Part 8

The shop doors are all open, and through one of them is discovered a man with a lathered face, the sunshine lying half way up his lap, a white barber holding his nose, and a small black one whisking about the room with a brush. Every little while the small barber goes out to the door-steps to pull at the ears of a dog that lies asleep on the side-walk, and then back again to brush with renewed vigor. It is not fly-time, but he is whisking for a picayune. And this is all that can be seen of Savannah during the impatient half-hour of the day. At the end of that time, a black head appears at your door and asks, 'Will massa please walk down to dinner?' which being repeated three times to make you fully understand the meaning, you follow the head to the first floor, and sit down to constituents from all parts of the land. Delicate preparations from the interior, the substantials from Charleston market, the luxuries of the Florida coast, and West-Indian fruits freshly-gathered, are all there, to help charm away the hour. Beside, there are pleasant faces and bright eyes about you, and not the slightest jar to disturb your digestion. Those who like to doze or dream over the last half hour, will find the low murmur of table-talk as lulling as a brook in a June night. After dinner you step into the street with renewed conviction that stomach and climate have more to do with one's religion than most people imagine. The wide street that opens to the south (every one knows how beautiful are the streets in Savannah) leads past a cemetery, where of course it is very still and solemn, but it is equally so in every other, save the one that skirts the river bank; and even there the cawing of the crows a mile distant over the river comes to the ear as distinctly as in the shut-up mountains of the Highlands. Fifty feet below are the outward-bound ships, stowing away their cotton for the East, and from their gloomy depths comes up the half-smothered, never-ending song of the negro slave. All day long you may hear the same monotonous, melancholy cry, a little exaggerated as the labor varies; and, with only at long intervals a louder quack from some bold crow venturing over, or the far-off scream of a boat coming down the river, there is nothing to prevent your taking a siesta, wherever the humor of the moment is disposed to be lazy.

The journey south from Savannah was formerly made in what is called the inland passage, between the Sea Islands and the main land. The boat that ran in those waters, some seven or eight years since, promising to reach Picolata as soon as the weather and tide would permit, was a small fussy affair, lying very low in the water, with no cabin under deck, but hatchways very convenient to fall through, and a power of engine, equal to--say five hundred cats. It also had about the same power of screaming, and was steered by a big black on the upper deck, with the old-fashioned tiller. Much of this inland channel is narrow and crooked, running for long distances through immense marshes, where the passage was alike solemn and slow. If the helmsman happened to look aside for a moment, it needed but a slight penchant either way for the boat to go ashore; but the motion was never so great as to send us very far inland, and by the help of setting-poles and reversed wheels, we were soon made to float again. But it would sometimes come to pass, that in working with the one desire of getting the boat off, the captain and his men forward and the big helmsman aft would not amalgamate in their operations, and the boat when launched would be heading the wrong way. In such cases, we had to run back to find a place wide enough to turn in, or go ashore again very carefully, and repeat the operation. As this occurred pretty often, and the captain always found some landing-place to rest over night, it was only after many days, and a die-away scream, as though the poor old thing was breathing its last, that the boat reached its destination. _Now_, the boats are intended to be sea-worthy, and when the weather is pleasant, the passage is made outside, running in between the islands occasionally to the landings on the coast, and stopping at St. Mary's the last night, so as to pass the bar at St. Augustine by daylight. The tide of those inland seas and rivers seems to be very sluggish; but a little incident occurred a few years since, showing the contrary, in no very contemptible manner. Half a dozen of us had taken passage for St. Augustine, and the third day out, just after we had passed the St. Johns, the wind suddenly freshened from the south, and the boat pitched about to such a degree, that we decided upon running back and making the harbor. The captain had never passed the bar, and the breakers were in one continued dash of foam for miles, presenting no passage to the eye; but a gentleman on board said he knew the way, and under his pilotage we floundered through; and avoiding a wreck that was rolling about near the scene of its disaster the day previous, we ran up to Pablo and fastened to a schooner that was secured to a dock; shortly after, a government steamer came in and made fast to us outside, so that the three vessels and the dock, which was quite long, extended some distance into the river. After a stroll of some hours on shore, prying into the bushes very carefully, for fear of Indians, we went back to supper, condoled with the ladies upon sea-sickness, discussed the probability of an Indian attack, and went to bed. The night soon fell, solemn and still; so still that the small talk of the pelicans over the river might have been heard distinctly; that is, if any one had been awake to listen; but some time between midnight and morning, there was a sudden shock, something like an earthquake, only more personal; after which a shouting and tramping, but no yells, as in that case it would have been an Indian attack. What could be the matter? We might have been struck with lightning, or, as any thing is possible to our apprehension, it might be that the boiler had burst, though the fire had gone out long ago; but then the engine would certainly have screamed at that; beside, in case of lightning, or steam, we should have smelt, or felt it, which we did not. All things considered, as there was no cry of fire, nor murder, we turned over in our berths, and went to sleep again. The next morning, going on deck, we found the boat anchored some two miles from shore; the government steamer still farther out on the west side; the schooner in another direction; the dock in pieces, hither and yon; and outside of all, dancing about in the breakers, was the wreck. Fine work, indeed, for Sunday morning! The old thing had gone up with the tide in the night, and getting a fair start, came down broadside on, and carried us all out to sea!

