Читать книгу: «The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, June 1844», страница 5

Various

Шрифт:

The widow, Mrs. Chowles, still lives in her quiet, blinking little house, as cheerful and contented as ever; as happy as ever to hear Harry’s heavy step, and to see his honest face in his old corner in her parlor; and although he is no longer accompanied by Spite, who has grown old and rheumatic, so that he is unable to stir from the chimney-corner, where he passes his time in crabbed solitude, except when he turns up his dim eyes to his old master, as he hears his voice, and feels his caressing hand on his head: all else is as it was in that little household; and that it may long continue, is our warmest wish.

CONCLUSION

Mr. Stites’ manuscript was written at different times, and in different hands. The little man was evidently troubled with a defective memory, (although I would not tell him so for the world,) and has permitted many strange mistakes and anachronisms to creep into his tale, which inclines me to think that the whole matter is not so authentic as he pretends, but has been gleaned in various parcels from the regions of romance. But as he is not a little tetchy on the score of his veracity, I can only suggest that the tale be regarded by his good natured readers rather as a fiction than sober truth.

From beginning to end, strong disapprobation has been expressed by Mr. Snagg, who says that ‘that d—d dog is enough to kill any story, and that for his part, he doesn’t think much of Stites; never did, and never will; and that a single hair of Slaughter’s tail was worth Stites’ marrow, fat and kidneys, all done up together.’

It is useless to argue with him; and I find the most judicious mode of disposing of the matter is to let the question remain unanswered; by which means he soon comes round, begins to discover a few merits in the manuscript, and finally concludes with a warm panegyric upon Mr. Stites himself, always however with a reservation as to the dog, whom he swears ‘he never shall be able to stomach.’

In all respects, my quiet old home remains as it was. The same mystery hangs about it as formerly. The interest which for a time was excited respecting it, when I gave an account of the murder which had left it shunned and tenantless, has died away; and with the exception of Mr. Snagg, Mr. Stites, and my dog, I have few visiters. Perhaps it is best that it should be so; for I have the spectres of no hard feelings nor bitter thoughts, nor painful recollections to haunt me, requiring excitement and bustle to drive them off; and old age demands time for solemn thought and serious meditation, to enable it to wean itself from the past, and look cheerfully forward to the future.

But no more of myself. My task is ended; and I now bid you farewell!

John Quod.

THE PAST

I

Despair not, though thy course is drear,
The past has pleasures for us all;
Bright scenes and things to hearts most dear,
And those how fondly we recall.

II

Such as some lovely girl we knew;
Such as some touching song we heard;
Such as some evening spent, when flew
The hours as swift as passing bird.

III

Such as some well-tried friend we had;
Such as some acts of kindness done,
Yet rising up to make us glad,
And so will rise when years are gone.

IV

Despair not! still be innocent;
Admire the beautiful, the good,
And when the cry of woe is sent,
Turn to relieve, in pitying mood.

V

So shall the present, when 'tis past,
Rich with harmonious scenes appear,
No gloomy shadows o'er it cast,
No spectres there, to make thee fear.

E. G.

THE HEARTH OF HOME

BY MARY E. HEWITT

The storm around my dwelling sweeps,
And while the dry boughs fierce it reaps,
My heart within a vigil keeps,
The warm and cheering hearth beside;
And as I mark the kindling glow
Brightly o’er all its radiance throw,
Back to the years my memories flow,
When Rome sat on her hills in pride;
When every stream and grove and tree
And fountain had its deity.

The hearth was then, ’mong low and great,
Unto the Lares consecrate:
The youth arrived to man’s estate
There offered up his golden heart;
Thither, when overwhelmed with dread,
The stranger still for refuge fled,
Was kindly cheered, and warmed, and fed,
Till he might fearless thence depart:
And there the slave, a slave no more,
Hung reverent up the chain he wore.

Full many a change the hearth hath known;
The Druid fire, the curfew’s tone,
The log that bright at yule-tide shone,
The merry sports of Hallow-e’en;
Yet still where’er a home is found,
Gather the warm affections round,
And there the notes of mirth resound,
The voice of wisdom heard between:
And welcomed there with words of grace,
The stranger finds a resting place.

