The Knickerbocker | Page 9

heat, autumn's
maturing season, And learned vicissitudes are not in vain?
But from the varied page outspread before thee, Garner'd of wisdom for
thy fleeting days, Whether the sunshine or the storm be o'er thee,
Forward to look with hope, and trust, and praise?
Newport, Rhode-Island, Dec., 1843. E. R. G. H.

THE IDLEBERG PAPERS.
A CHRISTMAS YARN.
At Christmas every body is or should be happy. The genial influence of
the season lightens alike the lofty hall and the lowly cottage. It is the
same at home or abroad, on the land or the billow, in royal purple or in
ragged poverty; here and every where, to one and to all, it is always
'merrie Christmas.' At such a time there is an obligation due from every
man to society, to be happy, and the more cheerfully it is paid, the
better. The man who would be found scowling and glowering like a
thunder-cloud, cherishing his private griefs or animosities at a time

when every other countenance is glowing with light, and hope, and
sunshine, should be denied all the charities of humanity, and exiled to
Kamschatka, or some other inhospitable clime, to growl and fret with
the wild beasts, or the wilder elements.
How dear is the light of home when glowing with the fires of
Christmas! What though the elements be wild without, or Jack Frost
blow his whistling pipe at the door, or fierce winds rumble down the
chimney, and tell of sweeping gusts and howling storms abroad, if
within and around that charmed circle is breathed the spirit of kindness
and affection! Should the titled stranger or the ragged beggar knock,
throw wide open the doors of thy hospitality; and while prattling
infants recount the joys of the season, and school-boy striplings pursue
their holiday sports, and gray-haired men who have traversed the wide
world over, tell how in all their wanderings they have never passed a
Christmas from home; he will turn his thoughts with a melancholy
pleasure to the distant fireside beyond the sea, and to the friends who
are gathered there, and wonder where the wanderer is spending his
Christmas.
With all respect for the ancient and honorable class of 'old bachelors,'
whose sympathy and good fellowship we most earnestly desire, be it
said, that if to any it is allowed to be miserable at Christmas, it surely is
to them. We would not for the world say aught to heighten the sad
picture of their social desolation, by dwelling on the thousand tender
endearments of home, the ten thousand cords of love, of which they
know nothing. Certain it is, that to many of them 'merrie Christmas'
brings only pangs of remorse; and we have known more than one
crusty member of the fraternity, who on such occasions would rush
incontinently from the scene and the sound of merriment, and shut
themselves under lock and key, until the storm was passed, and people
have recovered their lost senses.
Such an one, however, we are proud to say, was not TOM HARDESTY,
though bachelor he was, in the superlative degree. Every body
wondered how he managed to preserve his good-humor and vivacity
under the frosts of three-score winters. At the period of this authentic

history, Tom was the village grocer; a station he had filled to his own
profit and the town's convenience until he had become a piece of
village furniture, necessary to its existence as a corporation. His little
store, with its great variety of commodities, adapted to every human
want, was in itself a perfect 'curiosity-shop.' Odd-looking boxes, kegs,
chests, casks, barrels and hogsheads, contained his groceries, drugs and
dye-stuffs. A few remnants of domestic prints and muslins, together
with stray fragments of broadcloth, constituted his stock of dry-goods.
Then there was a modicum of hardware and cutlery; a few
spelling-books and new testaments for a book store; and sundry jars
and bottles filled with fancy-colored powders and liquids, for an
apothecary shop. His remaining list of commodities was made up of
hats, caps and bonnets, boots and shoes, tin-pans and looking-glasses,
slate-pencils and sifters; and as his standing advertisement in the
village newspaper duly notified the public, 'other articles too numerous
to mention--call and see for yourselves.' If any body desired an article
nobody ever heard of before, he could find a large lot thereof at Tom
Hardesty's; and if any lucky or ingenious wight had found or made any
thing that nobody else would have as a gracious gift, let him call on Mr.
Hardesty, and it was the very thing he wanted. In a word, his shop was
a grand dépôt for every article the ingenuity of man could devise, or his
necessities require.
What a blessed convenience was Tom Hardesty! How could we have
gotten along