About nine o'clock, we fired up and ran down the coast, making St. Augustine early in the afternoon, to the great delight of the idlers who had marked our coming by the black line on the horizon, long before the boat was in sight. The coast of Florida above St. Augustine is not such as we should expect from the promised land; a smooth white beach with little hillocks of sand in the rear, having a stunted growth of scrub oak, with here and there a cabbage-tree, or palmetto, and in the spring a few large flowers of the Spanish-bayonet, looking in the distance like sentries with white feathers, posted on the verge of the sea.

St. Augustine, sheltered by an island in front, and a sea-wall running close along the town, presents only a long line of low, flat stone houses, with narrow sandy streets, a square in the centre with a church and cathedral, and at the upper end of the town, an old fort, looking as though it had been built in the time of Adam, and so, for that matter, looks the town. There is much, very much, that would be intolerable in any other latitude; but oh! beautiful, beautiful beyond all picturing, the climate! The first day you take to be the belle of the season; a little passée, and a little sad, you think, but for all that, very bewitching. Well, the next day rises and sets the same, with perhaps a brighter blush at parting; and after a fortnight of such, you feel an utter contempt for all the extras and extravaganzas of northern life. Your boxes of books are unopened, and so they remain all winter, with an increasing wonder that you ever cared for them, when the song, and the dance, and the _real_ poetry of life can so thoroughly fill the heart. Nothing under heaven to do, (so you say in writing home,) and yet with fishing, and riding, sea-bathing and nine-pins, pic-nics and dances, and the half dozen 'sociables' of the day, not forgetting the one 'round the corner,' you will go to bed in the small hours, with some urgent fancy still ahead, which will be fresh for the morning; and, sure that the sun will rise to-morrow, and abide with you, you neither hurry your dreams nor your breakfast. The devotional hour, to be sure, is at sunrise; but the Catholic bells are ringing at all hours of the day, and a man would be indolent indeed, who could not make out some religion from these multiplied conveniences.

So passes the day, the week, the month, the winter; and with so much done, there are so many pleasant things undone, that the longer you tarry the greater will be the throng to put a finger on your lips at the last good-bye. Verily, those who love pleasant faces and warm hearts will love St. Augustine. But it is not the place for all. The young, the eager, and the ambitious should not go into that silent land; and especially to those who have that kind of nervous irritation which requires _stimulants_ to allay, would the climate be frightful. Such persons would have the St. Vitus's dance. But the mentally-dyspeptic, and all those who have tired of crowds, and forced civilities; all those, in short, who in one way or another have 'had enough of it,' will find all true as above written.

