Chapter I: MAY not, would not, quite forget

The hours I pass'd with thee--
'T were death to say, 'I love;' and yet,
Silence harder seemeth me.

II.

Ah no! I never could forget
Those words of joy, from thee!
They say thou lov'st another--yet
How bright thy beam o'er me!

III.

They say thou art 'a sad coquette'--
Yet how to doubt a smile,
In which Day-dawn and Eve are met
For Fraud--if this be Guile!

IV.

And then thine Eye! of morn's grey hue
Kindling with beams of wit--
If its deep glories prove untrue,
Let all be false, like it!

V.

'Let all be false!'--How hath this thought
Found life within my heart?--
Is this a change thy spell hath wrought,
Thy spirit could impart?

VI.

I may, I can, I must forget
Those golden hours with thee:
Half-lovers were we ere we met,
Such could we no more be!

VII.

Forever be forgot, the day,
The form, the voice, the eye--
Since thou thyself art ta'en away,
Take, take thy memory,

VIII.

Thy dewy fragrance from my heart;
Thy Genius off my mind;
Thine untold Grace, the thrill, the dart--
Leave not a dream behind!

IX.

Then shall my soul--like mountain lake
The tempest hath plough'd o'er--
Its diamond shield reluctant take,
And Heaven reflect once more!

THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.

Harry Harson.

CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.

LEAVING Michael Rust buried in death-like slumber, the result of intense mental anxiety that had denied his body that repose which it required, we must turn to one destined to take an active part in the succeeding events of this history; and who, on that same evening, was employed in a manner directly the reverse of that of Rust. That man was Harry Harson.

Seated at a table in his own room, with every feature puckered up into a very hard knot, the combined result of thought, perplexity, and anger, he was poring over a number of papers, occasionally pausing to scratch his head, or breaking out into an exclamation of displeasure, not unfrequently accompanied by a hard thump on the table, as something met his eye which excited his indignation in a peculiar degree.

It was past midnight; three good hours beyond the time, at which he usually retired to rest. All indications of bustle and stir in the streets had long since ceased, and not a sound was heard, except the occasional tread of a belated straggler, hurrying to his home; the sharp ticking of the clock, and the plethoric snoring of Spite, who made it a rule never to go to bed before his master; and who, being a methodical dog in habit, and an obstinate one in disposition, could not be induced to depart from old usages. As each successive hour was heralded by the voice of the clock just mentioned, Spite rose, looked at the time-piece, then at his master, as if to say, 'Halloo! old fellow, do you hear that?' gaped; sauntered round the table, and resumed his former position, each time lessening the distance between himself and the fire, as its embers gradually crumbled to ashes. Still, Harson continued his occupation; tossing over, examining, and studying the papers and letters, in utter disregard of hints and admonitions. Apparently, he became more troubled as he advanced in his investigation. His brow contracted; his breath came thick and fast; the color deepened in his cheek; his eye kindled, and more than once he threw the papers impatiently on the table, and rising up paced the room with rapid strides. This occurred at intervals, during the whole evening, until finally, he came to a letter which caused his anger to boil over. Starting to his feet, and clasping his hands, he exclaimed: 'Good God! shall such things be? and wilt Thou not protect the innocent, and punish the guilty?'

'But why ask?' added he, suddenly: 'I know, that even now, through channels which were least dreamed of, justice is working its way to the light. Confirm me, great GOD!' added he, fervently, 'in my purpose of seeing right done; and grant that I may never swerve from my course, until that purpose is accomplished!'

Had the culprit against whom he uttered this invocation and prayer heard the muttered threat which succeeded it, and witnessed the kindling face and stern, determined eye of the person who had uttered them, his heart, had he been a man of ordinary mould, might have sunk; but as the culprit in this case was no other than Michael Rust, who had no belief in an hereafter; who entertained suspicion against all men, and who never yielded his point under any circumstances; it is possible that it would have produced no other result than increased watchfulness, increased determination, and bitter hatred.

'I have read of such schemes as these,' muttered Harson; 'but I never expected to have anything to do with them myself--never. Can there be no doubt that these came from Rust,' said he, turning them over in his hand? And is there no doubt that he is at the bottom of all this villainy? The letters certainly bear a different name from his; but such things are common; and Ned says that he can produce proof of it. They can scarcely be forgeries, vamped up to obtain money from me; for many of them were written years ago; and bear post-office stamps, whose dates correspond with the dates within.'

He stood at the table, thus talking to himself, and turning over the letters, until his eye rested on one written in a delicate hand, and indorsed, 'Mary Colton to Henry Colton.' Harson opened it, mechanically, and ran his eye over it. It was very short, and breathed a heart broken by some grief which was only alluded to, but not mentioned. It ran thus:

'MY DEAR HENRY: With all others, hope has darkened into despair;
but I will not give up yet; I cannot. It would kill me, if I
did. Go on, my dearest Henry; make all efforts. I feel that you
have done all that can be done, and that all means have been
tried without success; but even yet, do not cease; and I will
pray for you, and bless you, for your disinterested kindness;
and GOD will reward you.

'Yours, affectionately,
MARY COLTON.'

