'All, all that memory still had kept In her hidden and silent reign, My youth's warm feelings, which long had slept, Like a torrent of fire that moment swept In madness o'er my brain.

'For before me there his pallid face In death's cold stillness lay; Even murder could not all efface Its beauty, whose sad and shadowy trace Still lingered round that clay.

'Sternly I bent me over the dead, And strove my breast to steel, When the dagger from hilt to point blood-red, Flash'd on my sight, and I madly fled, The torture of life to feel.

'Since that dread hour o'er half the earth My weary path has lain; I have stood where the mighty Nile has birth, Where Ganges rolls his blue waves forth In triumph to the main.

'In the silent forest's gloomy shade I have vainly sought for rest; My sunless dwelling I have made Where the hungry tiger nightly stray'd, And the serpent found a nest.

'But still, where'er I turn'd, there lay My brother's lifeless form; When I watched the cataract's giant play As it flung to the sky its foaming spray, When I stood 'midst the rushing storm:

'Still, still that awful face was shown, That dead and soulless eye; The breeze's soft and soothing tone To me still seemed his parting groan— A sound I could not fly!

'In the fearful silence of the night Still by my couch he stood, And when morn came forth in splendor bright, Still there, between me and the light, Was traced that scene of blood!'

* * * * *

He paused: Death's icy hand was laid Upon his burning brow; That eye, whose fiery glance had made His sternest guards shrink back afraid, Was glazed and sightless now.

And o'er his face the grave's dark hue Was in fixed shadow cast; His spasm-drawn lips more fearful grew In the ghastly shade of their lurid blue; With a shudder that ran that cold form through, The murderer's spirit passed!



SICILIAN SCENERY AND ANTIQUITIES.

NUMBER TWO.

We proceed, in another and concluding paper, as promised in the last number of the KNICKERBOCKER, to direct the reader's attention to the Architectural Antiquities of Sicily, especially those of Grecian structure, which will be described in the order in which they were visited. The first are those of Egesta, or Segeste, as it is sometimes called; a city said to have been built in the remote age of the Siculi, and which was destroyed by Agathocles, the potter's son, who reduced all Sicily two hundred and eighty years before the Christian era. It lies about forty or fifty miles from Palermo, among the mountains which cluster round the famed Mount Erix, on which once stood a temple dedicated to Venus. On leaving Alcamo, which may be called a city of convents, midway between Palermo and Segeste, the broad slopes of an ample valley lie before the traveller, which though almost treeless, are waving with beans, and grain and grass. In the depth, is a river meandering among fragrant oleanders; on the left, the valley is intersected by a range of distant mountains; on the right is a beautiful bay of the Mediterranean. Across the valley the mountains form a green amphitheatre, and high in its remotest part is seen the Temple of Segeste, but merely as a point of light and shade upon the bosom of the mountain. The next view, if he takes our route, is from the ancient Grecian city of Catafimi, itself perched on a mountain's top. He looks down a deep luxuriant vale, and on a grassy knoll about three miles distant, lifted from the depths of the valley by precipitous crags, stands the solitary temple; and if seen as we saw it, receiving the last golden rays of the setting sun while all below is wrapped in shade. The next day, would he visit the temple, his road lies through the valley of which I have last spoken. And surely he never passed through such an Arcadian scene as this. Almond and orange trees fill the air with fragrance; his path struggles through the tangled flowers, the cistus and the blue convolvulus, and he disturbs the nightingale in her pleasant haunt. At length, emerging from the valley, and climbing the steep side of a mountain, he stands before the temple. It is a majestic pile, about two hundred feet in length and eighty-eight in breadth, having fourteen columns on each side and six at each end, in all thirty-six columns, of about six feet in diameter; not fluted, as is usual in Grecian Doric temples, but having a very peculiar form. It stands on a platform raised on three gigantic steps. All the columns are standing; the entablatures and pediments are in pretty good preservation, but it is roofless, and flowers and weeds are now waving where once trode the white-robed priests. The breezes from the fragrant mountains and the distant sea, of which it commands a fine view, sigh through it in harmony with its sad and solitary grandeur.

On a neighboring hill are the vestiges of the ancient city, a few ruined towers, probably of the citadel, and a theatre, the stone seats of which are almost entire; part of the sculptured figure of a faun still remains on the proscenium; wild shrubs shade a great part of the ruin, and where manhood and beauty once sat, listening to the tragedies of an Eschylus or Euripides, the adder and the lizards sun themselves. The next ruins we visited were those of Selinunte, anciently Selinus or Selinuntium, which lies on the southern coast of the island. This city was founded by a colony of Greeks about twenty-five hundred years ago. It was taken during the Carthaginian wars, and in a great measure destroyed by Hannibal the son of Giscon, four hundred and nine years before CHRIST. The country on approaching Selinunte is a dreary plain covered with the palmetto. On gazing toward the sea, when distant two or three miles, the traveller's eye catches what he would take for a rocky hill, were it not for a few mutilated columns which rise above the blue horizon. As he approaches, the stupendous scene of ruin strikes him with awe. There in a mighty heap lie column and capital, metope and cornice; and the mind is lost in wonder at the power that raised these giant structures, and the power that overthrew them. Only one complete column, and that without its capital, and several mutilated ones, remain standing of the great temple supposed to be of Neptune; the rest are prostrate; and all lying in one direction, bear evidence that they have been thrown down by an earthquake.

The first temple is Grecian Doric, as are all those of which I shall speak. Its columns are about eleven feet across, and they must have been, including their capitals, more than sixty feet high. Above these lofty columns was placed the architrave, one of the stones of which, that we measured, was twenty-five feet in length, eight in height, and six in thickness; but another is still larger; forty feet long, seven broad, and three deep. To transport these enormous masses of stone from their quarry, which is several miles distant, with a deep valley and river intervening, would trouble the modern engineer; but to poise and place them on the top of the columns, seventy feet from the ground, with our mechanical means, were indeed a great feat. The columns were not of single pieces, but composed of several, and they now lie, to use an unpoetical phrase, like rows of enormous cheeses. The great temple was three hundred and thirty-four feet long, one hundred and fifty-four wide; its porticoes at each end were four columns in depth, eight in width; a double row on the sides of the cella or interior edifice, which in all Grecian temples was the sanctum sanctorum. In all, there must have been eighty columns. There is one remarkable feature about this temple, which is, that none of the columns were fluted except those of the eastern end. About thirty paces from this ruin, which the Sicilians call the Pileri di Giganti, or Pillars of the Giants, are the remains of another temple which was about two hundred feet long: its entablature was supported by thirty-six fluted columns of seven feet in diameter and thirty-five feet long, each of a single piece of stone. Only a few fragments of the columns remain standing in their places. Treading another thirty paces, you come to a temple which is of rather larger dimensions than the one last mentioned. The columns of this were also fluted, but no part of the edifice is standing, except a solitary pilaster, which was probably a portion of the cella. These temples were built of a hard but porous stone, of a light color, and were probably covered with a thin coat of cement. They command an extensive view both of sea and land, and in their primal days must, with their tower-like columns, their sculptured entablatures and pediments, have risen above the scene in majestic grandeur.

Three quarters of a mile from these temples was the ancient port, now choked with sand, and near it are the remains of edifices supposed to have been the magazines. On an adjoining hill are remnants of three temples and two towers, in almost undistinguishable ruin. We left Selinunte with a lasting but melancholy impression, and were reminded of the lines:

'Two or three columns and many a stone, Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown:

* * * * *

Remnants of things which have passed away, Fragments of stone rear'd by creatures of clay!'

Girgenti, anciently called Agragas and Agrigentum, is situated on the southern coast of Sicily, in a delicious country; the modern city was built by the Saracens on the summit of a hill upward of eleven hundred feet above the level of the sea. The site of the ancient city is lower, and about a mile distant. It was probably founded in the eighth century before CHRIST. In its flourishing state it contained two hundred thousand inhabitants, who were celebrated for their hospitality, their love of the arts and luxurious style of living. Plato was so much struck with the solidity of their buildings and the sumptuousness of their dinners, that he said they 'built as though they thought themselves immortal, but ate as though they never expected to eat again.' The horses of Agrigentum were celebrated; and one of the citizens returning from the Olympic games, on entering his native town, was followed by three hundred chariots, each drawn by four white horses sumptuously caparisoned. The government of this little state, whose inhabitants never amounted to more than eight hundred thousand, was at first monarchical, afterward democratic; but neither the forms of its institutions, nor its riches and grandeur, could save it from misfortune: it was besieged several times by the Carthaginians, and at length, after a siege of three years, was taken and sacked by Hannibal, the son of Giscon. In alluding to these misfortunes, the historian says: 'Yet of all the Sicilian cities, the fate of Agrigentum seemed the most worthy to be deplored, from the striking contrast of its fallen state with its recent splendor and prosperity. The natural beauties of Agrigentum were secured by strength and adorned with elegance; and whoever considered either the innumerable advantages of the city itself, or the gay cultivation of the surrounding territory, which abounded in every luxury of the sea and land, was ready to pronounce the Agrigentines the most favored inhabitants of the earth. The exuberant fertility of the soil, particularly the rich luxuriance of the vines and olives, exceeded every thing that is related of the happiest climates, and furnished the means of lucrative commerce with the populous coast of Africa, which was sparingly provided with those valuable plants. The extraordinary wealth of the Agrigentines was displayed in the magnificence of public edifices and in the splendid enjoyment of private fortunes. They had begun and almost completed the celebrated Temple of Jupiter, built in the grandest style of architecture, employed by the Greeks on the greatest and most solemn occasions.'

The ancient city of Agragas stood on an elevated platform or table of land, three sides of which fell off in steep precipices; the fourth side was surmounted by the lofty hill on which the modern city stands. These steep precipices were the natural walls of the city, and were made more available for defence by excavation on the inside, so as to leave a solid wall of rock rising round the city. On the verge of this platform, which gradually sinks from east to west, and on the side next the sea, which is about a mile distant, are seen the remains of no fewer than six temples. They stood in a general line, but at irregular intervals, and must have formed one of the most magnificent spectacles that the art of man has ever presented to the eye. The remains of three other temples exist, but they lie at a distance from this grand range. On the eastern and highest part of the platform, where the natural wall of which I have spoken makes an angle, stood the Temple of Juno Lucina; next came the Temple of Concord; next the Temple of Hercules, near which was the Temple of Jupiter, called of the Giants; next came the Temple of Venus, and lastly that of Castor and Pollux. The approach to the ruins of these temples from the modern city is over the site of the ancient, now shaded by olive, almond, and carruba trees. The Temple of Juno is a picturesque ruin; all the columns on the northern side are standing, also several at the ends, and part of the entablature; the rest of the building, corroded by time or entirely prostrate, lies under an exuberant growth of flowers and shrubs.

Descending from this temple, we pass through a sort of wild garden, with here and there an olive-tree or dark carruba; on the left are the ruins of the ancient rock-wall, huge fragments of which in places have fallen down the precipice; other parts are perforated as with windows or loop-holes, or with deep cell-like excavations: these are the tombs of the ancient Agrigentines, now tenantless and void. Those window-like apertures were evidently made so by the action of the elements or the violence of man; and it is related that in consequence of the Agrigentines having made their tombs in the walls, they were so much weakened that the Carthaginians by means of their engines were enabled to batter them down and obtain an entrance. We now come to the Temple of Concord, one of the most beautiful specimens of Grecian Doric in existence. It is roofless, but otherwise almost perfect. It has twenty-four columns; it is, like the temple of Juno, raised on a platform of several steps, and about one hundred and fifty-four feet in length and fifty-five in breadth. It seems that this temple was used in times past for a Christian church, and the sides of its cella are perforated by arched openings. The next temple is near one of the ancient city gates, and is supposed to have been dedicated to Hercules: it was celebrated in ancient times for having in it a fine picture of Alcmena; but it is now a confused heap of ruin, with only one column standing, which proves it to have been of larger dimensions than the temples just mentioned.

Turning a little to the right, we come upon the Temple of Jupiter Olympius, commonly called of the Giants, the largest sacred edifice in Sicily, and one of the most stupendous works of the ancients. It was in length three hundred and sixty-eight feet, in breadth one hundred and eighty; the breadth or diameter of its columns at the base thirteen feet four inches; the height of the columns must have been seventy-five feet; above these rose a massive entablature, and the top of the pediments could not have been less than one hundred and twenty feet high! The grandeur of the door and vestibule corresponded to the simple majesty of the whole building, whose sculptured ornaments represented, with the finished elegance and laborious accuracy that distinguished each particular figure, the 'Defeat of the Giants and the Taking of Troy.' In the interior ranged twenty-four antae, or square pillars, of fifty feet in height; on the top of each was a sculptured giant twenty-seven feet in height, which with his hands clasped over his head supported the lofty roof. One can scarcely conceive any thing more noble and majestic than this wonderful edifice, in comparison with which, though covering much more ground, St. Peter's in Rome is a splendid gew-gaw. But what remains of this great temple? A wide heap of ruin; the interior of which, the columns and walls having fallen outward, is a flowery field, in which lie some fragments of those huge giants that once supported the roof. One of these is tolerably entire: the curls of his hair form a sort of garland: it lies with its face upward, and when I stood by it, my own head scarcely reached as high as the brow of the statue. It is composed of several pieces of stone, as are the columns of this temple, and most of the others of Agrigentum. On every side of this elevated field lie the walls, entablatures, and columns in enormous fragments: the capitals of the columns look like huge rocks that have been hurled there by some violent convulsion of nature.

A short distance from this temple are the ruins of the Temple of Venus, and another of Castor and Pollux, of which two of the columns and part of the entablature are entire, and the thin coat of cement or stucco which covered them is in some parts as perfect as ever. The stone of which the temples were constructed is of a very porous nature, a sort of tufa, full of sea-shells, and when seen in the sunlight, of a golden hue; but they were all covered with stucco, which, judging from what remains, was nearly as hard as porcelain, and gave a beautiful and finished appearance to the otherwise rude material. Of the other remains in Agrigentum, the limits of this article will not allow me to speak. But the reader would ask, how came these temples in such a state of ruin? On this subject there has been some dispute; but their destruction may most reasonably be attributed to a mightier agency than man's. Earthquake has shattered these gorgeous temples; the time when is not recorded. I am inclined to believe that they were destroyed, as well as those of Selinus, by the dreadful earthquakes that shook Italy and Sicily in the dark age of Valens and Valentinian, three hundred and sixty-five years after CHRIST.

Let us now proceed to Syracuse, once the capital of Sicily, and the birth-place of the great Archimedes. It was founded by Archias, one of the Heraclidae, more than seven hundred years before the Christian era, and according to some authors contained within its walls at one time, one million two hundred thousand inhabitants; could maintain an army of one hundred thousand foot, ten thousand horse, with a navy of five hundred armed vessels. Little now remains of a place once so populous and so powerful, save the shrunken modern city of Syracusa, containing about nine thousand inhabitants, and a few almost unintelligible ruins scattered among vineyards, olive-groves, and fields of corn, or over the high wastes of the barren Epipole, on the summit of which the curious will find ruined walls and fortresses of massive and beautiful masonry. From these the eye commands the whole site of the ancient city. There lies, at the distance of three miles, the small island of Ortygia, on which is the modern town; on its right is the narrow entrance from the sea, which lies beyond, to the greater harbor, that appears like a beautiful lake, and is about two miles long and one and a half broad. On the left of the island of Ortygia is all that remains of the lesser port of Syracuse. On this side the island is connected with the main land by means of a draw-bridge. In Ortygia is the famous fountain of Arethusa: the spring is yet clear and copious; but the only nymphs I was fortunate enough to see were engaged in the necessary vocation of cleansing the soiled linen of Syracusa. The remains of a beautiful temple of Minerva form a part of the cathedral church. Near the small river Anapus are two columns, the remnants of a temple of Jupiter, which once contained a statue of that god, wearing a robe of gold; but Dionysius the tyrant stripped it off, saying 'it was too cold for winter and too hot for summer.' Among the seats of a noble theatre now stands a mill, that is supplied with water diverted from an ancient aqueduct close by: a strange metamorphosis indeed! This aqueduct conveys the water thirty miles. It may have been of Greek construction originally, but that part of it which I have seen is evidently Saracenic. The rocky site of Syracuse is in many parts perforated with tombs; the roads are literally honey-combed with them. There is a street excavated in the limestone rock which on either side is full of cells, and it may indeed be said of Syracuse that it is a great burying-ground. The oranges, vines, and figs of Syracuse are still flourishing, and the earth yet yields its hundred fold; but its glory is departed, and the traveller looks in vain for satisfactory vestiges of that mighty city.