Have you ever found yourself sitting up in bed after long illness, fever or delirium? You listen to the song of birds, and the thousand and one voices of the outside world, and wonder whether you are in the same old planet from which you retired long ago in sickness and disgust. You think back, and there is a confused memory of pain and trouble; of long nights in which you neither slept nor waked; of a kind hand that seemed ever vainly attempting to minister comfort about you, and of low tones sounding in your ear like voices in the dark: musing in this way, you sink back upon the pillow, with your face turned to the light, and after a little, begin to argue with yourself, very rationally as you think, whether _this_ too is not a dream, only pleasanter than usual; and then you dispute whether you were just now sitting up in bed, and deciding on the whole that _that_ too was a delusion, you fix your eyes upon the sunshine playing on the carpet, and sleep again. Half an hour afterward you wake to the touch of warm lips, the clasp of warm arms, and open your eyes to another's----and so forth.

Not unlike, in this quiet city of St. Augustine, is the feeling with which you thank GOD that you have escaped the fretting, restless fever of a northern life. As to the lips and arms, I say nothing; but oh! good-bye to the long faces, the sharp look of care and apprehension; the cold reply, the rush of the eager heartless throng; good-bye to all your cold things of the forty-second latitude! I look back upon the long line of a thousand miles, and say that your cold winds shall not reach me; your blustering northerners, and your blustering politics shall storm within their own dominions. Good-bye!

HEART-COMPENSATIONS.

THERE'S not a heart, however rude, but hath some little flower To brighten up its solitude, and scent the evening hour: There's not a heart, however cast by grief and sorrow down, But has some memory of the past, to love and call its own.

THE MEETING AT SEA.

SPOKEN--Sept. 5, Lat. 47 41, Lon. 12, ship South Carolina, OWEN, from Havre, for New-Orleans; (by the Rochester, at Cowes, from New Orleans, commanded by a son of Captain OWEN. They had not seen each other for several years, and the weather being fine, Captain OWEN of the Rochester made a visit to his parent.)

SHIPPING LIST.

WHEN amber skies hung o'er the wave, And autumn winds were light, And neither sea-fowl dipped his bill, Nor petrel took her flight; When o'er the ocean here and there A tremulant ripple swept, And on the vast Atlantic's breast A deepening silence slept; The captain of a gallant ship, with hearty sailors manned, Paced slowly o'er the quarter-deck, and all the horizon scanned.

The stamp of youth not yet removed, He trode with manly grace; His heart unhurt by brooding woes, No wrinkle marred his face; Yet, with a brow sunburnt and broad, An eye with eagle's fire, A stalwart form, might well work out Ambition's proud desire; He for the moment felt a thrill as tender yet as wild As e'er touched woman's bosom, or the heart of sunny child.

Afar, and yet how far it was! A white speck caught his eye, Most like the wing of some fair bird, Between the wave and sky; But though along the trackless deep Such things were often seen, The sailor's eye was moistened, And he showed an altered mien; Whoe'er could then have looked upon the compass of his soul, Had marked the needle of quick joy point truly to Hope's pole.

'Make sail! make sail! ay, 'fore and aft, Below, and up aloft; Spread wide the billowy canvass, To catch the breezes soft. My spirit feels, that ere this day Shall deepen into shade, Or ere these winds shall all expire, Or sunset colors fade, I'll grasp a hand, and clasp a form, ungrasped, unclasped for years!' 'Ay, ay! make sail!' the seamen cried, 'stand by to haul, with cheers!'

Then glided fleetly o'er the wave That tall and graceful ship, While ripples murmured at her bow, As words from woman's lip; The dark keel glided onward, O'er beds of tinted shell, And shaded from the intruding sun Full many a mermaid cell. Joy was around her--joy above, as on her path she went, Like some o'er-joyful messenger, on welcome errand sent.

As some white cloud which riseth up Through Heaven's eternal blue, That speck in the horizon rose, And broader, larger grew. Full soon three taper top-masts lie Outlined against the sky, And from the halliards, waving out, Three well-known signals fly; 'Bear down! 'tis he! my noble Sire! as cherished on the seas As when, a child, I clambered up, to prattle on his knees!'