"_Disinterested kindness!_" muttered Harson; "_God will reward you!_' Yes, 'Henry Colton,' God _will_ reward you! Sooner or later, the reward always comes; and you'll get it. Yes, if I live, 'Henry Colton,' it shall be my especial business to see that you receive it!' 'But,' said he, looking at the clock, 'enough of this. It would almost make a young man gray to wade through the details of such villainy. An old man like me must spare himself. I've had enough for one dose; so I'll sleep on it, and take the rest in the morning. Ha! Spite,' said he, stooping down, and patting the dog; 'better be a good, honest dog, like thee, my old cur, than a man with such a heart as some have. The temper's a trifle, Spite; so don't be worried about your's, for your heart's right, my old dog! There's no double-dealing about you. I don't know whether God blesses an honest dog, or not; but I believe he does, in some way or other. Come pup, I'll not keep you up longer.'

Saying this, he gathered up the papers, and placed them in a small box, which he locked, put under his arm, and followed by Spite, left the room, for the story above. He paused, and listened at a door at the head of the stairs; then turning the knob so as to make no noise, he went in. It was a small room, having a thick rag-carpet on the floor, and a dressing-table covered with white muslin, standing between the windows, whose curtains were as white as snow. In one corner was a bed. On a chair, at the side of it, lay a child's clothes; and in the bed itself was a girl, of about five years of age, with her light hair streaming over the pillow like a web of gold. There was little trace in her face of the outcast whom he had taken from the streets but a few weeks before; for the thin cheek had filled up, and the flush of health had succeeded the paleness of suffering and illness. Her eyes were closed, and their long lashes drooped over her cheek; but she did not sleep soundly; for once or twice she muttered to herself, as Harson bent over her: 'Come, Charley; we've been looking for you a long time. Come!'

'She's dreaming of the boy,' thought he; 'but be of good heart, my poor child; we'll find him yet.'

He leaned down, until his gray hair mingled with her bright locks, pressed his lips to her forehead, and went quietly out into the entry, where his presence was greeted with no little satisfaction by Spite, who had been shut out, and was becoming somewhat testy at being kept in the dark.

It was not long before Harson, with a thick counterpane up to his very chin, was sleeping as soundly in his own bed as Spite was under it.

What dreams hovered around the old man's pillow, or whether he had any, we cannot tell; but certain it is, that when the morning sun broke through a small opening between the window-curtains, flinging a long, thin streak of gold across the carpet, Harson was still sound asleep; and it is quite uncertain how long he might have continued so, had not the same ray of sunshine, in its passage across the room, fallen directly across the centre of the right eye of Spite, who had been drifting about the apartment since day-break; and who now vented his disapprobation of the liberty taken, in an irritable yelp.

Harry sat up in bed. 'What ails thee, pup?' said he, rubbing his eyes.

Spite, however, was not in a communicative mood; but walked to the door, and seating himself, surveyed the knob with great attention. Harson rose; threw on a dressing-gown, and going to the door, let him out, shutting it after him.

He then went to a basin, as portly and capacious as himself, dashed nearly a pailful of water into it; bared head, neck, and shoulders, and plunged them in. Out he came, very red in the face, with water dripping from nose, and chin, and eye-brows. Then in again he went; and then followed such a rubbing, and puffing, and blowing, and spouting, that he seemed like a young whale at his gambols. This ceremony being repeated some half dozen times, and the same number of towels having dried him, he proceeded to dress himself.

It might have been observed, however, that during the whole time, his thoughts were wandering; for he walked to the window, with some article of apparel in his hand, and stood looking into the street, in a state of deep abstraction; and then, drawing a long breath, continued his dressing, as if it had struck him that he was neglecting it. Then again he seated himself on the side of his bed, and sat for some minutes, looking on the floor.

'It's terrible, terrible!' said he, 'but it's not too late to remedy it. Thank God for that!'

Putting on one thing after another, sometimes upside down, sometimes getting his feet in his sleeves; then thrusting an arm in the wrong side of his coat; tying and untying his huge white cravat half a dozen times, and enveloping the half of his face in its ample folds; doing every thing wrong, and rectifying his mistakes with the greatest gravity, and without the slightest appearance of impatience, Harson finally found himself fully established in coat and jacket, with no other mistake than the trifling one of having buttoned the lower button of the last article into the top button hole. Having duly surveyed himself in the glass, to see that all was right, without having detected his mistake, he went out.

He stopped at the door of the child's room. His footsteps had apparently been recognized, for it was ajar; and a pair of bright eyes were peeping out to welcome him.

'Annie, is that you? Ha! child, you're a sad sleepy-head. You'll lose your breakfast. This won't do--this won't do. Spite was up long ago.' He shook his finger at the child, who laughed in his face; and then, flinging the door open, showed herself fully dressed.

'Wrong, Harry; wrong, wrong again,' said she, springing out, and addressing him in the familiar manner that he always liked: 'I am dressed.'

The old man took her in his arms, kissed her cheek, and carried her down stairs; and did not put her down until they were in the room below.

'Come, Harry, there's breakfast; and there's your seat; and here's mine,' exclaimed she, leading him to the table. 'Martha has got here before us,' said she, shaking her head at a demure-looking woman of fifty, in a faded cap, with a rusty riband round it, who was already seated at the table, preparing the coffee. 'Here, Spite--come here.'

Spite was not a dog given to the company of children. He was by far too old, and sedate, and dignified for that; but there were occasions on which he could unbend, and these fits of relaxation generally came over him just at meal-times, when he permitted the child not only to pat him, but even to uncurl his tail. Doubtless the sight of the creature-comforts which garnished Harry's table had its effect in producing this change, although it is possible the knowledge that the child devoted fully half of her time to supplying his wants, (a thing which his master sometimes neglected,) may have had its weight. Obedient at any rate to the summons, Spite hopped from a chair on which he had been seated, and placed himself at her side, watching every mouthful she swallowed, and licking his lips with great unction.

Harson's breakfast-table was, as the neighbors said, (particularly the poor ones, who now and then chanced to drop in at it,) enough to awaken an appetite in a dead man; and if dead people are peculiarly alive to hot coffee and mutton-chops, and hashed meats, and warm cakes, and fresh rolls, like snow itself, and all these things set off by crockery which shone and glittered till you could see your face in it; and table-linen without a speck or wrinkle in it, there is little doubt but that a vast number of departed individuals must have found their mouths watering at exactly half past seven each morning; that being the precise hour at which these articles made their daily appearance on Harson's table. But certain it is, that whatever may have been its effect upon them, it had little upon Harson; for he scarcely touched any thing, nor did he bestow his usual attention on those about him, but sat sometimes with his eyes fixed on the cloth, sometimes staring full in the face of the old house-keeper, who looked at the ceiling, and on the floor, and in her cup, and coughed, and hemmed, and fidgetted, and grew so red, and confused, and embarrassed, that before Harson was even aware that he was looking at her, to use her own expression, 'she thought she should have dropped.' But this was only of a piece with all the rest of his actions, during the morning; for to all remarks or questions, his only answer was an emphatic 'humph!' a species of reply to which he particularly devoted himself during the meal; and it was not until he observed the others had finished their meal that he hastily drank off his coffee at a draught, and rose from the table.

'You need not remove the things now, Martha,' said he, as the rattling of the crockery announced that this process was commencing. 'The noise disturbs me. I wish to be alone for a short time; and after that you can do as you please.'

The house-keeper made no reply; but went out, taking the girl with her, and leaving Harry to his meditations.

That these were neither pleasant nor composing, was quite evident; for after walking up and down with his hands in his pockets, and muttering to himself, he finally stopped short, and apparently addressing Spite, for his eyes were fixed upon him, and Spite returned the look, as if he supposed that he was being consulted, he broke out with:

'What am I to do? This matter on my hands; and Ned, poor Ned, kicked adrift by the old man, and Kate breaking her little heart about _him_; and her father quietly led by the nose to the devil. There's no doubt about it; that fellow Rust's at the bottom of it all; and no one except me to unravel this knot. God bless me! it bewilders my brain, and my old head spins. But Annie, Annie, my poor little child! if I forsake thee, may I never prosper! How now, Spite?'

This exclamation was caused by a somewhat singular proceeding on the part of Spite, who, after looking at him as if deeply interested in the tenor of his remarks, suddenly uttered a sharp bark, and bolted from his chair as if shot from a gun. The cause of this movement was soon shown in the person of a man dressed in a very shabby suit of black, with a beard of several days' growth, who stood just inside the door, and who, after a familiar nod to Harson, asked:

'Is all the family deaf except the dog?'

'When a man enters a stranger's house, it is but proper to knock,' said Harson, sharply.

'Did you want your house battered about your ears?' inquired the stranger; 'for I _did_ knock, until I was afraid it might come to that. Perhaps you're deaf, old gentleman; if so, I'm sorry for you; but as for your d--d dog, I wish he was dumb. I can scarcely hear myself speak for him.'

This explanation cleared from Harson's face every trace of anger; and silencing the dog, he said: 'I did not hear you; and yet I am not deaf.'

'Well, I made noise enough,' said the other. 'Is your name Henry Harson?'

Harson answered in the affirmative.

The stranger took off his hat and stood it on a chair; after which, he thrust his hand in his pocket and pulled out a letter. 'That's not it,' said he, throwing it in his hat; 'nor _that_,' continued he, drawing out a handkerchief, which he rolled in a very tight ball, and transferred to another pocket.

'I've got a letter somewhere, _that_ I know. It must belong to the mole family, for I put it uppermost, and it's burrowed to the very bottom; d--d if it hasn't! Ah! here it is,' said he, after a violent struggle, bringing up both a letter and a snuff-box. The former, he handed to Harson, and the latter he opened, and after applying each nostril sideways to its contents, took a pinch between his fingers, returned the box to his pocket, and seating himself snuffed deliberately, all the while eyeing the breakfast-table, with a fixed, steady, immovable stare.

The thread-bare, poverty-stricken look and hungry eye of his visitor was not lost on Harson, who, before opening the letter, glanced at the table and at the stranger, and then said: 'It's early; perhaps you have not yet breakfasted, Mr., Mr., Mr ----'

'Kornicker,' said the stranger.

'Kornicker, Mr. Kornicker. If so, make yourself at home and help yourself while I look over this letter; no ceremony. I use none with you. Use none with me.'

It was a tempting sight to poor Kornicker; for there stood the coffee-pot steaming away at the spout; and the dishes, far from empty, and such rolls as he was not in the habit of meeting every day; but mingled with all his defects of character, was a strong feeling of pride which made him hesitate, and it is probable that pride would have carried the day, had not Harson, divining something of his feelings, added:

'Perhaps it's scarcely civil to ask you to the table, when I have left it myself; but I should not stand on a trifle like that with you; and I hope you'll not with me. Those rolls are excellent; try them.'

He said no more; but going to the window, broke the seal of the letter and commenced reading.

Left to himself, Kornicker struggled manfully; but hunger got the better of all other feelings; and at last, drawing his chair to the table, he commenced a formidable attack upon its contents.

'So you're with Michael Rust,' said Harson, after he had finished reading the note, going to the table, and standing opposite Kornicker.

Kornicker's teeth were just then engaged in a severe struggle with a roll, and he could do nothing but nod an affirmative.

'Who is he?' inquired Harson; 'what's his profession?'

Kornicker swallowed his roll, and kept it down by half a cup of coffee; and then said:

'As to who he is; all I know is, he's sometimes an old man; sometimes he isn't; sometimes he wears a red handkerchief on his head, and sometimes he don't; but who he is, or what he does, or where he goes to, or where he comes from, or who he knows, or who knows him, curse me if _I_ know. That's all I can tell you, Sir. He's a mystery, done up in the carcass of a little, dried-up man, of a d--d uncertain age. May I trouble you for the milk?'

'Humph!' said Harson, in a very dissatisfied tone, at the same time passing the milk; 'and yet you are in his employ?'

Kornicker nodded.

'It's strange,' muttered he, 'quite strange.'

'D--d strange,' said Kornicker, burying his face in a huge coffee-cup, 'but true,' continued he, setting it down.

'True,' repeated Harson; 'true that you are in his employ; are in the habit of daily intercourse with him; attend to his concerns; see him constantly, and yet do not know who he is?'

'Partly correct, partly incorrect,' quoth Mr. Kornicker, pushing his cup away. 'I'm in his employ--correct. I know nothing of him; correct again. As to the rest--incorrect. Sometimes, I don't see him for weeks; sometimes I have something to do--often nothing. I never know when he's going, or when he's coming back.'

Harson stood quiet for some time. 'This is all very strange. Don't you know who are his acquaintances, or associates?'

Kornicker shook his head.

'Who comes to see him?'

'Nobody.'

'Do you never hear him speak of any one?'

'Never heard him name a soul, till the other day he named Enoch Grosket, and to-day you.'

'Do you know nothing of his mode of life, or intentions, or plans, or whether he's honest or dishonest, or how he lives, or where his money comes from, or what his family is?'

'Nothing,' said Kornicker. 'Indeed it never struck me till now how much there was to know on the subject, and how little conversant I was with it.'

'Shall _I_ tell _you_ who he is?' asked Harson.

Mr. Kornicker replied, that any information in his then unenlightened state would be acceptable.

'Well, then, he's one of the veriest villains that ever disgraced human nature. He's ----'

'Come! come! none of that! hold up, old gentleman!' interrupted Kornicker, sitting bolt upright; and grasping the handle of a coffee-cup with a somewhat hostile tenacity. 'I've just been eating your bread, backed by not a little meat, and no small quantity of coffee, and therefore am under obligations to you; and of course, a quarrel with you would be greatly against my stomach. But you must recollect, that Rust is my employer. What I eat, and drink, and snuff, comes out of his pocket; and although he was small in some matters, yet he helped me, when it required a good deal of salt to save me; my fortunes were not only at an ebb, but they'd got to dead low tide. I'm bound to stand up for him, and I'll do it. I've no doubt he's the d--dest rascal going; but I'll not hear any one say so. If I do, damme. So no more of that. Come, come,' said he, after a somewhat hostile survey of Harson's person, 'you don't look like the man to make a fellow regret that he's broken your bread.'

Quizzical as was the look of Kornicker, and vagabond as he seemed, there was something in the open, blunt manner in which he defended even Rust, that found an answering note in the bosom of Harry, and he said:

'No, no, I am _not_. You're an honest fellow; but I suppose there's no harm however in wishing you a better employer?'

'No, not at all,' said Kornicker, after a minute's reflection; 'I often wish _that_ myself; but,' said he, with a philosophical shake of the head, 'some people are born with a silver spoon in their mouth, and I wasn't one of them; mine must have been iron; and I'm rather inclined to think that there must have been no bowl to it, for it always held mighty little.'

There was a mixture of comicality and sadness in the tone in which he spoke, which left Harson in doubt in what strain to answer him. At last he drew a chair to the table; leaning his two arms upon the back of it, and surveying his guest attentively, he asked: 'What's your business, if I may be so bold?'

'Law,' replied Kornicker, leaning back. 'I'm the champion of the distressed; see widows and orphans righted, and all that sort of thing. It's a great business--devilish great business.'

'And is Michael Rust a lawyer?' inquired Harson.

'No, I attend to that part of his concerns. He's a mere child in matters of that kind; but devilishly wide awake in others; but come, old gentleman,' said he, suddenly breaking off, 'I'm to thank you for a breakfast; now let's have an answer to the letter. It's time to be off.'

Harson glanced at the letter, and then said:

'Do you know the contents of this?'

'Not a word of them,' replied Kornicker.

'Nor what it's about?'

