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

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. SheHad 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 witOutflashed the rosy wines that warmed its flow,I’ve held my vigils till the brow of NightGrew pale and starless, and her solemn pomp,Out-glared by day, faded in hueless space.I do repent me of my worship. NightWas given for rest: who breaks this natural lawWrongs body and soul alike. One vigorous hourOf sober day-light thought is worth a night’sSlow oscitations of a drowsy mind.’Neath Eve’s pale star the desolate heart revertsTo those far moments, when the sky was blue,And earth was green, as earth and sky to eyesOnce disenchanted, can appear no more.We all are mourners. Good men must deploreLost hours, lost friends, lost pleasures; and the badAre 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 redeemThe 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 feelThis 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 comeWith me to worship at a better shrine,The shrine of Morning.                                        Morning is the hourOf vigorous thought, unconquerable hope,And high endeavor. All our powers, in sleepBathed, nurtured, clad, and strung with nerves of steel,Rise from their brief oblivion keen with health,And strong for struggling, and we feel that toilIs toil’s own recompense. I deem that ManIs not a retrospective being; for his courseIs on, still on; and never should his eyesTurn 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 gazedIn awe and wonder on thy midnight sleep,While magic Memory, singly or in groups,Upon her faded tablets re-producedFair and familiar forms of Love and Joy.Oh! so familiar were they, and so fair,Though dim, those blessed faces, that my eyesGrew tremulous with the dew of unshed tears.The gaze hath hurt me. It hath taken their restAnd natural joy from body and spirit, and wornToo fast the wheel-work of this frail machine.And now, oh! sleeping Nature! while the starsSmile on thy face, and I in fancy hearThe low pulsations of thy dormant life,And feel thy mighty bosom heave and fallWith regular breathings; through my little worldI feel Disease advancing on his sureAnd 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 alarmedBy the heart’s death-march notes, repeats its strangeAnd audible beatings.                                        Down! grim spectre, down!Flap not thy wings across my face, nor letThy ghastly visage, horrible shadow! freezeMy staring eye-balls! Let me fly, O Death!Thy chilling presence, and implore thy softAnd merciful brother,2 dewy Sleep, to dripPapaverous balsam on my eyes, and lullMy 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 NightDay lays aside his burial-robes, and donsHis regal crown, and Nature smiles to seeHis resurrection, shouting, ‘Hail! oh, hail!Eve’s younger3 brother! and again, all hail!Thou bright-eyed Morning! fairest among allOf God’s fair creatures! Rise, bright prince, and shineO’er this green earth, from brooding Darkness won,From wild, waste Chaos, and the womb of Night!’Let me too burst the leaden bands of Sleep,And while the blinking stars, all faint and paleWith their long watch, recall their courier-raysTo 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 takeSeems filled with healthiest life, and sends the bloodRushing 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 earthThe 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 gasBy Noon’s hot efflux and the reeking Night,Thy filtering breezes make as fresh and sweetAs infant slumbers; pure as the virgin’s breathWhispering her first love in the eager earOf her heart’s chosen.                                        On this climbing hill,While, lost in ecstacy, I stand and gazeOn 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 thrillShoots to her very finger-tips, and makesEach little flower through all her delicate threadsEach fibrous plant, each blade of corn or grass,And each tall tree, through all its limbs and leaves,Quiver and tremble.                                        The increasing lightReveals the outlines of the shadowy hills,And, charm by charm, the landscape all comes forth,Wood, stream, and valley; while above that greenAnd waving ocean swells an endless vaultOf blue serenity, and round its vergeKindles and flashes with rubescent gleamsThe far horizon; till the whole appearsA sapphire dome, which, edged with golden rim,Spans the green surges of an emerald sea.The Sun is still unseen; yet far beforeHis chariot-wheels a train of glory marksHis kindling track, and all the air is nowA luminous ocean. Whence these floods of light,Rich with all hues? Say! have the spheréd stars,Powdered in shining atoms, fallen and filledThe ambient air with their invisible dews?Or have the fugitive particles of light,The Sun’s lost emanations, which all nightLay hid in hollows of the earth, or sleptIn vegetable cells, come forth to greetTheir monarch’s coming? Are they pioneersSent to prepare his way, and raise his brightVictorious banner, that their sovereign’s eyeFrom his serene pavilion may beholdNo lingering shadow from the gloomy hostOf hateful Darkness, who hast westward borneHis 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 headHe shakes his streamy locks, and fast and farSheds showers of splendor; and his blushing bride,Recumbent on her grassy couch, scarce opesHer bashful eyes to meet his ardent gaze.While at the advent of her lord, the Earth,Marking his shining footsteps, with a smileRemembers the espousals of her youth,When morning stars rang out the nuptial song4In jubilant chorus; on her milky breast,All the green nurslings of his favor raiseTheir dewy heads, and welcome his approachWith thankful greetings; and each gentle flowerTurns her fair face to the munificent godOf her idolatry, and well repaysHis warm caresses with her perfumed breath.But while inanimate nature takes the showsOf life, and joy, and deep and passionate sense,The animal kingdom sleeps not; all its tribesSwell the glad anthem. Birds, that all night longSlept 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 weepsHis own hard wrongs, lift his chained hands, and prayFor his oppressor more than for himself.Thou, too, my soul, if wearing years have leftAught 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 eyeOf 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 delegateWith his bright scutcheon, to diffuse againAll day the rays of thy beneficenceOver this lovely earth, thy six days’ work;To Thee, Almighty One! thy child would raiseA loud thanksgiving. And if this, my strainOf joy and thanks, and supplication, beOr 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 allAre guilty ingrates, and the best of menHath sins perchance which might outweigh the worthOf all the angels. I, at least, have sinned,Sinned long and deeply; and if still my heart,Warped by its own bad passions, or alluredBy the world’s glitter and the arts of him,Thy foe and our destroyer, should forgetIts source and destiny, and breathe its vowsAgain to idols, yet reject Thou notThis present offering. Let thy Grace surroundMy 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 dayHer exhalations through the bibulous airTo the sun, her monarch; and receives them backRich, soft, and fertile, in the still small shower,That falls invisible from the morning’s womb:So may my fervent heart exhale to TheeDaily, the breathings of its thankful prayer.And praise spontaneous; which thy heavenly graceShall render back in a perpetual dewOf benedictions, making all the wasteGreen with cool verdure.                                        Oh! the time hath been,When thy benighted children lost the creedOf thy true worship, and to brutes bowed down,And senseless stones, and, kneeling in sincereBut vain devotion, to the creature gaveThe adoration due to Thee alone,The mighty Maker. Others strove to turnThine anger from them, by the streaming bloodOf human victims; and the reverend priestStood up, and in the name of people and king,Prayed Thee, or some vain substitute, to blessThe holy murder. Even thy chosen, thine ownPeculiar nation, did forget that ThouLov’st the oblation of a grateful heart,A holocaust self-sacrificed to God,5And trusted to the blood of bulls and goats,And whole burned offerings. And still mankindKneel in blind worship. Every heart sets upIts separate Dagon. Fierce Ambition breathesHis burning vow, and, to secure his prayer,Makes the dear children of his heart, his ownSweet home’s affections and delights, pass throughThe fire of Moloch: Avarice at the shrineOf greedy Mammon, gluts his eyes with gold:Some to Renown bend low the obsequious knee,Praying to be eternized by a blastFrom her shrill trumpet: in the glittering hallsOf sensual Pleasure some sing songs, and bindTheir fair young brows with chaplets steeped in wine;Though soon the chaplets turn to chains, the winesTo gall and wormwood, and the festal songTo howls and hootings. High above these shrinesThe great arch-demon and parental JoveOf all the Pantheon, a god unknownBut every where adored, omnipotentAnd 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 sonsDuly to Thee shall bring their evening thanksAnd 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 aloftA pure oblation, and the throbbing earthBe one great censer, breathing praise to Thee.’

THE LEGEND OF DON RODERICK.6

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH BOOK

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.

As the galleot grounded upon the sand, the impatient rabble rushed into the surf to capture and make spoil; but were awed into admiration and respect by the appearance of the illustrious company on board. There were Moors of both sexes sumptuously arrayed, and adorned with precious jewels, bearing the demeanor of persons of lofty rank. Among them shone conspicuous a youthful beauty, magnificently attired, to whom all seemed to pay reverence.

Several of the Moors surrounded her with drawn swords, threatening death to any that approached; others sprang from the bark, and, throwing themselves on their knees before the Alcayde, implored him, by his honor and courtesy as a knight, to protect a royal virgin from injury and insult.

‘You behold before you,’ said they, ‘the only daughter of the King of Algiers, the betrothed bride of the son of the King of Tunis. We were conducting her to the court of her expecting bridegroom, when a tempest drove us from our course, and compelled us to take refuge on your coast. Be not more cruel than the tempest, but deal nobly with that which even sea and storm have spared.’

The Alcayde listened to their prayers. He conducted the princess and her train to the castle, where every honor due to her rank was paid her. Some of her ancient attendants interceded for her liberation, promising countless sums to be paid by her father for her ransom; but the Alcayde turned a deaf ear to all their golden offers. ‘She is a royal captive,’ said he; ‘it belongs to my sovereign alone to dispose of her.’ After she had reposed, therefore, for some days at the castle, and recovered from the fatigue and terror of the seas, he caused her to be conducted, with all her train, in magnificent state to the court of Don Roderick.

The beautiful Elyata entered Toledo more like a triumphant sovereign than a captive. A chosen band of Christian horsemen, splendidly armed, appeared to wait upon her as a mere guard of honor. She was surrounded by the Moorish damsels of her train, and followed by her own Moslem guards, all attired with the magnificence that had been intended to grace her arrival at the court of Tunis. The princess was arrayed in bridal robes, woven in the most costly looms of the orient; her diadem sparkled with diamonds, and was decorated with the rarest plumes of the bird of paradise; and even the silken trappings of her palfrey, which swept the ground, were covered with pearls and precious stones. As this brilliant cavalcade crossed the bridge of the Tagus, all Toledo poured forth to behold it; and nothing was heard throughout the city but praises of the wonderful beauty of the princess of Algiers. King Roderick came forth attended by the chivalry of his court, to receive the royal captive. His recent voluptuous life had disposed him for tender and amorous affections, and, at the first sight of the beautiful Elyata, he was enraptured with her charms. Seeing her face clouded with sorrow and anxiety, he soothed her with gentle and courteous words, and, conducting her to a royal palace, ‘Behold,’ said he, ‘thy habitation where no one shall molest thee; consider thyself at home in the mansion of thy father, and dispose of any thing according to thy will.’

Here the princess passed her time, with the female attendants who had accompanied her from Algiers; and no one but the king was permitted to visit her, who daily became more and more enamoured of his lovely captive, and sought, by tender assiduity, to gain her affections. The distress of the princess at her captivity was soothed by this gentle treatment. She was of an age when sorrow cannot long hold sway over the heart. Accompanied by her youthful attendants, she ranged the spacious apartments of the palace, and sported among the groves and alleys of its garden. Every day the remembrance of the paternal home grew less and less painful, and the king became more and more amiable in her eyes; and when, at length, he offered to share his heart and throne with her, she listened with downcast looks and kindling blushes, but with an air of resignation.