Oh! wheresoe’er our feet may roam,
Still sacred is the hearth of home;
Whether beneath the princely dome,
Or peasant’s lowly roof it be,
For home the wanderer ever yearns;
Backward to where its hearth-fire burns,
Like to the wife of old, he turns
Ever the eyes of memory.
Back where his heart he offered first—
Back where his fond young hopes he nursed.

My humble hearth though all disdain,
Here may I cast aside the chain
The world hath coldly on me lain;
Here to my Lares offer up
The warm prayer of a grateful heart;
Thou that my household guardian art,
That dost to me thine aid impart,
And with thy mercy fill’st my cup;
Strengthen the hope within my soul,
Till I in faith may reach the goal.

PROFESSOR SHAW

A SKETCH

Plutarch Shaw, the naturalist, was lately in the stocks, which has been a matter of much talk among the virtuosi, and a good deal of malicious laughter on all hands. He cut a devil of a figure, rest assured, propped up in a straight jacket, his eye fiery with vengeance; the innocent victim of ‘circumstances,’ and that very common error of putting the saddle on the wrong horse. A very little explanation will serve to place this matter in the right light, and show by what a fantastic adventure an honest man, who was alway given to roam over much territory, was suddenly placed upon the limits, and one of the most profound explorers of the curious became himself for the time being a curiosity.

Mr. Shaw is so much of an enthusiast, that it is very unpleasant to stand near him when he is talking about his bugs, or exhibiting his specimens, on account of being spattered all over with the spray of his eloquence. A bat shot down in the dusk of the evening is enough to set him half crazy, and make the saliva fly all over; it rolls and surges against the bulwarks of his jagged teeth in a rabid foam, showers out with his descriptions, and makes him only tolerable at arm’s length. The beetles and butterflies which he has transfixed are innumerable; and he is perpetually syringing down the humming-birds, as stationary on vibrating wings, these beautiful creatures of the air plunge their beaks deep into the cups of flowers. With him pin-money is an item. If he marks any thing curious in the natural world, he ‘sticks a pin there,’ and keeps it for future reference; any thing from a lady-bug ready to unfold suddenly the gauze upon its hard back, where you would think no wings existed, and fly away, to an offensive black beetle that snuffs the candle, or cracks its head against the wall, thence upward in the scale to the bird which Liberty loves as her sublimest emblem, the proudest of the proud, the bird of our own mountains, and the eagle of our own skies.

‘I would not heedlessly set foot upon a worm,’

writes Cowper: not so however with the great Shaw, whose collection of worms is most disgusting; exceeded only by his reptiles preserved in spirits, with all their sickening exhibition of claws. He has got some dragons that fall little short of the Devil himself in general hideousness and outrageous tails; some noots brought from Nootka Sound; some green monsters from Green Bay; some devilish things from Van Diemon’s land; and finally, Plutarch is himself hideous, and ought to be put in a collection, which by the by, he lately was. It was a great era in his life time when he shot a wild-cat; that however has nothing to do with the present story, and must be told shortly. He threw a stone at him, it seems, to frighten him out of the bushes, where by dint of sneaking he discovered something with a white and black fur, moving about in a short compass. Breathless with excitement, standing on tip-toe, dodging his head among the brambles, all ready, and meaning to have a shot at him ‘pretty soon,’ he was whispering to himself, telling himself in a mysterious voice to ‘hold fast,’ not to budge, but wait for the next movement; when this pole-cat—there is a distinction, it is well known in the species, nor in the present instance was it a ‘distinction without a difference’—opened the batteries with the precision of an artillery officer. ‘O my eyes!’ was the exclamation of Professor Shaw, ‘my eyes! my eyes! my eyes!’ It was a great era in his life time also when he shot a plover; that however has little to do with the present story, and must be told shortly. It was on the Big Plains, where not a tree nor shrub may be seen for miles around; where ambuscades are unknown, and it is very hard to steal a march upon the timid birds which are frightened at a very shadow; only they do not fear the flocks and herds which pasture upon the plains, but tamely pick up the worms beneath their feet. Professor Shaw hit upon an expedient to surprise them, which no other person would have thought of, than one of his extreme ingenuity: a big box, opened at both ends, into which he crawled with fowling-piece in hand. First, however, he procured an ox-hide at the stall of a neighboring farm, with all its apparatus of horns, and placed it over the box, to give it the appearance at a distance, of a bonâ fide ox. Sure enough, this scheme worked well. On came the plovers, hopping about with much unconcern. Shaw chuckled. He flattered himself that he should be the death of some of them, if his own life were only spared a few moments. While he hammered the flint of his fowling-piece with an old jack-knife, he heard a distant rumbling sound, which soon waxed terrible, and caused him to thrust out his head. Thunder and Mars! what should he do? If he ran, it was all up with him, and he was a dead man if he staid where he was. A wild bull of the prairies was cutting up shines at no great distance, tearing up the sod with hoofs and horns, and threatening to demolish that refuge of lies. Shaw poked out his head, and drew it in again, clutching his fowling-piece convulsively, and trembling in an agony of fear. Involuntarily he began to say his prayers. ‘Our Father who art in heaven,’ said he, with great fervor. The bull was now up, bellowing in a tumultuous passion, galloping round and round in circles which were diminishing with every turn, getting his horns ready to toss the whole fiction of an ox, box, hide, horns, Plutarch Shaw and all, into the air. ‘Help! help!’ shrieked the philosopher; ‘I’ll come out; I must, I must, I must!’ And he did come out, by far the most sneaking object for miles around on the Big Plains. Some men who were hunting plover from a wagon, (which is the right way,) saw his fantastic position with mingled laughter and alarm. They drove to his assistance, but the horses shyed off at the terrific conduct of the bull, whose onslaught was now made upon the box, which he attacked hoof and horn. Mr. Shaw had barely strength to reach the shelter of the wagon, into which he was taken, much chap-fallen, and resuscitated with brandy-and-water, which were luckily at hand.

He was an ‘odd fish,’ unanimously so styled, by those who knew him, nor did his appearance belie him, as he started forth on a geological excursion in the month of May last, making poems and tuning pianos by the way. He strung up the old harpsicords to the satisfaction of the country girls, who thought he ‘played on music’ with great skill, but his eyes were the very wildest. Was Professor Shaw crazy? By no means. As a proof of it, he had written several poems as voluminous as the Fredoniad; which were unavailing for the present, but which he did hope that his ‘country would not willingly let die;’ added to this, some marches in double quick time, some intricate and inwoven harmonies in the transcendental style, stanzas set to music, thrown forth when the excitement was upon him, and fugitives from justice. Yet all these were nothing, to judge by dark and mysterious hints which were given out, of some GREAT WORK at which he was now laboring, which the world, (he said it with a presentiment of triumph) would be compelled to own. But, as I remarked, his appearance did not belie him. Whoever might doubt his metaphysics, his legs were unquestionably the very longest, by the assistance of which he had lately won a foot-race on the Union course for a hundred dollars, to enable him to pursue his studies for the ministry. ‘Accoutred as he was,’ on one fine day in the month of May, he had wandered to a distant part of the country with a walking-stick, furnished at the extremity with a small hammer. Absorbed in revery, and constructing verses by the way, he arrived at last in a romantic valley, where he was soon busily employed in cracking rocks, and collecting specimens for his cabinet.

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

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

Shaw made no reply.

‘Mister, look a-here; aint you—aint you–?’

‘Fel-spar,’ said Shaw, cabalistically.

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

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

‘Wonderful cunnin’, but it wont do. ’Twont sarve you; I’m a-feard we shall have to–’

‘Well, Sir, my name is Shaw.’

‘What’s that you got onto your cane? What you doin’ in Queens cëounty? Do tell, aint you–got loose from somewhar? Honor bright!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The doctor smiled.

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

The doctor smiled.

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

Rustics. He! he! he! that’s enough—see his eyes!

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

The doctor smiled.

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

Doctor. My friend, be calm.

Shaw. Oh, my dear Sir! understand me. I am calm, I am calm.

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

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

Doctor. I am satisfied that we had better secure–

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

Rustics. He’s the cunningest we ever seen.

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

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

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

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

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

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