* * * * *

Behold! two ships upon the deep, With canvass partly furled, And flags that droop along their masts, By breezes scarcely curled: No sound of flapping rope is heard, No creak of heavy block; But side by side, and easily, Those meeting vessels rock. 'My son! my father!' Both have met upon that ocean-plain, And thoughts of home and childhood-life crowd on their hearts again!

_New-Orleans, Oct., 1843._ A. C. AINSWORTH.

THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.

HARRY HARSON.

CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.

MICHAEL RUST sat in his office with his arms twined round his knees, and his chin bowed down to them, like a wild beast crouching to spring. His thin cheek was thinner than on the day before; his hair tangled and matted; and, unconsciously, he grated his teeth, and muttered to himself. But he neither moved, nor changed his position; and the black flashing eye, which darted hither and thither, never resting, even for a moment, alone showed that his mind was on the alert.

He was awaiting the return of his messenger, who was exceedingly dilatory. Step after step came and went. Persons ascended and descended the stairs; and as the morning advanced, and the hours of business approached, the sound of out-door bustle increased, until a perfect current of human beings seemed to pour through the street. Still, Rust sat there in silence, watching the return of his clerk. Once, he fancied that he distinguished his voice in the entry. He got up, opened the door, and looked out; a strange man was loitering in the passage, but no one else. He shut it, dragged a chair to the middle of the room, stamped it down heavily, and flung himself into it, gnawing his fist with impatience. Ha! a step slowly ascended the stairs. He was certain this time. It was Kornicker. There was no mistaking that heavy, irregular tread; but, nevertheless, Rust did not stir until the door opened and Kornicker walked in.

'Your answer!' said Rust, looking at him, as if to read his success in his features.

'He'll come.'

'When?'

'He didn't say,' replied his clerk, shutting the door by butting his shoulder against it.

'Did he write?'

'No.'

'Good!' replied Rust, abruptly. 'Any thing else?'

'No. If you're done with me, I'll get my breakfast.'

'Go.'

Kornicker departed, and Rust relapsed into his old attitude, occasionally biting his nails, or passing his fingers through his matted hair, or casting a suspicious glance toward the door.

Half an hour had passed, and Rust was absorbed in his own dreams, when he was startled by a heavy step at his door. He sat up in his chair, and listened attentively, holding his breath. There was something in that step which he did not like. It was calm, slow, and deliberate. He hoped that it would pass on, but it did not. Two hard knocks at the door followed.

'Come in,' said Rust, without rising.

The door opened, and Harson and Holmes entered. Still Rust sat where he was, with his black eyes peering from beneath his heavy brows, and glancing from face to face.

'I'm seeking a Mr. Rust,' said Harson, advancing.

'That's me. My name is Rust,' was the laconic answer.

'And mine is Harson,' replied the other. 'I received this, this morning,' said he, pointing to the letter which he had received from Kornicker, 'and have come to keep the appointment proposed in it.'

Rust moved uneasily on his chair, and turned to the lawyer; for some moments he did not speak; but at last, seeing that no farther efforts at opening a conversation were made by his visitors, he pointed to Holmes, and asked:

'Is that gentleman's name Henry Harson, too?'

'No,' replied Harson.

'Then he wasn't invited here. My note was to Henry Harson, and to no one else. My conversation is to be on private matters, which I don't choose to make known to every body.'

'Perhaps it is as well that I should go,' said Holmes, without any trace of anger. 'I'll leave you, Harry, and will return in half an hour.'

He was leaving the room, when Harson laid his hand on his arm, and said: 'No, no; don't go, Dick; I can't spare you.' Turning to Rust he added: 'There are no secrets between this man and me, and I don't intend that there shall be. So, what you have to say, you must speak out before us both, or keep it to yourself.'