'No. Rust is neither confidential, nor communicative,' replied Kornicker. 'So, what you've got to say say in writing. I don't want the trouble of thinking about it, or trying to recollect it.'

'Humph!' said Harson. 'There's nothing here requiring a great stretch of either. He wants me to meet him at his office, on very particular business; a request somewhat singular, as I never laid eyes on him in my life.'

'Quite singular,' ejaculated Kornicker.

'But I _know_ much about him; and _that_ leaves me no desire to be more intimate with him. What do you think of it?'

'I think you're in luck,' replied the other; 'you're the first that ever was asked inside the door since I've been there. Several very nice, pleasant fellows of my acquaintance, have dropped in occasionally, and although his office is nothing to brag of, d--n me if he didn't invite them to air themselves in the street, and not to come back! It was quite mortifying, especially as I was there at the time.'

'What did you do?' inquired Harson.

'You've never seen Rust, you say?' said Kornicker, in reply to the previous question.

Harson answered in the negative.

'Well, Sir, if you _had_, you wouldn't ask that question. I looked out of the window, and held my jaw--that's what I did; and that's what I'd advise _you_ to do in the same trying circumstances. But come, Sir, give me the answer.'

Harson, after a moment's thought, said: 'It isn't worth while to write. Tell him I'll come, or send some one. You can remember that?'

Kornicker replied that he thought he could; and taking up his hat, and shaking hands with Harson, and favoring Spite, who was examining the quality of his pantaloons, with a sly kick, he sallied out toward Rust's office.

CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.

'COME, Spite,' said Harson, when his visitor was gone, 'we must be up and doing. This is not a business that can be trifled with. The longer we put it off, the tighter will the knot be drawn. Stop, until I get the papers.' Leaving the room for a moment, he returned fully equipped for walking; with a huge handkerchief wrapped round his chin, and his broad-brimmed beaver pulled tightly down over his forehead. 'Now my cane, Spite, and we'll see if we can't get to the bottom of this deviltry. We're embarked in a good cause, my old pup, and mustn't give up. Now then! it's a glorious day; the air's bracing, and will make your old bones quite young again. Hey! what spirits you're in!' said he, as Spite, elated at being associated in so important a matter, after wriggling his body in a most convulsive manner, by way of expressing his satisfaction, finally fell over on his back, in an abortive effort to perform a hilarious pirouette on his hind legs. 'Never mind, old fellow,' said Harson, 'pick yourself up; accidents will happen to the best of us. I warrant me you'd have done it better ten years ago; don't be down-hearted about it. We're going to see old Holmes; and when you and I and old Holmes are thoroughly at work in sifting this matter, why Rust had better look sharp. Hey, Spite?'

Thus talking to his dog, or whistling to himself, or exchanging a cheery word with an acquaintance as he passed, the old man trudged along, followed at a very staid pace by his dog, who since his late unsuccessful effort, had fallen into a very serious mood, notwithstanding all the efforts of his master to raise his spirits and to banish the recollection of it from his mind.

The person whom Harson sought was a little antiquated man, who had buried himself among his books, and spent his time in burrowing in out-of-the-way corners of the law. He had wormed his way into all its obsolete nooks, and haunted those regions of it which had become deserted, and as it were grass-grown from long disuse. By degrees he had slunk from a practice which had once promised to be large; and a name which had once bid fair to shine brightly in the annals of the law, gradually grew faint in memory, as its owner was missed from those places where the constant rush of the crowd soon wears out any impress made by those who are no longer seen. But there were times when the old man looked out from his den, and prowled among those who had crowded in his place; and there were times, (but those were on rare occasions, when some exciting case would be on the carpet,) when an old man would steal into the court-room, with a bundle of papers under his arm; and would take his seat at the table among the counsel engaged in the case; sitting silent throughout the whole; speaking to none; taking no notes; watching the witnesses with his dim eyes; studying the faces of the jury; occasionally referred to by the other counsel; but taking no part in any discussions until the evidence was closed, and the cause was to be summed up; and then, to the surprise of all, except the bench and a few of the oldest of the bar, rising to address the jury; commencing in a low, feeble tone, and apparently sinking with infirmity, until by degrees his dim eye became like fire; his faint voice like the clear ringing of a bell; his eloquence as burning as if flowing from the lips of manhood's prime; his sarcasm withering; his logic strong, clear, fervid, and direct; no loitering; no circumlocution; no repetition: what he had to say he said _once_, and only once. Those who missed it then waited in vain for something of the same nature to explain it; it never came. His object was before him; and he hurried onward to it, sweeping every thing before him and carrying all with him. And when he had concluded, as he gathered his papers and left the court, the elder members of the bar would say among themselves: 'Old Holmes is himself again;' and the younger ones wondered who he was; and as they learned his name, remembered dimly of having heard it as that of one who had lived in by-gone days.

His office was not in the business part of the town; but in a quiet, shady street, which few frequented, rilled with huge trees, and so quiet and out of the way that it seemed like a church-yard. Thither Harson bent his steps; and it was not long before he found himself in his office.

It was a large, dim room, with high shelves filled with volumes and papers, reaching to the low ceiling. Long, dusty cobwebs hung trailing from the walls: the very spiders who had formed them, finding that they caught nothing, had abandoned them. The floor was thickly carpeted; and a few chairs were scattered about, with odd volumes lying upon them. Upon a table covered with a green cloth, were piles of loose papers, ends of old pens, torn scraps of paper, and straggling bits of red tape. Altogether, it was a sombre-looking place, so still and gloomy, and with such a chilly, forbidding air, that it seemed not unlike one of those mysterious chambers, which once abounded in antiquated castles, and tumbling-down old houses, with a ghost story hanging to their skirts; or which some ill-natured fairy had doomed to be shut up for a hundred years; and the little thin dried-up man who sat in the far corner of it with every faculty buried in the large volume on his knees, looked as though he might have dwelt there for the whole of that period. Had it been so it would have been the same to him; for in that dim room had he spent the most of his life, immersed in the musty volumes about him; now and then coming to the surface, to see that the world had not disappeared while he was busy; and then diving again to follow out some dark under-current, which was to lead him, GOD knows whither. What was the world to him? What cared he for its schemes and dreams and turmoil? The law was every thing to him; home, family, and friends. GOD help him! a poor lone man, with kindly feelings, and a warm, open heart, which might have made a fireside happy; but now without a soul to whom he might claim kindred. Many respected him; some pitied him, and a few, a very few, loved him. There he sat day after day, and often until the day ran into night, delving, and diving, and pondering, and thinking; a living machine, working like a slave for his clients; alike for rich and poor, the powerful and the friendless; beyond a bribe; too honest to fear or care for public opinion; strenuous in asserting the rights of others, and never enforcing his own, lest he might give pain to another. GOD help him! I say. He was not the man for this striving, struggling world; and perhaps it was well for him that in his murky pursuits he found that contentment which many others wanted. Yet he never freed his mind from its trammels, and looked abroad upon the wide world, with its myriads of throbbing hearts, but he found in it those whom he could love and could help. GOD help _him_, did I say? Rather, GOD help those who warp and twist the abilities, talents, and wealth which are showered upon them, to unholy purposes; who make the former the slaves to minister to deeds and passions at which human nature might blush; and the last but the stepping-stone to selfish aggrandizement, or the nucleus around which to gather greater store. Pity _them_, but not _him_; for although but a pale, thin, sickly being, with barely a hold upon life, with scarce the strength of a child, growing old, and withered, and feeble without knowing it; yet was he all-powerful, from the bright, bold spirit that animated him, and a soul stern in its own integrity, which shrank from nothing except evil; and blessed was he, far above all earthly blessings, with a heart ever warm, ever open, and in which GOD had infused a noble share of his own benevolence and love to mankind.

It is no wonder then that Harry Harson, when he stood in the presence of one in heart so akin to himself, paused and gazed upon him with a softened eye.

'Holmes, Dick Holmes,' said he, after a moment, 'are you at leisure?'

The old lawyer started, looked wistfully up, contracting his dim eyes so as to distinguish the features of the person who addressed him, and then doubling down the leaf of the book which he had been reading, rose and advanced hesitatingly until he recognized him.

'Ah Harson!' said he, extending his hand quietly; 'honest old Harry, as we used to call you,' continued he, smiling; 'I'm glad to see you. Few save those who come on business cross my threshold; so _you_ are the more welcome. Sit down.'

He pushed a chair toward him, and drawing another close to it, took a seat, and looked earnestly in his face. 'Time doesn't tell on you, Harry; nor on me, _much_,' said he, looking at his attenuated fingers; 'still it _does_ tell. My flesh is not so firm and hard as it used to be; and I'm getting thinner. I've thought for some months past of relaxing a little, and of stealing off for a day to the country, and of rambling in its woods and fields, and breathing its pure air. It would quite build me up; perhaps you'll go with me?'

'That I will, with all my heart,' said Harson; '_that_ I will; and right glad am I to hear you say so; for it's enough to break down a frame of iron to spend hour after hour in this stagnant room, poring over these musty books.'

Holmes looked about the room, and at his volumes, and then said, in a somewhat deprecating tone:

'I've been very happy here. It does not seem gloomy to me; at least not _very_ gloomy. But come; I'll walk out with you now. It does me good sometimes to see what is going on out of doors; if I can only find a person I care for, to keep me company.'

He half rose as he spoke; but Harson placed his hand on his arm, and motioned to him to keep his seat.

'You made a mistake this time,' said he, in a good-natured tone, and beginning to fumble in his pockets; 'business brought me here to-day; business, and a desire to follow the suggestions of a clearer head than mine.'

As he spoke, he drew from his pocket the package of letters, and placed it before the lawyer.

Before you examine these, I must tell you what they are about. Perhaps you won't believe me, but these letters will confirm every word I say. You must hear my story, read them, and then tell me frankly and fairly what to do; not only as a lawyer, but as a friend. I shall need your advice as both.

'You shall have it,' said Holmes; 'go on.'

The tale which Harson told was sufficient to arouse every feeling of indignation in the lawyer. As Harson went on, Holmes became excited, until, unable to control himself, he rose from his chair and paced the room, with every honest and upright feeling in arms. He forgot every thing but the deep wrongs which were recited. Debility and age were trampled under foot; and his voice, clear and loud, rang through the room, scorching in its denunciation of the wrongdoer, and bitter in its threats of retribution. Then it was that the spirit showed its mastery over the clay, and spurning the feeble form which clogged it, shone forth, strong in its own might, a glorious type of the lofty source from which it sprang. But suddenly he sat down; and passing his hand across his face, said in a feeble tone: 'I am easily excited now-a-days, but I will command myself. Go on; I will not interrupt you again.'

As he spoke he placed his arms on the table, and leaned his head upon them; and this position he maintained without asking a question or making a comment, until Harson had finished speaking; and when he looked up, his face had assumed its usual quiet expression.

'Do these letters prove what you say, beyond a doubt?' he asked.

'I think so.'

'And why do you suppose them to be written by Rust? The name, you say, is different.'

'I had it from a person who would swear to it. By the way,' added he, suddenly, 'I have just received a letter from Rust. I'll compare the writing with those; that will prove it.'

He took the letter from his pocket, and placed it beside the others; and his countenance fell. They were as unlike as possible.

Holmes shook his head. 'You may have hit upon the wrong man, or you may have been purposely put on a false scent. There certainly is no resemblance between these,' said he, carefully comparing the two; 'not even in the general character of the hand.'

Harson could not but admit the fact. It was too evident.

'Look over the whole bundle,' said he. 'There are at least twenty of them. If this is a disguised hand, it is possible that he may have betrayed himself in some of the others.'

The lawyer went over the letters, one by one, carefully comparing them; but still the character was the same. All of them were in the free, flowing style of a good penman; while the letter which Harson had produced was written in a bold, but stiff and ungraceful hand.

'Where did you get this?' said Holmes, pointing to the one which Harson had received from Kornicker.

'It was brought to me by a clerk of his this morning.'

'Then you know him?' said Holmes.

'I never saw him in my life.'

'Have you ever had any business with him through others?'

Harson shook his head. 'Never.'

'How do you know that the person who brought this letter was from Rust?' inquired he.

'The letter proposes an interview. If it isn't from him, the cheat would be found out when I go.'

'How long have you been ferreting out this matter?'

'Several weeks.'

'Have you worked in secret, or openly?' inquired Holmes.

'I kept the matter as quiet as I could,' replied Harson, 'because I didn't want him to get wind of it, and place obstacles in my way; for I supposed that he was the man; but still, I was obliged to employ several persons, of whom I know little.'

'Then this Rust _is_ the man, you may rely on it,' said Holmes, in a positive manner. 'He has discovered that you are busy, and is startled at it. Depend on it, this wish to see you has something to do with your present movements.'

'I thought so too,' said Harson, 'and shall go there this morning.'

'I'll go too,' said Holmes; 'and the sooner we start the better.'

'Thank you, thank you,' said Harson, stretching out his hand; 'the very thing I wanted.'

The old lawyer said no more; but after fumbling about his room for his hat and great-coat, and having succeeded, without any great difficulty, in putting on the last, (for he had no idea how shrunken and attenuated he was, and it was large enough for a man of double his size,) and supported by Harry's steady arm, they set out.

'Stop a minute,' said Harson; 'we've shut Spite in. There'll be the deuce to pay if we leave _him_. Come, pup.' He opened the door; and Spite having leisurely obeyed his call, they resumed their walk.

THIS TO THEE, LUCY.

WHEN like the ripples of some troubled lake,
Each year shall hasten to its lingering end,
That chord in Memory's sweet-toned harp awake,
Which thrills responsive to the name of Friend!
And oh! whate'er shall be thy future lot,
In sunshine or in shade, forget me not!

Whether thou dwellest in the busy mart
Ceaseless caressed by pride, and pomp and power,
Or circlest the ambition of thy heart
Within the lowly cot and rustic bower,
'The world forgetting, by the world forgot,'
Still, still my prayer shall be, 'Forget me not!'

NATURE'S MONITIONS.

AN EXTRACT.

OH! who hath not, in melancholy mood,
Musing at eve in some sequestered wood,
Or where the torrent's foaming waters pour,
Or ocean's billows murmur on the shore;
Oh! who hath not in such a moment gazed,
As heaven's bright hosts in cloudless glory blazed,
And felt a sadness steal upon his heart,
To think that he with this fair scene must part!
That while those billows heave, those waters flow,
Those garnished skies refulgent still shall glow,
He, that once watched them, will have passed away,
His name forgot, his ashes blent with clay;
Unlike those glittering orbs, those quenchless fires,
Ordained to roll till Time itself expires.

GRAVE THOUGHTS ON PUNCH.

IT was a nice remark of the distinguished French General Moreau during his residence in this country, that the next thing in the world to a shock of cavalry is the English word, WHAT! There exists in it an irresistible abruptness, that frequently puts to flight at once the whole array of thoughts of the foreigner whose nerves are assailed by it. 'I can stand,' said he, 'any thing better than your word, WHAT! It is impossible to reason against it; I seem to have nothing to do, when I hear it, but to submit!'

It certainly is one of those short words of power, one of those words of pistol-shot energy, that characterize our grand tongue and give it originality and force. It is a word to conjure with; and has many a time raised Truth out of the depths of the heart of the double-dealer: it is a word of defence--and not unfrequently has it overturned or repulsed in one utterance the half-formed scheme of some wheedling knave endeavoring to make a confederate, or nefariously to win the heart of a pretty girl. May you and I, dear Editor, never hear from lips we love, in the overwhelming accents of astonishment and of disappointed hope, the English word, WHAT!

The word at the head of my Essay, and which by the way I mean to make the subject of it, is another of these short English words of great strength and pith. This carries however no disfavour with it; no discourtesy; nor does it raise up one association that is otherwise than bland and attractive to the mind: and yet how forcible is it, alike in sound and in effect! Let us listen to it----PUNCH!----To the ear of my Imagination it is altogether irresistible! How impossible to parry it! what a possession it takes of the faculties, and how entirely it seems to get the better of one! Then how intrinsically, how essentially English it is in all the strength and vigour of the tongue!--PUNCH! Turn the word into the French, and behold how pitiable is the effect--_ponche!_

Now it is a curious fact in the Natural History of Liquids, that a similar and not less remarkable result occurs in the noble beverage which this short word is intended to designate! Try over the whole continent of Europe and wheresoever else the English language is not the vernacular, try I say to get PUNCH, and it invariably comes out _ponche_ or something still more despicable! I have essayed it repeatedly and have always found the result the same; and yet I am neither a young, nor an inexperienced, nor, if you will allow me the word, an _inextensive_ traveller!

On the other hand, the moment you recross the channel and 'set foot upon the sacred soil of Britain,' or come home quietly to our own unassuming United States and lay your hand upon the right ingredients, out of the sound of any foreign language, the mixture succeeds as a matter of course, and at once becomes virtually and essentially, PUNCH--PUNCH proper; PUNCH itself; in short, PUNCH!

'Tout Éloge d'un grand homme
Est renfermé dans son nom!'

The native merits and distinctive propriety of the word being thus established; before I enter into any consideration of the drink itself, I cannot refrain from chiming in with the general feeling of the day on this side of the Atlantic so far as to observe, how incontestably this proves the mutual interest and common origin of 'the two great nations;' and should the dark day ever arrive, when letters shall be obliterated; printing forgotten; and language lost; it is still consolatory to reflect, that a mutual and inborn affinity between the two last representatives of 'the MOTHER and DAUGHTER' might be satisfactorily shown and most agreeably demonstrated by means of _two lemons_; _four tumblers of Croton or filtered spring water_; _one of double refined loaf sugar well cracked_; _and one of old Rum_!

Gentle Reader! hast thou carefully dwelt over this list of ingredients? Are earth, air, fire, and water, more dissimilar in their elementary properties than are Lemon, Sugar, Water, and Rum? and has it ever before occurred to thee, to what supernal brightness of original and fortuitous Genius thou must have been indebted for this astonishing combination? Art thou alive to the grandeur of the original conception? Alas! the name of the architect of the Temple of Ephesus might as well at this epoch be sought for as that of the author of this stupendous compound, but the irrefragable word which is universally attempted to be attached to it indicates beyond the shadow of a doubt the land that claims the honour of his birth!

I am writing to thee from the attic of the house in which I have my abode.----Canst thou tell me the name of the first artificer who planned the building of a second story? who first contemplated or imagined STAIRS? or changed the tent and the cabin into the fabrick of diversified flights? The scheme of this was taken from the invention of the Beaver----But where throughout the animal creation was the instinctive indicator to the man who first conceived the thought of PUNCH?

NEWTON by the fall of an apple is said to have determined the Theory of Gravitation: how vast and limitless in its application has been the discovery! Yet is the whole but the elucidation of one principle or element of knowledge----while four different and antagonistic elements associate and are made to combine homogeneously in the glorious beverage of PUNCH!

DAVY, in his wonderful invention of the Safety Lamp, went with it completed in his hand from the laboratory to the mine, and found his reasoning true! Throughout the terraqueous globe his achievement is cited as the conquest of abstract Science over Physics. But vain is all abstract reasoning here; all distant experiment; all knowledge of the gases; all study of the powers of repulsion;--here four palpable and repulsive reasons are placed in presence of the chemist and philosopher, and the irresistible argument of all is--PUNCH.

These are hints for reflection to thee, Gentle Reader, in the quiet and solitary concocting and brewing of thy Pitcher, during the two hours that thou shalt diligently pour it from one glass receptacle into the other. When all is finished, and thy star hath proved benignant to thee; and thy beverage shall have become like the harmony that steals away thy heart; gushing from four musical instruments where the sound of neither predominates;--then drink to the memory of the great original Genius who planned and inspired thy joy; and forget not to favour, with a passing thought, the verdant Spirit who would gladly be Thy Companion; and who here subscribes himself, Thy Friend,

JOHN WATERS.

HER NAME.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO.

THE fragrant odor of the perfumed flower,
The plaint of one who doth his pain confess;
The farewell whispered in the shadowy hour,
The thrilling sound of love's impassioned kiss:

The seven-hued scarf that o'er yon field the cloud
A trophy leaves to the triumphant sun;
A trancing strain, now lost, now faintly heard,
The twilight hum that tells the day is done:

The accent of some voice remembered well,
The glorious ray that crowns the western sea;
The secret wish that maiden may not tell,
The first sweet dream of sleeping infancy:

A far, faint choral chant; the wakening sigh
The Memnon gave to morning's glance of flame;
All that thought hath of beauty, melody,
Less sweet is, O! my Lyre! than her sweet name!