There are many other interesting remains of antiquity in Sicily, but I must hasten to a conclusion. I trust the reader will have found the subject of this article interesting, although treated briefly and imperfectly. The traveller is unworthy of his privilege, and forgetful of duty if he extracts not from the scenes described some moral lesson or religious truth. The reader has accompanied me in imagination through classic Sicily. He has seen the lonely temple of Segeste, standing among the mountains like a widowed thing, mourning in silence the departed. Where is the multitude that once thronged around its walls? Mount Erix still battles with the clouds, as in the days of Agathocles. He has clambered with me among the prostrate columns of Selinunte: once, from beneath those massive porticoes, the Selinuntine, in the pride of his heart, looked upon the crowded port and distant mountains as we look on the Hudson, with its white sails and swift steamers, and the neighboring hills. Where and what are they? The distant mountains stand, but the great works which he erected to be a living honor to his name and country, are perished forever. He has lingered with me among the ruins of the splendid Agrigentum. Its numerous temples are dilapidated, or crumbling on the earth; its walls, once its vaunted strength, are strewed in shattered fragments on the steeps around. The dust of its multitudes serves to fertilize the soil of its ancient site! But the stream still flows which gave its name to the city, and the hills around yet produce the oil, the wine, and the grain. We have sojourned for a time among the melancholy vestiges of Syracuse; the scene of battles far more bloody than this land has ever known. The army which the Athenians, inflated with pride and presumption, sent against Syracuse, was here defeated. In yonder land-locked bay the Athenian fleet, the mightiest that republic had ever sent forth, and which they believed invincible, was destroyed. And the Roman orator has eloquently said, that not only the navy of Athens, but the glory and the empire of that republic, suffered shipwreck in the fatal harbor of Syracuse. It was there the wonderful mechanical skill of Archimedes was displayed against the Roman fleet, and those quiet waters have been strewed with the dying and the dead. From this deserted citadel, called of 'Labdalus,' the eye embraces the whole site of the once populous Syracuse; and what does it behold? On the distant island of Ortygia, an insignificant town, with a few small craft at anchor in the bay; nearer, a desert of rocky hills, a goat-herd, and a few straggling goats. Turning away from the melancholy scene, we behold afar off the snow-clad AEtna. What a contrast is this to what we have just reviewed in the mind's eye! That is the work of God! Since its huge pyramid arose, nation after nation has possessed its fertile slopes. The Siculi have labored on its sides; the Greek, the Carthaginian and the Roman; the Norman and the Saracen have struggled for mastery at its foot; but the roar of the battle is past; the chariot and the charioteer are mingled in the dust. Yet yon earth-born giant, fed by continual fires, each century augments, and in all probability will continue to do so until

'The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, yea the great globe itself Shall dissolve, and like the baseless fabric Of a vision, leave not a wreck behind!'

May we not in these things read deep lessons applicable to ourselves? The history of the people whose noble works I have endeavored to describe, should in the first place teach us how noble a thing it is to construct works of beauty and utility, not only for our own gratification, but for the benefit of posterity also. The selfish and unreflecting, even the modern utilitarian, will perhaps laugh at the thought, and say: 'What folly to undertake such labors for the benefit of posterity! We will labor for ourselves.' I would ask such persons, what would have been our state if the ancients had entertained such grovelling notions? Do they not know that most of the elegant as well as the useful, is the rich bequest of these ancients whom they affect to despise? There is not in the whole city of New-York a house, however lowly, but in some part of it I could point out a moulding or an ornament that comes from the ancients. But there are other points of view perhaps of higher consequence. Their temples were erected to the gods; mistaken as they were in their religious notions, we Christians may be put to shame by the devotion of the pagan. Not to man were their temples erected. Man enjoyed their beauty; gazed with admiration on their exquisite forms, and lingered under their shady porticoes; but the eye of the god to whom each temple was dedicated was supposed to be on the work, and the aim of the builders was perfection in every part; and even that which the eye of the multitude never rested on, was finished with elaborate care. I would ask, is there such a lofty feeling among us? Are we willing to expend toil and cost on that which will never gratify our senses? You will answer no. Is not this then a lesson to us? Another view of the matter: These works of art were the objects of veneration and love; city vied with city in their construction; it was a noble emulation—think you not nobler than the competition for sordid gold? The citizen gazed with pride upon the marble triumphs of his native place; he loved it more than ever, and felt his patriotism kindle as he gazed.

Let us not think that rail-roads and canals are the only works worthy of modern civilization. If we look to intents, (and what ought we to look at?) I doubt much but the ancients rose superior to us. We are in the enjoyment of many advantages of which they knew nothing. The wonder-working press was unknown to them; and above all, the beautiful light of Christianity had not been shed on the world. We have the broad day; they wrought in the twilight gloom. What majestic monuments of art! what enduring legacies of beauty! what objects to make a man love his country more and more, could have been erected with the means expended a few years ago in reckless speculations! Instead of turning with melancholy loathing to those broken bubbles on which the hopes and fortunes of many of us were suspended, we could at least look with admiration on the marble pile, and exclaim, 'I also can be proud of the genius and taste of my country!' Another lesson we may learn from the fate of ancient states: it is to beware of presumptuous pride and overweening conceit: these are the result of inconsiderate ignorance. It was through presumptuous pride that Athens fell, as I have before intimated. We have reason to fear there are many, some unconscious of the injury they do, and perhaps with just intentions, who feed this appetite for undue praise. Others, for mere popularity or the applause of the day, minister with adroitness the sweet though poisonous morsel for which our vanity and self-love are open-mouthed; which (to carry on the simile,) puffs us up with the comfortable notion that we are superior in every respect to all other nations, ancient or modern. It would be well to turn a deaf ear to this syren's song: let us learn if possible to know ourselves; let us remember that there is no perfection, either in men or their institutions; and by avoiding a vain and presumptuous spirit, and scanning with a careful eye the causes of the greatness which under Providence we possess, we shall be most likely to approach the perfection which we all desire. We can have little doubt that the Agrigentine considered the institutions of his country as perfect as we do ours; and the citizens of greater states, Athens, even Rome itself, indulged in the same pleasing thought. Our only means of judging of the future is the past. We see that nations have sprung from obscurity, risen to glory, and decayed. Their rise has in general been marked by virtue; their decadence by vice, vanity, and licentiousness. Let us beware!

I would not have the reader censure me for commencing this article as a traveller and ending it with an attempt to moralize. In reviewing in my mind the interesting scenes I have endeavored to describe, I have been led back to the thoughts that arose when I trode among the ruins of prostrate temples, and they were connected in my mind; and I will venture again to say, that he is unworthy of the privilege of travelling who gleans not from the fields he visits some moral lesson or religious truth.

T. C.



STANZAS.

WRITTEN AT BEVERLY, MASSACHUSETTS. BY REV. WILLIAM B. TAPPAN.

I.

In Beverly, the building I sought the other day, Where forty years ago my sire his infant gave away; I sought it, for I coveted where he had placed his foot, My honored, sainted father! mine in filial love to put.

II.

I entered it: most holy appeared the house of prayer; Yet more than common holiness its beauty seemed to wear; For there the waters bathed me, and solemn words were said, And Father, Son, and Paraclete invoked above my head.

III.

Of all the congregation who looked in reverence on, The elders and the blooming youth, each worshipper was gone; And he, with hairs of winter, whose office 'twas to lave My baby brow, and name my name, was hidden in the grave!

IV.

What years have passed of sorrow, that hour and this between! What moments of enjoyment in that interval I've seen! I wept that I had measured the half of being's track; I smiled that worlds were poor to bribe the weary pilgrim back.

V.

I sighed that in the journey where blessings are so few For even the most favored, I but scanty portion knew; And chiefly in the season of confidence and pride, My youth was forced the dangerous way, without my earthly guide.

VI.

Where is my sainted father, who took me in his arms, And held me to the minister, and kissed away alarms? I feel his presence near me! he blesses me once more! Ay, where he gave me up to GOD, just forty years before!



THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.

Harry Harson.

CHAPTER XXII.

It was not the failure of his plans, nor the dread of detection, which broke Rust down. He had been prepared for that, and had nerved himself to meet it; but it was a blow coming from a quarter where he had not dreamed of harm, and wounding him where alone he could feel a pang, that crushed him. There was something so abject in the prostration of that iron-willed man, who had often endured what would have wrung the very souls of other men, without exhibiting any other feeling than contempt, that for a moment awed even the hard man who had struck the blow. In proportion as Rust's control over his emotions had been great, so now the reaection was terrible. He seemed paralyzed in body and mind. No cry escaped him, but his breath rattled as he drew it; his long hair hung loosely over his face, and upon the floor; his eyes were closed; his features livid and distorted; and but for his struggling breath, and the spasmodic jerking of his fingers, he seemed dead.

'Lift him up, Bill,' said Grosket, in a subdued tone. 'It's been too much for him. Who'd have thought he had a heart?'

Jones smiled grimly, as he said: 'I'm glad you did it, Mr. Grosket. It was better than murdering him. He wasn't afeard of dying. Is it a fit he's got?'

Without waiting for a reply, he placed his arms under him and raised him up. Rust lay heavily against him, his head falling back, and his arms dangling at his side. They carried him to the bench, and placed him on it, Grosket standing behind him, and supporting his back.

'I guess he's done for,' said Jones, pushing the hair from his face; 'pity it wasn't three days ago—that's all.'

'Get some water, or brandy,' said Grosket; 'I suppose we may as well bring him to. It would be an ugly business if he should die on our hands.'

Jones stooped down, and picking up his great coat, commenced fumbling in its pocket, and drew out the bottle from which he and Craig had drank, as they were starting on their expedition on the previous night. He held it up and looked at it, then muttered: 'It's no use; it's no use.'

'What are you talking about, there?' demanded Grosket, impatiently: 'is it empty?'

Jones shook it.

'No; there's a drop or two in it. D—n him! I don't like his drinking out of this bottle, I don't; I use it myself; and blow me, if I don't think his mouth 'ud p'ison it.'

Grosket cut his scruples short by taking the bottle from him, uncorking it, and pouring its contents in Rust's mouth.

'It's a waste,' muttered Jones, eyeing his proceedings with a very dissatisfied look. 'I begrudged it to poor Tim; and cuss him, it's going down his gullet! I hope it'll choke him.'

Grosket paid no attention to him, but supported Rust, occasionally shaking him by way of stirring up his ideas. Either the liquor or the shakings had an effect; for the deadly paleness gradually disappeared from Rust's face; his breath grew less short and gasping; and finally he sat up, and looked about him. His eye was wandering and vacant, and sad and heart-broken indeed was his tone.

'My own dear child!' said he, in a voice so mild and winning, and so teeming with fondness, that none would have recognized it as Rust's. 'I've had a strange dream, my poor little Mary, about you, whom I have garnered up in my heart of hearts.'

His voice sank until his words were unintelligible, and then he laughed feebly, and passed his hand backward and forward in the air, as if caressing the head of a child. 'Your eyes are very bright, my little girl, but they beam with happiness; and so they shall, always. So they shall—so they shall. Kiss me, my own darling!' He extended his arms, and drew them toward him, as if they enfolded the child, and then bending down his cheek, rocked to and fro, and sang a song, such as is used in lulling an infant to sleep.

'My God! He's clean gone mad!' said Jones, staring at him with starting eyes. 'Dished and done up in ten minutes! That's what I call going to Bedlam by express.'

Although Grosket uttered not a word of comment, his keen gray eye, bright as a diamond; his puckered brows; his compressed lips, and his hands tightly clasped together, showed that he viewed his work with emotions of the most powerful kind. At length he said, in low tone, as if communing with himself rather than addressing the only person who seemed capable of hearing him: 'If he goes mad he'll spoil my scheme. He'll not reap the whole harvest that I have sown for him. He must live; ay, and in his sane mind, to feel its full bitterness. I, I have lived,' said he, striking his breast; 'I have borne up against the same curse that now is on him. I have had the same feeling gnawing at my heart, giving me no rest, no peace. He must suffer. He must not take refuge from himself in madness. He shall not,' said he, savagely. 'Ha! ha! who would have thought that the flint which the old fellow calls his heart had feeling in it?'

Whether these remarks reached Rust's ear, or whether it was that his mind, after the first shock of the intelligence was over, was beginning to rally, is a matter of doubt; but from some cause or other, he suddenly discontinued his singing, passed his hand across his forehead, held his long hair back from his face, and stared about him; his eye wandering from Grosket to Jones, and around the room, and then resting on the floor. He sat for some time looking steadfastly down, his face gradually regaining its stern, unbending character; his thin lips compressing themselves, until his mouth had assumed its usual expression of bitterness, mingled with resolution.

The two men watched, without speaking, the progress of this metamorphosis. At last he rose, and turning to Grosket, said in a calm voice:

'You've done your worst; yet you see Michael Rust can bear it;' and then bowing to him, he said: 'Good bye, Enoch. Whatever may have happened to my child, I am blameless. I never sold her happiness to gratify my avarice. If she has become what Enoch's child was, the sin does not lie at my door. I don't know how it is with you.'

Turning to Jones, he said, in the same quiet tone: 'Murderer of your bosom-friend, good bye.' The door closed, and he was gone.

A bitter execration from the two men followed him. From Jones, it burst forth in unbridled fury, and he sprang forward to avenge the taunt, but was withheld by Grosket, who grasped his arm, then as suddenly relinquished his hold, and said:

'Quick! quick! Jones. Drag him back! It concerns your safety and my plans to get him back.'

The man dashed to the door and down the stairs. In a moment he reaeppeared:

'It's too late. He's in the street.'

'Curse it! that was a blunder! We should have searched him. He carries all his papers with him.'

But almost at the same moment he seemed to overcome his vexation, for he said: 'Well, it can't be helped, so there's no use in grumbling about it. And now, Bill Jones,' said he, turning to the other, 'you know what you've done, and who set you on. So do I. He's worse than you are. If you were him, I'd arrest you on the spot. As it is, I say you had better make yourself scarce. Your neck is in danger, for although the death of Tim, if the rumor is true, was accidental——'

'It was, it was, Mr. Grosket,' interrupted Jones. 'D—n it, if it was Rust, if it was only him, I wouldn't mind it. I'd die myself, to see him swing.'

'Well, hear me,' continued Grosket. 'You were committing a felony when you killed Craig, and his death, although accidental, is murder. I'm no lawyer, but I know that. You must run for it.'

'I'd cuss all danger,' said Jones, gnawing his lip, 'if I could only lug Rust in it too.'

'Well, well,' returned Grosket, 'you must take your own course; but remember I've warned you. You have some good traits about you, Bill, and that's more than Rust has. Good bye!' He extended his hand to the burglar. Jones grasped it eagerly.

'Thank you! thank you, Mr. Grosket,' said he, the tears starting to his eyes. 'If you only knew how I was brought up, how I suffered, what has made me what I am, you wouldn't think so hard of me as some do. But there is blood on me, now; that's worse than all. I'll never get over that. I might, if it wasn't Tim's. Good bye, God bless ye, Mr. Grosket! My blessing won't do you much good, but it can't hurt you.'

Grosket shook his hand, and left the room; and the desperate man, whom he left melted by a transient word of kindness, which had found its way to his rugged heart, buried his face in his hands, and wept.

Once in the street, Rust endeavored to bear up against his fortune. But he could not. His mind was confused, and all his thoughts were strange, fantastic and shadowy. He paused; dashed his hand impatiently against his forehead, and endeavored to shake off the spell. No, no! it would not leave him. Failure in his schemes! dishonor in his child! He could think of them, and of them only. Once on this theme, his mind became more bewildered than ever; and yielding himself to its impulses, he fell into a slow pace, and sauntered on, with his chin bent down on his breast.

From the thickly-settled parts of the town he went on, until he came to streets where the bustle and crowd were less; then to others, which were nearly deserted; then on he went, until he reached a quarter where the houses stood far apart, with vacant lots between them. Still he kept on. Then came fields, and cottages, and farm-houses, surrounded by tall trees. Still on he went, still wading through a mass of chaotic fancies, springing up, and reeling and flitting through his mind; shadows of things that had been, and might be; ghosts of the past; prophets of the future. He had become a very child. At last he stood on the bank of the river; and then for the first time he seemed to awaken from his trance.

It was a glorious day, whose sunshine might have found its way even into his black heart. Oh! how soft, and mellow, and pure, the hurricane of the last night had left it! Not a cloud in the sky, not a breath to ripple the water, or to wave the long trailing locks of the hoary willows, which nodded over its banks.

Rust looked about him, with a bewildered gaze, until his eye became fixed upon the water. 'It's very quiet, very quiet,' said he; 'I wonder if a man, once engulfed in it, feels peace.' He pressed his hand to his breast, and muttered: 'Here it is gone forever!'

He loitered listlessly on, under the trees. His step was feeble; and he stooped and tottered, as if decrepid. He stopped again, shook his head, and went on, looking upon the ground, and at times long and wistfully at the river.

An old man, leaning on a stout cane, who had been watching him, at last came up. Raising his hat, as he did so, he said:

'You seem, like myself, to be an admirer of this noble river?'

Rust looked up at him sharply, ready to gather in his energies, if necessary. But there was nothing in the mild, dignified face of the speaker to invite suspicion, and he replied in a feeble tone:

'Yes, yes; it is a noble river.'

'I've seen many, in my long life,' said the other, 'and have never met its equal.'

Rust paused, as if he did not hear him, and then continued in a musing tone:

'How smooth it is! how calm! Many have found peace there, who never found it in life. Drowning's an easy death, I'm told.'

The stranger replied gravely, and even sternly:

'They have escaped the troubles of life, and plunged into those of eternity;' and then, as if willing to give Rust an opportunity of explaining away the singular character of the remark, he said: 'I hope you do not meditate suicide?'

'No,' replied Rust, quietly, 'not at present; but I've often thought that many a wrecked spirit will find there what it never found on earth—peace.'

'The body may,' returned the other, 'but not the soul.'

Rust smiled doubtfully, and walked off. The man watched, and even followed him; but seeing him turn from the river, he took another direction, occasionally pausing to look back. Not so Rust. From the time he had parted with the stranger, he had forgotten him, and his thoughts wandered back to their old theme. It was strange that he should believe so implicitly Grosket's tale, coming as it did from one whom he knew hated him. Yet he did believe it. There was proof of its truth in Grosket's manner; in his look; in his tone of assured triumph. Yet although Rust brooded over nothing else that livelong day, he could not realize it; he could not appreciate how desolate and lonely he was. He could only fancy how life would be, if what Grosket had told him had happened. 'This is not all a dream, I suppose,' muttered he, pausing as he went, and passing his hand across his forehead. 'No, no; I'm awake—wide awake; and I am Michael Rust; that's more strange than all.'

After hours of wandering, he found himself at his office. He ascended the stairs, opened the door, and went in. It was dark, for the lights had been twinkling in the shop-windows before he left the street; but he sat down without observing it; and there he remained until Kornicker came in with a light.

Rust made no reply to the salutation which he received. Kornicker placed the light on the table; and after loitering round the room, and busying himself with a few papers which he had arranged on the table, to give it a business-like appearance, he asked:

'Do you want me any more, to-night?'

'No; you may go.'

The dismissal and departure of Mr. Kornicker were almost simultaneous. His heavy foot went thumping from step to step, and finally the street-door banged after him. Rust sat without moving, listening to every tramp of his heavy foot, until the door shut it out.

'So, he's gone,' said he, drawing a long breath, and cuddling himself up on his chair. 'He'll be in my way no more to-night.'

He shivered slightly; and then got up and drew his chair nearer the grate, although there was no fire in it. 'And this is then the end of my scheme,' muttered he; 'I have gone on for years in the same beaten track, fighting off all who could interfere with me. The affection of those who would have loved me; friends, relatives, those nearest to me, with the same blood in our veins, nursed in the same arms, who drew life from the same source; this cold heart has repulsed, until they have all abandoned me!'

He leaned his head on his hands, and tears, scalding tears, gushed from his eyes. 'I did it for her. It was to get gold to lavish on her. I would have chained myself for life to that old man's daughter, to get wealth; I would have added the murder of those children to the catalogue of my crimes, that I might have grasped their inheritance, to have showered all that I had gathered by toil and crime upon her. She was my hope, my pride, my own dear darling child; but she is shipwrecked now; she has withered my heart. I would have shed its last blood for her. I would—I would; indeed I would! But it's useless to think of it. She can never be what she was; the bright, pure-souled, spotless child whom I worshipped. Yes, yes; I did worship her; Why deny it? Better, far better, she had died, for then I might still have cherished her memory. It's too late. She's become a castaway now.'

He paused. From a state of deep and querulous despondency, he gradually recovered composure; then his mood grew sterner and sterner; until his compressed lips and flashing eye showed that he had passed from one extreme to the other.

'Is there nothing left to live for?' exclaimed he; 'nothing left? One thing can yet be done. I must ascertain her disgrace beyond a doubt. Then atonement can and shall be made, or he had better never have been born!'

Rust stood up, with an expression of bold, honest indignation, such as he had rarely worn, stamped on every feature. 'This must be accomplished,' said he. 'Everything else must be abandoned: this done, let me die; for I cannot love her as I did, and I might hate her: Better die!'

CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD.

Richard Holmes, Esq. was sitting in his office, two days after the events narrated in the last chapter, with his nose within a few inches of a law-book which rested on his knees, when he was aroused by the opening of the door, and the entrance of a man. Holmes was so much out of the world, and out of the current of business, that he did what a practitioner at the bar of his age and standing rarely does; that is, he looked up without waiting till he was addressed.

'Ah, Harson?—it's you, is it?' said he, laying aside his book, but without rising.

Harry walked up, shook hands with him, and seated himself.

'We've been hard at work, and have made some progress,' said he, taking off his hat, and placing it on the table. 'We've got the woman.'

'What woman?'

'Blossom,' replied Harson; 'I've brought her here to answer for herself. She was in Rust's employ, and received the children from him. She's below.'

'What news of the boy?' inquired Holmes.

'Grosket is after him. He knows where he is. Would you like to see the woman?'

'It would be as well,' said Holmes, drumming on the table. 'We'll hear what she has to say. Does she communicate what she knows willingly or under compulsion?'

'She's not very talkative;' answered Harson, 'and seems terribly afraid of Rust.'

'I think we can squeeze the truth out of her,' replied Holmes. 'Bring her up.'

Harson went out, and in a few minutes reaeppeared with Mrs. Blossom at his heels. The lawyer pointed to a chair, into which the lady sank, apparently in a state of great exhaustion and agitation; for she moaned and rocked to and fro, and wrung her hands.

'Your name's Blossom, I think,' said Holmes, evincing no sympathy whatever with her sufferings.

'Ah's me! ah's me! I'm very old! I'm very old!' exclaimed the lady, moaning from the very bottom of her lungs, but without making any reply to the question.

'Hark ye,' said Holmes, in a stern tone, 'I have not sent for you, to listen to your moaning, nor to be trifled with in any other way. You have come here to disclose the deeds of a scoundrel; and disclose them you must. You shall answer all my questions, truly, honestly, and without equivocation, or it will be the worse for you. I am aware of offences committed by you, which, if punished as they merit, would send you to prison. I tell you this, that you may know exactly how we stand with reference to each other. If you wish to serve yourself, you will find true and prompt replies to whatever I ask. What's your name?'

Mrs. Blossom oscillated in her chair, glanced at the wall, replied 'Blossom,' and buried her face in a rag of a shawl.

'Good! Where do you live?' demanded the lawyer. The woman answered, and Holmes wrote it down.

'Do you know a man by the name of Michael Rust?'

Mrs. Blossom's chair became very uneasy, and she was seized with a violent cough. The lawyer waited until her cough was better, and repeated the question, accompanying it by a look which produced an answer in the affirmative.

'What other name did you ever know him to bear?'

Mrs. Blossom suddenly found her voice, and replied boldly: 'No other;' and here she spoke the truth; for Rust had trusted her no farther than was absolutely necessary.

'How long have you known him?'

Mrs. Blossom again lost her voice, but found it instantly on meeting the eye of Holmes; and she answered bluntly, 'About four years.'

'What led to your acquaintance?'

The woman cast a shrewd suspicious glance at him, as if calculating how far she might trifle with impunity; but there was something in his manner that was not encouraging, and she replied, 'that she could not remember.'

Holmes laid down his pen, and pushing back his chair so that he faced her, said in a quiet but very decided manner:

'Mrs. Blossom, you have been brought here for the purpose of giving us such information as will enable us to do justice to a person who has been greatly injured by this man Rust. I mention this, not because I suppose the motive will have any great weight with you, but to let you see that the object of our investigation is nothing against yourself. Your answers are important to us; for at present we know no other than yourself, of whom we can obtain the information we require. I do not conceal this, nor will I conceal the fact that unless you do answer me, you shall leave this room for a prison. I told you so before; I repeat it now; I will not repeat it a third time. I already know enough of the matter on which I am interrogating you, to be able to detect falsehood in your answers.'

There was something either in the words of the lawyer or in the formation of her chair that caused Mrs. Blossom to move very uneasily; and at the same time to cast a glance behind her, as if there existed a strong connection between her thoughts and the door. She was however used to trying circumstances, and did not lose her presence of mind. She made no reply, but sat with every faculty, which long training had sharpened to a high degree of cunning, on the alert; but she was not a little taken by surprise when Holmes, after taking from the table a packet of papers, selected one, and having spent a few minutes in examining it, said to her:

'To convince you that we are perfectly acquainted with the nature of your dealings with Rust, I will enter into a few details, which may perhaps enable you to recollect something more. Four years since, on the sixteenth of December, a man by the name of Blossom, with whom you lived, and whose name you bear, although you are not his wife, proposed to you to take charge of two children, a boy and girl. At first you refused, but finally agreed to do it on receiving five hundred dollars, and the assurance that no inquiry would be made as to the treatment they received at your hands, and that whether they lived or died was a matter of indifference to the person who placed them in your charge, and would not be too closely investigated. The children came. They were quite young. You had them for a week, and were then informed that they must go, for a time, to the country. You asked no questions, but gave them up, and they were sent away, the money for their support being furnished by the same hand that threw them upon your mercy. In a year or so they were brought back, and were again entrusted to you, with instructions to break them down, and if possible to send them to their graves; but if their bodies were proof against cruelty, then so to pollute their very souls, and familiarize them with crime, that they should forget what they had been; and that even those who should have loved them best would blush to see what they were. You began your work well, for you had a stern, savage master over you—Michael Rust. Thus much,' said he, 'I know; but I must know more. You must identify the children as the same first delivered to you by Rust. You must disclose the names of the persons with whom they lived in the country. You must also give me such information as will enable us to fasten this crime on Rust. Another person could have proved all this—the man Blossom; but you know he is dead.'

He paused, for Mrs. Blossom's face grew deadly pale as he spoke. It was momentary, however; and might have passed away entirely, had not a strange suspicion fastened itself on his mind. He added in a slow tone: 'What ailed him, you know best.'

Mrs. Blossom's thin lips grew perfectly white; and moved as if she were attempting to speak.

'Will you give me the information I require? or will you accept the alternative?' said Holmes, still keeping his eye upon her.

'Go on; what do you want?' demanded she, in a quick husky voice.

'You are acquainted with Michael Rust?'

'I am,' replied she, in the same quick, nervous manner.

'How did you first become acquainted with him?'

'You know all that,' was the abrupt reply. 'Why should I go over it again? It's all true, as you said it.'

Holmes paused to make a note of it, and then asked:

'What is the name of the person, in the country, who took charge of the children?'

'I don't know,' replied the woman. 'Michael Rust sent a man for them, who took them off.'

'Who was this man?'

'I don't know; I never saw him. Mr. Blossom gave the children to him, and never told me his name.'

'Good,' said Holmes, in his short, abrupt manner: 'Where are these children now?'

'One's at his house,' replied she, pointing to Harson. 'The other, by this time, is with a man named Grosket. He's been arter him, and I suppose has got him by this time.'

'Enoch Grosket?' inquired Holmes.

The woman nodded. 'I told him where he'd find him. He went straight off to fetch him.'

'Will you swear that they are the same children brought to you four years since?' said Holmes, pausing in his writing, and running his eye over the notes which he had made. 'Do you know them to be the same?'

'The man said so, who brought 'em back at the end of the year. That's all I know about it. They never left me arter that.'

'Who was that man?'

'Tim Craig,' replied the woman.

'And he's dead. The only person who could reveal their place of concealment during that year, and the name of those who had the care of them. The chain is broken, by which to identify them as the lost children of George Colton. Who can aid us in this?'

'I CAN!' said a voice.

All three started, for there, at their very elbow, stood Michael Rust; but Rust, fearfully altered, worn down, wan, haggard, with sunken cheeks, and features rigid and colorless, as if cut from wax, and with an eye of fire. But wrecked as he was, there was still that strange sneering smile on his lip, which seemed as if only parting to utter sarcasm and mockery. But now he was serious in his mood, for he repeated:

'I can, and without my aid the secret must be hid forever.'

Holmes rose, angrily, from his seat.

'What brought you here?' demanded he.

'Be seated, I beg of you,' said Rust, bowing, and speaking in a low, mocking tone. 'What brought me here? You called upon me, I think; it was but civil to return the visit. I have come to do so.'

'This is idle, Sir,' replied Holmes, coldly. 'You came for some purpose. Name it. The sooner this interview is over, the more agreeable I suppose it will be for both of us.'

'For me, certainly,' said Rust, in a manner so constrained and different from his usual one, that the lawyer was in doubt whether he was in jest or earnest. Then he added, in a bitter tone: 'You ask what brought me here. Destiny, folly, revenge perhaps against my own heart's blood. Call it what you will; here I am; and ready to assist in the very matter which now perplexes you. What more do you want?'

Holmes replied with a sarcastic smile: 'The assistance of Michael Rust is likely to be as great as his sincerity. We certainly should place great reliance on it.'

Rust, perfectly unmoved by the taunt, answered in a tone so bitter, so full of hatred to himself, so replete with the outpouring of a cankered heart, so despairing and reckless, that the lawyer felt that even in him there might be some truth:

'I care not whether you trust me or not; I care not whether you believe me or not. If Michael Rust could ever have been swayed by the opinions of others, it would have been before this; it's too late to begin now. I came here because I have failed in all I undertook; because I am beginning to hate the one for whom I have toiled, until I grew gray with the wearing away of mind and body; because the soul of life is gone. I do it out of revenge against that person. There is no remorse; no conscience; but it's revenge. Look at me; that person has blasted me. Do I not show it in every feature and limb? Now you understand me. My schemes are abandoned; and I shall soon be where neither man nor law can reach me. My secret can do me no good; why should I keep it? Perhaps the recollection of past days and of past favors from one whom I have wronged, may have had its weight; perhaps not. I've come to tell the truth. If you will hear it, well; if not, I go, and it goes with me.'

Holmes and Harson exchanged looks, and Harson nodded, as if in acquiescence to some proposition which he supposed the looks of the other to indicate.

'Well, Sir,' replied Holmes, 'we will hear what you have to say.'

'Stop,' said Rust; 'before uttering a word, I must have a promise.'

The lawyer looked at him, and then at Harson, as much as to say: 'I expected it. There's some trick in it.'

Rust observed it, and said: 'Spare your suspicions; I have come here to be frank and honest in word and deed; and Michael Rust can be so, when the fancy seizes him. The promise I require is this; whatever I may reveal, no matter what the penalty, you will not set the blood-hounds of the law on my track within forty-eight hours. I have yet one act to perform in the great farce of life. That accomplished, you may do your worst.'

'This is all very strange,' said Holmes, eyeing the thin, excited features of his visitor, as if not altogether sure of his sanity; 'if you fear the punishment of your misdeeds, why reveal them? Why place yourself in our power, or run the risk of our interfering with your future movements?'

Rust replied bitterly: 'You shall hear. My whole life has been spent for one person, my own child. Every faculty of mind and body has been devoted to her, and every crime I have committed was for her. Scruples were disregarded; ties of blood set at defiance; every thing that binds man to man, that deters from wrong, were disregarded, if they stood in the way of that one grand aim of life. She forgot all! She has broken me down, heart and spirit. Love and devotion were crushed with them, and revenge has sprung up from their ruins. Ay! revenge against my own child! Should any thing prevent my doing what I have yet to do, and should my brother die, and his children not be found, she would be his heir. I would have labored and succeeded, for one who has disgraced me, and made me what you see me!'

He stretched out his thin hands, displaying the large veins, coursing beneath the skin, and apparently full to bursting. 'How wasted they are!' He smiled as he looked at them, and then asked: 'Will you promise?'

The lawyer turned to Harson, and then said: 'I promise; do you, Harson?' Harry nodded.

'Good!' said Rust, abruptly. 'You know my name, and much of my history. All the facts which you detailed to me at my office a short time since are true—true almost to the very letter. Michael Rust and Henry Colton are one. The plodding, scheming, heartless, unprincipled Henry Colton, who could sell his brother's own flesh and blood for gold; who could forget all the kindnesses heaped upon him, and stab his benefactor, and this wreck of Michael Rust, are one!'

He struck his hand against his chest, and strode up and down the room, biting his lips. 'He was rich, and I was poor: he gave me the means of living, but I wanted more. I had my eye on his entire wealth, and I wanted him to be in his grave. But he thwarted me in that. Feeble and sickly, so that a breath might have destroyed him, he lived on, and at last, as if to balk me farther, he married. Two children were born; two more obstacles between me and my aim. Two children!—two more of the same blood for me to love. Ho! ho! how Michael Rust loved those babes!' exclaimed he, clutching his fingers above his head, and gasping as he spoke. He turned, and fastening his glaring eye on the lawyer, griped his fingers together, with his teeth hard set and speaking through them, said in a sharp whisper: 'I could have strangled them!'

He paused; and then went on: 'At last came the thought of removing them. At first it was vague: it came like a shadow, and went off; then it came again, more distinct. Then it became stronger, and stronger, until it grew into a passion—a very madness. At last my mind was made up, and my plans formed. I trusted no one, but carried them off myself, and delivered them to the husband of that woman,' pointing to Mrs. Blossom. 'I told him nothing of their history: he was paid to take charge of them, and asked no questions. Then came the clamor of pursuit. I daily met and comforted my broken-hearted brother and his wife: I held out hopes which I knew were false; I offered rewards; I turned pursuit in every direction except the right one. They both thanked me, and looked upon me as their best friend; and so I was, for I kept up hope; and what is life without it? At last the search approached the neighborhood where the children really were, and they were sent to the country. A man by the name of Craig took them. The only person who was in the secret was Enoch Grosket; but he knew nothing respecting the history of the children, nor where they went.'

'Where was it?' inquired Holmes, anxiously, 'and to whom did you entrust them?'

'I have prepared it all,' said Rust; he drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to him. 'You'll find it there, and the names of the persons; they know nothing of the children; but they can identify them as those left with them four years ago; and they still have the clothes which they wore at the time; but the girl's resemblance to her mother will save all that trouble.'

He paused, with his dark eyes fastened on the floor, and his lips working with intense emotion.

'And is it possible that the love of gold can lead one to crimes like these!' said Holmes, in a subdued tone.

'Love of gold!' exclaimed Rust, fiercely; 'what cared I for gold? Ho! ho! Michael Rust values gold but as dross; but it is the world; the cringing, obsequious, miser-hearted world, that kisses the very feet of wealth, which set Michael Rust on; it was this that lashed him forward; but not for himself. I married a woman whom I loved,' said he, in a quick, stern tone; 'she abandoned me and became an outcast, and paid the penalty by an outcast's fate: she died in the streets. The love which I bore her I transferred to my child. I was poor, and I resolved that she should be rich. Can you understand my motive now? I loved my own flesh and blood better than my brother's. I have now relinquished my plans, and have told you why.'

A pause of some moments ensued, and Rust said: 'Is there any thing more that you want? If so, tell me at once, for after to-day we shall never meet again.'

Holmes ran his eye over the papers, and selecting two letters, handed them to Rust, and said:

'How do you account for the difference of that hand-writing, if Michael Rust and Henry Colton are one?'

'Michael Rust wrote one hand, Henry Colton another,' said Rust; 'but I wrote both.' He seized a pen, wrote a few words, signed the names Michael Rust and Henry Colton, and flung it on the table. 'The game had been well studied before it was played.'

'Your writing is well disguised indeed,' said the lawyer, comparing it with the letters; 'it solves that difficulty.'

'Any thing else?' demanded Rust, impatiently; 'my time is limited.'

Holmes shook his head; but Harson said: 'A few words about Jacob Rhoneland.'

'Well?'

'You accuse him of forgery; what does that mean?'

'He was a fool: I wanted to marry his daughter; I represented myself to him as very rich, to tempt his avarice; that failed. I added entreaties; they failed. Then I tried the effect of fear. He was not deaf to that for a long time, but at last he overcame even that.'

'And the tale?'

'Was well fabricated, but false.'

'And Ned Somers?'

'I had to get rid of him: what could I do while he was dallying round the girl? I did get rid of him: a few lies whispered to the old man sent him adrift. But I'm tired of this; I came to tell what I pleased, and nothing more, and I must be at work. You must respect your promise,' said he, turning to Holmes.

'I shall, and I hope your present errand at least is an honest one.'

'It is,' said Rust, with a strange smile; 'it is to punish a criminal.' He opened the door and went off without another word.



NIGHT AND MORNING.

'To-morrow to fresh fields and pastures new!'

LYCIDAS.

Yes! I have been for many a changeful year, Studious or sensual, gay or wild, or sad, An earnest votary of Evening. She Had something wondrous winning to my eye, So soft she was, and quiet. Often too, Absorbed in books, which were perchance a bane, Perchance a blessing; or in glittering crowds, Gazing all rapt on woman's eloquent face, Nature's most witching and most treacherous page; Or high in mirth with those whose senseful wit Outflashed the rosy wines that warmed its flow, I've held my vigils till the brow of Night Grew pale and starless, and her solemn pomp, Out-glared by day, faded in hueless space. I do repent me of my worship. Night Was given for rest: who breaks this natural law Wrongs body and soul alike. One vigorous hour Of sober day-light thought is worth a night's Slow oscitations of a drowsy mind. 'Neath Eve's pale star the desolate heart reverts To those far moments, when the sky was blue, And earth was green, as earth and sky to eyes Once disenchanted, can appear no more.

We all are mourners. Good men must deplore Lost hours, lost friends, lost pleasures; and the bad Are racked by throes of impotent remorse, Dark, fierce, and bitter; for themselves are lost, And still neglecting what remains of life, They strive by backward reachings to redeem The irredeemable. Why pass the hours, The fleeting hours, in profitless regrets, When each regret but lops another bough, Full of green promise, from the tree of life? You, who in your bereavement truly feel This truth, expressed so sadly and so well: 'Joy's recollection is no longer joy, While Sorrow's memory is sorrow still;' I counsel to recant your vows, and come With me to worship at a better shrine, The shrine of Morning. Morning is the hour Of vigorous thought, unconquerable hope, And high endeavor. All our powers, in sleep Bathed, nurtured, clad, and strung with nerves of steel, Rise from their brief oblivion keen with health, And strong for struggling, and we feel that toil Is toil's own recompense. I deem that Man Is not a retrospective being; for his course Is on, still on; and never should his eyes Turn back, but to detect his errors past, And shun them in his future steps. Too long, Ah! much too long, O world! and oft I've gazed In awe and wonder on thy midnight sleep, While magic Memory, singly or in groups, Upon her faded tablets re-produced Fair and familiar forms of Love and Joy. Oh! so familiar were they, and so fair, Though dim, those blessed faces, that my eyes Grew tremulous with the dew of unshed tears. The gaze hath hurt me. It hath taken their rest And natural joy from body and spirit, and worn Too fast the wheel-work of this frail machine. And now, oh! sleeping Nature! while the stars Smile on thy face, and I in fancy hear The low pulsations of thy dormant life, And feel thy mighty bosom heave and fall With regular breathings; through my little world I feel Disease advancing on his sure And stealthy mission. Well I know his step, The wily traitor! when I mark my short, Quick respirations; and his call I know, As, in the hush of night, my ear alarmed By the heart's death-march notes, repeats its strange And audible beatings. Down! grim spectre, down! Flap not thy wings across my face, nor let Thy ghastly visage, horrible shadow! freeze My staring eye-balls! Let me fly, O Death! Thy chilling presence, and implore thy soft And merciful brother,[2] dewy Sleep, to drip Papaverous balsam on my eyes, and lull My throbbing temples on his lap to rest!

* * * * *

The day-spring reddens: the first few, faint streaks, Mingling and brightening o'er the eastern skies, Announce the upward chariot of the Sun. Light leaps from Darkness! In the grave of Night Day lays aside his burial-robes, and dons His regal crown, and Nature smiles to see His resurrection, shouting, 'Hail! oh, hail! Eve's younger[3] brother! and again, all hail! Thou bright-eyed Morning! fairest among all Of God's fair creatures! Rise, bright prince, and shine O'er this green earth, from brooding Darkness won, From wild, waste Chaos, and the womb of Night!'

[2] [Greek: Entha de Nuktos paides eremnes oiki echousin, Hypnos kai Thanatos, k. t. l.] HES. THEOG. 1. 758, etc.

[3] Observe the order of collocation in Genesis I: 5. 'And the EVENING and the MORNING were the first day.'

Let me too burst the leaden bands of Sleep, And while the blinking stars, all faint and pale With their long watch, recall their courier-rays To their far orbits; and our earthly stars, The stars of Fashion, sick and wan as they, Are wheeling homeward to their feverous rest, Let me walk forth among the silent groves, Or through the cool vales snuff the morning air. How fresh! how breathing! Every draught I take Seems filled with healthiest life, and sends the blood Rushing and tingling through my quickened veins, Like inspiration! How the fluent air, Fanned into motion by thy breezy wings, O, fragrant Morning! blows from off the earth The congregated vapors, dank and foul, By yesterday coagulate and mixed! Miasmas steaming up from sunless fens; The effluvia of vegetable death; Disease exhaled from pestilential beds, And Lust's rank pantings and the fumes of wine; All these, condensed in one pernicious gas By Noon's hot efflux and the reeking Night, Thy filtering breezes make as fresh and sweet As infant slumbers; pure as the virgin's breath Whispering her first love in the eager ear Of her heart's chosen. On this climbing hill, While, lost in ecstacy, I stand and gaze On the fresh beauties of a world disrobed, How does thy searching breath, oh, infant Day! Inspire the languid frame with new-born life, And all its sinking powers rejuvenate, Freshening the murky hollows of the soul! Good Heaven! How glorious this morning hour, Nature's new birth-time! All her mighty frame, In lowly vale, on lofty mountain-top, And wide savannah, stirs, with sprightful life, Life irrepressible, whose eager thrill Shoots to her very finger-tips, and makes Each little flower through all her delicate threads Each fibrous plant, each blade of corn or grass, And each tall tree, through all its limbs and leaves, Quiver and tremble. The increasing light Reveals the outlines of the shadowy hills, And, charm by charm, the landscape all comes forth, Wood, stream, and valley; while above that green And waving ocean swells an endless vault Of blue serenity, and round its verge Kindles and flashes with rubescent gleams The far horizon; till the whole appears A sapphire dome, which, edged with golden rim, Spans the green surges of an emerald sea. The Sun is still unseen; yet far before His chariot-wheels a train of glory marks His kindling track, and all the air is now A luminous ocean. Whence these floods of light, Rich with all hues? Say! have the sphered stars, Powdered in shining atoms, fallen and filled The ambient air with their invisible dews? Or have the fugitive particles of light, The Sun's lost emanations, which all night Lay hid in hollows of the earth, or slept In vegetable cells, come forth to greet Their monarch's coming? Are they pioneers Sent to prepare his way, and raise his bright Victorious banner, that their sovereign's eye From his serene pavilion may behold No lingering shadow from the gloomy host Of hateful Darkness, who hast westward borne His routed army and his fading flag? Alas! proud Science, Fancy's sneering foe, Says they are but the Sun's refracted rays, And scintillations from his burning wheels.

EARTH'S bride-groom rises. Round his glittering head He shakes his streamy locks, and fast and far Sheds showers of splendor; and his blushing bride, Recumbent on her grassy couch, scarce opes Her bashful eyes to meet his ardent gaze. While at the advent of her lord, the Earth, Marking his shining footsteps, with a smile Remembers the espousals of her youth, When morning stars rang out the nuptial song[4] In jubilant chorus; on her milky breast, All the green nurslings of his favor raise Their dewy heads, and welcome his approach With thankful greetings; and each gentle flower Turns her fair face to the munificent god Of her idolatry, and well repays His warm caresses with her perfumed breath.

[4] 'When the morning stars sang together,' etc. JOB: XXXVIII., 7. In the same chapter observe the astonishing boldness of scripture personification, and the unequalled pomp of oriental imagery.

But while inanimate nature takes the shows Of life, and joy, and deep and passionate sense, The animal kingdom sleeps not; all its tribes Swell the glad anthem. Birds, that all night long Slept and dreamed sweetly 'neath their folded wings, At nature's summons are awakening now; Nor unmelodiously; for from their throats, In many a warbling trill, or mingled gush, Comes music of such sweet and innocent strength, As might force tears from the black murderer's eyes, And make the sighing captive, while he weeps His own hard wrongs, lift his chained hands, and pray For his oppressor more than for himself.

Thou, too, my soul, if wearing years have left Aught of high feeling in thy wasted powers, Of gratitude for mercies undeserved, Or hope of future favors, here and now, Upon this breezy hill-top, in the eye Of the bright day-god rising from his sleep, Perform thine orisons: 'Father and King, While here thy quickening breezes round me play, And yonder comes thy visible delegate With his bright scutcheon, to diffuse again All day the rays of thy beneficence Over this lovely earth, thy six days' work; To Thee, ALMIGHTY ONE! thy child would raise A loud thanksgiving. And if this, my strain Of joy and thanks, and supplication, be Or cold, or weak, or insincere in aught, (As our poor hearts deceive themselves so oft,) Thou! O OMNIPOTENT! canst make it warm,— Warm as thy love, strong as thy Son's strong tears, And pure as thine own essence. Formed by Thee, Saved by thy mercy from thy wrath, we all Are guilty ingrates, and the best of men Hath sins perchance which might outweigh the worth Of all the angels. I, at least, have sinned, Sinned long and deeply; and if still my heart, Warped by its own bad passions, or allured By the world's glitter and the arts of him, Thy foe and our destroyer, should forget Its source and destiny, and breathe its vows Again to idols, yet reject Thou not This present offering. Let thy Grace surround My steps as with a muniment of rocks, And guide me in the uneven paths of life, A pilgrim shielded by thy hollow hand. And as the grateful earth sends up all day Her exhalations through the bibulous air To the sun, her monarch; and receives them back Rich, soft, and fertile, in the still small shower, That falls invisible from the morning's womb: So may my fervent heart exhale to Thee Daily, the breathings of its thankful prayer. And praise spontaneous; which thy heavenly grace Shall render back in a perpetual dew Of benedictions, making all the waste Green with cool verdure. Oh! the time hath been, When thy benighted children lost the creed Of thy true worship, and to brutes bowed down, And senseless stones, and, kneeling in sincere But vain devotion, to the creature gave The adoration due to Thee alone, The mighty Maker. Others strove to turn Thine anger from them, by the streaming blood Of human victims; and the reverend priest Stood up, and in the name of people and king, Prayed Thee, or some vain substitute, to bless The holy murder. Even thy chosen, thine own Peculiar nation, did forget that Thou Lov'st the oblation of a grateful heart, A holocaust self-sacrificed to God,[5] And trusted to the blood of bulls and goats, And whole burned offerings. And still mankind Kneel in blind worship. Every heart sets up Its separate Dagon. Fierce Ambition breathes His burning vow, and, to secure his prayer, Makes the dear children of his heart, his own Sweet home's affections and delights, pass through The fire of Moloch: Avarice at the shrine Of greedy Mammon, gluts his eyes with gold: Some to Renown bend low the obsequious knee, Praying to be eternized by a blast From her shrill trumpet: in the glittering halls Of sensual Pleasure some sing songs, and bind Their fair young brows with chaplets steeped in wine; Though soon the chaplets turn to chains, the wines To gall and wormwood, and the festal song To howls and hootings. High above these shrines The great arch-demon and parental Jove Of all the Pantheon, a god unknown But every where adored, omnipotent And omnipresent to the tribes of men, SELF, rears his temple. But the day shall come, When far and wide o'er the regenerate world, From each green vale and ancient hill, thy sons Duly to Thee shall bring their evening thanks And morning homage. Round each cheerful hearth, Or kneeling in the spreading door-tree's shade, Each human heart, brim-full of love and hope, And holy gratitude, shall send aloft A pure oblation, and the throbbing earth Be one great censer, breathing praise to Thee.'

[5] This line is from one of GRIMKE'S polished and most scholar-like orations.

THE LEGEND OF DON RODERICK.[6]

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH BOOK.

[6] See 'Editor's Table' of the present number.

When in the year of Redemption 701, WITIZIA was elected to the Gothic throne, his reign gave promise of happy days to Spain. He redressed grievances, moderated the tributes of his subjects, and conducted himself with mingled mildness and energy in the administration of the laws. In a little while, however, he threw off the mask and showed himself in his true nature, cruel and luxurious. Considering himself secure upon the throne, he gave the reins to his licentious passions, and soon by his tyranny and sensuality acquired the appellation of WITIZIA the Wicked. How rare is it to learn wisdom from the misfortunes of others! With the fate of WITIZIA full before his eyes, DON RODERICK was no sooner established as his successor, than he began to indulge in the same pernicious errors, and was doomed in like manner to prepare the way for his own perdition.

As yet the heart of Roderick, occupied by the struggles of his early life, by warlike enterprises, and by the inquietudes of newly-gotten power, had been insensible to the charms of women; but in the first voluptuous calm the amorous propensities of his nature assumed their sway. There are divers accounts of the youthful beauty who first found favor in his eyes, and was elevated by him to the throne. We follow, in our legend, the details of an Arabian chronicler, authenticated by a Spanish poet. Let those who dispute our facts produce better authority for their contradiction.

Among the few fortified places that had not been dismantled by Don Roderick was the ancient city of Denia, situated on the Mediterranean coast, and defended on a rock-built castle that overlooked the sea.

The Alcayde of the castle, with many of the people of Denia, was one day on his knees in the chapel, imploring the Virgin to allay a tempest which was strewing the coast with wrecks, when a sentinel brought word that a Moorish cruiser was standing for the land. The Alcayde gave orders to ring the alarm bells, light signal-fires on the hill tops, and rouse the country; for the coast was subject to cruel maraudings from the Barbary cruisers.

In a little while the horsemen of the neighborhood were seen pricking along the beach, armed with such weapons as they could find; and the Alcayde and his scanty garrison descended from the hill. In the meantime the Moorish bark came rolling and pitching toward the land. As it drew near, the rich carving and gilding with which it was decorated, its silken bandaroles, and banks of crimson oars, showed it to be no warlike vessel, but a sumptuous galleot, destined for state and ceremony. It bore the marks of the tempest: the masts were broken, the oars shattered, and fragments of snowy sails and silken awnings were fluttering in the blast.