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The sun was rising o'er the fields of corn;
Sken.-"Our clan encamp'd, Acquiunk falls anigh,
Have never known, as thrill'd Skenandoh brave,
And many an antler crown'd the day with spoil:
Then joy ascends the snow-clad hills along,
The piercing whirlwind hast'ning o'er the main
Or as the elm sublimely tow'rs above,
grace and beauty, 'midst the humble grove,
Pierc'd the stern heart, and drew each warrior's eye.
Caught by her charms---confess'd his ardent flame :
Owampah blushing, look'd at me and smil'd."
Oneko." My children pause! the hour no more prolong ; These woods---this stream bear witness of your song:
Each hath deserved the prize, the task be mine
The victor's plume upon your brows to twine.
See yonder sun declines behind the hill,
«Alas, poor Yorick!-a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy." "Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come."
JOB COOK is no more; and, what is still worse, Job Cook's nephew has, in conjunction with faithful old Toby, followed his loving uncle to that silent mansion, where pills and powders are no more necessary. He has at last fallen a victim to the too exquisite sensibility of his feelings.
From the time of the departure of his master, Dr. Langlancet, "to another and a better world," he was scarcely ever seen to smile; in another number of this journal, he has, with his own masterly pen, exhibited the melancholy with which the demise of his master's old antagonist, Dr. Polypus, affected him; and I myself witnessed the painful assiduity with which he watched over, soothed, and softened, the last hours of poor Harry Slender. His friends hoped that time and his professional avocations, would gradually dissipate the melancholy which seemed to forever fixed upon his pale brow. The kind attentions of all around him visibly had their effect: he would sometimes mingle in society, and even assume a cheerful air. But, when there was every reason to hope that his cure was certain, the death of his uncle Job Cook, his chief companion, friend, counsellor and patient, overwhelmed him
with grief: he withdrew himself from all society :-no entreaties could induce him to leave his room, and to seek relief from his woes in the pleasures of the town, or in the retirement of the country. No person, save black Toby, was willingly admitted to his solitary chamber, where, with Toby's assistance, he is supposed to have amused his last hours, by composing the account of his uncle which appeared in the last Atlantic.
Shortly after the publication of that article, a message was left at my office, requesting me to call immediately on Job Cook's nephew. I hastened to the house, and was instantly conducted to his bed-side. The hand of death was upon him. Those eyes, which once sparkled with the fire of genius, were now sunk deep in their sockets, and emitted an unearthly and glassy gaze. He motioned to me to sit down by his bed-side, and, after a pause of a few moments, which my feelings would not permit me to interrupt, he spoke as follows:-"My friend, I feel that I am fast sinking into an early grave, and I only regret it on one account. You know that I have hitherto been a large contributor to the Atlantic Magazine; but I now feel that 'Job Cook' is the last of my living productions which will adorn its pages. In the farthest corner of my medicine chest, you will find my posthumous works. To you I bequeath them. If you find any thing worthy of the pages of the Atlantic, let it appear, as soon as you have time to arrange my papers." I promised the most religious attention to his directions; but, finding that he had exhausted himself by the effort he had made in speaking, I entreated him to endeavour to compose himself to rest. He said he would follow my advice, and requested me, in the mean time, to visit poor old Toby's garret-room, and administer some comfort to that faithful old servant, who was now confined to his bed by age and sickness. I left him, promising to return in an hour, and mounted to Toby's attic.
Poor Toby was evidently near death's door. The vibrations of his pulse were almost imperceptible. To every question put to him, he only answered by a shake of his head. On inquiring into the immediate cause of Toby's illness, I was informed that some one of the family had read the account of Job Cook's last expedition and death to him; from which time, the poor old fellow had never held up his head. He had only remarked, that "it was bad enough to lose poor old master Job, but that he had never known how bad it'svas, until he had heard young master's account of it read by old Sukey." I now perceived that Toby's aspect was rapidly changing. His last moment had arrived. He fixed his rayless eyes upon me, shook his head three times, and moved no more.
According to my promise, I returned to the room of Job Cook's nephew, within an hour from the time I had left it. The sudden change which had taken place within that brief hour, was inexplicable to me, until the nurse whispered to me, that he had been informed of Toby's death. It was too late now to blame the folly of that babbling tongue which had plunged another dagger into his sensitive heart, but I cursed it in my soul. I approached his bed-side. In a tone, so languid as to render it inaudible to any, but the achingly sharp, ears of friendship, he said to me :-"My friend, it is all overpoor old Toby-my posthumous works-remember-Job. Cook." Finding that he was wasting the fluttering spark of life that remained to him, I gently prayed him not to exhaust himself by conversation. He appeared to understand me, and was silent for a moment. But no-he understood me not. In a voice, still more languid than before, he uttered," Jobmy last work-Toby-Job-Job-Job Cook." His soul had flitted to mansions of eternal rest, where there are no distinctions of rank or colour, and where Job Cook, his nephew, and his faithful Toby shall be united to all eternity.
In strict accordance with my friend's last behest, I proceeded, immediately after his obsequies had been completed, to examine the contents of the "farthest corner of his medicine chest." The characteristics of genius were no less manifest in the "confusion worse confounded" which reigned among his papers, than in the excellence of the scattered morsels of prose and poetry which I found. Two sonnets, the one addressed to C. T., (probably some female friend of the deceased,) and the other to a Rose,-attracted my particular notice. But, unfortunately, the sonnet addressed to C. T. was so firmly affixed to a Burgundy pitch plaster, that I was forced to content myself with as much of it as the transparency of the pitch would allow me to read; and that to a Rose, had been so long embedded in a package of assafoetida, that my olfactories expressed so much indignation at its vicinity, as to compel me to desist from its perusal, ere I had half completed it.
In short, I found that it would be impossible for me to arrange the papers in time to present any of my friend's posthumous works to the public in the present number of this magazine, and have, in the mean time, endeavoured, in the following simple narrative of facts, to supply that corner of the Atlantic which my ever-to-be-lamented friend has hitherto filled with so much credit to himself and satisfaction to his friends..
A Narrative of Matters of Fact.
For I had charge sick persons to attend,
And comfort those in point of death which lay;
O man! have mind of that last bitter throw;
O pardon, and vouchsafe with patient eare
In which great rule of temp'raunce goodly doth appeare.
To get a miserable breakfast, in a negro's cellar, at eight A. M., for which four shillings are demanded; to saunter about,in dry weather, through dust and horses, and carts and stages, and their drivers; in wet weather, through mud and water, and swine and men-until noon; when, in the midst of the crowd, I must stretch my neck, and strain my eyes, in order to read the anxiously expected "Report of the Board of Health," affixed, like the laws of Caligula, to a lofty pillar, and written in a cramped and almost illegible hand; to waste three hours more in listless inaction, waiting for the dinner bell of Sykes or Niblo; then to squeeze one's self between two fat, hungry citizens, regardless of every one's wants but their own; and when, owing to the vacuity made by some half dozen busy and fasteating traders, one hopes, at last, to have a chance at some half-devoured, half-cooked, and entirely mangled dish, to find the table surrounded by the,countless swarm of the clerks who succeed their masters; to rise from the table, despairing of dinner, and pay for what has not been eaten; to waste the interval betwixt dinner and supper time in walking ten miles to find a friend who, in searching for you, continually contrives to elude your pursuit; and then, to sum up all, to throw yourself, with internal thanks for your good fortune, on a straw pallet, in a wretched garret, sufficiently heated to roast turkies' eggs, -where you toss and tumble until morning, when you arise to a repetition of the self-same pleasant recreation :-These are a few of the comforts which were enjoyed by myself, during the months of July and August, 1822; and by the other tenants of Greenwich village, for a much longer time.
Towards the conclusion of August, I began to think it high