Rust eyed him for a few moments in silence, with his thin lips closely compressed, and then looked on the floor, apparently making up his mind. At length he said, in a slow tone: 'So you _will_ have him here, will you? Well, be it so. Should what I say hit hard, thank yourself that one more knows it than is necessary!'

He went to the table and took up a letter, which he handed to Harson. 'Did you write that?'

Harson opened it, and ran his eye over it. 'I did,' said he. 'How came _you_ by it?'

'No matter. You'll find that out, some day; but not now. I may have borrowed it, I may have found it, or bought it, or begged it, or stolen it. Michael Rust, you know, is not too good to do any thing. I think you hinted something of the kind in it.'

Harson passed the letter to Holmes, who seating himself, deliberately perused it, and turned it over, and examined the back, with a kind of habitual caution. There was a smile upon his lips, as he read it, that puzzled Rust. 'It's not at all improbable that he _may_ have stolen it,' said he, folding it up, and returning it to Harson. 'The language is free, but no doubt it is deserved.'

Rust's eyes fairly shot fire, as they encountered the calm, steady gaze of the old lawyer. But he could not look him down, and he turned away and said:

'I'm not fond of law, or there is that in that letter which, if revenged in a court of justice, would fall heavily upon the writer of it.'

'Perhaps so, perhaps so,' said Holmes, in reply.

'Well, Sir, I'll not waste time about this matter, but will state why I sent for you; which was, not to ask favors, but to warn you against the consequence of your own acts. For weeks, a man whose gray hairs might have brought him prudence, has been at work in the dark, tracking my footsteps, prying into my actions; throwing out insinuations against me; asserting nothing openly, but doing every thing in secret; working with the vilest tools, and frequenting the haunts of the very offscouring of the earth. It was a noble pursuit,' said he, bitterly, 'and it was worthy of the person upon whom I was at last able to fix it. That person was _you_,' said he, pointing to Harson. 'Stop, Sir!' said he, seeing that Harson was going to speak, 'stop, Sir. Your turn will come. Hear what _I_ yet have to say. I have told you what you have done; I have told you too that I hated law; but if you think that I am the man to be hunted down like a beast, and branded in the eyes of the world, with impunity, you don't know Michael Rust.'

Harson's fingers had gradually closed, until his fist grew into a form not unlike the head of a sledge-hammer; and for a short time it was a matter of no small doubt whether it would not light upon the sharp, fierce face that glared upon him. But a cautioning glance from Holmes called him to himself; and he replied in a manner which, if less to the point, was at least more peaceable: 'What I _have_ done, I will abide by; what I _intend_ to do, you'll find out, and that soon. Take your own course, and I'll take mine. If you are innocent, you'll not be injured; if you are not, you'll get your deserts.'

Rust bit his lips at this quiet answer. 'Perhaps,' said he, in a low, sneering tone, 'since you seem to be so anxious to pry into my conduct, you may obtain more authentic information by applying to me in person; and perhaps you will not object to make my misdeeds, of which you hint so freely, known to _me_, who certainly am interested in learning what they are.'

Harson drew Holmes to the other end of the room, where they whispered together for some moments; after which, Holmes turned to Rust, and said:

'Your name, I think, is Michael Rust?'

'That _is_ my name,' replied Rust, bowing stiffly.

'And you accuse Mr. Harson of having endeavored to injure your character?'

'I do,' replied Rust.

'Perhaps your memory may lead you astray, and his remarks and allusions may refer to another than yourself.'

Michael Rust turned from him with a contemptuous smile; and then tapping the letter with his finger, said: 'Ink never forgets. Henry Harson and his friend may both vary their story, but this is always the same, and the slanders once uttered against me _here_, are here still unchanged and unsoftened.'

'Against _you_?' repeated Holmes. 'Read it again. _You_ are not even mentioned in it.'

Rust glanced at it; and the lawyer thought that for a moment he observed a change in his features. If so, it was but momentary; for he answered in the same low tone, though perhaps with even more of a sneer: