The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, June 1844

He looked at her sadly, and then placing his finger on his heart, said: ‘Is not what has been going on here, for years, enough to wither to the root every feeling of cheerfulness, so that it should never again put forth a blossom?’

‘Hush! hush!’ interrupted his wife, in a whisper; ‘if you have suffered, you have gained at last what you have always prayed for; while he, the one who caused it all, has paid the penalty of his misdeeds. Remember what his fate was.’ She pointed to the picture: ‘Remember too, the fate of his only child. George, George! his punishment has been terrible, even in this world!’

‘You are right, Mary—God forgive me! I’ll think of it no more. He and I were nursed in the same arms, and watched by the same fond mother. From the bottom of my heart I forgive him. It would be sacrilege to her memory, for me to harbor an unkind feeling toward even a stranger, if she had loved him.’

He was silent for a moment, and then addressing Harson, enquired:

‘Who is this Mr. Kornicker?’

‘A poor fellow, with little to help him through the world but careless habits and a good heart.’

‘What character does he bear?’ inquired the other.

‘Such as might be expected from his position,’ replied Harson; ‘full of flaws, but with a vein of gold running through it. Nature has given him fine feelings, and fortune, unluckily, has placed him in a situation where such feelings are impediments rather than otherwise. But he is a noble fellow for all that.’

‘Where can he be found?’ asked his guest.

Harson probably anticipated the object of this inquiry, for he said with a laugh:

‘He has been taken care of; he has been placed where the means of livelihood and competence are in his grasp, if he will but work for them. And what is better yet, he seems disposed to do so, although not much can be expected of him at first. I do not think,’ added he, ‘that it contributes to the happiness of a young man, with a long life before him, to be altogether idle. I will do all that I can to help him; but he must work. It will be more easy for him as he gets used to the traces.’

The stranger acquiesced in this remark, and then added: ‘I will take his address, nevertheless, for I must see him when I return to the city, which will be very shortly; but you seem to have anticipated me in every thing. Even the lawyer, Mr. Holmes, declined to be paid for his services. He said that this was not strictly a business matter, and that what he had done was out of friendship for you, and that I had better pocket the fee and drop the subject; at the same time, he said he was going to dinner, and asked me to join him, which I did, and a very pleasant time we had of it.’

A good-natured laugh was indulged at the peculiarities of the old lawyer, and many stories told of him, and of others who have figured in this history. Nor was it until the little clock over the mantel-piece seemed to give a very vehement wag of its pendulum as it struck twelve, and Spite, who had been asleep in the corner, bounced up, alarmed at the lateness of the night, and barked vociferously, that they dreamed of going to bed.

The strangers were Harson’s guests that night; and the old man, having escorted them to their room, and wished them good night, was himself soon in bed and asleep.

Bright and early the next morning, they were astir; for they were to leave the city, and Harson was up and ready to see them off. It was a fine morning; the trees were just beginning to put forth their spring leaves, and the grass in the public squares was looking quite fresh and green, as they drove down to the wharf, where the steamer lay, whizzing and puffing, and groaning as if in mortal pain, and tugging at its cable like some shackled sea-monster struggling to escape to its home in the deep. Early as it was, crowds were hurrying to and fro; carts driving up and unloading; porters staggering along with trunks and bales on their shoulders; carriages dashing up at a gallop, filled with people afraid of being too late, and going off more leisurely after the passengers were deposited on the wharf. People were bustling hither and thither, elbowing their way to one place, merely to find out where to elbow it to the next; friends were bidding each other adieu; and in particular, a stout lady from the country, in yellow ribbons, from the upper part of the boat was sending a confidential message to her family and friends by a gentleman who stood in the crowd some sixty yards off.

Through this throng the coach containing our friends drove, and just in good time, for as they stepped on board, the last bell rang.

‘All aboard!’ shouted the captain; ‘take in the plank.’

Harson shook hands with his friends. ‘God bless thee, my child!’ said he, pressing Annie in his arms. The next moment he stepped on shore; and the boat glided from the dock, and shot out upon the green water.

‘Ah, Annie!’ said the old man, as he stopped waving his hand, and turned away from the river, ‘I had hoped that you would have been mine own as long as I lived; but it’s all right as it is. Your brother,’ added he, ‘I did not miss much, when his parents took him, but you had become a part of my home. Well, well!’

No doubt there was a great deal of hidden consolation in these last words; for Harson’s face soon recovered its usual cheerful character, and he steadily trudged toward his home.

A few words respecting the other characters, and our task is ended.

Grosket was induced by Mr. Colton to remove to the country, where an intercourse with different and better men than those with whom he had hitherto associated tended in a great measure to soften his character, and temper his fierce passions—the offspring of persecution and suffering.

Mrs. Blossom, at first alarmed by the fear of the law, grew penitent and rigorous in the discharge of her moral obligations to society; but the Law being a notorious sleepy-head, and never appearing to have its eyes open, she gradually fell into her old habits, reöpened her ‘seminary for lambs;’ and from the great quantity of her disciples which frequent the thoroughfares of the city at present, I should judge is getting along prosperously. Mr. Snork was extremely desirous of becoming a partner in the concern, and made several overtures to that effect, which might have been accepted by the lady, had he not objected to being deprived of his eye-sight, and seated at a corner to receive pennies from passers-by. It was in vain that the lady represented to him that this would be the making of their respective fortunes; that blind beggars, particularly if they were remarkably disgusting, as was the case with him, had been known to retire with handsome fortunes, and that some of them even bought snug little farms in the country, and kept a horse and ‘shay.’ Mr. Snork however, was obstinate; his proposals were accordingly rejected, and he returned disconsolately to his abode, which was now lonely, his wife having paid a visit to the penitentiary, for the benefit of the country air.

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.