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

Kornicker hesitated; and then thrusting it in his pocket, said: ‘I suppose, if you should happen to be short, you’ll let me know.’

‘I will,’ replied Rust; ‘but I’ve enough to last until my sand is run out. They’ll hang me.’

‘Don’t talk so,’ exclaimed Kornicker, with a feeling not a little akin to fear, at the cold, indifferent manner in which the other spoke. ‘You may escape—who knows?’

Rust looked at him steadily, and then said, in a low, calm voice: ‘If it were not that man and law were leagued against me to force me to my doom, not one dollar would Michael Rust give to add an hour to his life. He looks to the grave only as that dark abyss which knows neither thought nor care; where the past is forgotten; where the future ends. Death is but a deep dreamless sleep, which has no waking. Yet even this boon he will not accept, if it’s forced upon him.’

‘But the disgrace, the disgrace of such an end,’ exclaimed Mr. Kornicker, twisting his fingers together, and in his earnestness cracking the knuckles of all of them. ‘Think of that, my old fellow. Think of the stain that will always rest upon your memory.’

A smile, without a trace of pleasure, but cold and icy, passed across Rust’s face.

‘What is my memory to me? What care I for the whispers and sneers and surmises of the reptiles who crowd this world, and who will soon be as I then shall be? What are these very men themselves? Shadows!—shadows! Go—my course is chosen. You can do nothing for me.’

Still Kornicker did not show any intention of quitting the room, but shifted from one leg to the other, in a fidgety manner, as if he had something farther to communicate, upon which however he did not like to venture. At last he said: ‘Your daughter?’

Rust turned a quick keen eye on him, but farther than this evinced no emotion.

‘Perhaps she may need a friend, when—when–’

‘I’m dead,’ said Rust, concluding what seemed to be rather an embarrassing sentence to Kornicker.

‘I’m not exactly the fellow to make the offer,’ said Kornicker, adopting the conclusion which Rust had given to the phrase; ‘but—but I’ll keep an eye on her, and will lend her a helping hand if she gets in trouble.’

Rust’s countenance expressed neither pleasure nor anger, as he answered:

‘Nothing can be done for her. Her fate is sealed; her path is marked out. There is neither turn nor winding in it, nor escape from the destiny to which it leads. She has taken the first step in it, and must follow it to the end. Look at the reckless and abandoned of her sex, who crowd our thoroughfares at night. Their fate must be her fate; an outcast—then the tenant of a public prison where her associates will be the thief and the felon. That’s her second step. The third is—to her coffin; broken down; beggared, perhaps starving, she’ll die surrounded by the offscouring of the earth—happy if she reaches her grave before she has run her full course.’

There was something in the apathetic manner in which the old man pointed out the future fate of his own child, that actually silenced Kornicker. He knew not what to say. There was no grief to console; no anger to deprecate; no wish to be fulfilled. He had however come to the prison with his mind made up to do something, and he did not like to be thwarted in his purpose. But before he had fairly determined what course was to be pursued next, Rust interrupted the current of his ideas by saying, as he pressed his hand upon his heart:

‘You can do nothing for me. The disease is here; and the only physician who can heal it is Death. Could you blot the past from my memory and leave it one vast blank; could you gild the future with hopes which this heart did not tell me were utterly hollow; then perhaps Michael Rust might struggle on, like thousands of others, with some object in view, always to be striven for, but always receding as he advanced, or turning to ashes in his grasp. But it cannot be. I’ve played my part in the great drama of life, and the curtain will soon fall.’

A spirit of callous indifference pervaded all that he said and did; and making a gesture to Kornicker, forbidding all farther remark, he threw himself on the bed, and drew the clothes about his head, as if determined to shut out all sound.

Kornicker made one or two efforts to draw him again into conversation, but the communicative mood was past; and finding that nothing farther was to be done, he left him to his meditations.

From that time Kornicker, true to his maxim of deserting no one, was constant in his visits and endeavors to comfort and assist him in preparing for his trial. But never had man a more arduous task than he found in this self-imposed duty; for the hidden transactions of Rust’s past life had become public, and had turned the full tide of popular feeling against him; and far and wide, through town and country, with all that could excite public animosity, rang that bloody tale, (for the dead man had powerful friends to battle for vengeance.) It was in every mouth, and whispered in every ear. In the broad glare of day, and before the eyes of the whole world, was paraded every secret of Rust’s life. Witnesses who had been forgotten and had sunk from sight, and were supposed to be dead, sprang into life, all having some dark deed to record. Pamphlets, teeming with exaggerated details of the murder, were hawked through the streets; peddled at every corner; hung in every shop window. Rust’s own black life had prejudged him, and had turned public opinion into public hate; until every voice called out for blood. It was under this feeling that his trial came on.

