Part 5

Even Music, although itself an occupation revealed to us as of the Angels of Light, is, except perhaps as they enjoy it--with whom poetry and modulated sound adapted to the thought are inseparably one--even music is less refined, less gentle, perfect, unobtrusive. For the enjoyment of Colour involves no possible interruption of another's tastes; no outbreak upon the quiet stillness of the day; no intrusion on 'the ear of night;' nor yet any expression, that by pouring abroad the sensations, might diminish the deep earnestness of the soul; which, all sight, all ear, becomes the Recipient. The enjoyment of colour is the Spirit within us listening to the language of GOD! to the mute expression of His unspeakable Love! COLOUR--the conception He hath chosen for His bow of promise in the Heavens! by which He decorates the Earth, and tells of Himself in the ocean, and in the sky, and by which He restoreth the Soul of man!

And in that state of celestial existence which attends the redeemed Soul disenthralled from 'the body of this death,' is it to be doubted, that among the joys that 'the eye hath never seen, nor the heart conceived,' there exist colours beautiful beyond all earthly wealth of imagination; beyond the poet's fancy and the painter's dream? There where the pure gold of which the city is constructed, is transparent as glass, and each gate is one pearl, and the very foundations of the walls are of jasper, and chalcedony, sapphire, emerald, ruby, amethyst and topaz; and the glory of GOD is the light that lightens it!

But it is not to another world that the joys of colour are postponed, nor even to another climate that we need look for the precious satisfaction that they impart. We have not the carpets of flowers of rainbow tints, that spread themselves over whole prairies of Texas and Mexico, but what a gem upon the bosom of Earth when it is unexpectedly found among us is the blue campanula! And the small white lily of the valley, sheltered and concealed in its green leaves like a hidden tear of Joy, and almost as rare! And the bright and graceful lobelia cardinalis that loves the neighbourhood of the still waters. And the fringed gentian of a tint so cerulean that our true poet derives it from the firmament; as his own spirit, if left to approach its kindred element, might claim affinity with the overshadowing expanse of celestial life![3]

[3] THIS allusion is to BYRANT'S lines 'To the Fringed Gentian,' a poem so replete with truth and beauty, that we cannot resist the inclination to quote it here.

ED. KNICKERBOCKER.

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And coloured with the heaven's own blue. That openest, when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night.

Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart.

I speak not to thee of the gorgeous sunsets and of those piles of massy clouds of living and ever-varying colours on which the Day pillows himself to rest in a luxurious repose; but open thine heart upon the Eastern bank of the Hudson at the grey of morning, and look with the Sun upon the opposite shore; and as the mists arise and are dispelled from before thee, there shall come change after change of colour neutral and calm and slowly warming into beauty, until a violet haze shall rest upon the hill-tops and the cliffs that might outvie the golden haze of Italy, and that shall raise thy thoughts in silent thankfulness, and educate thee to enjoy the untold treasuries of colour that glow in upper Heaven; and hope shall spring forth renewed within thee; and sorrow shall fade from thy widowed, or thy childless heart; the peace which passeth understanding shall come over thee; and GOD even thine own GOD shall bless thee; and to thine eyes, now opened to the wonders of His goodness, all the ends of the Earth shall _shew forth_ His praise!

JOHN WATERS.

STANZAS

SUGGESTED BY GLIDDON'S LECTURES ON THE ANTIQUITIES OF EGYPT.

MISS H. J. WOODMAN

Sublime hath been thy conquest o'er the past, Stemming Oblivion's torrent by thy might, Reading symbolic records long o'ercast By the deep shadows of unbroken night; Tracing with reverent finger names of kings That long had slumbered with forgotten things.

The mists that deeply veiled historic rays, Thou art dispelling with resistless hand; And dynasties that flourished ere the days When ABRAHAM forsook the promised land, No longer noteless, nameless, boldly claim Their lofty tablet in the arch of fame.

Thy curious finger with a magic key Unlocked the store of ages, and the light, Flooding the pass of time, sublime and free, Decks ruined temples in its vesture bright: These are the relics of _thy_ grandeur flown, Land of the Pharaohs and their prostrate throne.

Ere the white stranger's land had trodden been By foot of pilgrim, Egypt sat supreme, Queen of the nations, and her realm within Wealth, learning, power convened--a full, deep stream! The bulwarks of her throne were safely reared In hearts by which her greatness was revered.

And now, with Science for his trusty guide, The stranger comes to read her mystic lore, Tread her deserted cities, stand beside Her sculptured temples, eloquent once more; Not with man's voice, but with the nobler speech Of days beyond our spirit's utmost reach.

And those proud monuments of youthful time, The pyramids, whose lofty sides have borne The storms of centuries in that fierce clime, And seeming still to smile in speechless scorn, When bow the everlasting hills with age, Then shall they vanish from the world's bright page.

A mournful ruin to thy utmost bound, A type of glory long since passed away, The statue voiceless whence the thrilling sound Of gushing music hailed the rising day; Thus art thou now, oh Egypt! but the flame Of new-born Science gilds thine ancient name.

And from the dust shalt thou arise once more, Not by thine own degenerate sons upreared, But strangers who have sought thy verdant shore Shall hail thy fallen greatness, still revered; Until among the kingdoms of the earth Thou shalt appear renewed--a second birth!

THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.

HARRY HARSON.

CHAPTER NINETEENTH.

Notwithstanding his having made what most persons would have considered a hearty meal at Harry Harson's, Mr. Kornicker had nevertheless such perfect reliance on his own peculiar gastronomic abilities, that he did not in the least shrink from again testing them. Leaving Michael Rust's presence with an alacrity which bordered upon haste, he descended into the refectory with somewhat of a jaunty air, humming a tune, and keeping time to it by an occasional flourish of the fingers. Having seated himself, his first act was to shut his eyes, thrust his feet at full length under the table; plunge both hands to the very bottom of his breeches-pockets, where they grasped spasmodically two cents and a small key, and laugh silently for more than a minute, occasionally breaking in upon his merriment to gossip to himself in the most profound and mysterious manner.

'A queer dog! a very queer dog! d----d queer, old Michael is! Well, that's _his_ business, not mine.'

As soon as this idea had fully impressed itself upon him, he sat up, became grave, and looked about in search of the waiter. In doing so, he encountered the eyes of a short fat man at a table near him, who at the first glance seemed to be reading a newspaper, but at the second, seemed to be reconnoitering him over it. Mr. Kornicker observing this, not only returned his glance, but added a wink to it by way of interest. The man thereupon laid down his paper, and nodded.

Mr. Kornicker nodded in reply; and said he hoped he was well, and that his wife and small children were equally fortunate.

The face of the stranger was a round, jolly face, with two little eyes that twinkled and glistened between their fat lids, as if they were very devils for fun; and his whole appearance was cozy and comfortable. His chin was double; his stomach round and plump, with an air of respectability; and he occasionally passed his hand over it, as if to say: 'Ah ha! beat that who can!' But notwithstanding his merry look, at this last remark his face grew long; and with a melancholy shake of his head, he pointed to his hat which hung on a peg above him, and was swathed in a broad band of crape, terminating in two stiff skirts projecting from it like a rudder, and giving it the appearance of a corpulent butterfly in mourning, at roost on the wall.

'Ah!' said Mr. Kornicker, looking at the hat, 'that's it?'

'Yes,' replied the stranger, with a deep sigh, 'that's it.'

'Father?' inquired Mr. Kornicker, nodding significantly toward the hat.

'No--wife,' replied the other.

'Dead?' inquired Mr. Kornicker.

'Dead as a hammer.'

'Was it long or short? consumption or fits?' asked Mr. Kornicker, drawing up his feet and turning so as to face the stranger, by way of evincing the interest which he felt in his melancholy situation.

The man shook his head, and was so affected that he was troubled with a temporary cold in his head; which, having alleviated by the aid of his handkerchief, he said: 'Poor woman! She undertook to present me with a fine boy, last week, and it proved too much for her. It exhausted her animal natur', and she decamped on a sudden. She was a very fine woman--a very fine woman. I always _said_ she was.'

'And the child?' inquired Kornicker; 'I hope it's well.'

'Quite well, I thank you. It went along with her. They are both better off; saints in heaven, both of 'em; out of this wale of tears.'

Mr. Kornicker told him to cheer up. He said that every man had a crook in his lot. Some men had big crooks, and some men had little crooks; and although this crook made rather a bad elbow in his lot, that perhaps all the rest was square and straight, and he could build on it to advantage, especially if it was twenty-five feet by a hundred, which was the ordinary width and length of 'lots in general.'

Having delivered himself of this rather confused allegory, Mr. Kornicker, by way of farther consolation, drew out his snuff-box, and stretching out as far as was possible without falling from his chair, tendered it to the stranger, who in return leaning so far forward as slightly to raise his person from the chair, gently inserted his fingers in the box, and helped himself to a pinch, at the same time remarking, that it 'was a great comfort, in his trying situation, to find friends who sympathized with his misfortunes. That he _had_ found it so; and that Mr. Kornicker was a man whose feelings did credit to human natur'.'

Kornicker disclaimed being any thing above the ordinary run of men, or that his feelings were more than every other man possessed, or ought to possess. But the stranger was vehement in his assertions to the contrary; so much so, that he rose from his seat, and drawing a chair to the opposite side of Kornicker's table, proposed that they should breakfast together.

Kornicker shook his head:

'It's against the agreement,' said he; 'it can't be done.'

'But it _can_, Sir--it _shall_, Sir! A man of your sympathies is not to be met with every day, and must be breakfasted with, whether he will or not--agreement or no agreement. Don't agreement me!' said the stranger, lifting up his chair and setting it down opposite Kornicker, with great emphasis. 'What's the natur' of this agreement?'

Mr. Kornicker assumed a very grave and legal expression of countenance, and without replying, asked:

'What's your name?'

'Ezra Scrake.'

'I, Edward Kornicker, forbid you, Ezra Scrake, from breakfasting with me, telling you that it is contrary to a certain agreement, referred to but not set forth; and I now repeat the request, that you forthwith retire to another table, and that I be permitted to take my meal by myself.' He threw himself back in his chair, and looked Mr. Scrake full in the face.

'And I, Ezra Scrake, say that I _won't_ leave this table, and that I _will_ breakfast with a fellow whose benevolence might warm the witals of a tiger.'

'Very well, Sir,' said Kornicker, relaxing from his former severe expression; 'I've done my duty. Old Rust can't blame me. The breach of contract is not on my part. I'm acting under compulsion. Just recollect that I desired you to leave me, in case it gets me into hot water, and that you refused; that's all. Now old fellow, what'll you take? Only recollect, that each man rides his own pony.'

The stranger nodded, and said that of course he would 'foot his own bill.'

These preliminaries being settled, the boy, who had been standing at their elbow in a state of ecstatic delight at the proceedings of Mr. Kornicker, with whom he had become familiar, and whom he regarded as a gentleman of great legal acumen, and in all other respects as rather a 'tall boy,' was desired by the stranger to hand him the bill of fare, and not to keep him waiting all day. Having been gratified in this respect, Mr. Scrake commenced at the top and deliberately whispered his way to the bottom of the list.

'Beef-steak; shall I say for two?' asked he, looking up at Kornicker.

'Yes, but always under protest, as to our breakfasting together,' said Mr. Kornicker, winking at him. 'Don't forget that.'

'Of course. Now, my son, what trimmings have you got?' said he to the boy.

''Taters.'

'Are they kidneys, blue-noses, or fox?--and will they bu'st open white and mealy?'

'They'm prime,' replied the boy.

'Bring one for me; or, stop--are they extra?'

'We throws them in with the steak, gratis.'

'Then bring a dishful, with coffee, bread, and whatever else adds to the breakfast, without adding to the bill.'

The boy, having no other interest in the establishment than that of securing his own wages and meals, was highly delighted at this considerate order of Mr. Scrake, and forthwith disappeared to obey it.

In the meanwhile Mr. Scrake, after having deliberately re-perused the bill of fare, and not observing any thing else which could be got for nothing, laid it down, and looking at Mr. Kornicker, who was gazing abstractedly at the table-cloth, said that he hoped he (Mr. Scrake) was not going to be impertinent; and as Mr. Kornicker made no other reply than that of looking at him, as if he considered it a matter of some doubt whether he was or was not, he elucidated the meaning of his remark, by inquiring who Michael Rust was.

'The old gentlemen that caters for me,' replied Kornicker, carelessly.

'And does he make you eat alone?'

'If I dine double, he'll stop the prog, that's all.'

'A sing'lar bargain--quite sing'lar; very sing'lar, in fact. Does he keep a tight eye over you?'

Mr. Kornicker did not exactly know what kind of an eye a tight eye was, but he replied: 'Sometimes he does, sometimes he don't. He's nigh enough to do it. His office is overhead.'

'Lawyer, I suppose?--_must_ be,' said Mr. Scrake, drumming carelessly on the table.

'You're out, old fellow. I'm with him, and should know something of him; and he isn't.'

'Ah!' said the stranger, leaning back and yawning, and then sharpening his knife on the fork. 'What is he then?'

Mr. Kornicker raised his finger gently to his nose, winked so violently at Mr. Scrake that he caused that gentleman to stop short in his performance to look at him; after which he shut both eyes, and gave vent to a violent inward convulsion of laughter.

'What _is_ he?' repeated Kornicker, in a tone of high surprise; then sinking his voice, and leaning over the table, he whispered confidentially in Mr. Scrake's ear: 'He's hell.'

'No! he isn't though, is he?' said Mr. Scrake, dropping his knife and fork, and sinking back in his chair.

'Yes he is,' repeated Mr. Kornicker; 'and if you was a certain gentleman that I know, you'd find it out. _He_ will some day, I rather think.'

'Are _you_ that individual?' inquired Mr. Scrake, with an air of deep interest.

'No, I ain't, but I suspect some one else is. But come,' said he, 'there's the breakfast, so let's be at it, and drop all other discussion.'

This remark found an answering echo in the stomach of Mr. Scrake, who resumed the sharpening of his knife, as the breakfast entered the room, and did not desist until the steak was on the table, when he immediately assaulted it.

'Shall I help you? What part will you take?'

'Any part,' replied Kornicker, carelessly.

'Well, it's sing'lar; I never could carve. I'll help you as I would help myself,' said Mr. Scrake, in his ignorance depositing on Mr. Kornicker's plate an exceedingly tough piece of dry meat, and upon his own a cut which was remarkably tender and juicy.

'Do you always help yourself as you have helped me?' said Mr. Kornicker, snuffing with great deliberation, and eyeing his portion with no very contented eye.

'Always, always.'

'Then you do yourself d----d great injustice.'

'Ha! ha! good--very good; sheer ignorance on my part, upon my soul. But you were telling me about this man, this Rust,' said Mr. Scrake, mashing his potatoes, and entombing a lump of butter in the heart of a small pyramid of them. 'You said he was hell, or the devil, or something of that sort. What then? Eh?'

Kornicker, though not at all pleased with the ignorance of his companion, in the particular branch in which it had just displayed itself, was not of a sulky disposition, and was easily won into a communicative mood, particularly as Mr. Scrake begged him, with tears in his eyes, to tell him which was the best part of a beef-steak, so that he might avoid in future the mortification of being guilty of a similar error.

As the coffee went down, and the beef-steak followed, Mr. Scrake seemed to relax, and to forget that his hat hung over his head, commemorative of the recent retirement of Mrs. Scrake from this 'wale of tears,' and became quite jocular on the subject of the fair sex, congratulating Kornicker upon his looks; calling him a lucky dog, and telling him that if _he_ were him, he'd 'make up to some charming young woman with a fortune, and be off with her.' He then went into a detail of his own juvenile indiscretions, relating many incidents of his life; some of which were amusing, some ridiculous, some tragic, some pathetic, and not a few quite indecent. It was wonderful what a devil that fat-cheeked, little-eyed, round-stomached fellow had been. Who could resist the influence of such a man? Not poor Kornicker; it gradually had its effect upon him, for he in turn grew communicative; talked freely of Rust, and of every man, woman and child of his acquaintance. He grew merry over the rare doings which had taken place in Rust's den. He then descanted upon the peculiarities of the old man; his fierce fits of passion, his cold, shrewd, caustic manners, his coming in, and his going out; how long he was absent; how profoundly secret he kept himself, his doings, his whereabouts, and his mode of life. 'And,' said he, in conclusion, 'I know nothing of him. He's a queer dog, a wonderfully queer one. It would take a long time to fathom him, I can tell you. I've been with him for a long time; and am his confidential adviser, his lawyer, and all that sort of thing; and yet I've never done but two things for him.'

'You don't say so!' exclaimed Mr. Scrake, laying down his knife and fork; and looking at him with his mouth open; 'and pray what _were_ those things?'

'I sued one man,' (being a lawyer you know,) said he, nodding in an explanatory way at Mr. Scrake, 'and carried a letter to another.'

'Ah! and who were those fortunate individuals?'

'Poh! I suppose there's no secret about it. The man sued, was one Enoch Grosket. The other was one Henry Harson; a jolly old boy he _was_ too. I breakfasted with him; a prime fellow; keeps a d----d ugly cur, though.'

'Enoch Grosket, Henry Harson!' said the stranger, musing; 'I've heard of them, I think. Who are they?'

'It is more than I can tell,' replied Kornicker. 'That's the mystery of my situation. I know nothing about any thing I'm doing, or of him, or his acquaintances.'

'Why, you must know what you sued the man for,' said Mr. Scrake, earnestly; 'you must know _that_, surely.'

'Yes, but it's a height of knowledge which don't carry much information with it,' replied Mr. Kornicker. 'I sued him on a promissory note. What he made it for, or how Rust got it, or any thing more about him, or it, or Harson, or Rust, I know as little as you.'

The stranger drew himself up, and looking at him gravely, said in a serious and even stern tone: 'Do you mean to say that you are entirely ignorant of every thing respecting this Rust; his family, his business, his acquaintances, his associates, his habits, his plans and operations?'--in short, that you know nothing more than you have mentioned to me?'

The other nodded.

'Waiter, my bill,' said he in a peremptory tone.

The boy brought him a slip of paper, on which was written the amount.

He paid it without a word; walked across the room, took down his hat, put it on his head, and turning to Kornicker, said in a tone of solemn earnestness: 'Young man, you're in a bad way, a _very_ bad way. Had I known with what people you were in the habit of associating before I sat down at that table, Ezra Scrake's legs and yours would never have been under the same mahogany. A man in the employ of another and know nothing of him! It's enormous! He might be a murderer, a thief; a man-slaughterer; a Burker, an arsoner, or any thing that is bad. Young man, in spite of the injury you've done me, I pity you; nay, I forgive you.'

Mr. Kornicker, was merely waiting for an opportunity to suggest to him that his company had not only been unsought, but actually forced upon him, and even under his solemn protest. But before he could do so, Mr. Scrake was in the street; whereupon, on ascertaining that he was out of the hearing of Mr. Kornicker, he muttered to himself: 'It was no go. Waited for him two hours; then spent an hour in pumping a dry well. Enoch Grosket, has sent me on a fool's errand. Michael Rust knows too much to trust that addle-headed fool.'

Having given vent to these observations, he deliberately buttoned up his coat, and walked off.

CHAPTER TWENTIETH.