOPTCHIN.

WRITTEN IN TEN MINUTES.

A LADY one day said to the celebrated Count ROSTOPTCHIN that he ought to write his memoirs. The next day the Count handed her a little roll of paper. 'What have you here?' asked the lady. 'I have obeyed your commands,' replied he; 'I have written my memoirs; here they are.' The lady was not a little surprised at the promptness of the performance; and hastened to peruse the following morceau, the caustic wit and piquancy of which will remind the reader of the keen satire of Voltaire.

MY MEMOIRS, OR MYSELF AS I AM.

WRITTEN IN TEN MINUTES.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

I. MY BIRTH. II. MY EDUCATION. III. MY SUFFERINGS. IV.
PRIVATIONS. V. MEMORABLE EPOCHS. VI. MORAL TRAITS. VII.
IMPORTANT RESOLUTION. VIII. WHAT I WAS AND WHAT I MIGHT HAVE
BEEN. IX. RESPECTABLE PRINCIPLES. X. MY TASTES. XI. MY DISLIKES.
XII. ANALYSIS OF MY LIFE. XIII. BOUNTIES OF HEAVEN. XIV. MY
EPITAPH. XV. DEDICATORY EPISTLE.