Early on that morning, long before the court was opened, a stream of people was thronging toward the City Hall by twenties and thirties and hundreds. The iron gates were barred to keep them out; still they contrived to get in, and swarmed through the halls. And when the court was opened, officers armed with staves were stationed on the stairs, to fight them down, for there was no room for them. The court-room was crammed with men heaped upon men, climbing one on the other; heads upon heads, swarming like bees, and packed and wedged together, leaving not a foot to spare. And in the midst of all that living mass sat Rust, unmoved, unflinching; returning look for look, defiance for defiance; reckless as to his fate, but resolute not to yield.

There was one however at that trial who was not so indifferent. He was a man of about fifty, tall and thin, with a grave, dignified face, which yet bore a strong resemblance to that of Rust. He was deadly pale, and sat next to Rust’s lawyers, conversing with them in a low earnest tone; and at times, as the trial went on, suggesting questions to them. This was Rust’s brother; the father of the two children, who, generous to the last, had forgiven all, and was battling for the life of him who had done his utmost to blast his. If Rust’s cold eye sank, or his spirit quailed, it was only when he encountered the mild, sad eye of that brother.

The jury was empanelled. The District Attorney opened for the prosecution; and then the examination of witnesses commenced. Foot by foot and inch by inch was the ground contested by Rust’s counsel. Exceptions to testimony were taken, points of law raised, and every informality or technicality, which afforded a loop-hole for objection, was taken advantage of. The day dragged heavily on, and Rust grew weary. The constant stir about him; the hum of voices, occasionally hushed into silence at the cry of the officer, or the tap of the judge on his desk; the hot, stifling air of the room; the wranglings of the lawyers, all tended to bewilder him. All excitement had long since left him. A leaden heaviness had settled upon all his faculties, and leaning his head upon the table, even while life and death were in the scale, he slept soundly.

He was aroused by his lawyer, touching his arm. He sat up, and gazed vacantly about him.

‘Who’s that?’ said he, pointing to the witness’s stand.

Rust half started to his feet; then clasping his hands hard together, sat down, and leaned his head on the table, but said not a word.

The clerk called out her name.

‘Ellen Colton.’

‘Who is she?’ demanded the lawyer.

Rust drew himself up; and many who had been watching him, observed that his face had become perfectly corpse-like; his breathing oppressed, and that his eyes seemed starting from their sockets, as he fixed them on the witness.

‘My own flesh and blood,’ muttered he; ‘my own child!’

The girl was sworn; but it was evident that a terrible struggle was going on, and she had to be supported to a chair. The lawyer for the prosecution took down her name, and then asked her a question. He received no answer. He repeated it; but the girl was silent. She held down her head, and seemed half fainting.

‘You must reply,’ said the judge.

The girl raised her eyes, and said, in a low supplicating tone, ‘He’s my father.’

The judge shook his head. ‘It’s a very painful task,’ said he, ‘but there’s no alternative.’

The girl uttered not a word, and the court-room became so hushed that even the hard breathing of the witness was audible.

‘I must have a decided answer,’ said the judge, gravely, yet mildly, for he respected the feelings which dictated her course. ‘Will you answer the question put by the district attorney?’

‘I will not,’ was the firm reply.

The face of the judge grew a little flushed, and he compressed his lips, as if the duty which now rested with him were an unpleasant one. But before he had time to speak, the district attorney rose, and muttering in a tone loud enough to be heard, ‘I will not slay the parent through the child,’ said: ‘If the court please, I withdraw the question. I’ll call another witness.’

The judge bowed, and the girl was led away.

Rust had risen to his feet as if to speak, but he sat down, and the trial proceeded. The whole of that day passed in the examination of witnesses; so did the day following. Then came the summing up of the lawyers, and the charge of the judge to the jury. During the whole time the crowd came and went, but at all times the room was thronged. The jury went out; still the crowd hung about the Hall. It grew dark; but they could not go to their homes until they knew the result; but round and round the Hall, and through the avenues of the Park, they wandered, watching the dim light in the jury room, and wondering what the verdict would be. One of them stole up to the gray-headed constable who watched at the door, and inquired what the chance was; and as the old man shook his head, and muttered that they leaned toward a fatal verdict, he rubbed his hands with glee, and hastened to communicate the tidings to those below. Twelve—one—two—three o’clock at night came; still the twelve men held out, and still the judge, an upright, conscientious, patient man, maintained his post, waiting for the verdict, and ready to solve any doubts or points of law that might arise. The court-room grew cold; the fires went out, except one near the bench, and where the prisoner was. Sixty or seventy persons were sitting in the dim recesses of the room, looking like dark shadows, resolved to await the result. A few stretched themselves on the benches, and others gathered in knots near the fire, and whispered together; and now and then there was a loud laugh, suddenly hushed, as the person who uttered it remembered where he was. At last the judge went out, and left word with the officer to send for him if the jury agreed, or wanted his advice. The night waned; the sky grew gray in the east; and presently the day broke—but no verdict. At an early hour the judge returned, and the court-room filled again. Nine—ten—eleven. Suddenly there was a hum—a shuffling in the hall. The door was thrown open by the gray-headed constable, and the jury entered.

‘The jury’s agreed,’ cried the officer. There was a dead silence; and the foreman gave in the verdict:

‘Guilty of Murder in the first degree!’

Rust moved not; no change of color or feature was perceptible, except a slight smile, and that too faded in a moment.

The trial was over; and the crowd poured through the streets, yelling with delight, and stopping those whom they met, to tell them that Michael Rust was doomed to die.

Rust sat without stirring, until an officer touched him, and told him that he must go. He then rose, and followed him without a word. The crowd gathered around him, as he went out; but he did not notice them. His brother walked at his side, but he heeded him not; and when he reached his prison, without uttering a word, he flung himself wearily upon his bed, and was soon sound asleep.

He awoke, a different man; and when his lawyer called to see him on the following day, he found him as fierce as a caged beast. He endeavored to utter some remark of consolation; but Rust impatiently motioned him to be silent. He spoke about a clergyman; but the reply was a laugh, so mocking and scornful, that he was glad to drop the theme.

‘Is the game ended?’ at last inquired Rust. ‘Is there no farther cast of the die left?’

The lawyer looked at him, as if in doubt of his meaning.

Rust, in response to the look, repeated the question. ‘Is there nothing more to be done, in that farce called the law? Is there no farther blow to be struck for life?’

‘We can appeal,’ replied the lawyer; ‘but there is little chance of success.’ He took Rust by the hand, and said in a soothing tone: ‘My poor friend, you must be prepared for the worst; for I cannot promise to save your life.’

Rust rose and stood directly in front of him; and pointing to a small coin which lay on the table, said: ‘Not the tenth part of that would Michael Rust give to have one hour added to his life; but I will not be driven from it. I will not be beaten down and crushed.’ He stamped furiously on the floor.

‘Fight!’ said he, fixing his glaring eye on the lawyer; ‘fight to the last; leave nothing untried; spare not gold; bribe—corrupt—suborn; do any thing; but do not leave the triumph to my enemies. It’s that that is tearing away at my heart. It’s that which is killing me,’ exclaimed he, bitterly, shaking his hands over his head.

‘We shall leave nothing untried,’ said the lawyer. ‘Perhaps too we may obtain a pardon, for if ever a murder was justifiable, that was.’

‘Pardon!’ exclaimed Rust with a sneer; ‘pardon! Because I defended my own flesh and blood; because the laws had forced upon me the task which they should perform! I must die, or sue for pardon. A noble thing is law!’

The lawyer was silent. He felt that Rust’s own previous criminal life had been his worst enemy, and that it was the disclosure of his own evil plans which had been in every mouth long before the trial, that had done much to harden the feelings of the jury, who in another case might have stretched a point to save him.

Merely repeating what he had already said, that every thing should be tried, he took his leave.

·····

Several weeks elapsed. The appeal was made, and was unsuccessful; the decision of the court below was affirmed; and nothing was left but that the sentence of the law should be enforced. Rust still maintained his indifferent bearing. All attempts to move him to any thing like repentance were unavailing. Pious men had conversed with him, but he had turned a deaf ear to their words; clergymen, too, anxious even at the last hour to turn his thoughts to holier things, had called upon him, but were equally unsuccessful; and at last he forbade them admission.

It was just about dusk, on the day previous to that fixed for his execution, that he was sitting in his cell, when he was aroused by the opening of the door. He looked up, and observed a dim figure just inside the door, cowering as if with fear; but it was so dark that he could not distinguish more than its mere outline.

‘What do you want?’ demanded he, harshly. ‘Am I a wild beast, that you have come to stare at me?’

The only reply was a low, suppressed cry, as of one endeavoring to stifle down severe pain.

Rust rose up, advanced to the figure, and with a sudden jerk threw off the cloak which enveloped it. It was his own child.

‘So it’s you!’ said he, bitterly, as he turned from her. ‘And you’ve come to see your work. Look at me well. You’ve succeeded to your heart’s content.’

The girl endeavored to clasp his hand, but he flung her from him; and facing her, said: ‘What you have to say, say at once, and be gone. There is little policy in seeking me out now, for I have nothing to give.’

The girl cast herself at his feet, in a passion of grief. ‘Oh! father! dear father! I ask nothing, except your forgiveness. Give me that, for the love of God! I ask nothing more. Do not refuse me that, as you hope for forgiveness of your own sins!’

‘There was a time,’ said Rust, ‘when I could not have resisted those tones, when I could have refused you nothing. My very heart’s blood was yours; but I am changed—changed indeed; since not a single spark of tenderness for you is left; not even the shadow of the love which I once bore to you. You are a stranger to me; or worse than that, you are she, whose wanton conduct has placed me here, and to-morrow will lead me to the gallows.’

The girl rose up hastily, and said in a quick husky voice:

‘Farewell, father; I will not stay until you curse me, for I fear it may come to that. May God forgive both you and me! I have done wrong, and most bitterly have I suffered for it.’

She caught his hand, pressed it to her lips, which were hot as fire, and left the cell.

That was the last time that the father and daughter ever met.

The gaoler soon afterward brought in a light, and asked Rust if he wanted any thing; and on being answered in the negative, went out.

The night wore on heavily. Rust heard the clock, as its iron tongue struck the successive hours from his life. At last the hour of midnight sounded. He took out his watch, wound it up, and set it.

‘Your life will last longer than mine,’ said he, as he held it to the light, and examined the face. He then placed it on the table, and leaning his head on his hand, contemplated it for a long time. Time was hurrying on; for while he was sitting thus, the clock struck—one. He looked about the room; went to the door, and listened; then resumed his seat, and thrusting his hand in his bosom, drew out a small vial, containing a dark liquid. He held it to the light; shook it; smiled; and applying it to his lips, swallowed its contents.

‘I’ll disappoint the sight-seers,’ said he. He raised the light; took a long and earnest survey of the room; undressed himself; sat on the edge of his bed, for a moment, apparently in deep thought; then got into bed and drew the cover closely about him.

‘Now, then,’ said he, ‘the dream of life is past. I’ll soon know whether there is any waking from it.’

These were his last words; for when the cell was opened in the morning, he was dead in his bed. As in life, so in death, his own evil acts clashed with his interests; for at an early hour in the morning a messenger arrived with a pardon. In consideration of the heinous nature of the provocation, which had led to the commission of Rust’s crime, and of the inadequate punishment inflicted by the laws for such offences, the governor had remitted his sentence.

NIAGARA

Behold! again I view thee, in thy majesty and might,Thy broad sheet flashing in the blaze of morning’s glorious light;I mark thee maddened in thy fall, and pale with hoary rage,And fretting in thy passion, that hath boiled from age to age.Like thunder on my startled ear, thine everlasting roarHath broken, and reverberates from shore to echoing shore;Continuous and fearful, with dread power in its tone,That shakes the earth’s foundations and rives the solid stone!How tremulous beneath the shock the fearful earth hath grown!Reeling beneath the mighty plunge, it sighs with ceaseless moan;Now rush thy waves, with frenzy wild, in foam of dazzling white,Now, placidly they sweep along, with ever-changeful light.O, wondrous Power! O, giant Strength! how fearful to behold,Outstretched on yon o’erhanging crag, thy mad waves downward rolled:To look adown the cavernous abyss that yawns beneath—To see the feathery spray flash forth in many a glittering wreath!Voluminous and ceaseless still, forever swift descendThe waters in their headlong course, then turning, heavenward wend:Now, disenthralled, their essence hath its spirit-shape resumed;Bright, bodiless and pure, its fright to yon empyrean plumed! The Falls, 1842. Claude Halcro.

TO MARY

I wonder if the magic spellsThat in the days of yoreBewitched so oft poor harmless folks(Unlucky wights!) are o’er?I can’t believe it, for I’ve feltThe witchery of thy smile;I’ve felt thy magic arts, and yetI’ve loved thee all the while.Is it the gleam of snowy teeth,Or wave of silken tress,That brings me to thy side, to gazeUpon thy loveliness?It cannot be, for I have seenFull many a maid as fair;I’ve seen as ruby lips before,I’ve seen as glossy hair.Some dark enchantress has bequeathedTo thee her magic art,And thou hast bound me with thy spell,And stolen all my heart.Horace.

LITERARY NOTICES

Curiosities of Literature, and the Literary Character Illustrated. By I. C. D’Israeli, Esq., D. C. L., F. S. A. With Curiosities of American Literature. By Rufus W. Griswold. Complete in one volume. New-York: D. Appleton and Company, Broadway.

The ensuing remarks refer rather to the Supplement to D’Israeli’s ‘Curiosities of Literature,’ edited by Rev. Rufus W. Griswold, than to the well-known work to which it adds its attractions. It is an excellent collection of the many odd and quaint and foolish and good things which our forefathers ‘did and performed.’ Mr. Griswold has spiced his work with a variety, though he has done it more judiciously than a splenetic author whom he introduces in his work, who, in a vexatious mood at some severe criticisms on a former book, puts a dozen or more rows of interrogation and exclamation-points, commas, semicolons, etc., and tells his readers ‘they may pepper and salt it as they please.’ Mr. Griswold well understands the history of American literature; and we venture to say there is no man in the country who knows the names and contents of so many American books as he. This knowledge he has found of great service to him, enabling him to lay his hand at once on those things most worthy of preservation. If he had understood the linking process a little better, it would perhaps have added to the interest of his work. A sort of running commentary would have given greater vivacity to the numerous extracts. The way isolated specimens of an author are introduced affects very much the impression they make. But Mr. Griswold has succeeded well in gathering up the ravelled ends of our early literature; and the present edition of D’Israeli’s Curiosities of Literature will be the only one for the future in the American market. The most ‘curious’ part of our literary history is embraced in the revolution, with the short period preceding and following it. The British and Tories furnished endless themes to the pasquinader and ballad-maker, while the grave rights involved in the struggle called forth the efforts of more serious and thoughtful pens. The Puritans of New-England wrote most; and there is a union of the soundest sense with the most childish folly, the strongest character with the weakest prejudices in our good Yankee forefathers, that is quite incomprehensible. Like the Puritans of England in the time of Cromwell, when called into the hall of debate to discuss the rights of man, or into the field to battle for them, he were a bold man who dare smile at them. Yet in their religious acts they were often bigoted, intolerant and puerile. The same incongruity is seen in their tastes. Men of deep poetical sentiment, they often murdered poetry for conscience sake. A man who could write a defence of the colonies with a pen that fairly glowed with the burning Saxon that fell from it, would not be shocked at all at the impropriety of the following epitaph on a tomb-stone:

‘Here lies Jonathan Auricular,Who walked in the ways of God perpendicular.’

Mr. Griswold gives us a specimen of the versification of the 137th psalm, in the Bible; one of the sweetest lyrics ever written, beginning ‘By the rivers of Babylon there we sat down; yea, we wept when we remembered Zion; we hanged our harps upon the willows,’ etc. This psalm, whose exquisite beauties are so well preserved in our common English version, was put into verse with the rest of the psalms, by our pious forefathers. To their credit we can say, however, that the authors of the first version declare that they ‘have attended to conscience rather than to elegance’ in completing their work. We cannot excuse President Dunster of Harvard College, so easily, who revised the edition and sent it forth with the advertisement that they had in it a ‘special eye both to the gravity of the phrase of sacred writ, and to the sweetness of the verse;’ especially when we find this same sweet psalm completely murdered by him. After stumbling along through two stanzas, he thus paraphrases. ‘They that led us into captivity,’ he says: