Bankrupt Stories
Author: Charles Frederick Briggs
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

BANKRUPT STORIES,

EDITED BY

HARRY FRANCO.

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NEW-YORK:

PUBLISHED BY JOHN ALLEN,

139 Nassau Street.

1843.

Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1843 by
JOHN ALLEN,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States in and for the Southern District of New-York.

Joseph Snowden, Pr.
71 Gold st.

INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.

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WILL GIVE AN ACCOUNT OF THE ORIGIN OF THESE STORIES.

A COMPANY of broken merchants and speculators, who had often been brought together in a certain attorney's office in the neighborhood of the City Hall, while undergoing the legal process of being washed from the taint of debt, one day being all assembled in the ante-room of their lawyer, began to question each other in regard to their future prospects of business and wealth. And upon hearing each other's expectations there was found to be a most wonderful coincidence in their prospects, which to say true were no expectations at all; but rather a hazy kind of an apprehension that the times would change, and by some unforeseen accident restore them to the position in which they were once placed. There was also found to be a most striking coincidence in regard to their present possessions; for they all confessed to an entire and very perfect destitution of everything in the shape of a circulating medium, whether of paper or metal. Perhaps this similarity of condition in these unfortunate gentlemen, should not, strictly speaking, be called a striking coincidence, since it is known to all the world that our humane bankrupt law makes no distinction in its victims, but strips them all alike; so that the great merchant who has disbursed millions and the little trader whose debts have hardly reached to thousands, the man with a dozen children, and the man without any, suddenly find themselves on as dead a level as though death himself had struck them down. For the law with great humanity, takes the gold ring from the bankrupt's wife, which may be the last remnant left to her of the lore and tenderness which misfortune and care have almost obliterated; lest the unfortunate creditor should lose the tenth part of a mill, which the sale of it may afford him.

To a man who has been born poor, and who all his life has lived poor, poverty is not a very terrible evil; it is his natural condition, to which he has instinctively moulded himself, and his wants are no greater than his means of satisfying them; his appetite is good, his sleep refreshing, his cares few, and his friends sincere; for no one thinks it worth his while to play the hypocrite to a man who has nothing to give or to lend; the sun shines for him with as bright an aspect as for the rich; the fresh breeze kisses his cheek and plays with his locks, as though he were a part of the elements; the whole world out of doors is open to him, and the outsides of the houses of the rich, not unfrequently their best parts, are as much a source of pleasure to him as to their owners. His children are very dear to him, and almost always rise to a condition above their father's; and his wife, although compelled to labor hard and endure what other women might consider grievous burdens, is always true to him, and loves him better, as he does her, for the very toil and privation she has had to encounter for the sake of him and his children. But to the poor man who has once been rich, poverty is the deadliest ill that can befal him. When Poverty first comes to his dwelling, the first glance at her meagre image almost drives him mad, indeed, it not unfrequently happens that her cold frown kills him outright. But if he can sustain the first shock of her presence, the danger will soon be over, and day by day the unwelcome and hated visitant will grow less and less repulsive, until at last the poor man will marvel why she should have terrified him in the beginning. Absolute, unmitigated want, like pain and disease, must affect all alike, but this is not the kind of poverty we mean; such a condition is hardly known in our happy land, where there are few cases of suffering from want, except amongst the dissolute and idle; and they are always wretched, whether rich or poor.

The sudden breaking up and overturning in the family of a merchant when overtaken by bankruptcy, cannot be fully understood, except by those who have experienced it. It is like clipping the wings of a wild bird and shutting him up in a cage, to beat his breast against the cruel wires of his prison, while he catches a glimpse of the blue ether, where his mate and his companions are soaring with outstretched pinions above him. The real deprivation of the luxuries, or even comforts, in which he had been used to indulge, is not the chief cause of suffering with the poor bankrupt; it is the altered tone of those with whom he associated in his prosperity, which gives him his keenest pang. The easy air of familiarity of his equal, the deferential respect of his dependents, and above all the manner of his creditor, are suddenly changed in a night; his companion becomes cold, his dependent grows insolent, and his creditor looks at him with a suspicious glance, which seems to accuse him of embezzlement and fraud. Of a sudden he feels that his respectability has oozed away from him; and when he finds that he has got nothing but his character to depend upon, he begins to distrust his own virtue, as he discovers that it will neither gain him credit for a dollar, nor insure him the respect of his acquaintance; and he almost wishes that he had taken better care of himself when he had it in his power to do so. But he has given up to his creditors the last copper in his pocket; and he meets with no compassion from them, if they get a copper less than their dues. He remembers in his trouble how differently he had treated those who were indebted to him, and takes comfort in the recollection, but he wonders why men will continue to treat their fellow beings according to their possessions, and not according to their merits.

But the same cause which estranges the bankrupt from the world of the prosperous, attaches him with sympathetic bonds to his companions in adversity; and this little company of unfortunates having again met together in the dirty ante-room of their attorney's office, began to devise some means for recruiting their fortunes, and after a great variety of plans had been suggested, they at last determined, upon the proposition of one of their number, who had waited to hear all their plans before he suggested one himself to write their histories and publish them together for the profit of the whole. This plan was immediately adopted, because it was the only kind of business in which they could engage that required no capital to carry it on. But a difficulty arose at the very outset from the impossibility of selecting one of their number, acceptable to all the rest, who should act as editor in bringing their enterprize before the public. It so happened that every member of the association thought himself the best qualified, and the best entitled to the office; and as on several ballotings it was found that each member had one vote, and they were afraid to trust so important a matter to the decision of chance, lest the one least qualified should be elected, the whole business was very near being abandoned, when the member who had first proposed the plan of the association, now suggested the propriety of employing a disinterested editor, provided one could be found willing to undertake the duty for no other compensation than the honor arising from it, the whole of which he might monopolize, as it was not considered prudent for either of the bankrupts to appear in his own proper name, lest his creditors should put him into chancery to discover his share of the profits.

It will not be necessary to relate by what means the editor who has undertaken to usher these BANKRUPT STORIES into the world, was prevailed upon to accept of the office, or whether or not he consented upon the terms first proposed, namely: the privilege of appropriating to himself all the honor that he might be able to gather in the performance of his duties; but it may be well for the public to know that he stipulated for the right of rejecting any contribution, and of altering any part of a story which he might not approve.

The number of members of the association in the beginning was twelve; but as two of them, one a speculator in up-town lots and the other a stock-broker, confessed that their modesty would not allow them to publish the history of their past transactions to the world, and as they doubted their ability to invent a good story, the number of members was reduced to ten.

It was further agreed that no distribution of profits should take place until each member had furnished his proportion of narrative; and that not more than ten narratives should be published, unless it should be determined to allow the editor the compliment of publishing a number at his own risk, by his furnishing the story himself.

It was also agreed that each story, before it should be put into the hands of the editor, should be read by its author to the association, who should then decide by vote whether or not it were fit for publication, and in case it should be decided not to print it, the author, out of consideration to his feelings, might print it at his own expense, and retain all the profits arising from the sale of it.

These exact and business-like arrangements were urgently insisted upon by these poor bankrupts, who having suffered severely by too venturesome speculations, now that they had nothing to lose, showed a most commendable spirit of prudence. And perhaps it would be well for other authors if their works could be tested in some such manner, not only for the good of the reading public, who might then boldly purchase a new book without being at the trouble and expense of consulting a review to learn whether or no it were entitled to notice; but for the greater security of printers and publishers, who would thereby save themselves many losses, and be able to pay successful authors better than they now do; as it is a principle among publishers as it is with fashionable tailors, to compel their paying customers to make good the delinquencies of their non-paying patrons. And as a man when he buys a coat must contribute a pro rata per centage towards defraying the expense of his neighbor's out-fit which otherwise would never be paid for, so must the successful author have a per centage deducted from the price of his MS., to help pay for the cost of publishing the works of the unread authors, whom his publisher may have had the misfortune to deal with. This system of compensation, must of course prevail in every other kind of business, although in these two it appears more obvious. Whenever you see an idle or a profligate person in the community, you may be sure that you pay your pro rata per centage towards his support, although you may not be able to detect the manner of his abstracting it from your pocket.

The authors of these Bankrupt Stories might not in an ordinary state of affairs, have felt themselves free to break through the established rules of a profession in their very first exercise of its privileges; but considering their peculiar position they trust that the trade and the public, without whose approbation they can have no possible hope of success, will wink at their innovation, and consent to receive them upon their own merits, without regard to the manner of their introduction.

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At the first regular meeting of the association, held on the thirty-first day of January A. D. 1843, at their rooms in Liberty Street, the story of the HAUNTED MERCHANT, was read by one of the late firm of Hoppersmith, Bluntwhistle and Rivetsom. It was listened to from beginning to end with profound attention; which was manifested not so much by the silence of the auditors, as by their frequent enquiries in regard to dates, and whether such and such a name were meant for so and so, and whether a certain firm well known to the association were not the original of a certain firm named in the history. To all such questions a very positive negative was given; and in reply to an enquirer whether or not the narrative were strictly true, and whether the narrator had impersonated himself in either of the characters, he replied that the history was mainly a true history, and that he had not attempted to impersonate himself, but that he must confess in regard to the spiritual appearance of one of the parties introduced, he had no more reliable authority than common report, although he did himself believe in the reality of that portion of the history as firmly as in any other. He was at first inclined to omit that part of it, thinking that it bore too near a resemblance to some of those uncertain personages known as the Chevaliers de la table ronde, who were too delicate in texture for these stern and exacting times, but that he had recently met with two gentlemen whose communications had silenced his scruples. One was a Swedenborgian, who assured him that he had frequently seen spirits, and he looked upon them as really matter of fact people, as any of the grocers in Front-st.; the other was a neurologist, who had explained to him the principle of ghost-seeing, by which it appeared that there was a ghost organ in the human brain, which enabled one to see spirits, just as there was an organ of tune which enabled one to distinguish discords and harmonies in musical sounds. From which he had come to the conclusion that it would be as absurd to dispute the existence of ghosts with one who had a full development of the ghost organ, as it would be to dispute with a musician the existence of harmony in one of Beethoven's Symphonies.

Hereupon one of the members of the association, Mr. B., stood up and said that he did not consider any apology necessary for the ghost, at all; and that for his part he liked the ghost much, as he did ghosts in general, although he had never had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of one; but that in his present circumstances, he heartily wished that the whole circle of his acquaintance, his creditors in particular, were of that order of beings, as he had understood that they were extremely partial to being entertained in the open air on cold nights, and he should be happy to return some of the substantial favors he had received by giving a soiree to his friends on the Battery some moonlight night, as it was the only place for which he could issue "at home" cards. As to the truth of the thing he had no misgivings, for he had a friend in whose veracity he would place the most entire reliance, who went the entire figure for spiritual visitants; he met this friend but a few days before, and upon asking the cause of his unusual seriousness of aspect, was told that he had just had an interview with his departed wife, who expressed great satisfaction at being permitted to see her husband once more, and replied in answer to his enquiry whether it would be agreeable to her that he should marry again, that it was perfectly indifferent to her; he might consult his own inclination, only she could assure him upon the word of a ghost that it was decreed that he would be re-united to her forever as soon as he made his appearance in her present place of abode.

"I wish," said Mr. J., another member of the association who had recently come out in a suit of deep mourning, "he had enquired whether that rule applied in all cases."

Mr. B. stated that as he had no personal motive for making the enquiry he did not do so, but that he would state for the benefit of any gentleman in affliction, as he was always on hand to do a good natured thing, that he did not doubt but that the rule was general.

The anxious enquirer in black, heaved a deep sigh in acknowledgement of the kind heartedness of his friend, but made no other response.

As the evening was far advanced towards midnight, several gentleman called out "question, question;" and upon putting it to vote it was decided by nine votes, almost unanimous, that the Haunted Merchant should be immediately put to press, the author himself having with great modesty voted a blank.

A motion to adjourn until the next regular meeting of the association having been moved and seconded it was put to vote and carried unanimously, whereupon the meeting adjourned.

THE HAUNTED MERCHANT.

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CHAPTER I.

CONTAINS MATTER INTENDED FOR THE SOLE PROFIT OF THE READER, BUT NOT BEING ESSENTIAL TO A DEVELOPMENT OF THE EVENTS CONTAINED IN THIS HISTORY, IT MAY BE SKIPPED BY THOSE WHO CAN AFFORD TO LOSE AN OPPORTUNITY OF INSTRUCTION.

THE most obvious facts are usually the most sturdily disputed. If this were not so the world would be freed from all abuses at sight. It has always been a principle amongst mankind to resist every attempt, by any one of their species, to better the condition of humanity, and hence every fact in science, religion and morals, as soon as it has been discovered has been fought against until the strength of the opposers has been exhausted and they have been compelled from necessity and not choice, to let the fact stand and shed its blessings upon them in spite of their gnashing their teeth against it. But it is impossible to fight long against so hard headed a monster as a Fact. Once in the world there it stands, and every one that has made its appearance remains as immoveable as the fixed stars. Your Fact rarely makes war, although his air of serene confidence generally provokes attack from the bully Falsehood who, with a strange fatality, always runs his soft head against a foe which he never conquered, and leaves his own kind, whom he might demolish, to swagger at will. What fact is more obvious than that which, with us, it has become a proverb of absurdity to question: namely that every man has a right to his own soul. And yet what fact has ever been so sturdily disputed. The whole world, from the day of the first transgression, has fought against it; Turk and Christian, Jew and Pagan have alike disputed it, even we, American democrats, do not fully acknowledge it. And yet we wonder at the English who acknowledge it less than ourselves; the English wonder at the French; the French wonder at the Germans; the Germans wonder at the Russians; the Russians wonder at the Turks; and the Turks wonder at the Chinese, who can wonder at nobody, unless they wonder at the absurdity of allowing man a soul at all. We are at this moment making a precious exhibition to the world of our unwillingness to acknowledge the existence of this simple fact. Last year, in a fit of foolhardiness, or in a moment of drunken generosity, we made a slight concession in regard to this thing, for we cannot admit the whole truth at once, but must do it by piece-meal, as a miser would dole out a dollar in pennies; we enacted a law which guaranteed to our citizens the privilege of calling their souls their own, even though they should be indebted to one or more of their neighbors, but hardly was the deed done when the greatness of it terrified us beyond measure, and although we took oath at the time, that we believed the thing to be just and proper, in conformity with the law of God and the rights of humanity, we now own with fear and trembling that we did falsely and we hasten to undo all that we then did in confessing that a man had a right to his own soul even though he chanced to be in debt. And now the man who owes his neighbor can no more say that his soul is his own than the Russian serf, or the Virginia slave whose soul belongs to his master. The law, which was entirely passive while the man was getting into debt, no sooner finds him in that unhappy condition than it seizes upon him and winds its terrible folds around him, like the horrible serpent around the limbs of the son of Hecuba and his offspring, until he is crushed and mangled and disabled forever from standing erect among his companions upon the earth. The law justly forbids that a man should steal, and justly punishes the transgressor; but the law nowhere, nor no how, forbids that a man should become indebted to his neighbor, and when, with his neighbors free consent, he has done so, it may well leave him and his neighbor to arrange the matter between them as they may be able. But that would be allowing the man too great a privilege; it would be too near an approach to giving him the freedom of his soul.

But these are not the facts of which we intended to make mention, in the beginning of our chapter; yet we will let them stand since they have obtruded themselves upon our notice. A Fact more to our present purpose, but scarcely less obvious, although as sturdily disputed, is the superiority of Fiction to History. In regard to this matter, we have seen the whole world from all time in their professions continually giving the lie to their actions. It is a resolved point with all manner of grave men to speak lightly of fiction; even lawyers who deal in hardly anything else affect to decry it; and theologians and metaphysicians make a trade of abusing it even while they are fattening upon it. Asses prefer thistles to clover, and there are certain philosophers of asinine sympathies who would prefer reading a last year's almanac to Paradise Lost or Tom Jones. But such persons are exceedingly few, although there is a melancholy multitude who prefer as much. The majority of grave people read the most outrageous romances, but compromise with their prejudices by calling them histories; and historians knowing very well that they can hope for no readers, unless they make their histories to resemble fiction, conform to the will of the world; while novelists, to gain the same result adopt an opposite course, and with mock solemnity which savors not a little of irony, call their productions histories. Many a poor soul has no doubt been beguiled into a perusal of the "history of a foundling," who would have shrunk with pious horror from the book if it had been called a romance, just as backgammon boards are smuggled into pious families with "Brown's Concordance" labelled upon their backs. It is reported that a grave doctor, after having dallied with Gulliver's Travels, boldly confessed that the thing appeared to him too strange to be true; but Saint Augustine, after having read with infinite satisfaction, as he could not fail to do, the golden Ass of Apuleius, to satisfy his conscience for having perused the most monstrous fiction that was ever penned, declared with great solemnity that he believed it to be a veritable history. But with due veneration for so great a saint we are compelled to think that he conceded to a bad prejudice more than his conscience should have required. Fictions are generally called light reading, as they well may be since they are almost the only works that keep afloat on the stream of time; the weighty truths contained in other writings it is charitable to believe cause them to sink to the bottom from whence they never rise again. Long winded divers may occasionally bring up to the surface a relic from them, but like old hulks at the bottom of the ocean they lie undisturbed until they mingle, in the course of time, with their original elements. An astronomical essay or a treatise upon crocodiles written in the time of Cheops would have but little more interest at this day than an extract from doctor Lardner's Encyclopedia, but a love story or a ballad written by a magazine author of that remote period would set the whole world agape if discovered now.

No man ever understood better the whims of the world than the great master of modern fiction, who gained a vast multitude of readers amongst the grown portion of mankind by calling his fiction "historical novels," thus making a combination which satisfied the two great classes of readers, the lovers of fiction and the lovers of fact; and by making a liberal use of historical names in his romances he satisfied the sentiment and the scruple of his reader at the same time. And so well did he know how to adapt himself to the way of the world that it would be an extremely nice point to determine whether his fictions most resembled history, or his histories fiction.

The purest minds and the keenest intellects have delighted in fictitious narrative, and have given their testimony in its favor not only in direct terms, but by implication in studying it themselves and furnishing it for the study of others. Lord Bacon, whom it is the fashion to rely upon in questions of morals, was himself a sturdy advocate for Fiction, and he has very pointedly set forth her superiority to History.

"As the active mind is inferior to the rational soul," says this great philosopher, "so fiction gives to mankind what history denies, and, in some manner, satisfies the mind with shadows when it cannot enjoy the substance: upon a close inspection Fiction plainly shows that a greater variety of things, a more perfect order, a more beautiful variety, than can anywhere be found in nature is pleasing to the mind. As real history disgusts us with a familiar and constant similitude of things, fiction relieves us by unexampled turns and changes and thus not only delights, but inculcates morality and nobleness of soul. It raises the mind by accommodating the images of things to our desires, and not like history and reason subjecting the mind to things."

And Sir Walter Raleigh advises the writer of history even, not to follow too close after Truth, lest he should get a kick from her heels.

Perhaps our readers will think that we take an infinite deal of pains to prove what no one is disposed to deny, and least of all themselves. But we do not string words together without an aim, and as our reader was advised in the beginning that he might skip this entire chapter, if he had any misgivings as to its contents, without prejudice to our story, we do not feel called upon to explain our motives in writing it.

In regard to the work which we are now about to begin we are at a loss whether to call it a history or a fiction, since we might, by calling it either, thereby lose a reader, which we cannot well afford to do, and we cannot call it a historical fiction because the names introduced in the narrative are as yet unknown to fame. But as truth must be supposed to have a certain weight even with the lovers of romance, perhaps our better course will be to make a free confession that the stories contain some facts and some fictions, and leave to the discrimination of the reader to pick out such parts as may best please him, and to exclaim on his own instinct "that is a fact" or "that is fiction" as he runs along. And perhaps after all it may fall to another age to discern the true character of the work as it took two or three centuries to find out the real meaning of the golden legend Apuleius.

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CHAPTER II.

WILL INTRODUCE THE PRINCIPAL PERSONAGE OF THE HISTORY.

TREMLETT & TUCK were among the oldest and richest merchants in the good city of New York; we have no positive information as to the exact amount of their wealth, but it is well known that they were looked upon by their cotemporaries as the most respectable firm in the city. And to be so distinguished in a city of merchants implied an eminence in the commercial world which very few firms can ever hope to reach; for mercantile greatness, unlike all other kinds of greatness, can never be the effect of accident. A chance shot may place the commander of an army, or the captain of a fleet upon the very apex of Fame's pyramid, as a whirlwind may bear the denizen of a barn yard into the regions of the bald eagle; but it is only by great industry, self-denial, and integrity of conduct that a merchant can become renowned. And his renown, more hardly earned than the fame of a poet or a warrior, rarely survives the payment of his last acceptance. The world guards with tender solicitude the fame of the poor author whom it lets starve, but it never wastes a thought upon the great merchant whom it had pampered with wealth, when his accounts with mankind are closed.

Mr. Hubbard Crocker Tremlett and Mr. Griswold Bacon Tuck were old men. They had formed their copartnership when they were both young and poor, with the prudent determination of getting rich by doing a safe business; and they resolved in the beginning not to get married until they could provide for a family without infringing upon their capital, a time which, in their cautious estimation, had never arrived. And we find them at the beginning of our history with large fortunes and whitened locks, but without a being to cheer their firesides or to care for their griefs or their pleasures, excepting only a few relations on the part of Mr. Tuck, who watched his declining years and his increasing wealth with lively interest, as they hoped at his death to seize upon the property which they had never lifted a finger towards heaping together. This was a sad condition for old men, who need, like children, the attentions which money cannot purchase. But their solitary condition never disturbed the junior partner. He wanted no surer or more affectionate friends than his certificate of deposite, his bank scrip and his private ledger. Time gave his warnings in vain to Mr. Tuck; he thought no more about leaving the world than he did at twenty. The admonition of death he would not heed. He knew, indeed, that other men died for he had made several bad debts in consequence of the untimely departure from this world of some of his debtors, and his parents and his brothers and sisters had also been removed by death; but he never seriously thought that HE should die; it was something so far removed from a regular business transaction that the fact that he must die had never once occurred to him. It was true that he insured his life, as he did his ships and his houses, but in so doing he only conformed to an established rule of his firm; never to let a risk remain twenty-four hours uncovered. Therefore Mr. Tuck continued to make close bargains and to extend his operations more in the spirit of a man just entering upon life than like one just about to leave it. In fact Mr. Tuck had found his residence upon the earth in every respect so exactly conformable to his notions of the agreeable that he had not the slightest wish to change for a better one; he was one of those prudent conservatives who make it a principle to let well enough alone.

But notwithstanding that Mr. Tuck was every way so well satisfied with the world, nothing annoyed him more than to be reminded of the length of time that he had been in it, it grieved his generous nature to be told of his blessings, and he destroyed the family record which bore the precise date of his entrance into the world, lest he should be reminded at unseasonable moments of the liberal number of years which had been allotted to him. And to such an extent did he carry this amiable feeling that he disguised his venerable iron locks with an auburn wig, which imparted a most juvenile aspect to his head which was unequivocally and plumply disputed by his double chin and an irrepressible protuberance of the lower part of his waistcoat.

Mr. Tremlett differed materially from his partner; as much in his appearance as in his feelings; the consciousness of a mis-spent life, in spite of the wealth he had accumulated, oppressed him sorely at times. He felt the want of a comforter. Though early influence and long habit had caused him to look with a certain satisfaction upon the mere acquisition of money, yet he had a continual longing for something better; he scarcely knew what. He could penetrate the sinister motives of those who treated him with deferential respect and their hollow hearted and loveless attentions were a thousand times more disagreeable to him than an open and expressed hatred would have been. He had applied himself so closely to business that he had indulged no opportunities for increasing the number of his friends, and although his name and even his hand writing were familiarly known at the remote ends of the earth, yet there was not one solitary being to whom he could lay open his heart, nor one who looked up to him for consolation and support. He had often confessed to himself with a bitterness of feeling, that he might have been happier if he had gained more friends and fewer dollars.

As he was pacing the flagged walk of the Battery one sultry afternoon in midsummer, gazing listlessly upon the opposite shores of the bay, and musing on his solitary condition, he felt something dragging at his coat-tail, and turning his head quickly he perceived a little boy in the act of picking his pocket of a new bandanna. He caught the young thief by the arm, but as he struggled to escape he looked up into the old gentleman's face with such a bright and merry countenance that his captor felt more like clasping him in his arms than punishing him for his depravity. The little rogue was not more than ten years old and his countenance bespoke anything but a wicked disposition. He was ragged and bare-footed; but young and poverty stricken as he appeared, he was already engaged in trade. He had a roll of penny papers under his arm and a bundle of comic almanacs in his hand; had he been an older or an ugly brat it is probable that Mr. Tremlett would have let him escape to practice his thievish propensities until some less kindly hand should have arrested him, but his extreme youth and his childish beauty, made such an impression upon the old merchant's feelings that he felt unwilling to release him until he had done something for his benefit. He therefore dragged the little fellow along, in spite of his kicks and his cries, until he reached his own door, which was in the immediate neighborhood, where he gave him in charge to his house-keeper, with strict injunctions to her not to let him escape; and then he returned to his counting room to make arrangements for his next day's payments, a practice which he had not neglected for more than thirty years.

Mrs. Swazey, the old merchant's house-keeper, took the young culprit, and after washing his face, gave him a monstrous slice of bread and butter and locked him up in the back parlor, where, as soon as he had devoured the unknown luxury, he stretched his limbs upon the hearth-rug and fell into a profound sleep. And there we will leave him to enjoy his innocent slumbers, while we make an explanation to our reader to prevent his falling into an error, to which his former readings may have rendered him liable.

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CHAPTER III.

SHOWS HOW INNOCENT PEOPLE MAY DO EVIL INNOCENTLY.

IN the little vagabond whom we left asleep in Mr. Tremlett's back parlor, you behold the hero of our narrative. Look at him again. It is not every day that you can look upon a hero in his youthful slumbers. How sweetly he sleeps; like a flower in its bud; there are no signs of care or grief upon his fair brow; these are to come; neither idleness nor luxury have decayed his perfect system and made life itself, which should be always joyous, a burden to him; he breathes as gently and as freely as the wind blows; his pulsations are regular, and a beautiful tinge of healthful red streaks his plump cheeks and colors his pouting lips; his golden locks cling to his neck as if they were enamored of his lovely skin. You have never seen any thing so fine in the antique, although you may have been to the Vatican, for the antique hath neither color, nor warmth, nor motion. You who have watched over your own little ones in their slumber, know how sweetly he appeared, and that even his quiet breathing was eloquent of joyousness and hope. But be not deceived by this bright vision; the little sleeper is nothing more than what he seems; he is not the son of anybody of whom the reader will ever hear again, neither will it turn up in the end that he is in the slightest manner related to any of the personages hereinafter to be mentioned in this history, for the truth is, his mother was an Irish chambermaid, who came to an untimely end in consequence of a fall, when returning from a little party held in honor of Saint Patrick, in Orange Street, when her little darlint was only a twelvemonth old; and he was taken from her cold breast and removed to an Orphan Asylum, where he had been kept until a few days before the time at which our history begins. He had contrived to make his escape into the world, where he had become so enamored of its various shows, that he had felt no desire to return to the only home that he had ever known; and he had contrived to earn his food by selling penny papers at half profits, for an older dealer who furnished the capital with which they were purchased.

This much we can afford to disclose in regard to our hero, but we will not in cruel kindness give any hints as to the final winding up of his pilgrimage, but will let the catastrophe of his history develope itself, according to the established rules of both nature and art. Whether he would have ended his days at Sing-sing or on the gallows, had he not been arrested by the senior partner of the firm of Tremlett & Tuck, cannot be satisfactorily determined, since it is a difficult matter to guess at the complexion of events which never took place. Historians do sometimes indulge in long-winded speculations as to the probable results of improbable events, but as the materials of our history are abundant to furnish a narrative of reasonable length, we shall leave to the reader the privilege of making such surmises as may seem proper to him, and confine our own labor to the simple task of recording facts.

When Mr. Tremlett reached his counting room, he dispatched his business in a few minutes, and instead of remaining at his desk to discuss the question of a national currency with his partner and his book-keeper, for an hour or two, as had been his habit for some years, he hastily shut up his portfolio and hurried back to his house, to the great astonishment of Mr. Tuck, and Mr. Bates the head book-keeper, who was so much puzzled to account for the circumstance, that he made two or three mistakes in posting, and was at last obliged to shut up his ledger and go home, and ask his wife what she thought of it.

The thought of there being some one at home who required his attention, gave the old merchant an excitement that he had not known since he was first elected a bank director. When he reached his house, he found his prisoner still asleep upon the hearth-rug, and notwithstanding that he had fully determined to send the boy to the house of correction, when he looked upon the cherub-like face before him, his heart softened and his determination faltered. He almost blushed at the thoughts which obtruded themselves upon him. He sighed as he gazed upon the sleeping child; an invisible influence seemed to radiate from the half covered limbs of the youngster, which held the kind old gentleman in a charmed spell. Perhaps he was thinking of the time when he himself was as young, as innocent and as beautiful; or he might have been casting up in his mind what portion of his property he would be willing to give if he could call the boy his own. He looked around the room to see if he was observed and then sunk upon his knees by the urchin's side, but whether to put up a prayer in his behalf or to kiss his ruddy cheek, we do not know. A tear glistened in the old man's eyes, a fountain of his heart had been unsealed and was running over; a drop fell upon the boy's face and awoke him, and as he fixed his blue eyes upon the figure beside him, he appeared suddenly struck with awe, for his hitherto smiling features assumed a grave and serious aspect. Mr. Tremlett jumped upon his feet very hastily, and after walking across the room two or three times, sat down in his arm chair, and putting on an air as much like a session's judge as he could, he called the boy to him. The little fellow approached his chair with as much confidence as a child would have gone to a parent.

"What is your name?" said the merchant.

"John," replied the boy.

"Ah! very well, John what?" continued Mr. Tremlett.

"John," again repeated the boy.

"Well, and what beside John?"

"John," again replied the culprit, looking up into the merchant's face and laughing merrily.

"Do you laugh at me, you rogue?" said Mr. Tremlett.

"I can't help it," replied the boy, "you talk so funny."

"What an impudent little wretch!" exclaimed Mrs. Swazey, who had just opened the door; "do you know to whom you are talking?"

"No," was the reply.

"Well, if I ever heard such astonishing impudence!" exclaimed the house-keeper.

"Do you not know what your name is?" said Mr. Tremlett.

"John," again replied the boy; upon which Mrs. Swazey held up her hands as though she were endeavouring with all her might to personify amazement.

"What then is your father's name?" continued Mr. Tremlett, smiling at his house-keeper's consternation.

"I don't know what you mean," answered the boy.

"What, have you got no father?"

"I don't know."

"Have you got no mother?"

The boy shook his head and looked grave.

"Who took care of you?"

"The old devil," replied the boy.

"What an awful wretch!" exclaimed the house-keeper.

"Who was the old devil?" enquired the merchant.

"The old woman who used to feed us with mush and molasses," replied the boy.

"Oh! a greater villain I never saw!" again exclaimed the astonished house-keeper.

"And where did she live?" asked Mr. Tremlett.

"Out to the Asylum," replied the child.

"At the Asylum!" shrieked Mrs. Swazey, "well, if he hasn't called the matron, Mrs. Ellkins, which is my most intimate acquaintance, and the widow of captain Timothy Ellkins an India ship captain, by these awful names. Take that for your impudence," and with these words she gave him a cuff on the side of his head which sent him reeling against Mr. Tremlett's chair.

But the youngster soon recovered himself, and without the slightest hesitation caught hold of her apron and administered two or three such smart kicks about her shins that she fairly screamed with the pain. Mr. Tremlett covered his face with his pocket handkerchief, and came near strangling in trying to suppress a fit of laughter; and the house-keeper hobbled out of the room filled with indignation and mortified vanity. But the boy preserved a wonderful composure of countenance.

This spirited feat did more towards establishing him in the affections of Mr. Tremlett than a whole year of servile obedience would have done. The truth was, the house-keeper had held her situation so long that she exercised an authority over her employer which annoyed him not a little, and yet he did not know how to mend it, he had so gradually yielded to it; and he was glad to see her so summarily punished for her impertinent interference.

"Do you know" said Mr. Tremlett to the boy, as soon as he had recovered his gravity of countenance, "that I could send you to prison for stealing my pocket handkerchief?"

"Could you?" said the little culprit looking up good humoredly into the old man's face.

"Yes, I could, and I must;" he replied, "for you are a very bad fellow I see."

"But a man told me to take it," replied the boy, "and promised me a sixpence if I would."

"Ah! he was a vile rascal," said Mr. Tremlett, "but you are a rogue yourself, and I shall be obliged to have you punished and kept in a place where you will be instructed to do justly."

"I can say my prayers and the commandments now," replied the boy.

"I perceive that you have been taught the names of good and evil things," replied the merchant, "but you must be taught to distinguish them in your actions. I will keep you here to-night, but in the morning I must send you back to the asylum where you came from."

"O, no, no," said the boy, "I like you. I would rather live in this asylum with you, than with the old devil out there."

"What do you like me for?" said Mr. Tremlett, while a keen thrill of delight made his heart beat quick in his bosom.

"I don't know, but I do like you;" replied the boy looking up fondly into his face.

At that moment a loud knock was heard at the door, and the servant admitted two strangers who had called upon Mr. Tremlett with letters of introduction; so he delivered the boy into the hands of Mrs. Swazey with instructions to have him well taken care of for the night. It was an unnecessary charge to the house-keeper, for although she heaped upon his head an undue amount of wordy severity as soon as she got him under her exclusive jurisdiction, and declared that she could hardly keep her hands from beating him, yet she manifested all a woman's tenderness in providing for his comfort; and before she retired at night she stole quietly into the room where he was sleeping and gently drew the coverlid over him lest he should take cold. She stood for a moment to look upon his beautiful face, and she would have kissed his rosy lips, but for fear of waking him. And he slept on, unconscious that a gentle being was watching over him, and regarding him with looks of tenderness and pity. And thus we move through the world, all unawares that the good angels of God are watching over us, and shielding us from the thousand evils which continually threaten us.

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CHAPTER IV.

RELATES IN WHAT MANNER OUR HERO WAS RECEIVED BY THE MEMBERS OF MR. TREMLETT'S HOUSEHOLD.

WHEN Mr. Tremlett came down to breakfast, he discovered that something had occurred to ruffle the temper of his house-keeper, for that respectable old lady made a display of some of the most dignified airs that were probably ever seen in a republican country. And she did not allow him to remain long in ignorance of the cause of her unusual stateliness of demeanor.

"That little scamp," said Mrs. Swazey, as she filled up Mr. Tremlett's cup, "is the greatest villain; the greatest villain," she repeated again, giving the coffee urn an emphatic shake, "in the individual world."

"I am afraid he is a rogue," said Mr. Tremlett.

"I can dispel all your fears on that subject," said the dignified lady; "I know he is."

"Has he made his escape?" inquired Mr. Tremlett.

"No Sir, he has not, but I reckon he will;" replied the lady, "for this house is not big enough to hold him and me, big as it is."

Mr. Tremlett thought to himself as he swallowed his coffee, that he had some right to be heard in the matter; and he determined that the boy should remain, if it were only to convince his house-keeper that he would do as he pleased in his own house.

"What has the boy done?" asked Mr. Tremlett.

"Everything," replied the lady; "he abused me in the shamefulest manner."

"But you must make allowance for the poor child's education," said Mr. Tremlett; "consider that he has not had the advantages of other children."

"I can consider nothing as an excuse for unnatural conduct," replied the lady; "for that shows a natural wickedness of heart; and I never heard any minister say that we must forgive unnaturalness, particular in beggars."

"It is very true," replied Mr. Tremlett, "that unnatural conduct, particularly in a child, shows a native wickedness of heart, that we can hardly hope to correct by education."

"Very much so indeed," said Mrs. Swazey, approvingly.

"But I do not understand why the accident of a bad man's being a beggar, should place him out of the pale of forgiveness."

"It is a high time of day, to be sure," said the lady, "if beggars are to be choosers." As Mr. Tremlett made no reply to this conclusive answer, the lady concluded the day was her own, and proceeded to relate her grievances in a more subdued tone.

"I was always very partial to children," she continued, "particularly boys, although I never had any of my own; that is, I never have had any," she said, as if she wished him to understand that she might have had, if she had been so disposed. "I always liked boys much better than little girls, they are so interesting; and when I was president of the Good Samaritan Society, there is no end to the jackets and trowers I used to make for them, the little darlings!"

"Ah! I dare say," said Mr. Tremlett.

"Yes, that I did," continued Mrs. Swazey; "and there is no knowing what I would have done for this little villain, if he had behaved himself with the least similitude of respect toward me."

"Pray in what manner did he abuse you?" asked Mr. Tremlett.

"I declare I am afraid to tell you for fear you will throw him into the street"

"O, no, I will not use any violence toward him, I promise you."

"Then I will tell;" said Mrs. Swazey, "let the consequences be what they may. After Bridget had combed his hair and washed his face, he looked so fresh and so beautiful, and reminded me so much of my sister's eldest boy, who died three-and-twenty years ago, that I could not help wanting to kiss him; and when I made known my wishes to him, instead of holding up his lips to be kissed, he ran away, and said he didn't love to kiss old women!"

"O! O!" said Mr. Tremlett, "I shall certainly pull his ears."

"I gave them a good smart box, myself," said Mrs. Swazey; "but not so much for his imperdence to me, as for calling you by the most awful name."

"Oh! indeed! and pray what did he call me?" inquired Mr. Tremlett, while a slight blush covered his cheek.

"He called you the old covy," said Mrs. Swazey, speaking in as solemn a tone as she could.

"The old covy," exclaimed Mr. Tremlett; "and pray how did it happen that he called me so?"

"Bridget is a silly, ignorant creature," replied Mrs. Swazey, "and she is so wain that she is always fishing after compliments from everybody. She don't care who they come from if she only gets them. So, while she was washing the boy's face, she asked him who he loved?—expecting of course, that he would say her; but he said "the old covy upstairs," meaning you; but I gave him such a box on the ears, that he will not say so again in a hurry, I'll warrant."

Although Mrs. Swazey had never seen the merchant manifest any very angry feelings, yet judging from her own passions, as some foolish persons will do, she expected to see him fly into a great rage, and throw the young outcast into the street, at the very least; her astonishment, therefore, may well be conceived to have been very great, when Mr. Tremlett rose up from table, as soon as he had swallowed his coffee, and going into the kitchen, patted the head of the little vagabond, with a look in which love and compassion seemed to vie with each other.

"I declare he is a pretty creature," said Bridget, who felt herself at liberty to be as loquacious as she pleased in the kitchen, although she could not have been prevailed upon to open her lips before her employer in any other place.

The boy looked up with a confident good-natured smile into the face of the merchant, but it soon subsided, and gave place to an expression of awe, as if he was astonished at finding himself an object of kindly regard; and then a tear dropped upon his cheek, as the old gentleman continued to stroke his glossy hair.

"So, then your name is John, and you have got no other name?"

"Isn't one name enough?" replied the boy.

"Law, now, was there ever!" said Bridget, who stood looking upon him as fondly as though she had been his mother.

"No, no; one name is not enough, my little fellow;" said Mr. Tremlett, "and you shall have another."

And then the boy looked very seriously, first at the old merchant, and then at Bridget, as if wondering in his little mind what it could all mean. And well he might wonder for such treatment was strangely unlike any he had ever experienced before. Kicks and cuffs he would have taken quite as a matter of course, but kind words and caresses were to him a new species of human treatment. Mr. Tremlett had already overstayed his usual breakfast hour, but before he went down to his counting room, he gave Bridget and Mrs. Swazey strict orders to treat the boy well, and not allow him to escape. The last injunction was quite unnecessary, for the youngster evinced the most perfect satisfaction with his present quarters and had made himself quite at home in the kitchen.

But Mr. Tremlett had no sooner closed the door behind him, than Mrs. Swazey bounced into the kitchen, to relieve herself of a few choice expressions, which having been coined in her imagination, might have produced very serious consequences if she had not let them escape by the proper outlet. So some youthful poet, having written a string of the most original verses, would infallibly fall into the worst state of that melancholy disorder which manifests itself by a turn over shirt collar, and a fondness for gin, were it not for the relief he is sure to find, by sending them off to some ogre of the public press, who will take no more notice of them than the most swinish porker would of an orient pearl.

"Well, I wonder what is going to happen next!" exclaimed Mrs. Swazey. "I do wonder if the world is coming to an end, or if the millennium is going to happen! Of all the goings on that ever I did hear of, this beats the Dutch! I wonder if some people thinks that some folks has nothing to do but to take care of Irish brats. If some people has a mind to be unginteel, I know of some folks that won't be. The goodness be praised, I am no matron yet! I desire to be thankful I come from as ginteel a family as some folks, if I ain't quite as rich; for my part, the goodness knows I don't care for any body's money. My grandfather, which was a merchant in the revolution, was almost as rich as King George himself; but the way some folks takes on about a little money, is enough to make some people sick. For my part, the goodness knows if there is any thing I hate and detest, it's airs."

Mrs. Swazey delivered herself of a good many more remarks about "some folks," and "some people" receiving not a few sympathetic exclamations from Bridget, who listened to the outbreak of the good house-keeper with as much eagerness as though it had been a confidential communication of the very choicest scandal. At length the good lady's mind being partially relieved, she sought farther ease by cuffing the ears of our hero, who having taken off the keen edge off his appetite with a plate of buttered toast, was now striving to satisfy himself with some crusts of bread, and a saucer full of molasses. The little fellow, having been all his life used to such compliments as kicks and cuffs, instead of setting up a piteous howl, as some children who had been more tenderly reared would have done, applied an epithet to the house-keeper which it is hoped he did not fully understand, although the fact of his immediately taking to his heels would seem to imply that he did. Mrs. Swazey did not stop to ask for an explanation, but taking hold of a mop-stick, she gave chase, followed by Bridget with no other instrument of destruction than the two broad hands with which Nature had generously endowed her. The youngster made good use of his legs, for he knew by actual observation that the expression he had used was fitted above every other epithet in the language to rouse the feminine ire of even a less susceptible person than Mrs. Swazey; and to one of her genteel pretensions, he rightly supposed, it would be particularly wrath-provoking. And fortunate was it, both for him and you, gentle reader, that his heels were light and his limbs supple, for if she had overtaken him in the first effusion of her wrath, it is probable that his career and consequent history, would have been brought to a sudden conclusion.

It happened, unfortunately, that there was but one stair-case to Mr. Tremlett's house, it being fashionably built, up which the boy flew with the ease and swiftness of a squirrel leaping from branch to branch of a tree, without stopping to reflect that his retreat would inevitably be cut off, but up he mounted until he reached the attic, where he looked about him with a fluttering heart, and found that there was no possible chance for escape unless he leaped through one of the loop-holes in the cornice. Mrs. Swazey was soon within striking distance of the culprit, but many pursuers before her have missed the object of their pursuit, when it has been within their reach from a too great eagerness to grasp it. Such was her eager haste to seize the offender that as she ran towards him her foot slipped and she prostrated herself in a manner quite unbecoming in a person of her genteel pretensions. But the boy scorned to take any other advantage of her accident than what was necessary for his own preservation; so regaining the stair-case he ran down with as much celerity as he had ascended it: but Bridget being stationed at the bottom of the stairs caught him in her brawny arms, and in spite of his kicking and pinching held him fast until Mrs. Swazey came down.

It was not many minutes before the exasperated lady, with the aid of Bridget, had placed our hero across her knee, preparatory to the infliction of a punishment which may justly be called the martyrdom of childhood, and which is as hurtful to the tender flesh, as it is mortifying to the feelings, at that period of our existence, when the door opened and Mr. Tremlett made his appearance just in time to save the youngster from an indignity which, though it has doubtless been inflicted upon the majority of the human species, and even kings and conquerors have tasted of it, is, nevertheless, not one of those calamities common to the hero of a romance.

"Tut, tut, tut," exclaimed Mr. Tremlett with an unusual warmth of expression, "what's all this?"

Bridget covered her face with her apron, at the sight of her employer, and fled to the kitchen; and Mrs. Swazey being too much excited to enter into an explanation, rushed into the nearest closet and left Mr. Tremlett and the boy together. The young gentleman was a good deal flustered and somewhat shamefaced from having been found in such a degrading position, but he soon regained his composure, and again looked up into the face of the merchant with that winning look of confident innocence which had at first made an impression upon his heart.

"I am afraid that you are a very bad boy," said Mr. Tremlett, looking seriously upon him.

"I will try not to be," replied the boy, while a tear glistened in his eye.

"You must not only try, but you must not be, or I shall not allow you to live with me." replied Mr. Tremlett.

"And will you let me live with you if I am good? O, I will be good."

"Perhaps I may. But I certainly will not if you are bad. But come, get into my carriage; I am going to take you back to the asylum, and then I will see whether I will let you live with me or not."

Just at that moment a barouche drove up to the door, into which Mr. Tremlett got, taking the youngster with him, apparently very much against his will, for he did not by any means relish the thought of returning to his old quarters at the Asylum.

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CHAPTER V.

WILL AFFORD A FURTHER INSIGHT INTO THE HISTORY OF MR. TREMLETT.

IT very rarely happens that a rich man is destitute of poor relations, for Fortune generally bestows her favors in such a manner, that where one succeeds in scraping together a competence there are fifty others who have no possible claim to it, but who would nevertheless look upon themselves as outraged individuals if he should so dispose of it at his death as to place it entirely beyond their reach. The laws of consanguinity we never could fully comprehend, even with the aid of Blackstone; for as a man cannot compel his relations by force of law to aid him in his distress, we cannot clearly perceive why the law should give a man's possession, which are the fruits of his own labor, to his relations when he dies. But notwithstanding that Mr. Tremlett was notorious for his wealth, he stood alone in the world; not a solitary cousin had ever claimed kindred to him. Although he was descended from a family which came over to New England soon after the landing of the pilgrims, and had had brothers and sisters in his younger days, he did not know of a living soul who stood to him in a nearer relation, than that of a common descent from an original ancestor. He felt very keenly the want of sympathetic friends, but he had passed the age when he could hope to gain them by marriage, and he was too wise, or perhaps too timid, to venture upon the speculation of matrimony. He had long nursed a determination to adopt an orphan boy and he would probably have done so many years before if one had been presented to his notice. Chance threw our hero in his way at a fortunate moment, and his unconstrained and spirited actions, joined to his healthy appearance and beautiful face, made an instant impression upon the lonely merchant's heart, as we have already seen, and his kindly feelings manifested themselves so plainly in his looks and actions that they immediately begot a kindred love in the boy. And never did a young maiden experience a truer emotion of delight on finding herself the object of some brave youth's regard, than did the old merchant at discovering that the ragged little urchin who, a few hours before, had endeavoured to pick his pocket, looked up to him with feelings of love and reverence. Although unaccustomed to act without due caution and deliberation, he was not long in making up his mind to adopt and educate the boy as his son. To the unreflecting this may appear like a very hasty determination on the part of Mr. Tremlett, but when the head and the heart are engaged in a negotiation it requires but a marvelous short time to come to terms.

The fond old merchant went to his counting room, after he left the boy, with more pleasureable sensations leaping up in his heart than if a change in the markets had doubled the amount of his wealth. Mr. Tuck perceived an unusual sprightliness in the manner of his partner, and his corresponding clerk, who enjoyed the distinguished honor of writing letters at a mahogany desk within whispering distance of his principals, ventured to hint to a correspondent that he had reasons for believing that there was a favorable change in the money markets; for, that anything short of a change in the markets could affect one of the firm of Tremlett & Tuck, had never popped into the imagination of either the junior partner or his corresponding clerk.

Mr. Tremlett did not remain long enough at his desk to read even one half of the letters that were placed there for his perusal but hurried back to his new charge where he arrived at a most opportune moment as has been already narrated in the last chapter, and he had no sooner left the house with the boy in his barouche than Mrs. Swazey thanked her stars very devoutly and expressed a world of gratitude at having got rid of the little wretch. And Bridget honestly declared that she could not help loving him, to save her soul, although she was willing to allow that he was too impudent to exactly suit her, but she would allow that he was the cunningest dog that ever lived; and then the house-keeper relented a little and confessed that he was the most beautiful complexioned child she had ever seen; and that his skin to be sure was as soft as velvet, and that he did know enough. "Law now," said Bridget, "I do wish that I had cut off a lock of his hair; it would look so beautiful in a broach."

Then Mrs. Swazey desired again to be thankful that she had plenty of relations who had as beautiful children as the best of folks. And when Bridget ventured to make a reply she was desired by the house-keeper to hold her tongue, and she desired again to be thankful that she had got more important matter to think of than brats. Indeed, Mrs. Swazey was one of those extremely grateful persons who are continually desiring to be thankful for the very smallest favors, but who are, nevertheless, little disposed to take a disappointment coolly, as less grateful people. These two ladies continued to talk some time longer about the boy, differing in some non-essential points, as ladies often will, both agreeing that they were extremely fortunate in being rid of him so easily, when to their utter consternation and dismay, Mr. Tremlett returned in his barouche, bringing the subject of their conversation with him, but entirely divested of his rags and clothed in a new suit of the very latest fashion, which Mr. Tremlett had procured at a boy's clothing emporium in Broadway. For the first time in her life, Mrs. Swazey was struck dumb with amazement, and when Mr. Tremlett told her that he had determined to adopt the boy and educate him as his son, her tongue refused to do its natural duty, and all her organs of loquaciousness with which she was well endowed by Nature, were suddenly paralyzed and rendered powerless. But her employer did not choose to notice her eloquent silence, and he told her to prepare a suitable apartment for the lad and always to treat him kindly and with respect. And then he patted the boy upon the head, and having charged him not to venture out of doors he returned to his business, more conscious of having done something than if he had purchased a dozen cargoes of sugar.

One of the last things that a woman ever thinks of doing, is to acknowledge herself outgeneralled by a man, whether he be her lord and master, or her master only; and, therefore, as soon as Mrs. Swazey could collect her wits together, which had been almost irretrievably scattered, she began to set them to work to thrust our hero from the affection and the premises of her employer. As to his living in the same house with herself, she had determined he should not, and she had no thought of quitting Mr. Tremlett's roof if it were possible for her to remain beneath it. She saw that he had set his heart upon the youngster and she saw the necessity of immediate action to prevent his affection from taking deep root; and thinking that the fond old man would, beyond a doubt, prefer the offshot of some genteel family to the stray lamb of an eleemosynary institute, she came to the determination of endeavouring to counteract the influence of the boy, by interposing the fascination of some half dozen of her own nephews before the eyes of the merchant. Women are proverbially quick witted, and prompt in action, and Mrs. Swazey was epitome of her sex.

When Mr. Tremlett came home to his tea he was more surprized than delighted to find three middle aged ladies and seven young gentlemen, whose ages ranged from five to fifteen all honoring him with their company to tea. Children are always objects of interest when they are not in the presence of their anxious mothers, and then, as one of the ladies on this occasion facetiously observed, they behave as bad as they can, on purpose to mortify those who care any thing about them. Now the adopted son of Mr. Tremlett having no anxious mother to torment, and being perfectly conscious that no body present cared a straw about him, shone out like a star of the first magnitude among this constellation of juveniles who were clustered together for the express purpose of putting him in the condition of a total eclipse. This the partial eyes of the three ladies prevented them from seeing; in fact they had looked so long and so steadily upon their own particular stars that they had become blind to all others, and each one felt certain that the choice of the rich merchant would fall upon her own cynosure, for Mrs. Swazey had explained to them in full the cause of their being summoned together. But Mr. Tremlett was left entirely in the dark in regard to this unusual display of youth and innocence, and not being influenced by any of the potent feelings which affected the visions of the ladies, he could not fail to perceive at the first glance, the great superiority of his newly adopted son over the whole assemblage of prodigies.

As soon as Mr. Tremlett made his appearance, there was an immense sensation among the ladies, and each little innocent immediately flew to his own natural protector. The fortunate lady who happened to be nearest the door and who had the first chance of the merchant, was Mrs. Muzzy, a very genteel personage in a blue turban, whose only hope, a young gentleman nearly four feet in height, stood at her side.

"Augustus, my love," said Mrs. Muzzy, "make a bow to the gentleman."

But the young Augustus put his forefinger in his mouth and resolutely refused to move either head, hand, or foot, all of which it was necessary to do in complying with his mother's request.

"Gustus, darling, did you hear?" said the lady affectionately. But Augustus made no response.

"Come Gussy, that's a dear," continued the mother. But still the young gentleman stood erect and refused to move.

"Augustus Muzzy, do as I bid you in an instant, or I will skin you. Bow this instant," said the excited mother.

But from some unaccountable reason, Augustus Muzzy appeared to have conceived the idea that a statuesque appearance was best suited to the occasion. Bow he would not.

"Never mind, let him stand," said Mr. Tremlett, good humoredly, "the little fellow will come to by and by, I dare say."

"He shall make a bow, if I have to skin him alive," exclaimed the mortified Mrs. Muzzy, her face turning very red. But her threat had not the least possible influence upon the immoveable young gentleman; whereupon the excited lady lost all command of her better feelings, and catching hold of her darling's arm she dragged him into the adjoining apartment, from which arose such a terrible sound that the company feared that the affectionate mother was putting her dreadful menace into execution.

The next lady who got an opportunity to show off was Mrs. Stimson; she told her youngest boy to make a bow to the gentleman, and quick as thought the obedient child stepped into the middle of the floor, and rubbing up his little pug nose with the palm of his left hand, and thrusting his right foot behind him, he bent his body nearly double.

The other lady, Mrs. Smickels, was almost suffocated with envy, while the happy mother of the boy smiled with ineffable delight, and Mrs. Swazey looked upon the triumph as complete.

"Well done my little fellow," said Mr. Tremlett, "and now tell me your name."

"Marquith de Lafayette Stithmson," replied the talented young gentleman, without the least hesitation.

"And how old are you, Marquis?" asked Mr. Tremlett.

"Eight years," replied the miracle.

"Is it possible!" said Mr. Tremlett.

"He is not another day," said the delighted mother; "he was eight years old the twenty-first of last April, but I don't know how many people have said they could not believe it."

"He is a precious darling," said the house-keeper; "wouldn't he love to come and live with the gentleman?"

"No I don't want to;" replied the youth.

"And why not?" asked Mr. Tremlett.

"Coth mother says you are a nathty old bachelor," replied the forward child.

This reply had a very sensible effect upon every person in the room excepting the one who uttered it, and he looked around him with the self-complacency of a man who has said in his own opinion, one of the very best things that could be spoken. Little did the satisfied child know the anguish of his mother's feelings, the mortification of his aunt Swazey, the exultation of his aunt Smickles, or the chagrin of Mr. Tremlett, who did not like to receive such a home thrust even from a gentleman of the dimensions of the young Marquis.

Now was Mrs. Smickles' time. She looked upon her three darlings with the most intense delight that a mother's heart is capable of feeling; she considered their fortunes as made, for she had not the slightest doubt that he would adopt all three. Her ample bosom heaved with emotion, and she could scarcely keep the tears from her eyes. But, poor woman, she did not reflect that as she had always allowed her children the privilege of doing as the pleased, the chances were ten to one that their pleasure would not coincide with her own.

"Now my dear," said Mrs. Smickles, addressing her youngest boy "speak to the gentleman."

"I won't," replied the boy.

"Do, darling;" said the indulgent mother giving the young monster a kiss.

"I won't, I won't, I won't," was the only reply to this kindness.

"David, dear, you speak to the gentleman," she said, speaking to the next oldest; and to ensure compliance she slipped a sixpence into his hand.

"I ain't agoing to for that!" replied the boy, scorning the smallness of the bribe.

"Do dear," said Mrs. Smickles.

"You are always trying to make me do something that I don't want to," replied the child, and without more ado he set up a dismal howl.

"Don't cry dear," said the indulgent mother; and addressing her other darling, who was amusing himself with a backgammon board under one of the tables, she said "Lucius, my love, get up and speak to the gentleman."

"What shall I say?" inquired the youngster.

"Ask him how he does, that's a sweet;" said the mother.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" inquired the young philosopher.

"Was there ever such torments!" exclaimed the amiable Mrs. Smickles in a whisper to her sister Swazey.

"I shall go off the stage," replied the agitated house-keeper, for she perceived that all her deep-laid plans were coming to naught.

Just at this moment tea was announced, and a scene of great confusion followed, during which our hero behaved himself with such perfect propriety, that he even won upon the good will of Mrs. Swazey herself, and Mr. Tremlett was still more favorably inclined towards him than before. Such are the pleasing effects of contrast. If Mrs. Swazey had been religiously bent upon advancing the interests of the little stranger whom she meant to annihilate, she could not have hit upon a plan for doing it more effectually than by showing him off in contrast with such a troop of pampered young republicans as she had summoned together for a contrary purpose.

The sight of the dainties upon the tea table dispelled all thoughts of anything but present enjoyment from the minds of mothers and children, and all grievances were forgotten.

"Boys," said the indulgent Mrs. Smickle, in a hurried whisper to her offspring, "kill yourselves, eating for it's all you will ever get out of this house, darlings."

As the occurrences at the tea table had no particular influence on the fortunes of the principal personage of this history, we will draw an oblivious veil across them, and with the reader's permission we will here close the fifth chapter of our history.

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CHAPTER VI.

RELATES, AMONG OTHER THINGS, HOW MR. TREMLETT WAS RELIEVED FROM A GREAT EMBARRASSMENT BY THE ASSISTANCE OF TWO BENEVOLENT LADIES.

MR. Tremlett took the young vagabond to the Asylum from whence he had escaped, but he heard nothing in relation to him which the reader has not already been made acquainted with; indeed all that he cared to know was that the boy was destitute, beyond dispute, of either father or mother, and that there was not the slightest probability of any relation ever appearing to claim him, or to interfere with his education. The managers of the institution very cheerfully acceded to Mr. Tremlett's proposal to adopt the youngster and he was accordingly bound over in due form. The Matron, Mrs. Swazey's particular friend, did, indeed, express an infinite deal of sorrow at parting with him, and protested that she loved him as if he were her own flesh and blood; a declaration which the subject of her admiration seemed to regard as quite figurative and highly poetical, as he had often had occasion to remark a wide difference between her manner of treating him and herself, not only in regard to the outward but the inward treatment of her flesh and blood.

Upon inspecting the books of the institution it was found that the boy really had a surname, although he did not know it himself, as he had never been called by any other name than John. But Mr. Tremlett meant to bestow his own family name upon him, and hereafter he will be distinguished as John Tremlett, for by that name alone was he thenceforth called and known.

It was a long time after Mr. Tremlett had adopted the boy before the fact became known to the world in general, and to Mr. Tuck in particular. All the clerks in the counting room of Tremlett & Tuck, from the head book-keeper down to the porter had noticed a change in the senior partner, which had not escaped the observation of Mr. Tuck, who began to have suspicions that his partner was engaged in some private stock operations. He stayed longer at his dinner and left his desk at an earlier hour than he had ever been in the habit of doing; and several times he had been seen to rub his hands together and smile, apparently with great internal satisfaction; but nobody could guess at the cause of his manifest delight, although there were a good many shrewd wits set to work to find it out. Two or three times when a drum of figs, or a frail of dates had been opened in the sample room he had been seen to take a handful and wrap them up in a news-paper and put them slyly into his pocket. As a matter of course all such unheard of doings were duly noted and fully discussed. The younger clerks said he was going to get married, while the head book-keeper surmised that he had 'got religion,' and the head salesman guessed that he was going to dissolve the firm and form a special partnership, which was very agreeably received by the cash-keeper and the head book-keeper in whose minds it awakened brilliant ideas, that one, or both, might be taken into the new concern. Although there was a great variety of opinions on the subject, as must of necessity be the case when nothing positive is known, there was but one as to the fact that something very wonderful had happened, or would happen to the senior partner.

The truth was that Mr. Tremlett felt like a man who indulges himself in forbidden pleasures, for although he had been guilty of nothing which his conscience could not approve, yet he could not muster fortitude enough to impart his secret to Mr. Tuck; he had several times made the attempt when they were alone together, but his heart always failed him, and the longer he delayed, the more embarrassed he felt. At last he determined to leave to chance to reveal what he was so desirous and yet so afraid of doing, and it was not long before the fond old merchant was relieved from his embarrassment in a most unexpected manner.

One pleasant morning just before bank hours, a very dashy carriage, of an indescribable color, drawn by two very gay black horses and set off by a coachman and footman in most uncomfortable looking drab coats with a wicked superfluity of capes, stopped at the door of Messrs. Tremlett & Tuck's counting room and discharged two beautiful ladies, or if they were not beautiful, there is no truth in the adage that, fine feathers make fine birds, who immediately tripped into the office of that respectable firm with an air, as though they came on business which would insure them a hearty reception. Their appearance created an immense fluttering among the clerks, to whom such apparitions were extremely rare during office hours.

"Is the head of the firm in?" asked one of the ladies in a very sweet voice.

"Very much, that is, quite so, I think;" replied Mr. Bates, the head book-keeper, who was quite bewildered at the sight of such unusual visitors.

"Yes ladies, he is in his office;" promptly replied one of the younger clerks.

"Can I see him?" asked the lady.

"Certainly madam," responded the young clerk, and skipping from his high stool, and giving a very sly wink to his companions, he showed the two ladies into the private office, and as he closed the door he put his hand to his breast, made a mock theatrical bow and exclaimed "damme." Upon which everybody laughed excepting Mr. Bates, who made it a point of conscience never to laugh at a junior's jokes, although he took it very hard if the juniors did not laugh at his.

The two partners were both busily engaged at their desks when the ladies entered the private office, but Mr. Tremlett sat in a small recess behind a green silk curtain, so that they could only see Mr. Tuck, who looked at them with very suspicious glances.

"You are the head of the establishment, I believe?" said one of the ladies enquiringly.

"Yes madam," replied Mr. Tuck, at the same time doing his best towards a bow. "Please be seated."

There was a prodigious rustling of silks as the ladies sat down, and after a moment's pause the one who had thus far done all the talking, drew a little lemon-colored pamphlet from her reticule, and advancing to Mr. Tuck's desk put it very gracefully into his hand.

"What, what, what is this?" exclaimed Mr. Tuck.

"It is our annual report," replied the spokeswoman, smiling sweetly, and displaying a set of teeth so very white and beautiful that Mr. Tuck could not help wondering in his mind how much they cost.

"Report of what?" asked Mr. Tuck, who began to have a lively presentiment of the object of the lady's visit, as he had been honored by similar calls before.

"The report of our transactions for the last year;" replied the lady.

"O, yes, I see," replied Tuck; "transactions in picking up children; I suppose madam you have got none of your own, or you would have no time to look after the public's?"

"O, yes, I have five of my own," replied the lady, smiling as sweetly as before, "and that is the very reason why I take so great an interest in the poor little creatures who have nobody to care for them."

"It is better for them," replied Mr. Tuck; "I never knew what it was to be taken care of, except by myself and I have never found any difficulty in getting along in the world; I find it is a mighty selfish world that we live in, and my motto is, let everybody take care of themselves and then everybody will be taken care of." Mr. Tuck hoped by this original piece of philosophy to convince his visitors of the absurdity of benevolence that they might leave his office without asking him for anything. But ladies who go a hedging for the benefit of charitable institutions make up their minds before-hand not to accept of sentiments in the place of shillings.

"Now I am sure," said the lady, "that is one of the very best arguments that you could have made in our favor; is it not?" she said, turning to her companion, who also smiled very sweetly behind her veil; and she thought so, decidedly. "We are trying to collect a small sum of fifteen hundred dollars," continued the fair solicitor, "and we shall be very grateful for the merest trifle. Your neighbors, Messrs. Dribletts and Pickings gave us their check for fifty dollars; see, here it is; they are very liberal, gentlemanly, kind hearted and Christian merchants. We always publish the names of all our patrons in the annual report of our transactions."

But Mr. Tuck felt no ambitious promptings to be called either kind-hearted or gentleman like, particularly at so high a cost as fifty dollars. So, instead of drawing his check for that magnificent sum he felt in his pantaloons pockets and very graciously reached the lady a shilling; at the same time he looked very hard at a dazzling cross which was suspended upon her forehead by a fillet of pure gold, from which he glanced to a very large and beautiful cameo locket with which her satin cloak was fastened; and his eyes rested upon her cobweb pocket handkerchief which was trimmed with costly lace; and his cold glances seemed to say, "why was not all this finery sold and the cost of it given to the poor for whom you are begging?" And so the ladies probably interpreted his looks, for the spokeswoman blushed deeply and the other lady held her fan to her face and laughed genteelly. They whispered together a few moments and the one who had before remained silent approached Mr. Tuck's desk and said,

"We thought as you had evinced a compassionate disposition in adopting one of our little reclaimed rogues that you would be glad to be numbered among the patrons of our institution, or we would not have applied to you."

"Me, madam!" exclaimed Mr. Tuck, "I never heard of the operation before."

"Are you not Mr. Tremlett, then?" inquired the lady.

"No," replied Mr. Tuck, with increased astonishment.

"Then" replied the ladies, speaking together with a wonderful coincidence of thought, "you are not the gentleman we thought you were," and making two very low courtesies, the two benevolent ladies suddenly vanished, leaving behind them a strong smell of Eau de Cologne.

"What on earth did them two female individuals mean?" said Mr. Tuck, as he thrust his astonished countenance behind the green curtain that screened his partner's desk.

Mr. Tremlett was trying very hard to look quite abstracted and unconcerned, but Mr. Tuck saw at a glance that he was guilty.

"I suppose their remark about the boy was intended for me," said Mr. Tremlett looking very meekly upon a sheet of blank letter paper which lay before him.

Mr. Tuck, made no verbal comment upon this confession, but he looked a very eloquent look at his partner.

"I met the boy by accident," continued Mr. Tremlett "and I thought I might do a worse thing than to adopt him and give him a home and an education."

"Is it possible," said Mr. Tuck, "and have you really done it?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Tremlett, "I have taken him into my house and I hope to make something of him."

"Well, all I can say is," said Mr. Tuck, "it is a strange world we live in." And having delivered himself of this original remark, he left the office to go on 'change where he related the astounding events of the morning to several merchants of his acquaintance, who made their own particular comments accompanied by a good many myrsterious winks. But it was a little singular that not one of them had the charity to give Mr. Tremlett credit for the smallest scrap of benevolence in adopting the boy, but on the contrary almost all of them made remarks which the usages of society will not allow us to put into print.

But the good old merchant felt very happy in his reflections although he knew that his motives in adopting the boy would be misrepresented, and his fame aspersed, yet he never once repented of the act, but on the contrary felt a keen regret that he should have been self-deprived of so great a pleasure so long. He felt very strangely while the ladies were talking to his partner, and as he foresaw at first that his secret must come out, he had ample time to fortify himself against its development. And now he felt more at his ease than he had done for along time. A great load appeared to have been removed from his breast, and he experienced a degree of satisfaction and self contentment, that he had never known before. As soon as Mr. Tuck had left the office he called in Mr. Bates, the head book-keeper, to consult with him about a school for his young charge, for Mr. Bates was the only married man, who had children, in the employ of Tremlett and Tuck, and of course he was the most fitting person to consult with on such an occasion. Mr. Bates was completely thunderstruck and entirely overcome at the nature of his employer's communication. The secret was out. But he reserved all his notes of exclamation for another occasion when it would be more proper to indulge in them. As to a school he could not impart any very satisfactory information, as his own children went to the district school, but he would ask the opinion of Professor Dobbins, his wife's brother, who was quite familiar with every department of human knowledge, but particularly so with education, as he had delivered lectures upon that subject. Mr. Bates returned to his ledger considerably elevated in his feelings at the signal mark of confidence which he had received from his employer; and when one of the younger clerks asked him what the old fellow wanted, he intimated to him in a fond style that such familiarities were quite offensive and unbecoming. He always tried very hard to check anything like freedom in anybody, in any manner beneath him, whether in age or station; but somehow or other it so happened that all his efforts had an effect directly opposite to what he intended they should have, and nobody ever manifested any particular dread in his presence excepting very small boys. Mr. Bates rarely paid any attention to anybody who was either poorer or younger than himself, but there was one person, who was both, to whose judgment he submitted and whose commands he obeyed with the meekest grace possible. This was no other than his wife who was not only his better, but his larger half. He was short and round-faced with two little sneaking black whiskers on his face, which always seemed to have a retiring look as though they were ashamed of themselves, and she was tall and thin with long sandy colored ringlets dangling down her cheeks, and continually bobbing about as though they cared for nothing and nobody. Mrs. Bates had the tact to discern when she was first married, and perhaps sooner, that unless she tyrannized over her husband, he would certainly lord it over her; and, of course, she followed the line of conduct which spirited women do in such cases.

Mr. Bates very soon closed his ledger and hurried home to tell his wife the news and ask her opinion about it.

"What do I think about it?" said Mrs. Bates, when her husband had imparted the facts to her, "why I think he is a wicked old wretch and I only wish I had the will of him."

"Why the fact is," said Mr. Bates, "I thought that something must be wrong myself, I must confess."

And here we are grieved to confess that Mr. Bates in this assertion departed very widely from the truth, for he thought no such thing; he had known Mr. Tremlett too long an too well to believe, for a moment, that there was anything wrong about the matter. And so he should have told Mrs. Bates and have reproved her for her unworthy suspicions. But this is the way with little minds; they will sooner join in aspersing an absent friend than offend a present one by opposing him. And these are the kind of people who pass through the world as very good-natured souls. But it is a comfortable reflection that such people will get their deserts in the next world, if they do not in this.

"Men deserve hanging!" exclaimed Mrs. Bates, who seemed to be apprehensive that her husband might think that she was inclined to be too tender towards the rough sex, and was positively anxious to counteract any such delusion. "They are all wrong, and all bad."

"Well I do believe dear," said Mr. Bates in a conciliatory tone, "that he is a very sly old fellow, after all; but I must say, that is, I never knew anything to the contrary before, but I have said, you know, dear, that he was a very nice sort of an old gentleman."

"And pray who is the mother of the boy? what is the creature's name?" asked Mrs. Bates.

"I declare, dear, that is something I never inquired about; and in fact he never said a word to me on the subject; and it wouldn't have appeared well in me to speak of it first, you know."

"Just like you," said Mrs. Bates, "you always do things by the halves, you never was good for any thing."

"Why the fact is, dear," said Mr. Bates in a deprecating tone, "It wouldn't have did for me to say anything about that."

"I know," said the lady, "men are all alike."

"Not all dear," said Mr. Bates, "there's me you know."

"Now don't provoke me," said the lady, "don't."

"Of course," said Mr. Bates, "I didn't mean to provoke you, dear."

"Get out of my sight," said Mrs. Bates, "you bald-headed old thing and attend to your business, if you have got any to attend to. For my part I must go and make some calls. But stop, don't go until you have given me some money. I must buy myself a shawl."

Mr. Bates was almost determined to refuse the money, out of revenge to his wife for calling him a bald-headed old thing. If there had been any truth in the epithet he wouldn't have cared so much about it. But to be called a bald-headed old thing when there was only a small place on the crown of his head not bigger than a dollar which was bare, was a little too severe even for Mrs. Bates; and he had no sooner reached her his pocket-book than he repented of it and was almost determined to snatch it back again. But he didn't; neither did he make any audible or otherwise manifest expression of his feelings, but for the sake of peace, as he persuaded himself, he put on his hat and gloves and walked quietly back to his duties; whilst Mrs. Bates put on hers and hastened with all possible speed to Mr. Tremlett's house, where she inquired for Mrs. Swazey, and that excellent house-keeper being at home, the two ladies, after dispatching a few unimportant matters, such as the rise in calicoes and the qualities of Irish servants, drew their chairs close together, and went to work with a regular business-like manner, as though they were old hands and understood perfectly well what they were about, and began to tear the characters of the good Mr. Tremlett and his innocent little protegè into the veriest rags and tatters. And were it not that a man must carry his character about with him, to take its hue from the actions with which he brings it in contact, the old merchant would have been in a most pitiable condition indeed. For it would be a lesser crime to take a man's coat than his character, although the latter offence, the law, which is always on the wrong side of a question, winks at, but punishes the thief with becoming severity.

When the two ladies had entirely exhausted their subject they took an affectionate leave of each other, with a comforting and mutual congratulation that some folks were not quite so deep as they thought for; and that some people could see quite as far in the dark as some other people.

It does not often happen that when two ladies meet together for the express purpose of scandalizing a third person, that the result of their labors is beneficial to anybody, but it so happened in this instance. For Mrs. Bates having convinced Mrs. Swazey that Mr. Tremlett was moved by a stronger principle than mere benevolence in adopting the boy, the feelings of that discreet lady towards him underwent a complete revolution, for she very naturally concluded that the surest way of ingratiating herself into the good graces of her employer would be to treat his favorite with kindness. And to do the good lady justice, she was in reality glad of an excuse for treating him with consideration; for he was every day winning on her affections in spite of her animosity to him. And Bridget, seeing that her superior in station, had changed her mode of treatment gave a loose rein to her feelings and whenever the youngster came in her way she almost devoured him with caresses.

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CHAPTER VII.

WILL INTRODUCE THE LEARNED PROFESSOR DOBBINS TO THE READER, AND MAKE HIM ACQUAINTED WITH THE LEARNED PROFESSOR'S IDEAS ON EDUCATION.

MR. Tremlett had delayed sending his adopted son to school from day to-day, until he had become so accustomed to the lively prattle and affectionate ways of the child that he could not bring himself to think of even a temporary separation. Every day he discovered some new trait in the boy's character to excite his admiration and strengthen his affection. He slept in a chamber adjoining to Mr. Tremlett's and the old gentleman never retired to his bed without taking a look at him, and remembering him in his bed-side prayer. Mrs. Swazey treasured up all his smart sayings and surprising actions, which she never failed to retail to her employer when he came home to his dinner, and if she had ever any reason to fear his displeasure, she was sure to remember some marvelous and bright saying of Johnny's to tell him. Even David the coachman, whenever he went down to the counting-room, always had something to whisper in the old gentleman's ear about master John, which never failed to give him immense satisfaction. So that, had not Mr. Tremlett come to the conclusion, from his own observation, that his adopted son was the most remarkable child in the world, the reports of others must have led him to do so. It is a great thing indeed, to be the favorite of one who has it in his power to grant favors, for then you are the favorite of all the rest of the world. But little Johnny had merits enough of his own to entitle him to the favor of the world without regard to the favoritism of his sole protector; yet let us not be disappointed if he should meet with disfavor bye and bye, for merit does not always win its way, as our reader doubtless knows.

But Mr. Tremlett knew that however good the natural talents of his son might be, and however great his genius, that they would be worthless to him in an age where men act according to prescribed rules, and live not out of themselves but out of books, without book-learning; and as he knew not what better course to take, he resolved at last to procure a private tutor for the boy, but as he doubted his own fitness to select a competent person for the high trust, he determined to ask the advice of professor Dobbins, the learned brother-in-law of Mr. Bates, who could not, as a matter of course, be otherwise than competent to advise in such an emergency, because he was a professor.

It fortunately happened that the professor was staying at the house of Mr. Bates for a few days; and when Mr. Tremlett signified to the book-keeper that he wished to consult with his brother-in-law on such an important occasion, that gentleman extolled the learning and accomplishments of his relation to such a degree, that the kind-hearted old gentleman resolved to see him that very night, and insisted on accompanying Mr. Bates, when he went home to his tea. The book-keeper could not refuse such an honor, of course; but he would have been very glad to have had an opportunity of getting his wife's consent first; but as the time would not admit of it, he made a very desperate resolution not to care for any thing that she might say or do.

When they entered the house, Mr. Bates left his employer in the parlor, and went into the kitchen to acquaint his wife with what he had done.

"The fact is, dear," said Mr. Bates, "he wants to consult with the professor, about a tutor for the young gentleman."

"He shall do no such thing!" said the lady, "and do you go and turn the old sinner out of my house: my brother shall not keep company with such people; if you see fit to do so you may; but my family shall not disgrace themselves!"

"Why, the fact is, dear, we must treat him respectfully, you know, because I expect one of these days to be taken into the firm. And besides, everybody is liable to do wrong, sometimes," added Mr. Bates.

"Now don't provoke me, don't!" said the lady; "the Lord knows I have trials enough already. But what do you stand there for? Why don't you go and talk to him, till the professor comes home? Do go and leave me or I shall fly out of my skin."

Mr. Bates returned to the parlor to entertain his employer; and Mrs. Bates immediately began to wash the children's faces and to give the most imperative orders to her servant about setting the tea-table. It was surprising to see with what earnestness and dexterity she set herself to work to snug up the tea-room; and with what a lavish hand she dished out preserved plumbs and quinces from earthen pots, which were tied up and labelled in the most careful manner. Such racing up and down the back stairs, and such a commotion in the kitchen, had not been known before. One would have thought that the lady was making preparations to entertain a very distinguished guest instead of one whom she held in such utter abhorrence. But if the exertions of Mrs. Bates, in her preparations for tea, were calculated to excite surprise, after the scene between her and Mr. Bates, what will the reader think when he is informed that that virtuous lady not only dressed her person in her most elegant dress, but that she clothed her face in the sweetest smiles of which it was capable, as she entered the parlor, and requested Mr. Tremlett and her husband to walk out to tea; and as she took her seat at the table she apologised for everything upon it, and declared that there was nothing fit to eat, but that if she had only known that Mr.

Tremlett was going to honor her and the professor with his company, she would have tried to get something for him.

Mr. Tremlett thought the supper very abundant and very good; but Mrs. Bates would not believe those were his real sentiments; indeed she was sure from his not eating anything that they could not be. Upon which the kind hearted old gentleman helped himself very extravagantly to everything, because he would not hurt the lady's pride by not partaking of her luxuries. But the two children looked at him and seemed to think, "never fear, he'll eat enough, particularly of the quinces." Mrs. Bates, however, continued to insist that he didn't eat anything, and kept prompting "my love," which was her dress phrase for Mr. Bates, to hand the cake, until the old gentleman felt very glad to escape from her attentions. It so happened that the professor did not come home until they had left the table, but as he was engaged to deliver a lecture the same evening on the early settlement of Byefield, he did not take tea.

The professor was a tall thin young man, with high cheek bones, a pointed chin and waxy complexion, his eyes were light, his hair of no particular color, and but very little of it. Mr. Tremlett could not remember that he had ever seen a professor before, but professor Dobbins exactly realized his ideal, excepting that he should have worn a white cambric neck-cloth instead of a bombazine stock. As soon as he was informed of the object of Mr. Tremlett's visit, he broke out in a discourse on education, and particularly self-education in which he made a display of the most thrilling eloquence. Both Mr. and Mrs. Bates listened with profound admiration, and Mr. Tremlett appeared to be very much puzzled if he was not very much pleased.

"Education, sir," said the professor, rising from his seat and resting his left hand on the back of a chair, while he elevated his right arm; "education is like a river;" and then after a sufficient pause to give his great idea time to sink, as it were, into the very depths of his auditors' understanding he proceeded; "Education is a river, which made up of many insignificant little springs and rills, yet flows on, a mighty current, majestic in its grandeur, irresistible in its might, self-acting, fertilizing in its course, and bearing upon its bosom the meanest and the mightiest things; increasing in majesty and might as it flows, just as it has attained to its greatest depth and magnitude, it is suddenly swallowed up in the ocean and its end is as obscure as its rise. So with the human mind, or what we call education; at first it is but a little rivulet of reason, but every day the springs of life rush in and swell its volume and its capacity, until it increases in might so that it begins to weigh the stars and grasp at the hidden things of Nature; when suddenly just as its flood is at the strongest, it is swallowed up in the ocean of death, and we see it nor hear of it more. But the places through which it has flowed, will bear witness of its presence; and the banks and meadows it has fertilized will yield a full harvest of rich fruits and bright flowers. But sir, the river will never be lost; it only seems to be. Does it not keep flowing on? It goes into the ocean, the ocean yields it to the clouds, the clouds, which you think are bound on aimless errands, bear it back again to the mountain top, the hill side and the little lake, and these again return it to its wonted course, and thus the river flows on forever and forever. So with education. Do you think that the scholar's learning, or the merchant's experience, or the statesman's eloquence, are buried with them when they lie down in the grave? No! It is a poor thought. The laws which govern mind, govern matter. But if matter never dies, how much more shall thought live. You know not how many lessons you have given yourself, sir, and you would be startled if all those could be placed before you who have been taught by you, and who will themselves teach others the lessons they learned of you when you little dreamed that you were teaching. But we are all teachers as we are all learners. I once knew a gentleman who had several sons, but his income would only allow him to give but one of them the advantages of a collegiate education, so he selected out the feeblest one among them and sent him to college. The young man, to show his gratitude for the partiality of his father, studied hard and ruined his health; the year that he graduated he died, and the whole burden of his father's grief was the loss of the money which he had expended, as he thought, to no purpose. O, if I had only educated one of my other sons he would say. But the poor foolish man did not perceive that his money had been laid out to good purpose in educating a soul for eternity, and that his son imparted as much learning to others as he gained himself. From these remarks you will perceive the nature of my views on education."

"It is all very correct, no doubt;" observed Mr. Tremlett, "but is there no particular system of education that you would recommend?"

"The system that I would recommend," said the professor, "is the system of Nature. Follow Nature."

"But it is not a very easy matter to determine what Nature is, where all is the effect of Art," replied Mr. Tremlett.

"Nature is everywhere, she is everything," said the professor; "listen to her; she speaks to you in the cataract; in the noiseless dews; the stars, the sun, the moon, all speak to you."

"Very true, I grant it," replied the merchant, "but they do not speak an intelligible language, to me at least; they require an interpreter; and I have generally found that those who associate most with Nature have the least knowledge of her."

"Then study the works of men's hands," replied professor Dobbins, "a noble cathedral speaks a sublimer language than any poem, satire or painting; it stands out of doors and all men may read it."

"But we have no cathedrals," said Mr. Tremlett.

"Then build them;" replied the professor, giving the back of the chair an emphatic blow, as much as to say "there's a clincher."

"But that would be an expensive mode of educating my boy, professor," said Mr. Tremlett, "to say nothing of the time it would require. Your cathedrals are not constructed in a day like your shingle meeting houses. Pray, do you not consider books essential in education?"

"Books are well enough." replied the professor, "perhaps very well; Hesiod, Homer, Horace and Heraclitus; Plato, Plutarch, Pliny and Polybius; Socrates, Sophocles; Simonides and—and—Smollet; all contain something. The languages too it is perhaps well enough to know something about. Study Greek, Hebrew, Latin, Syriac, Persian, and Coptic; read all the English classics; in short read everything; the German is a very good language, read plenty of that; read Spanish, French, Italian and Portuguese authors, even Dutch; several of their authors have written on dykes and tulips. Don't neglect the Dutch. They give an excellent idea of squareness, something which does not exist in Nature. But don't neglect Nature. Play on the organ and the German flute, and cultivate the soil; deliver lectures and mingle with your fellow beings. Your fellow beings are very well for society."

"The fact is," said Mr. Bates interposing, "the professor has got so much learning himself that he—"

"I hope my love, you are not going to pretend to instruct the professor!" said Mrs. Bates interrupting him.

"I was only going to observe, dear, that——"

"Then I desire that you just won't," said the lady, with an air; for she began to be tired of the subordinate part of a listener.

The professor, thinking, no doubt, that he had succeeded in giving Mr. Tremlett a high idea of his abilities as a teacher, generously offered to resign his situation as Professor of Penmanship and belles lettres in the Byefield Academy, and undertake the education of the boy, himself, for a moderate salary.

"I will give you a specimen of my manner of teaching," he said, "Peter step out and answer a few questions."

This was addressed to Mr. Bates' eldest son, who immediately stepped out in front of his mother and made a bow.

"The fact is," said Mr. Bates, "it is only three days since the professor took Peter in hand, and I think he has learned astonishing."

"You think!" said Mrs. Bates in an under tone, meant to reach her husband's ear alone; as though it was a pretty joke for Mr. Bates to pretend to exercise his thoughts.

"Now Peter," said the professor, "what is existence?"

"Existence is a word," said Peter.

"Very good," said the professor, "what idea does the word convey to the mental perception?"

"It is a word signifying to be, to do, and to suffer;" replied the pupil.

"Peter!" said the professor sternly, "consider what you are saying."

"The fact is the child is a little confused;" said Mr. Bates turning to his employer, and looking in an opposite direction to his wife.

"O, now I know," said Peter, and his father's eyes glistened with delight, and the professor stood very erect and looked very professional. "Existence is a troglodyte."

"Merciful powers!" exclaimed the professor.

"The child is only in his tenth year," said Mr. Bates.

"But never mind existence," said the professor, "let us ascend to the higher branches. Now Peter, speak up; what is man?"

"A man, a man—a man is a brute," replied Peter.

"How exceedingly annoying," said the agitated professor.

"What are all men, my nephew, what is their distinguishing peculiarities? It was but yesterday that you told me. Now."

"All men are brutes," replied Peter.

"Oh, oh!" groaned the disappointed professor.

"Well," said Peter, "that's what mother says."

"To be sure I say so," added the lady, "and why do you not learn him brother to say that men are wicked hypocritical creatures?"

"Because, sister," replied the professor, with forced calmness, "that is my definition of woman."

At this the lady burst into tears, and catching her son in her arms, rushed out of the room, leaving the professor and Mr. Tremlett overwhelmed with astonishment. But Mr. Bates was not in the least astonished as he had been expecting such a finale, ever since the examination of Peter commenced, but he was very much frightened for he knew on whose head the full blast of the storm would descend.

As the hour had arrived for the professor to go to the Lyceum where he was to deliver his lecture, he and Mr. Tremlett took their hats and left the house together.

Although it might gratify the scandal-loving part of our readers to know what transpired between Mr. and Mrs. Bates after Mr. Tremlett left the house, it would be a wide departure from our design in writing this history, to relate it; and we shall, therefore, even at the risk of displeasing some of our readers, close this chapter, and in the next return to the subject of this memoir, whom we do not mean to keep long out of sight.

————

CHAPTER VIII.

RELATES AN ACCIDENT WHICH ALMOST BRINGS THIS HISTORY TO A CONCLUSION.

ALTHOUGH Mr. Tuck loved money for its own sake, and hoarded it up for no other purpose than to see how much he could die possessed of, and was of course extremely parsimonious, yet he was not entirely destitute of human feelings; and if he was never generous he was always very exact in performing a promise. His younger brother had died a few years before the commencement of this history and having left but slender means for the support of his widow and three children, Mr. Tuck had, perhaps in an unguarded moment when the sluices of his heart were forced open by a flood of grief, promised to educate the children at his own expense, and he had continued to do so, but by way of a set off, perhaps to check any undue expectations in their mother, he manifested not the least regard for them in any other manner.

When Mr. Tremlett related to him the terrific meeting at the house of Mr. Bates, and told him of the embarrassment he labored under in respect to a tutor for his son, Mr. Tuck advised him to send the boy to the same school where he had placed his nephews; and it being in the immediate neighborhood of Mr. Tremlett's house, he determined to do so, and the boy was accordingly put under the charge of the Rev. Doctor Hodges who found him quick to learn, extremely docile, and although not wanting in spirit, yet gentle and affectionate in his manners. Being beautiful in his person and presumptive heir to a large fortune, it will not be thought a strange thing that the school-master conceived a great liking for his new pupil, and that he took great pains in teaching him, and great pride in his advancement. Under the tutelage of the good doctor, the boy soon learned a good deal of Latin and something about fluxions and decimal fractions; but under the tutelage of the two young Tucks he learned a good many things which boys generally learn at school, but for which no extra charge is made in the bill, although they have to be paid for at a dear rate in some other shape. In those days young ladies' seminaries and female colleges were not as common as they are at the present enlightened period of the world, and little girls generally received the rudiments of their education under the same roofs with little boys; it was the case in the present instance and little Julia Tuck was always accompanied to school by one or both of her brothers. She was about the same age as John Tremlett, but her brothers were both older, and the first time that she saw him she showed a decided preference for him, and she would persist in calling him her beau, notwithstanding her mother punished her for it. And although he joined in all her hilarious frolics, yet he did not manifest that liking for her that she did for him. But they were only children and the attachments of children are seldom lasting: they easily accommodate themselves to the company of whatever companions chance throws in their way, and as easily forget them when separated; they are seldom capricious in their tastes, and rarely show decided preferences. But sometimes attachments formed in early childhood continue through life, because the same sympathies would have attracted the same individuals at any period of their existence.

Julia Tuck was by no means a beautiful child: she had a dark complexion, and regular features; her hair was black and luxuriant, but her forehead was low, and her figure slight; there was a peculiar charm in her voice, and she always appeared joyous and happy, and was somewhat of a romp. But she was very passionate, and when her inclinations were opposed, she showed a stubbornness of purpose uncommon in a girl of her years. Her brothers, Tom and Fred could both boast of more personal beauty than their sister. Tom Tuck was a forward boy; he was a favorite both with his mother and teacher, and indeed with all elderly people who knew him; and although he was known among the boys to be the greatest rogue in the school, he always contrived to escape punishment, and was very rarely found out in any of his misdoings. Fred Tuck was the youngest of the brothers, and although not a whit more virtuous than Tom, yet he had such an innocent manner, that nobody ever believed him to be intentionally guilty whenever he was detected in any mischief that he undertook, and he was always sure to be found out, let him do what he would. He was forever poring over a book, but it never happened to be the one that contained his lesson. If Robinson Crusoe and Rinaldo Rinaldini had been elementary works in the Rev. Mr. Hodges' school, there can be no doubt that Fred Tuck would have been the best scholar in it; but as they were not, he was perhaps the very worst. He was very fond of history; that is, the history of impossible personages and improbable events; and he would sit in his mother's kitchen, of a winter's evening, and listen to the tales of rebellions and fairies, related by an old Irish servant, until the purring of the cat would make him start with fear, and he would not have looked behind him for all the world. He was a comely boy; he had a fair round face and a clear complexion, light blue eyes, and soft curly hair. These two boys took young Tremlett under their protection as soon as he made his appearance at school. Whether it was that they took compassion on his lone condition, or that they discovered he had more money to spend than themselves, does not appear; but they would not allow anybody else to be intimate with him; and whenever there was a fight which was once a day at least, the three boys were sure to be found ranged on one side. But for some cause or other, the mother of these children declared hostilities against him as soon as she heard of him. She not only would not allow him to enter her house, but she commanded her children not to speak to him. Perhaps it was some excuse for Mrs. Tuck, that she came from a very good family, and like all descendants of good families, she held in utter scorn everybody that was base-born or vulgar, unless they were rich; the genuine aristocratic principle being, that wealth can atone for the want of birth and talents, or that birth can atone for both, but that talents cannot atone for the want of either. Children, however, are not apt to be aristocratic in their ideas; and as the young Tucks could not enter into their mother's feelings, they did not pay the least regard to her commands, but continued to cultivate a very good understanding with their companion.

It was almost a year since he had been at school; he had made great improvement, and all effects of his early associations had disappeared. He was the pet and the darling of a little circle, where there was no one to contend with him for empire in the hearts of those who loved him. Mrs. Swazey, from at first appearing to love him, had got to loving him in reality, and Mr. Tremlett every day discovered some fresh cause for admiration. He had become essential to the old man's happiness, and he began to feel that life would be a burden without him. But an event soon occurred which for a time threatened to sever all those ties which had become so closely drawn together, and to deprive the fond old merchant of his chief solace and source of pleasure, and to drive his son into the world again, to encounter all its trials and privations.

It was on the occasion of some great gathering on the Battery, when all the idle people of the great city of New York appeared to have been attracted by a common sympathy to that beautiful spot, that the two Tucks, in company with their companion, made their appearance among the crowd, and by their shouts helped to increase the hubbub and confusion.

Of course there were many personages present, of greater importance than these three young gentlemen, and who probably attracted more attention at the time; but, as we believe there were none there for whom the reader will feel a greater interest.

Whether it was the arrival of some great man, or the execution of some great rogue, that caused the gathering, is not material to the right understanding of this history; but it was a gay and exhilarating scene. The day was warm, yet not oppressive; and a timely shower in the morning had washed the dust from the trees, and given to the grass on the Battery, and the opposite shores of New-Jersey and Governor's Island, an appearance of verdant beauty. The bay was covered with boats, which were moving about in all directions, with gay pennons flying, and from some strains of martial music proceeded, and from others, the reports of fire-arms. On shore crowds of elegantly-dressed women were jostled by crowds of badly-dressed men; and nurses were out-screaming the interesting little creatures placed under their protection; while numerous companies of citizen soldiery were performing evolutions that Napoleon never dreamed of, to the immense delight of innumerable little black boys, who were perched on the over hanging branches of the elms and sycamores; and sentinels, as fierce as regimentals could render them, were repelling the invasion of any stray cow or old apple-woman that might chance to encroach upon the district placed for the time under martial law. Bands of music were playing, and guns were popping off in every direction. Everybody seemed resolutely bent upon making a noise, and our three young gentlemen had every disposition to increase the tumult, by letting off a few squibs and crackers; but on examining their pockets, they discovered that they could not muster a sixpence between them. It chanced unluckily, that Mr. Tremlett was out of town, and John could think of no way to procure some money. Tom Tuck tried to persuade him to pawn his watch but that he resolutely refused to do, because his father (for so he called Mr. Tremlett,) had given it to him but a few days before. He said he would not part with it to procure himself bread, much less squibs. While they were trying to hit upon some plan for raising the necessary funds for a frolic, their mortification was increased, and their desires were excited, by a party of youngsters of their acquaintance, who rowed past in a boat, with a horse pistol and a flask of powder. At last Fred Tuck said he knew where his mother kept her purse, and he promised, if the two would wait for him, to go and bring it. Accordingly he started off, and his brother Tom and his companion indulged themselves during his absence with a couple of hard boiled eggs, and a bottle of ginger-beer, meaning to pay for them as soon as the adventurer returned. But that enterprizing young gentleman soon came back, quite out of breath, and as destitute of money as when he left. His mother had caught him in the very act of breaking open her bureau, and he had to fight hard to escape. They were now placed in a very disagreeable situation. They had before them a practical illustration of the evils of the credit system. They had contracted a debt, with the expectation of paying it out of the proceeds of an uncertain adventure, and being disappointed in its issue, they were involved in great distress which was very much heightened by a boatman coming up to them, and offering to row them about the bay for a dollar. It was such a gay exciting scene upon the water; the boat lay rocking so temptingly, with a white awning stretched fore and aft; what should they do? The Tucks knew nothing about restraining their desires; it was a part of their education that had been neglected. Their mother was always fearful of spoiling their dispositions by crossing their inclinations; and so she always let them have their own way when it did not interfere very much with her own.

Here I would willingly pause, and either bring this history to a close, or blot out from it the transactions of this gala-day; but as we have already promised to record all the controlling events of our hero's life, we feel ourselves bound to do so, however prejudicial it may prove to his reputation, or repugnant to our feelings.

After many idle suggestions on the part of the Tucks, Tom at last hit upon one that promised to afford the required funds.

"I know how I could get some money, and our own money too," said Tom Tuck.

"How? how?" eagerly inquired the other two.

"I know exactly where my uncle Gris. keeps his pocket-book, in his desk, and I could very easily get it," said Tom; "and it would only be taking it a little in advance, you know, Fred, because mother says he will leave all his money to us when he dies; and he can't live much longer, so what difference does it make, whether we take it now, or after he is dead?"

"That is prime!" said Fred; "that is first rate—isn't it Johnny? That is capital! That is equal to Rinaldo Rinaldini. Come, let us have it right off, Tom."

Whether it was because Johnny thought he had no right to interfere in family arrangements, we cannot determine, but he remained perfectly silent, and neither opposed nor approved the proposition of the brothers to rob their uncle. It was finally arranged between them that Tom and Fred should proceed to their uncle's counting-room, and that while one of them called the old gentlemen away, the other should rifle his desk. Their companion in the mean time, was to remain as a hostage with the dealer in hard-boiled eggs and ginger-beer. But just as the two adventurers were about starting on their perilous expedition, Tom Tuck said: "I tell you how it is Johnny, you are putting all the work upon us, while you are not going to do any thing." At this imputation, young Tremlett blushed, and held down his head.

"Don't be a sneak, now," said Tom.

"I have done all I can do," replied the boy.

"Well then, if you don't do something, you shall not have anything," said the wily Thomas, tauntingly.

"What can I do," said the youngster.

"You can go with me, and let Fred remain here," replied Tom.

"But I won't steal, if I do," replied our hero.

"Nobody is going to steal; it's our own money; mother has said so fifty times; hasn't she Fred?"

"Yes, fifty thousand times," said Fred.

John could think of no argument to oppose to the specious reasoning of the young lawyers; and although he felt it was wrong yet as he had been accustomed to look upon them as his superiors, he thought they must be better judges than himself of what was right and proper. Besides, he could not bear the idea of sharing in their money, while he incurred no part of the risk of obtaining it; although he always shared his own allowance with the two brothers, without expecting any thing in return. And so he allowed himself to be led by them to do what he knew was wrong, lest they should reproach him with a want of courage.

All the clerks in the employ of Tremlett & Tuck had left their desks, and gone down to see the parade upon the Battery, with the exception of Mr. Bates, who remained in the counting-room to post his books: but the unusual silence and stillness of the office had such a soothing influence upon the book-keeper's nerves, that he fell fast asleep while in the very act of footing up a long column of figures; his head dropped down upon his opened ledger, and being quite unconscious of what he was doing, as all sleepy people are, with the exception of professed somnambulists, he had contrived to overturn a bottle of red ink, and the contents of it were running down in streams across the ledger, and along the side of his face; giving him very much the appearance of a man with his throat cut from ear to ear. Mr. Tuck was alone in the private office, apparently engaged in some absorbing calculations at his desk, when his nephew Tom walked in, though a private entrance which led directly into the street.

"Ah! Thomas, is that you?" said Mr. Tuck, laying down his pen.

"How do you do, Uncle;—are you pretty well?" inquired the young gentleman, affectionately.

"Yes, pretty well; or rather, I am not very well; I took a slight cold yesterday at an auction," replied the uncle.

"I hope you are not going to be sick, uncle," said his nephew.

"I hope not, I hope not," said the uncle, coughing slightly; "but what, what brought you here just now?"

"I wanted you to see the soldiers," said Tom; "they are just marching along at the foot of the street."

"What! soldiers? What a foolish boy! Do you think I want to look at a regiment of counter-jumpers with bob-tail coats on? I have got more profitable business than that to attend to, Thomas."

"Ah, but you never saw any thing so handsome!" said the boy; "these are real soldiers, with great long swords and guns: hark! hear the drums! You don't know how fine they look; you can see them without going off the stoop, too."

"Well, well," said Mr. Tuck, "since you have taken so much trouble on my account, I will just step down to the foot of the stairs to gratify you; but I would as soon look at a drove of sheep with their fleeces painted red, as at a parcel of men dressed up in regimentals, and marching through the streets, without any object in view. I tell you it's a poor way of making money, Thomas; there is no profit in it; it is a most ridiculous waste of time; because, Thomas, it requires but a few hours to make a soldier of an able bodied man, when there is any real occasion for his services; and to compel a poor white-livered denizen of a counting-room, or one of the human fixtures in a cobbler's stall, or a tailor's shop to shoulder a musket for a part of two days in the year, with the idea of preparing him the better to defend his country, if he should ever be called upon to do it, is too nonsensical."

By the time that Mr. Tuck had delivered himself of these remarks, they had reached the bottom of the stairs that led to the street door, and on looking out, there was not a soldier to be seen.

"But where are the soldiers, Thomas?" inquired the old gentleman.

"They will soon be along, uncle; only wait a moment," replied Tom. "I hear the drums now."

"And then, Thomas, the thing is unjust, as well as absurd," continued Mr. Tuck; "because the burden has to be borne by those who are least able to bear it; but that is always the case in public affairs. You see, Thomas, if it be actually necessary for the safety of the country that men should learn to be soldiers, a trifling fine of a few dollars ought not to be considered a sufficient punishment for neglecting so important a duty, because the rich can easily discharge the penalty, while the poor cannot; and consequently they are compelled to fight for their country, not because they have property at stake, to protect which armies are raised, but because they have not. You see the unreasonableness of it, Thomas."

"Yes, uncle," said Thomas, "but I don't see the soldiers yet; I am afraid they have gone up the next street."

"And if I had my way, Thomas, I would make the women train, too," said Mr. Tuck.

"That would be funny!" said Tom; "my! how I should laugh to see a regiment of women go a-soldiering!"

"You see, Thomas," said the gallant old bachelor, "the women are eternally talking about their rights; they want to vote, confound them! and if they will vote, they ought to fight!"

"O, I have seen women fight, many a time," said the youngster: "only yesterday morning, I saw two great fat women fighting, down in Fulton market: one of them took up a weakfish, and struck the other right in the face with it; my! didn't they call each other names!"

Just then John Tremlett was seen to pass the corner of the street and although he must have heard Mr. Tuck and his affectionate nephew talking together, yet he never turned his head but walked quickly along.

"I am afraid, uncle, you will take cold, standing here," said Tom; "you had better step back into the office, while I run down the next street, and if I see the soldiers coming, I will call you."

So saying, the youngster ran down the street, and Mr. Tuck returned to his office, saying to himself, as he went: "What an affectionate boy that Thomas is!—most remarkable child; always so considerate and respectful to old people! I shouldn't wonder if I gave that boy something one of these days: if I was sure of having just such a boy as that, I don't know but I might get married after a while, when the times get better: plenty of women that would have me, I dare say; it wouldn't cost much to bring up a boy like that; he never asks for money, like some children."

"I wonder," thought Mr. Tuck, "what Mr. Bates is doing. I don't hear him stirring;" and so, to satisfy his curiosity, he lifted up a corner of the green curtain that hung before a little window that looked into the outer office; but he suddenly let it drop again, and came very near dropping himself; and if he did not scream murder, it was because fright had deprived him of utterance. Such a spectacle as met his eyes, would have frightened a butcher. It requires but a very short space of time to jump at a conclusion; and Mr. Tuck was not so terrified as to prevent his drawing an inference. Seeing, as he supposed, his book-keeper lying with his throat cut, his first thought was, that somebody had robbed him, and then murdered his clerk; and going to his desk he discovered that his pocket-book it was gone, which confirmed his suspicion, and quickened his senses as much as the first glance at Mr. Bates had stunned them; and running out into the street, he shouted, "Murder! murder!" with all his might. The noise awoke the book-keeper, who perceived at a glance the mischief he had done; and he jumped at a conclusion and jumped off his stool at the same moment. His first thought was, what his wife would say to him, and his next to run to the nearest bath and wash himself, before anybody should see him. So he shut up his ledger, and hurried down stairs in an opposite direction to Mr. Tuck, for the store was on a corner, and as we have already stated, there were two entrances to the counting-room.

A murder is a matter of interest to everybody, and therefore Mr. Tuck was soon surrounded by a multitude of men anxiously inquiring for particulars. But he was too much excited to give any details: but told them to follow him, and see for themselves; upon which a great number crowded up the narrow stairs, all anxious to have the first sight of the horrid spectacle.

"There he lies!" said Mr. Tuck, turning away his head, but pointing with his out-stretched arm to the door of the outer office; "and here is the place from which the murderer took the pocket-book."

"Where is he? where is he?" exclaimed half a dozen voices; "we don't see him."

"Not see him!" exclaimed Mr. Tuck with astonishment as he elbowed his way into the outer office.

"I see nothing that looks like a murdered man, but this bottle of red ink that is spilled here," said one of the crowd.

Mr. Tuck was a second time rendered speechless with astonishment; so he said nothing; but he looked as blank as a new ledger.

Some of the men tittered, and some winked very knowingly, but none of them indulged in outright laughter, because they all knew that Mr. Tuck was very rich, and it would not have been genteel to make light of a rich man's mishaps.

"All I can say is, gentlemen," said Mr. Tuck, at last, "it is a very strange world that we live in. I know I have been robbed of my pocket-book, and I am very certain that my head book-keeper lay here a moment ago, with his throat cut; but what has become of him, is more than I can say."

As Mr. Bates' house was but a few steps from the counting-room, some humane individual, who had heard an exaggerated account of the disaster, had run there in great haste, and informed Mrs. Bates that her husband had been murdered by his employer, Mr. Tuck.

As the book-keeper's wife had promised herself the prolonged gratification of harrassing her husband to death by piece-meal, she was not disposed to view the summary process of Mr. Tuck in a very favorable light; but she hesitated a moment, on first hearing the awful news, between going into hysterics, and going down to the counting-room, to make a display of her outraged feelings: she determined, however, on the latter course, as she would there have the greatest number of spectators. So, without stopping to put on her bonnet, she threw a shawl over her head, and ran with all speed to the office of Tremlett & Tuck, where she arrived before all the men had dispersed, who had been collected together by the outcries of the junior partner. As she ran up the stairs with great agility, the first intimation that Mr. Tuck had of her presence, was a piercing shriek that went to his very soul.

"You sanguinary wretch! you old hoary-headed, brown-wigged murderer! You villain! you have made my poor children fatherless, and me a widow! Where is his body!—let me see him!" exclaimed Mrs. Bates in the first agony of her lacerated feelings.

"Woman, be still!" exclaimed Mr. Tuck.

"I won't be still!" replied the imaginary widow; "give me my husband! O where is he!—where is his murdered body!"

"Poor creature!" said one of the by-standers; "it is a very hard case; very hard case indeed."

Nothing feeds grief like sympathy, and these few words had such an effect on Mrs. Bates, that she redoubled her shrieks, and gave vent to her feelings in such piercing tones, that Mr. Tuck was compelled to put his hands to his ears.

"Don't let that woman come near me!" he exclaimed; "take her away, take her away!"

"Give me my dear husband!—give me back my husband!" still shrieked the lady, when in walked Mr. Bates, with his face washed clean, and his coat buttoned up to his chin, to hide the stains of the red ink on his shirt-bosom.

"Here I am, dear," said Mr. Bates, in his most placid manner; "what is the matter dear?"

People should be very cautious how they work themselves up into a high passion, as it is one of the most difficult things in the world to descend again to an ordinary level with ease and credit to themselves. Mrs. Bates felt the full force of this truth, when her husband made his appearance; and thinking probably, that the most unnatural conduct would be the most becoming on the occasion, she uttered another piercing scream, and fell senseless into the arms of Mr. Tuck, who being quite unprepared for her reception, fell with her, to the great danger of both their necks; but fortunately, neither was much hurt, although the merchant was very much frightened. The lady obstinately refused to be brought to her senses, and she was conveyed home in an omnibus, where the book-keeper learned for the first time, the cause of all the confusion.

As soon as Mr. Tuck had collected his scattered senses, he began to think about his pocket-book; and when he remembered that it must have been taken by some one who entered his office through the room in which Mr. Bates sat writing at his desk, he began to have suspicions of him.

"A man with such a wife as that would do any thing!" said Mr. Tuck to himself; "confound her! she called me a brown-wigged old villain, and I'll have revenge of her!"

Just as he had come to the determination of sending for a police-officer to arrest him, Mr. Tremlett returned to the counting-room, and on hearing Mr. Tuck's suspicions of his book-keeper, he put them all at rest, by reminding his partner that Mr. Bates had it in his power to rob them of any amount he pleased, without any risk to himself, by false entries in their books; and it was not at all likely that he would do so foolish a thing as to steal his pocket-book, when he must know that suspicion would immediately attach to him.

But Mr. Tuck was unwilling to relinquish the idea that there had been a conspiracy to rob him, and that Mrs. Bates was at the bottom of it.

And while the two partners were arguing about the most prudent means to be taken for the recovery of the pocket-book, a messenger came in great haste to inform Mr. Tremlett that his adopted son had been upset in a boat, and that he had been taken from the water, as was supposed, lifeless. The old merchant turned ghastly pale at the intelligence, and sank back in his chair, quite overcome. But he revived again immediately, and took his hat and cane, and hurried to his house, where he found the boy, who had just begun to show signs of life. A physician had been summoned, and all the means that could be made use of, had been put in requisition for his recovery. The old gentleman fell on his knees by the side of the boy, and kissed his wet cheeks. "Poor, dear child!" he exclaimed, "I did not know that I loved you half so well. May God in his mercy, spare you to me a little longer!" Mrs. Swazey was busily engaged rubbing him with hot flannels, while Bridget was wringing her hands, and crying piteously. After a while, the color returned to his cheeks, and he opened his eyes and stared wildly around for a moment, and then relapsed into a lethargy again. But the physician pronounced him out of danger, and he was put to bed, where Mr. Tremlett watched by him until morning.

"Ah! my poor boy!" said he, "you shall never stir so far from me again, until you are better able to take care of yourself." He was anxious to learn all about the accident which had so nearly proved fatal to the boy, but the physicians having advised him not to ask him any questions that would be likely to excite him, he refrained from doing so. But as soon as it was light, he dispatched his coachman to find out the boatman who had rescued him, as he wished to reward him, as well as learn from him all the particulars of the accident. In about an hour the man returned, bringing the boatman with him, whose name was Bill Van Tyne.

"Brave fellow!" said Mr. Tremlett, in the warmth of his gratitude, "you shall be rewarded for your exertions."

"Well, I always like to save a gentlemen's son from drowning when I kin," said Mr. Van Tyne, "because then I know I shall get well paid for it; and I don't mind it if I do get hurted a little. I have had a good many dollars given me for saving people's lives sence I have first followed the water for a living."

"And how did this accident happen?" inquired Mr. Tremlett.

"Why you see," said Mr. Van Tyne, "it was all the same as if you was sitting here, and I was sitting there, and this here table was a bar'l of 'ysters: then up gets one of the boys on top, and begins to say how he will fling the pocket-book overboard, because he said if he didn't 'twould be found out arter he got hum."

"The pocket-book!" said Mr. Tremlett.

"Yes, a yellow sheep-skin pocket-book, tied up with a piece of red tape," said Mr. Van Tyne. "Then little John, the littlest boy, which almost got drownded, got up and swore he shouldn't do no such thing."

"Did he swear?" asked Mr. Tremlett.

"Well, I can't rightly say whether he did or not," said the boatman, "but he said to the other, I believe he called him Tom, that he shouldn't throw it overboard, because he was going to carry it back again. Then all three on'em had a clinch, and I jumped in between 'em, and fust I perceived, I'm blest if I don't wish I may never see another 'yster, if the boat didn't capsize; and before I know'd what I was doing, I was ten foot under water. So says I to myself, "Fanny you are done for this heat, any how you can fix it!"

"What, was there a woman on board?" asked Mr. Tremlett.

"No, not exactly a woman," replied Mr. Van Tyne, "only Fanny Kemble, that's the boat's name."

"Ah," said Mr. Tremlett; "then what became of little Johnny, as you call him?"

"Well, when I come up and blowed," he said "I looked round and there was two of the youngsters clinging to the boat, but the littlest one I couldn't see; so I looked down in the water, and there I seen him. He looked green enough, I tell you, and all crinkling like; so says I, it won't do to let a gentleman's son go off in that way, no how; so I fetched a good long breath, and down I div, and just caught him by the hair of his head. And so another boat picked us up; and that was the way of it."

"And this pocket-book," said Mr. Tremlett; "what did the boys say about it?"

"Well, perhaps I shouldn't like to tell," said the boatman.

"Why not, Sir?" asked Mr. Tremlett.

"Well I don't know; perhaps I might, if I had any thing giv to me to make it a consideration," replied Mr. Van Tyne.

"We shall see about that another time," said Mr. Tremlett; "call here again at three o'clock, and I will then pay you." So Mr. Van Tyne left the house, and Mr. Tremlett returned to his son's bed-side, with sad misgivings in his mind. As the youngster was quite recovered, he asked him about the pocket-book, how it came into his possession, and what it contained. At first he was going to deny any knowledge of it; but Mr. Tremlett told him if he detected him in a falsehood, he would send him back to the Asylum from whence he had taken him, and that he would never see him again. And thereupon, the boy made a full confession of how Tom Tuck called his uncle out of the office, while he slipped in at the other door, and finding Mr. Bates asleep, softly opened the door of the private office, and took the pocket-book out of Mr. Tuck's desk, and then slipped out again by the same way he had entered, without waking Mr. Bates.

Although he made a full confession of the manner in which he had stolen the pocket-book, yet he did not attempt to criminate the Tucks by relating the specious arguments by which they had overcome his aversion to the act, but on the contrary, he rather strove to shield them from any blame. But Mr. Tremlett could not fail to perceive that Tom Tuck was the principal instigator in the business; and therefore he resolved that the two brothers should bear their full share of the blame; for although he would have gladly hushed the matter up, yet it was of too serious a nature to be passed lightly over. The pocket-book was still missing, and John could not tell what had become of it. Tom Tuck had it in his possession when the boat upset, but whether it had been lost, or whether he still had it, could not be known. Mr. Tremlett was too much agitated by the discovery he had made, to attend to any business. He sent a note, therefore, to his partner, stating that he had some important information to impart to him, which brought him immediately to his house.

Mr. Tuck was overwhelmed with astonishment and indignation, when he heard how his pocket-book had been stolen; he sent for his two nephews and their mother, who soon made their appearance; the lady looking very grand, and the two boys very demure and innocent. Their sister also came with them, and she contrived to seat herself in a chair by the side of her favorite, which Mrs. Tuck no sooner perceived, than she made her remove her seat to the opposite side of the room. On hearing the accusation against her two boys, the lady burst into tears, while the youngsters themselves swore it was a lie from beginning to end; and that they had never seen the pocket-book, nor heard a syllable about it before. Their mother called little Johnny a thieving, lying brat, and said she always knew some harm would come to her children, by their associating with such a creature. Just then Bill Van Tyne, the boatman, made his appearance, and not only confirmed all that young Tremlett had disclosed, but also related the conversation which passed between the boys, while they were proving so clearly that they had a perfect right to the property of their uncle. This the two brothers also denied; and their mother bestowed some very choice expressions not only upon the boatman, but upon Mr. Tremlett and his son, whom she called by a name that it is not necessary to repeat.

"Well," exclaimed Mr. Van Tyne, "if that don't beat all my wife's relations! I never seen taller lying than that at a ward meeting! Face it out, young fellers; you'll make first rate lawyers, when you grow up!"

Mr. Tuck was beginning to think that there was in reality a conspiracy to injure his two nephews, when the door opened, and in ran little Julia Tuck, who had stolen out of the room unperceived, at the commencement of the dispute, and put the lost pocket-book into the hands of her uncle.

"They shan't lie about little Johnny!" said the little girl exultingly. Mrs. Swazey and Bridget had been listening at the key hole, in a state of great excitement, during the whole examination; but they now broke through all restraints, and rushed into the room. The latter caught young Tremlett round the neck, and almost stifled him with kisses, while the house-keeper threw herself into a chair, and burst into tears.

As it would be quite impossible accurately to describe the scene which ensued, we will not make the attempt, but leave it to the imagination of the reader to form such a tableau out of the materials which we have furnished him, as will best agree with his feelings.

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CHAPTER IX.

WILL INTRODUCE A NEW PERSONAGE TO THE READER'S NOTICE.

THIS life is called a chequered state of existence, and with the majority of human beings it doubtless is so. But there are instances in which it would appear that one long black shadow has rested upon a man's destiny, from the time he first opened his eyes upon the world, until he has closed them in death. Unhappy wretches there have been, across whose path no bright gleams of sunshine have ever darted; in whose ear no gentle tones of love and affection have ever been breathed; doomed mortals, whose misfortunes were hoarded for them by their ancestors; whose chains were forged by those whose duty it was to smooth their pillows, and strew flowers in their way. There are some to whom a seeming affliction brings a counteracting benefit, while there are others whose apparent turns of good fortune are always accompanied by a more than over-balancing evil.

Of this class of unfortunate beings, was Jeremiah Jernegan. He was a clerk in the counting-room of Tremlett & Tuck; and in addition to the ordinary duties of the office, he was made, through his own gentle and obliging nature, to perform the duty of a butt for the whole establishment. His keen sensibilities and lively apprehensions, added to a very weak frame, and forgiving disposition, rendered him a very suitable person for fools and cowards to exercise their talents upon; and scarce a day was allowed to pass, without his being made to feel the misery of his uncomfortable situation. Even Mr. Bates used to domineer over him, by way of revenge for the indignities that his wife put upon him.

The retrospective pleasures, which to some are a source of happiness, under afflicting circumstances, were wholly denied to him. His infancy and childhood had been the most wretched part of his existence. A brutal father, and a weak-minded mother, whom he more than suspected of crimes that chilled his heart to think of, embittered his earliest recollections. His parents were both dead, but he was denied the satisfaction of thinking of them as divinized existences, with whom he could hope to mingle hereafter; for neither their lives nor the manner of their death, afforded cause for such a belief. He had a brother, but he was brutal in his temper and dissipated in his habits; and instead of proving a consolation to him, he was a continual source of mortification and grief. Jeremiah was possessed of none of those nameless little graces, that are so worthless in themselves, and yet so powerful in winning the esteem of others; but, on the contrary, there was an expression in his emaciated face, and a hesitation in his manner, which rendered him almost personally disagreeable, even to them who really esteemed him for his good qualities. He had but few relations, and they were all in the humblest walks of life, and were withal extremely poor; so that whatever his earnings or savings might have been, his generous feelings would not allow him to keep what he knew those who were closely related to him stood in need of. He was accordingly not only very poor, but there was every prospect of his always remaining so. But even the happiness which springs from contented poverty, was denied to him. He was very proud and very ambitious; but his pride was not of that kind which feeds upon riches, neither was his ambition of that nature which aims at mercantile greatness; and although he was forced to make the humiliating confession to himself, that he did not possess the qualifications requisite to give him a claim to the world's notice, yet that did not abate in the least his desire for distinction, or make him more contented with his humble position in society. He had not received even the poorest education that the poorest school could afford in his younger days; but having, by some chance, acquired a knowledge of the alphabet, he had learned just enough of books by employing his leisure hours, and stealing from his body the moments it might justly claim for refreshment and sleep, to devote them to reading, for the benefit of his mind, to make him more sensible of his ignorance than he would have been, if even this slight glimmer of knowledge had been denied him: like some poor wretch, the light of whose dungeon is but just sufficient to reveal to him the narrow bounds of his prison walls. Jeremiah never had a friend to whom he could impart his secret griefs, or upon whom he could rely for reciprocal consolation and assistance; while he saw everybody around him paired off with a mate or a companion, he wondered why it was that he had never met with a congenial spirit. He was too honorable to flatter, and too proud to solicit. As he never frequented places of public amusement, nor wore fine clothes, he was, of course, not a suitable companion for the other clerks in the counting-room of Tremlett & Tuck. But he had begun to possess his soul in patience; his thoughts had been directed to the meek sufferer of Nazareth; and looking up to the cross on which he expired, the poor clerk discovered a bright star, whose light gave a holy calm to his soul; but its rays were sometimes obscured by clouds of darkness and distrust.

Jeremiah had become greatly attached to young Tremlett, for the youngster had been in the habit of making frequent visits to the counting-room, where he was an universal favorite. Mr. Bates treated him with the most profound respect, and never disputed or denied him any thing, because he was his employer's pet; and he gained the good-will of the other clerks, by his good nature, and the smart replies he made to their teasing questions: but Jeremiah loved him because he was an orphan, like himself; and instead of feeling envious of the boy's handsome person, and flattering prospects, he exulted in the thought that there was happiness in store for at least one outcast, and that the world was full of gentleness, and beauty, and love, even though they were all denied to him. And when it was made known that his favorite was the thief who had stolen Mr. Tuck's pocket-book, while all the clerks agreed in saying that they always thought he had a thievish look, Jeremiah wiped a tear from his eye, and said, "Poor boy! I cannot condemn him, for I might have done the same thing myself, if I had been tempted like him."

"Yes, I dare say you would, Mr. Jernegan," said the cash-keeper, "and I shall keep a sharp look-out for you in future."

"Why, the fact is," said Mr. Bates, "they do say, that is, I have heard the remark often, that birds of a feather will fly together; and I shouldn't be surprised if Jeremiah did feather his nest one of these days."

"It is very hard," said Jeremiah, "if one cannot express sympathy for an unfortunate boy, without being subjected to such cruel suspicions."

"I think Jerry," said another of the clerks, "you are just fit for a black guard missionary."

"Ah!" replied Jeremiah, "I wish I were."

"Well, I will give you a certificate, if you wish," said the clerk; "my father is one of the directors of the Board of Missions, and I heard him say at breakfast this morning, that they wanted a nice young man to act as chaplain in the Grand Turk's harem."

This was such an exquisite joke, that everybody laughed of course, except Jeremiah, who continued writing at his desk. Many more jokes would have been uttered at his expense, but the entrance of Mr. Tremlett caused an immediate silence, and everybody caught up a pen, and began to write very fiercely.

Mr. Tremlett looked very serious; and after giving some directions to the cash-keeper, he told Jeremiah he wished to see him in private. The poor clerk trembled with apprehension, being fearful that he had been guilty of some indiscretion that would cause him to be discharged; as he followed his employer into his private office, his knees almost sank under him.

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CHAPTER X.

CONTAINS SEVERAL SURPRISING ADVENTURES, WHICH WILL PROBABLY BE QUITE NEW TO THE READER.

THE immediate consequences of the recovery of Mr. Tuck's pocket-book, and the discovery of the thief, were the disgrace of the two brothers, and their high-spirited mother, in the estimation of their uncle, who swore he would neither spend another copper for their benefit while living, nor leave them a dollar at his death; and the determination, on the part of Mr. Tremlett, to abandon his adopted son to his fate, and never see him again.

As it may appear somewhat unaccountable to the reader that Julia Tuck should have got possession of the pocket-book we will explain that circumstance. When the two brothers were taken home to their mother, after they had been picked up in the river, she found the pocket-book in Tom's cap; and on being accused of stealing it, his brother Fred made a full confession, while the other justified himself on the ground that she had herself taught them to look upon their uncle's property as their own. Upon which the lady read them a lecture upon the enormity of their guilt, and endeavoured to explain to them the difference between taking possession of their uncle's money before and after his death; a distinction which Tom Tuck still persisted in saying he could not clearly comprehend. His mother, in examining the pocket-book, found that it contained but little money, and that the other papers, which she supposed to be valuable, were but little injured by the water. She intended to enclose it in a wrapper, and drop it into the post office, directed to her brother-in-law, as soon as it should be dry; but the unexpected summons to appear at the house of Mr. Tremlett, had prevented her from doing so. Little Julia heard all the conversation between her mother and her brothers; and when she heard her favorite accused of the crime that she knew they were guilty of, she ran home and took the pocket-book from her mother's bureau, and returned it to her uncle, as has been already related. And in doing this, the young lady was not influenced solely by a love of justice; she had conceived a great fondness for young Tremlett which she evinced on all occasions, without much reserve; and her brothers not having always treated her with becoming kindness, she was glad of an opportunity to do them an injury, at the same time that she gave her favorite a proof of her regard for him. The mortification and anger of her mother was intense. They almost converted her maternal love into hatred to her own offspring; and she returned to her home with her heart full of revengeful feelings, which she burned for an opportunity to gratify.

Although Mr. Tremlett determined, in the first excitement of his feelings, to turn his adopted son into the street, and to steel his heart forevermore against all kindly feelings toward the human race, and particularly orphan boys, yet when he reviewed the whole affair in his mind, and considered the youth of the boy, his temptations, the examples that had been set him in his earlier years, and his own culpability in not teaching him more pointedly than he had done, to do no evil, the guilt of the youngster did not appear so enormous, nor his nature so depraved as at first. And then the gratitude of the lad in refusing to pawn his watch, because it had been given to him by his father, was a proof that he was not destitute of generous qualities. In truth, Mr. Tremlett did not reason with himself long, before he was astonished that he should ever have thought of parting with his son; and on visiting the boy in his chamber, as he lay asleep, all his fond feelings were revived, and he felt that he loved him more tenderly than ever. "If the good and pious only were entitled to our love," thought Mr. Tremlett, "how many would go through the world unfriended and desolate!"

On consulting with Dr. Hodges the boy's teacher, that discreet gentleman, against his own interest, advised Mr. Tremlett to send the boy to a private school in the country, where he would be free from the influence of such companions as the Tucks, and not exposed to the thousand temptations that surround him in the city. This advice Mr. Tremlett could not but acknowledge was very just and proper; and although he would gladly have kept the boy with him at home, yet professing to have the child's permanent good at heart, he agreed to be governed by it; and Mr. Hodges having recommended a school kept by a clergyman of his acquaintance in one of the pleasant towns in the interior of Massachusetts, it was resolved that the boy should be sent there without delay. As he was too young to travel alone, and his father's engagements being such that he could not accompany him, Jeremiah Jernegan was selected, as being the most suitable person in the employment of Tremlett & Tuck, to take charge of the young gentleman, and deliver him at his place of destination; and it was on this important business that Mr. Tremlett wanted to speak with Jeremiah, when he called him into his private office. The poor clerk was overjoyed at this proof of his employer's confidence, as well as delighted at the thought of travelling in company with the boy, although this pleasure was not without its draw-back; as he would be deprived, on his return, of the gratification of seeing the lad for a very long period, if not for ever.

The next day young Tremlett left his happy home, in company with Jeremiah. They were accompanied to the steam-boat by Mr. Tremlett, who had reserved some very solemn advice to be imparted to his son just before they parted, thinking it might make a more lasting impression upon his mind, if delivered at such an impressive moment. But when the time arrived, the old gentleman was so full of grief, that he found it impossible to utter a word; so he pressed the boy's hand, and silently invoking the blessing of heaven upon his head, he turned from the boat and left him.

Now, although Jeremiah was a very suitable person, in one respect, for the charge entrusted to him, yet he was in another quite the opposite, seeing that he had never been but a short distance from home, and that he was totally unacquainted with the ways of the world, as well as the ways of stage-drivers and steam-boat agents. It was almost night when the steam-boat left the dock, and as it soon grew dark, our travellers went up on the promenade-deck to look at the stars, and to enjoy the novelty of being afloat in the night. While they were leaning over the railing, making their remarks on every thing that struck them as novel, a stranger approached them with a segar in his mouth, and after listening to their conversation a few moments, he ventured to address them.

"Charming evening, gentlemen," said the stranger.

"Yes, Sir, it is, very lovely," replied Jeremiah; "I was just remarking to my young friend here, that the solemn grandeur of the scene was very impressive."

"Upon my soul," said the stranger, "I was just thinking that very thing myself; what a liquid appearance the water has!"

"Very," replied Jeremiah; "it is a pleasant thing to travel; there is such a constant succession of new and surprising scenes, that one has hardly time to dwell upon his own sad feelings."

"Yes," replied the stranger; "but d——n it! I have got sick of it, and I am now going home to settle down quietly on my own farm, where I can eat my own eggs, and drink my own cider."

"Ah! there's a pleasure in that, too," said Jeremiah, "Pray have you travelled much?"

"Not much," said the stranger; "I have been as fur as Rome, and once, I was as fur from hum as Batavia. I have got a sister married in Vienna, which I go to see once a year; and once in a great while, I go to see my uncle, in Pekin."

"You must have been a very great traveller," said Jeremiah.

"I don't call that nothing at all," said the stranger; "I mean to go to Niagara next fall."

"How long since you were in Batavia?" asked Jeremiah.

"Only last spring," replied the stranger.

"Our house has some correspondents in Batavia," said Jeremiah; "we received a large consignment from them last week. I suppose you know the firm of Gluttstiver & Gruntwitchel?"

"No, I can't say I do," said the stranger. "I thought I knowd all the merchants in that place, too. Have they been long in business?"

"Oh, it is a very old house," replied Jeremiah; "our firm have been in correspondence with them for a great many years. And pray what is the quality of the coffee there?" asked Jeremiah.

"The d——st stuff I ever swallowed in my life!—nothing like as good as you get at the Eagle, in Palmyra. I would as soon drink the water out of the Grand Canawl," replied the stranger, with some warmth.

"Your account does not agree with my impressions at all," said Jeremiah; "I thought the coffee was very fine."

"All humbug!" said the stranger snapping his fingers; "it was not worth that!"

"Palmyra must be a very interesting spot," said Jeremiah.

"So-so," said the stranger; "the fact is it was built up too suddenly. Folks said 'twas a very flourishing place, and so 'twas; but 'twas all flourish; and now it's going down hill fast enough.

"Perhaps its rise was too sudden," replied Jeremiah; "but it was always a matter of wonder to me, how such a city ever sprung up in such a place."

"It is no wonder at all to me," said the stranger; "it was all done by speculators."

"Not unlikely," replied Jeremiah; "human nature has doubtless been the same in all ages; and I suppose there were speculators even among the Palmyrenes."

The stranger now perceived that his segar had gone out while he had been talking to our travellers, and he left them to get a light.

"That is a very remarkable man!" said Jeremiah. "Only think of it, John; he says his sister lives in Vienna, and his uncle in Pekin; and that he has been in Batavia, and Palmyra and Rome! Perhaps he has kissed the Pope's toe."

The bell now rang for supper, and our travellers went down into the cabin, where, they sat opposite to the communicative stranger; but as they were all very hungry, Jeremiah asked no farther questions about Palmyra, neither did the great traveller appear at all disposed to communicate any farther intelligence respecting the famous places where his aunts and uncles resided. But when they landed the next morning, another agreeable gentleman addressed Jeremiah, and asked him if he had much luggage.

"Not much," replied Jeremiah, "but what I have, is of some consequence; and I am very anxious about it, because the most of it belongs to this young gentleman, who is placed in my charge."

"I suppose there is nothing of much value in it?" said the stranger.

"Yes, it is rather valuable," said Jeremiah; "and for the greater safety, I have put my purse into my valise, as I have heard of a good many robberies on board of steam-boats."

"You did right," said the stranger; "I always keep a bright look-out myself; which is your luggage?"

"Those two trunks," said Jeremiah pointing to them.

"Where did you say you were going to?" inquired the stranger.

"We are going to Willow-mead Academy," said Jeremiah, "in Berkshire Massachusetts."

"Ah! it's the very place I am going to myself!" said the stranger; "my youngest brother is there at school. But I forget the name of the principal?"

"The Reverend Doctor Whippy," said Jeremiah.

"Yes, that is it," said the stranger; "and a most appropriate name, too, for my brother writes me he is a devil of a fellow for whipping."

This piece of intelligence was rather unpleasant to John, who seemed to have taken a dislike to the stranger. When their trunks were taken up to the stage-office, the stranger very kindly offered to take charge of them, upon which Jeremiah thanked him for his politeness, and told him, as they were not much used to travelling, he would be obliged if he would keep them with his own luggage until they got to Willow-mead; all of which the stranger very obligingly promised to do. They rode all day, and about eight o'clock in the evening, at the place where they stopped to change horses, they met the returning coach. It was a cloudy night, the wind blew strong from the east, and it was very dark. When Jeremiah and his fellow travellers got into the stage again, they did not observe that one of their number was missing, and being fatigued with riding, they soon fell asleep, and did not wake again until it was midnight, when they stopped at an out-of-the-way tavern to change horses. The wind had increased and it rained very hard and our travellers were stiff and cold; their legs were cramped, and they felt very wretched. It was a long time before the tavern-keeper opened his door; and when he did, his bar-room presented a most cheerless and dreary appearance. There was no fire, and only one small tallow candle burning in a huge tin candle-stick. The tavern-keeper himself was very tall and thin; his hair was long, and so was his face, and in fact everything else about him, except his answers, which were very short and crusty. And indeed his ill-humor was not to be wondered at: to be roused out of a pleasant sleep, in the middle of a cold, rainy night, to admit half a dozen temperance customers, could not have been very soothing to the feelings of a publican.

As it was necessary to pay for the next stage at this house, Jeremiah put his hand into his pocket to take out his purse, and to his great horror discovered it was not there. He procured a lantern from the landlord, and searched the coach, without finding it; and then he remembered that he had put it into his valise for safe-keeping. Jeremiah now began to make inquiries for the obliging stranger and was terrified beyond expression, when he was told how that kind gentleman had pretended to have left one of his trunks behind him and had taken a seat in the returning coach, which they met at eight o'clock. On inspecting the boot of the stage, it was farther discovered that he had taken with him the boy's trunk and Jeremiah's valise.

Our travellers were now in a most uncomfortable situation for the driver of the coach not only refused to take them a mile farther, unless their fare was first paid, but the tavern-keeper refused to give them a bed, although he consented to their remaining in the bar room until it was day-light. Jeremiah begged hard for a little fire, as the night was cold, and their clothes were damp; but this the host also refused; and indeed he would not even allow them the light of the miserable tallow candle; but, having first locked all the doors, and taken a five cent piece and two rusty coppers out of the till he retired to bed, and the left our two travellers in darkness. They were too cold to sleep, and so they sat close together on a wooden bench, without any back to it, and tried to divert their thoughts from their uncomfortable situation, by relating the many unpleasant dilemmas in which they had both been placed before. "Once," said Jeremiah, "I should have considered it a great happiness to have obtained such a shelter as this cheerless bar room affords, on a night like this. Then why should I repine at what I should once have felt myself called upon to give thanks for? I will not; but let us rather John, kneel down, and thank the Giver of all good things, that we are not exposed to the piercing wind, and the cold, driving rain."

"I have no objection," said the boy; and so they knelt down, and Jeremiah prayed thus:

"O, Lord, God! we give thee humble and hearty thanks, that thou hast created us in such wise that our happiness is not dependent upon the outward circumstances and conditions of our bodies; and though we do not exult because that they who are clothed in soft raiment, and who fare sumptuously in rich men's houses, are not happier than we, to whom thou hast wisely denied these things, yet we rejoice, O Lord! that to the meek and humble, the outcast and the wretched, thou hast graciously been pleased to manifest thyself, and hast condescended to pour into their hearts an oil of gladness, of which those know but little, who look only upon their outward seeming. And we beseech thee, O Lord! that thine outstretched wings may be over this house, and that its inmates may be kept from all harm; and that he who has kindly given us a shelter beneath his roof, may never be exposed, himself, to the inclemency of the elements. And we beseech thee, O Lord! to remember in mercy that misguided wayfarer, who has unjustly deprived us of our little property——"

"Stop! Jeremiah," said John; "I am not going to pray for that scamp who stole our trunks!"

"Certainly we must," said Jeremiah, "for we are commanded to pray for our enemies; and we do not yet positively know whether the gentleman has wronged us or not."

"O, I know he did it," said John; "for I saw him wink at the great traveller two or three times, while he was talking to you."

"I am strongly inclined to believe, myself," said Jeremiah, "that he is guilty, but still he may not be; and even if he is, we do not know how sorely he may have been tempted, nor how much he may have resisted."

Jeremiah would not hurt the feelings of the youngster by reminding him of his own temptation and fall; but lifting up his voice again, he continued his prayer. And when he had finished, he declared he had never felt more comfortable in his life. So huddling close together, the two fell into a sound sleep, from which they did not awake until the entrance of the landlord in the morning aroused them.

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CHAPTER XI.

AMONG OTHER THINGS SHOWS THE BAD EFFECT OF ENTERTAINING TOO GOOD AN OPINION OF OUR OWN SPECIES.

OUR Travellers rose refreshed from their hard couches, and went out to perform their morning ablutions at the moss-covered horse-trough at the tavern door. But neither of them murmured at having to perform that necessary duty in such a place; but on the contrary, they both acknowledged that it was more invigorating, and far pleasanter, to wash in the open air, from a clear mountain stream, than to perform the same office in a confined chamber, with stagnant Manhattan water.

Although it was cold and stormy the night before, the sun was now shining bright and warm; the wind had died away and the soft balmy air was filled with the pleasant and cheerful notes of myriads of twittering birds. The tavern was situated in one of the pleasantest valleys in Massachusetts, with a shallow but swift and sparkling stream running close by the door. The hills, which rose to a great height on either side, were covered to their very summits with beautiful trees, while all the level lands were under a high state of cultivation; and although the white farm-houses which were scattered along the valley did not wear a very comfortable appearance, on close inspection, yet they were highly picturesque at a distance. There were large flocks of snowy sheep feeding upon the delicate white clover that grew upon the hilly fields, and numerous herds of fat and lordly-looking cattle were grazing in the rich meadows by the side of the little stream. Jeremiah declared he had never looked upon so fair a scene before, and he thought that the demon of avarice must have a strong hold upon a man's heart, to cause him to leave the pleasant hills and valleys of New-England, to seek for richer soils in the flat prairies of the West.

"I know it is very fine," said John, whose taste for the sublime and beautiful was not fully matured, "but for my part I should much prefer to look upon a good plate of toast and some hot coffee, for I am very hungry."

"And so am I," said Jeremiah; "this fresh air, and these pleasant sights and sounds, have given me a very keen appetite."

On returning to the tavern, they found the breakfast table spread, and a lady and gentleman, whom they had not seen before, just sitting down. John looked upon the table and smacked his lips, as his eyes took an accurate inventory of the good things with which it was covered; there were eggs and fried ham, apple-pies and waffles, butter and cheese, and rye-and-Indian bread, together with a great variety of dishes of the composite order, the names of which he did not know. But neither he nor Jeremiah offered to sit down, because there were but two chairs in the room, and they were occupied by the lady and gentleman, who apparently wished to be quite exclusive, and who certainly gave proofs, by their conversation, that they were no common kind of people.

As John had never seen the inside of a New-England tavern before, he took particular notice of the painted floors, the wooden-bottom chairs, the green paper curtains at the windows; of an old-fashioned mahogany secretary, with a large Bible and two or three hymn books placed with religious care on top; and of the profiles of the family, cut in white paper, and hung up in black frames around a yellowish sampler, with the name and age of the feminine prodigy who worked it somewhat ostentatiously emblazoned in gilded letters upon the glazing; and of several other little matters, which appeared very odd to him, as everything will appear to travellers, which they may not have been in the habit of seeing at home. But all these curiosities did not divert John's mind from the breakfast upon which he feasted with his eyes until his appetite increased to such a degree of intensity, that he came very nigh behaving with great rudeness. A modest little hazel-eyed girl waited upon the table, and poured out coffee for the gentleman and lady.

"Young geurl!" said the lady to the little waiter, "does your father keep this establishment?"

"Yes m'am," replied she.

"Then have the kindness, if you please, Miss," said the lady, "to request him to come to me."

The little girl tripped out, and in a few minutes returned with her father.

"Are you the proprietor of this hotel. Sir?" inquired the lady.

"Wal, I own this house, I believe," said the tavern-keeper.

"Do you?—ah, very well," said the lady; "I wished to inquire if these eggs are fresh laid."

"Wal, I can't exactly say as to that," said the tavern-keeper, "but you can try and see."

"That is my lady, Sir," said the gentleman, starting upon his feet; "she is very choice in her eggs, and she isn't up to that kind of talk."

"Wal, then I guess she might as well go where she can get better," replied the landlord.

Here the gentleman gave evident signs of strangulation, upon which the lady exclaimed, "Don't, my dear, get excited; don't, I beg of you, for my sake; do be composed; I would rather eat addled eggs, and rancid butter, and stale bread, and drink muddy coffee, all the rest of my days, than see you unhappy."

The gentleman then assured his lady, that for her sake he would be patient, but that nothing but a due regard for her peculiar situation could induce him to remain quiet under such treatment. "However," said the gentleman, shaking his head, "I'll put the whole thing in the papers, as soon as I return to the city; if I don't, my name ain't Jacobs, no how you can fix it!"

"My dear!" exclaimed the lady, "what do you mean?"

"I mean my name ain't G. Washington Mortimer, no how: I am blest, my dear, if I warn't thinking of your maiden name when I spoke."

The lady and gentleman continued to eat their breakfast, and to find fault with everything before them. But the tavern-keeper left them to make such comments as they pleased upon his provisions.

Jeremiah followed him out, and requested breakfast for himself and companion upon credit; promising to pay as soon as he could get an answer to a letter he had just sent off by the mail stage. The tavern-keeper hesitated a long time, but at last consented to give them a bowl of bread and milk in the kitchen.

Our travellers now went into the kitchen to get their bread and milk, where they found the tavern-keeper's wife, a very different sort of a person from her husband. She was very fat, with a florid complexion, and a thick short neck, which was ornamented with a string of gold beads, as big as gooseberries. She was seated in a capacious arm chair, and one of her hands was employed in holding a large horn snuff-box, while the other was occupied in conveying the yellow dust to her nostrils. Altogether, she appeared disposed to take the world very easy. "Do tell me," she said, addressing Jeremiah "if you are all the way from York?"

"Yes, madam," said Jeremiah; "we left there the day before yesterday."

"Well, I want to know if York isn't quite a place?"

"It is a large city," said Jeremiah.

"Well, I shouldn't wonder if it was," said the lady; "do tell me if you know a man that keeps a shoe-store in Chatham street?"

"Perfectly well, madam," replied Jeremiah.

"Well now, do you know he is our son-in-law?"

"Is he indeed," said Jeremiah; "what is the gentleman's name to whom you allude?"

"Well, it is Pinkum, to be sure," said the lady.

"Then I don't know him," said Jeremiah.

"Do tell me!" said the lady; "I thought you said you did."

"But there are several shoe-stores in Chatham-street," said Jeremiah.

"Do tell me if there are!" said the lady; "I want to know! What a pretty creature that young man is!"—looking at John; "I want to know if he is your brother?"

"No, madam," replied Jeremiah.

"Well, I thought you didn't look much alike," said the lady. "Do tell me if his mother warn't dreadful sorry to let him leave her?"

"He has got no mother," said Jeremiah.

"I want to' know!" said the lady; "precious soul! Huldah, bring out a currant pie. And do tell me if either of you has ever experienced religion?"

"I am afraid not," replied Jeremiah.

"Do tell!" replied the querist; "what a pity that such a sweet pretty creature shouldn't get religion! Huldah, bring out some ham and coffee, and give 'em. Precious souls!"

So our travellers made a hearty breakfast; and then the kind hearted landlady called John to her side, and having smoothed down his hair, she gave him a kiss; and begged him, for her sake, to try and get religion, which he promised to do.

Jeremiah met the gentleman, whom he had seen at the breakfast table, smoking a segar on the piazza after his breakfast, and he told the stranger of his mishap, and of the unpleasant situation in which he found himself in consequence.

"I see you have got a watch,' said the stranger; "why don't you pledge it with the landlord, and then you will be under no obligation to him."

"I would not do that upon any account," said Jeremiah, "because the watch is not my own; it is one that I borrowed from a fellow clerk."

"Is it waluable?" inquired the gentleman.

"I believe it is," replied Jeremiah, showing it to the stranger.

"Yes, it's very waluable," said the stranger; "too much so to put into the hands of such a rascal as the keeper of this house is, any how. But I will tell you what I will do for you. I am going to wusticate here with my wife some time and I'll keep it for you, and come under obligation to the landlord for your expenses, until you get your wemittances by mail."

"I should be very thankful if you would," said Jeremiah; "and as I am going to take a ramble in the woods with my young companion, you would oblige me by taking care of it until I return, for I should be extremely sorry to injure it."

"With the gwatest pleasure into the world, Sir," replied the stranger, "and I will give you a weceipt for it, to prevent accidents."

"That will be quite desirable," said Jeremiah, "as we are strangers to each other."

Accordingly the gentleman took out his memorandum book and wrote a receipt for the watch, and Jeremiah bade him a good morning, and went to look after his companion who was having fine sport with a large watch-dog in the stable. And then they set out on a ramble in the woods, and a long way they rambled too, and much longer they would have continued to do so, but they began to grow hungry, and were obliged to leave all the pleasant allurements of the woods to return to the tavern for their dinner. But when they got there, dinner was over, and Jeremiah being too modest to make a bustle, especially as he was living upon credit, they had to wait a long time before they could get any thing to eat; and then it was given to them very grudgingly. The fat good-natured landlady was taking her afternoon nap, and Jeremiah told the tavern-keeper that he need be under no apprehension about getting his pay for their board, as he had put abundant security into the hands of Mr. Washington Mortimer, who would be responsible for all charges.

"Wal, Mister," said the tavern-keeper, "I thought you said you was from the city?"

"So we are," replied Jeremiah.

"Wal, I never knew before that any greenhorns quite as green as you, ever came from there," said the tavern-keeper.

"What do you mean!" exclaimed Jeremiah, a sudden suspicion flashing on his mind; "you don't mean to say that Mr. Mortimer is gone."

"Wal, I expect he has," replied the tavern-keeper; "he started off in his shay more than two hours ago."

"And has he taken his baggage with him?" inquired Jeremiah.

"Wal, all the baggage he had was that she-critter of his'n, and he took her," replied the tavern-keeper.

"O, oh!" groaned Jeremiah; "he has taken the gold watch, that I borrowed from one of the clerks! What shall I say, or what can I do!"

"Never mind, Jeremiah," said John, "I will give you my watch in the place of it, when I get it from the watch-maker's."

But Jeremiah was so much overcome at this intelligence and at the recollection of his want of discretion, that he could not eat his dinner, and he left his companion and went away by himself; and when John saw him again, his eyes were red, as though he had been crying. That night the tavern-keeper gave them a bed, but the next day he was so cross and surly, that Jeremiah resolved that he would not stop another hour in the tavern, but that he would travel on foot to Willow-mead Academy, and send a conveyance back for his companion. But John would not listen to such a proposition; he insisted on accompanying Jeremiah, and accordingly they set out on their journey toward Willow-mead, which was forty miles distant. As their road lay through a pleasant country, the time passed swiftly, and they travelled a long distance without feeling at all weary. Sometimes they would stop to slake their thirst in a clear running book, and sometimes they would stretch themselves out on the dry leaves, beneath the shade of a sycamore or a walnut tree, until they were refreshed, and then they would continue their journey again. At last, however, they were driven by hunger to beg for something to eat at a farm-house door. The farmer's wife civilly asked them to walk in, and then placed before them, on a nice white table, a piece of cold veal, some brown bread and cheese, and a pitcher of hard cider, of which they partook heartily, and having thanked the good woman for her kindness, they continued on their way; but night overtook them at a desolate-looking place. It was on the summit of a bleak hill, with but few signs of civilization around them. There were no farm houses near; and to add to their uncomfortable prospects, the sky became suddenly overcast with heavy clouds; and sudden gusts of wind, forewarned them of an approaching storm. Jeremiah now bethought himself that they had done a very foolish thing in leaving the tavern, as he had directed Mr. Tremlett to write to him at that place and it was probable that a letter with money would arrive there for him that very evening. But it was too late to return, and they had no other alternative but to push ahead until they should arrive at a farm house or a tavern. Having looked about them in vain for some signs of a dwelling house they began to descend the hill, which was very rugged, although it was a gradual slope. By the time they reached the bottom, it was pitch dark, and the rain had begun to pour down in torrents; and notwithstanding it was in the summer time, the weather was very cold, the wind blew fiercely from the north east, and the big drops of rain struck upon the flesh of our travellers with such force that they thought it was hail.

"Poor John!" exclaimed Jeremiah, "I am afraid you will not be able to bear up under this pelting storm. I do not care for myself; this cold rain and these rough roads do not make me feel half as uncomfortable and wretched as I have often felt, when under the warm shelter of a roof, at the harsh replies I have received from a brutal employer. Indeed I do not know, Johnny that I should feel very bad, even though I were certain that I should never see the sun's light again, for there are none who would shed a tear over me when they heard of my death. But there is one, at least, who would weep for you, and for his sake as well as your own, I hope we may soon find a shelter."

"And there is one that would weep for you, Jeremiah," said the boy: "for I should cry very hard if any thing should happen to you. So cheer up, and don't be cast down on my account, for I do love you, indeed I do."

By this time they had reached the foot of the hill, when they soon came to a wooden bridge which crossed a mill stream, that foamed and fretted over its rocky bottom, and made a much louder noise than does many a deeper river. As soon as they crossed the bridge, they discovered a mill and a little farther on they perceived a small but bright light glimmering through the darkness. They ran toward it, and very happy they felt when they discovered that it proceeded from the kitchen window of a large farm house. The numerous outhouses and a large barn gave promise of good quarters, and our travellers entered the house with great confidence of a kind reception. As they opened the door, it truly pleasant sight met their eyes. A long table was spread on the floor, and a bright, cheerful fire, of good stout hickory sticks, burned in the capacious fire place; a steaming tea-kettle and a frying pan, full of thick slices of ham which sputtered merrily, gave assurance that supper was nearly ready. And long shelves full of tin pans and pewter dishes, as bright as silver reflected back the bright light which the hickory fire threw out. A buxom, rosy-cheeked girl, with a blue-striped long-short, and arms bared to her elbow, was busied about the fire-place, while an elderly woman, with three or four young children were seated in the chimney corner.

But few words were necessary to relate the necessities of the travellers, and the woman bade them seat themselves by the fire before they were half told. The preparations for supper were carried on with great spirit by the buxom young woman in the striped long-short, and John thought he had never seen a comelier specimen of her sex. Presently three young men came in looking very grave and steady, as though supper was a serious business and not to be made light of, and shortly afterwards the master of the house made his appearance. He was a very saintly personage, altogether too much so for an every day existence, and Jeremiah, with his accustomed ingenuousness, congratulated himself upon falling into the hands of such a pious looking individual; for Jeremiah never could learn to put a proper value upon external appearances, which is not to be wondered at, for how is it possible to believe, upon theory alone, that a human being should be such a half way admirer of goodness, as to care no more for it than only to wish to seem good. But a keener sighted man than Jeremiah might have been deceived by the very smooth exterior of the farmer. He wore a coat of an exceedingly doubtful hue, cut after the straightest manner of his sect, and adorned with a formidable row of horn buttons; his hair was trimmed with a precision that hair scarce seemed capable of; and his plain speech left no doubt in the minds of the travellers that he belonged to the society of friends. Upon hearing Jeremiah's story, friend Hogshart, for that was the farmer's name, smoothed down his hair and hemmed two or three times with a solemnity that went to the hearts of the benighted travellers.

"Although we have no money now," said Jeremiah, "we shall soon have it in our power to pay you well, if you will allow us to sleep here to-night."

"Doubtless thee will my friend," said the farmer, "but we do not keep a house of entertainment, except for friends at yearly meetings; and then the discipline of society does not allow us to claim money."

"It is a generous discipline," replied Jeremiah, "but I hope it will not prevent your taking pay from us, as we shall never have it in our power to return your kindness."

"Thee is kind," said friend Hogshart, "but we have got no spare beds in the house; and it is not, moreover, in conformity with our customs to entertain strangers."

"I would not insist, or even expect it, but we are strangers to the road," said Jeremiah, "and the night is so stormy that I fear my young companion would not survive until morning if he were exposed to the weather."

"Truly friend, thee cannot expect that we should depart from our established customs because the night is stormy," replied friend Hogshart in a bland and convincing manner.

"I must not insist," replied Jeremiah, "and I would not, for I do not pretend to have any claim upon you, but for the sake of this poor lad; if you will allow him to sleep by your kitchen fire I will willingly sleep in your barn myself."

"Thee is very plausible my friend," said the farmer, "but if thee did not understand what I have been saying I will repeat it."

"I understand perfectly," replied Jeremiah, "but I hoped that you might be persuaded to alter your determination."

"I perceive thee is a stranger to friends," said the farmer, "but as supper is waiting, I will not detain thee from proceeding on thy journey. Thee will find a large house with a small family a mile or two beyond, where they may be disposed to entertain thee."

John had been twitching Jeremiah by the sleeve with manifest impatience to be gone, for some time, and now Jeremiah caught him by the hand, and with a degree of spirit he had never shown before dragged him hastily out into the pelting rain again. Friend Hogshart accompanied them to the door, and as they emerged into the darkness he said "farewell friends, farewell, I wish thee good night, farewell."

Jeremiah could not say farewell, without, belying his feelings, and he wouldn't be rude, so he said nothing, and his young companion was at first so bewildered by coming suddenly into the darkness that he could not speak, and they felt their way along the road, with the rain beating in their faces, for some distance in silence; at last John said, "I wouldn't care about being turned out of doors Jeremiah, if that nice old fellow hadn't said farewell to us."

"We are certainly under obligation to him for civil language," said Jeremiah, "and he doubtless had good reasons for not allowing us to remain in his house, although they may not appear so to us."

"But he might have given us some supper," said the boy, "and if he had I would have liked his reasons better. I can't reason at all in this cold rain while I am so hungry."

The wind now blew so fiercely in their faces and the roads had become so slippery and uncertain, that they were obliged to stop and take breath; indeed they could hardly move ahead at all. The blustering little river which they had crossed was swollen to double its usual width and the ricketty wooden bridge cracked and quivered, as the flood rushed past its old piers, and seemed every moment on the point of giving away. Fearful of losing themselves on the road the travellers had retreated to the old mill and sheltered themselves under its projecting eaves, where they stood wet to the skin and shivering with cold, when their attention was suddenly arrested by the noise of a carriage coming down the hill on the opposite side of the river. Although they could distinctly hear the tramp of horses' feet and the rattling of wheels, it was so dark they could see nothing of carriage or horses. It approached very rapidly and the horses' hoofs were soon heard upon the hollow sounding bridge, and then a loud crash and a cry, rose above the howling of the wind and the roaring of the waters. The white foam of the turbulent water enabled them to catch a glimpse of the horses' heads and the top of the carriage as they were hurried along towards the edge of the dam. John ran to the farm house shouting for help with all his might, while Jeremiah ran down the stream to give such aid as he could, but he could do nothing to aid them except encourage the driver who still clung to his seat and bid him hold on as help was at hand. John soon returned with friend Hogshart and his three sons, who were soon joined by the young lady in the long-short carrying a lantern which she contrived to hold in such a manner that the light blinded their eyes and almost prevented them from doing any thing but run afoul of each other. The carriage had fortunately floated against some obstruction in the stream where it hung, and the driver was crying to them to hurry for God's sake, as there was a gentleman in the carriage who would certainly be drowned. There was a large pile of boards near at hand with which a loose raft was soon constructed and floated to the carriage, from which they rescued the driver and the inside passenger, but the horses they could not get ashore and they were carried over the dam. The unfortunate passenger was quite exhausted and unable to speak, but they bore him to the house, John supporting his feet and Jeremiah his head. Friend Hogshart humanely waived all considerations of discipline and suffered them all to enter his house, where they placed the gentleman upon the floor and began rubbing him with hot flannels, while the farmer unlocked a corner cupboard and took out a small phial of French brandy, a few drops of which he poured down the gentleman's throat who very soon after began to revive, and when he opened his eyes Jeremiah fell upon his knees, and to the astonishment of everybody exclaimed "merciful heavens!" and John clasped his arms around the gentleman's neck and kissed him. It was Mr. Tremlett.

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CHAPTER XII.

WILL BRING THE FIRST PART OF THIS HISTORY, AND THE EXPEDITION TO WILLOW-MEAD ACADEMY TO A CLOSE.

IF any inhabitant of the earth, who may favor our history by conferring upon it the honor of a perusal, shall have felt any dissatisfaction at the close of the last chapter, caused by his never having met with a surprise during his actual experience of worldly affairs, we must be allowed the privilege of expressing our belief that the individual has had a very poor time of it in the course of his pilgrimage, since all our pleasures, if closely analysed, will be found to consist of surprises altogether. But for the benefit of such, few as they may be, who are never satisfied with an effect without a clearly explained cause, and who would not believe in life itself if they could help it, since it is wholly unaccountable, we will explain the cause of Mr. Tremlett's being met with at a time when the reader could have had no reasonable expectation of seeing him.

Although Mr. Tremlett was not, as the reader knows, the father of the subject of this history, yet so strong was his attachment to the lad, so much had he added to the old gentleman's pleasures, that perhaps he felt more keenly the loss of his society than if he had been his natural parent, for he was not willing to forego his own gratification for the sake of the boy's eventual good; when, therefore, he returned to his house alone, after parting with the youngster at the steam-boat, he reproached himself with having acted too hastily in sending him away to a distant school. He missed him at his solitary supper, and he felt very lonely and dispirited at his breakfast when he glanced towards the vacant seat which the boy had occupied so long. Mrs. Swazey guessed at the thoughts which haunted the old man's mind and she "hoped that master John would, get a good breakfast, but she was afraid something had happened to him, for she had dreamed twice the night before of losing one of her teeth, and she never knew the sign to fail; something was going to happen to somebody, she was sure."

Now Mr. Tremlett's mind was as free from superstitious taint as most men of his age, but he felt annoyed at his house-keeper's dream, for he remembered to have heard his mother relate a similar dream, and attach similar consequences to it, but a short time before his father's death, when he was a young boy; the circumstance had probably never occurred to him before, and he felt very sad, but he did not care that his house-keeper should know how much he missed his adopted son, and he coldly replied to her remarks that the boy would be well taken care of where he had sent him.

The day passed wearily, and at night the old merchant found himself again in the boy's little chamber gazing at his vacant bed, and fondly examining one of the school books which he had left behind. "I see that I am getting old and childish," he said to himself, as a tear trickled down his cheek; "after living all my life for myself alone, here I am unhappy at the absence of a nameless little rogue who has no possible claim upon my sympathy. I will overcome this weakness. I will drive the boy from my thoughts and attend to my business as usual. If he were a nephew, or the son of an old friend, or indeed the child of anybody whom I had ever known, there would be less folly in it, but—I shall soon forget him, and that I may hear of him no more, I will instruct my book-keeper to open all letters from Willow-mead and make such remittances as may be necessary without speaking to me on the subject."

Having made these brave resolutions, Mr. Tremlett wiped his eyes and coughed two or three times to clear his throat of a choking sensation; and then he ordered Mrs. Swazey to have everything removed from the boy's room and the door locked, after which, that his heart might be hardened against all tender emotions and the love of his own species, and particularly of the destitute and juvenile portion of it, he walked off to a ward meeting where his presence created an immense sensation, and he met with nothing there to remind him in the least degree that he was a man, but everything to make him think that he was affiliated to a race of animals, if any such exist, whose instincts lead them to devour each other. He left the meeting at a late hour with his thoughts full of political patriotism, determined to go there again the next evening, so entirely had he succeeded in getting all the kindly feelings of his nature smothered; but when he retired to his chamber he could not help opening the door of the little room which adjoined his own, just to see whether or not his house-keeper had obeyed his instructions, and his heart felt cold as he looked in and saw its bare walls and naked little cot; the door made a hollow reproachful sound as he suddenly closed it, and the face of its banished tenant seemed to look upon him with melancholy tenderness. He turned uneasily upon his bed until morning, and when he went down to his office he found a letter from Jeremiah lying upon his desk. His hand trembled as he opened it, but he felt beyond measure happy when he read its contents. Jeremiah had given a simple detail of the accidents which had befallen him and requested a remittance to enable him to get to Willow-mead with his charge. But Mr. Tremlett forgot all his resolutions of the night before, and pretending to be afraid of trusting Jeremiah, but secretly determined to bring his adopted son back to New York, he set off for the place at which the letters was dated with the avowed purpose of seeing him safe at Willow-mead. When he arrived at the tavern he learned that the travellers had set out for Willow-mead on foot, some hours before, and being fearful that some accident might happen to them, he hired a carriage of the tavern-keeper, and in spite of the earnest entreaties of the feeling landlady, who predicted a storm, he proceeded after them without stopping to take any refreshment. But the roads were bad, one of the horses was lame, and the driver was sleepy; so they did not travel very fast, until it began to rain, when the driver felt a sudden anxiety to get to the end of his journey, and he began to lay his whip upon the backs of his cattle, with such a hearty good will, and to pour such a strain of odd expressions into their ears that they galloped on the road at a greater speed than was pleasant to all parties, when they were suddenly precipitated into the stream by the breaking down of the old bridge as has already been related in the last chapter.

As soon as Mr. Tremlett was sufficiently recovered he was clothed in a suit of friend Hogshart's linsey woolsey, which so completely metamorphosed him, that John could not help indulging in a most uproarious burst of laughter for which he was reproved by the Friend after this manner.

"Thee laughs, my young friend, because thy father is covered with a good warm suit of comfortable clothing, and well thee might, if it was properly done, for I dare say he feels more like laughing himself than he did when he lay half drowned in his cold and wet garments. But is thee laughing at thy father? if so thee is transgressing the inspired word, which thou shouldst not do; and if thee is laughing at the outward covering of thy father, thee is doing worse, for thee is making light of God's gifts." It would be quite impossible to determine what were the precise feelings which prompted this speech, whether it were pride or godliness, because the farmer having been schooled to keep his expressions at the same temperature let his feelings be what they might, his motives rarely obtruded themselves in his speech; but John felt the full force of this reproof, without attempting to analyse the reprover's motives, and he looked very grave and shame-faced; although his father could not help smiling himself, as he glanced at his small clothes and blue stockings and long skirted drab coat. But Jeremiah apologised for his young friend's rudeness, and thanked the quaker with great earnestness for having turned him out of doors, as but for his apparent unkindness he could not have been instrumental in saving the life of his benefactor.

"So thee sees, friends," replied the Friend, "it is always safest to stick close to the discipline of society."

"May God forgive me," replied Jeremiah, "but I fear I entertained some hard feelings towards you although I strove not to."

"I doubt not thee did, it is likely," replied friend Hogshart, "but I experienced some mental promptings within, which would not allow me to do otherwise; it was doubtless the workings of the spirit, since thee sees it was to work out a good end."

"I should like to feel the operation of some spirits too and no mistake," said the driver who stood drying himself by the fire, with a cloud of steam rising from his wet clothes, "for I am as dry as a fish and at the same time as wet as old Nabby Dibletts after she had been ducked in a horse-pond for being a witch; and as for inward promptings, I tell you how it is neighbor, I have them no ways slow, and grumblings too, although I will acknowledge in confidence to you, that they are not so unusual as they should be to a man of my bringing up, and I swear to gracious if I don't have something to eat deuced soon, I shall be forced to break through the discipline of society and the cup-board door too."

"Thy thoughts should be placed on something higher, my friend," said the quaker, "after escaping from death as thee has. I think my friends, that this will be a very suitable occasion for an exercise of prayer; according to the good Book, we should be constant in prayer; and we are commanded to give thanks in all things. So saying friend Hogshart, dropped upon his knees and without further ceremony prayed with great solemnity of voice, and in tones long drawn out, which affected Jeremiah to such a degree that he shed tears; he felt that he should never forgive himself for having thought ill of so good a person.

When the Friend had made an end of his prayer he gave orders for supper, which the travellers were very glad to hear.

"I tell you how it is neighbor longskirts," said the driver whose tongue run very glibly as his clothes were getting dry, "I never could pray on an empty stomach, and I don't believe you could either. I'll bet you a horn of Monongahela whiskey, old fellow, that you have had your supper. Heu quam difficiles and so forth, I can talk Latin to you by the wholesale, which I don't believe that you can do, and I'll beat you at praying after I have laid in a good supply of that fried ham and apple sauce, or you may beat me and I'll acknowledge myself no christian Ne sutor crepidam, let the parson go and pray and you peg away."

"Friend," replied the quaker, "I have given thee shelter and saved thy life, and I would have given thee food and a bed for the night, but thy profane language has proved thee unworthy to remain beneath this roof. Thee must go, and the next time thee is taken into a friend's house, perhaps thee will know how to behave thyself. Walk out."

"Not I," said the driver as he braced himself against the jamb of the fire place and began to smooth down the fur of his shabby beaver hat with his coat sleeve, "I couldn't prevail upon myself to do so, no how. You must call some other time. I must have some supper first, and something hot to drink, and after that I shall feel too sleepy to comply with your polite request. I hope you have got plenty of Dos Amigos, because I must have a smoke after supper; and here's this pretty young lady that I must become acquainted with too." And without more ado he put his arm round the neck of the quaker's daughter and gave her a kiss. The young lady did not faint as some young ladies would have done, but she blushed very red, although her face was already as hot as scarlet with frying the ham for the traveller's supper, and she returned the compliment by a cuff on his ears from her plump hands that must have made him hear strange sounds.

"Well friend, if thee don't see proper to go of thy own will, I shall put thee out," said the quaker.

The driver would now willingly have begged pardon for his rude behavior, for he saw that friend Hogshart was not a person to be trifled with; but his repentance came too late, as repentance generally does. The farmer called his two eldest sons to his aid, and in spite of the drivers kicks, and struggles, they lifted him up and deposited him outside the door, where they left him in the pelting rain to make such disposition of himself as he pleased. He rapped upon the window and begged piteously to be admitted, and Mr. Tremlett and Jeremiah interceded in his behalf, but the quaker could not be moved from his purpose.

"I know him very well," said friend Hogshart, "he is the son of Judge Hupstart, a man who has taken so much interest in public affairs that he has entirely neglected his own; this fellow is his eldest son, whom the government took care of and fed at the soldier shop, down at West Point, until he behaved so bad that he was turned away; and then the government gave him an appointment among the marines, because his father being a bad politician, they wanted to show their affection for him by taking care of his bad progeny, which is the general way, thee knows, with our government; and he came home to his father's house with a sword by his side and a red collar to his coat, but he did something amiss, what it was I know not, although it must have been quite unhuman for them not to have thought him fit for the marines, which I am told is the very lowest grade of the war service, and he was turned away from that place. As government could do nothing more for him, he came home to his father, who being a lawyer as well as a politician, for thee knows they generally go together, thought that he would bring his son up to his own profession and he was finally admitted to practice the law, but he did not do well at that; and as thee knows he could go no lower, why his father had to turn him off to find his own level, and now he has got to be a stage driver. But government was not entirely discouraged with the family, they have put his two brothers into the navy, to preserve the honor of the American flag, as I think they call it, and you and I neighbor," turning to Mr. Tremlett, "have to pay our share towards supporting them; but for my own part I would prefer to support the honor of my part of the American flag myself, or if I had to delegate others to do it for me, I should prefer to select people who had a little honor themselves. And the father of this young man I hear has just received an appointment to go abroad to support the honor of the American nation at some foreign court, but I am sure that if his townsmen were to select a man to support the honor of their town he would be one of the last men they would fix upon. But government always makes the most of a bad family."

Mr. Tremlett remarked that friend Hogshart was rather severe upon government and politicians, but as he only named facts he could not of course dispute him, but he hoped that all the government appointments were not quite so bad.

But Jeremiah was horror-struck at the profane boldness of the quaker, for he had never dabbled in politics and seldom read any thing in the newspapers except the advertisements, and he looked upon government as a kind of divine abstraction, or an embodiment of political power and wisdom which dispensed justice infallibly and potently, and it had never entered his mind that any mere layman had any right even to think or to call in question the doings of this mysterious power; and as for the officers of the army and navy, he looked upon them with awe, believing them to be the most gallant and perfect heroes in the world, and that without them the whole twenty-four states of the union would immediately be fallen upon and chopped into mince-meat by foreign nations; and he had never once dreamed that it was possible for a man to get into the navy without he first manifested all the bravery and genius of Admiral Blake and Lord Nelson and Hull and Perry combined, and he was grieved beyond measure to hear that a sneaking poltroon, without even animal courage, or mental energy enough to command an oyster boat, could by political influence alone, be entrusted with the honor of the American flag, and receive pay and rations for disgracing it.

Supper being placed on the table, the farmer's rosy cheek'd daughter who had prepared it, sat down at the tea board, her mother having gone out to put the young children to bed, and the weary and hungry travellers gathered around it and partook of the smoking hot and delicious meal in a spirit of exulting happiness and gratitude. The old merchant, who had never before met with an adventure having the slightest tinge of marvelousness, looked upon himself as a perfect hero of romance, little dreaming, however, that his exploits would ever be recorded in history, and he chuckled with immense inward satisfaction at the noise his adventure would make in South street when it should be known there. As for Jeremiah and John, they were both too much engaged with their present delightful feelings to think of anything but their present condition, but they were both unspeakably happy when Mr. Tremlett told them he intended to return with them to New York the very next day, if the weather would permit.

While they were enjoying themselves at their supper, the farmer sat with a huge volume open before him, which Jeremiah discovered was Fox's Book of Martyrs bound up with Barclay's Apology. The supper was acknowledged on all hands to be the best that ever was eaten, and when the reader is informed that it consisted, first of a huge loaf of rye and indian bread, supported, on one side, by a brown dish of apple sauce, on the other, by a pewter platter of fried ham and eggs, and flanked by a roll of new butter and almost an entire old cheese; second, a hot apple pie, accompanied by a plate of hot rolls, a loaf of wheaten bread and part of a loin of roasted veal; third, a loaf of pound cake and a dish of preserved peaches swimming in fresh cream; and fourth, a cup, or rather a dozen of them, of very choice old hyson, and a dish of honey comb, which we forgot to put in its proper place, perhaps he will not be disposed to doubt the fact.

As the evening was far advanced before the supper table was cleared away, preparations were immediately made for going to bed; the farmer had stated truly that he had no spare beds, for it appeared that he had a couple of extra hands at work upon his farm; but there was no deficiency of bedding, as presently appeared, a field bed having been made in an adjoining room where the travellers retired to rest, after having each of them emptied a brown mug of old cider at the pressing request of friend Hogshart and his wife, who both assured them it would do them good, and to encourage them to do so, first set the example themselves, in which they were followed by the three sons, and even the young lady herself who said she would take a little tiny drop, which she did, for drops are only tiny in comparison with other drops, as a bucket full is but a drop in the ocean.

The next morning, the weather being clear and pleasant, a carriage was hired of friend Hogshart, and the three travellers set out on their return to the city, with light hearts and very light pockets, and without the encumbrance of any superfluous baggage, Mr. Tremlett's trunk having been carried over the dam of the river the night before.

Here we shall rest at the first stage of our journey and bring the first part of our history to a close, but before we part with our reader we will inform him of a fact of which he would otherwise remain a long time ignorant.

However unaccountable a man's actions may sometimes appear, they can generally be traced to a sufficient cause; murders, suicides, robberies, treasons, are never accidents; but in nine cases out of ten when a man falls in love, it would puzzle the most profound philosopher of the new school to discover a satisfactory reason for his doing so. While men act from conviction in the most trifling affairs of life, in the most important of falling in love, he shuts the eyes of his reason and leaves all to chance, and he gets punished accordingly, he succeeds better in everything than in getting married, generally of course. What opportunities for becoming acquainted with Huldah Hogshart, the farmer's daughter, Jeremiah Jernegan may have enjoyed, has never transpired, but when these two young persons bade each other farewell, it was plain enough to the most careless observer that a tender regard had sprung up between them, which was the more manifest from the great pains which both took to conceal it. Jeremiah was in love.

BOOK II.

————

CHAPTER I.

CONTAINS SOME SOLEMN REFLECTIONS ON A VERY SOLEMN SUBJECT.

AMONG the innumerable little tin signs that dot the surface of every building in Wall street, there might have been seen at the period whereof we write, one emblazoned in copperish looking gilding with the names of "Brothers Tuck," fastened against the basement office of a very high granite building. This was the place of business of the two young gentlemen of that name who have already been presented to the reader. When we last parted company with them they were boys; they are now men. They were then called simply Tom and Fred; they are now known as T. Jefferson Tuck and F. Augustus Tuck; but we shall continue to apply to them the appellation by which we first knew them, because we have a fondness for old-fashioned names. In the neighborhood of Wall street, and at the Board of Brokers, they were known by at least a dozen different appellations. Some called them simply the Tucks; others Guss. and Jeff., others the two Tucks, while some merely called them the Brothers, and some coarse people, for there are coarse people even in Wall street, called them the Tuckses.

The Brothers Tuck were in good credit in Wall street, for it was universally known that their bachelor uncle was rich and old, and they never troubled themselves to contradict the rumor that he was going to leave them a large portion of his estate. Tom was the managing partner. He had a great financial reputation, which in those days was equal to a fortune, and he was consequently a very important personage on the side-walk of Wall street, where he was rarely seen without a knot of bilious-looking, care-worn faces, clustered around him, as though he were the sun of their centre from whose beams they all imbibed light and heat. But the meaning of words is continually changing and a great financier in these days is looked upon as signifying very nearly a great rogue. Whenever anybody called upon Fred, in relation to business, he always referred them to his brother, contenting himself mainly with spending his share of the profits, and reading all the new novels as fast as they came out. The particular nature of their business no one ever rightly understood: they talked mysteriously of their operations and transactions, and they were supposed to be shrewd calculators—devilish close fellows who continued to keep their business to themselves. They lived, with their mother, at the genteelest extremity of the city, and drove down to their office every morning in a drab-colored phaeton of an indescribable shape. They dealt some in stocks, talked knowingly about the currency and exchanges, and dined at a French "restorateurs." They frequented political meetings and subscribed to benevolent societies without number; they signed all the petitions that were brought to them, let the object of them be what it might: they worshipped in a fashionable church, and entertained a truly orthodox and conservative hatred of abolitionists and fanatics; and they were, of course, universally respected.

"Have you seen that rascal Jacobs?" said Tom Tuck to his brother, as he entered their office one morning.

"Not yet," replied Fred. "I will directly. I am in the middle of a capital story, don't disturb me."

"Fred you're a fool!" said Tom, as he jerked off his gloves and threw them spitefully upon his desk, "throw away those cursed books and attend to your business."

"Presently, presently," replied Fred, "let me finish this chapter first, or I shall lose the thread of the story."

"You will lose your neck by your folly," returned his brother, "but I will see that you do me no harm. I'll dissolve with you, and you shall starve, as you would without me. You must see Jacobs this morning. Come!"

"Hush, hush," replied Fred, "don't get excited; here comes William."

"Did you see young Tremlett?" enquired the senior brother addressing a dwarfish looking boy who now entered the office.

"Yes sir, I just seen him, and he sent you this note," replied the boy.

"Let me have it Sir," said Tom, "and the next time I send you on an errand sir, do you move yourself quicker sir, do you hear, sir?"

The boy made no reply, because he was afraid.

"Read it, read," said Fred.

"Dear T. I cannot send you the money this morning. Your uncle is confined to his room, and my father is out of town. You know I cannot sign a check.
Truly Yours, John Tremlett.

P. S. Tell Julia I shall not be able to see her this evening."

"First rate!" exclaimed Fred, throwing down his book "I'll go and find Jac——"

He was cut short by a glance from his brother's eye, who turned to the boy and told him pleasantly to go to Skamps and Company and ask them if they were a couple of thousand over. "Now," he said, turning to Fred as soon as the boy had left the office; "start and don't let me see you again 'til you have found him. But don't bring him here, tell him I'll meet him at the old place."

Notwithstanding the great anxiety of the elder Tuck to get his brother off, the junior stopped to brush his whiskers and adjust his Madras cravat, which caused him to swear most profanely. And even after Fred had left the office, he returned again for his cane, and remarked to Tom that "that story was one of thrilling interest."

So wide an interval having occurred since the close of our last chapter, it may be proper to state that the firm of Tremlett and Tuck was still in existence, although, in consequence of the advanced age of the partners, their business had greatly fallen off, but their wealth was supposed to be greater than ever. John Tremlett had reached his twenty-first year, and his manhood had more than fulfilled the promise of his youth, the fondness of his father had increased as the one grew in manliness and strength, and the other gradually gave way to the encroachments of Time. They had never been parted for a longer time than a day since their unlucky journey towards Willow-mead, and the presence of the young man had become almost essential to the existence of the feeble old merchant, who had often been heard to declare that he could not die happy if his darling boy should not be present to close his eyes when death should summon him away, and he made no secret of his intentions to leave the young man his entire property. Mr. Tuck was still called the junior partner; but the infirmities of age pressed more heavily upon him than upon Mr. Tremlett. He was often confined to his room by illness, and his friends all agreed that he was not long for this world, a conclusion that required no great wisdom to arrive at, seeing that he was turned of seventy. But notwithstanding the perfect freedom with which his friends canvassed the probabilities of his death, he would not listen to a word on the subject himself, and whoever spoke to him about dying once, incurred no risk of repeating the offence, for he would not allow such people to enter his room. His enmity to his two nephews and their mother continued unchanged, but Julia Tuck was a constant, and welcome visitant at his bed-side; and although he was cross and quarrelsome to every body else, he always received her with apparent pleasure, and her presence soothed him like a charm even in his most fretful moods. Of course, the old gentleman's last will and testament was a theme which his relations were never tired of discussing, for no one, but his lawyer, knew in what manner he intended to bequeath his great wealth. It was believed by some that he would give a large part of it to his niece who became therefor an object of their envy and calumny. It was confidently asserted by others that he had appropriated the bulk of his property to build a church; an assertion that had no better foundation than the fact that he had never contributed a copper in aid of such an object during his long life. Others as confidently maintained that he was going to found a magnificent public library, a supposition based upon the same kind of grounds, since he was an acknowledged hater of all books, excepting only cash-books and bank-books. The feelings of his two nephews, however, were perfectly serene on the subject, for they were well satisfied that their uncle would not bequeath his money to them, let him remember whomsoever he might in his will, and therefore it would be improper, at this stage of our narrative, to impute any sinister motives to the brothers because they manifested great anxiety on learning that he was confined to his room by illness.

The old gentleman sat in his rocking chair, wondering that his niece had not called to see him, but afraid to send for her lest it should be thought he was sick, and trying to drive his thoughts away from himself by sending them on 'change where they would not remain, but kept returning and hovering about his heart which throbbed violently as though it were trying to escape from his breast, when a tap was heard at his chamber door, and the tapper being invited to come in, the apparition of his nephew T. Jefferson Tuck presented itself to his astonished eyes. The appearance, for Mr. Tuck thought for a moment that it was an unreal personage before him, was accompanied by a middle aged gentleman in a black bombazine suit, and a pair of gold mounted spectacles. As soon as Mr. Tuck recovered the use of his tongue, the functions of which were suspended for a while by astonishment, he ordered the intruders to quit his sight without ceremony. But his nephew meekly replied that he would if his uncle would allow him to say one word first.

"Say on, and then go!" replied the old gentleman.

"It is a long time since I have had this pleasure," said Tom, "and I am grieved at heart that our first meeting after so long an estrangement, should be in a sick room."

"If you came here to talk about sick rooms stop there," said his uncle.

"Well, then, it shall not be about sickness, but about health and happiness," said his nephew, assuming a cheerful tone, "I heard you were not well, and not knowing who your medical attendant might be, my brother and I determined, even at the risk of your displeasure, to recommend a very skillful physician to you who has lately performed some very remarkable cures. This is the gentleman. Allow me to introduce Doctor Healman. Doctor this is my uncle; he will no doubt be always happy to see you, because I am persuaded that after this visit he will rarely have occasion for your services." The gentleman in the black suit made a low bow, and Mr. Tuck told him to sit down.

"And now, uncle," said his nephew, "I will leave you, and to show you how much more I respect your will than my own wishes, this shall be the last time I will ever intrude myself upon your presence," and with these words this dutiful nephew retired from his uncle's chamber with his face buried in his white cambric pocket handkerchief.

"I don't know what to make of that fellow," said Mr. Tuck as his nephew closed the door.

"Make of him!" repeated the doctor, "he don't wequire anything to be made out on him at all. He is one of ther most wemarkable pious young men of the age. He is up to all sorts of goodness."

"But his brother Fred, is a confirmed rogue," continued the old gentleman.

"Pwehaps so," said the doctor, "it is easily accounted for, he weads too much."

"Yes, yes, that is it. When I see him strutting through the streets with one of those blue covered books under his arm, I can hardly keep from beating him with my cane, doctor. But, young men are different now, doctor, to what they were when you and I were boys."

"You may well say that," replied the doctor.

"Did you ever have a case of beating of the heart in your practice, doctor?" asked Mr. Tuck.

"I have made some wemarkable cures in that line," replied the doctor. "Are you affected after that sort?"

"Sometimes I feel such a terrible throbbing here," said the old man putting his hand to his heart; "and then I have such a choking in my throat! O, Doctor, I would pay a good round price to be cured of it. I don't mind expense, doctor. I suppose it is not dangerous, but it is very annoying, because it keeps me from my business."

"Let me see your tongue, sir," said the doctor. "O, ah! it is nothing but a dewangement of the seckweting vessels. I can cure it at wonst."

"Do you really think that's it?" asked Mr. Tuck.

"Of course it is: I should wather guess I havn't dissected a dead body evwy day for twenty years to be mistaken about a disorder like yours."

"Don't talk about dead bodies," said Mr. Tuck, "it makes me feel unpleasant, doctor, and I won't have it."

"Don't be alarmed about that, the corpses that I cut up are all poor people that couldn't afford to pay for a physician to save their lives; paupers and such like that ain't of no consequence."

"Ah! its a great thing to be able to pay for a first rate physician." said Mr. Tuck, "I suppose, doctor, you have studied a good deal in your time?"

"O, a gwate deal, all the ancient authors."

"And, pray, doctor, how long did you ever know a man to live?" asked Mr. Tuck.

"Some one hundwed, and some a hundwed and fifty," replied the doctor; "it differs according to families. Some families all die young, and some live to enormous ages."

"If I could have my way," said Mr. Tuck, "I would either die very young, or live to about a hundred. I think that is a very good age, and a man ought to be all ready to go then. But to die at my age is dreadful. It is terrible to think of, doctor, and I don't see why one could not live to a good old age now, as well as in the time of Methuselah."

"So he might," replied the doctor, "with pwoper tweatment, if he was willing to live on woots, and other wight kinds of food."

"Ah, but, doctor," said Mr. Tuck, "you know that physicians themselves do not live longer than other men."

"Of course not," replied the doctor, "it's all according to wule; don't blacksmith's horses always go unshod?"

"That's true, that's true," said Mr. Tuck, "but pray tell me, doctor, what is the right kind of food. I would live on anything for the sake of living to a good old age."

"Why, esckwlent woots, such as sassafawilla, and other things. But I must go, I can't neglect my other patients."

"Do you charge by the hour, or only so much for a visit?" asked Mr. Tuck.

"Only two dollars a call, long or short; it's all the same to me."

"Of course you don't charge as much for a simple case like mine as you do for a dangerous one?" said Mr. Tuck.

"It's all one," replied the doctor, "I suppose it would make no odds to you whether you died of a simple cold or of the most invetwate complication of disordwes. It cost me as much for a diploma to cure the measles as for the vewy worst kind of cholewa."

"Ah, that's very true, very true," replied Mr. Tuck, "if there were any real danger of dying, of course I shouldn't object to the price."

"Well Sir," said the doctor, "I will go upon the pwinciple of no cure no pay, like the quacks and patent doctors. But it would be a shocking bad pwecedent for the wegular faculty I must allow, for some patients will die on purpose under the best tweatment. Here then," continued the doctor, taking a phial from his coat pocket, "is a bottle of my celebrated elixir, the elixir of juvenility; Doctor Healman's cure for disorders of the heart. It will cure you at wonst if you only take enough of it."

"Never fear, but I'll take enough of it," said Mr. Tuck, as he reached out his hand for the bottle.

"But stop," said the doctor, putting the elixir back into his coat pocket; "before I can pwescribe for you I must have a solemn pwomise that you won't call in another physician, or I'm o-p-h, I don't want anybody's botching laid at my door."

"What do you mean by botching?" inquired Mr. Tuck.

"I mean, of course, if anybody should happen to kill you by a wong pwescwiption it might injure my pwactice."

"That's very true, very true," said Mr. Tuck, "I pledge you my word I will not call in another physician without your permission."

"Then, sir, I'll pwescribe for you with pleasure. Take this bottle of elixir, stand it in a dark closet until nine o'clock be careful not to let the light shine upon it, then take it, shake the bottle thwee times up and down, and then swallow as much of it as ever you can."

"And do you really think I shall be well enough to attend to business tomorrow?" asked Mr. Tuck.

"Of course you will, but if you ain't I won't make no charge to you." The doctor stood for a moment and glanced round the room, and then shook hands with his patient and withdrew.

"That Tom is a good boy, after all," said Mr. Tuck to himself, "if I hadn't made my will I don't know but I would leave him something. But it will be time enough for that when I'm going to die. The doctor is rather a strange man for a physician, but Tom is no fool, let him be what he may; and I am very certain he wouldn't employ any but the very best physicians——"

As the old man sat mumbling to himself, and rocking gently in his chair, another rap was heard at the door and Jeremiah Jernegan made his appearance.

"Ah, Jeremiah, is that you?" said Mr. Tuck, "come in, come in, Jeremiah, and sit down, I am glad to see you, I want to ask you a question. I thought it was Julia at first, I wonder where she can be?"

"Are you well enough to sign a check?" asked Jeremiah, sitting down by the old man's side. "Mr. Tremlett has not come in town to-day."

"What do you mean, what do you mean?" replied the old gentleman, "well enough, well enough, don't you see I am not sick? You, are stupid Jeremiah!"

"I am very glad to hear you are not sick," replied Jeremiah, "but really you do not look well. Perhaps it's owing to these dark curtains. I am glad you are well."

"Yes, yes, it's the curtains, I'll have them taken down when the weather gets warmer," said Mr. Tuck, "tell me, Jeremiah, did you ever hear of anybody's living so long that they didn't care about living any longer?"

"All good men are willing to die when they are called," replied Jeremiah.

"Do you think it makes them more willing if they are good? Who was it, Jeremiah, in the Bible, who went up to

Heaven without dying at all? Was it your namesake or was it Isaiah? I forget about it."

"Neither," replied Jeremiah. "It was Elijah the Tishbite; he was taken up into Heaven in a chariot of fire."

"The Tishbite was a lucky fellow. I should like that way myself."

"If you would die like the Tishbite you must live like him," said Jeremiah. "But why would you ascend up into the clouds, like the prophet, when the privilege is granted to you of lying down in the grave with our Savior, who will himself summon you when you are called to Judgment. Think, could your soul endure the terrors of the whirl-wind and fire, the chariot of Israel and the horsemen thereof? Would you not rather part from this life in the way appointed for all flesh?"

"Ah, Jeremiah, you have read the Bible until you are used to it, but I cannot think of dying without a shudder, I feel the worms creeping over me."

"If we thought aright on the subject," replied Jeremiah, "death would never cause us to shudder. If we can bear up under the load of life, we ought not to be dismayed at the prospect of death, for one, we know, is heavy and grievous to bear, while the other, we are assured, is calm, and pleasant and unchangeable. Here we are banished from the presence of God, there we shall stand before his throne. If the infant were capable of thought and reflection there would be greater cause for apprehension and dread when entering upon this changeful life, than when leaving it for the next world which is unchangeable and eternal. Who that knew of the afflictions of this life, but would shudder at the thought of encountering them? and yet we make merry when a child is born into the world, but we follow him with tears when he is taken from it."

"Stop, stop," exclaimed Mr. Tuck, "say no more about dying, but tell me about business. Don't tell anybody that I am sick. I shall be on 'change to-morrow. I don't like to be questioned about my health, but I will tell you, Jeremiah, because you don't ask questions, I have got a terrible beating of my heart; it almost chokes me at times; but you don't think it's dangerous, Jeremiah?"

"Indeed, I have but little knowledge of diseases," replied Jeremiah, "but I supposed that diseases of the heart were dangerous."

"Yes, yes," replied Mr. Tuck, "diseases of the heart may be, but mine Jeremiah, is only a beating. If the heart didn't beat you know a man would die."

"Very true," replied Jeremiah, "perhaps I am wrong, but——"

Never mind, never mind, Jeremiah, I know what you are going to say. You needn't say it. I understand. Are there any arrivals this morning, and what's the news?"

"The Susan has arrived from Rio, and coffee has advanced half a cent," replied Jeremiah.

"Good, good!" ejaculated the old gentleman. "A half a cent, that's good. Is she full? Has she got in an entire cargo?"

"Yes sir," said Jeremiah, "an entire cargo of hides."

"Hides!" exclaimed the merchant, "and coffee advanced half a cent; that's bad, Jeremiah, very bad. Reach me my port folio and let me sign the check. There go, go. Don't say anything more, you make me nervous. My heart beats worse than ever."

Jeremiah folded the check and left the chamber slowly. He would gladly have remained to talk to the old gentleman about the great concern of his soul, but he was afraid of defeating his object by too much zeal. Once he turned back, hesitated for a moment, and then returned to the counting room. His indecision was ever after a source of great grief to him.

No sooner was the old gentleman again left alone than he wished that somebody was near him. His niece had never before neglected him so long, and he listened eagerly for the sound of her step on the stairs. But the day wore heavily away, and she came not. He wondered at her absence, but was afraid to send for her. He could expect no one beside her to visit him; and he tried to divert his mind by thinking of his business, but thoughts of death would rise up in his mind. Gaunt spectres that only appeared more terrifying and distinct when he closed his eyes, trying in vain to shut them out of his mind. What could he do! Even his bed looked to him like a grave; it had a green coverlid, and the back of the chairs were in shape like tombstones. It was strange that he had never noticed these things before, but they now appeared to him with a terrible distinctness. His mother's portrait was hung in the room and every time he glanced at it he remembered that she was lying in her grave, and that he must soon be buried by her side. He walked to his book-case and took up a volume hoping to amuse himself with its contents. He turned to the title page; it was the "Holy Living and Dying," and it fell like lead from his hands. But another lay near it. It was Julia's album that she had left there the day before. He opened it, and seeing young Tremlett's writing, curiosity tempted him to read: it was a little poem:

Oft have I joined in mirth and glee,
When many a weary heart was sighing,
And laughed, because I could not see
That all around the dead were lying.
And others now in frolic and glee,
Their festal hours with mirth are keeping
Who soon by sorrow touched, like me.
Beside some loved one may be weeping,
O! earth and air, and sea are full
Of messengers of death———

He could read no more, and he closed the book. He knew that the Bible was full of passages to remind him of death and he would not open it although it, almost seemed to invite him to do so. He turned from the book-case and walked to the window to beguile his thoughts by watching the passers by; but he had not stood there a minute, when two men came along bearing an empty coffin upon their shoulders. He turned his head quickly away but not until he had discerned that it was about his own measure. To add to his gloomy feelings it was a dull, dark day, and the wind moaned drearily through the blinds of his windows. His heart beat violently and he sank down in his chair and tried to compose his thoughts, but in vain. When his house-keeper came into the room he detained her in conversation as long as he could, but she seemed in a hurry to leave him.

At last it was dark, and he ordered his shutters to be closed and a bright light placed upon his table. But it cast fearful shadows on the wall. His servant brought in the evening paper. He opened it and the first item of intelligence that met his eye, was the death of an old acquaintance from a disease of the heart. He threw down the paper and involuntarily applied his hand to his left side. His heart throbbed as though it would burst. He was alarmed and yet he was afraid to send for a physician, remembering his promise to Doctor Healman. Wearied and exhausted at last he fell into a slight doze, but he was soon aroused from it by the hail driving against his windows. It had a strange sound to him; like stones rattling on a coffin when the first shovel full is thrown in to fill up a grave. A cold sweat stood upon his forehead, and the blood rushed furiously into his heart. He tried to reason himself out of his fears. What could they mean? Why had not the same sights and sounds produced such an effect on him before? He had seen and heard them a thousand times. He was in the daily habit of passing an undertaker's shop where coffins stood round like boxes of merchandise, but they had never awakened a gloomy thought in his mind. His mother's picture had been hanging many years in his chamber; and, although he had often times dropped a tear when gazing upon her mild countenance, it had never before suggested a thought of death, and why should it now? Scarcely conscious of what he was doing he opened his writing desk and took out his will. He remembered all the revengeful thoughts that were warring in his mind when he wrote it, and how he anticipated the disappointment and chagrin of his relatives when they should know its terms; and how he chuckled over the imaginary anger of his brother's widow and her two sons, and be wondered that he should have been moved by such feelings while engaged in such a solemn duty. But he soon grew weary of his will, and he tried to get rid of the load that oppressed him by pacing the chamber floor. Slowly and heavily the hours dropped along, but scarcely were they gone than they seemed to have flown like lightning. By and by the clock struck nine. It was the appointed hour for taking the elixir. He drew the phial from the dark corner in which he had placed it, and remembering the injunction of the doctor shook it three times, placed it to his mouth with trembling hands, and swallowed its entire contents.

————

CHAPTER II.

TREATS ENTIRELY OF FAMILY MATTERS.

MRS. TUCK and her daughter were quietly sipping their first cup of tea when Mr. F. Augustus entered the parlor and after depositing a couple of damp volumes on the mantel piece by the side of his cigar case, seated himself at the tea-table, and nodding significantly to his mother, said to his sister,

"You will not have the pleasure of Mr. Jack Tremlett's company this evening, Miss."

"My son!" exclaimed his mother, with a reproving frown, "how can you!"

"Indeed, I did not know that you were Mr. Tremlett's guardian," replied his sister in a tone meant to provoke a reply.

"His guardian! O, certainly not. But I am his friend, Miss, and I beg you to understand he treats me with less reserve than you do. He will not be here this evening I can assure you, he sent me a note to that effect and requested me to communicate the fact to you. It takes me."

"And pray," said the mother, folding her arms in a queenly manner, "why did he not send his note to Julia, or come himself and inform her of his intentions. Does the young man know who my daughter is, pray?"

"I am satisfied," said the young lady in a trembling voice, "doubtless he had sufficient reasons."

"But I am not satisfied," said the proud mother, "neither with him for daring to treat my daughter with such contempt nor with you for tamely submitting to it. O, if you had your father's or your mother's spirit you would never see him again."

"My dear mother," said Julia, "do not compel me to act contrary to your wishes. It is useless to talk to me on this subject; I have a thousand times expressed my determination and I can never, never, alter! I have no pride, no ambition but to appear well in his eyes. Do not reproach me; your words kill me!"

"I will never reproach you again," replied her mother, "but I have too much love for you, and too much respect for your father's memory to see you humble yourself to a man who shows no regard for you, without reminding you of your duty to yourself and your father's family."

"That's a little too strong," said Fred.

"Perhaps your ambition will be gratified when you have followed me to my grave," said Julia, and she rose sobbing convulsively from the table and threw herself upon the sofa.

"Now mother," said Fred, "you have done it. Look at her." Mrs. Tuck turned towards her daughter with a severe frown but it was instantly succeeded by an expression of terror, and she ran to the sofa and clasping the young lady in her arms exclaimed in the tenderest accents, "Julia, my dear, dear Julia, my darling, darling daughter, speak to me! O, darling, darling, speak to your mother."

But her daughter was insensible to her lamentations; she lay cold and rigid as death.

"It is too late to cry now," said Fred. "you should have thought of that sooner. Some hartshorn and brandy will do more good than all your agony. Let me hold her while you get the medicine." Hereupon he took his sister in in his arms, and after chafing her temples, and rubbing her hands, he made out with the assistance of the servants who had come to his aid, to pour a spoonful of hartshorn and brandy into her mouth, after which she began to revive, although it was a long time before she was fully restored to consciousness.

Mrs. Tuck wept, and raved, and hung upon her daughter's neck, and called upon Heaven to bless her, and knelt to her and did a thousand other wild and passionate things in strange contrast to her proud and haughty demeanor but a few moments before. But the tempest began to subside as the young lady began to revive; it had not settled into a perfect calm, however, before Mr. T. Jefferson Tuck made his appearance, and perceiving at a glance what had occurred, he exclaimed, "So you are amusing yourselves after the old fashion! Come. Shut up. It's time to be done with these follies. Do you not know that Julia should have gone to her uncle this evening? Remember, mother he can't bear a disappointment, and this evening's work may make an alteration in his will."

"O, my children!" cried the distressed mother, "you know I have no happiness but in seeing you happy; yet you will afflict me with your cruel conduct."

"You have told us that same thing a few times before, mother; havn't you a faint recollection of it, Tom?" said Mr. F. Augustus.

"Two fools in one family are enough," replied Tom, "behave yourself, Fred, and copy after me; let your mother and sister do up all the nonsense, but let us act with a little decency."

"There she goes again," cried Fred, and Tom sprang to the side of his sister who had relapsed into another convulsion fit, from which she did not recover until she had been carried to her chamber and had poultices applied to her feet and temples.

The brothers were too much accustomed to scenes like this to be moved by their occurrence; and Tom and his mother had no sooner left the room bearing the unhappy and too sensitive Julia in their arms, than Fred lighted a cigar, and taking one of the volumes from the mantel piece that he had placed there on entering the room, seated himself in an arm chair which would have formed a fitting throne for the very Genius of Indolence, and was directly lost in the golden haze of fiction, where he forgot his sister, his business, himself even, and everything appertaining to him, except his cigar, which he continued to whiff until all the objects in the room were dimmed by heavy clouds of smoke. But he was not allowed to revel in this misty condition long, for his mother and brother returned from his sister's room, and with their hard realities shattered the slight forms that entranced him into fragments finer than gossamer's shadow.

"Now, mother, you have fooled me all my life, and I'll not put up with it any longer," said Tom as he re-entered the room.

"Nor I," said her second son F. Augustus Tuck, lighting another cigar, "if I do—confound the cigar—mother lend me your scissors,—If I do—curse the thing it won't smoke—ah, yes, there it goes—that's it—If I do I shall alter immensely. I give you my word."

"O, my children," cried their mother wringing her hands "you will not have to bear the burden of your poor mother's affection much longer. But when I am in my grave——"

"Then it will be time to cry," said Tom as he looked in the glass and fingered his whiskers.

"Yes," said Fred, "it will be time enough then; but you have told us that same thing so often, mother, it has got to be an old story. If you would invent something a little more touching I wouldn't mind giving way to it occasionally. But I want to be left alone now, and I wish that you and Tom would take to another room and leave me to my book."

"Leave you to your book is it?" said his brother, "if it were a book, a stock-book, a bill-book, a day-book, or anything else that deserves the name of a book I would; but such a heap of trash as that is a disgrace to the name of a book," and to show his contempt for the work he caught it out of his brother's hand and threw it into the grate.

This was touching Fred upon a sensitive point; it was his raw spot, so he jumped up from the purple morocco where he seemed to be imbedded, and caught his brother by his collar who immediately caught his brother Fred in a similar manner, and thus being brought into very close contact they began to force each other about the room in such a promiscuous and hurry-scurry manner that the astral lamps, and mirrors and chandeliers, seemed on the point of instant annihilation; but they soon had the additional weight of their mother's person, which was probably twice their own, to contend with, she having thrown herself upon them to prevent them from doing each other any injury; and by the help of her voice tended to kick up a dust, that her tears were not sufficiently copious to allay.

"You puppy!" said Tom as he darted a look of contempt at his brother.

"You beast!" muttered Fred, "take that for your pains;" and so saying he caught hold of his brother's gold headed cane, and snapped it across his knee, and threw it into the fire.

"Ah! indeed, I like that much," said his brother Tom, "here's to you," and so saying he opened his pen-knife and cut one of the eyes out of his brother Fred's portrait which hung in the room, and threw it at him.

This brotherly act was immediately repaid by Fred who caught hold of his brothers coat-tail and tore off just one half of his new green coat, a feat which was reciprocated by Tom without deliberation. They mutually paused, while they cast their eyes around them for fresh objects to exercise their affections upon, and their mother threw herself upon her knees between them and begged them to destroy her next, as they both had an equal interest in her.

"But for you," said Tom, "this wouldn't have happened. You always get us into difficulty."

"That's true," said Fred, "you know its all your own fault, mother; if you hadn't disturbed me in my reading it wouldn't have happened."

"O, my poor husband," sobbed Mrs. Tuck, "it is well for you that the dead cannot see what is done by the living."

"I think so too," said the tender Fred, "he would be ashamed of you if he saw how you carry on sometimes, I dare believe. It takes me."

"Come Fred," said Tom, "I won't hear you abuse your mother, in my presence."

"O, let him, let him kill me," said Mrs. Tuck.

"If he does I'll flog him," said the virtuous Tom with an indignant jerk of his head.

"You flog me!" said Fred, throwing down the remains of his coat on the floor, and siding up to his brother who was clearing himself of the two sleeves of his coat, the back part of which his brother had eased him of.

"Now boys," said their mother, suddenly suspending a flood of tears, "I will have this no longer. I am ashamed of you at your age to be acting like children."

"Well, I am done," said Fred, fumbling in his hat for a cigar, "deuce take it there's none here. Tom give me a cigar."

"I'll give you a knock on the head," replied his brother, "look at my cane there."

"And look at my picture there, you thief;" returned Fred.

"Tom, give your brother a cigar," said Mrs. Tuck, "you are the oldest and you should set a better example."

"Take your cigar," said Tom as he threw his cigar-case at his brother's head, but Fred dodged and the cigar-case cracked the shade of the astral lamp.

"There you go again," said Fred, "never mind, you'll have to pay for it yourself." And he picked up the cigar case and lighted his cigar.

"Now mother," said Fred, "what good do you get by talking to Julia about young Tremlett. She swears she'll have him, and you know she is too much like you not to have her own way about it."

"It mortifies my pride, and kills me to think of it;" replied Mrs. Tuck, "that my daughter should throw herself away upon a son of nobody. He has no family, no connections, and not even a name of his own; and besides, I hate him."

"But the young fellow will be rich," replied Fred, "he will have an immense estate at old Tremlett's death, and I dare believe he will have a family all in good time. For my part I always liked him, and I don't blame Julia for liking him too."

"Well, then, I do," said Tom. "Mother is right. I hate him too. But you need give yourself no uneasiness about Julia. He never wanted her, and I do not believe that he loves her any more than I do, in the way of marriage. But he is amiable and good natured and he has not the courage to tell her so. It will all come out in the end. But we must let the girl alone now, she is a great favorite with uncle Gris., and if he should leave her anything we might whistle for our share of it if we annoy her too much in this way."

"Well, I dare believe there's truth in that, mother," said Fred, "now you have got your cue, don't throw her into convulsions again by telling her he has no regard for her."

"O, my children," said Mrs. Tuck, "you little know the strength of a mother's love; I could freely die for either of you but I cannot see your sister disgrace herself."

"O, I dare believe, you would die for us quite cheerfully," said Fred, "but you don't care a straw about our happiness. Well, there's something a little too transcendental in that for my philosophy."

A pull at the hall bell put an end to the conversation, and the two brothers darted out of the parlor with the remnants of their coats, while their mother began to snug up, and presently the servant ushered in two fashionable gentlemen, who had called for the double purpose of enquiring after the health of Miss Tuck, and of playing a game of whist with her brothers.

Mrs. Tuck received them with a most gracious, but dignified air, and informed them that her daughter was quite well, but that she had gone out to spend the evening with a friend; and in a few moments her two interesting sons walked in and welcomed their visitors with the pleasantest and most delightful manner conceivable. Never were two gentlemen happier to meet two other gentlemen than were the two Tucks to meet their friends, and the two friends were equally delighted to find the brothers at home, although their happiness was in a manner damped at the absence of their sister; and Mrs. Tuck was happy to hear that the two young gentlemen were quite well, and the two young gentlemen, together and separately, were happy in being made acquainted with the pleasing fact that Mrs. Tuck was well, and had been well since she had the pleasure of seeing them the last time. It must not be supposed by the reader that these two gentlemen were a pair of Howards going about the world enquiring after the health of its inhabitants, and making themselves extremely happy or miserable in conformity with the feelings of those whom they met; quite the contrary, for in their walk to Mrs. Tuck's house they encountered several persons whose woe-begone and wretched appearance might have brought tears from the eyes, and shillings from the pockets, of seemingly less sensitive persons; and yet they walked on quite happy and cheerful; indeed they had made themselves rather merry at the queer looks of a little bare-footed girl who asked them for two pennies to buy her mother a loaf of bread, but never once thought of complying with the little girl's request. As these are a kind of people whose feelings and actions we are not ambitious of incorporating into our history, we will introduce them formally to the reader, merely as specimens for the benefit of remote countries, and then leave them.

The eldest of these two personages was named Barnsill; "P. Ramsey Barnsill," was printed upon the gentleman's card; he was in stature something less than five feet; his nose was exceedingly prominent and its high bridge seemed to draw the skin tight over the gentleman's face, which was thin in the extreme; his eyes were large and staring and his teeth were set at every possible angle to his gums; his forehead was low and narrow, but it was ornamented by two bushy black eye-brows, that were counterbalanced by two bushy black whiskers; the gentleman's dress it is not necessary to notice, since there was nothing noticeable about it, it being a style of costume which leaves one in doubt after having parted with a gentleman whether he wore any covering or not. If you had met Mr. Barnsill at Scudder's Museum you would have thought, as a matter of course, that he was one of the five hundred thousand curiosities in that remarkable collection; but meeting with him at Mrs. Tuck's you would have concluded, very correctly, that there was a precious good reason for his being included in the circle of her acquaintance. The reason was this; Mr. Barnsill was the nephew and confidential cash-keeper of Mr. Jeromus Barnsill an old stock-broker of whom the brothers found it convenient two or three times a week to borrow a thousand dollars, just before three o'clock, to make their account good at the Bank. The other gentleman was Mr. Ditchley; in what manner he put his name upon his card, or whether he carried a card or not we have never ascertained; he was in person not immensely higher than Mr. Barnsill, but he had a regular set of features and handsome teeth, and he tried very hard for a beard, but a few scattering whitish hairs upon the extreme end of his chin scarce afforded an apology for one; his dress was very bright, very glossy, and very fine; he looked like a petit courier just imported, and sent out for a pattern; Mr. Ditchley, was a clerk in a jobbing store in Pearl street, and he visited Mrs. Tuck's as the friend of Mr. Barnsill.

Shortly after these two gentlemen came in, whist was proposed, and they sat down with the two brothers and began to play for the trifling sum of two shillings a corner, just to keep alive the interest of the game; and shortly after they sat down, a pitcher of hot punch was introduced with four tumblers, and Mrs. Tuck withdrew. So these four gentlemen continued to shuffle, and deal, and cut, and sip, and smoke, and talk of honors, suits, and lifts, and finessing, and Hoyle, until it was past midnight, and the house was still, and there were no echoes of tramping feet heard on the pavement, when they were suddenly startled in their seats by a hasty ring at the hall door. The two brothers looked at each other, and Fred, who was dealing at the time, turned pale as ashes and let his cards fall. The servants had gone to bed, and as the door was not immediately opened, there was another violent pull at the hall bell.

"Go to the door Fred;" said Tom.

"No, no, I can't," gasped Fred, "go you; go."

Tom took a deep draught of the punch and opened the hall door, but immediately returned very pale and ghastly, with a stranger behind him.

"What is it? what is it?" exclaimed Mr. Barnsill and Mr. Ditchley together.

"Here's a gentleman come to inform us that our uncle Gris., poor old man, has been found dead in his chair," said Tom.

"Dead!" ejaculated his brother, "dead! It's a mistake."

"It's too true," replied the stranger, "I saw the old gentleman myself. He is dead, indeed."

————

CHAPTER III.

CONTAINS MANY DOUBTS AND SUSPICIONS.

"MY dear boy," said old Mr. Tremlett, addressing his son who sat by his bed-side; "it grieves me to see you weep, I meant nothing by my remarks, but that the time is at hand when you and I must part, on this earth, at least. This sudden death of my partner cannot but remind me that I have not long to remain with you, and the little time that we may be allowed to live in each other's society must not be spent in tears. Whenever I shall be called I will cheerfully go, and when I close my eyes upon the world there will be no one but you, for whom I would stay."

"O, my father, my more than father," replied the young man, seizing the old merchant's hand and bathing it with his tears, "how can I live when you are gone! There will be none to care for me then, and I shall be more destitute than I was when you took me from my loveless home, and taught me the true worth of friendship and virtue. I have lived in the hope that some opportunity would be allowed me of proving to you that I have not been a thoughtless and ungrateful recipient of your goodness."

"You will offend me by such talk," replied the old gentleman, "I have never doubted your affection or your gratitude and it is I and not you, who am the debtor. I bless God that he gave you to me in my old age, in my helpless and decrepid condition to sweeten my cup of life at a time when I was least able to endure its bitterness. You are young, and will, I hope, see many years of happiness when I am gone. The time may seem remote to you and long and weary to look ahead to the period at which I am arrived; but you view it through an inverted telescope. I look back to your age and it seems scarce a moment of time since I occupied the spot where you now stand. It matters not when we lie down to sleep our last sleep how long we may have moved about upon the earth nor whether we die, as I shall die, the nominal possessor of wealth, or indebted to the charity of our neighbor for the pallet on which we expire. I feel this now. Perhaps it would have been better had I felt it sooner. I am not ashamed of my wealth, for as far as I know it has been acquired without harm to others. But I sometimes think I had no right to keep what I could not use myself, yet it is a consolation to know, that you will never know the cruel struggles and harrassing fears which I endured in the early part of my life. To think of this has long been one of my pleasures. With some trifling exceptions, I shall leave you the whole of my property. It will be sufficient for all your wants, and there will be small inducements for you to enter into the tormenting pursuits of business. But if it should be your desire to do so, I have no wish to restrain you. I hope, however, that you will be moved by higher aims in employing your time and your money than a wish to increase your fortune.

"The life of a merchant must be at best unsatisfactory and humiliating to a generous mind. It is the most purely selfish and least ennobling of all human pursuits, because it is the most mercenary. The lowest mechanic and the smallest cultivator of the soil aim at higher things, and must of necessity commune more closely with God and Nature. I have been amazed, even in my narrow historical researches, to find so few of the eminent men of the world taken from the mercantile profession. It is true that there have been some great men who were merchants. But they are few. And it is true also that the opportunities of a merchant for doing good are greater than the opportunities of other men, yet when they are improved they are episodes in his business and not necessary to it.

"I did myself a great wrong by neglecting to marry, when I was young, from prudential motives; it was a deplorable mistake and deplorably I have suffered for it; all the sweets of life have been untasted by me, while I have fed upon its bitterest food. You, my dear boy will have no such false restraints as I supposed it necessary to impose upon myself. Be not therefore self-debarred from life's greatest pleasures. There is doubtless unhappiness even in the marriage state, and it must have its drawbacks as all earthly things have; but if you cannot find happiness there you will look for it in vain, I fear, elsewhere."

The young man had fallen on his knees by the bed-side of the old merchant, but he could only reply to his admonitions by kissing his hand and bathing it in tears.

It was early in the morning. The intelligence of Mr. Tuck's death had just been brought to Mr. Tremlett, who was greatly affected thereby, although it was an event for which he was by no means unprepared, for he knew that his partner had long suffered from a diseased heart, and that his death must be sudden. But they had been associated in business so long, and had learned so well to accommodate themselves to each others' whims, leaning on each others' strong points, and supporting each other in their weak ones, that he felt as though a part of himself had been torn away, and that he could not remain long behind thus deprived of his accustomed help. And he looked back through the long years of toil and perplexity which he had spent, of anxiety and thriftless hope, which when satisfied brought no satisfaction, and he was overpowered at the littleness of the profit which had accrued to him when he struck a hasty balance in his mind and found that his outlay of time and strength, had brought him so poor a recompense as dollars and cents, that had not the power of soothing his mind with one consolatory reflection. There lay his gains secured in some vault of ponderous granite blocks, clamped together with iron bars, and watched over by a hireling sentinel, as though they were some terrible evil whose escape would desolate the world, and not the bits of precious metal whose presence in the house of misery and want would diffuse smiles and health and happiness; and there lay as palpable to his mind, the wasted years of his half century of responsible existence; as he scanned their worth he could find but little among them which seemed at all to compensate for their cost.

While the old merchant lay indulging himself in these reflections, and his adopted son knelt silently by his bed-side, a tap was heard at the door, and Jeremiah Jernegan walked in.

Young Tremlett rose hastily from his knees and seated himself upon the bed-side, and the old man looked inquisitively at the intruder, who was about to withdraw without speaking a word, when Mr. Tremlett called him back.

"Sit down, Jeremiah," said Mr. Tremlett; "we have no secrets that you may not know. We have all labored together with poor Mr. Tuck, and together we must all weep for him. Well, he was a sincere man; and I believe Jeremiah, an honest merchant. Do you not think he was?"

"I never knew him to do a dishonest act," replied Jeremiah, "but far be it from me to judge of any man, but above all of the dead. Perhaps I was the last person who saw him alive, but I fear—"

"Fear what?" said Mr. Tremlett, raising himself; "fear what, Jeremiah? Do you fear that my partner is not happy now? that he died without repentance Jeremiah?"

"No, those are fears that would not become me" said Jeremiah, "but, perhaps I had better not tell what were my fears."

"You must tell, Jeremiah," said Young Tremlett, "your words have excited a curiosity in my father which you must satisfy, or he will indulge in harrassing doubts, let us know what it is you were going to say? You need fear nothing from us, or if you do not care to speak before me I will retire."

"No, no," replied Jeremiah, "I am glad you are here, for although I came expressly to speak with your father, my errand could not be completed without seeing you. I was going to say that I fear I was not the last person who saw Mr. Tuck alive."

"Nothing more likely," said Mr. Tremlett, "it could be easily ascertained from the house-keeper; but it is a matter of little moment; for myself I wish that I could have seen him again, but I cannot now bring myself to look upon him, I shall feel more composed before long."

"It matters little to him, now," said Jeremiah, "but as I said before I have fears that I hardly know how to name."

"You puzzle me," said Mr. Tremlett, "speak out, without fear, that I may know what you mean."

"I fear," said Jeremiah, gazing around him, "that he died by violence."

"By violence!" said the old man as his frame shook with terror, "how by violence? were there any marks upon his person?"

"No," said Jeremiah; "and that is why I am so fearful of speaking my thoughts. But I will relate to you my reasons, and perhaps you will think I am easily alarmed. But God knows that I would not mistrust a living soul of so wicked an intent, yet I have seen so much of depravity and selfishness that I can hardly doubt that anything that is wicked may not be true."

"Go on, go on," said young Tremlett impatiently.

"Yesterday morning," said Jeremiah, "I had occasion to call at Mr. Tuck's house to get a check signed, and I found the old gentleman in his room, very evidently quite ill, although he would not acknowledge it. He spoke to me about dying and I was glad of an opportunity, without seeming to seek it myself, of talking with him on the subject; but when I attempted to improve the occasion, he grew impatient, and as I perceived that my remarks disturbed him, I left him, but with great uneasiness of mind; for I had a presentiment that his time was at hand. It so happened that my cash-book did not balance at night when I made up my accounts, and I was detained in the office until a very late hour in the evening before I discovered the error; so, after I had closed the door of the counting room, on my way home I again thought of poor Mr. Tuck, and I determined to call upon him again, to speak with him once more, if he should be in a mood to listen to me. It was very dark and a drizzly rain beat in my face when I stepped up to the front door of his house, and just as I was going to pull the bell handle, the door opened, and a person came hastily out wrapped in a cloak. I supposed that it must be the physician, and I said, 'Doctor.' 'Well?' replied the person; 'Is Mr. Tuck better?' I asked; 'Not wemarkable,' replied the doctor; 'will it do for me to see him?' I asked further, for I wished to hear the doctor's voice again; 'act your own discwetion,' he replied, and a footstep was heard in the hall at that moment, when the doctor muffled his cloak about him and walked rapidly down the street. I would have followed him, but the house-keeper came to the door in great alarm, and seeing me requested me to come in as she had heard somebody in the house. I questioned her about the doctor, and she said that no doctor had been there. I told her that I met him at the door upon which she grew frightened and we went up to Mr. Tuck's chamber together where we found the poor gentleman dead in his chair, with some papers in his hand. The person whom I met at the door I am very certain was the same man who robbed me of my watch, when we were on our way to Willow-mead together," he said, turning to young Tremlett.

"I remember it perfectly well," said John, "and I think I should know the person if I were to see him again. I am certain that I should recognize him by his voice."

"It was by that alone which I knew him;" said Jeremiah, "for it was too dark to see his face."

"And was not his name Washington Mortimer, or something like it?" asked John.

"G. Washington Mortimer;" replied Jeremiah, "here is the very receipt which he gave me for the watch. I have preserved it ever since, amongst my papers, and this morning I found it."

"There must be something in this," said Mr. Tremlett, "but I cannot see what. You had better send the oldest of the two Tucks to me and I will put him on the track to scent it out, but in the mean time Jeremiah, and you, my son, do not whisper a word of this to any one."

"I freely forgive the man, if it be him who took my watch," said Jeremiah, "but I would be glad to discover him, nevertheless, for you know John, that Hopley, of whom I borrowed it, always pretended that he did not believe our story."

"I had forgotten it," said John smiling faintly, "but you need have no alarm about Hopley, for you know he is now serving out his time in prison, for an offence which no one doubted his being guilty of."

"That is true indeed," replied Jeremiah, "but perhaps it would be some consolation to him to know that we were not as bad as he thought us, even in his own degradation."

"Perhaps so," said young Tremlett, "but I doubt the reverse would be more consoling to him."

"Leave me now," said the old gentleman, "that I may compose my thoughts, and prepare myself for the part I must perform; in the afternoon I must see you both again. And you, Jeremiah, arrange your accounts as usual, and bring me your checks to sign for the day's payments."

Jeremiah and John then withdrew and left the old merchant to his contemplations.

————

CHAPTER IV.

"THE BOY IS FATHER OF THE MAN."

WHEN a rich man dies, everybody says: "is it possible!" as though it were quite an impossible thing for audacious Death to grapple with a man of wealth: when a lawyer dies, all the courts adjourn with complimentary speeches, and Justice sheathes her terrible left-handed sword and pockets her scales for a whole day, as though lawyers were so exceedingly rare that the loss of one deserved to be wept as a public calamity; and when a merchant dies, all the ships in the harbor hoist their flags half-mast, out of respect to his memory, as though the business of merchandizing was one of such exceeding honor to humanity that the bare accident of being connected with it conferred such peculiar merit upon a man that his loss called for a public demonstration of grief. This last compliment was paid to Mr. Tuck; and while there was but one pair of eyes that wept a tear at his funeral, there were hundreds of yards of bunting, of all possible colors and combinations, drooping from the half-mast-heads of innumerable sea-going crafts at the wharves, and in the river, and bay, out of respect to his memory.

The old man had been buried; his name had already passed out of the memories of those who had but just wept him in bunting; and the world was moving on to all appearance as usual, when Mrs. Tuck, the dignified sister-in-law of the deceased, sat down in her back parlor surrounded and supported in her hour of grief by her three children;—Those juveniles that kept her in such a continued shifting between bliss and misery that it would have puzzled her to strike a balance of the two accounts and carry the result to the right side. The whole party were clad in deep mourning, and if it be permitted to departed spirits to look upon the scenes that they have just left, a doctrine which finds many believers even in this unbelieving age, Mr. Tuck must have looked down upon this little family party with great complacency when he saw how deeply they mourned his loss—in dress.

They had evidently just returned from the house of mourning, and their minds were occupied with serious things. The oldest brother, who assumed all the prerogatives which primogeniture confers in monarchical countries, was the first to break silence.

"So, Miss," said T. Jefferson Tuck to his sister, "you will get married now, considerably quick; and I and your mother who have had the care of you all your life, will have about as wide a space in your affections, as we had in your estimable uncle's. Confound him!"

"Now boys," said Mrs. Tuck, who spoke with remarkable clearness considering that she had just come from the funeral of a relative, for whose sake she had clothed herself in such very deep mourning, "remember that Julia is your sister—"

"I hope we may be reminded of that fact by the young lady herself," said Fred, interrupting his mother.

"And I hope," said the sister, "that I may be made to feel it by some token of brotherly kindness or consideration from you. But if I was not entitled to it before your uncle's death, I have no right to claim it now."

"O! ah!" ejaculated the younger brother.

"Now, Fred," interrupted the mother.

"My uncle's will is not my will," continued the sister,

"and it can have no influence upon either my affections or my actions. As to marriage, it is not for me to say what I may do." She had been weeping bitterly when the taunting remarks of her brothers caused her to reply to them, and as she concluded her speech she sank upon an ottoman and again gave way to her grief.

"Pooh!" ejaculated her brother Tom contemptuously.

"O, my!" said Fred, and tearing the crape from his hat, he added, "put that to your mourning," as he threw it towards her, "I don't believe in hypocrisy, and I won't wear mourning for that old miser."

"Don't do that," said Tom, giving his brother a sharp look, "remember you owe something to appearances—to the family—"

"And to your father's memory," added his mother.

"Well, then sew it on again," replied the repentant brother, "I wish I could pay all that I owe as easily."

"Now my children," said Mrs. Tuck, "all our expectations are at an end, we have nothing to hope from your dear father's brother, and we must live for each other—"

"And on each other," said Fred.

"And with each other," said the mother, "When Julia gets married I am sure she will not forget us; and you, boys, can go on with your business; and your sister will always be ready and willing, I can promise you, to help you with a little capital; and we shall live very genteely, and keep the same company that we always have done. My daughter, why do you weep so; remember that your uncle was a very old man, and you should have been prepared for his death."

"I was prepared for his death," said the young lady, "but I was not prepared to find that he had regarded me with such fondness, and I cannot but weep now that I had not known it while he was living, that I might have been more kind and attentive to him. Ah me, I fear I shall never know such another friend."

"What, with all that money!" said Fred, "never you fear; you'll have friends enough."

"Now listen to me," said Tom, "just mind what I say. Here is Julia will get something when she's married; but when she is married, we shall have no claims upon her: and her husband will not care two straws about us. In that view of the case, of course we are dished. But if Julia will be a sensible girl, and listen to reason, we'll do better. The conditions of the will are, that she is to come into possession of her uncle's share of the capital of the firm, which comprises about all he has left, upon the day of her marriage. Now, observe it is upon the day of her marriage, and not the day after; therefore if she can persuade old Tremlett, who is the executor, to put her in possession of the money, she can immediately make over two thirds of the property to us, which is our share, and then when she is married in the evening, she can hand over the balance to her husband, who will not find fault with the arrangement if he be an honorable man and if he should grumble at it I will challenge him for insulting my sister. But I am afraid that this plan could not be carried out, for old Tremlett is a precise character, and if Julia should take it into her head to marry his adopted son, he would see that the young fellow gets all that belonged to him."

"That's a capital plan, Tom, and Julia might bring it about if she were disposed to do so."

"It is not safe to trust to it," replied the elder brother; "but I will suggest a plan that she might carry out, and which she must carry out, if she have any regard for her family, and that is, not to marry any man who will not sign an agreement to give us two thirds of the estate that she may bring him; and I can promise her she shall never marry upon any other conditions."

"You ought to have learned by this time," replied their sister rising from the ottoman and walking proudly across the room, "that the only power which ever compelled me was the power of kindness and love. I am willing to do more, perhaps, than either of you would have the heart to ask, but I will do nothing by force. The debt I owe you is easily paid, but I shall not even pay that, small as it is, upon compulsion."

"Yes Madam," said her brother Tom, "I have not forgotten the trick you played us with that pocket-book to screen that young thief upon whom your thoughts are settling just now; and but for that we should have been as well off as yourself. When you talk of paying debts my lady, please to bear in mind that that debt is not omitted in my schedule. It has got to be paid in full yet. So be careful how you threaten."

A sudden interruption at this moment prevented one of the most thrilling scenes that was probably ever described in history, and deprived us of an opportunity of improving our pen in the service of the Tragic Muse.

The door opened and a servant beckoned to the elder brother who returned after a moment's absence and requested the other parties to retire and leave him alone with a friend with whom he had some particular business.

"Well, Jacobs, you are a precious rascal," said the elder Tuck to his business friend, who entered the back parlor as soon as the others had left it; "your name is Dennis, and no mistake. If you are not hung after the next Oyer and Terminer, you may thank my benevolent bumps."

"Well, if I am hung;" replied Mr. Jacobs, for that was the gentleman's name, "I know who'll dance upon nothink about the same time."

"Yes I dare say you do;" replied Tom, "thieves and murderers generally have accomplices."

"You may say that without much wisk," said Mr. Jacobs, "when you are an accomplish yourself."

"Come sir," said Tom, with an air, "I shall have no insolence, and if you open your Jew's mouth in that manner again, I will have you taken immediately to prison. Do you know that hand writing sir? Mr. G. Washington Mortimer," and so saying Mr. T. Jefferson Tuck held a scrap of dirty brown paper up to his friend's eyes.

"Ha! ha! Where did you get that document fwom?" inquired Mr. Jacobs.

"I know where I got it from," said Tom; "and where I got it there's plenty more blacker and ranker. Enough to hang you half a dozen times."

Mr. Jacobs looked a little abashed, if that term can properly be applied to a gentleman of his entire self-possession; and in a somewhat subdued manner asked for an explanation.

"The truth is Jacobs," said Tom, "you are known; and officers are in pursuit of you. Remember old fellow that I cautioned you in the beginning not to make the dose too strong, all that I hired you to do, was to put him into a sound sleep so that you might get the will without waking him; and what have you done? you have committed murder; and you took the wrong will; and you have exposed yourself so that you will be discovered. What did you make any reply for when you were spoken to at the door? Did you not know that your rascally voice would lead to your detection? I warned you in time; but I will be generous to you nevertheless. If you will promise me to leave New York this very night, and never return here again, I will promise not to inform against you."

"Not without you pay me what you pwomised," said Mr. Jacobs, "I've pwefwomed my part, now you do yours."

"Pay you indeed," said Tom, "What should I pay you for; for destroying my brilliant prospects? You took the very will that I did not want, and the other, which he held in his hand as if offering it to you, you never touched."

"Well," said Mr. Jacobs, "I went where you diwected me to, and I was fweaful if I touched the papers in his hand I should wake him."

"I am not answerable for your bungling work," said Tom, "and if you think to include me in your villainies, just bear in mind that you cannot bring a particle of evidence to support your lies; so if you are not very obedient, I will have you hung as sure as you stand there."

"Poo! I am not fwightened at your talk about hanging; didn't the cowoner's juwy bwing in that he died of the disease of the heart. You can't hang this child no how," said Mr. Jacobs, "and as for that weceipt about the watch its only a twansaction, there is nothing to fear about that."

"Well," said Tom: "your neck is your own, and of course it's your own business whether you wear a hempen collar or not. I shall not trouble myself about it."

"Pay me the money you pwomised, then;" said Mr. Jacobs, "I have had enough of you; I thought I was dealing with a man of honor, give me my money and let me go. I'll get clear of you as fast as I can."

"I shall give you no money," replied Tom, "you have been the means of my losing one fortune, and I shall send nothing after it."

"Vewy good, then I shall not quit the city for the excellent weason that I havn't got money enough to take me away," said Mr. Jacobs as he took hold of the door to go.

"Take this," said Tom, reaching him a roll of bills, "and let me never see your face again or you will hang for it, I give you my word and honor."

The gentleman caught hold of the bills eagerly, and having thrust them into his pocket, he wished Mr. T. Jefferson Tuck a very good night, and whispered in his ear confidentially that if he should ever have occasion for his services he might hear of him at the old place. And without any other exchange of compliments the two friends parted.

————

CHAPTER V.

WILL INTRODUCE FOUR PERSONAGES TO THE READER WITH ALL OF WHOM HE IS EXPECTED TO BECOME BETTER ACQUAINTED BEFORE THE HISTORY IS CLOSED.

ALTHOUGH Mr. Tremlett did not design that his adopted son should embark his fortunes in mercantile speculations, yet he was aware of the advantage which a methodical mercantile education would confer upon him, let him embrace whatever course of life he might; therefore he kept the young man in his counting-room, and exacted from him a close attention to his duties. It is true that the duties assigned to him were very far removed from drudgery, and were rather of a confidential nature; yet they required strict attention and fidelity, although they allowed him the free use of a good portion of his time. Perhaps one reason why the old merchant compelled the attendance of his son in his counting room was that he might be always near him, for the old gentleman was always nervous and anxious whenever he was half a day without seeing him.

There were certain masters of vessels in the employment of Tremlett and Tuck, whose families drew half pay during their absence, and it was one of the duties of young Tremlett to act as cashier when their monthly allowances were paid out. Amongst those who were in the habit of calling on the first of every month for their stated allowances, was a hearty old man who had once sailed in the service of the house, as first mate of one of their vessels, and whose son now commanded one of their ships, and had left an order for a certain sum to be paid for the board of his daughter, an only child who lived with the old sailor and his wife, her mother having died when she was an infant.

This hearty old sailor had gained the kindly regard of young Tremlett by his frank and quaint address, and as he had not called for his last month's allowance, the young man put a check in his pocket and called upon him to inquire the cause of his absence. It was the evening of the day on which Mr. Tuck was buried, and the presence of the young man must have been more unexpected than at any other time. The old sailor, whose name was Clearman, lived in a little court leading out of the Bowery, and John had some difficulty in finding the place, although the moment he set his eyes upon it he knew that old Clearman must live there, every thing about the house, which was a very humble one, looked so much like him and seemed to partake of the quaintness and honesty of his mind; even the little white washed palings in front of the queerest little garden that could be imagined had a nautical look; and the steps that led to the front door, with a bit of tarred rope ornamented at the end with one of those mysterious knots called a turk's-head, tied to the bannisters for no conceivable purpose, at least, none that a lands-man could conceive, looked more like the companion way of a ship, than the entrance of a quite stationary house. John knocked at the door, and it was opened by a young girl who showed him into a little back parlor where he found the old sailor smoking a pipe in an arm chair with one leg bound up in flannel and resting upon a stool. An attack of the rheumatism had kept him confined to the house, and this was the sole cause of his not calling for the monthly allowance. John was unaffectedly glad to learn that it was for no more serious cause, and having paid the old man the check and taken his receipt, he rose to go, when the old sailor and his wife both urged him with such an earnest but gentle good will to sit down and take a cup of tea with them that he remained, as much to his own satisfaction as theirs. There was such an air of perfect neatness and propriety about the little room that he could not persuade himself they had not known of his coming and made preparation for him. The old man immediately laid aside his pipe, and his wife and the young girl who had opened the door, spread the table, at which they took their seats, and the old lady reverently craved a blessing. This was something new. He had never heard a blessing asked upon the meat of which he partook at the merchant's table, neither had he heard one at Mrs. Tuck's, nor at any of the houses at which he had visited. It filled his mind with serious and melancholy thoughts; he had a dim recollection that he used to hear grace over his dinners when he was an inmate of the charitable institution from which Mr. Tremlett had taken him, and he thought it a strange thing that the poor should be more grateful to God for their poverty than the rich for their riches. But the hearty voice of the old sailor, and the cheerful manners of his wife, and above all the bright countenance of the young girl who sat opposite to him, and who ever and anon cast her hazel eyes upon him as she reached him some of the delicacies with which the table was covered, instantly put to flight and completely annihilated the remotest shadow of any melancholy thought that had crossed his mind. The young girl, or rather the young lady, for such girls are called ladies in the Bowery, was the daughter of the sea captain whose monthly allowance John had just paid; she was apparently seventeen, or if more than that. Time had dealt daintily with her, as though she were a favorite with the stern old tyrant who shows favors to none; and yet she must have been more than seventeen for how could such charms as hers come to perfection in so short a time. In truth, she was seventeen and six months, as John ascertained from her grandfather by personal inquiry. It is just the age at which no young lady ever felt ashamed; and but few young ladies ever had such endowments to grace it, if ever any had beside Fidelia Clearman, and although John was fully sensible of the slightest of her outward perfections, and gazed upon them with a kind of entrancement yet her greatest charm in his eyes was her cheerful and dutiful deportment to her grandparents, who seemed quite unconscious of her beauty, it was so entirely overshadowed by her goodness. She was neither tall nor short, but of a proper height, which exactly harmonized with her fair complexion, her sunny hair, her hazel eyes, her smiling mouth and her beautiful neck, that resembled nothing but itself, and therefore cannot be distinguished by an epithet, as indeed no genuine beauty properly can be; and we will not mislead our readers by making comparisons which could give no just idea of the original.

When the supper table had been removed and the little Company had drawn around the fire, the old sailor asked Fidelia to sing him the little ballad that he had taught her when she was hardly old enough to lisp.

"O, my dear grandfather," said Fidelia blushing, "you must not insist upon my singing; remember that Mr. Tremlett will not listen to me with your partial ears."

"Well my little daughter," said the old man, "I will not say you must if you say you musn't; but that's no excuse for not singing; I larn't you the song, and I want you to sing it to my visitor; but if so be that you won't, I must sing it myself."

And the old man chuckled his fair grand-daughter under the chin, and his old broad face and his two glistening black eyes seemed all lighted up and alive with good humor.

"It's a ballad you see," he said turning to his visitor and taking his pipe from his mouth, "which I larn't from a young lady which was a passenger with me, on a v'yage from City Point to London, and arter that to Archangel, when I was second mate of the ship Sukey, commanded by captain Josh

Davis, and belonging to the firm of Brumstead and Bishop when your father was clark with them, before my son, this little girl's father, was born. This young lady was going to jine her sweet-heart, which was a clark in a ship chandlery store in Wapping; a store which I knowed as well as I knowed your father's store in South street; and she used to sit on deck with me through my whole watch, whenever it was a pleasant night and I had the first trick, and sing ballads to me; and it was she that larn't the ballad to me and I larn't it to my grand-daughter and now I want she should sing it for you; for I never saw two young creatures look more alike than she and the young lady. If I hadn't been hitched on to the old woman that's sitting there I railly believe that I should have made a match with that young woman, for I saw enough to convince me she liked me."

"Yes, well, it would have saved me a wonderful deal of trouble if you had," said the old lady, "but she wasn't such a simpleton as I was." And then the old lady laughed; and the old sailor laughed more heartily than ever, and his great brown under lip, and his double chin, as they shook and trembled with mirth seemed the very incarnations of pleasantry and good humor; and the young lady smiled from sheer sympathy and displayed ravishing glimpses of her pearly teeth which almost deprived their young guest of his senses.

"After hearing such an account of the ballad," said John, "I cannot think of leaving without hearing it, and if Miss Clearman will not sing it her grandfather must."

Fidelia blushed again, and said it was a poor trifle, but if it would give any pleasure to her grandfather she could not refuse to sing it, although she knew that Mr. Tremlett would never ask her to sing it a second time. And then she drew a guitar-case from underneath an old mahogany bureau which stood in the little room, and after she had tuned her instrument she accompanied herself to the following words, while her grandfather marked time with the bowl of his tobacco pipe, and John listened to her bewitching voice with such intensity of emotion that he quite forgot that he was gazing upon her. We regret our inability to furnish the readers of this history with the air to which the words were warbled, but we have not been able to discover that it was ever put upon paper.

ADRA.

Adra left her father's door;
Wrong she never did before,
Long he wept and murmured sore;
But he never saw his daughter more.

Alph was dying far away.
On his fevered bed he lay;
Alph, her lover, once so gay,
Sick to death, and far away.

Who would hear his feeble sighs?
Stranger ears would slight his cries,
Hireling hands would close his eyes
Slaves perform his obsequies.

Alph has oped his eyes with dread.
Morning's dream of home has fled;
Dreaming still, or is he dead!
Adra stands beside his bed.

Like a star that sheds its light.
Thro' a long and dismal night;
Like the blush of morning bright,
Bringing ever new delight.

Morn and midnight, watching still
Noon and eve, thro' heat and chill.
Guided by his changing will,
Gentle Adra watches still.

Alph has left his fevered bed
Adra fills it in his stead.
Health upon his cheek is spread.
Now he watches o'er her head.

Racked with fevers heat and pain
Wild delirium with its train,
Watching, prayers, and tears are vain,
Adra never rose again.

As soon as the young lady had ceased, her grandfather kissed her fair forehead, and her young auditor felt an irrepressible desire to manifest his satisfaction in the same manner; but his thoughts were suddenly put to flight by a hollow sepulchral voice which exclaimed in most unearthly tones, "let us pray!" John involuntarily jumped upon his feet at this strange sound and looked behind him, but saw nobody; and looking at the old sailor for an explanation, he perceived the old man's face and his double chin shaking with laughter and his glistening eyes all festooned round with smiles.

"What was it?" inquired the astonished youth.

"It's only Poll;" replied the old woman, "there she is."

And looking in the direction of her finger he discovered a venerable looking fowl dressed in a coat of respectable drab colored feathers, with a rather unbecoming cap of crimson plumage sitting with great gravity and composedness of features on top of an old mahogany bureau.

"What a remarkable creature," said John.

"Yes, yes," replied the old man, "Poll is older than you and I put together; and I believe she knows as much too. My father brought that bird from Holland more than fifty-five year ago, and the marchant which he got it of in Amsterdam which was his consignee, told him that he had owned her more than thirty years."

Such an undoubted specimen of antiquity deserved a close inspection, and after John had examined her ladyship, he had not the least doubt of her remote birth, for unlike many of her sex she took not the slightest pains to disguise her age, but on the contrary seemed to take considerable pride in her venerable appearance. How it was possible to laugh, or even smile, in the presence of such a grave and sedate personage, was a wonder, but the old man's laughter appeared to come and go of its own accord, neither giving him much thought or disturbance, although it kept him well and hearty, and sustained the brightness of his old black eyes, and the full volume of his heavy sides and his double chin.

"Poll always reminds us," said the old lady, "when it's time for prayers, let who will be here."

"I hope I do not interrupt you," said John, but yet showed no signs of going.

"O, no," said Fidelia looking up to her grandmother, "perhaps Mr. Tremlett will not refuse to join in our evening service."

"It would give me great pleasure;" he replied, and thereupon the young lady drew out a little stand with a Bible upon it, and having unclasped the holy book she read a chapter with such sweetness and propriety of emphasis that John wondered why he had never found such beauty in God's Word before. When the chapter had been read, the venerable old bird again exclaimed "let us pray" and they all knelt down, except the old man, who was disabled by his rheumatic leg, while the old lady repeated in devout and measured tones the evening prayer from the prayer book, and at the close their venerable feathered companion pronounced a solemn. "Amen."

John could not with propriety prolong his visit, so he bade good night to his new friends, and hurried home to his father whom he found alarmed and uneasy at his absence. He hesitated to say how he had spent the evening, and yet he blushed at the thought of doing so, he could not tell exactly why, for assuredly he had done nothing amiss; but the old merchant did not perceive his embarrassment, or he did not notice it if he did, and the young man made some observation which soon changed the subject.

"I cannot discover," said Mr. Tremlett, "that there was any foundation for Jeremiah's fears in regard to the sudden death of my partner; the doctors all agree that it was caused by a disease of his heart, and as there were no signs of violence upon his person, I doubt not such was the fact. The man whom he met at the door had probably got into the house by means of false keys, and being alarmed by Jeremiah's appearance had no time to carry anything off. But I am puzzled at one thing, the will that was found in Mr. Tuck's hand was not the last one he made, as I have learned of his lawyer; but he is of opinion that the poor man afterwards changed his mind and destroyed it; which is not unlikely. The will which has been found places me in a position towards his niece which I do not like. I know that her uncle would have bequeathed to me his entire interest in our firm if I had not urged him not to do so. He used to say that our property had been acquired by our joint exertions and therefore, when either of us died, the survivor should become possessed of the whole, but I would not, for your sake, consent to such an arrangement; and he has left it to my discretion either to give the young lady her portion of the estate on the day of her marriage, or upon the settlement of the estate at my own death; he was doubtless influenced in doing this by the supposition that you would marry his niece, and that then the entire property would be united in the possession of his own representative and mine—seemingly the rightful hands into which it should fall. And this to me would be the disposition of it most in conformity with my own wishes, for although I do not think that I have an inordinate love of wealth, yet I cannot but feel a wish that our estate, which I have labored so long to help to accumulate, should remain entire after I am gone, and be enjoyed by those for whom I feel a regard.

Mr. Tremlett paused a moment, but the young man made no reply, for in truth he had not clearly understood all that the old gentleman had been saying, his thoughts being full of the antiquated old bird, and the beautiful young girl in whose company he had spent the evening, and a great estate appeared so trifling an affair when compared with either, that he could not entirely divert his thoughts from them.

"But I shall cause the firm to be closed immediately," resumed Mr. Tremlett, "and when I have ascertained the amount due to Mr. Tuck, I shall place it at the disposal of Julia lest she should think that I wished to control her will."

John commended his father's generosity, and the old gentleman smiled at his seeming innocence.

"Julia is a spirited girl and I have loved her ever since the day when she exposed her brothers, by restoring her uncle's pocket-book, and I love her better now because she loves you. It is a matter of great mortification to me, my son, that in so important a transaction as marriage I am incompetent to give you any advice. But I hope that advice will not be needed by you and Julia; you will no doubt be happy in each other, yet there is one thing that an old gentleman used to tell me when I was of your age which I think you will do well bear in mind. 'Why don't you get married my boy?' he used to say to me, 'because,' I would reply, 'I don't know how to choose a wife, and I am afraid of getting a bad one,' 'poo, poo,' he would say, 'any wife is good enough, if her mother don't live with you, but the best wife will not be good enough if she should.' Now I think, from what I have seen of Mrs. Tuck that she will not add much to your happiness when you are married if she should live with you."

John thanked his father tenderly for his hint, and promised to bear it in mind, and they bade each other good night, and he was very soon in the pleasant land of dreams where he was exceedingly amused by an appearance which he could not look upon long enough to distinguish whether it were a very old bird or a very young lady, and strange noises, sometimes like the chaunting of angels, and sometimes like the hoarse tones of an old friar calling to prayer, haunted his pillow until daylight.

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CHAPTER VI.

CONTAINS REVELATIONS OF GREAT DELICACY.

THE firm of Tremlett & Tuck being composed of two very sedate old bachelors they imparted a conservative and orderly character to all the clerks in their service, which rendered them noticeable for their uniformity and precision of habits, surrounded as they were, on every side, by changelings and all manner of hurry-skurry people. The reader will not be surprised, therefore to find that Mr. Bates still acted as their head book-keeper, and that Jeremiah had been gradually promoted, step by step, and not in a disorderly and hurried manner, until he occupied the responsible post of cashier of the house. Several of the younger clerks had in the mean time, however, entered into business, and compromised with their creditors some half a dozen times; and some of them had come back to fill their old stations after ruining their friends and involving themselves in debt to a very large amount. But ups and downs belong more particularly to the mercantile profession than to any other, and such changes do not break many hearts, because they are looked upon as matters of course.

Mr. Bates' salary was as fixed as his habits, but as it had no particular influence on natural causes, his family and his wants had increased to an alarming extent in spite of the stationary nature of the income that was to supply them; and

Mrs. Bates, who was not wanting in shrewdness and industry, had consented to receive a few boarders into her family, professedly for the sake of society, but in truth to help educate the children. This was a praiseworthy and excellent motive but some people have a horror of being thought useful and honest, perhaps from modesty, let us think so at least, as it is best always to put the fairest construction upon the motives of others, that they will allow. As Mr. Bates was a good carver and Mrs. Bates had a peculiar faculty in giving a genteel air to her table, they gave great satisfaction to their boarders, which is a fact of sufficiently rare occurrence to entitle it to a special notice, for it is well known that landladies and their boarders always make it a point to be dissatisfied with each other.

Jeremiah had gone to board with Mrs. Bates, and soon after he had taken possession of his room, Huldah Hogshart, who had come to New York to learn the art of making ladies dresses with a fashionable mantua-maker in Broadway, at the recommendation of Mr. Tremlett, also took board with Mrs. Bates; whereupon Jeremiah, resolved upon leaving the house lest people should make scandalous remarks about the young lady and himself, but as he made known his scruples to Mrs. Bates she, after much debate, succeeded in convincing him that he was exceedingly prudish; and by assuring him that it would hurt the credit of her house if it were known that her husband's intimate friend had left it, he consented to remain. But we wish the reader to understand that he conducted himself in the most exemplary manner towards her, although he felt a growing kindness for her which at times almost overmastered his discretion. Miss Hogshart was by no means so strict a disciplinarian as her father, and she was guilty of some wide departures from the rules of her sect which would have given the conscientious farmer much concern of mind if he had witnessed them. For instance, she had twice accompanied Jeremiah to a presbyterian meeting, and once she had even entered the precincts of a public garden where there was much profane music elaborated by fiddles and cornets-a-piston; and she had looked with a manifest liking upon a gentleman and lady, decorated with a wicked profusion of spangles and quite an unnecessary economy of clothing, who performed certain mysterious and highly figurative evolutions, the object of which she did not fully comprehend; but they were called in the bills a "grand pas de deux." She moreover showed a decided fondness for decorating her person with very bright colors, but Jeremiah thought she had never looked so lovely as when he first saw her, clad in her blue striped long-short preparing supper over a cheerful hickory fire. But she was exceedingly neat in her person, healthy and good-natured, and so fond of Jeremiah that he could not but love her with sincerity and earnestness, although he had never told her so in direct words; and he was exceedingly puzzled to know how to get about it. It was a subject on which he could not well ask advice of any of his acquaintance, and as he never read novels wherein he might have found a great variety of examples of declaring love, he was in great perplexity. He had several times been on the point of asking John, who still continued his friend and confidant, to assist him with a suggestion, but shame had kept him silent. And it so chanced that an opportunity was afforded him, the day after the funeral of Mr. Tuck, of speaking to young Tremlett on the subject, when he found that his young friend was as ignorant of all necessary forms as himself.

The clerks had all left the counting room and Jeremiah and John were sitting alone at their desks. "Jeremiah," said John, "it is a long time since you and I have spoken a word in private, but I hope that hereafter we shall not be so much apart."

"I hope not," replied Jeremiah, who perceived that his young friend had something to communicate to him, and so he shut up his cash-book and sat down by his side in the now vacant seat of poor Mr. Tuck.

"I suppose Jeremiah, you think that I am very happy?"

"Indeed," replied he, "I rather hoped than thought so; for although I cannot conceive that you should be otherwise, I know very well that there is much wretchedness in the world where its existence is never suspected. But what can cause your unhappiness? I cannot dream of a real cause."

"You know Jeremiah, it has been always talked of as a matter of course that I should marry Julia Tuck; how it happened I scarcely know; but we have been on intimate terms a good while, and the young lady loves me better than I wish she did; I do not speak vainly you know, Jeremiah, because I would it were not so; but I cannot be blind to the truth. But, Jeremiah, I tell you sincerely and truly, I never told her that I loved her, neither did I ever speak a word to her about marriage; and yet she thinks that I intend to marry her, and so do her friends. But I cannot; and it is this which makes me unhappy, for I do not know in what manner I can extricate myself, without giving pain to her and others whom I do love and respect. I cannot deceive her longer, or rather allow her to deceive herself, and I dread a disclosure of my real feelings not more for her sake than my father's, for last night he told me that he expected, and wished that I should marry her that the entire estate of the firm might be kept in my possession."

Jeremiah was astonished at this disclosure for he had supposed that John was engaged and sincerely attached to Miss Tuck, as indeed all his friends believed.

"What must I do, Jeremiah? How can I relieve myself?"

"Really indeed," replied Jeremiah, "I cannot advise you; but if it were my case I think I would do nothing. If you have never told the young lady that you loved her, I do not see that she has any right to claim your attentions; or that her friends can with decency urge you to marry her."

"It is in this manner that I reason with myself," said John, "but as soon as I meet her, or any of her friends, I feel at once as though I were in bonds. Perhaps the fault is mine for having allowed the suspicion of my love for her to grow into a certainty in the minds of others, by not contradicting it pointedly, either by words or actions. But her having become suddenly rich by the death of her uncle, will, in some measure, relieve me, as no one could accuse me of base motives if I were to leave her now; for my father has assured me that he intends to put her in immediate possession of her uncle's portion of the estate, thinking that I shall very shortly be entitled to it as her husband. Now if I tell him that I can never marry her, he may not do it, but be governed by the strict letter of the will; and if I do not, he may justly reproach me with dissimulation. Tell me Jeremiah what I must do to do right, and do not consider what may be politic or prudent. I have thought so much on the subject that I hardly know what would be right."

"That indeed, is a question more easily answered," replied Jeremiah, "the right and honest course would be to confess the true state of your feelings to your father, and let the young lady discover them herself from your actions; for if you were to confess to her she might laugh at you for your presumption."

"Thank you, thank you, Jeremiah," exclaimed the young man in an ecstasy, seizing the hand of his adviser and shaking it heartily, "I will do it; it is the only way, and although I may cause some tears to be shed it is the only way to save greater griefs bye and bye."

"And now," said Jeremiah, "since you have made me your confidant, I will make bold to ask your advice in a similar business, although for very different reasons. If, for instance," he continued after moving his lips several times without uttering any distinct words, "if, for instance, now, you were going to tell a young lady that you did love her, how would you do it?"

"Indeed I don't exactly know what course I should take," replied John, who for the first time in his life thought to himself how such a communication could be made; "but I have no doubt that when any real affection is felt, the declaration would come out spontaneously."

"One would think so," said Jeremiah, "but to have the thing positively understood, it strikes me that some particular form of words should be used."

"But as you meet with no difficulty in expressing yourself on other subjects I do not see why you should on this," said John; "what can be easier; you, for instance are a young lady, and I wish to tell you that I love you; I draw my chair close to yours in this manner," suiting the action to the word as he spoke, "and taking her by the hand, provided she does not draw it away, say, 'My dear Miss Davis,' or, 'my beautiful Arabella, I love you very dearly and I feel that my existence will be a blank unless you share it with me, can you love and will you love me?' of course the young lady then says 'yes' or, 'no,' and your existence becomes a good-for-nothing blank, or like a blank filled up, of immense value as the case may be."

"That's very genteelly done, and I am very much obliged to you; but I should like very much to know what effect such an address may have produced."

"Try it, Jeremiah," said John, "try it."

"Perhaps I may," replied Jeremiah.

It now being dark, Jeremiah locked up his books in the iron safe, and the two friends, having bidden each other good night, they went to their homes, resolved to profit by each other's counsel, and we shall see in due time how they proceeded.

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CHAPTER VII.

JEREMIAH MAKES A DECLARATION OF LOVE WITHOUT BEING ACCEPTED, AND AFTERWARDS MEETS WITH AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

AS soon as Jeremiah had swallowed his tea he hastened up to his room, and in passing through the hall he saw the shawl and bonnet of Huldah Hogshart lying upon the bannister, and an uncontrollable fit of lovingness coming over him at the sight of them, he took them in his arms and stealthily bore them off to his chamber, and having turned the key inside, he took a pillow from his bed and dressed it up in the habiliments of his mistress, and then drew his chair to the side of the one on which he had placed it, with an air of the most insinuating and seductive nonchalance; and putting his arm in a very familiar and easy manner round the neck of his imaginary mistress, he crossed his legs and looked round the room very much in the style of a theatrical performer. He was quite astonished at his own boldness, and patted the young lady under her imaginary chin, and pressed her waist with a freedom quite unbecoming; and then he rose from his seat and falling upon one knee declared his love in the most impassioned terms conceivable, and vowed that unless she would accept him as a lover, life would lose all its attractions and the consequences to himself would be too serious to speak of. Then he seated himself again by her side, and in a more subdued and respectful manner, related in a plain and business like address the story of his affections, and reasoned with her upon the advantages which a union would be likely to confer upon them, throwing in a careless and unpremeditated word about the delight of educating young souls for eternity, and the advantage of having one's pillow smoothed in sickness by a companion and friend through evil report and good report. But he was suddenly startled by a slight noise as though somebody was breathing through the key hole of his door, and he discovered that he had been so imprudent as to go through with his amorous performances directly in the range of it so that anybody, and everybody, might have looked at him if they had been disposed to do so; and the supposition that somebody had been doing so was the most reasonable thing in the world, for he listened with suspended breath, and was almost certain that he heard a light footstep retreating from his door. The thought of having been seen in his pantomimic performances quite overcame him, and he blushed to the very tips of his fingers. He undressed the pillow, and while in the act of folding up the shawl, a smart tap at the door made his blood tingle all over his body. But he threw the bonnet and shawl hastily into his clothes-press and opened the door.

"Good evening Mr. Jernegan," said Mrs. Bates as she pushed herself into his chamber, "where is your friend, Mr. Jernegan?"

"My friend," said Jeremiah, with the guiltiest look that ever an innocent man wore, "what friend do you mean, Mrs. Bates?"

"O, yes;" replied Mrs. Bates, "Mr. Pious, I understand perfectly. Where is she?" And without further ceremony she looked under Jeremiah's bed and was evidently astonished at finding nobody there.

"I shall not allow such liberties in my room," said Jeremiah spiritedly; "what can you mean, Mrs. Bates?"

"Don't ask me for a meaning, sir," replied the lady in a tone of sarcasm, "but please explain yourself, sir, for introducing a female person into your room, sir, without my permission, sir, in my house, sir."

"There has been no person in my room, either male or female, to my knowledge," replied Jeremiah calmly, "except myself."

"Very well, sir, very well, sir," replied the lady; "I have got eyes, sir, yes sir, I have got eyes, and ears too. Please remember that, sir."

"I shall remember it, madam, without any prompting," replied Jeremiah, and he was going to add that he was aware that the lady was the possessor of a tongue as well as eyes and ears, but it was not in his nature to say an unkind word to anybody; so he checked himself, and again asked Mrs. Bates to explain her conduct. But as the lady could not consistently make an explanation, and as Jeremiah did not in reality need one, he did not insist upon it, and the lady withdrew herself in great confusion, which she endeavoured to hide by working herself into a great passion. As soon as she was gone, Jeremiah sat down to consider how he might best free himself from his difficulty; but as there was no possible way of doing it without making a confession that he could not persuade himself to do, he determined to deliver himself into the hands of Fate, and meet events as they might transpire in the best way he could.

But a new difficulty soon presented itself, which, strangely enough, he had not anticipated. On going below he found the whole house in a state of great excitement about Miss Hogshart's shawl, and the young lady herself in tears. Somebody had entered the hall while the boarders were at supper and stolen it and her hat, although the thief had taken nothing else, notwithstanding there were a number of coats hanging upon the hall stand. This was the report. Jeremiah blushed with shame, for he at once made up his mind not to confess his guilt. And yet he hesitated upon second thoughts, for he had to acknowledge to himself that it would be a piece of gross dissimulation, a thing that he abhorred. Poor Jeremiah! he had never before stood battling between good and evil. He was in a sad perplexity, but as he could not see that any harm could come of the business, except to himself, he at last resolved to make a present of just such another hat and shawl to Miss Hogshart, and keep his own folly to himself.

Let not the reader suppose that we would justify the conduct of Jeremiah: No. He acted a lie, and he must abide by its consequences; what they may be, we shall ascertain bye and bye. But let the reader bear in mind, although we would not insinuate that he would be guilty of such a thing himself, that a lie to screen one from ridicule is as bad as a lie to gain anything else, even so poor a thing as money.

Jeremiah felt more guilty and shame-faced than he had ever before felt in his life, when Huldah Hogshart thanked him for his goodness, and extolled his generosity in the presence of all the boarders. It is true that the shawl she had lost could not be replaced, as Jeremiah discovered; it was of a much finer quality and a richer pattern than any that could be found in Broadway. How so modest a young lady as Miss Hogshart had happened to possess a shawl of such rare beauty, he had too much delicacy, of course, to inquire, but it puzzled him when he thought of it, for he had never seen her wear it before that evening.

On entering the parlor, John found his father watching anxiously for his return, and he resolved at once to make a full confession of the true state of his feelings in regard to Julia Tuck; but the old gentleman immediately began to talk about his property, and to give directions about the investment of certain sums; and at the close of every period, just as the young man was on the point of divulging his secret, he would begin anew, and so the evening wore away until it was time for bed, when just as an opportunity offered by a lull in the old gentleman's conversation, they were startled by a knock at the door, and directly a stout gentleman, with glossy hair and a red face, wearing the clothes of a gentleman but without the smallest air of one, made his appearance, and announced himself as a police officer. His business was to inform Mr. Tremlett that he had arrested a person who bore a strong resemblance to Mr. G. Washington Mortimer, the gentleman whom Jeremiah suspected of breaking into Mr. Tuck's house on the night of the poor man's death. John was very much excited at this intelligence and offered to go immediately in search of Tom Tuck, and with him and Jeremiah, go to the house of detention to satisfy themselves whether the prisoner were the real culprit.

Mr. Tremlett at first objected to the young man's proposition, but at last consented, and he left the house in company with the officer and proceeded to Mrs. Tuck's, where they found Tom, but he refused to join them, lest he should be tempted to do some violence to the villain. They found Jeremiah in bed, but he immediately dressed himself and went with them to the prison, although he declared that in his heart he hoped it was not the right man, as he would be extremely sorry to get the poor fellow into trouble. The police officer said he had no doubt of it, and told Jeremiah he was a regular wag. For which Jeremiah reproved him and told him he made no pretensions that way.

On entering the lock-up-house, they found the prisoner stretched at full length upon a wooden bench, with his glazed cap for a pillow, snoring very loud and apparently enjoying a sweet and dreamless sleep.

"My, my!" said Jeremiah, looking upon the sleeper, "that cannot be the person."

"What for?" said the officer.

"Surely, he could never sleep so soundly, if he had ever injured anybody," replied Jeremiah.

"O, no, of course not; particularly after such a tramp as I gave him yesterday and to-day," said the police officer, who thought that Jeremiah was giving vent to his waggishness. "But the proof of the pudding isn't in looking at it. Come, get up, and let's see the color of your eyes;" and without farther ceremony he kicked over the bench and put a sudden stop to the gentleman's snoring.

"Stop of that!" exclaimed the suddenly awakened gentleman, "don't you know better nor to commit such an outwage on a gentleman confined on suspicion. If you do something of that sort again I'll make you wepent of it, mister. See 'f I don't. I know my wights as well as another individual."

"What do you think of him, gentlemen?" asked the officer; "is he the man?"

"No doubt of it," replied Jeremiah, "let us go, I do not like this place."

"Stop, stop," said his companion, "I should like to inquire after his lady. I wonder if she is as particular as ever about her eggs."

"Don't," said Jeremiah, "the man has feelings, and I would no more inflict a wound upon his mind than I would upon his body. Let us go. I am satisfied."

"Well, gentlemen, you'll be on hand in the morning? We shall want your testimony, and I shall want the reward you know." And so they parted.

"The reward!" thought Jeremiah as he walked through the now deserted streets, after he parted with John. "The reward! O, is there no way for that poor man to live, but he must trade on the crimes and sufferings of his fellow-creatures. The reward! It is by such means then, that he buys those fine clothes, and perhaps his wife and daughters flaunt through the streets, and parade their silks and gew-gaws up and down the aisles of churches, while he is prowling about in dens of vice, and among the haunts of wretchedness and misery to seize upon some poor wretch on whose head the law has set a price. And he claims a reward! Perhaps this poor man whom he has now seized was taken from the arms of an innocent wife, or torn from shrieking children, who have never dreamed of their father's crimes. And the Law provides no officers for the apprehension of wrong-doers, but private citizens must offer rewards to tempt men to act like bloodhounds and hunt their fellow beings for the sake of gain. Ah!"——

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CHAPTER VIII.

REVEALS CERTAIN FACTS ESSENTIAL TO A PROPER UNDERSTANDING OF THIS HISTORY.

"SO, Jacobs, you have allowed yourself to be caught," said the elder Tuck to an individual in the city prison. "Well, you'll be hung, as I always predicted. But don't lay the blame upon me; I cautioned you in time."

"Yes, a pwecious scwape you've bwought me into. But I can pwomise you now, as I did before, I won't suffer alone, you may put all your anxious fears to west on that gwound," replied the person addressed.

"Don't be insolent, Jacobs," replied his accomplished visitor, "or I'll leave you without another word."

"Go, go," said Mr. Jacobs, coolly, "and I'll take pwecious good care you'll soon be bwought back again."

"And what is the nature of the complaint for which you are arrested? Is it murder, or house-breaking? or some of your low Chatham-square practices?"

"It's not much, something about a watch, and a suspicion of breaking into your uncle's house," said Mr. Jacobs, "and those two fellows are the only witnesses; but if they are not got out of the way I'll blow you."

"No threats you rascal. You don't deserve my commiseration but you know I can't refuse to do a good turn even to a fellow like you. I will take care that they do not appear against you. But be discreet and keep your mouth shut, or to the gallows you go."

"I'll do my part; but I can't be left here without no amusement. Send me a box of pwincipes and the morning papers; and all the new novels as fast as ever they're published, and a pwartwidge, and a charlotte wusse."

"So, you read novels do you, you rascal?" said Mr. Tuck, "well, that accounts for some of your villainies. I'll see that you get some suitable books." And he turned to go.

"Good morning to you," said Mr. Jacobs, making a horrible face at him as soon as his back was turned, "and don't forget to make my wespects to Fwed."

As Tom Tuck left the prison door, he was joined by his brother, who had just lighted his third cigar.

"Is it him?" inquired Fred.

"Yes," replied Tom, jerking out the word as though he meant it should strike with force, as it did; for his brother started and turned pale at the sound of it.

"And what did he say?" said Fred taking his brother's arm and turning down a bye street.

"He told me to give his respects to you," said Tom.

"Ah, he's very good. Was that all?"

"No," replied his brother.

"And what's to be done?"

"That must be determined," replied Tom, "But one thing must be done, or we are undone. Jack Tremlett, and that croaking Jeremiah must be got out of the way before to-morrow, for then he will be examined."

"Can't you persuade John to run away with Julia?" suggested Fred.

"No, no, he has not much inclination for that; and if he had, there's no need. Something must be done, and quickly done too; I'll study it out to-day. But it's time now to be in Wall Street. We must look after that large note to-day."

And then the two brother's walked hastily down Broadway, until they reached Wall street, when they followed the tide of brokers, bank-clerks, cashiers, secretaries of insurance companies, and a horde of mongrel money changers, attorneys and note-shavers who kept disappearing here and there, some diving down into deep and dingy cellars and others mounting tall stair-cases into pigeon-holes of offices in third and fourth stories, until they reached their own proper office, when they too popped down into a granite basement, and the living stream continued to pour on above their heads. The office of the Brothers Tuck would not, to the uninitiated, convey any very magnificent ideas of business, it being a little cooped up place with no other furniture than two painted desks, three old arm chairs, a few steel pens, a glass inkstand, some loose bank checks, and a profusion of cobwebs, and a small boy with a very dirty shirt collar ostentatiously turned over his jacket, as though dirty linen were a very pleasant thing to feast one's eyes upon. But the denizens of Wall street care very little for office furniture; the chief business of that street being transacted on the side walks, and thousands, millions even, of dollars changing hands without any such formal records being made as the smallest transactions in a merchant's counting room require.

The brothers Tuck understood perfectly well the importance of appearances, and they neglected not the smallest matter which would have an effect upon their credit. They never spoke of their losses, but always contrived to publish their gains; and perhaps it would not be a very gross venture to assert that they sometimes exaggerated them. Their sole capital when they commenced business was their relationship to Mr. Tuck, upon which they had acquired a very extensive credit, and entered into speculations, the particulars of which it is not necessary at this time to notice. The brothers had scarcely entered their office when they were visited by young Tremlett, who called to congratulate them upon the arrest of Mr. G. Washington Mortimer, for by that name alone he knew their friend Jacobs, and to inquire if their sister would remain at home during the morning, as his father had commissioned him to inform her that her uncle's portion of the estate of Tremlett and Tuck should be placed at her command as soon as a division of the property could be made.

The brothers were in raptures at this last piece of information, as they affected to be with the first, and as soon as the young man had left their office, for the first time, perhaps, in their lives, they embraced each other, and seemed entirely overcome with the most delightful anticipations. Fred immediately lighted a cigar, but Tom, who abominated tobacco, sat down at his desk and began to foot up the columns of his check-book, and both began to form enchanting tableaux after their own manners, out of the materials which the communication of young Tremlett had furnished; for they looked upon the property of their sister as their own, feeling very certain that if she would not yield it to them by gentle means, that, by their mother's aid, they could force it from her; and in the space of five minutes Tom had placed himself at the head of half a dozen moneyed institutions, as it was the fashion in those days to call moneyless corporations; and Fred had read through scores of new novels, and smoked cigars enough to stock the shop of a Broadway tobacconist.

But we will leave them to their pleasant occupation, and follow young Tremlett on his mission to their sister. He was fully determined to inform her, in some manner, that she would not misunderstand, that their close intimacy must cease, and that thence forward she must regard him only as a friend. But when he entered the parlor of her mother's house, he found her in tears; weeping as he believed for the loss of her uncle, and his tender nature would not allow him to add to her grief. Therefore, he saluted her with his accustomed gentleness and familiarity of manner, and his kind words and cheerful smile were the sweetest consolation that could have been offered to her wounded feelings; for it was not her uncle's death that caused her tears, but the reproaches of her mother who had again been telling her that she threw away her love upon a man who showed none for her in return.

Mrs. Tuck was one of those tender mothers who are always seeking for an opportunity to make their children unhappy out of pure love; and since she had discovered that she could at any time throw her daughter into hysterics by barely hinting that John Tremlett was indifferent to her, she rarely allowed a day to pass by without causing her to shed a flood of tears at least; and she had been unusually successful this morning, the young lady having wept very bitterly and being just on the point of convulsions when the subject of her grief made his appearance. But at the sound of his voice, her sobs were hushed, and one glance at his face dried up the fountain of her tears. How could she indulge in grief when he was by; the first and sole object of her young affections, who had for more than ten years held entire control in her thoughts, whether sleeping or waking, until he seemed like a part of her own being; and every tear that she had shed for him, and every harsh word she had endured from her mother and brothers for his sake, had but made him dearer to her. Her love for him had been of such long growth, beginning in her childhood and increasing in intensity as her person matured, that it had become to her a thing of course, and she never dreamed that it was not ardently returned by him, although to other eyes his attentions seemed to be rather prompted by amiable feelings than love. He was too respectful for a lover, too even in his temper, too easily satisfied, too good-natured in her presence, and too content when absent. But these things she could not see. She only saw his worth, and knowing her own regard for him, she could not see why he should not love her as she did him; and when her mother told her that he did not, she attributed her mother's doubts to family pride; she would not believe that, which to suspect, would alone have killed her.

John had the most tender regard for her feelings, and his respectful consideration was construed by her as a return for the passionate fondness which she took no pains to conceal.

He was possessed of all the outward graces of person which create a kindly and loving sympathy even before the graces of the mind, which alone beget love, are known, and these were heightened because he appeared entirely unconscious of them himself; and yet he possessed that air of ease and quiet unconcern so peculiar to those who have an instinctive feeling that they will appear to advantage and excite admiration let them do as they may. There was nothing about him that reminded you of a hidden defect or an attempt at display. If he wore his hair long, its glossy luxuriance was a glory to his head; if he cropped it close, it displayed his perfectly formed neck and seemed to add a new grace to his person; if he was moved by mirth, his whole features appeared to have gained their highest character; but when he was depressed by sadness, you felt that his down cast eyes, his closed lips, and the tender melancholy of his countenance formed the expression best suited to his features; when excitement spread the rosy glow of health upon his cheek and he trod with buoyant step, a gentle moisture upon his fair brow, his mouth half unclosed and his eyes sparkling with animal life, then he appeared to shine forth in his proper form and to exult in his strength and beauty; but look at him sitting by the bed-side of his father with the dim rays of a chamber-lamp feebly illuminating his pale countenance, and making his deep blue eyes seem black as night, and his wavy brown hair like a raven's wing, while he modestly listens to the counsel of the old man, who detains him by needless repetition for the mere pleasure of gazing upon him, and you would still think that you saw him in his most fortunate aspect.

But she possessed none of those graces of expression which, though so worthless in themselves, are so potent in gaining esteem, and sympathy, and even love; she was dark in complexion, slight in her person, with thin and ill-formed lips, a harsh voice, and eyes that were painfully brilliant, and, except when agitated by passion her motions were languid and her conversation spiritless. Her education had been of a kind to heighten all the defects of her person and to strengthen all the worst qualities of her mind; a fashionable boarding school had enfeebled her body, and the alternate indulgence and severity of her mother had rendered her capricious and resentful, and the rude conduct of her brothers had compelled her to a violence of manner which was foreign to her natural temper.

When John told her that her uncle's portion of the estate of Tremlett and Tuck would be placed at her command as soon as a division of the property could be effected; she barely replied that Mr. Tremlett was very kind but that she would not violate her uncle's will by accepting of it before the time appointed by him.

John looked upon her with a feeling of tender pity, for he feared she was nursing hopes which would never be realized; but he did not know how to undeceive her, and he left it to time to reveal what he felt must soon be known.

"You take this news very quietly," he said, "there are not many young ladies who would receive such an announcement with so little emotion."

"Perhaps not," replied Julia, "and I might have taken it with more emotion myself if any one but you had made it to me."

"So, then, it is my little worth which makes the fortune seem less," said John.

"Ah, you cruel!" replied she looking reproachfully in his face, "how you pervert my meaning. You know it is your great worth which makes the fortune appear so little."

"No, no, I cannot think so, although you say it. But do you know how great the fortune is?"

"Indeed I do not care," she said, "except for his sake who will use it. He knows, does he not?"

"Indeed, I cannot tell," replied John carelessly; "but I know that whoever the user may be, he will have a noble fortune, and I hope it will serve him as long as it took your uncle to scrape it together."

Julia's face turned very pale as he spoke, but it flushed with crimson as she said with down-cast eyes and a trembling voice, "but you know how much the fortune is, do you not?"

"I have been told it will exceed half a million," he replied.

"That is a very, very large sum; larger, a vast deal larger than I ever dreamed of possessing, for my dreams have not been encumbered with gold; but large as it is I would give it all, yes, if it were ten times as large, to know one thing."

"That would indeed be a costly secret," he said laughingly, "but a woman once gave more than that to satisfy her curiosity."

"Women have always paid dear enough for all they have learned," she replied, "but I would, besides the fortune which my uncle's partiality bequeathed to me, give my life."

At this moment Mrs. Tuck entered the parlor and prevented a catastrophe which John foresaw, from the passionate manner of the young lady could not be prevented.

And Mrs. Tuck upon learning the cause of the young man's visit was so overcome at the intelligence that she sat and fanned herself with a newspaper for a long time before she could gather breath to speak, and happily for the young lady she attributed her agitation to excess of joy. Like her two sons she looked upon the money as her own, counting the real possessor as hardly entitled to a word in regard to it. A new house filled with French furniture, a new carriage with a footman in white top boots, new jewelry, a host of servants and a set of plate, visits to Marquand's and Stewart's, jaunts to the springs, and a few other trifles of a kindred excellence flitted through her imagination, and so disordered her vision that the furniture of the room she sat in, and the dress that she wore seemed to contaminate her by their touch.

John was happy of an opportunity to be gone, and seeing that Mrs. Tuck was agitated by feelings which she was dying to coin into words took pity upon her, and bidding the two ladies good morning, returned to his duties at the counting-room, where we must follow him, and leave the mother and daughter to the enjoyment of their tete a tete on their bright prospects.

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CHAPTER IX.

A MYSTERIOUS LETTER, AND AN UNEXPECTED DEPARTURE.

THE death of Mr. Tuck had imposed new duties upon young Tremlett, and he was forced to confine himself to his desk the whole day, and at dark, when he threw down his pen and was preparing to go home, he remembered that a foreign arrival in the morning had brought intelligence from Captain Clearman and letters for his daughter, the young lady in the Bowery, which he had, by some strange mistake put into his pocket, instead of sending them to her, as he should have done. This was very wrong, as he honestly confessed; and to punish himself for his negligence, he resolved to take them up into the Bowery and deliver them into the young lady's own hands and confess his fault. It would learn him to do better another time. So he buttoned up his coat and hurried off on his penitential errand; but so little like a penance did his pilgrimage into the Bowery appear to him, that he was forced to confess he never found that famous thoroughfare one half so pleasant before. It did, indeed, appear to him like what its name would lead a stranger to expect, a mossy road winding amongst venerable trees by the green margin of crystal brooks, with climbing vines dropping their clustered fruit around and warbling birds filling the air with melody; instead of a cobble-paved street lighted with gas and filled with oyster saloons and pawnbrokers' shops, with nothing in the world to remind one of a "bowery"

save a farmer's waggon from Westchester stopping at the door of a feed store. But he walked on encountering many a sad sight which gave him no sadness, and jostled by rude passengers who could get no rudeness from him, until he reached the little court where the old sailor lived, where he found the quaint little garden with its two large conch shells, and the two bits of rope with the two turks'-heads, and the bright little brass knocker, and the yellow painted stoop exactly as he had left them; and on entering this quiet home he found the old man, and the old lady, and the young lady, and the drab colored parrot, exactly as he had found them before, excepting that they now all met him with smiling faces, whereas before they had welcomed him with a serious and respectful air; only Poll preserved her gravity; nothing could have induced her to unbend.

But when the letters were handed to the young lady, then there were renewed smiles, sobered a little by a vagrant tear, which, coming unbid, was soon dashed away, as tears should be; and the old sailor took larger whiffs of his pipe, and the old lady rubbed her spectacles, and Fidelia knelt down at her grandmother's feet who read the letters aloud; and they were all exceedingly happy at the news, and the bearer of the letters having heard the contents, took his hat and said he must leave them, but upon being pressed, consented to take a cup of tea with them lest he should hurt the feelings of the old couple; so they sat down to the same neat and well spread board as before, the old lady again implored a blessing, and after tea the old man told the same stories, and laughed the same good-natured and honest laugh, Fidelia sang the same little ballad, only with a sweeter voice and a more bewitching smile, and afterwards the venerable old bird startled them again with her exclamation of "let us pray;" for it appeared, to their visitor at least, that the evening was not half spent; and after prayer Poll again pronounced her solemn amen, and John again took his leave, more delighted than ever with Fidelia, and resolved to see her again the very next night.

The first sight of this young lady had given him a new taste of life, with which he was so enchanted that with all the inconsiderateness of youth he yielded himself up to its influences without taking a second thought about propriety, or fitness, or prudence, or station, or age, or wealth, or any of those numberless considerations which are known by the experienced to be so essential to secure permanent happiness when one makes a business of falling in love. But if he was enchanted on his first visit he was enraptured and maddened on the second, and instead of coolly calculating the advantages which his prospects of wealth, his education, and his person should entitle him to, and prudently exacting a certain amount of family dignity, of wealth, of connections and of personal accomplishment in exchange for them, he renounced them all and with a total disregard of riches and position thought of nothing but the charms of Fidelia which eclipsed and annihilated every possible consideration, save only his father; and but for the respect which he felt for the good old man, he would have proposed immediate marriage to her before he left the quiet little house. What the effect of such a sudden and astounding proposition would have been it is not easy to conceive, since it is very certain, from events which afterwards transpired, that neither Fidelia nor her grandparents had the most remote suspicion that John had called upon them from any other than the kindest and most respectful motives. For although it is true that she looked upon him as the very perfection of humanity yet she could not but consider that there was a great gulf between them which it would require at least half a million of dollars to fill up, and she did not even in her dreams, once fancy so wild and improbable an event as his falling in love with her. She looked upon him as a superior being, one whom she could venerate and love, as she might a distant star, without a hope of calling it her own, and therefore to be loved fervently and ardently, without passion, or disappointment, or jealousy.

But he had never valued himself on his prospective riches, and therefore he did not undervalue others whose prospects were not as bright as his own; neither had he ever been troubled with any of those overwhelming feelings of the irresistible charms of his own person which are common to good looking young men of his age; and his only fear was that he might not be acceptable to Fidelia. But it was not in his nature to disguise his feelings long, except when the utterance of them would cause pain, and he resolved as soon as he reached his fathers chamber to confess to the old gentleman the exact state of his affections, and then to make a formal offer to the young lady herself.

But on entering his father's office he found him with an open letter in his hand, and apparently in a state of great perplexity.

"I am glad you have come, my boy," said the old gentleman, brightning up as the young man entered; "here is a most perplexing affair, and I do not see how we are to manage it."

"What is it, can my advice be of any service?"

"I hardly know what to make of it," continued Mr. Tremlett, "here's a letter that has been brought to me this evening but from whom I do not know, stating that our correspondent in Charleston is on the point of failing, and that unless I, or my partner, of whose death the writer does not appear to have been aware, do not immediately repair to that city we shall lose the very large amount now owing to us by him."

"It is a very strange business, indeed," said John, "have you any reason to believe the statement?"

"None whatever. But you know that our correspondent, Mr. Loudon, has property in his hands, belonging to the firm, to a very large amount, and it will not do to trust to chance for its security. Even though I were willing to risk my own property I have no right to sacrifice that of my partner's representative, so I think we must look into this business."

"Perhaps it would be well to write to Mr. Loudon, first," said John, "something is due to the feelings of so old a correspondent."

"True, true," replied the old merchant, "but more is due to ourselves. I have always made it a point, my son, in business engagements, to look upon men as mere machines; feelings are things which, you know, I never treat lightly; but, in business they must be thrown aside. Loudon is a heavy operator in cotton on his own account, and it is by no means improbable that he may have ruined himself by bad speculations; and now I think of it, his book-keeper is a Scotchman to whom I once made a small loan when he was embarrassed, and who afterwards carried letters of recommendation from me to Charleston, by which means he got employment; and it is the likeliest thing in the world that he has taken this method of repaying the favor, for he was a grateful fellow."

"It seems very natural," said John, "but how are you to avail yourself of his suggestion? You cannot leave, yourself at this time."

"True, true, what can be done?"

"Will it be prudent to send Jeremiah?"

"No, no, Jeremiah could not be trusted on so delicate an errand; he is too honest and unsuspecting. Every day something turns up to make me feel the loss of poor Mr. Tuck." replied the old gentleman as he put his hand to his eyes.

"Could you trust Mr. Bates?" said John.

"No, no," replied Mr. Tremlett, "Bates would never do. He is too precise, too exact; he would only do what he might be instructed to do, and nothing more; but this is a case where no instructions can be given. Crisp would not do, he is too much of a dandy, he might be bought with a cigar and a glass of champagne; Keckhaussen would do if he could talk English. Let me see."

"There is Van;" suggested John.

"Which of the Vans?" replied the old gentleman.

"Van Winkle."

"No, no, he is too young, and if he were not, he is too simple."

"Could you trust to Tom Tuck?" asked John.

"I could trust to his ability, if nothing more were required;" replied Mr. Tremlett, "but it will not do to employ a stranger on such a business."

"Have you no other correspondent there, whom you could trust?"

"Yes, but not without a breach of confidence towards Loudon, which I could not be guilty of," replied Mr. Tremlett "After all, my son, I see no alternative, but for you to go on this unpleasant business yourself."

John bit his lip, and looked a little disconcerted, for he had formed a plan of operations, in his own mind, for the next fortnight, which an excursion to Charleston would completely overthrow. In truth, we will inform the reader, as he has a right to know, John had formed a very strong resolution, to which he had bound himself without writing, to spend every evening of the succeeding two weeks at the little yellow house in the Bowery, and the few thousands of dollars owing by the Charleston merchant appeared to him too trifling a matter to call for such a sacrifice as he would have to make to secure them. But he made no objections, and the old gentleman either did not see, or would not, that his proposition was not a very pleasant one. "You will be absent but a very short time," continued the fond old man, "or I would not consent to your going; and the journey will be shorter to you, than it will to me, for there will be novelty and excitement to divert your attention, while I shall be left alone without a friend to cheer me until you return."

A second thought had worked a change in John's mind, for he felt the unreasonableness of objecting to his father's wishes; and he expressed a cheerful willingness to undertake the business; although he had doubts of the necessity of the journey. And he truly said that he felt a disinclination to leaving the old gentleman for so long a time. But it being a matter of urgent necessity, they both heroically agreed to bear their temporary separation with fortitude, and made themselves very happy in the thoughts of meeting after a brief absence.

The old gentleman detained his son in conversation as long as he could, but as it was necessary to make preparations for leaving the next morning they separated at an earlier hour than usual, and John, after he had retired to his chamber, sat down and penned a few, but expressive lines to Fidelia, in which he told her in simple language, without adornment or exaggeration, that he loved her, and that on his return he should call upon her to learn from her own lips whether or not she could love him in return. Never before had he expressed himself on paper so easily, so feelingly, and so much to his own satisfaction. After he had written his letter he read it over and over again, delighted at the true expression of his own feelings, and wondering at his success in a style of composition which he had then attempted for the first time. Those who feel can write feelingly, but counterfeit feelings on paper, like counterfeit laughter, or counterfeit tears, affect nobody, because feelings lie deeper than the eye or the ear, and like can only affect like; as the devil could not tempt St. Anthony, although he has tempted so many sham saints before and since his time, and the angel could find shelter with no man but Lot in all Sodom because Lot alone of all its inhabitants partook of the angel's nature.

When he had folded and sealed his letter to Fidelia, he attempted to write to Julia, but after many attempts and great study he was obliged to give it up, he could neither arrange his thoughts to suit him, nor find proper words in which to express them. Something was necessary, but he could not write, and at last he determined to wait until his return and then make a formal explanation to her brothers and let chance direct him afterwards. And then he resigned himself to sleep and forgot all his cares and anxieties and rambled, spirit-free over the beautiful land of dreams, and his soul refreshed herself by drinking at the fountains of living waters from which she was exiled during her attendance upon his body, which, while she was thus pleasantly employed, regained the vigor and beauty it had lost during the day, and rendered itself more worthy of her dwelling.

But his old father remained many hours in dark and silent watchfulness, his spirit weary of his body and yet unable to leave it; for Nature has seemingly reversed her rule of compensating in regard to sleep, giving it in liberal measure to the young and healthful, whose cares are few, and whose memories are pleasant, but doling it out with a niggard hand to the old and diseased, who have many cares they would forget, and memories that do but sadden them.

The next morning John was up with the sun, and his preparations being completed, he entrusted the letter for Fidelia to the keeping of Jeremiah, from whom he exacted a promise that he would deliver it in person to the young lady herself that very evening, and having taken a tender leave of his father, whose old eyes ran over with tears, for the first time in many a long day, as he shook the young man by the hand and in vain endeavoured to ask God's blessing upon him, he brushed the falling drops from his own bright eyes and followed by his servant departed upon his journey.

————

CHAPTER X.

INVOLVES JEREMIAH IN A VERY STRANGE ADVENTURE, AND CLOSES THE SECOND DIVISION OF THIS HISTORY.

THE good fortune which had fallen to Julia Tuck had produced a greater change in the feelings of all her relatives than it had in her; for although it was a source of unspeakable joy to her to have it in her power to bestow a fortune upon the man whom she loved above all the earth, the fortune itself was otherwise trivial in her eyes, for she had resolved, at the first, to use no part of it for her own gratification, and to leave it to the generosity of her future husband to bestow what part he chose upon her mother and brothers. But as she had not intimated her determination to them, they revelled in the most intoxicating anticipations of the uses to which they would appropriate her money, and looked upon her and her husband, whoever he might be, as persons of secondary consideration to themselves.

Mrs. Tuck had already engaged an extra servant and ordered a silver tea-set, and her youngest son, Fred, had sent off his library of novels to be re-bound in green morocco; he had bought a new gold-headed cane, a crimson satin robe-de-chambre lined with white merino, a pair of cream-colored horses, and had bespoke a yellow tiger. His brother Tom, who hated ostentation in dress and furniture, had simply furnished himself with the costliest pocket-chronometer he could find, and in a quiet way had gone into an operation in fancy stocks large enough to ruin the richest merchant in Wall street. His highest ambition, and the object of all his operations, was to gain a reputation in that particular spot; and let not the reader accuse him of a low ambition, for Tom well knew that a sensation in Wall street, like a throb of the heart in the animal economy, would be felt at the extremities of the world which bounded his vision. As his sister had not yet come into possession of her property, it could not of course be of any service to him in an actual operation where money must be paid out; but the reputation of a rich relation will enable a man to transact a very heavy business on credit, which his character alone would not allow him to do. This trading upon the reputation of one's friends, although practiced to a very great extent, does not seem to accord with the cunning and cautiousness of the mercantile profession. But merchants are like a certain species of domestic animals, whose name it will not do to mention in this connection, that are so suspicious, and so close; that you could not by the most artful representations deceive them into danger, nor even induce them to show their heads in daylight, but by the mere scent of a piece of toasted cheese, may be lured into traps which otherwise they could not have been persuaded to look at from a distance.

When this amiable family assembled at their tea-table, they seemed to be invested with new characters, every individual with the exception of the young lady, having grown very dignified and high minded, so much so, indeed, that they not only exacted a more dignified bearing in others, but they displayed their own airs with profuse liberality; even the cook and chambermaid had caught the infection and tossed their heads disdainfully to the servants next door.

Mrs. Tuck was continually jogging the memories of the boys not to forget their sister, and the boys were continually reminding each other that they took no notice of Julia, and both of them handed her a chair together, and both of them asked her in the same breath if they could do anything for her in the evening, and both of them brought her a present; Fred's, being a newly imported annual, filled with the softest looking female nobilities conceivable, and Tom's, a gold fillagree card-case.

These attentions appeared rather to embarrass their sister than to please her; the rudeness with which they had formerly treated her was not so annoying, because it was more genuine. Nothing can make a sensitive person more uneasy than to be treated with insincerity, because you cannot tell the exact degree of deceit which is practiced towards you, and as you do not want to repay kind attentions with contempt, you do not want to acknowledge yourself deceived by returning thanks for sinister motives.

But, in the case of Julia Tuck and her brothers, there was no need of refining upon motives, as she understood them perfectly well, and gave them to understand that they did not deceive her. With the second cup of tea, all the assumed airs with which they had sat down began to wear off, and they all gradually fell into their natural characters.

"So, they say Jack Tremlett has eloped," observed Fred to his brother; "do you really think he has gone to England?"

Julia turned pale and let her cup slip from her fingers.

"My son!" said Mrs. Tuck frowning upon Fred, "how can you be so rude."

"Fact, isn't it Tom?"

"Fred, you are a fool," replied his brother; "young Tremlett has gone on a short journey somewhere on business; I believe; at least, they told me so at the counting house."

Julia took up her cup again, but she could not carry it to her lips, her hand trembled so violently,

"I suppose he sent you a note, sister, to advise you of the fact?" said Fred.

"No, he did not, you know he did not," she replied, bursting into tears, "and he has not gone. You say so to agitate me; but the time will come when you will not sport with my feelings."

"Now children," said Mrs. Tuck in a tone of authority, "I command you to conduct yourselves with more propriety towards your sister; please remember, both of you, that she is no longer a child, and that her present position entitles her to a more respectful and affectionate manner than you have been accustomed to show to her. Your sister is the head of the family now."

"Well;" said Fred, shoving his plate across the table, "suppose she is; am I to be held accountable for the actions of Mister Jack Tremlett? I rather guess not."

"Now mother," said Tom, "if you want Fred to behave, as he should, just learn to behave yourself."

"Come, Tom, that's piling it up a little too high;" said Fred in a reproving manner.

"And as for you, Julia," continued Tom, turning to his sister, "it is time you gave up that fellow. If he has gone to Charleston without sending you word, I'll break off the match as soon as he comes back. Just remember, all of you, that I have got something to say in this family."

"If he has left without sending me word," replied Julia, rising from the table, "it was because he had a very good reason for doing so, and if I do not complain, no one else has a right to do so."

"If he has done that, you ought to complain," said her mother, "O! if your poor father had ever treated me so, I would never have seen his face again."

"There," said Fred, "smoke that."

"You are determined to drive me from this house," said Julia, "but if you do, I will never return to it," and so saying she left the room.

"Now you have done it," said Tom.

"I?" said his mother.

"Yes, you, and you," replied Tom.

"O, my children," replied the mother, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.

But, before any reply could be made, the chambermaid came running into the room and exclaimed that Miss Julia was in convulsions, upon which they all ran out together, in great alarm, towards the young lady's chamber. We will leave them to finish their evening's performance; and once more return to Jeremiah with whose adventures we propose to draw the second book of our history to a close.

Jeremiah had parted with his young friend in the morning with a good deal of regret, for although he was to be absent but a fortnight, yet for that fortnight he would be wholly destitute of a sympathetic friend; and his sources of pleasure were too restricted, for him not to feel sensibly the removal of even one. He did not know the exact nature of the business which called young Tremlett away; he only knew that it was an urgent call, and thought no more about it, but the letter which he had entrusted to his care puzzled him sorely because it was directed to a young lady; and as soon as his daily work was done he hurried up into the Bowery to the old sailor's house to deliver it according to his instructions; with a slight hope, perhaps, that he should learn something of its contents.

Jeremiah had never been to the house before, and it was quite dark when he reached there; he found the old couple seated quietly before the little grate, with their grand-daughter seated between them reading from an old book of travels. It was a huge volume liberally illustrated with plates, and printed in a type almost too large to allow the eye to take in a reasonably long word at a glance; the old sailor had brought it from London when he was a youngster, and it had been read through by all the members of his family scores of times, and they still found amusement in its pages.

The old couple welcomed Jeremiah very heartily, and the young lady took his hat and reached him a chair; he enquired if it was Miss Clearman, and, as she blushed and answered "yes," he reached her the letter; upon which she blushed still deeper, and asked if it was from her father.

"I do not know," replied Jeremiah, "but I think not." For he was not so slow of apprehension as not to guess at the nature of its contents when he perceived how surpassingly beautiful the young lady was.

"I wonder who it can be from?" said Fidelia, turning the letter over and over in her hand, and then trying to spell out the motto on the seal. "Who can it be."

"Open it and see, my little daughter," said her grandfather; "that's the way I always used to do when I got a letter from your grandmother," and then the old man took his pipe from his mouth and enjoyed a quiet honest laugh, which was so genuine and unaffected that Jeremiah laughed too, and thought he had never seen such a humorous old gentleman before.

"Everybody always knowed my letters easy enough," said the old man, "for you see, Mr. Jernegan, I never spelt a word right in my life. Nat'rally I couldn't, for I never had but one quarter's schooling; but then I always was sure to get letters enough in it. They warn't put together in a ship-shape fashion; and I always write so plain that you could read my writing across the river; and my owners always said that they had as lief read my letters as any ship-master's in their employ;" and then the old man let his under lip fall and shook his old body again with another quiet explosion of mirth, which it was impossible to see and not try to imitate. And while he had been talking to Jeremiah, Fidelia had opened and read her letter.

"Well, what is the news my little daughter?" said the old man.

"Nothing," quietly answered Fidelia, as she folded up the letter; but her grandmother perceived that she put her hand to her heart and stealthily drew a long sigh. And a few moments, afterwards, when she found an excuse to leave the room, the old lady followed after her.

"Do you know who the letter was from, Mr. Jernegan?" asked the old man, as soon the ladies had left the room.

"It was given to me by young Mr. Tremlett," replied Jeremiah.

"Ah, I never liked the looks of letters from young people," said the old man drawing a long whiff at his pipe. "I don't suppose that Mr. Tremlett would write anything out of the way to my grand-darter, but I never liked the looks of letters."

"I do not know that he wrote the letter," said Jeremiah, "but if he did, I can assure you that it contains nothing wrong. He is incapable of an evil thought."

"So I told my wife," said the old man, "after he was here the other night; but letters have a suspicious look. I am now rising my seventy-sixth year, and I never wrote a letter to a young woman in my life."

"Indeed!" said Jeremiah.

"Never, and I don't think, now, I ever shall. And what is more, I don't owe a dollar in the world; and I never was sued, and I never sued a man in my life; and I never in all my going to sea, which was for more than fifty-five years, struck a man, or called one out of his name; and to the best of my knowledge I never wronged a living soul out of a copper, and I never spent a shilling for my pleasure in a foreign port, in all my rambling about."

"That is very remarkable," said Jeremiah.

"It was always pleasure enough for me to sit down and think about the old woman and the children; and I knew that they wanted all the shillings I might have to spare."

"And I dare say you never repented of your prudence," said Jeremiah.

"And what is more," continued the old sailor after having refreshed himself with two or three long pulls at his pipe, "I never killed but one man in my life, and that man was a Dutchman."

"Is it possible," said Jeremiah, opening his eyes very wide, "that you killed a Dutchman?"

"I will tell you how it happened," said the old man, as he knocked the ashes from his pipe and refilled it with tobacco, "in the year eighty-five, I was second officer of the brig Betsey lying in the port of Archangel, waiting for a cargo of tallow to take to London. Our first officer was a Dutchman of the name of Scraffle, and our skipper's name was captain Paddock; he belonged to the town of Salem, and he was the most ill-favored dog that ever stepped on a ship's deck; which was owing mostly to his having been kicked in the face by a horse. One Sunday afternoon I asked leave to take the jolly boat and go ashore; the mate was standing by at the time, and the captain said, no, because I was too much of an old soldier. Now that, you know, Mr. Jernegan is the worst name that you can call a sailor-man, and I was tempted to take the captain and throw him overboard; but I kept my temper, and I says to him, 'I will keep my hands off of you, captain Paddock, because it would not be respectful to strike a superior officer, but I will tell you what I will do; as soon as we get to the States, I'll go to Salem and enquire for the horse that kicked you in the face, and if I can find him I will treat him to a peck of oats.' With that the mate began to laugh, and the captain began to stamp and swear; and the more he swore the more the mate laughed, until at last he lay down upon the deck and began to roll over and over until he rolled down into the fore peak, and one of the sailors, which was an Irishman, jumped on deck and called out, 'sure Mr. Scraffle is kilt entirely.' And the captain says he, 'there, you have killed the mate with your confounded nonsense,' 'well,' said I, 'that is the first man I ever killed;' and it was the last."

"And was he really killed?" asked Jeremiah with an alarming look.

"O, no," replied the old man, "he made out to eat his rations the next day. But the skipper took good care never to call me an old soldier again."

Fidelia and her grandmother now returned, and the remainder of the evening was spent in agreeable conversation; and Jeremiah had just looked at his watch and was thinking about bidding the good old couple and their lovely grand-daughter good night, when he was startled by the warning voice of Poll, who exclaimed with unusual solemnity "let us pray."

The history of the drab parrot now had to be related, which gave Jeremiah greater delight than any history he had ever listened to in his life, and his feelings had become so warmly enlisted in favor of every member of the little family that when the old lady invited him to remain and join in their evening service, he dropped into a chair again with a feeling of infinite gratification, and, at the close of the prayer, pronounced an amen in as solemn and impressive a tone as the venerable bird herself, who, at the sound of his voice, peered over the top of the bureau as if looking for the individual who was attempting to disturb her prerogative.

At last when Jeremiah could not decently prolong his visit another moment, he took his leave equally in love with the parrot and Fidelia, and the old man and his wife. Scarcely had the door closed upon him when Fidelia took the letter from her bosom, and kissed it with rapturous delight, and clasped her arms around her grandfather's neck and sobbed for very joy. It was her hour of happiness, which, though she were never to know another, was so full of sweetness and bliss, that it would suffice for a long life.

Her grandfather and grandmother cautioned her against indulging in too lively hopes, and reminded her in their plain and honest terms of the liability of every human expectation to be blasted. But, though she listened attentively to their admonitions, they could not dampen her ardent feelings. She was loved by the man whose perfections had inspired her with a feeling of awe. It was enough. How could there be disappointments in a world which opened upon her vision so brightly and so alluring.

Jeremiah came out of the little court and emerged into the Bowery in a state of most delightful agitation, and it being very dark, and the street but imperfectly lighted, he did not discover until he had proceeded some distance, perhaps the length of three or four blocks, that he was followed by a female who was trying to overtake him. As soon as he did perceive her, he stopped, and she caught hold of his arm.

"My good woman," said Jeremiah, "what do you want of me?"

"O, do not call me a good woman," said the female, "I am a very bad woman."

"Are you, indeed," said Jeremiah, whose heart was touched by such a remarkable confession; "what can I do for you?"

"O, sir," replied the woman, who appeared young and handsome, as the street light illuminated her face, "O, sir, you can do nothing for me; but my poor sister is dying, and she cannot die in peace unless some good man will pray with her. Will you not come to her?"

"My poor friend," said Jeremiah, "I am far from being a good man, but if I can be of service to your sister lead me to her."

"O, sir," cried the unfortunate, "you are so good, and my poor sister will die so happy, if you will but say a good word to her and pray for her. This way sir, this way."

And the woman clung to his arm and hurried him along until they came to a dark cross-street into which she turned, and, after walking a short distance, she turned into another dark street and soon they came to a modern built brick house with some kind of a tree in front, and having opened the street-door with a night key she led him up a pair of stairs through a well furnished hall, and conducted him into a small bedroom containing no other furniture than a bed and rocking chair. "Sit down," she said upon which Jeremiah seated himself in the rocking chair and she closed the door and locked it on the outside. "Make yourself easy until morning," she said, speaking to him through the key hole, "my sister is better."

BOOK III.

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CHAPTER I.

WILL CONTAIN SOME EXCELLENT HINTS TO NEWLY MARRIED COUPLES, AND SOME MELANCHOLY TIDINGS WHICH WILL COME TO THE READER'S KKOWLEDGE IN DUE COURSE.

JEREMIAH remained a prisoner all the next day and night in the little room where we left him at the close of our last chapter. Nobody came near him, and the only food that he had tasted was the claw of a boiled lobster and a crust of bread, that were thrown into his room over the sky-light of the door. He made up his mind to be murdered, but he resolved to defend himself to the best of his powers. His only weapon of defence was a pocket-knife, and from want of practice he was not very expert in the use of his hands; and feeling his own weakness he knew that he could make but a feeble resistance to any one that would be likely to attack him; he therefore endeavoured to compose his mind, and tried to prevail upon himself that he was resigned to whatever death he might be doomed to suffer. As he had wronged no man, and was in no manner enlisted in any cause that required a sacrifice, he was entirely at a loss to conceive any reason for his confinement; and when, at last, he was set at liberty by the same woman who had enticed him to her den, he was so overjoyed to regain his freedom that he forgot to ask for an explanation, but hurried out of the house and ran the entire length of two or three streets before he thought of the necessity of taking the number of the house.

His absence from his business and his boarding house, caused innumerable speculations among his friends, and very serious inconvenience to Mr. Tremlett, who was compelled to remain until a very late hour at the counting-room, to arrange some business that no one but Jeremiah or himself could attend to, and on his way home at night, he was overtaken by a sudden shower of rain, and a severe cold attended by a fever, was the consequence.

Jeremiah hastened to the house of his employer, the moment he was set at liberty, and related to him the particulars of his confinement, omitting only the cause of his visit to the Bowery. The old gentleman was not a little amazed at so strange a story, and if he had not known that Jeremiah was incapable of deceit, he would have been inclined to doubt the truth of it. But believing it entirely, he advised him to make a complaint at the police office and have the woman punished. Jeremiah, however, had a great horror of seeing his name in a newspaper, and he had made up his mind to keep the circumstance to himself and seek for no redress for his grievances.

Miss Hogshart had been terribly alarmed during his absence, but now that he had come back unharmed, she felt herself constrained to be very cold and dignified in her manner towards him, and to treat his protestations of innocence in a very sneering manner, unbecoming in any lady, but especially so in her; she almost insinuated that Jeremiah was a hypocrite, and not half as good as he pretended to be, which made him feel very wretched; for it distressed him beyond measure to know that she could, under any circumstances, appear so unamiable. But it was nevertheless some consolation to him to know that her ill feelings were excited by her excessive fondness for him, and therefore he forgave her. Among the very first friends who called upon him the next morning to inquire about the cause of his absence were the brothers Tuck, who were shocked and amazed when they heard of the outrage that had been committed upon his person, and expressed a world of sympathy for him, but advised him not to make the affair public, lest he should get into the papers, and suffer in his reputation. They informed him with many expressions of regret and chagrin that in consequence of his absence, Mr. Washington Mortimer had been allowed to escape, as they depended solely upon his testimony to procure a commitment. Jeremiah had no possible sympathy for wrong-doers, and yet it was a relief to him to hear that the poor man had got clear; it would have been a continual source of unhappiness to him if any human being through his agency had been confined in prison or otherwise harmed. Although the brothers, and Mr. Tremlett, and even Miss Hogshart in reality, acquitted Jeremiah of the slightest suspicion of wrong doing; yet there were two persons who entertained the most coarse and indelicate doubts of his uprightness; doubts that impressed even these virtuous persons so seriously that they only ventured to give a slight intimation of their existence by whispers and winks, and awful shrugs of their shoulders, which being rendered into language mean, "Oh, the wickedness of some folks." These two excellent persons were Mr. and Mrs. Bates. Such a coincidence of thought between two persons so remarkably dissimilar is a phenomenon that requires an explanation; and as differences of opinion are fruitful of much unhappiness among married people, we will cheerfully devote a few lines to giving one, in the confident hope that the profit to be derived therefrom will compensate to our readers for a suspension of our narrative.

Some men, and some women even, are so fond of peace and quietness that they are willing to fight continually for their sakes, while others are so partial to a quiet life that they will live in a continual tumult lest any attempt to allay it should only increase its force. Of these two kinds of people were Mr. and Mrs. Bates, and consequently where each was resolutely bent on peace and quietness, it must have happened that there were no disagreeable differences of opinion, and unpleasant bickerings, such as have too often brought the marriage state into contempt and given occasion to crabbed old bachelors and cross tempered old maids to cast many witless reproaches upon the blessed matrimonial condition. She being determined for the sake of peace to have her own way and he being determined, for the same reason, that she should, the most delightful harmony must always have prevailed in the opinions and actions of these excellent persons. Another thing which helped to produce this most pleasant and peaceful condition was the fact that Mr. Bates had attained to a very respectable age, some eight and thirty years, before he was blessed by his union with his better part; and being duly impressed by her with a sense of the great sacrifice she had made in consenting to unite herself to him, he could not find it in his heart to oppose her in any of her little peculiarities of opinion. When she first took possession of the rooms that Mr. Bates had furnished for her, she discovered that he had appropriated a particular peg, for each particular portion of his wardrobe, and in fulfilment of her marriage vows, which had just fallen from her lips, she immediately tumbled all his coats, pantaloons and wrap-rascals into a dark closet, and supplied their places with her own trousseau, consisting of a greater number of articles than we have here space to enumerate; and upon his re-appearance he was struck aghast at the tremendous change.

"Bless my eyes, my dear!" he exclaimed, "what's the meaning of all this?"

"Meaning of it, indeed!" said the bride smartly, "is the man blind? Don't you see that I am going to have those pegs for my own use?"

"But you musn't my dear, it will never do."

"Musn't! musn't!" screamed Mrs. B., as though she had never before heard those words, "where did you learn that word sir? come, come, I must have my way, so don't put on any of your old bachelor airs to me."

It is needless to say who came off conqueror and who consented to be bound hand and foot, manacled like a slave and deprived of his rights, for the sake of peace and quietness. Never again did Mr. Bates demur to any of his wife's propositions, and when she hinted that Jeremiah was a dreadful sly-boots, he immediately expressed exactly the same opinion, and said, moreover, that he had never had any other.

It gives us pain to record these things against Mr. Bates, for doubtless many people have always looked upon him as a very excellent person, as, indeed, he was; for he had always paid his debts, a great thing assuredly in a community where a neglect to do so is looked upon as an odious offence, without any consideration of the debtor's misfortunes or ability, but then it must be remembered that nobody would have trusted Mr. Bates beyond his known ability to pay; he had robbed no man of his money, an unusual thing in those days, when even governments and independent states set examples of dishonesty; he had never cheated government out of a penny, although it is right to say that he had never been entrusted with any of the nation's funds; he had run away with no man's wife, which was a greater merit in him, since he would not have looked upon it as an unpardonable offence if anybody had run away with his; he had never accepted office of a party and then proved traitorous to those who placed him in power, a rare virtue in him, since he saw so many examples around him, and heard them spoken of as good jokes rather than as black crimes; but then it must be remembered that nobody ever dreamed of trusting him with an office; he had fought no duels; he had misled no minds by preaching false doctrines; he had never overturned any established forms of society by making pestiferous innovations; he had wronged no man by giving freedom to his slave; he paid his pew rent regularly and believed as devoutly in the apostolical authority of his pastor as though he had been educated at Oxford; and, in one word, he was a very good sort of man. We might extend the catalogue of his virtues to a much greater length, but we trust enough has been done to satisfy his friends that we have no wish to treat him unjustly.

But Jeremiah was wholly unconscious that any one entertained such cruel suspicions against him as Mr. and Mrs. Bates did, and he walked erect in the light of his own innocence, fearing nothing so much as doing wrong to others. The first day of his release, he was confined until a late hour to his desk, and before he went to his boarding-house at night he called upon Mr. Tremlett and was alarmed to find the old gentleman in a high fever. Poor old Mrs. Swazey, the house-keeper, was doing all she could to hasten his end by smothering him with hot blankets, and deluging his bowels with hot boneset tea.

Jeremiah saw at a glance that the old gentleman was very ill, and he begged Mrs. Swazey to desist from giving him any more of her remedies until he called in a physician. But the old lady looked upon his interference with high disdain. Dosing was her peculiar province, and if there was any thing that she delighted in it was compelling people to drink decoctions of boneset and penny-royal. Jeremiah was too seriously impressed with the necessity of immediate medical assistance to be influenced by Mrs. Swazey's persuasions and he went directly in search of a doctor.

It is a sad thing for poor human nature that the innocent and unpretending should always prove the easiest and surest prey to the knavish and humbugeous portion of mankind; like natures so far from proving attractive, always repel each other, and humbugs of every kind receive their chief countenance and support from the open hearted and sincere part of the community.

With his accustomed ingenuousness, Jeremiah proceeded directly to the house of doctor Smoothcoat when he went in pursuit of a physician, for he knew that that personage was celebrated for his high charges, and he thought that no physician could have the conscience to value his services at a higher rate than the rest of the faculty unless he were conscious that they were worth more to the patient; and as there were many other simple-minded people besides Jeremiah, Doctor Smoothcoat had a good many rich patients who enabled him, by their contributions, to live in great magnificence, and occasionally to refresh himself by a visit to Europe, which brought him more patients than even his high charges, for an European reputation is a great help to one's progress in the New World.

Jeremiah's heart sank within him when he reached the doctor's house, and was informed that the great man was out on a professional visit; he waited a long time expecting him to return, and at last came away without seeing him, but left a note on his office table requesting him to call at Mr. Tremlett's house. He sat by the old gentleman's bed-side until past midnight watching with great anxiety, but no physician came; and then, growing alarmed, he went again in search of Doctor Smoothcoat. This time he found the professional gentleman at home, but he was astonished to learn that he had been for more than an hour in bed and asleep. How could he sleep when a patient lay sick almost unto death, waiting for his assistance?

But the Doctor said he had not received a call.

"Did you not get the note that I left for you?" asked Jeremiah.

"The note!" said the Doctor, "I have received no communication from you."

"But I left one upon your office table," said Jeremiah.

"Oh! ah! I do remember that I observed a bit of paper lying there directed to me, but I did not think that it could be of any moment," said Doctor Smoothcoat, "gentlemen having communications to make to me usually seal their letters with wax."

"Wax!" exclaimed Jeremiah with unusual warmth, "Wax! O, true, it should have been wax; and here it is sealed with a wafer; and it has not been opened. Well, well, I am very sorry. But, surely the life of a human being is of more consequence than a bit of wax."

The doctor thought otherwise. He had not been to Europe for nothing. Moreover he was a conservative, and consequently a great stickler for forms. So wicked a departure from established usages as sealing a note to a person of his consequence with a wafer, was not to be lightly passed by. He understood the full importance of wax.

Jeremiah really blamed himself for his awful indiscretion and want of breeding; and, in truth, felt like a criminal. It was in consequence of his want of thought, or ignorance of what was due to a great man, that his good old employer had lain many hours watching with painful anxiety for a physician. It was a long time before Doctor Smoothcoat was ready to leave, for he stopped to dress himself with as much nicety as though it had been noon instead of midnight; and when at last he took his cane in his hand and buttoned up his coat to go, Jeremiah in the excitement of his feelings, exclaimed, "Wax!" quite unconsciously; at which the Doctor started and told him he had better be careful. The night was cold and they walked very briskly, and Jeremiah kept all the time a few steps in advance, trying to seduce the doctor into a trot, but without effect. It was not long, however, before they reached the house and when the Doctor saw Mr. Tremlett, he shook his head and said they should have sent for him sooner; he bled his patient and left a prescription to be administered every half hour. Jeremiah was dreadfully alarmed, and never left the old gentleman's bed-side until morning, but just before daylight he fell into a slumber from which he soon roused himself and frightened the house-keeper, who had gone to sleep in the adjoining room, by crying out in a loud voice, "wax!" So much was his mind occupied by the unfortunate blunder he had committed that the thought of it haunted him in his sleep.

The morning came, and with it the Doctor, but neither brought any relief to the sick old man. Jeremiah was obliged to leave him, but his place was supplied by Mrs. Tuck who offered her services with many expressions of kindness and good will that were peculiarly grateful to the sick man's ears, and acceptable to Mrs. Swazey, who was grown too old and infirm to bear much fatigue. Mrs. Tuck was far from feeling any very great tenderness for Mr. Tremlett, but with the true instinct of her sex she could not but visit him in his illness, and offer him those soothing and grateful offices which none but a woman can perform, and she appeared to him like an angel of goodness while she was smoothing his pillow or gracefully submitting to the meanest duties for his relief. But in spite of the skill of his physician and the kind attentions of his friends, the old man grew worse and worse; although his mind was disordered by turns he seemed fully aware of his danger, but uttered no complaints only at the absence of his darling boy and fears that he should never see him again. Poor old man! There was not another earthly object to which his affections clung, and he could not die without embracing him once more. Only once more. If his eyes could but rest on that dear form as they closed in death, his way through the dark valley would be bright and cheerful.

Jeremiah wrote immediately to young Tremlett, informing him of the old gentleman's danger, and urging his return. But the next day his symptoms were more favorable, and gave hopes of his recovery. Mrs. Swazey was so much elated that she insisted on his eating a bowl of chicken soup to give him strength. The old man demurred, but she persevered, and said, "nonsense," until at length, partly overcome by her persuasions and partly by the delicious odor of the broth as she held it by the bed-side, he consented to taste a spoonful; it was so pleasant to his feverish mouth that he took one spoonful after another until he had swallowed the whole bowlful, when he fell back upon his pillow and in a few hours had gained so much strength that it was with great difficulty that Mrs. Swazey, assisted by the coachman and chambermaid, could hold him upon his bed. His fever returned with more alarming symptoms than before, and his poor brain was in a wild delirium. He continued to grow weaker and weaker; a consultation of physicians was held and his case was pronounced hopeless. Poor old man! he must die, and his darling boy far away. But he lingered on from day to day, clinging to life with a tenacity that astonished his attendants, who hoped that he might live to see him once more. Not a word had been heard from him since he left, and it was time that he returned. Jeremiah was in an agony of fear, such as he had never felt before; he could endure his own disappointments and sufferings, but the troubles of those whom he loved touched him deeply. If ever a mortal's lips gave utterance to a sincere prayer, then did Jeremiah's when he nightly poured forth his soul's desire to the Most High that the life of the old man might be spared until his son's return.

It was the tenth day after Mr. Tremlett's illness, and the mail brought a letter from Mr. Loudon stating that John had arrived in Charleston in apparent good health, but was almost immediately seized with an illness that confined him to his bed. It was expressed in very guarded language, and a postscript added that the physicians supposed the disease to be varioloid. This news very nearly deprived Jeremiah of his reason; the cautious manner in which the letter was written, filled him with the saddest apprehensions. He called immediately upon the brothers Tuck with the letter, and it put them in a great excitement; Fred had no sooner overlooked the contents of it than he caught up his hat and ran home to comfort his sister with the intelligence. The physician forbade the slightest allusion to the subject in the presence of Mr. Tremlett; but if the old gentleman's mind had been in an ordinary state of repose he would have guessed at his son's danger from the downcast and melancholy looks of those about him, particularly Mrs. Swazey, who crept about the room with a handkerchief to her eyes, and ejaculated, "O, Lord!" between every word she uttered. She loved the young man as though he had been her own child, at least she thought she did, and she knew he would die, for she had dreamed of losing another tooth. Sure presage of death!

The day after the letters had been received an incident occurred that caused more excitement and speculation than any event that we have yet recorded; this was nothing less than the elopement of Julia Tuck. Whither she had gone nobody knew, although her own family were at no loss for a reasonable surmise. The intelligence of young Tremlett's illness produced a stunning effect upon her at first, but when she recovered her consciousness she bore up under the affliction with a sober composure that astonished her friends. She retired to her room at an earlier hour than usual, and begged that she might not be disturbed; but her mother became alarmed at her long silence in the morning and going up to her chamber found that the bed had not been slept in and that some few light articles of dress had been removed from her wardrobe. She was gone, but nobody had seen her leave the house, and it was supposed that she had made her escape while the rest of the family were all asleep. The wretched mother was at first overwhelmed with grief, and the brothers were paralyzed with rage; but pride and interest soon came to their aid and they came to the determination that, for the sake of the family, it would be best to say nothing about the matter, and they instructed the servants to say that Julia had gone into the country, if any inquiries should be made about her.

Before Mrs. Tuck had wholly recovered from the effect of this astounding blow, she was summoned to the bed-side of Mr. Tremlett; the poor old gentleman was sinking fast, and it was thought that he could not survive an hour. As she entered the room he looked wistfully towards the door, but closed his eyes with an expression of disappointment when he saw her. Jeremiah sat by the bed-side of the dying man, and Mrs. Swazey walked the floor wringing her hands but giving no audible expression to her grief; his eyes remained closed so long, and his features grew so rigid and pale that they thought he was dead. But his pulse still beat, although so weak and uncertain, that every throb seemed as though it must be the last; and after lying more than an hour without giving any other signs of life, he suddenly opened his eyes and attempted to speak, but his parched lips could not utter a word. Jeremiah wet them with a sponge and pressed a teaspoonful of toast water into his mouth, when he looked up with a grateful smile and said, in a low weak voice, "I have seen him, he will not come."

"Who?" said Jeremiah, "John?"

"Yes."

The old house-keeper could contain her feelings no longer, but lifted up her voice, and exclaimed, "Bless my dear God for it. He has seen the precious soul!"

"Hush, hush," said Jeremiah in a low voice, "he is dead! Let us go with him into the presence of the Lamb." And he knelt down and prayed long and fervently; and the soul of the old merchant was accompanied in its upward flight by the sincerest prayer that ever dropped from the lips of a follower of Him whose word is life to them that believe.

"He was a dear good man," said Mrs. Tuck, wiping her eyes, "how sweet and calm he looks. Can it be that he is dead?"

"He is dead to us," said Jeremiah, "but the memory of his good acts will live while any of those live who knew him."

"Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust."

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CHAPTER II.

WILL CONTAIN A BRIDAL AND A BURIAL.

IT was something more than a fortnight since the arrival of young Tremlett in Charleston and he lay sick, almost to death of a loathsome and virulent disease. On landing he had called immediately upon Mr. Loudon and frankly told him the cause of his visit, and that correct and high spirited merchant, though mortified in the extreme when he heard it, convinced him of the entire groundlessness of the information received by his father, by offering to pay on the spot the full amount due to his firm the moment a balance could be made. This was abundantly satisfactory, of course; but not satisfied with John's assurances, Mr. Loudon had his book-keeper to make out a full statement of his affairs, with an affidavit of its correctness affixed, showing him to be worth a very considerable sum after all his debts should be paid. But this John refused to examine or even to take with him to his father. He was exceedingly well pleased with the termination of his business, and made his arrangements for leaving the next day, although he felt a strong inclination to accept of Mr. Loudon's invitation to spend a day or two on his plantation a few miles from the city. But his anxiety to return home was very great, not only on his father's account, but for the sake of Fidelia, whose image had haunted him, sleeping or waking, ever since he left her, and he retired to his chamber at an early hour partly that he might rise early in the morning, but mainly because of a severe and unusual pain in his head and back, which he attributed to over exertion and want of rest. His servant awoke him at the appointed hour in the morning, but when he attempted to rise, he found himself too weak to stand; his head seemed to be on fire, and in a few moments, he lost all consciousness, save only a wild and fearful thought that he could not lose, that he was lying in the midst of a burning lake; how long this horrid seeming continued he knew not, but when he awoke to a perception of the things about him he more than ever thought himself in a wild and feverish dream. His acute sufferings would not allow him long to remain under such a delusion. His hands were bound up so that he could not move them; his eyes were swollen; his whole body, from his head to his feet, burned as though he were lying upon a bed of coals, and a fiery thirst seemed to dry up all the moisture of his frame. A negro woman stood at his head, bathing his face with a sponge wet with rose-water and milk.

"Where am I?" he said gazing about him and trying to rise, "where am I? how got I here?"

"Lord love you, young master," said the negro woman, "you are in your own room; lie still, honey."

"Where is my father? where is Jeremiah? where is Mrs. Swazey?"

"O, honey, lie still. Blessed Lord! don't talk master."

"This is not my room, I don't know it. Who are you, what are you? Why are my hands bound? Let me look in a glass that I may know who I am."

The nurse brought him a small mirror from the dressing bureau, and as he caught sight of his face he fell back with a groan. He well might doubt his own impersonality, for his face bore no possible resemblance to his recollection of himself. He lay a long while, fully conscious of his sufferings, but unable to reconcile his present condition to his former self, and doubtful whether he was really himself or somebody else with his own recollections, but directly he caught sight of his watch hanging by his bed, and Mr. Loudon coming in a few moments afterwards, related to him the full particulars of his situation. He had been confined to his bed a week and at one time his physician had considered his case hopeless, but since his disease had shown itself they felt confident of his recovery. His hands had been bandaged to prevent him from scarring his face by tearing his flesh in his delirium. Mr. Loudon had taken a favorite slave from his own family to wait upon him; and although she was a good nurse, she was peculiarly well qualified to wait upon him, as she had had the disease herself but a few months before, and was perfectly familiar with the proper treatment of it; for she was a valuable servant and had been attended by the best physicians in the place. He was pained to hear that Mr. Loudon had written to his father informing him of his danger, and begged that another letter might be immediately written to inform the old gentleman that he was getting better. Mr. Loudon promised to do so in the morning, and as the day was drawing to a close and he had to go to his plantation, he bade him good night, after a very short stay, and left him. Juno, the nurse, had gone out, and he was all alone; his head burned and he gasped for a cooling drink; but his hands were bound so that he could not pull the bell and he was too feeble to call for assistance. There was no candle burning, but a faint streak of red in the west cast a gloomy and uncertain light into the chamber and threw heavy and indistinct masses of grotesque shadows on the walls that seemed to oppress him, he knew not why, for he knew they were but shadows. The air was hot and dull and the mosquitoes were beginning to buzz around his head threatening to add to his already insupportable heat by their poisonous bite. A huge ungainly bird flew lazily past his window flapping its dusky wings and croaking dismally in his ears. He lay marking these dull sights and sounds, and thinking how much his sufferings would be lessened if only Fidelia, or his father, or even Mrs. Swazey were near him, and ejaculating "O, if God thought it not good that man should be alone in Eden, man can never know how good it is to have a help-meet here until he has been stretched upon a bed of sickness," when suddenly, O, welcome sight, his father approached to his bed-side and looked upon him with a sad pale face, but spoke no word.

The young man sprang upwards by a great effort and exclaimed, "O, father, father!" But, still his father spake not.

"O, father, will you not speak to me? O, why did they not tell me you were here." But, overcome by the exertions he had made, he fell back upon his pillow, his eyes still resting upon his father's form, whose mournful and troubled gaze alarmed him. He was just trying to reach out his arms when his nurse came in and his father disappeared from his side.

"Where is my father gone?" he said, "Why did they not let me know before that he was here? when did he arrive? O, beg him to come back to me, Juno."

"O, honey!" said Juno, "bless your sweet soul, young master, old master has not been here. Don't talk, honey. Let me wash your face wis rose water and cool milk."

"Why do you deceive me?" he cried pettishly, "it is cruel to trifle with me; go, Juno, and send my man Patrick to me."

"Dear heart, you is took sick, took sick, honey. Lie still one little minute. There, honey." She bathed his face with the sponge and then went out and returned in a few moments with Patrick.

"O, Patrick," said John, "why did you not come and tell me that my father was here?"

"Heaven bless you sir," said Patrick, "but Mr. Tremlett has not been here at all."

"Why do you all deceive me, he stood here but a moment since."

"Faith thin you may depind upon it, sir, but I did not know of it at all before." And then Patrick whispered behind the curtains to Juno that the poor young gentleman was quite gone out of his senses. Which was not in fact far from the truth, for he had over-exerted himself and the agitation of his mind had heightened his fever, and he soon began to talk wildly and vehemently until, becoming weak and exhausted, he fell into a troubled slumber, which lasted until past midnight, and when he awoke, the real incidents of the evening appeared to him like a part of the dream that haunted him in his sleep; and he made no more enquiries about his father, believing that he had only dreamed of seeing him. From this time he grew better although he still continued to suffer severely. The fourth day after his consciousness returned, as he lay in a half dreamy state while Juno bathed his burning brow with a cooling wash, and his imagination called around him a host of beautiful figures, each of them in some manner reminding him of Fidelia, and yet each unlike her, Patrick came into his chamber with a very important air and announced to him that a young lady had just arrived from the north who insisted on seeing him.

"A young lady, Patrick? And, did she send her name?"

"Faith, sir, she wouldn't," said Patrick, "and when they told her she musn't see you she took on like mad."

"Let her come, Patrick, let her come," replied John, for his mind had been so filled with Fidelia that he could think of nobody beside her. O, what a dear delight, to have her sit by his bed-side and soothe him to sleep with her sweet voice, or to cheer him with her bright and innocent looks when he awaked from his troubled dreams. But no, she must not see him, it would endanger her life, and he told Patrick, that she must not be admitted. But before Patrick could leave the chamber an altercation was heard on the stairs wherein mingled the voices of the landlord of the hotel, the physician, Mr. Loudon, and the sobs and supplications of a woman.

Hark! It is not the voice of Fidelia that replies to the Physician when he expostulates with her on the danger she incurs in visiting the sick chamber. And now the kind and earnest voice of Mr. Loudon is heard.

"Consider, my dear young lady, the risk to your life. Let me beg of you for your own sake as well as for his, that you defer seeing him for a while. Remember your friends at home."

"O, I cannot be denied," replied the young lady, "I cannot endure to remain here and not see him. Let me go. Let me go."

"Be composed. Madam, be composed," said the Physician "in a few days he will be well, and then you can see him without danger to yourself or to him."

"No, no, he will die and I shall not see him; do not hinder me, I cannot live if you do."

"What can we do?" said Mr. Loudon.

"Let her go in, let her go in," said the landlord's wife who now joined them upon the stairs, "it will do them good, both; I'll answer for the consequences."

"Perhaps your lady is right," said the Doctor to the landlord, "madam follow me; but command your feelings in his presence."

The door of the chamber was immediately opened and the Physician entered, followed by Julia Tuck leaning upon Mr. Loudon's arm.

"Don't be agitated," said the Physician, as he approached the bed-side of his patient, and at the same time took the hand of the young lady and presented her to him. But this was like a gunner cautioning his piece not to go off as he applied his match to the priming. His patient was agitated, dreadfully so; and Julia no sooner caught sight of his disfigured and swollen face than she fell senseless in the Physician's arms. But proper remedies having been applied she soon revived again and was able to sit with some degree of composure by the bed-side; yet she said nothing, but wept convulsively; and no one spake to her, for they were all touched by her grief, and even Patrick and Juno sobbed aloud. As to John, he was stupefied with amazement, and could say nothing. What, indeed, could he say? But Mr. Loudon thinking that delicacy prevented him from giving utterance to his feelings while there were so many spectators and listeners, considerately motioned to them all to withdraw, and the two unhappy young persons were left alone together.

"O, forgive me, forgive me," cried Julia, as she fell upon her knees by his bed-side.

"Rise, rise," he said feebly, "rise and do not ask my forgiveness. I am too deeply sensible of the sacrifice you make for my sake, and it is I that should ask to be forgiven. I am not entitled to this sacrifice. Believe me. Seriously I am not. This frightful disease will deprive me of whatever graces your partiality may have fancied that I possessed, even though I should recover."

"O, do not say so, you will recover; you must recover! I know that you will." And then she wept, and covered her face with her hands, for now that she found herself in the presence of him for whose sake she was willing to peril her life and even her good name, she was overcome by a sense of shame and a conviction of the imprudent course she had taken. Her anxiety of mind and the strength of her passion had sustained her on her journey, but now she sunk under her feelings, and could do nothing but sob. But rising, at last, from her knees, she said; "tell me that you will not despise me for this, and I will ask no more."

John was touched to the heart by her passionate and earnest manner, and he could not but reflect on his own guilt in allowing her to remain ignorant of his real feelings so long; and now that she had incurred danger and the reproach of friends for his sake, what could he do? He could not tell her under such circumstances that he did not love her, and drive her from him, in a strange place where she had no protector; no home. Knowing the vehemence of her nature he feared that such an announcement might prove fatal to her; and furthermore he might not live, and if he should die, his secret would die with him, and she might yet be happy. Luckily for him the physician came back before he could reply to her passionate appeal, and motioned to her that it was time to withdraw. After she left the room he felt his patient's pulse and perceiving that his fever had increased, cautioned him against holding long and earnest conversations, and in a very round-about and delicate manner gave him to understand that the young lady must not visit him again, until he got much better. He was a kind-hearted, sympathetic man, although a learned physician, and so singularly modest that he avoided every appearance of etiquette or formality with his patients, and always listened to their complaints as though he derived great pleasure and instruction therefrom, and sometimes made them feel as though they really had been doing him a good turn by relating the full particulars of a long sleepless night or the effects of an undigested dinner. John was not exactly one of this class for he fully appreciated the doctor's kind-heartedness and simplicity of manner, and he almost smiled at his delicacy of expression in telling him that his new visitor would not be allowed to sit by him until he got better, for had the announcement been made to him in the most direct and positive terms, it would have produced no unhappy effect upon him, but on the contrary, it would have been one of the surest means of giving him strength and peace. But this the doctor could not know, for such a case of maladie du coeur as his patient's, he had probably never met with in his practice or his books. He gave him a new prescription and withdrew, leaving him alone to his own reflections, which were distracting enough.

The events that we have recorded in so short a space, occupied a good portion of the afternoon in their occurrence, and it was now close upon the edge of night. The short twilight of a southern sky was rapidly melting into darkness, and all the objects in the room began to assume a strange uncertain aspect when some passing sight or sound recalled to John's mind the fact that his father's form had visited his bed-side but a few days before. It flashed upon his memory with a startling distinctness; he was alarmed, he scarce knew why, and he was just on the point of calling for his nurse, when suddenly the same venerable form stood before him again. He was paralyzed, but hardly with fear. What had he to dread from his father's form. He tried to move, but he could not; he tried to speak, but his tongue was powerless; he could not even close his eyes, or turn them away from the appearance before him. The old man looked upon him with a tender, compassionate expression, wholly divested of the care worn and troubled features with which he gazed upon him before. Then he seemed as if he would speak, now a holy, calm and happy air of serenity pervaded his looks. The lineaments of the face seemed unchanged and yet the young man knew that it no longer belonged to the earth. O, with what fondness he gazed upon those mild eyes, so full of purity and love and peace, and how he longed to clasp his arms around that venerable form. But he knew that he could not. The barriers of Life and Death were between them, although they looked upon each other face to face. How long his father's form continued to gaze upon him he knew not, for he soon became unconscious to everything about him, and when the nurse returned she found him lying with his eyes wide open, but entirely insensible and incapable of motion. The physician came and bled him, but it was many hours before he began to manifest a returning consciousness, which was first manifested by his making enquiries for his father. The physician and Mr. Loudon, who had both been sent for, as they had supposed him to be dying, exchanged significant glances, and Patrick could scarce be restrained by their looks from making an exclamation that they were fearful of his hearing. They had just learned the news of the old gentleman's death, and they were afraid if he were informed of it, that it would prove fatal to him. The intelligence was brought by Fred Tuck who had followed close upon the heels of his sister. But they might have told him the sad news without apprehension of danger, for he knew it already. He knew it as positively as though he had closed the old man's eyes and followed him to the grave. But he did not say so. He knew it himself, and he cared not for others.

A great change had taken place in his feelings. He no longer wished to live. His father had looked upon him with his face so full of peace and content, so devoid of care and pain, of evil and apprehension, that he longed to be with him and at rest. His sufferings had given him a distaste for life, and he feared almost to recover. He was embarrassed at the thought of Julia Tuck, and apprehensive that Fidelia might spurn him from her presence. There seemed nothing worth living for, and he turned his back upon his attendants with a deep sigh, without making a murmur or a complaint.

The physician discovered an alteration in his patient and he became alarmed; he summoned his consulting brethren and they came to the conclusion that the young man could not live. Soon he perceived an alteration in the manner of his attendants, and of his physician; they regarded him with solemn looks and moved with a soft and stealthy tread about his room, and Patrick, his servant, knelt down by his bed-side and sobbed when they were left alone together; they gave him but little medicine and no other nourishment than cooling drinks; and they asked him if he would object to a visit from a clergyman; the landlord's wife and daughter came into his chamber and looked upon him with a strange expression of wonder, and then left him with their handkerchiefs to their eyes without speaking a word; a Bible and a prayer-book were placed within his reach as if by accident and they removed the bandages from his hands and did not attempt to restrain him from using them; his black nurse, Juno, sang a methodistic hymn to him, in a low soft voice full of simple ejaculations of happiness and glory; and bye and bye there came to him a venerable old man, dressed in black, with long white locks flowing over his shoulders but with a ruddy healthy face and a clear soft eye, and he sat down by the bed-side and talked of Christ and his atoning blood, of the joys of Heaven and the ills of earth; and then knelt down and prayed long and devoutly. All these things soothed his mind; and he felt himself growing weaker and weaker, sinking, sinking, and he knew that he must die. But he felt no dread, no apprehension;—not even a wish to recover. This gentle, peaceful sinking into the arms of death was slightly disturbed by the entrance of Fred Tuck into his chamber accompanied by Mr. Loudon and the physician; they gathered around his bed with sad looks and tearful eyes; and Mr. Loudon told him that his father was no more. To their amazement, he showed no surprise, not even grief; and they attributed his stillness to weakness and his own near approach to death. Tears fell from all their eyes but his. Why should he weep? He had seen his father and knew that he was happy, and he would soon be with him never again to be parted.

Presently they all withdrew from his sight but Mr. Loudon and the Physician. The merchant attempted to speak to him, but his voice choked and he sat down and wept. Then the physician took his place and asked his patient if he had any requests to make in case that he should not recover, and told him with great tenderness and feeling that he had no longer power to aid him, and that he hoped his mind had been reconciled to a change of scene. Even this announcement that they had feared to make to him, he heard without emotion. But he requested that a lawyer might be sent for that he might dictate a will to him. He had Jeremiah and Fidelia in his thoughts, and he would not have them think that he had died forgetful of them.

But before the lawyer came, Julia Tuck was led into the room by her brother. She had been told that young Tremlett must die, and she gave herself up to distracting grief. She threw herself upon his bed and declared that she would die with him; and her brother, who had seen her a thousand times in paroxyms of grief, without being moved, now wept with her. It was like a leaf from a novel, and it touched his heart. Suddenly, however, this young gentleman was seized with an idea that had a most powerful influence in drying up his tears. Young Tremlett was going to die for a certainty, but there was no immediate cause for apprehending the dissolution of his sister. Why not, then, let them be married that she might inherit his property, and then if she should die, he and his brother would inherit it from her. Happy thought! Most brilliant conception! He could scarce refrain from laughing, in the ecstasy of his joy, surrounded even as he was with so much sadness and grief. Full of this grand idea, he caused his sister to be removed to her own apartments, and went in pursuit of Mr. Loudon who had already left. He found the merchant on his wharf engaged in sampling cotton, but he drew him aside and told him that he had discovered that a necessity existed for the marriage of young Tremlett and his sister Julia, to save her family from disgrace, and begged that he would make use of his influence with the dying man to bring the marriage about before it should be too late; he would have offered him a bribe, if he had dared to do so, but there was no need; his story appeared so plausible to Mr. Loudon, and he had become so much interested in the young lady, and perhaps had a shadowy thought that where so much property was at stake some of it might possibly fall into his hands, either as commissions or in some other way, that he listened attentively to the young gentleman's request, and promised to exert himself immediately in his behalf. As death might interfere and frustrate their project if it were delayed too long, they resolved to lose no time. So Mr. Loudon sent one of his servants to Doctor Esyman, the clergyman who had already paid John a visit, requesting him to call immediately at the hotel, where the sick man lay, with his gown and prayer-book; and then they called together upon the physician, who confessed, upon hearing the proposition from Mr. Loudon, that he had already made up his mind that a necessity for the marriage did exist, for in no other way could he account for the young lady's conduct; and having heard that not only she, but her supposed lover, was possessed of a very large fortune, promised to give his aid in promoting the marriage. Who could tell what might come of doing a good turn to rich people. So they took themselves immediately to the hotel, reflecting silently as they went on the uncertainties of life and death, the inconsiderateness of youth and the chances of getting something bye and bye for their disinterested benevolence; the physician regretting that he had not been the first to propose the marriage, and the merchant wondering that he had not himself thought of the same thing, since the circumstances of the case were so very suspicious. When they arrived at the hotel, they were met in the bar-room by good Doctor Esyman dressed in his gown and bands, with his prayer-book in his hand ready to execute any orders in his line. The good old doctor had also heard that young Tremlett was likely to fall into a great estate if he should live, and with that instinctive reverence for the possessor of a fortune which all men feel, but no man will acknowledge, he had moved with a greater degree of alacrity, perhaps, than he might have done, if the sick man had been a pauper or a slave. Good old doctor Esyman was as little influenced by worldly considerations as a man well could be, and we would not insinuate the slightest word against the purity of his morals, the soundness of his doctrines, or the benevolence of his disposition. The doctor's conduct has always been above suspicion, but he had a large family whose wants had imperceptibly led him to look upon the possessor of a fortune as a being entitled to a good deal of consideration; and there were the most exaggerated reports flying about the circle in which the pious man travelled, relating to the dying man's wealth; some making him worth at least ten millions, whilst others reduced the amount to less than five. But it is our office to chronicle men's actions and not to scrutinize their motives.

The fact is undeniable that the merchant and the physician found the D. D. at the hotel when they arrived there, and that he no sooner heard their proposition than he declared that it was a highly benevolent and proper enterprize, and that he would join them in promoting it, and he undertook to prepare the mind of the young lady, while they agreed to arrange matters with John.

How exceedingly hateful is sin. How universally is wrong-doing condemned. It is hard to reconcile the existence of so much evil as yet remains in the world, with so much virtuous indignation towards wrong-doers as finds a place in every human breast. We doubt if any of our readers ever knew an individual so utterly abandoned and graceless as not to reprobate the evil acts of others.

When Mr. Loudon and the physician entered the chamber of the dying youth on their benevolent business, they experienced a kind of conscious integrity that they had not felt on their former visits, when they did not know that he had been guilty of a very improper, not to say sinful act; and they looked upon him, weak and sinking as he was, with perhaps the least possible glow of indignation for his youthful indiscretion; he was by far too well off in the world, miserable as he appeared, to be despised, let his crimes have been what they might. Poor youth, it would be doing him a good service of which he would not perhaps be sensible while he lingered on the confines of this world, to compel him to make what reparation he could to an injured fellow mortal, and that fellow mortal a wealthy young lady too; it was worth trying for, at least. They stood and looked at each other for some moments, each waiting for the other to begin, and at last, the merchant, after clearing his throat with a good deal of difficulty, spoke to the poor feeble youth, who looked up with a faint expression of wonder, as if anticipating something strange, but was entirely at a loss to conceive its import.

"Hem! hem! once I was young myself," said Mr. Loudon, "and if I had died then, hem! there would have been many acts, hem! that would have troubled my mind." Here he stopped as if he expected his auditor to make some reply, but he only looked up with an approving glance as much as to say, he had not the slightest doubt of it. The physician had been sitting during this short address with his hand to his eyes, but perceiving that his coadjutor had completely run aground, and that the object of their visit was likely to be frustrated for the want of a proper explanation, he took up the subject where Mr. Loudon had dropped it and thus went on.

"Hem! Yes. But it is the duty of every one, young and old, whether in the immediate prospect of death or not, to make all the reparation in his power to whomsoever he may have wronged. It is a painful thing to me, my young friend, to name a subject to you that cannot but cause you much uneasiness. I would be spared this duty if I could. But, situated as I am, hem, and feeling a natural desire to promote the welfare, both temporal and spiritual of those whom Providence, in a manner, brings me as it were, by its inscrutable ways in contact, I have undertaken as a friend to both parties to break this subject to you. Hem! The young lady, possessing, no doubt, some of the weaknesses as well as many of the virtues of her sex, who has evinced such a strong sympathy for your welfare, bringing in a manner the censure of the world upon herself and shame upon her friends, and sacrificing the proprieties of life for your sake, has established a claim upon your gratitude and affections; and it appears to us that it would be making her but a slight return for her sacrifices to submit to the ceremony of a marriage, that her reputation and your own conscience may both be washed from their stains. Hem!" Here the orator rested, naturally expecting a reply. But no reply was made. For the young man, already exhausted by the events of the day, now entirely overcome, had fallen into a deep but quiet slumber. His breathing was so low and still, that at first they thought he was dead; and while they were debating whether it were best to awaken him, and make their proposition to him a-new in a more formal and decided manner, Doctor Esyman and Fred Tuck appeared at the door with Julia between them, and their entrance awoke him. He looked up at them, and a cold shudder shook her frame as she saw how dim and lustreless were his once bright eyes. The good old clergyman pressed her cold and clammy hands and whispered in her ear, bidding her remember that a time would come when she and her lover would meet never more to be separated.

A rumor of the marriage had spread through the house, and the room was filled with strange people, mostly women, who would have hesitated through fear to visit the dying man, but were impelled by curiosity to encounter the risk of taking his disease. As John saw them crowding about his bed, with wonder-stricken looks he thought that they had come to see him die, and this thought was confirmed when the venerable doctor planted himself near, with his prayer book open in his hand. But he soon discovered what they were about to do. Julia was placed close to his side, pale and trembling, and supported by her brother Fred, who, fearing that the bridegroom might not live for the ceremony to be consummated, motioned to the doctor to begin the rites; whereupon the venerable man wiped the moisture from his spectacles and began the solemn service. There was a death-like stillness in the chamber, which was rendered more solemn by the suppressed sobs of the bride. John had scarce strength to oppose the ceremony if he had been disposed to do so, but as he looked upon Julia, his heart reproved him for his culpable negligence in not informing her of the true state of his feelings, in time to save her from the trial that she was undergoing for his sake, and feeling that his end was so near at hand, it seemed to him of little moment what mere ceremony were performed over his unresisting body. In a few hours and all would be over. Mr. Loudon gave away the bride, and as the reverend doctor pronounced, in a trembling voice, the closing words of the ceremony; "the Lord mercifully with his favor look upon you, and fill you with all benediction and grace, that you may so live together in this life, that in the world to come you may have life everlasting," she fell into the arms of her brother and was borne away to her own apartment with scarce a sign of life. As for the newly made bridegroom, he had hardly shown any consciousness, during the ceremony, and his hand was placed in hers without any effort on his part either to withdraw it or to extend it; and he now closed his eyes, as if for the last time, and turned his head to the wall. The doctor having his prayer-book still open, and witnessing the extreme case of the poor youth, without turning a leaf, continued to read on from the order for the visitation of the sick; "Take, therefore, in gentle part, the chastisement of the Lord &c."

Fred Tuck soon returned from his sister's apartment with a written certificate of the marriage which he caused all present to sign, who could write their names, and then deposited it with Mr. Loudon, to prevent accidents. In the flush of the moment, while his spirits were bright and joyous, and his heart was overflowing with gratitude, he took out his pocket-book and handed Doctor Esyman a fifty dollar bill, assuring him that it was a mere trifle to what should follow. But we must be just to the good doctor and bear witness to the fact that he declared with many blushes that it was entirely too large a sum, and protested against it, although he made no motion to return it, but tucked it cautiously under the belt of his robe.

This marriage was a thing to talk about, and as the landlord's lady and daughter, were not destitute of gossiping acquaintances, there were not many families in Charleston that had not discussed the strange affair with that kind of freedom and interest with which affairs are discussed by those who have no possible interest in them, before they retired to their beds that night; and the fortunes of the two young persons, the amount of which they did not know themselves, grew, as the report passed from mouth to mouth from half a million at first up to twenty or thirty millions; and every circumstance attending the marriage was magnified in like proportion. We do not condemn this very natural inclination of the world to pry into other people's affairs, for if every man and woman minded his and her own business solely, and paid no attention to their neighbors, who would read this history? We only regret that there are not more anxious enquiries into other people's affairs. For some reason that we cannot clearly resolve ourselves, there does not appear to be that feverish anxiety to learn the particulars of our Hero's fate, now that it may be obtained in an authentic shape, and on reliable testimony, that was manifested by the public when only idle reports in relation thereto were flying about from mouth to mouth. A friend of ours whose judgment we are disposed to put faith in, tells us it is owing to the want of an international copy-right. Perhaps he may be correct; we hope it is for no worse cause.

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The next morning after the marriage, the bride groom awoke, after a long night's refreshing sleep, such as he had not experienced before since his illness, and very much to his surprise felt within him promptings for breakfast. He had closed his eyes, expecting never to open them again until the great trump should arouse him, and now he was wide awake with his thoughts dwelling upon coffee and toast. Marvelous change! But it was true. His life had been saved by his physicians giving him up. They had ceased giving him medicine, and Nature had been left free to regain her authority; his fever was gone, and although he was still exceedingly feeble, he felt the glow and invigorating influences of returning health. The house was still silent although he saw the sun lighting up the white spire of a church visible from his chamber window; and his chamber was deserted by all but his faithful nurse who was sleeping in a rocking-chair near his bed side.

This woman had watched over him with the tenderest care during his sickness, and her gentle and affectionate manner, had won upon his good will; for her attention, though involuntary at first, seemed to be prompted solely by kindly regard. He forgot that she was a slave, acting in obedience to the commands, not of her master, but her owner; and she seemed scarcely conscious of the relation which she bore to him. They were both human beings, and why should they not regard each other with kindly sympathies? She was not more than twenty-five, although a good nurse, and her form having been left free to mature without the aid of a mantua-maker, was perfect in shape and as graceful as health and content could render it. Her complexion though dusky was warm and glowing, resembling a ripe peach more than any other object in nature, and told that there was more of the free blood of the Saxon race in her veins, than of the slave race of Africa, her hair was black and glossy and her full black eyes, gave her a voluptuous air that well became her name. Having always been employed as a house servant, and enjoyed privileges which her faithful conduct gained for her, she had learned a gracefulness of manner, rarely seen in her unfortunate race. But she was a slave, and her present owner had purchased her at the public sale of one of his neighbors' effects.

She awoke very soon, and perceiving that her charge was already awake, and apparently better; she jumped up with great glee, and exclaimed, "O, honey, bless God, master, you are still there. Are you better, honey."

"I am much better Juno," replied John, "I feel now as though I should get well. I want something to eat, Juno."

The faithful creature laughed outright, "Bless the Lord, young master," she said, "I'll tell master doctor, and he will give you everything to eat. But I am afraid to give you anything, honey; it might bring on your fever again."

"Then I must wait until he comes; but you can give me some lemonade, Juno; there that will do. And now Juno bring me the glass that I may see myself once more. Ah, ah, I am sadly altered," he said as he surveyed his features in the glass, "do you think anybody will know me after this, Juno?"

"O, honey, your wife will know you, she will know you. O, honey!" she turned away her head and wiped a tear from her cheek as she spoke.

"My wife! my wife! Juno! what do you mean by my wife?"

"O, blessed Lord, master, do you forget? Have you forgotten about last night?"

"God help me, Juno," he exclaimed clasping his hands together; "Was that real? It seemed like a dream. But I remember now. O, Juno, I am sick again. O, Juno, I must die. O, my father! O, Fidelia! God help me, Juno, I am very sick."

"O honey! Wait for master doctor. Wait and see for him. Blessed Lord, master, you musn't die." She poured out a tea-spoonful of morphine and begged him to swallow it, but he refused. He closed his eyes and lay a long while without speaking; but he was aroused at last by the entrance of the physician, who was surprised to find him not only alive but evidently better. He had now considerable fever, but when the physician learned from Juno, that he had asked for something to eat, he ordered him a bowl of gruel.

"So, then I am married," said John, looking reproachfully at the physician.

"Hem! yes, and I ought perhaps, to have informed you that your lady would not have deserted you at this time, but she has been, herself, very ill all night. I have this moment come from her room and I fear that she has taken your complaint."

"And how did the marriage happen, why was it? Did I express a wish for it? I am afraid that my poor head has been disordered."

"Be composed, sir," said the physician, "be composed, and we will explain matters to you fully bye and bye. You will be satisfied when you hear all. Don't be alarmed about your lady; she is quite ill now, but as soon as she gets better she shall come to you." And then the doctor withdrew, after giving some directions to Juno about the gruel.

In spite of John's anguish of mind, which was very intense when he reflected on the double misfortune of the loss of his father and his acquisition of a wife, he grew better hourly, while Julia grew worse; it was very soon evident that her disorder was varioloid, and that she had caught it from visiting his chamber there could be no doubt. The symptoms of the disorder were very alarming in the commencement, and the increasing heat of the weather made her situation more precarious. Her brother was unceasing in his attentions, and as her danger increased and John grew well, he began to think that he had been digging a pit to bury himself in.

It was the fifth day after the marriage; John had so far recovered as to be able to sit up part of the day, and he had just composed himself in his easy-chair when Mr. Loudon came into his room with a terrified look, and announced to him that Julia was dying. Although he was still too feeble to leave his room, yet he insisted upon being carried to her bed-side, and he reached there just as she had breathed her last breath. He looked upon her with a kind of stupefaction, from which he was scarcely aroused by the dismal moans of her brother Fred, who wept over her with unaffected sorrow. All his hopes of wealth were blasted by her death. He saw in a moment the hopeless and desperate condition in which he had placed himself and his brother and mother by causing her to be married. They were all now at the mercy of young Tremlett, and he dreaded the reproaches of his brother, and more serious consequences which he knew must follow this disastrous termination of all his plans and schemes. But John, who had never thought about the property which his marriage had given him a title to, commiserated Fred's unhappy condition and did what he could to comfort him; but as he did not know the real cause of his grief, his words had but little effect. For himself, he was rejoiced that he could hide his real feelings under an unassumed deportment of silence and seriousness. And he was taken back to his own apartment where he was allowed to remain in the undisturbed enjoyment of his own sad thoughts.

The funeral of Julia was not long delayed, and her brother Fred returned to give an account of his proceedings to his mother and brother, leaving John behind him, who in another week followed, quite restored to health, and with but small marks of his disorder remaining in his face. His mind had been awakened to the changes and uncertainties of life, and as soon as he was strong enough he had his will drawn up in due form and deposited it with Mr. Loudon, whom he appointed his agent for Charleston. The good doctor Esyman and his physician, both received handsome presents from him, and to Juno, his faithful nurse, he would have given the highest gift that can be bestowed upon the children of God—her freedom. But Mr. Loudon refused to sell her, although John tempted him by offering a very large sum for her. It was a point of honor, and he could not insist upon purchasing her freedom without offence. He had been indebted to her owner for her services, which were freely offered, and it would have been but a poor return for the hospitality of his friend to deprive him of his slave. The poor creature wept bitterly at parting with him; she kissed his hand and bathed it in her tears, and called upon God to bless him and protect him. The last words that rung in his ears and made the deepest impression upon his heart was her fond expression, "O, honey, you will never see Juno again, O honey!"

He was now returning to New York after an absence of less than a month, strangely altered in his fortunes. He was the sole possessor of the entire wealth of Tremlett & Tuck, but the right which he had acquired to Julia's portion he determined to relinquish to her brothers. It was a large sum to give up, but he felt that he had no right to keep it; and as he had been the means of depriving them of their sister, he looked upon the money as of trifling importance when compared with their loss.

It is proper to add here, that before leaving Charleston, he made arrangements for a marble tablet to be placed over the remains of Julia, and entrusted to his friend, Mr. Loudon, the charge of its execution.

BOOK IV.

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CHAPTER I.

YOUNG TREMLETT RETURNS TO NEW YORK AND RECEIVES AN UNLOOKED VISITOR.

ALTHOUGH John hastened with all possible speed to New York, anxious as he was to meet the friends that were still dear to him, and to re-visit the places that had been sanctified by the presence of his earliest, his first and almost his only friend;—his more than father; he looked forward with dread to a meeting with Mrs. Tuck, for he had no consolation to offer to the proud and bereaved mother; and though he longed once more to see Fidelia, he hardly dared to think of her, for what could he say to her, when he had offered her a free undivided heart but a few weeks before, and now must come to her in the character of a widower. But these thoughts gradually gave away to grief for his father as he approached nearer and nearer to his now sad and desolate house. It was late in the evening when he reached the hall door, and as he pulled the bell, he was obliged to lean against the pillars for support. He found Mrs. Swazey and Jeremiah sitting in the back parlor, and they both caught hold of his hands together, but neither could speak a word. All three sat down and wept in silence. They knew each other's thoughts well, and there was no need of words to communicate them. The servants stood looking in at the door anxious to speak to young Tremlett, and to tell him how rejoiced they were to see him again and to condole with him in his affliction, but not knowing how to begin they soon withdrew to greet Patrick, who now came in with the baggage, and to learn from him the particulars of his adventures.

Mrs. Swazey was the first to break silence, for having given the freest vent to her grief it was soonest exhausted.

"That dear good soul is gone," said the old lady, "precious heart, if the dear Lord had only spared him to see you again, he would have gone as happy as a little child. But he went off as quiet as a lamb, and talked beautifully. Didn't he? Jeremiah, O, if he isn't happy I don't know who is. It will be hard for us if he isn't. And such a funeral, it would have done your heart good. They say it was the longest procession ever known, and when they got to the cemetery the minister made as beautiful a prayer as ever was heard. They say it was lovely. Everybody was there, and there was a long piece in the papers about it. I've got it cut out to show you. Dear Lord! And there you was almost dying in that dreadful place all the time, O, it was too much." Here the old lady indulged in a fresh flood of tears, when Jeremiah to save his young friend from a fresh infliction of her eloquent grief, took a candle and motioned to him to follow him. They went up stairs into the old gentleman's room which had not been disturbed since his death, and Jeremiah proposed that they should strive for consolation and support in prayer, and he then knelt down and prayed in a low solemn voice; and his words calmed their feelings, so that at the end they were enabled to speak together placidly and without tears. John requested Jeremiah to remain in the house that night, but begged to be left alone in his father's chamber, that he might indulge, undisturbed, in the feelings which a sight of his apparel and the furniture of his room awakened. They embraced each other, and Jeremiah withdrew.

John looked around the room, but he could see nothing distinctly; his eyes were blinded with tears and he threw himself upon the bed where he lay a long while, until he was disturbed by a gentle tap at the door. It was Mrs. Swazey. "Thank my dear God, for this," said the old lady, as she sat down her chamber lamp, and threw her arms around him and kissed him, "precious heart, I dream't every night I seen you as plain as I do now; but don't stay in this room, my child; there is your own chamber prepared for you. I have had the new chintz curtains put up, and you will be more comfortable than you can be here."

"I must sleep here to-night, mother; to-morrow I will go into the other room, but to-night I must remain here."

"Well, well; you shall do as you wish; Thank my dear God! I shall sleep happy this night," and then the old lady kissed him once more, and bade him good night.

He threw himself upon the bed again where he lay until past midnight, his mind dwelling upon the past scenes of his life, and sometimes conjuring up scenes of the future; the house was still as a tomb, the candle burned low in its socket and after flickering awhile, seemingly struggling to retain its hold upon the exhausted wick, at last went out and left him in complete darkness. Thus he thought his good old father had died. The thought rather tranquilized than disturbed his mind, for it suggested no image of pain or violence, and he might have fallen asleep, had not this quiet thought called up in his recollection the peaceful happy look of his father's face as he had dreamed of seeing it while he lay sick in Charleston. But, was it a dream? No. He now remembered how distinct the appearance had been; the impression it had made upon his mind; and the certainty of its being a real apparition and not a fantasy of the brain, for the event which he felt it foretold, had happened exactly at the time, when the shade of his father first appeared to him. He had forgotten these things until this moment; why, he could not conceive; for they had made a deep impression upon his mind, and his blood chilled as he thought of them. He wished, and yet he dreaded to see his father again. He was not superstitious; he had never been troubled by idle fears; but the thought of being visited by a disembodied spirit, even though it was the spirit of one whom he had loved, and who could only come to him from motives of peace and good will, terrified him, and his heart beat quick, and the sweat started upon his forehead, as the probability of the same apparition again presenting itself occurred to him. All the stories that he had ever read or heard of spirits, rushed through his mind, and all the arguments that he had ever heard made use of in favor of spectral appearances came up fresh in his memory. And, notwithstanding that he had never been at a loss for a refutation, he could think of nothing now to urge against their speciousness. He would have called to Jeremiah who slept in the next room, but a strange feeling of awe had taken possession of him, the very darkness seemed like palpable fetters upon him, he could neither move nor speak; or he felt that he could not, at least; and yet he knew of no reason why he should not. Of one thing he was certain. He was wide awake, in the full possession of his faculties, and entirely free from fever. Yes, it might have been a hallucination before but now, come what might, he could not be deceived. Hardly had this thought filled his mind, when his father again stood by his side. He saw him as plainly as he had ever seen him when alive; there was no glare of light, nothing strange, nothing to affright him; there he stood and gazed upon him with a fixed, calm, and happy look. Although the apprehension of seeing the venerable shade again had filled him with terror, now that he beheld it, he experienced no fear, but rather a holy, calm delight. He knew it was love, that called him there, love that survives death. He did not speak aloud, but he seemed to commune with the spirit, and he knew that his own thoughts were understood. A strange feeling of numbness suddenly came over him, he lost all consciousness of thought or feeling; the apparition was gone; he opened his eyes and it was light. The sun was streaming into his window, the tread of feet was heard on the pavement, and the distant rumble of carriage wheels mingled with the shrill voices of perambulating merchandizers crying their wares, filled his ears. The old familiar sights and sounds around him, assured him that he still belonged to the eating, bargaining and working world. Presently Jeremiah opened his door.

"What, are you already dressed?" said Jeremiah.

"I am already dressed, because I have not been undressed," replied he, "O, Jeremiah, I have seen——" He checked himself suddenly, and changed his subject. He was afraid to say what he had seen. And it was a strange thing, but he thought after all that he might have been in a dream.

The news of John's arrival was soon noised about, not only among his own immediate acquaintances, but among the public at large, for his great wealth, and the respectability of his father, made him a personage of sufficient consequence to have his arrival chronicled in the public prints; and the small papers contained the most wonderful particulars of his history, wonderful from their utter dissimilarity to the truth, for which they were reproved by the larger papers which corrected the errors of their tiny contemporaries by counter statements still more wonderfully incorrect. However, these things all tended to bring him into notice, and he found himself beset by a host of particular friends whose existence he had been living in most unfortunate ignorance of until that time. Before he left the house Tom Tuck made his appearance. Their meeting was respectful, but solemn. No allusion was made to Julia, and after a few common-place observations, they parted, promising to see each other in the evening. Jeremiah now informed John that the business of the house had been entirely suspended, waiting for his return, and that it was necessary to take immediate steps for the settlement of the estate, as many of the holders of the obligations of the house were impatient for their money. As John was ignorant of the proper steps to be taken, he called upon his father's lawyer, Mr. Polesworthy, for advice. And this gentleman told him that the estate must be settled by the executors named in the will, and asked their names, "The will," said John, "where is the will, Jeremiah?" But Jeremiah had not seen it. So they returned together, to the house, and searched in the desk and private drawers of the old gentleman but no will was there. They rummaged his apartment through and through; they examined the pockets of all his clothes; they broke open chests; they tore open bundles of papers; they ransacked in the cellar; they searched in the garret; they left no hole or corner unexamined, but they found no will. Then they went down to the counting room and searched all the pigeon-holes of his desk; they untied all the bundles of old letters and invoices that had been lying on top shelves and in dark corners collecting dust for years; but no will was found. Mr. Polesworthy had assisted in drawing up a will five years before, and two of the students in his office, one of whom had removed to Illinois and the other to Arkansas had witnessed it; the other witness was the Junior partner, Mr. Tuck. Perhaps it had been deposited in the Bank, of which the old gentleman had been a director, for safe keeping. But, upon enquiry they found that it had not been. Then they re-examined all the places that they had searched before but still without success. The will could not be found. The whole day was consumed in this wearying business, and at night John sank down exhausted with the fatigue he had undergone, and bewildered at the strange event. Mr. Polesworthy had cautioned him not to mention the circumstance of the missing will, but when Tom Tuck called upon him at night, he told him of it in confidence. Tom was amazed to hear it. And knowing the prudent, methodical habits of Mr. Tremlett, he feared that it must have been destroyed by accident.

"It will be a horrible, wretched, dismal business, if no will can be found," said Tom Tuck, "all that money may go to the people, confound them, and you will be left without a copper. Something must be done to prevent it."

"I do not see what can be done. I will submit without a murmur if I cannot get possession, in an honest manner, of the property which I know my father intended for me."

"Well, I am no philosopher myself," said Mr. Tuck, "and if I were in your place, I would curse like a pirate about it, if I did nothing else. But I would be even with the Law, you know; and when the Law, which is always a villain, and takes the part of villains, because if there were no villainy there would be no Law, attempts to cheat me out of my rights, I am an ass if I don't do my best to cheat the Law."

"But the Law is framed on general principles, and is no doubt correct; if I have to suffer from its operation it is my misfortune, and not the fault of the Law."

"Ha, ha, ha! Excuse me for laughing," said Tom, "ha, ha, ha," but his laughter needed no excuse; there was not a bit of merriment in it. "Your apology for the Law is its severest condemnation. The devil himself could not quote his own damnation out of scripture, more adroitly. It is the curse of the Law that it is framed on general principles but must have an individual application; and the chances are, that nine times out of ten it will not meet the merits of the case where it is applied. So that you see in a government of laws there will generally be more injustice perpetrated than in a pure despotism. With us the people are the Despot; but instead of giving audience to his subjects and awarding justice according to their varying claims, like other despots, out of pure indolence, or want of knowing better, he frames a set of rules, which he calls laws, and compels all his subjects to be measured by them without any reference to their peculiar wants. But this is not the worst of it. The law-makers are not the administrators of the law. One body makes the laws and another construes them, and as there is no positive meaning to words, it frequently happens, and indeed it almost always happens, that the man who construes the law, finds in it a meaning very different from what the maker of it intended. Then look again at the absurd want of checks and counterbalances in such a system of villainy and fraud; here are about a dozen courts for the commission of errors and only one for the correction of them. This all appears absurd enough, I dare say, even to you who would apologise for it, but there is something still more absurd, still more wicked, still more deeply, damnably mulish than all this. The law-makers themselves know nothing about law as a study, but those who apply the law must study seven years before they can be licensed to do so; and what do you suppose their studies must be? Don't laugh, or rather don't weep, for only the Devil himself could have the heart to laugh at such an instance of human folly,—why, Greek and Latin poets; and then after a case has been submitted to all these hard students in the law, and been adjudged and sat upon by one Judge after another, going up by regular steps out of one court into another above, the last place of appeal is to a set of Judges again who are required to know nothing, not even their alphabet, much less Greek and Latin, and they have the power to reverse all the decisions made by their betters, and from their decision there is no appeal."

"But surely you are in error as to the qualifications of a lawyer," said John, who had listened to this wrathful tirade with a very serious countenance.

"Not a bit of it. I know a gentleman who was what they call a self-taught man. He began life by teaching a school; he afterwards became famous as an orator; he was then two years clerk of one of the higher courts; after this he had a seat on the bench, where he served four years in the capacity of a Judge. Afterwards, he became ambitious of legal honors, and he applied for admission to the bar; the judges of the Supreme Court, in consideration of the stations he had occupied, decided that he might be admitted to practice as an attorney in the lowest courts after four years of probationary study in a lawyer's office; and at the same time they awarded three years study to his own son, a boy of eighteen, because he procured a certificate from his father of having pursued classical studies under his tuition for four years. The father, poor man, was doomed to one year more, because he could produce no certificate, he having been his own instructor."

"But, you would not abolish all law?" said John.

"Yes I would," replied Tom, "my friend the great Jupiter Grizzle, has been doing a prosperous business for more than forty years, and he tells me that he has never once resorted to law during the whole time."

"But what would the unprosperous do? How could they get redress when they had been injured?"

"Precisely as they try to get it now, but always fail. As the People are the Despot, as I before stated, they should always sit, that is, agents appointed by them, to hear the complaints of their subjects and award justice according to the circumstances of the parties and not in conformity to the practice of their ancestors, or of England or Rome, a thousand years before. Here's a case exactly in point. The brothers Tuck are indebted to Morphine & Nephews a thousand dollars, for a balance due them on an exchange operation; now, the money is due, and any two or three intelligent men who should hear the case from the parties would decide without hesitation that the money must be paid; but it is not convenient for the Brothers Tuck to pay it, so they allow themselves to be sued, and the law allows them to file objection after objection, all based upon some allowable legal lie, by which means judgement is delayed some two or three years, and when at last the plaintiffs get their suit, the defendants are bankrupts, and in addition to the original debt, the Messrs. Morphine lose a large bill of costs."

"Even though we should not succeed in finding my father's will," said John, who did not appear to have been listening to this last ingenious illustration, "I can appeal to the legislature and they can pass a special law giving me possession of what I should but for an accident have been legally entitled to."

Tom shook his head and smiled in his peculiar manner. "No, no, our legislators always look at the wrong side of a question first. How much will it cost? is the first consideration; is it right and proper? comes afterwards. I am not much of a politician, and know but little about public affairs; but this I do know; I have never in any one instance seen a report of any debate upon any great subject in either the state or national assemblies, wherein it was discussed upon any higher principle than as a mere matter of dollars and cents. You could have no hope from the legislature. They would not give up their claim upon half a million of dollars to render an act of justice to an individual."

"Perhaps you are right. I will not allow myself to be disheartened even though I do not recover a shilling. My father commenced life as poor as I can be now; and with his example before me I have no fears of success."

"You can afford to take matters coolly, with my sister's share of my uncle's property at your command. I should have no fears of success myself, with such a foundation as that to build upon."

"I had not calculated on that," said John, with a hesitation in his manner, "I did not mean to claim your sister's fortune."

Tom looked at him a moment as though he doubted his seriousness, but showed no surprise himself, although he could scarce refrain from jumping out of the window, so excited did this short speech render him, but said deliberately, "I knew that you would not, and so I assured my mother, who, it is true, cares nothing for the money, so overcome has she been since the death of my poor sister." Here he pulled out his pocket handkerchief and held it to his eyes nearly five minutes, during which John thought to himself it would be as well to consult Mr. Polesworthy before he made any positive declaration of his intentions. So he made no farther remarks about Julia's fortune.

"Poor Julia!" said Tom, "you must excuse this weakness but you cannot understand my feelings; you have never lost a sister. I will try to forget her now. I have a proposition to make to you. If no will can be found, it is clear enough that you will not be able to recover a dollar of your father's property, and it would be hard to take from you the property to which you are entitled by your marriage with my sister, and yet it is hard that I and my mother and brother should be deprived of it, since it belongs to us by right. Now if you are willing, we will continue the business of Tremlett & Tuck, on the capital of my uncle, giving you full claim to the capital, and dividing the profits, one half to myself and the other half equally between my mother and brother and yourself. The house is well known, has an established credit, good correspondents, and being continued in the same name, one half the world will not know that there has been any change; in a few years we shall all be able to retire with handsome fortunes."

"I like your proposition well," said John, "but it strikes me that you make too unequal a division of the profits."

"Ah, but consider my experience, and that I shall have half the business to do myself, if not the whole of it," replied this singularly modest merchant, "and then remember that I relinquish to you the whole of my sisters fortune."

"There is something in that" thought John, so he acquiesced in the division of the profits, "but," he said, "I should be glad to include Jeremiah in the partnership, even though I had to allow him a portion of my own profits."

"No, that I won't consent to. Jernegan is a good clerk enough, but, I wouldn't have such a fellow for a partner."

"Well, I will not insist upon it," said John, "but it would gratify me, and I doubt not prove of advantage in the end; but one thing I must stipulate for, and that is that he be allowed to retain the situation which he has held in the old firm, and at the same salary. And I should be glad for all the old clerks to be retained, who may wish to remain."

"We will not quarrel about them," replied Tom, "and now I am so well satisfied with this arrangement, you must go with me and see my mother; it will be a painful meeting, I know, but it has got to take place, and the sooner it's over the better for all of us."

John would have been glad to put off the meeting with Mrs. Tuck, but it was his duty to go and he could not refuse. So he accompanied his new partner to his mother's house.

Perhaps our readers will think that the senior Tuck evinced a degree of generosity in proposing this arrangement at variance with his former actions. But no man can act contrary to his nature. Tom Tuck knew what he was about, and his motives will divulge themselves in good time.

They found Mrs. Tuck alone in her parlor, but when she perceived that John had entered the room, she began a piteous moaning, crying out, "O, my daughter, my daughter," nor would she lift her eyes or speak a word to him. Tom endeavoured to quiet her, but she refused to be comforted, and continued to exclaim "O! my daughter, my daughter! Give me back my daughter!"

This was so distressing to John that he could not remain, he was touched by her grief, and was forced to withdraw without speaking to her, so keenly did he feel for her. But he had no sooner closed the door, than she took her pocket handkerchief from her eyes, and said,

"My son, how could you bring that fellow to me? If you have any love for your heart-broken mother, never again let him darken my doors. The sight of him is harrowing to my feelings. He has deprived me of my daughter, and made us beggars."

"But my dear mother, we must remember that he was Julia's husband; he is one of our family, and if we would have him love us we must show some love for him."

"Never, never." replied the afflicted mother, "he has been a source of mortification and misfortune to us since the day when that misguided old man took him into his house. But the worst has been done, he can injure us no more. He has deprived us of Julia, and of the fortune which was ours by right. Love him, my son, never! never! He will know, before he dies, what it is to rob a mother of her child. O, Julia! Julia!"

"You must exercise some reason, even in your grief," replied her son, "Julia is gone, rash girl that she was, and, to be just, we cannot blame young Tremlett, for I know that he had no agency in her leaving us. As for the marriage, you know that nobody was to blame for that but Fred, and, for the property, he has offered to relinquish his claim in our favor."

"But has he done it?" said his mother.

"He has not, and I will not allow him to do so. I will make a better arrangement. I have proposed to enter into partnership with him and use it as a capital, retaining only a moiety of the profits. But we shall get it all in the end."

"But, does he know that his father left no will?"

"Does he know it?" said Tom looking at her with astonishment in his face. "He does, but how did you know it?"

"I was told of it in confidence," she replied.

"It's a strange business," said Tom, "and it has puzzled me confoundedly. And now that you know the facts, you must treat Tremlett with respect, let your feelings be what they may, I will have it so."

"O, my son, you know that I live only for the sake of you and Fred, and if you wish it, it is enough; but my heart will always rebel against him."

Mrs. Tuck was as good as her word. The next Sunday herself and her two sons returned thanks publicly in church through the Rev. Doctor Misty, for the safe return from abroad after a dangerous illness of their near relation and friend.

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CHAPTER II.

CONTAINS SUNDRY ITEMS OF BUSINESS.

JOHN consulted with his lawyer, Mr. Polesworthy, in regard to his proposed business arrangement, and that gentleman recommended him very strongly to accept of the proposition of Tom Tuck, for he had formed a high opinion of his business talents, and knew that he enjoyed a reputation for financial skill, in Wall Street, superior to that of any young man of his age. Mr. Polesworthy, though a regular bred lawyer, one of those who pursue classical studies four years, but never afterwards take a classic in their hands, was exceedingly fond of business, and did not dream that half a million of dollars was of any other use to a young man than as a capital for carrying on a splendid trade. Therefore, he was quite sincere in recommending John to embark his fortune and employ his precious time in the glorious pursuit of wealth, by buying at a small price, and selling at high ones, any thing that could be bought and sold whether rum and molasses, or cambric needles and chain cables; although an ill-natured historian, such as we are not, might insinuate that he was influenced by a desire to bring corn to his own hopper, as he had reasonable expectations that all the law business of any house that his new client might belong to, would fall into his hands. But this we should be unwilling to believe of Mr. Polesworthy. A man of his position in society, his great wealth and standings in the church, could hardly be suspected of such low motives. His very appearance would forbid such a thought. He could have no motives for aspiring to worldly possessions; for he was dyspeptic in his habits, and with the means of living like a prince he was compelled to eat corn bread like a slave; his drink was water; and his amusements consisted solely of such pleasure as might be extracted from the occupation of overhauling bundles of old musty papers and inspecting yellow covered volumes of law reports; his house was furnished in the plainest manner and its bare white walls were decorated with no flaunting works of art; children he had none, and his wife's tastes were as sober as his own; her sole happiness consisted in "cleaning up," and such littering things as flowers she would not allow to grow near her; what could such people want of money? It cost them nothing to live; and any one who could look upon Mr. Polesworthy's spare form, his wrinkled face, greenish eyes, and thread-bare clothes, and suspect him of avarice or worldly ambition, must have a very low and strange opinion of human nature; furthermore, he entertained no company, and gave no gifts; his relations were all able to take care of themselves, except a brother who was fit for nothing, and providentially was provided for by government with the rank and emoluments of post captain in the Navy, which he was allowed to enjoy although he had not wet the sole of his shoe with salt water for almost half a century. It is true, however, that Mr. Polesworthy got all the money he could, and kept all he got, but his motives for so doing were quite inscrutable. He was a good lawyer, that is, a safe one, and he had no lack of clients. John told him that it had been his intention to relinquish to the Tucks their sister's property, and that he would have done so had not Tom made the proposal for joining him in business, upon which he turned very pale and told his client that if he ever heard him intimate such a thing again be would immediately have him sent to the insane asylum, until he recovered his senses. Relinquish half a million of dollars! 'Twas a burlesque on insanity. The maddest of all maniacs would sneer at such a want of sense. It was a proceeding without a parallel. He did indeed remember something about an Emperor who once relinquished a crown to his son, or something of that sort, and of a king who gave up his sceptre to his daughters, but he had never put much faith in such stories, and even though they had been true, what was power to money?

John quailed under the vehement reproof of his lawyer, and began to think that he had been entertaining a very wicked and ridiculous purpose, and he promised his legal friend that he would consult him before he made any important move in regard to his pecuniary affairs.

The search for the will was resumed, but without effect, not a scrap of writing could be found among the papers of the deceased merchant giving the faintest light upon the subject. It was a strange, distressing matter, and as the chances grew stronger and stronger that the property would slip through John's hands, from some cause wholly unaccountable upon any \rinciple recognized by Christian philosophers; his friends diminished exactly in proportion to the need he stood in of them, instead of increasing as they should have done, in conformity with the religious philosophy they professed to have faith in. As for John himself, the one most concerned, he expressed and really felt very little grief on the occasion. It was a disappointment to him, for he had been taught to look upon his father's property as his own, and many generous dreams that he had indulged in would never be realized, but his personal friends, and even several editors of newspapers whom he had never known, expressed a world of pity for him, and some even went so far as to censure his father for his carelessness in not executing a will when he must have known that a man of his age was liable to be taken off at a moment's notice. But such reflections gave great offence to the one whom they were intended to gratify. He knew what his father's intentions had been, and he had no doubt that some accident had hindered their execution, but even though his father had intentionally left him without a dollar he could not complain; he was already indebted to him for the recollection of a happy youth, for a good education, and for many lessons of charity and meekness. Let what might happen to him, the memory of happy days in his youth was a stream of sunshine that no shadows could ever darken; it was beyond the reach of chance; sickness, poverty and disgrace could not affect it; it was a well of living waters, with an unfading margin of verdant turf; it was a sky without a cloud; a sea without a storm; it was a sun so bright that it cast no shadow before him even though it shone upon his back.

In due process of time the public administrator took charge of Mr. Tremlett's property, but John continued through the aid of Mr. Polesworthy to retain possession of the house and furniture, where he continued to live with Mrs. Swazey for his house-keeper, and slept constantly in the little room next to his father's that he had occupied during the old gentleman's life time. He also administered upon his wife's estate, and the balance sheet of the firm having been made out but a week previous to Mr. Tremlett's death, and the amount due to her uncle, carried to her credit, it was immediately paid over to him by the public Administrator, upon his producing the marriage certificate, which Mr. Loudon had put into his hands as he was leaving Charleston. So that he was in reality precisely as wealthy as he would have been had his father left a will and he had not been married to Julia Tuck. Indeed, he was richer, for Mr. Tuck was worth more money than his partner, their interest in the concern being equal, and Mr. Tuck's personal expenses much less than Mr. Tremlett's. Their investments had always been on joint account, and the only difference in their interests was caused by the difference in their manner of living. Furthermore, had Mr. Tremlett left a will, it is beyond a doubt that he would have left a considerable amount to his house-keeper, and servants and clerks; and it would have been contrary to his uniform habit had he not bequeathed something, handsome to several benevolent institutions, among the rest the Orphan Asylum from whence he had taken his son, to which he had given a thousand dollars annually for a good many years; these would have diminished the sum total that the young man would have to receive, largely, and it would have been still farther diminished in converting the merchandise of the firm into cash, and collecting many large debts of foreign houses, all of which had been taken at their full value by Mr. Tremlett in making a division of the estate.

It is neither becoming nor necessary in a history like this to descend to tabular statements; but on so interesting a subject as the settlement of a large estate, a portion of our readers may reasonably expect some definite and positive information for we are well aware that in a community like ours, and among a great variety of students of history such terms as "large amounts" and "considerable sums" have no very significant meaning, since a very large sum to a clerk in Grand street, would be a very small amount to a broker in Wall street; and a large fortune in Chatham Square is a very different thing from a large fortune in Washington Square. For the sake of precision then, and to obviate all misunderstandings we submit to the reader the following account of the property paid over to John Tremlett on the —— but we musn't name dates.

Check on the Treasurer of the "Real Estate and State Stock Association," | $396.840.00
140 Shares of the Stock of the Crescent Fire Insurance Co. par value $50.00, | 7.000.00
100 Shares of the capital stock of the "Peoples' Bank," at 100 dollars, | 10.000.00
50 Shares of the capital stock of the "Grocers' Bank," at 400 dollars, | 20.000.00

100 Shares of the "North American Life, Fire, Annuities and Inland Navigation Insurance and Trust Company," at 50.00 dollars,

5.000.00

75 Shares of the "Hamilton Marine Insurance Company," at 125 dollars, | 9.375.00
6 per cent Stock of the City of New York, redeemable 1920, | 35.000.00
5 per cent do 1890, | 40.000.00
5 per cent do of the State of New York, Canal Loan, | 50.000.00
120 Shares of the "Cranberry Meadow Rail Road," at 100 dollars, | 12.000.00
20 Shares of the "Fever Swamp Canal," at 40 dollars, | 800.00
| ————
| $586.015.00
| ————

But as these stocks would average something above ten per cent premium in the market it will readily be perceived that the sum total received was equal to six hundred thousand dollars. The "Fever Swamp Canal" and the "Cranberry Meadow Rail Road" were at a considerable discount it is true; but they did not reduce the average below ten per cent. It is proper to inform the reader, lest he should doubt the sagacity of Tremlett and Tuck, that these stocks were not purchased by those prudent merchants, but were received by them from a Jobber to whom they lent money the day before he failed, and as he wanted to do the "clean thing" by his confidential creditors, so that he might keep his head up among fair-and-square men, he purchased these stocks at a very great discount and paid them away at par.

The transfers of the stocks and cash were completed; the partnership papers were all drawn up, and the advertisements announcing the new firm under the old name, were just going to be sent off, when a very trifling rupture occurred which threatened for a while to derange the entire plan. Fred Tuck insisted that the last name of the firm should be changed into a noun of multitude, Tucks; his brother swore it should not. Fred swore in his turn that it should. John had no choice in the matter. The brothers became excited, from words they threatened blows; neither would give up, and it being a point of not the smallest importance, it was for that very reason a point of honor;—for all the world knows that debts of honor, are contracted without any consideration being given, and that affairs of honor spring out of the very slightest circumstances, as we have seen one gentleman challenge another for an insinuation, who received torrents of abuse from others without winking; the difficulty was at last happily settled by John proposing that it should be determined by tossing up a penny. "Heads," cried Fred and heads it was; so the firm was announced as Tremlett and Tucks, very much to the chagrin of Tom who could not endure that anybody's name should stand before his own, but he knew it was for his interest, and he kept his dissatisfaction to himself.

We have made an important omission in the above schedule, as regards the property of Mr. Tuck; one half of the store in South Street, the one occupied by the firm, and the only real estate that they held, was also assigned to Julia, but it being real-estate it could not of course be claimed by her husband, and it fell to her two brothers as her heirs, with the life use of it to their mother. But this was a matter of but little consequence to the new firm, since they could still keep possession of it. The Brothers immediately vanished from Wall Street and tore down their little tin sign. Tom took possession of his uncle's old desk and arm chair, and John, with a sad reluctant feeling took the vacant seat of his father. The first day he sat in it he burst into tears, and could do nothing for the remainder of the day. When he retired at night, he spent a long time in his father's room, and wept bitterly when he remembered that he was now without a friend in the world, at least he felt so, and for the first time in his life he thought seriously of his own father and mother whom he had never known. His mother he had been told was dead, but who she was or whence she had come he had never known. His father, perhaps he might still be alive, and he might yet discover him. Wearied at last, and overcome by his sad reflections, he retired to his own room and went to bed. But he could not sleep; he extinguished his candle but his brain was too busy to slumber; all the incidents of his life were crowding themselves unbidden before him, a long, long, distance back farther than he had ever been able to see before, they seemed like regular links in a chain, one dragging the other; the most minute events of his childhood appeared as distinct as though they had been occurrences of the day before; his buffetings at the Asylum, his escape, his detection by Mr. Tremlett, his drowning sensations when he was upset in the river; they all appeared as real as though he were at the moment experiencing them; back, back he went in his career until nothing could be seen beyond; a dismal, vapory barrier closed up the prospect. "O, Heavenly Father," he sighed, "that I could but have caught a glimpse of my mother's face!" As he said this he turned upon his side, and saw again his good old father gazing upon him with the same happy, calm, contented look. But he was not alone. A female figure accompanied him; she was robed in white, and her long hair fell in bright luxuriance over her shoulders; her eyes were blue, and they gazed earnestly upon him, but her face was not like his father's, serene and happy; it looked unquiet and it distressed him. No word was spoken, but he knew that it was his mother. But was she not happy? No, he knew that she was not. As they gazed upon him, his blood grew chill and yet his heart beat with violence; his eye balls ached as though they would burst, he grew numb, his senses reeled, he forgot himself, he seemed to struggle to free himself from a strange influence, at last the spell was broken; he opened his eyes; it was broad day and his celestial visitors had disappeared.

This last appearance troubled him sorely. He now knew that it was no hallucination, and he grew very serious. To turn from an interview with the spirits of departed friends and mingle in the helter-skelter pursuits of a commercial life was a violent change. He longed for solitude and a friend, one near and dear, to whose ear and heart he could entrust the secrets that oppressed him. He knew not what these visitations might mean; but he hesitated to take counsel of the world, for he knew that he would meet with derision and contempt, if he should reveal the secret of his visitants. His spirits were sad, and he felt but little inclination to bear his share in the business he had undertaken. But when he walked out in the bright sun, and felt the fresh air, and saw around him so much of life, of activity and apparent enjoyment, and above him the pure blue sky and the glorious white clouds sailing in their majesty and vapory beauty, he forgot his melancholy feelings, and long before he had reached his counting room, the hearty and cheerful salutations of the multitude of acquaintances that he met, the hurried gait of all whom he encountered, and the fresh external aspect of everything he saw, completely chased from his thoughts every vestige of the unsubstantial, yet real forms that had stood by his bed-side the night before.

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CHAPTER III.

WILL BE OCCUPIED MAINLY IN DISCUSSING CERTAIN AFFAIRS OF TOO DELICATE A NATURE TO BE EMBLAZONED AT THE HEAD OF A CHAPTER.

IT must not be thought that John had forgotten Fidelia, or that his admiration of her had in the smallest degree diminished, because we have made no allusion to her since his return to New York; he had in reality a greater regard for her than ever, and he only waited for a decent time to pass by that he might call upon her, and if it should be necessary, explain to her the circumstances under which he was married. He had heard nothing from her, save only that Jeremiah had passed her in the street but a few days after his arrival, since he had written to her; and it was with an unquiet and doubtful feeling that he rapped one evening, just after dusk, at the door of the yellow cottage in the Bowery. Her grandmother met him at the door, and she and the old sailor gave him a most hearty and cordial greeting, while they expressed their sympathy for the loss of his father in sincere and unaffected terms. He found the old couple exactly as he had last seen them, quiet, neat and cheerful; but Fidelia! she was not there. A chair stood by her work-stand as though it had just been vacated, but it was occupied by a monstrously overgrown white tom-cat that had lost its eyes in an encounter with rats some years before, and now in his old age shared jointly with the drab parrot the affectionate attentions of Fidelia and her grandparents. These worthy people could not have lived happily without some such objects to bestow the overflowings of their love upon. They were not contented with simply making themselves comfortable, and their little income did not allow them to entertain more expensive pensioners; although they had besides these two animal pets, sundry vegetable favorites such as a bunch of sweet-william, an old twisted and deformed althea, and a gorgeous sun-flower, that they regarded with almost as great affection; while a shepherdess, with a striped blue petticoat, a fancy boddice and a crook in her hand, that stood upon the little black mantel-piece received a greater number of benevolent and genuine kind glances from the old sailor as he sat before the fire with his pipe in his mouth, than any pastoral lady who has been piped to since the days of Theocritus.

John sat a long while hoping that Fidelia would make her appearance, but she came not. He made no allusions to her, although he spoke of her father whose arrival was daily expected, and the old people seemed purposely to avoid speaking of her. He felt embarrassed, for he had no doubt that they knew the nature of the letter he had sent to her, and at last he enquired if she was well? Thereupon the old sailor smoked his pipe very earnestly and looked at the china shepherdess, but the old lady replied that "she was not very well, neither was she sick," and suddenly became intensely interested in her knitting needles.

John was not slow to perceive these demonstrations, and they annoyed him more than he cared to show, and after a moment's pause he enquired if she would be at home the next evening, and having been informed that it was uncertain, he bade them good night, and begged to be remembered to Miss Clearman, and left the quiet little house in a most unquiet frame of mind. Scarcely had he closed the door, when Fidelia made her appearance from up stairs, and throwing her arms around her grandmother's neck, burst into tears and sobbed like a child.

"Never mind my little darter," said her grandfather, "your father will be at home in a few days and he will see that everything is fixed in ship-shape fashion. Don't cry about any man my darter, there's as good fish in the sea as ever was caught."

"My poor child," said her grandmother, as she wiped the tears from her cheeks, "my poor dear child, Mr. Tremlett spoke as kindly about you as ever. It was no fault of his, I know. Wait until you hear what he has to say. Don't cry so, you will break my heart. Your poor old grandmother cannot live to see you unhappy."

"O, let me cry, let me cry while I can," said Fidelia, "but don't name his name to me again. I cannot bear his name. He cares nothing for me, neither do I for him, and he only came here to-night to insult us because we are poor."

"Well, my darter, I am an old man, and an honest man, if I am a poor one," said her grandfather, "but if he or any other man, I don't care how rich he may be, insults you he had better not sail in the same latitude with this here old hulk, I can promise you, so don't cry for that. Recollect that your old grandfather won't see his darter imposed upon if he is poor. No, no."

Here the conversation was interrupted by the ejaculation of the old bird "let us pray," and Fidelia wiped her eyes, but she could not read, and the Bible being opened upon the little table, her grandmother read the chapter appointed for the day, and afterwards they all knelt reverently in prayer, and in asking forgiveness for their own transgressions forgot all the real or fancied wrongs that others had done to them. As for John, he had only to retire to his lone room, and brood over his griefs. There were enough who would have been happy to console him with their condolences, for the rich are never in want of sympathizers, but he had no heart for their attentions, and he avoided them all that he could. But it is no use for a rich man to try to avoid his friends; there is but one way to be rid of them, which was well and successfully tried by a certain Timon, as our readers remember, and, therefore, we need not allude to it more particularly.—It is a fortunate thing for an author to have intelligent readers, it saves such a vast amount of trouble in the way of notes and pieces justificatives; and that ours are intelligent we have good reason to infer from their being so select.—The next day, however, he wrote to Fidelia a detailed account of the nature of his intimacy with Julia, the reasons of his journey to Charleston and the particulars of his illness and marriage, and sent it to her by the hands of Jeremiah, and we shall learn in good time what effect it had upon that delicately minded and beautiful young lady.

Hitherto Jeremiah had only guessed at the nature of John's feelings towards Fidelia, but now the young man made a confidant of his old friend, and told him how ardently he loved her, and of the fears he entertained that his suit would not be acceptable to her on account of his marriage with Julia Tuck; and Jeremiah being extremely simple-minded and affectionate, and forming all his ideas of a woman's temper from what he had seen of it in Huldah Hogshart, conceiving in consequence that the supremest happiness of all young and beautiful ladies consisted in making their admirers as unhappy as they possibly could render them, was forced to confess that he feared John's apprehensions were not without good and substantial foundations. But he encouraged him with such philosophical reflections as suggested themselves to his mind; and ventured to make a confession of his own experience in verification of Shakespeare's immortal line. It appeared that Jeremiah's love had been stretched to its utmost tension, and that it had once or twice been very near snapping asunder, and if it had done so, it could not, of course, ever have been fastened together again in this world; for Love is no sooner broken than the fragments immediately turn to hate; and therefore, lovers should guard with great care, and not practice upon the strength of the cord that binds them together, lest its tenacity should be overtaxed, and they sundered forever. Jeremiah's chief trouble arose from the excessive fondness of Miss Hogshart for worldly things, and the very slight regard that she entertained for some of his old-fashioned and ridiculous notions. However he flattered himself, that for his sake she would alter when they got married, and she had not the slightest doubt that she could cure him of all his inconvenient whims when she once got him entirely under her control. Therefore they could each of them afford to make small concessions, during their probationary state of courtship, and as yet they had not indulged in any downright quarrel. But as the reader will perceive this is not the way in which the band that is to bind for time and eternity two human beings, should be formed; their foibles and virtues should be so mixed together during this period that when the rivets are finally fastened by the agent of the Law, whether magistrate or parson, they shall have formed a kind of concrete which neither years, nor disgrace, nor sickness, nor wealth, nor poverty, nor separation, nor scandal, nor friends, nor foes, nor even death itself can ever dissolve or rend asunder. This is sometimes, but rarely, done after marriage, but the safest way is to do it before hand; but, unfortunately, marriages take place at that season of life when advice, though most needed, is least heeded, and we fear that our good intentions in making these observations, will avail but little with the students of this history.

As the term of Miss Hogshart's apprenticeship was nearly at an end, and she would be compelled to return to her father's house when it arrived, there to practice the sublime art that she had been acquiring a knowledge of, Jeremiah's thoughts begun to dwell upon marriage. It is true he had saved nothing from his yearly salary, and that he could expect nothing in the shape of property with his wife, friend Hogshart having intimated to him that he considered the personal charms with which she was abundantly endowed, were an ample dower, forgetting possibly that personal charms were as transient and fleeting as even personal property, and that they should always accompany each other in a bride, so that when one should chance to spread its wings the other might be left to atone for its loss; but then he was in a good situation, with a liberal salary and a probability of his retaining it as long as he might wish to do so. There could be nothing imprudent in taking upon himself the responsibility of so prudent and industrious a wife as he doubted not Huldah Hogshart would prove. John agreed with him, and advised him to get married immediately, and told him to dismiss all thoughts about the future, so far as mere pecuniary matters were concerned. Jeremiah felt very happy to hear his own wishes so kindly responded to by his friend and employer, and resolved that they should be fulfilled with no more delay than what delicacy and prudence might require. He was obliged to acknowledge to himself that he did not experience that strange, wild, delicious tumult of pleasureable feelings now when the consummation of his courtship seemed so near at hand, that he did when he first thought of such a thing in the earlier days of his acquaintance with Miss Hogshart. But he looked upon this as a thing of course, remembering the old saying, that familiarity breeds contempt, and that the fiercest fires soonest burn out. But he wished, notwithstanding, that he could know how others had felt in his situation; whether they had, like him, experienced any diminution of desire, as the period of gratification drew near. He had no friend, however, whom he dared to consult on so delicate an occasion, unless it were Mr. Bates, and he did not consider that gentleman's opinions as entitled to serious consideration upon such a subject.

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CHAPTER IV.

CONCERNING THE BUSINESS ARRANGEMENTS OF THE NEW FIRM.—JEREMIAH IS DETECTED IN A VERY BASE ACT.

THE new firm commenced business under as favorable prospects, perhaps, as any firm that ever has been established in the commercial emporium. With a large capital, an established correspondence, a good name and multitudes of friends, success could hardly be considered within the possibility of doubt. But it is not every ship that sails on a fair day that arrives safely in port; and we have known more than one to set sail in a storm and arrive at her haven in sunshiney weather. We shall know all before long. Let us hope for the best.

We have already seen that Tom and John were provided with desks, but no mention was made of Fred who, although older than Tremlett, had to take rank as the junior partner, a position which caused his proud and chivalrous heart to swell in his bosom, and determined him to make up in externals for his lack of consequence in position. He therefore had a costly and magnificent desk made for his own accommodation, with a great number of drawers, for novels, segars, perfumery and brushes, visiting cards, a small mirror, and a great variety of other articles equally necessary in a merchant's counting room; it was manufactured of rose-wood and inlaid with box and ivory in a very ingenious manner, and the whole was enclosed by a curtain of violet colored silk, so that he could pursue his important and abstruse calculations without being annoyed by his partners or casual visitors. His chair was a facsimile of the senatorial chairs at Washington, excepting only that the seat was covered with scarlet morocco, that had been imported from Paris for a Wall Street Broker, who had the misfortune to run away before it arrived. When his brother saw this elegant adornment of the counting room brought in, he ripped out an oath in his coarse manner, but John barely smiled, and continued writing his letter. The truth is they were neither much versed in aesthetics as Fred told them, and for which reason he held them both in very hearty contempt. Most of the clerks of the old firm were retained by the new one, although, for reasons well known to himself, Tom had contrived that no one should retain his original position except the book-keeper, Mr. Bates, and the foreign corresponding clerk Mr. Keckschnipen, who was quite a miracle of a linguist, being able to write French like a German, and English like a Frenchman, and Spanish like a Swede, and Swedish like a Spaniard, and as they had correspondents in all those languages, his services were indispensable, and he received a round salary for them. Tom assumed the financial department, his fitness for which no body ventured to question; John was to superintend the purchases and sales and go on 'change, and Fred had the agreeable duty, generally assigned to junior partners in large houses, of entertaining the foreign correspondents who might visit the city, and doing the agreeable to bearers of letters of introduction; generally gentlemen of a distingué air with moustachios and dirty linen, and a great profusion of diamond bosom studs and prodigious finger rings. Jeremiah at first held on to the cash-book, but a circumstance, which our candor as an impartial historian will not allow us to keep from the reader, caused him to be removed from that important station, and the domestic correspondence was placed in his charge. The very morning after the partnership was formed, the porter brought in a large number of letters from the post office, mostly addressed to the old firm, and among them was one for John, with the Charleston post mark, directed in a strange unmercantile hand, and sealed with a very broad seal, bearing a great profusion of heraldic scrolls and figures, and a latin motto. Jeremiah's curiosity was so strongly excited by this strange looking missive, that he was tempted to take it up, and endeavour, by holding it up to the light and peeping in between the folds, to discover who it was from, and while he was engaged in this very wicked and disreputable act, Mr. T. Jefferson Tuck came in. Jeremiah blushed at being caught in such an act, and hastily threw the letter on John's desk and was about to withdraw to hide his confusion, when Mr. Tuck called him back.

"So, Mr. Jernegan," said the upright financier, with a frown of indignant honesty, "you open other people's letters, do you sir?"

"I never did such a thing," said Jeremiah, while a blush of shame suffused his pale cheek.

"You never did such a thing!" repeated the financier, with a sneer, "how dare you say so to me, sir, when I saw you trying to peep into that letter, sir; trying to steal a secret, sir, which you must have known was never intended for you."

"I did not suppose there could be anything wrong in it."

"You did not? Well, sir, that aggravates your fault. What security have I that my letters will not be opened, with a man who does not think it wrong to do such things, about me. You don't think it wrong, sir, at which of your churches did you hear that doctrine preached, sir?"

"I frankly confess that it was wrong, and that I am very sorry for it; it was thoughtlessly done, but it was not your letter, and I will take the consequences from Mr. Tremlett, who alone has any right to speak to me about it; the letter was for him—" said Jeremiah.

"Gracious God," exclaimed the financiering partner in amazement, "how dare you make use of such language to your employer; you reprobate, I will have you turned into the street for your audacity, and I will see that you enter no counting house in this city. You have not got energy enough to do a bold deed of villainy like a man, but you must go prowling about like a mousing cat prying into other people's secrets, you feline scamp. Give me your cash-book sir, and close the door."

Jeremiah did as he was ordered, and had the pleasure of being sneered at and hissed by the other clerks in the outer office, who were not only shocked at his want of moral rectitude but absolutely and thoroughly disgusted at his want of courage, two qualities so peculiar to the whole human race, and particularly to clerks in counting rooms, that they well might be indignant; but they did, nevertheless, out of pure good nature and kindly regard, one and all advise him to go in and give Mr. Tuck a flogging and then resign his situation. This they considered more incumbent upon him to do, because the financier was tall, stout, and active, and he was himself extremely weak and slightly built, and altogether a stranger to the noble art of flogging. As for Mr. Bates, it made him really sick to see such a craven spirit as Jeremiah manifested, and he felt in a hurry to get home to tell his wife about it. Jeremiah did not exactly enjoy the thing, although he said nothing to the contrary, but he bit his lip until the blood trickled down upon his shirt-bosom. He had resolved not to open his mouth until he saw John, and it was a great effort not to do so.

The financier felt extremely pleasant at having had so good an opportunity to show the clerks, and Jeremiah in particular, what kind of materials he was composed of, that they might know what their fate would be if either of them should ever presume to cross his inclinations. He took up the letter that had excited Jeremiah's curiosity so strongly, and tried to decipher the motto on the seal, but he could only make out one word "libertas" and something like "cara" or "caria," or both; the crest was a bunch of feathers, and some other device peculiarly democratic which be thought too lightly of to inspect closely. It was evidently not a business letter and there was something about it strangely stimulating to his curiosity. He locked the door of the office on the inside and very ingeniously by means of an ivory paper cutter turned the letter inside out without breaking the wax or tearing it in the smallest manner. It was an art that required great practice to enable one to reach perfection, and by long practice he had become very expert. As the letter contained no secrets, we give it to the reader, although it will scarcely repay a perusal, as it relates solely to private matters in no manner essential to the advancement of our history.

It read thus:

Charleston ——

My dear Young Friend,

It is with emotions of peculiar gratification to our Heavenly Father, and his son, the Lord Jesus, that I take up my pen to address you a few lines; as, but for his merciful interposition in answer to the prayers of his servant, his unworthy servant, there is but too much cause to believe that you would now be lying in the dark prison house of death, where, by his inscrutable Providence, she that should have been the sharer of your troubles and the promoter of your pleasures now lies. Blessed be her spirit. But it is my office to heal and not to open up afresh the wounds of my people. I bless God that you arrived safely at home, and I trust my very dear young friend, that your thoughts will be directed to the church, that you may be enclosed in its broad fold, and that you may be made free by its bondage. For the blessed privilege that we enjoy in this land, where there is none to make us afraid, and where we have liberty in Christ, in his church and ourselves, always excepting the slavery of sin, let us be ever grateful and magnify his name.

My object in troubling you with these lines will not, I sincerely hope, be unpleasing to you. I am now well stricken in years, and my children are many (thirteen) and the estate that I can leave them, will be small; therefore I have made it my practice for some years past whenever I could spare a sufficient sum from my more immediate wants, to make an investment, for the benefit of each of my children, that I may not leave them destitute, by purchasing for each of them a likely young negro; they are now, blessed be the giver of all good things, all supplied except my youngest boy for whom I am in treaty with one of my vestry men for a likely wench, about sixteen years old. As the liberality of your brother-in-law and yourself will enable me, through the Providence of God, to make this purchase, my family and myself are desirous to pay you the tribute of calling the wench by your deceased lady's name, but we would not venture to do so without the permission of that good gentleman, her brother, and yourself.

If it should be agreeable to you to gratify us in this particular, it will be an additional pleasure to us to learn your acquiescence from your own hand.

With many good wishes,
Your sincere friend,
FABIAN ESYMAN.

We should be extremely sorry to encumber our page with the coarse expletives of Tom Tuck as he refolded this pious letter and threw it upon John's desk. What he could have discovered in the feeling and respectful letter of the good doctor, to cause him to apply to that excellent divine such terms as the "old sinner," "the beast," and many infinitely worse epithets is in truth a matter of mystery to us. But it appeared to be a peculiarity of the financier's mind, to apply to all who were elevated by virtue or piety above him, the terms which should of right have been applied to himself. It may, perhaps, be proper to state in this place, that, for some reason of which we are ignorant, John never answered this letter, and whether or no the wench were called after Julia, we have never been able to learn. If any of the doctor's children are living, and will inform us of the facts, we will state them in our next edition.

Tom Tuck having satisfied his curiosity, proceeded to tear open the business letters which lay upon his desk, and before he had finished reading them, John came in. The financier told him in part what had occurred between Jeremiah and himself, and added that either he or Jeremiah must quit the concern.

"Very well," replied John, "if that is your will, the firm is dissolved. I will have no part or lot in the business unless he is employed." And he said this in so firm and positive a manner, that Tom was confounded, and fearing to persist lest his partner should carry his threat into execution, he at last compromised, after some sharp words, by agreeing that Jeremiah should take the sole charge of the domestic correspondence of the firm, and that he would himself, to save the expense of another clerk, assume the duties of cash-keeper. But this was, in fact, all he had aimed at in the first place; like the majority of smart fellows from the days of the somewhat noted treasurer of the twelve, down to the present time, he aimed at the possession of the bag, and he obtained it. But he did not, therefore, forgive Jeremiah for the offence he had committed, because he had himself gained his point, and he concentrated his wrath and kept it close, so that when an opportunity should occur for pouring it out, it might descend with greater bitterness and force. His brother was full as hostile to Jeremiah although for different reasons; he hated him because he never read novels, because he had no spirit, because he never smoked, and he despised him for his ugly face, his low connexions, his want of taste, and because he had no appreciation of the beautiful, and knew nothing about aesthetics, not so much as the meaning of the word. Fred Tuck was a great patron of the arts, and a very great favorite with artists, he had in fact been elected an honorary member of "the Academy," and it was one of the finest things imaginable to hear him talk of the old masters, and the antique. He had even written critical notices of pictures for the papers, and had, therefore, almost as good a claim to be ranked among the literati as among the cognoscenti. That a person of his superior taste and critical acumen, should have a thorough and hearty contempt for such a low-minded being as Jeremiah was not only perfectly natural, but almost unavoidable. The first letter that Jeremiah wrote was criticized in a very severe manner by the Junior partner, he discovered several t's that were not crossed and more than one i that was destitute of its most essential feature, a dot, besides a redundant preposition; but the greatest error of all, one that he swore he never would forgive to his dying day was the omission of an s in the last name of the firm, for Jeremiah signed p. p. (per procuration) and he could not convince the offended gentleman that he had not omitted the letter on purpose. It happened, unfortunately, that John was not present, or the matter would have been very soon disposed of; and the corresponding clerk after enduring a torrent of abuse, was dismissed to his desk with a caution to be careful in future.

Having thus seen the new firm in operation, we will leave the partners to conduct their business while we look after those matters which in the out-door life of a man are supposed to be of no possible consequence, but which are, in reality, the only things in life worth the serious notice of human beings—we mean the issues of the affections.

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CHAPTER V.

GLADNESS AND SADNESS.

THE evening had arrived when John had appointed an hour for calling again at the little yellow house in the Bowery, and happily for him, before he left his office, the Boadicea, the ship of which Fidelia's father was master, was reported below the Hook. So he could be the bearer of happy news, and be welcomed for that reason if for no other. When he reached the quiet little dwelling, it was lighted up with the bright rays of a full moon, and it looked to him so lovely, so pure and holy, that he thought the passers by must think as they caught transient glimpses of its sober gable, that it was the dwelling place of good spirits; but this thought might have owed its existence to his previous knowledge that an angel had in reality made the humble dwelling her home rather than to any supernatural appearances likely to attract the attention of Bowery passengers. When he entered, he found the little family in their usual state of quiet and good humor, each employed about something, and yet seemingly happy and composed. No fluster, hurry, weariness or yawning. 'Twas a strange family. They had the good luck always to be engaged in what was pleasantest to them, never to have more work than they could do, nor more time than they could happily employ; and yet they smoked a vast deal, they read more than most families, they eat their three meals daily and prepared their own food; they sang even, and prayed night and morning; yet they had always leisure to entertain a friend, and they were never obliged to be 'out' because they were not in a condition to be seen. It was a very strange family, and we fear there were not many such in the Bowery. It was a blessed thing to alight on such a nestling. So John thought as he drew his chair to the little work-table where Fidelia sat plying her needle. He noticed her changing color, first white, then red, and then white again, for his eyes were fixed full upon her face; but he did not notice the glances, full of meaning of some kind, that passed between her grandparents. She answered his questions slightly, but there were whole volumes of meaning in the tones of her voice, and when she did raise her eye-lids so that he caught a glimpse of her bright eyes, O, he read there more than we could write in a whole year. So eloquent is the soul when it speaks without affectation, so rapidly can she communicate her thoughts when one is disposed to read them aright. What happened on this particular visit, what words were said, what looks were looked, what vows were vowed, is not absolutely essential to be known. Love, like murder, will out, it is one of those things that cannot be hidden, and it will be enough to relate that John and Fidelia knew that each loved the other, and that they each vowed in their souls to be as true as truth, and henceforward there was to be no happiness but in each other's society, excepting only in the society of each others thoughts, which may not after all be an exception. But there were no vocal promises made, no writings drawn up and witnessed, no appointments about marrying, all these things were to be delayed until the approval of Fidelia's father could be asked, and they were all happy beyond expression; the old man and his wife and the daughter to hear that their long absent son, father, and protector had arrived within sight of home. What a joy. After a long absence from all that is dear upon earth, sailing over unknown seas, encountering pamperas and whirl-winds, water spouts and lightnings, all the dangers of the deep; the perils of pestilent atmospheres; the spear of the savage, the stiletto of the pirate, he had arrived at last. Do they forget God in their gratitude? No, it is his goodness that has done it, and to him they give thanks.

John did not prolong his stay beyond the usual hour, but he would gladly have done so; and when he left the little quiet court, it was no longer illuminated by the moon's rays, but it lay wrapped in darkness: scarcely could he mark the outline of the modest gable against the dull leaden clouds that hung above it in the sky. He had the least possible touch of superstitious feeling, and he could scarce help thinking that there was something ominous in the different aspect that the house wore now to what it did when he entered it; but this feeling did not last long, the clear, soft, sweet good night of Fidelia still sounded in his ears and seemed to creep into his heart and vibrate along its chords, so that he could soon think of nothing else. But when he lay down upon his bed, in the deep stillness and darkness of night, his father came and gazed upon him again, and that other form, robed in white, that he knew to be his mother's; he fancied there was a sadness in their looks now, but how could that be? Before they disappeared from his sight another joined them, whose sad look made his heart almost burst, and caused the cold sweat to start from his forehead. It was Julia Tuck, she did not look angry, but troubled and grieved. Her sad pale face and mournful eyes, were too much for his strength, he swooned and lay a long, long while, sinking, as it seemed, through deep, black and bottomless abysses until he was aroused, and he opened his eyes, and the phantoms were gone. It was still dark, and he lay with a beating heart a long time before he fell asleep.

He awoke in the morning with melancholy thoughts. The rays of a bright summer's sun made his chamber as cheerful, as lively and as pleasant as it could be, and a thousand familiar substantial things surrounded him and gave him, in some degree, an earthly and composed feeling; but one who communes with the invisible world over night cannot in a moment discover sufficient importance in mere earthly particles, let them be presented in never such winning shapes, when he awakes in the morning, as to forget that there are spirits about us, once of us, who cannot but look upon such things with disdain if they even look upon them at all. We all pretend to believe in our own spirituality, and that when the essence which keeps our bodies in motion shall be dead, we too shall still exist somewhere and somehow, but how many, like him have ever known this fact, and looked upon the faces of the departed ones whom they had communed with in the flesh? Doubtless there are many of whom the world has never heard, to whom this privilege has been granted, for men keep their most important secrets always to themselves. There are few persons who would care to be distinguished as Ghost seers. Such an unhappy notoriety would tend but little to advance a man's interests in the world, and those who converse much with spirits would do well to keep their own counsel. So thought John, and therefore when he was questioned as to the cause of his melancholy, his afflictions, of which the world knew, were sufficient causes to assign. But these visitants disturbed him not a little. Why should he above all others be selected out to receive calls in this manner? It was true they were his own friends, by whom he had been caressed and beloved, while they were living, but there must be a serious meaning in their visits which he had yet to learn. Perhaps the missing will had something to do with them? But it could not be. He could ask advice of no one, for who could penetrate the veil that hangs between Time and Eternity; therefore he resolved to wait patiently and see. And as he knew that he was watched by those whom he had known here, and with whom he must dwell hereafter, there was a continual feeling of restraint in all he said and did.

The open air, the blue sky and the bright sun, exerted the most potent influences in dissipating his sad feelings and strange forebodings, and, by the time he had reached his counting room, he was alive to the world again, and all the phantoms of the night were forgotten, but not the bright vision of the Bowery cottage; and his first enquiries were about the Boadicea and her master.

But the master of the Boadicea was dead. He had sickened and died on the passage home, from Manilla. This news was a terrible blow to John, for he knew how severely it would be felt by his new friends in the Bowery, and he determined to be the bearer of it himself, that he might, if possible, by rendering any service in his power, mitigate its severity. We will not accompany him upon his melancholy errand, to witness the effect of the news that made the old couple childless, and their grand-daughter an orphan. There is sadness enough in the world that we cannot shun, and if happily any of us have not yet tasted of sorrows, they will come full soon; there is no need to partake of those we can avoid.

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CHAPTER VI.

WILL BE DEVOTED TO BUSINESS.

THE merchants of old times held their fortunes by most ticklish tenures, and what with water rats and land rats, water thieves, and land thieves, merchandising was an uncertain business enough as we know; but the cords which fastened their purses then, when every man was his own banker, were chain-cables compared with the cob-webs to which a merchant of our own day must trust for security. The new firm had been in operation less than a month when they lost nearly one half their capital by the failure of the Real Estate and State Stock Banking Association. Tom Tuck had selected out this Bank for keeping their principal account, upon a secret arrangement with the president of it that he should be chosen a Director to fill the first vacancy that should occur in the board, and before they had had an opportunity, or occasion, to withdraw a quarter of their funds, the bank failed, and its affairs were placed in the hands of receivers appointed by the Chancellor. In addition to this very serious loss, the financier's Wall street speculations had turned out badly, and to make good his deficiencies and sustain his credit in that quarter, he was forced to draw largely from the funds of the firm, which he had no right to do; but as he had entire control of the finances, he kept this a secret, and that he might retrieve his losses, entered into new speculations, buying and selling stocks on time to a frightful extent. But still the capital of the firm was large, even with these deductions, and amply sufficient to meet all their engagements, and better than all, their credit was good for a very large amount. John was frightened at their loss by the failure of the Real Estate and State Stock Association, and cautioned his partners to be prudent in their private expenses, and requested the financier to distribute his deposites among four or five banks for fear of accidents.

But their great loss and the caution of his partner had but small effect upon Fred Tuck. A young gentleman of his elegant tastes could not curtail his expenses; it was a low-lived and vulgar thought, and he contented himself with the reflection that when the worst did come, he would marry some rich girl and live upon her income in a genteel quiet way in the country. For the present he was amusing himself by building a little box on Long Island, for a summer residence for himself and a few of his elegant friends; he called it a box merely because it is a grand thing to apply diminutive epithets to such great affairs as common people would distinguish by magnificent names, but his architect, a gentleman of distinguished taste, who had been to Europe and was consequently au fait at everything, called it the "beau ideal of a gentleman's villa." It was in the Gothic style, built of brown free stone, and decorated with fine carvings and a great profusion of stained glass. Very Gothic indeed. It was fit for almost anything but the purpose for which it was intended. The cost of this box was very great, and as Fred could not pay for it by making direct drafts upon the firm he raised the money by discounting the notes of the firm, through a broker in Wall street, and paid them when due by renewals, at an exorbitant rate of interest. He also kept a carriage, three horses, a groom and a tiger, besides other necessaries that we must not name, and defrayed the cost of them in the same manner as he paid for his box. Then he bought a pew in a fashionable church, became a member of the jocky club, and took an interest in several joint stock companies, of which he was made a director. He was first on the list on all complimentary benefit occasions, and never failed to do the genteel thing whenever his name could be put into the papers. His mother idolized him, and did what she could, in her womanly way, to stimulate and emulate him, but his brother Tom had no sympathy with them. He was devoted to business, and the only change that he made in his manner of living was to keep a saddle horse and a valet; but his private speculations in Wall street continued to make losses, and all the purchases for account of the firm had left heavy balances on the wrong side. They had a ship bound from Malaga with an entire cargo of fruit abandoned in mid ocean, she having sprung a leak; she was insured at the Occidental Office, but before the insurance fell due, the company broke, and the insurance was lost. This was a small matter, however. They shipped a cargo of cotton to Liverpool, upon which they received an advance of two-thirds the amount of the invoice, and were afterwards drawn upon for something more than eight thousand pounds sterling to make good the deficiency in the nett proceeds short of the advances. This was a serious loss, and what made it worse, was the fact that it was reported on 'change, and cast a slight shade upon their credit; and they had the mortification to hear that their paper had been refused at one of the banks. As soon as the financier heard of it, he immediately offered to discount it for less than bank interest, his offer was greedily accepted, and it being a large note they had not sufficient money to pay it; they were obliged therefore to submit to a shave, and it fell to John's turn to negotiate a loan. Tom directed him to the Brothers Mildmen, a pair of the smoothest, plumpest, and best dressed gentlemen in Wall street, who occupied a little dark office in the basement of a very high brick building, and by some unseen means, grew rich and maintained themselves in the quietest, genteelest, and most comfortable manner conceivable. It so happened that they were the very brokers who had been employed by Fred to dispose of his accommodation notes, and therefore they were well acquainted with the paper offered, and were able to state without hesitation the terms on which it could be done. John felt himself peculiarly fortunate in having fallen into their hands, for it is assuredly better to be shaved by a keen smooth razor than by a rough and rusty one, but when "brother Peter," the oldest and portliest of the Messrs. Mildmen, named nine per cent per month and one per cent commission, he started back with amazement, and returned to the financier and told him that they must not submit to such extortion. But his partner convinced him that it would be to their advantage to do so; for it was not to be debated that their credit was of infinitely greater importance than the comparatively trifling loss they would sustain by paying even so large a discount to sustain it. So John returned to the Brothers Mildmen, and the negotiation was completed on the terms named by brother Peter.

Resorting to bad expedients to maintain either your character or your credit must always hasten on the catastrophe you would avoid. This is a rule that has no exceptions. Let no one, therefore, flatter himself that his case will prove one. There is no man so cunning, so experienced, or so fortunate, that he can with impunity violate a law of Nature; integrity is the one necessary ingredient in business without which success is impossible; it is as essential as light and heat to vegetation. But these common-places are already familiar to you. We know that they are; but alas, and alas, that there should be any necessity for repeating them.

Unfortunately for the credit of the new firm, the same merchant who held the note which they had made so great a sacrifice to discount, had purchased their other note through the agency of the brothers Mildmen, and by this operation, made for the express purpose of hiding their necessities, their financial resources became known at the Bank of which the accommodating merchant was a director, and from thence was whispered around from one friend to another, in a confidential way, until the circumstance was known to all the moneyed men in Wall street. And, to their utter dismay and disappointment, the new firm found that their stability was suspected, in spite of their great exertions and sacrifices to keep their credit unsullied. It chanced to be one of those unlucky years when everybody loses money, and a poverty-struck feeling, for some unaccountable cause, pervades the community. Prices of everything fell; they were forced to sell their stocks at a discount, and some of them proved nearly worthless, such as the Cranberry Meadow Rail Road, of which they held twelve thousand dollars, and the Fever Swamp Canal, of which they luckily held but eight hundred: Their shipments almost all turned out disastrously, and they made many bad debts by failures at home. John grew alarmed, for he saw his capital melting away at a fearful rate but the financier encouraged him, and proposed, by some grand operation, to retrieve their losses. After much discussion they at length agreed to make a speculation in coffee, and having ascertained the precise number of bags in the market, they determined to get the control of the whole, and by that means raise the price; and by close figuring, Tom demonstrated to his own satisfaction, and in a degree to the satisfaction of John, that they could realise a profit nearly equal to all their losses. Fred approved the scheme highly; and he was anxious to have it carried into immediate execution, for he began to experience some difficulty with the Messrs. Mildmen in negotiating his accommodation notes, and his gothic villa was not more than half completed. Money he must have by some means or other, and his brother had restricted him to an allowance immensely short of his wants. He had serious thoughts of undertaking a speculation on his own account, by giving the paper of the firm, and monopolizing all the brandy and champagne in the country. These were articles of which he considered himself a very competent judge, but he found upon making an attempt through the agency of a broker, that time purchases could not be made to any great extent and he abandoned the idea. The brothers Mildmen positively refused to renew any more of his notes without an endorser, and he was in an agony of apprehension lest a knowledge of his transactions should reach his brother. But he continued his building and contracted new debts, and by some means succeeded in getting his notes renewed by the brothers Mildmen, and was as gay and as elegant as ever. The coffee speculation was entered into as deeply as their credit and means would allow, but in order to obtain possession of certain small lots, they were compelled to pay very high prices, and obtain the money by more discounts through the agency of their gentlemanly friends, the Messrs. Mildmen. Other plans were projected and partially entered into, but the coffee speculation was the great scheme upon which their hopes chiefly rested, and as so large an operation took a long time to carry out and wind up, before we acquaint the reader with the result of it, we will return to other matters that require our attention.

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CHAPTER VII.

BUILDING COTTAGES AND MAKING LOVE.

THE death of Fidelia's father had changed the quiet happy home of the old sailor into a house of mourning, but the visits of John were not the less frequent therefor; he was unwearied in his attention to the old couple, and strove, by all the means in his power to make them forget their loss. He promised to be to them a son, and doubtless Fidelia's grief was greatly mitigated by his tender solicitude for her welfare. At the request of the old sailor he had administered upon her father's estate, and had taken possession of the property left by him, some five or six thousand dollars. The sad event that had thrown them all in mourning, had prevented any arrangements for the marriage, and the day that he so anxiously wished for, was deferred until time should dry up their tears. In the mean time he was preparing a little surprise for them, or rather for Fidelia, for she filled his mind to the exclusion of almost everybody besides. He had purchased a few acres on the sunny side of Staten Island and had built a cottage that he meant to present to her as a bridal gift. It stood on a gentle eminence, overlooking the sea and the highlands of Neversink, but was screened from the Northwest by lofty hills, whose tops were fringed by cedars, and hardy evergreens. It was the greenest and sunniest spot in the world, and as you looked around, the eye could not detect an object to cause an unpleasant sensation. A little grave yard lying near, with its white slabs and mossy tomb-stones peering above the rich verdure, and gleaming among the trees, rather harmonized with the quiet and peaceful scene, and gave to it a sentiment of repose, than awakened a sad or gloomy thought. The blue sea, gleaming beyond rich fields of ripening grain and luxuriant verdure, was a source of unfailing freshness and beauty, while the white sails of innumerable ships, gliding like spirits over the bosom of the vasty deep, and sailing away into the blue depths of the horizon, disappearing so gently that you scarce knew when they were gone, imparted a strange feeling of mystery and romance. Then at night the bright beacons on the Hook and upon the brow of the highlands, glimmered and sparkled cheerfully, and seemed like stars, always rising, and yet fixed in their spheres. And yet they did not seem like stars; there was such a look of good-natured humanity about them, a kind of winking intelligence, which seemed to say, "here we are, always on hand of a dark night; let the wind howl ever so loud, or the rain and sleet drive as hard against us as it can, we never close an eye or turn back from the storm, but always keep a sharp look out for homeward bound sailors. We love to wink at them as they draw towards home and wish they may find their sweet-hearts and wives as they left them. Never fear us." One of them was indeed a regular flasher, and stood higher than the others, and seemed to lord it over them, sometimes looking dim and sulky, like a proud beauty, or a great man in a pet, and then again bursting out with such a rich stream of light that it dazzled your eyes to behold it.

In addition to these pleasant sights, the landscape was dotted all over with low-roofed stone farm-houses, that glistened in the sunshine, they were so white and neat; but being half hidden in the shade of lilacs and horse-chestnuts, and old apple trees, they did not glare upon you, like the house of a rich lawyer who showed the fruits of his four years of classical studies by putting up a clap-board copy of the Parthenon on the tip top of a high hill close bye as though he would challenge the admiration of mankind. He had emerged from a narrow dirty street in the city, and perching on the top of a high hill he called retiring from the world. A huge unseemly thing the building was, the very embodiment of ostentation, ill taste, and four years of classical studies. And yet we are in candor compelled to acknowledge that it was not so strictly classical, but that Ictinus of Athens, the architect of the original Parthenon, might possibly have discovered some trifling deviations from his model, if he had inspected it with an eye to criticism. But it was not too near to be disagreeable, and, indeed, helped at the distance of John's little cottage, to variegate the scene, and as you looked around of a bright day, you saw only a vast picture of green, with patches of silver, and dusky gold, partially bound by a belt of azure in the distance. The cottage itself was neither in the Gothic, Greek, Italian, or Chinese style, but of the Yankeesque, as a friend of the owner's called it; it belonged to the soil and climate, and seemed to have grown there, like the sycamores and chestnuts, and broad spreading elms which stood around it; it had a low sloping roof terminating in a piazza, and everything around it seemed rather to have been suggested by the wants and tastes of its builder, than to have been formed after the whimsical fancies of some architectural jack-a-napes living three thousand miles off. It was not in the smallest degree bookish, nor deformed by any Walter Scottisms, to make plain honest men feel like cuffing the proprietor's ears for his affectations. There was nothing about it for show, but everything for comfort, and in the early part of June it was almost smothered in roses; they climbed up against the windows, with their white and damask cheeks, and breathed into the rooms from their dewy lips the most delicious perfume. It was the only cottage that we have ever seen that exactly realized the wish of lady Mary Wortley Montagu, being "in summer shady and in winter warm." It was a source of great delight to John and he loved to anticipate the surprise and happiness of Fidelia when she should first see it. And he half wished that he had not embarked in business, that he might spend his whole time there, for the cares and anxieties of his present way of life, were beginning to weigh heavily upon him and oppress him sadly. By insensible degrees he had been led by his partner to take part in some transactions that troubled him to think of. He had been visited more constantly than ever by his father's form, sometimes alone and sometimes accompanied by his mother and Julia. These appearances made him sad at times, and cast a shade of gloom over his thoughts and feelings that he could not always dissipate by mixing in company, and he thought that he might be free from them if he were to change his residence. He had given up all hopes of ever finding his father's will, but the thought sometimes occurred to him that if he could but communicate with him by speech, when he appeared to him, he might be directed to it; but whenever the venerable form of the old man looked upon him, all mercenary thoughts were chased from his mind, and he could not have spoken, even though he had wished to do so. It would have been a great relief to his feelings if he could have brought himself to make some friend a sharer of his secret; but he felt a repugnance, which he could not account for, to divulging a word in regard to his spiritual visitants. Their mission was to him alone, and he felt bound to silence. If he could have spoken out, Jeremiah would have been his confidant. But he could not. He felt that a spell was upon him.

Jeremiah was not unmindful of a change in the aspect of his friend, but he attributed it to other causes than the right one; he knew that John had causes enough for sadness, and, though he was himself of a hopeful temper, as all good and sincere people are, he never lacked a reason for a downcast look, and he did not marvel greatly at the melancholy of others. But he was full of business at this time, of a strictly private nature, that left him but little leisure to think of anybody's affairs but his own. Miss Hogshart's time was up, and in a few days she was to return to Berkshire county with her father, that exemplary friend having come down to yearly meeting with his eldest son, and Jeremiah had ventured to talk of marriage. It was a tremendous subject, and when he spoke to the young lady in rather plain and direct terms, he thought he had accomplished a great feat; his heart beat terribly at first, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth; his knees trembled, but fortunately for him, they were sitting on one of the benches on the Battery, and his trepidation was not discovered by her. But when he found that she listened to him, not only without laughing at him, but actually with fondness and apparent pleasure, and that she seconded all his propositions with great good nature, and allowed him to put his arm around her waist without flinching or making any ado about it, a desperate and tumultuous energy suddenly inflamed him, and before he had time for a second thought, he clasped his arms around her neck and ravished her lips of at least a dozen warm delicious kisses, ere she could exclaim,

"What is thee doing, Jeremiah? Thee musn't, thee musn't."

But the deed was done; and instead of apologising for his rudeness, he was half determined to repeat his offence. In truth we are not certain that he did not before he escorted her home. A new relationship from this moment sprung up between them. He no longer had any doubts of his love for her, and as she sat in the moonlight with a little bit of her dove-colored slipper peeping out from beneath her spotted muslin, he thought her the most bewitching object that the moon had ever shone upon; he could have fallen at her feet and kissed them, so full of love was his soul. And she was to be his forever! Happy, happy, Jeremiah! The world is not all a fleeting show, after all. They sat a long while on the Battery benches, watching the moonlight as it flickered among the trees, and fell in broad sheets of silver upon the bay, and whispered the most surprising thing's into each other's ears, which prompted them ever and anon to a gentle pressure of the hand; and then they told such amusing stories, and laughed at each other's pleasantries as freely and as gaily as though there was nothing but laughter, and kisses, and moonlight in the world. But Time travelled on, wholly regardless of them and all the other innocent hearts that were unfolding themselves, and revelling in the rays of that bright moon which was fast sinking behind the blue hills of New Jersey, and Jeremiah, who would not have been guilty of an indecorum under the influence of fifty moons, proposed returning home; and they arrived there in good season, although Mr. Bates was just in the act of blowing out the hall lamp as they entered the door. The hall being dark, a playful little scene, mostly pantomimic, was performed by the two lovers which ended in Jeremiah's catching Miss Hogshart's pocket handkerchief and bearing it off in triumph to his room, where he placed it beneath his pillow and was visited by pleasant dreams while under its potent influence. There is great witchery in a pocket handkerchief which has once been handled by one's mistress, as everybody can testify who has been in love; but whether it be in consequence of the aura which it imbibes from the lips, or fingers of its wearer, we are unable to state with precision, having never met with any new-auric professor willing to hazard an assertion upon the subject.

Jeremiah arose the next morning a new man, neither better nor worse, perhaps, than he had been, but still a different being. He felt himself capable of greater things; a new life had been infused into his veins; the earth and its inhabitants had a new look; there was a broad bland smile upon the face of nature that he had never seen before. He called upon Huldah's father with a bold assurance that surprised nobody so much as himself, and demanded of that smooth, yet formidable personage, his daughter's hand. Considering that Jeremiah had never worn a drab coat, and that he did not esteem it essential to salvation to say thou when the rest of the world said you this was no small proof of courage; for friend Hogshart was not a man to encourage presumption, even when habited in his farmer's suit of linsey-woolsey, but attired as he was now, in his yearly meeting coat and breeches, his fine portly figure set off to the best advantage, and his authoritative, yet broad and healthful countenance, shadowed by his immense broad brim beaver, to make such a demand of him with tolerable composure, required a set of nerves equal to great undertakings. But Jeremiah approached him with a stout heart notwithstanding, and we have no doubt felt a glow of pride in contemplating such a fine looking old fellow as his future father-in-law.

He looked not much unlike, saving color, the portly bronze figure of William Penn which delights the eyes and hearts of the Philadelphians. He condescended in the most gracious manner to encourage Jeremiah's addresses, but declined giving a direct assent to his wishes before he had consulted his wife, "Thee shall have my consent, Jeremiah," said the worthy old soul, "provided my wife don't say nay; we must be consistent, thee knows, in all things, and it is but right to consult her, because I require her to consult me in all that she undertakes. But as Huldah seems to have a strange disposition to follow the ways of the world, I think it will be best for her to remain a season under discipline in Berkshire; a change of pasture, thee knows, sometimes has a good effect upon stock."

Although Jeremiah was dreadfully shocked by the old gentleman's figure of speech, and deprecated the idea of their being any necessity for such a change as it implied, he made no objection to the proposal. He left his future father-in-law with a light and happy heart, and feeling as proud as his meek and gentle spirit would allow him to do. It was a whole week before her departure, and he was determined, in his own phrase, to redeem the time, by which he meant, no doubt, taking moonlight walks upon the Battery; for so pleasantly had the last evening's enjoyments impressed themselves upon his memory, he almost wished that life was but one long moonlight night and that its chief employment was sitting under the shade of green trees by the side of Huldah Hogshart. Why should he not? His hardest duties now appeared but mere pastime to him, and his deeds of kindness and charity, heretofore his chief pleasures, were now performed with a new delight; even Tom Tuck appeared like a gentleman in his eyes, and F. Augustus almost a man.

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CHAPTER VIII.

DIFFICULTIES IN BUSINESS.

WE know not what temptations may beset the paths of other historians, leading them off from their legitimate labors into dismal swamps of digression, but the will-o'-the-wisp that most frequently flashes across our path, is a disposition to sermonise as we hurry along. We see not how it can well be otherwise, since every act of a man's life would furnish a text for a discourse as long as an Oxford tract; and we who write the histories of mankind, with their lives spread before us like a map and know in the beginning to what catastrophe or good fortune each particular action will lead, how their most serious interests will be travestied by themselves or their descendants, and their loftiest aspirations soonest tumbled into the dust, above all others, might preach with good effect on the uncertainties of human labor if it were our vocation to do so in direct terms. But the sermons that men find in stories must be like those which the exiled Duke found in stones, unwritten and unspoken. Our privilege is limited, we must teach by example only; but, were it otherwise, we should be tempted past resistance to dilate at some length on the vanity of human calculations when we took note of the remarkable manner in which the wishes of those hard working and thrifty merchants, Hubbard Crocker Tremlett and Griswold Bacon Tuck, had been thwarted in the disposition of that property the acquisition of which had cost them so many years of their lives and so many of the world's pleasures.

Mr. Tremlett had been forty years in accumulating his property; the anxieties, the sleepless nights, the heart burnings, the unwholsome labor, and the waste of thought it had cost him, were vastly disproportioned to its value, but he repined not at these things, because, at last, he could enrich with it one whom he loved; and yet, by some slight accident, his wishes were defeated, the object of his affections received not a penny of his earnings, and his life and his labors had been spent in vain. But still worse did it happen to Mr. Tuck, for those who were the especial objects of his dislike, whom he had designed to cut off from the least participation in his wealth were the complete masters of his earnings, and made themselves drunk with the sweat of his brow, while they despised him for his labors. Poor man, he had been hoarding up dollars all his life for his worthless nephews to squander, when he would not while living have given them a shilling.

If departed spirits ever do look upon the earth, what a perturbed condition must the unhappy ghost of poor Mr. Tuck have been in, had he chanced to be regarding his two nephews one morning, when seated alone in their private office, the following conversation passed between them.

Tom.—What, does that scoundrel Jacobs ask for more money?

Fred.—Yes, and he must have it. Listen to his unconscionable demands. The low wretch; the ungrateful tiger! I'll kill him. If there's any virtue in lead or steel he's a dead Jew.

Tom.—Don't trifle about the matter; read the letter.

Fred.—(Reads) "Friend T." (the rattlesnake,) "I want a trifle to help me out of a little difficulty which I got into about something which I got accused of, and which I am innocent as the child unborn. Friend T. you must send me this or I shall be down upon you like bricks. I'm sorry it's so much, but it can't be helped, I want five thousand six hundred dollars ammediently, and you must send it. I say nothing, but you know what I mean; you must send the money. I want the dust and no mistake. You have always been a trump card, so am I. Times are hard. I have been unfortunate in my speculations, and if you don't send it you know what will happen. I can give you my word and honor as a gentleman. But send the money and there's no mistake in me.

"Your Ob't S'vt and esteemed friend,
S. JACOBS.

"P. S. Don't mistake about the amount, five thousand six hundred (5,600 dollars,) if you don't send it there's no Texas about me, and you know what comes next."

Tom.—Curse him, the Iscariot wretch; I wish there was an Inquisition for his sake and that I was grand Inquisitor, I would tear his dog's flesh with hot pincers for this. The whelp, he has already spent almost half of old uncle Gris.'s earnings, and but for the miserly old hound I should not have got in this villain Jew's clutches.

Fred.—That's true, confound him, if he had left us his money in a gentlemanly decent manner, as he should have done, we should never have been compelled to make a league with this Israelitish devil to secure our own rights. However it's done now, and there's no help for it. He must have the money. One thing I will swear to, I will never take a rogue into my confidence again. I would sooner make a contract with the old boy himself than with one of his agents. Curse everybody and everything. To be threatened by a scoundrel Jew. I am half resolved to go to Europe.

Tom.—Stop. You talk like a woman. The man must have the money and we will dispose of him afterwards. It will be the last. And now for the means. Our account at the Bank is already overdrawn, so you must shin for it. I will send him a check, and I must trust to you to provide for it. I have got other matters to attend to.

The great coffee speculation had been entered into so deeply that the entire funds of the house were absorbed in their purchases; they had got the sole control of the market and their venture promised to return them a profit nearly equal to all their losses, when a cargo unexpectedly arrived from Sumatra, and the owners of it, knowing that our firm would be compelled to purchase it or lose the advantage which they had gained at so great a risk, refused to sell it, except for cash and at a very great advance on the current price. The resources of the financier were already exhausted; all the paper, stock, and merchandise of the House had been hypothecated, and their credit exhausted, in making their purchases; they had sold all their negotiable notes to the Brothers Mildmen, and used to its fullest extent the line of discount allowed them at the Banks, and the only possible means by which they could obtain more money was by procuring good endorsers to their notes. They had already used the names of their friends to as great an extent as they could be procured, but there was one name, if they could by any means get it, that would enable them to procure the sum they needed. This was the name of Andrew Kittle, a Scotchman; who had once been in the service of the old firm of Tremlett & Tuck as a porter, and who had saved up enough from his monthly salary to establish himself in a grocery in the Five Points, and had there made money enough to enable him to set up as a jobber in Front Street, where he had become very rich, and was looked upon, not without good reason, as the very staunchest merchant in his line of business in the city. The financier proposed to John to call upon Mr. Kittle and offer him a share in the profits of the coffee speculation, for the use of his name to the amount of twenty thousand dollars. But John refused, knowing the cautious and griping disposition of the grocer, until at length, overcome by the persuasions of his partner, he consented to make the application, and entertained some hope that the favors which his father had done for Mr. Kittle, in his outset in business, might induce him to comply with their proposition.

It was dark when John called at Mr. Kittle's store, and he found the rich old grocer busily engaged in mixing liquors with the aid of a young lad whom he was instructing in this lucrative part of his profession. But the old gentleman dropped his proof-glass, and invited John into his back office, when he began to talk about the money market and the prospects of trade, for these were the only subjects upon which he was ever known to converse, excepting only church affairs, which occupied his attention on Sundays. John made known the object of his visit, but did not at first offer him a portion of the profits in the speculation.

"Well, and what good will it do me to endorse a note for you?" replied Mr. Kittle.

"It may not do you any good, sir," said John, "but it will do me and my partner a great deal of good."

"But that's nothing to me. My money is mine, young man, mine, mine," said the old man, striking his breast vehemently, to impress the idea more forcibly upon his auditor's mind that he meant himself and nobody else. It was an intensely selfish motion. "My money belongs to me, myself. I made it and I mean to keep it, young man. It belongs to me."

"I did not ask you for money, sir, but your signature, which will cost nothing."

"Ha, ha, young man, my signature, what shall I get by that?"

"Do you never do anything, but for a consideration?" said John, "would you refuse to save a man from drowning because you were not paid for your labor?"

"Ah, ha," said Mr Kittle, "you will never get rich, young man; my credit is for myself, I can't lend it to my neighbors, it's against scripture. I earned it and I mean to keep it good; always above proof. You won't find old Kittle's paper flying about in the market; that's the way to have a credit."

"I proposed offering you a per centage on the profits growing out of this operation," said John, "and besides, we will guarantee you against loss in the case of any accident."

"You can't afford it; it's not safe; no, no, your father wouldn't have done such a thing. It's too much. I can't. It won't do. I'm principled against it. You have no right to ask such a thing of me."

"I know I have no right, but——"

"Well, well, then don't do it; don't do a thing you know to be wrong," said the grocer, impressively, at the same time taking hold of the candle-stick as though he was impatient to return to his brandy-pipe, "I am afraid, young man, you don't go to church on Sundays. You musn't do things that are wrong. It's no way to get along in the world. Do as I have done, and as your father did before you; keep your own money and ask no favors, and then you'll not be obliged to grant them to others."

"Good night," said John, making no other reply to his excellent advice but hurried out of the store.

"Good night; be careful of the skids," said Mr. Kittle, as he held the candle above his head to light the young man out. "Now Jake, take fifteen gallons out of that new pipe of Otard Dupuy and fill it up with pure spirits."

Mr. Kittle having delivered this order to the lad, returned to his little back office and took a large yellow pocket-book out of the iron chest, from whence he drew a huge bundle of notes and selected four bearing the signature of Tremlett and Tucks. His hand trembled as he made a minute of their amounts. It was a large sum, so large that it frightened him. He had bought these notes of the Messrs. Mildmen at a very large discount, and the application for his name alarmed him and as ill luck would have it, the next day was Sunday, and he would not be able to sell them. Unhappy Mr. Kittle. After a week of contention and turmoil, one day of holy peace was necessary to a pious soul like his. Let us hope that the thoughts of his doubtful paper disturbed not on the morrow the comforting exercises of the blessed Sabbath, and that he enjoyed, in his velvet cushioned pew, his accustomed hour of repose, under the soothing influence of Doctor Slospoken's drowsy discourse and the slow and solemn chaunt of Mr. Parsnip, the precentor's voice.

John returned from the grocer's to his own counting room, and reported his ill success to the financier, who thereupon gave utterance to prodigious volumes of abusive epithets, not only upon the head of Mr. Kittle, and the whole Scottish people, but upon the respectable fraternity of grocers throughout the world. It was a strange peculiarity of the elder Tuck's, that when an individual offended him his displeasure included every possible person and thing in the most remote degree connected with the offender, extending even to all of the same name, profession or country. He was, indeed, the most thorough and complete hater that ever lived, and yet he never allowed his dislikes to interfere in any manner with what he conceived to be his interest. To do so would have been to do an injury to himself, and not to the object of his hatred. And we must not deny him the justice to admit that he was a person of such strict impartiality that he had as little scruple in sacrificing a friend as an enemy, when either stood in his way. He was one of those people whom it is dangerous even to know or be known by; and if he did not do you an injury, it was because it was inconvenient. And yet, in spite of these singularities, the financier was a very adroit person in making friends of those from whom he wanted favors; he had two winning qualities, which are very serviceable in giving a man a quiet passage through life; he could always laugh when he thought it necessary, and he never did think it necessary unless something was to be gained by it; and he could lie without blushing. He was a true laughing philosopher, not one of those merry cackling creatures who are forever throwing away rich streams of mirth upon promiscuous witticisms, and so exhausting their powers that when anything is to be gained by laughing at a dull story, or a stupid practical joke, they cannot command a smile to save themselves. No, he was none of those vapid minded ne'er-do-wells, not he. His mirth was always sincere; he meant something by it.

It was Saturday night, as we have already stated, and on Monday the bargain for the newly arrived coffee must be either closed or rejected. Upon this one transaction depended the result of their speculation. If they could obtain possession of this one cargo the market would be in their hands, and a magnificent fortune would be the result; otherwise, the issue of their extensive and hazardous enterprize would be extremely doubtful. They required but a small sum of money compared to the whole amount they had embarked in this speculation, but they had exhausted all their resources, and there was no way by which it could be obtained but by a good endorser, and this they had in vain tried to procure. The two partners parted for the night, with their minds full of the matter, and John had been so absorbed in it, that he could think of nothing but coffee; everything that he saw or heard, or smelt, was tinged, or scented with coffee; and even when he fell asleep he dreamed that he had stolen a sack of Mocha and was pursued over the desert by a horde of wild Arabs; then again he found himself in that place bargaining for a cargo of it with an unmentionable prince, where the Haytian President said that you might lure a Yankee merchant with only a bag of the berry. As for Fred, the junior partner, he had selected out a bag of the finest old government Java from all their purchases, and had sent it over to his beau ideal villa, where he was entertaining a small party of foreigners, consisting of singers, authors, and actors, to whom he swore that his coffee was the genuine Mocha, imported in one of his own ships direct from the Red Sea.

Let us leave them all to their cares and revels, and give ourselves up to the refreshing quiet and repose of the blessedest day of the seven, ere we enter upon the exciting and eventful week which is to follow.

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CHAPTER IX.

MONDAY.

WHETHER Mr. Kittle had allowed his mind to dwell upon mere worldly matters during the Sabbath just past, or not, we have no means of knowing, and as he attended with his customary strictness to all the duties of the day, we have no right to believe that he did; but we have the best reasons in the world for presuming that with Monday's light his thoughts reverted back to the subject which had occupied them on Saturday night, as earnestly as though no Sunday had intervened. For no sooner did he reach his store than he grasped the notes of Tremlett & Tucks which he had bought of the Messrs. Mildmen, and hastened with them to those gentlemen, and gave orders for their sale at a larger discount than that at which they had been purchased, which was a very large discount indeed, for they were some of Fred's renewal notes. Mr. Kittle did not give any explanations, but merely said that he was in want of the money, which the brothers Mildmen understood in a figurative sense, for they knew that Mr. Kittle was a moneyed man, and that he could procure as much as he might want at legal interest; therefore they inferred that he had discovered something unfavorable in relation to our new firm, and as they held some of Fred's notes themselves, as collateral security for a temporary loan, they resolved to protect their own interests first by making sale of the notes in their possession, and offer those belonging to Mr. Kittle afterwards. Mr. Kittle could very easily have obtained the money for the notes by offering them at the Grocers' Bank of which he was a director, but as he would in that case have been obliged to put his own name upon them, he would have gained nothing by the operation.

While the Brothers Mildmen are running about trying to make sale of their securities, we will look in upon the new firm and see how they succeed with their suspended bargain, upon which their own fortunes, as well as the fortunes of many who do not as yet dream of danger, hang. Tom and his brother met their partner when he came into the office with a pleasant smile, and shook him cordially by the hand, an unusual demonstration of good feeling, and then rubbed their own hands as though they were excessively happy; and they well might be, the mails had brought them intelligence from every quarter of a rise in coffee, and they informed John that they had completed the bargain for the new cargo that had stood in their way. He enquired upon what conditions, and they, or rather Tom, informed him, after locking the door, in a whisper, that they were to give endorsed notes at ninety days, upon condition that the notes should not be put into the Banks and that the terms should not be made public.

"And who is the endorser?" asked John.

"Who?" replied the financier, "ha! ha! ha! old Kittle, of course."

"But he has refused; and I will sooner forego the whole profit of the speculation than ask him again," said John.

"Never mind; a bird that can sing, and won't sing, must be made to sing," said the financier, "leave him to me. I have got his name, and all that I require of you is to complete the arrangement with the owners of the coffee, and keep the transaction to yourself. Ask no questions."

"But I must ask one question, and it must be answered,"

said John, "by what means did you gain Mr. Kittle's consent to this arrangement?"

"I see no necessity for your asking such a question," said Tom, "and I have already told you that it is a private arrangement, and it must remain so."

"It takes Tom to do the financiering," said the junior partner, with a knowing wink.

"But in a matter like this," said John, "you have no right to have any secrets, you must not forget that I am a party interested, and I shall consent to no arrangement so important as this, unless I know all the conditions of it."

"Then you may go to——" the financier checked himself suddenly and gulphed down whatever word it was that he was going to utter. "Do you doubt my honor?" he continued, more mildly, but still with an angry flash of his grey eyes, "do you leave me to do all the business of the house, make all the contracts, write all the letters, and after you have yourself failed to complete a negotiation for an endorser, insist on breaking the contract when I have succeeded in arranging for one through the aid of my personal friends and my own personal influence? To gratify your stubborn whims, myself and mother and brother must be ruined, when we gave you an interest in the concern out of charity to you."

"You have said enough," replied John, "I will destroy nobody's property or happiness to gratify my own feelings; but bear in mind that you and I are no longer as we were. I will ask for no explanations; complete the arrangement that you have begun and when this speculation has been closed, we will revert to this morning's talk again."

"Just as you please," replied Tom, "but henceforth I am going to be head of this house, whether my name stands first or not."

"We will not quarrel about that now," said John, and one of the clerks coming in just at that moment, put an end to the conversation, and when they were left alone again, the financier requested John to call upon the managing partner of the house of Madder & Co., the owners of the Sumatra coffee, and tell him that they would complete the bargain for the entire cargo by a delivery of the notes the next day, to the estimated amount of two-thirds of its value, according to agreement.

"Curse him," said Tom, as his partner closed the door, "we will have him now, and if he doesn't repent of the day that he was dragged from the pauper's nest where he belongs, my name is not Tom Tuck."

But this hideous speech called forth no remark from his brother Fred, who sat behind his violet curtain reading the last new novel; nor was it in truth intended to do so, it being a kind of soliloquy in which the financier indulged too often to excite any particular remark when he was overheard, as he was not in this instance. Fred was deeply engaged in in the midst of one of those delicious bits of description which the fertile pens of the great geniuses in Great Britain are constantly throwing off for the benefit of our young ladies and gentlemen, and steam presses and paper makers and literary street hawkers and pedlars, and he had become quite oblivious to coffee speculations and ninety days notes, being employed much more to his liking in cramming himself with such interesting facts as these:

"The round red sun was fast sinking like a weary and battle-stained knight, far into the distant west, while a gorgeous canopy of glorious clouds, bathed in streams of fiery gold, hovered around him as though they were the hangings of the violet-colored bed in which he was about to stretch his mail-covered limbs, when Sir Reginald halted on his coal-black charger before the quaintly carved oaken gates of a somewhat dilapidated baronial castle of the olden time. On either side might be seen clumps of England's glorious trees, while above the distant coppice a light blue smoke arose in the air, like some gentle spirit just exhaled from the earth. In front was a terrace flanked with quaintly carved flower-pots, and beyond that stretched a lawn several posed to the eyes of all who looked upon it. Beyond the lawn again were seen the lines of a distant city, apparently of considerable extent. Winding along at the foot of the hill and making the commencement of what might be called a plain—though to say the truth, the wide space to which we must give that name, was broken by many undulations—appeared a hard but sandy road, from which a carriage-way led by a circuit up to the mansion. In some places high banks covered with shrubs and bushes, &c.—The Castle itself had nothing very remarkable in its appearance and therefore we give a particular description of it. The middle part consisted of a large square mass of stone masonry, rising somewhat higher and projecting somewhat farther than the rest of the building. On either side of this centre was a wing flanked with a small square tower, and in each wing and in each tower was a small door opening upon the terrace. Manifold lattices, too, with narrow panes set in lead, ornamented these inferior parts of the building in long strait rows, and chimneys nearly as numerous towered up from the tall ivy-clad gables, not quite in keeping with the trim regularity of the other parts of the building. It had in the centre a large hall door with a flight of stone steps, and on each side of the entrance were three small windows in frames of chisselled stone, &c."

He had already read near two hundred pages of similar description about distant copses, quaintly carved pots, lattice windows, and England's glorious clumps of trees; and he had in the course of his life read some millions of pages of similar powerful writing, by the same eloquent and prolific author, who had for twenty years produced his three or four novels yearly, to the utter amazement and great delight of hosts of readers on the American Continent, who never could cease wondering at his amazing fertility; although, had they ever looked through a kaleidoscope and noticed what an infinite number of shapes may be made by shaking together half a dozen bits of stained glass, and then remembered that there are some forty thousand words in the dictionary, it strikes us that their wonder need not have been so excessive.

The splendid production from which the above glowing extract was made, was a novel called "Sir Reginald, a Tale of other days," which at this time was in everybody's hands; and everybody was fired with a noble emulation to see who should read it through first, so that when the question should be put, "have you read Jones' last novel?" they could say, "yes." But we doubt not Fred Tuck had left everybody behind him, unless indeed it were the Editors, who have a wonderful faculty of reading through all new books the same day that they are issued, provided they be re-publications from the English Press and issued here by some wealthy publishers who have grown rich by pilfering the fruit of other people's labors. And then these patriotic Editors relieve their overburdened hearts and enlighten their readers by bringing out their most exciting expletives, "powerful," "brilliant," "splendid," "glorious," "profound;" and the literary circles, and the literary street hawkers are in a state of most brilliant excitement for at least two days. Our main object, however, in making this extract was not for the purpose of stating these grave facts, but that our readers might know what it was that so fascinated the junior partner of the firm of Tremlett & Tucks, and diverted his mind from the really grave and important cares which should have pressed heavily upon him; which gave his mind that romantic tinge so remarkably developed in his "beau ideal villa," and the general style of his conversation and dress. It was owing to this very "Sir Reginald," that he forgot to make provision for the check which his brother had sent to Mr. Jacobs on Saturday, in consequence of which that gentleman had became involved in a most unpleasant dilemma, that cannot but lead to the unhappiest results.

Mr. Jacobs had been so imprudent as to join an association of gentlemen who were extremely averse to eating bread which was savored by their own sweat, probably from an ignorance of the fact that such food was conducive in a high degree both to sweet sleep and healthy digestion. The means adopted by these gentlemen for making a genteel living, was by circulating very exact resemblances to bank notes, which were in truth, so far as intrinsic value was concerned, in every particular as valuable as the originals, being composed of exactly the same materials, and quite as creditable as works of art. And no doubt these financiers looked upon themselves as very honest people, and entertained a proper degree of righteous indignation towards those unworthy men who circulate counterfeit coin, which is a very different thing from what it appears to be, and will not bear the test of analysis; whereas a counterfeit bank note will. We do not intend to defend these associates in their bad practices, but we are unwilling to judge any man harshly, and therefore we give the best construction to their motives which they will bear. Furthermore, they had each made a private resolve, unbeknown to the others of course, that in case of difficulty by coming in contact with the law, they would turn state's evidence, and get clear of imprisonment themselves by informing against their associates, and therefore they were not troubled by any of those hideous fears which often, perhaps always, afflict those who indulge in solitary crimes. But if this feeling of there being a secret passage of escape in time of difficulty tended to make their lives more pleasant and comfortable, it had a counterbalancing ill effect by rendering them more careless in their operations, and consequently more liable to detection than they would otherwise have been. And in consequence of this very resolve, Mr. Jacobs had the ill luck to be detected in attempting to pass a ten dollar note in payment for a bowl of oyster soup at a cellar in Mulberry Street. The proprietor of the establishment, "the Mulberry Oyster Saloon" chanced to be a good judge of bank-bills from the fact of his having been engaged in the manufacture of them once himself, and he knew that Mr. Jacobs' tender was a counterfeit the moment he put his eye upon it, and guessing the character of his customer, he leapt over his bar and caught the unfortunate gentleman in his brawny arms before he had a chance to escape.

Mr. Jacobs was vehement in his protestations of innocence, and swore that he had just received the note from the teller of the Bank. But the Mulberry gentleman knew something of the world—at least the worst part of it, which is alone called THE WORLD, by the world—and, to use his own expression, he read Mr. Jacobs like a book, which, in justice to him, we acknowledge was a very bad simile, since his manner of reading a book was the very reverse of facile, while his reading of his prisoner was very neat and precise. Therefore he turned an adder-like ear to all his oaths and protestations and dispatched his colored assistant to the police office for his old acquaintance and chum, Cornele Racry, into whose hands he meant to deliver Mr. Jacobs with an understanding that they should share in whatever emoluments might arise from his arrest. But no sooner had the black emissary left the saloon than Mr. Jacobs became alarmed for his personal freedom and offered the oyster proprietor a very large sum if he would allow him to escape. And we are by no means positive that he would not have overcome his captor's scruples, but, unfortunately, the gross amount of real money which he had in his possession did not exceed four and sixpence, and the honest gentleman remained as inflexible as Brutus.

When the police officer arrived, who, of all other men, should he prove, but the very individual that had arrested Mr. Jacobs before on the complaint of Jeremiah. They knew each other at a glance, and the prisoner made no attempt at concealment; but knowing that police officers and proprietors of oyster saloons were possessed of like feelings with other men, he made his captors a plump offer of a thousand dollars, if they would let him go as soon as it should be paid. Now, as this was a much larger sum than they could hope to gain by delivering him into the hands of Justice, they would have accepted his proposition without hesitation had they not thought, from his making so handsome an offer at first, that they would get more by holding off. Therefore they made a great parade of their indignation, which they did so well that even Mr. Jacobs was deceived by it, and he kept increasing his offer, five hundred dollars a bid until he reached five thousand dollars, when they gave in; although the sum appeared to them so preposterously large that they had scarce a hope of its being paid. Had Mr. Jacobs been possessed of that magnificent sum himself, it is probable that he would not have parted with it to purchase his neck from a halter, but as he meant that somebody else should pay it, he cared less about it, although his instinct made him higgle for a good bargain. He had, as he thought, exhausted the Tucks long before, and he would not, under ordinary circumstances, have dared to apply to them, but now there was no other resource for him, and he sent them the threatening letter which the reader has already seen, and increased his demand six hundred dollars that he might have something in his pocket when he got clear of his present difficulty.

Almost as much to his own surprise as that of his captors, he received a letter from Tom Tuck, with a check enclosed, for the required amount. As the police officer could not be known in this transaction without injury to his professional reputation, he was obliged to entrust the check to his chum to get it cashed; and this gentleman had no sooner got it in his possession than he conceived the brilliant idea of keeping the whole amount, and not returning to his saloon. But he was prevented from carrying out this idea, for the Teller of the Bank refused to pay the check, alleging as a reason that the account of the firm was not good for it. But Mr. Jacobs assured the exasperated gentlemen, when they threatened to hurry him off to prison, that the check would be paid on Monday, and begged them to furnish him with refreshments becoming a person of his station while they kept him in confinement.

And the proprietor of the saloon, with great good nature, allowed him to call for the choicest refreshments in his establishment.

When Monday arrived the check was again presented, and again refused; and as the Teller eyed the holder of it very suspiciously, he began to fear that Mr. Jacobs had been playing a foul game, and he retreated very precipitately from the Bank, and called at the office of Tremlett & Tucks to enquire whether the check were genuine or not. Unluckily both the Tucks were out, and as John, on referring to the check books could find no entry of such a check, and none of the clerks knew of any such payment being made, he pronounced it a forgery, although the filling up and signature so nearly resembled his partner's hand. He was about to question the Mulberry gentleman as to his becoming possessed of it, when that personage took flight, lest he should be arrested as an accomplice, and ran with all his might until he reached the saloon, when, not content with heaping all the abusive epithets of which he was master on Mr. Jacobs' head, he had the meanness to bestow upon him some pretty severe kicks. It was in vain now, that Mr. Jacobs begged for more time, both the officer and the saloon proprietor were so exasperated that they would listen to none of his explanations and promises, but after they had emptied his pockets of everything of value that they contained, they hurried him off to the house of detention and cursed themselves for putting any faith in the representations of a rogue.

Mr. Jacobs' reflections when he found himself in prison were the very reverse of agreeable, as may well be conceived; 'twas a strange fact, considering the risks which he voluntarily encountered, but he had a horror of confinement amounting almost to mania. Indeed, it might have been owing in a great degree to his love of freedom, that he had never adopted any regular business, but preferred the uncertainties and dangers of the lawless life he had led, with its sweets of liberty, to the irksome confinement of a profitable profession. He could hardly believe that the Tucks had intentionally deceived him, although he had not formed a very high opinion of their morals from his intercourse with them, and yet it was evident enough that they had treated him with neglect and allowed him to be sent to prison; and he felt bitterly disposed towards them. If he did not render them a greater disservice than they had done him, it would be rather out of consideration to his own happiness than theirs. He paced up and down the narrow apartment in which he was confined, debating in his mind whether or not the pleasure of ruining two persons would be a sufficient compensation for bringing ruin upon himself, when the grated door of his prison was unlocked and another subject was thrust in. As the new-comer was decently dressed, and wore altogether a respectable rather than a flashy air, Mr. Jacobs felt happy in the prospect of a genteel companion, for he hated low company with all his heart, probably from never having been familiar with any other. So he advanced towards his new companion and held out his hand in a frank and agreeable manner, but, as he took a nearer look he started back with unfeigned amazement and consternation, as we doubt not almost any other person would have done under similar circumstances. The new prisoner was Jeremiah Jernegan.

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CHAPTER X.

WILL EXPLAIN THE CAUSE OF JEREMIAH'S CONFINEMENT, AND CONTAIN A REMARKABLE CONFESSION BY MR. JACOBS.

AS our motive in writing this history is not to tantalize our reader by exciting his curiosity without satisfying it at the first convenient moment, we hasten to narrate the strange events which led to the incarceration of Mr. Jernegan, and also to remove any unjust suspicions which that unlooked-for circumstance may have awakened in the reader's mind.

Although we commenced our last chapter with the events of Monday morning, we must now revert to Saturday night, and happy should we esteem our lot, could we, consistently with our duty, avoid the narration of certain facts which have so important a bearing upon the fortunes of the main personages of our history as to forbid their suppression. The reader will bear witness to our constant aim to represent human nature in its very brightest aspect, but he cannot know, of course, how often we have sacrificed a thrilling and startling incident, lest we should, by the exhibition of it, undermine his faith in the dignity of humanity and give cause to ill-favored minds to sneer at human nature; and if our narrative appears dull and tame, when compared with other histories, justice to our subject compels us to aver that it is rather owing to what may be deemed by some a too fastidious temper in the author, than to any want of exciting interest which the materials placed in our hands intrinsically possessed. But of one thing we can boast, with a consciousness of having performed our duty, that where necessity has compelled us to spread before the reader an unworthy action, we have endeavoured to find some palliating circumstances to screen the perpetrator of it from the contempt which a virtuous mind must always feel towards a vicious man. It is a foul bird that defiles its own nest. Truly it must be an ill-ordered mind that finds gratification in underrating its own nature; that can only see in mankind the evil which cannot, unhappily, be hid; that shuts its eyes, like a moping owl, to the brightness and beauty of day, but opens them to the night only to howl at the darkness which it would be better to endure in silence, like the other fowls of the air whose notes of gladness make even the brightness of day more cheery and pleasant.

As the time was so near at hand when Miss Hogshart was to leave for Berkshire, Jeremiah had asked for a few days leave of absence from the counting room, that he might be able to spend more time in her society, and also to show her more of those little attentions, which are so pleasant to give and receive, than he had before done. In conformity with his resolution to "redeem the time," he had invited her to another walk on the Battery; and to that pleasant spot they had betaken themselves; and beneath the green boughs of a huge sycamore, through whose motionless leaves the stars were shining like golden fruit upon the wide spread branches, they sat down and re-enacted some of those thrilling and never forgotten passages which are common in the lives of almost all lovers, but which had been exceedingly rare in the lives of Jeremiah and Miss Hogshart. As their occupations had detained them until after dark, the evening was nearly spent before they reached this pleasant resort. They sat as long as prudence would allow, and just before they were to return, Jeremiah took a little Bible from his coat pocket, and opening it, somewhere in the middle of the old Testament, held it upon his knee, while he and Huldah clasped their hands across it, and repeated together the vow of the Moabitess. "Whither thou goest I will go and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God; where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried; the Lord do so to me and more also if aught but death part thee and me." Although the stars glittered brightly through the trees and besprinkled the turf around them with faint rays of light, yet there was not enough to enable them to read the small print of Jeremiah's pocket bible, but he had the words by heart, and she repeated them after him. Never were words repeated with a more devout feeling than were these by Jeremiah, and at the end, as if not satisfied with their solemn meaning, to make them still more binding he put his arms around her neck, and sealed his vow with an earnest and hearty kiss upon her lips.

But while they were thus yielding themselves up to these tender, yet chaste dalliances, a scene was enacting in their boarding house which was to turn all their bright anticipations into dark and gloomy forebodings, which was to change confidence into suspicion, love into hate, and hope into despair. Alas for earthly anticipations! Alas for human frailty!

Scarcely had the two lovers left their boarding house when a four wheeled cab stopped at the door they had just closed, and a very magnificent lady accompanied by a splendid gentleman, rang the bell and inquired for Mrs. Bates. Mrs. Bates made her appearance and invited the lady and gentleman, into her parlor, where some remarkably genteel courtesies were exchanged by the ladies and some very stylish bows were made by the gentleman, all in the strictest fashion and according to the latest advices from Paris. The magnificent lady was tall, thin and genteel; she was dressed en rigueur and perfumed á merveille; her jewelry was recherché, and everything about her was Parisian except her tongue and her taste, both of which were indigenous to the soil; her name was Madame Grandemaison, and she was the proprietor of the Parisian Rooms, and the boss of Huldah Hogshart. The gentleman was Monsieur Grandemaison, her husband, some fifteen years her junior, and the proprietor of a pair of coal-black mustaches and a glossy imperial, which he kept in very perfect order. These were his possessions and his employments. It may not be uninteresting to the reader to know that Monsieur was a count in his own country, and that he had in his possession, or rather his wife had in hers, undoubted testimonials, which she sometimes showed to an intimate friend, in proof of the fact. But it is very much to the credit of Madame Grandemaison, that she never allowed herself to be called by her proper title of countess, except in sport, alleging what was no doubt true, that she was well satisfied with the title of an American lady, although she had told some of her more intimate acquaintances that when she went over to Paris with her husband she should of course, "stick up for her rights," and Madame Grandemaison's friends commended her spirit and intimated, though not in direct terms, that she would create quite a sensation at the French court.

"My name, Madam," said the lady as soon as she had seated herself "is Madame Grandemaison, and this is Monsieur, my husband."

"Yes'm," replied Mrs. Bates holding her head very stiff lest Madame Grandemaison should flatter herself that she was in the slightest possible degree overcome by the announcement. "I have seen you in your store when I have called to look at your hats'm."

"Hem! hem!" ejaculated Monsieur, and his lady felt a tingling in her cheeks, although there was no visible evidence of an unusual sensation in that part of her system; it being many years since the habit of blushing had fallen into desuetude with her.

"You keep a boarding-house, I believe, Madam," said

Madame Grandemaison, while her greyish eyes twinkled with malicious pleasure.

"I accommodate a few of my friends, if you please, 'em," said Mrs. Bates, straightening herself up into a more erect position.

"I believe that one of my workwomen by the name of Hogshart, or something of that kind, boards with you, Madam?"

"A young lady of that name, a friend of the South street merchants, Tremlett and Tucks, is staying with me, 'm," replied Mrs. Bates with dignity.

"A quakeress, I believe, madam?" said Madame Grandemaison.

"A friend," replied Mrs. Bates.

"It's all one to me, only I never could see the propriety of calling those people friends; they are no friends to my business, I am sure I should be forced to shut up my store if all the ladies dressed like quakers, Mrs. Bates. And as for the young person that I have been enquiring about, she has been a miserable friend to me, I assure you; she has proved my greatest enemy," said Madame Grandemaison, who, finding that Mrs. Bates was not a person to be awed by her grandeur, easily fell into a very natural and colloquial style, which was immediately assumed by Mrs. Bates who exclaimed in great consternation, "Good Heavens! Mrs. Grandemaison, what is it you mean?"

"I have just discovered, Mrs. Bates, that that minx, Miss Hogshart, that demure creature which I have nourished in the bosom of my business like a daughter, has robbed my show-room of hundreds of dollars."

"Hundreds, tousands!" said Monsieur Grandemaison.

"Hush my dear, don't open your lips," said his lady, "the ungrateful minx has ruined me, Mrs. Bates, and ruined herself too." Here Madame Grandemaison sobbed hysterically, and said she actually shed tears; not so much for her own loss, as for the poor girl's sake.

"Impossible!" exclaimed Mrs. Bates, "it cannot be; such a sedate young lady; one of the society of friends, who never do anything wrong, and her father a public speaker too. Impossible! impossible!"

"Ah! you will see," said Monsieur Grandemaison.

"My love, will you hush, or must I quit my business!" said the excited lady. "It's true, Mrs. Bates, I assure you. I wish it was not. Whole dozens of the finest gloves, and such laces and scarfs, O! it's incredible."

"Be careful, Madame Grandemaison, be careful," said Mrs. Bates.

"I wish I had been more careful, Mrs. Bates," said Madame, "if I had I should not be a ruined lady as I am now. Lace veils, and French slippers without number, and the very best, too; such an avaricious creature, and I so good to her too; many's the lunch of cold fish cakes that I have given that girl. I will never again believe there is such a thing as goodness in the world, Mrs. Bates."

"Have you any proof, Mrs. Grandemaison?" said Mrs. Bates.

"Proof! Lead me to her room and you shall see, Madam."

"By all means," replied Mrs. Bates, for she was curious to know herself what truth there might be in Madame Grandemaison's charges, and taking the candle she led the way towards Huldah's apartment, followed by the magnificent milliner and her husband. But Madame Grandemaison, thought that a young lady's chamber was not a proper place for Monsieur to visit, and she ordered him back into the parlor where he sat in the dark and whistled a fashionable waltz until his wife returned.

The two ladies having reached Miss Hogshart's room, locked themselves in, began their search; the first object that arrested their attention was a plethoric looking band-box tied up with scarlet ribbons; this they tore open without hesitation and discovered a very curious collection of Parisian gew-gaws, which being turned out upon the floor caused both ladies to lift up their hands in amazement.

"My richest satins," exclaimed Madame Grandemaison, "here's a dozen of my fifty dollar pocket handkerchiefs. O, heavens, the lace caps! Merciful powers, the gauze scarfs! O, mon Doo, mon Doo! what bunches of orange blossoms! Five dozens of kid gloves. Goodness, goodness, what remnants of shot silks."

Next they examined a clothes press, from whence they drew broché shawls, lace scarfs, and stockings innumerable; under the bed they found another band box with a similar assortment of finery, together with bottles of orange water, a collection of pearl hair pins, mosaic broaches and a box of genuine Farina cologne, and lying upon the bureau, Madame Grandemaison found a gold locket of very red hair, at the sight of which she came very near fainting away. It was a present from her first husband and contained one of his precious curls; and her own initials were marked upon the back of it, or rather letters intended for that purpose, "U. A." for Eunice Allen. She had missed it for months, and she declared that she valued it more than all her goods. Other articles of less value were discovered in the bureau drawers, which Madame Grandemaison recognized as her property, and increased the heap upon the floor to a frightful size. It was so astounding that Mrs. Bates ran down to call her husband to look at it, and Madame Grandemaison went for Monsieur. It was a curious sight, and we wish that all young ladies who indulge in an inordinate love of dress could have seen it. We do not wish that they could have seen the unfortunate Huldah, when a few minutes after the ladies had retired with their husbands, she came home with Jeremiah, and finding no light in the parlor thought that Mrs. Bates had gone to bed, and so bounded lightly up to her own room, where as she burst open the door she uttered a terrible scream and fell senseless upon the floor, because we would not that anybody should have witnessed her melancholy condition, and therefore we shall not describe more particularly what took place, excepting to state that Jeremiah heard the scream and hastened up stairs when the dreadful truth was told him, and he was so much overcome that he sat all night in his chamber unable to speak or even to pray.

Monsieur Grandemaison and Mr. Bates took up the finery in their arms and loaded the cab with it; and then Mr. Bates went in pursuit of friend Hogshart, whom he found at the house of a rich quaker in Beekman street. And the old man came, thinking that his daughter was suddenly taken ill, but when he saw her, and was told the cause of her distraction, for she lay upon the floor uttering the most piteous moans, it was the most heart-breaking sight that ever was witnessed, to see him as he knelt over her and wept. Poor old man! He uttered no reproaches to her, but he reproached himself for having exposed her to such cruel temptations.

It was past midnight before the house had regained its usual quiet. Before Madame Grandemaison left, Mrs. Bates fell upon her knees and begged that out of regard to the character of her establishment, she would not make the affair public; and the magnanimous milliner promised to exercise a proper degree of Christian forbearance. The next morning was Sunday, but Mr. Bates thought that the strange affair would be so gratifying to Tom Tuck, inasmuch as Jeremiah was a party concerned, that he hastened off before breakfast and related all the circumstances of the case to that gentleman. What the exact motives were which influenced Mr. Bates, we know not, whether he thought that the financier would make more mischief out of it than anybody else, or that he would contrive some very ingenious plan to heal up the wounds that were now bleeding in many bosoms in consequence of the unhappy event, we have no means of knowing to a certainty, because he never made any declaration on the subject, but the fact is undeniable that he could not have made a confident of a more improper person, as will appear in the sequel. If he had gone to John, some good might have come of his errand, but he had gone out of the city to remain until Monday, or he might have done so.

It so happened that Mrs. Tuck and Madame Grandemaison were on very intimate terms; the ladies bore, indeed, some resemblance morally to each other, although physically they were quite dissimilar, and an acquaintance which was formed in the first place, in the way of business, for Madame Grandemaison furnished Mrs. Tuck with her dresses, had ripened into a friendship. They were members of the same church, sat in adjoining pews, wore the same dresses, partook of the same communion, slept under the same sermons and subscribed to the same articles. They always met at the church door, and Mrs. Tuck, to show her Christian humility and let the world know that she was not too proud to speak to her dress-maker in public, would sometimes condescend to stop and talk as familiarly with Madame Grandemaison as though she had been the wife of an importer or jobber. And in these little conversations Mrs. Tuck would sometimes gather information in regard to the cost and texture of half the ladies' dresses in church, which was mutually comforting and pleasant, one lady taking as much pleasure in imparting as the other did in receiving such knowledge. The next morning after the exposure of poor Huldah's crimes, the two ladies, were so impatient to see each other and talk over the awful affair, that they never nodded once during the sermon, although we are by no means sure that they imbibed more of the blessed words of the good doctor than they had usually done. As they emerged from the wooden portal of the Gothic temple in which they worshipped, they drew towards each other as if one were a magnet and the other a bar of steel. Being in the shadow of the church their thoughts were, of course, far removed from the sublunary sphere in which they dwelt. Their salutations were simultaneous.

"What an excellent discourse," said Mrs. Tuck.

"What a beautiful sermon!" said Madame Grandemaison.

"Such language!"

"Such sentiments!"

"So orthodox!"

"So high church!"

"I could have listened forever."

"I could have sat until night."

"Do tell me, Madame Grandemaison, what frightful thing has Mrs. Peter Smith got on her head?"

"Don't ask me, Mrs. Tuck, I beg of you. You know I am bound not to divulge my customers' secrets; but as 'tis you, and it will go no farther, its a poult de soie, made up a la Duchesse d'Orleans, cheap and out of date."

"How like her! But what a dreadful affair that is of your young quakeress, Madame Grandemaison. What wickedness there is in the world!"

"Awful, Mrs. Tuck, but as I told the count, what can you expect of a society that wears mob caps and has no ministers."

"But have you recovered all your goods, Madame Grandemaison?"

"All! O, mon doo, mon doo! Mrs. Tuck, not half. But what I regret most, is a splendid camel's hair shawl, which was part of my trousseau when I married the count. I lost it months ago, and I supposed at the time that it had been stolen out of my hall."

"Well, Madame Grandemaison, let me give you a piece of advice; get a search warrant to-morrow morning and search that man's premises who is engaged to Miss Hogshart. My son knows him well, and he says that he has no doubt of his being a particeps criminis."

"Indeed, and what is that, Mrs. Tuck?" said Madame Grandemaison.

"O, a partner in the robbery, of course."

"Ah! but that cannot be, he is said to be such a pious creature," replied Madame.

"Pious! O, he is a dreadful infidel. My son says he is not even a member of any church. He's dreadful loose in his morals."

"Not a member of any church, Mrs. Tuck? You amaze me. I had always supposed him to be an excellent man. What a wretch!"

"Birds of a feather, Madame Grandemaison."

"True. I am greatly obliged to you, Mrs. Tuck, I will send the count after an officer to-morrow. Good morning, madam.

"Good morning, Madame Grandemaison," said Mrs. Tuck sweetly, and thus the ladies parted; Mrs. Tuck stepping into her carriage which had been waiting with a driver and a footman, while she was at her devotions, and Madame Grandemaison, taking the arm of Monsieur, who had been waiting for her at the corner.

The next morning an officer, accompanied by Mons. Grandemaison, made his appearance at Mrs. Bates' door, and demanded admittance to Jeremiah's room, which was not denied him, of course. Jeremiah was still in bed, for he had not closed his eyes during the night, but he got up and told the officer to satisfy himself. The first place they examined was the clothes-press, which was found to contain nothing but old coats and pantaloons, and a bundle of religious tracts; the officer was about to close the door when Monsieur Grandemaison discovered a drawer which had not been opened, and requested Jeremiah to unlock it.

"Ah ha!" thought monsieur, "you blush eh?"

"What makes your hand tremble so?" said the officer.

"Nothing," replied Jeremiah.

"Nossing!" exclaimed Mons. Grandemaison, as he sprang two or three feet from the floor, "Nossing. You rascal tief, here's my wife's shawl. Sacre nom de Dieu!"

"That looks bad, my man," said the officer, as he turned to Jeremiah, whose face was redder than any scarlet. "But stop Mr. Grandemaison, how do you know that that's your wife's property?"

Monsieur could swear to it; Madame could swear to it, and the importer from whom he purchased it could swear to it.

They examined still further but found only an old bonnet which Monsieur could not identify as his wife's property, but under the bolster of the bed they found a delicate cambric pocket handkerchief with Madame Grandemaison's initials embroidered in the centre. They could find nothing more. But they had found enough for a commitment. Jeremiah confessed that the articles had been in Miss Hogshart's possession, although he said that she had not given them to him, and in his confusion told such a crooked and improbable story that Monsieur Grandemaison and the officer both believed that he had stolen them himself. He was terrified beyond expression, and the whole proceedings were so unlooked for and astounding that he knew not what to do. He saw that appearances were against him and knew not how he could possibly establish his innocence, but he requested that Mr. Bates might be sent for, who, when he came, could afford no other comfort than to shake his head and say that he was sorry to have his house disgraced by such ugly work. Monsieur Grandemaison ran immediately to his wife to report progress and ask what her pleasure was, and she insisted that Jeremiah should be sent to prison and tried for theft, or for receiving stolen goods at least; and on his way back to Jeremiah's room, he encountered Tom Tuck, who, on being informed of the affair, advised him to have Jeremiah committed without delay.

So Jeremiah was thrown into prison where he encountered Mr. Jacobs as we have already seen in the last chapter. He was not possessed of that refined and fastidious virtue which causes its possessors to shrink aghast from a suspicion of guilt or from the haunts of vice, lest their morals should be tainted by their persons coming in contact with one a little less righteous than themselves, and therefore when he found himself in the same apartment with Mr. Washington Mortimer instead of flaring up on the score of his greater respectability, when that person addressed him he returned his salutations in a very civil manner, and told him he was sorry to meet him in so bad a place. As we have before stated, Jeremiah's early education had been sadly neglected, and he had fallen into a loose habit of looking upon all men with nearly the same feelings; regarding none so bad but there might be some extenuating circumstances in his conduct, nor no one so good that he might not be a good deal better. Although he never allowed himself to underrate the good qualities of others, or question one's motives when his actions were in themselves proper. For himself, if he could preserve his own self-respect he cared but little for the opinion of the world, but he was not by any means indifferent to a good name, although he would not have sacrificed a hair's breadth of his conscience to gain one. In the present case he felt guilty, not of the wrong of which he was accused, but of having practiced deceit, of acting a lie, when he took the shawl, to screen himself from ridicule; and he felt that his punishment was just, while a consciousness of having intended no wrong nerved his soul to endure whatever degradation he might be compelled to suffer. In his present frame of mind, induced by the revelation of Miss Hogshart's crime, the walls of a prison were more congenial to his feelings than any other place, save the solitude of the country, would have been. He knew so little about criminal courts, or of their manner of dealing with offenders, that he never dreamed of such a thing as being bribed, or he would have sent for John, who would gladly have been security for him. He did not know that a wealthy rogue could commit crimes with impunity for which a poor one would have to endure the rigors of the law. It had never entered his simple mind that the law could be mollified with money, or that a criminal could purchase himself clear of its penalties; for he thought, simple creature, that the law of the land was as impartial and exacting as the Law of Nature.

"If it is not presuming too much," said Mr. Jacobs, "may I take the liberty to enquire what you are box'd for?"

"I am accused of stealing," replied Jeremiah, "but I hope it is not necessary for me to assure you that I am innocent of the charge."

"Ho! ho! ho!" roared Mr. Jacobs so loud that all the prisoners crowded to the grated windows of their cells to learn the cause of such an unusual explosion, "ho! ho! ho! O, of course not." But Mr. Jacobs could not sufficiently express his admiration of such an exquisite bit of humor without throwing his arms around Jeremiah's neck, and hugging him close to his bosom. "Of course you are not guilty. Nobody is guilty in this place. Of course not, Mr. Jernegan; But, I say, I always thought there was something deep under that sober face of your'n. You're a sly one. How much did you get, hey? how was it?"

"Ah!" replied Jeremiah, "I got nothing; I have wronged no one; but it's right that I should suffer. It's all right."

"So, you got cotched before you got hold of anything?—Well, that's bad. You'll do better next time; but, I say, mister, you won't go to blabbing about that business of mine and those scamps of Tucks?"

"If I should be called upon to tell what I know about you I shall do so, of course."

"What, when you and I are chummys?" said Mr. Jacobs, turning his protuberant black eyes insinuatingly up to Jeremiah's face, "come, come, let's be friends. If you'll keep dark about me, I'll get a fust wate witness for you. Come, Come."

"I would not do you any injury," said Jeremiah, "if I could avoid it, but you have—"

"Good! I knew you was a true card! you're a weg'lar fust wate twump."

"I beg you to believe me in earnest—"

"Oh, I do," said Mr. Jacobs as he grasped him by the hand.

"If I were called upon to give my testimony against you I would not hesitate if you were my brother."

"What a malicious wascal," said Mr. Jacobs flinging away Jeremiah's hand, "you owe me a gwudge because I kept that old watch; but, if you'll agwee to keep dark about that, I'll give you one worth two of it."

"You wrong me, indeed you do, I forgive you with all my soul; I know how easy it is to err, and as I hope to be forgiven for my own misdeeds, I do not harbor an ill feeling against you; but when you ask me to deny your crime, you would make me a partaker of it, which you have no right to do."

"You're a weg'lar fool or a weg'lar methodist," said Mr. Jacobs, sulkily, "but never mind, old fellow, I'll fix you for it. Parson Gummigum."

"There's no need of anger or abuse," replied Jeremiah mildly, "I have done you no wrong, nor threatened any. What reason have you to fear my evidence? I have made no complaint against you."

"I am afwaid of you hypokwits, I know."

"Well, well, I am sorry for you. You are right. I am a hypocrite, I fear. Those who have caused me to be brought to this place, have seen something in me worse than I thought I could be guilty of. Ah, my friend, we are all hypocrites: we all strive to appear better than we strive to be. But if it is not an impertinent question may I ask for what you are imprisoned."

"Ah you may well ask that. I am here for somebody else's villainy. I am empwisson'd for fogewy."

"And you are not guilty!"

"Are you?"

"No."

"No more am I. Is it a likely story that I would commit a fogewy?"

"Well, it's a crime of frequent occurrence in all commercial communities," replied Jeremiah, "but yours is a hard case indeed, my friend."

"It's pwecious hard, and I am a good mind to tell all about it too. It's all of them scamps of Tucks that has done me up."

"But you have no right to complain of them for doing their duty," said Jeremiah, "if they caused you to be arrested it was because you had been guilty of an outrage upon their uncle, or they believed so, at least."

"An outwage upon their uncle!" exclaimed Mr. Jacobs in undissembled alarm, and with a scowl which made Jeremiah start, "do they say that, the wetches?"

"Undoubtedly, and they must have believed you guilty or they would not have caused you to be arrested."

"They cause me to be awested! when? when? The scamps! when?"

"When you got clear for lack of evidence before," replied Jeremiah.

"What, the Tucks! Tom and Fwed!" exclaimed the Jew with an incredulous whine. "Enough said. Say no more. Their names is Goslins. If I don't blow them they'll blow me. I told 'em to look out, and now they've went and cheated me with a bad check, and got me into this scwape. I'm despwate at those wascals."

"You talk strangely my friend, I do not comprehend you."

"You don't? well, keep your ears open tight, and I'll tell you something stwanger yet. Those scamps are the lyingest, cheatingest, murdwingest wascals alive. Tom is the biggest wogue, but Fwed is the biggest fool."

"Hush, hush," said Jeremiah, "you know not what you say; wait until you are less excited. Be quiet."

"Don't be fwightened at me, I won't hurt you." But Jeremiah was frightened, for the Jew's face assumed a look of ferocity that startled him, and his large black eyes glared fiercely at him.

"Stop, don't wun," said Mr. Jacobs as he caught hold of Jeremiah's collar, "there's no harm in me now; but it was I that killed their uncle. I gave him laudanum. Yes, it was I."

"Let go my collar," gasped Jeremiah, "let me go, I am choking."

"Not yet; not till you hear more. It was they that hired me to do it; yes it was them, and they pwomised to pay me well for it, which they wouldn't do, because I got the wong will for them; and now they've gone and sent me a good-for-nothing check. Now I'm even with 'em, I'll turn states' evidence, and we'll see who'll hang now. Now I am easy, I've got that off my mind, and I want a cigar. What, fainted at that. Poo! You've got no gizzard."

Jeremiah's face grew pale, his knees tottered, and he fell upon the stone floor of the prison. Upon which Mr. Jacobs gave him a look of proud contempt, and walked away and left him to recover at his leisure.

————

CHAPTER XI.

CONTAINS SUNDRY EVENTS INDICATIVE OF OUR HISTORY BEING NEAR ITS CLOSE.

When the financier returned to the counting-room he reached the notes intended for Madder & Co., with the endorsement of Mr. Kittle to John, and requested him to deliver them himself in the morning. John promised to do so, but as he put them in his pocket he saw his father's spirit standing by his desk, gazing upon him with a sad reproving look, such as he had never worn before.

At sight of this apparition he grew sick at heart, his hand trembled violently and his face turned deadly pale. The financier noticed the sudden change in his countenance, and asked what ailed him.

"Did you see nothing?" said John.

"Nothing," replied Tom, with a slight trembling of his voice, "did you?" he added, looking keenly into John's face.

"I thought I did, but I was mistaken. It was the fault of my eyes. I must go out and breathe the fresh air." He rose from his desk, but suddenly fell back in his seat; his father's form again stood before him and seemed to bar his way.

"What is it? What ails you?" said the financier.

"A slight giddiness," said John, "it will pass off soon."—He sat a few minutes, and again rose to go, and again fell back in his seat, for the same appearance seemed to float before him.

"Are you subject to fainting fits?" asked the financier.

"No, but I have been subject to turns like these ever since my father died; poor old man! Would I had been near him to close his eyes!"

"Aye, and to enquire about his will; I do not wonder at your faintness when you think of him."

"You do not understand me. I care nothing about his will, except that I fear his wishes have been thwarted, and that it causes him unhappiness now."

"Ha! ha! excuse me for laughing. I can't help it, you must excuse me."

"I excuse you," replied John seriously, "you need not repress your mirth, it does not annoy me. But I shall be unfit for business to-day, and you must excuse me. I must go home."

"Very well, but give me back the notes; they will not be safe in your pocket."

John returned the notes to him, and after sitting a moment longer, rose from his desk and left the counting-room without again being crossed by his spiritual visitant.

Jeremiah having obtained leave of absence for a few days, John had made no enquiries after him, and neither of his partners, nor Mr. Bates had told him of the events of Saturday evening, or of Jeremiah's subsequent arrest, doubtless influenced by a benevolent wish to spare him the painful feelings that they must have known such news would have caused him; at least we can conceive of no other motive that could have induced them to keep silent in regard to that unhappy circumstance, for they knew that he would immediately procure the poor fellow's release, if he were aware of his arrest. He had hardly left the counting-room when a note was brought in for him, which the financier perceived was from Jeremiah, and with that peculiar readiness to serve a friend which had ever been a prominent feature in his character, he tore it open and read it, and then tore it up and scattered the fragments upon the floor. The contents of the note were as follows:

"CITY PRISON, 10 O'CLOCK.

"My Dear Sir:

"Will you have the goodness to call and see me at the earliest moment possible? I have something to communicate of great importance to yourself and others in whom you are interested. Do not fail to call.

"Your unfortunate friend,
J. JERNIGAN.
To Mr. J. Tremlett."

"Business before friendship," said the financier, as he took up the note, "Mr. Jeremiah must wait his time."

Had Tom Tuck known how nearly Jeremiah's note concerned himself, it is probable that he would have treated it with vastly greater consideration. But we grope about in the darkness of our misdeeds, little dreaming what important results will grow out of our most trifling errors; and forgetful of that important rule which never can be safely forgotten, of doing unto others as we would be done by.

When Jeremiah had recovered from the shock which the confession of Mr. Jacobs had given him, his first thought was to convey a hint to the Tucks of their danger, that they might be enabled to make their escape before the Jew could cause them to be arrested, and for that purpose he had addressed a note to John, thinking him the most suitable person to be put in possession of the secret; for he had no doubt of the guilt of the brothers, and his kindly feelings towards them and their mother, entirely destroyed his sense of what was due to the Law. Indeed, he was so much in the habit of regarding the law of God as paramount to all others, that we are by no means certain that he ever thought of what was due to the criminal code, or reflected on the enormity of his own guilt in trying to aid a criminal to escape from the gallows; thereby depriving one of his fellow citizens of the privilege which the law allowed him of putting a human being to death in a quiet business like manner, by hanging him up in the presence of a select party of friends, assembled for the express purpose of witnessing so comforting and exhilarating a ceremony.

So completely had his feelings become enlisted in behalf of the guilty but unfortunate brothers, that he entirely forgot his own misfortunes, and only lamented his confinement, because it prevented him from serving them as effectually as he wished to do, and he walked up and down the little space allotted to him for exercise in an agony of suspense, wondering that John did not make his appearance, and watching Mr. Jacobs narrowly to see that he had no communication with the keepers of the prison. Some of the other prisoners noticing his anxiety, and naturally supposing that he felt the pricks of a guilty conscience, very kindly offered their condolence, and tried to keep him in heart by bidding him keep a stiff upper lip, and using many similar comforting expressions, for which he thanked them civilly; but his anxiety increased and his uneasiness became more manifest as the day wore away, and no one came to see him. At sunset he was locked up in a narrow little cell by himself, and it was a relief to him to fall upon his knees and pray for those who were regardless of themselves. And he did not forget Huldah Hogshart, but prayed for her with greater earnestness than he had ever done before, when he believed her to be innocent of crime or evil thoughts. He could no longer love her, but he could pity her. Those who did him a kindness were sure of his gratitude, but those who wronged him gained his pity and his prayers. The blow that inflicted a wound in his heart, opened a stream that washed away the guilt of the hand that struck it, like the sacrificial blood of a Jewish altar.

But Jeremiah was not forgotten, although he was not cheered by the face of a kindly visitor. When friend Hogshart heard that he had been carried to prison on a charge of being an accomplice of his daughter, he was grieved beyond measure, for he had no doubt of his innocence, and upon questioning Huldah, she made the most solemn protestations to that effect and begged that her father would obtain his release from prison. But she declared that she would sooner die than ever have him speak to her again. The old man found means, through the influence of one of his yearly meeting friends, a rich jobber in Pearl street, to obtain sufficient money to satisfy Madame Grandemaison for all the damage she had sustained by the depredations of his daughter, and having taken her receipt in full, he addressed the countess milliner in this manner:

"Well, friend, thee says thee is satisfied?"

"O, perfectly," replied Madame Grandemaison, in a very sweet and bewitching manner, or at least in a manner meant to be sweet and bewitching, "perfectly; and allow me to ask you to accept this mosaic pin as a slight memento of my respect for you, I am sure I did not know that there were such gentlemanly people among the friends." These words were uttered with such a genuine air of admiration that we wonder much at the reply which they elicited.

"Woman!" said friend Hogshart, as he put on his broad brimmed drab hat, "I despise thy gew-gaws and trinkets.—Does thee wish to tempt me to ruin, as thee did my daughter? Is thee satisfied when thee lies down at night to remember that thy vain and worthless merchandise has drawn an innocent and simple-minded girl from the paths of honesty and godly-mindedness, that thee now seeks to lure my feet to perdition? Keep thy finery for such as thyself, I wish for none of it.—Thee has caused enough of grief and shame already in one family. I weep for my poor child's sin, but I reproach myself for placing her in the way of temptation. Thee must not allow thee self to boast of thy own honesty when thee tells of my poor daughter's fall. She was tempted to take thy painted baubles with the idle hope of making her person more comely, but thee takes the money of vain people by overcharges for thy trumpery goods that thee and thy idle husband may riot in vain-glorious show; and thee has no longer youth as an excuse for thy wickedness!"

Madame Grandemaison lost all her native sweetness and dignity of manner long before friend Hogshart arrived at the end of his speech, and her face would have turned to the color of parchment but for the rouge on her cheeks, so great was her indignation; she stamped on the floor with an energy peculiarly her own and screamed in the highest tone of her fine voice, to Monsieur Grandemaison, to come up stairs and kick friend Hogshart down. But the old quaker was not one of those slight subjects that a person of Monsieur Grandemaison's physical pretensions would care to exercise his powers upon, and therefore he was cautious to make his appearance just in time to be too late to execute his wife's wishes, although unhappily for him, not too late to receive the full force of the indignant feelings that belonged of right to friend Hogshart. He having secured his daughter and Jeremiah from the risk of further annoyance by Madame Grandemaison, and delivered his sentiments to the great relief of his overburdened mind, walked deliberately down stairs with the calm air of a man conscious of his own strength of limb and rectitude of purpose. He then proceeded to procure the release of Jeremiah, which he accomplished with but little difficulty, although not in time to save him from a night's lodging in prison. Having no longer occasion to remain in the city, he departed immediately for Berkshire county, taking his unhappy daughter with him, and shaking the dust from the soles of his feet, as he entered the steam-boat, with a firm, though silent resolve never again to venture within the influence of the city's temptations.

The next morning, at the usual hour of bringing the prisoners out for examination, Jeremiah was told that he was at liberty to go where he pleased. But he almost felt loth to go, overburdened as he was by a knowledge of the guilt of the Tucks, and doubtful in what way to discharge the fearful duty imposed upon him of making it known. It would have been a relief to him had he been kept in close confinement where he could neither see the guilty men themselves, nor hear of the distress which a knowledge of their crimes must occasion. But he was sure of one friend, who would bear with his weakness and sympathize with his feelings, and in pursuit of him he immediately went. As he entered the counting-room there was a general commotion among all the clerks, except only Mr. Bates, who with a loftiness of manner that conscious dignity and merit could alone impart, turned over the leaves of his ponderous ledger without even deigning to look at the culprit. Let Mr. Bates have been possessed of what weakness or evil quality he might, he had a grateful heart, and he never saw a transgressor in the toils of the law but he thanked his God he was not like other men.

Jeremiah replied to the enquiries of the clerks as to his confinement, and how he had effected his escape good-naturedly, but without giving them any positive information on the subject, and then passed into the private office where he met the financier and the junior partner, John having just gone out to deliver the note to Madder & Co. At sight of the brothers Jeremiah gave an involuntary start, which they were pleased to consider an evidence of his guilt.

"What do you want here?" demanded Tom, with a stern look.

"I am looking after Mr. Tremlett," replied Jeremiah.

"Out of prison, are you?" said Mr. F. Augustus, looking over his violet curtain, "so, you were apprehended for stealing shawls and pocket handkerchiefs. A remarkably nice cashier you would have been."

"Who bailed you out?" asked Tom.

"I do not know, and I do not see that you have any right to ask. I presume that I am not indebted for my freedom to your good will," replied Jeremiah, and the next moment his heart smote him for his rudeness to a man who was in his power.

"Out of this you insolent thief," cried the financier as he leaped up from his desk, "do you presume on the friendship of my partner to insult me? Leave the office, sir."

"Kick him, Tom," said F. Augustus, as he threw down the last volume of Sir Reginald, for he had that moment devoured the last word of that splendid production, "kick him."

But Jeremiah wished to avoid any disturbance, and he retreated from the office before the financier had time to improve upon his brother's hint.

"We must be rid of that fellow," said Tom, "he's a sneaking treacherous snoop, and if there is no other way of getting him off, I will dissolve with his friend, Mr. Jack Tremlett, as soon as this coffee speculation is closed."

"How will it turn out?"

"Well. Better than I could have expected. I shall clear a pretty penny by it, but I am resolved that that fellow Tremlett shall not finger the first cent of the profits. I will have a settlement with him and turn him over the stock of the Cranberry Meadow Rail Road. He means to get married soon to somebody he has met in his rambles through the Bowery, but he shall spend no money of my earning upon his Bowery beauty."

"Good, capital!" exclaimed Fred in his joyous light-hearted tones, "but hush! Here he comes."

"Have you delivered the notes?" asked the financier, as his partner entered the office.

"I have," replied John, "and now we must make some arrangements for sales."

"Leave that to me," said the financier, "I will make the sales and you Fred, go and——"

But Fred was already gone; he had promised to drive a distinguished artist, just returned from Europe, over to his beau ideal villa, to show him the conservatory, built, as his architect assured him, exactly after the Duke of Devonshire's, at Chatsworth, and he had contrived to slip out, unperceived by his brother, as John came in.

"Gone, is he!" said the financier, "then I must go myself."

The brothers having left the office, John remained alone. He was unusually serious, and his face looked care-worn and his eye heavy; and instead of the clear ruddy complexion natural to his face, it looked pale and bilious. During the past night his father's form had been constantly present to him; and even on his way to the office of Madder & Co., the same appearance seemed to float before his eyes, as if to hinder him from his errand. But since he had delivered the notes the apparition had ceased to haunt him. He was perplexed at this unnatural visitation and harrassed at the recollection of the great extent of his business obligations, and the risk he had encountered in the coffee speculation; if it should prove disastrous, he would not only be reduced to absolute beggary himself, but those who had entrusted their property to his management, with no other security than his honor, would be ruined with him and by him.

While he sat at his desk reflecting on these things, old Mr. Clearman, the grandfather of Fidelia, called in and asked for the money which was due to her from her father's estate. One of his neighbors had been talking to the old man and had persuaded him that his grand-daughter's money would be safer in the Savings Bank than in the hands of a merchant. Never before had the old sailor's visits been ill-timed; his rough, honest face was a very sun of good humor which had never failed to light up a pleasant smile on whatever object it shed its beams, but now John was annoyed at the sight of him, and his hearty careless laugh increased his sadness. It was impossible to comply with his request, and John told him that the next day or the day after, the money should be paid. As the old sailor withdrew, Mr. Kittle came in.

"Young man," said the grocer, abruptly, "you asked me to endorse your notes."

"Well?" replied John sternly, for the unceremonious manner of the grocer offended him.

"Well! but 'tis not well. You wanted to swindle me, sir; yes, you wanted to swindle me!"

"Be careful, and do not presume too much upon your grey head," said John.

"I defy you, I say you did, sir, I say you did," repeated Mr. Kittle, his carbuncled face growing redder than any red substance that we know of, "you have got no credit in the street, sir, your paper isn't worth a fig, sir, here's your notes, take them and give me my money back, sir; my money, sir, mine, mine; not yours, mine.

"I owe you nothing," said John, calmly, for the old grocer's passion rendered him so ridiculous that it was impossible to le angry with him, "you have got no notes of mine."

"What, do you deny your own paper sir, are you going to plead usury against me? Come, give me my money, my money that I worked for, not yours."

"If I owe you anything I will pay you, but not a minute sooner for your ill mannered abuse; I know nothing of these notes, they were not given by the firm; they are in the hand-writing of Fred Tuck who is not authorised to give a note."

"Ah, ha, young man, ah, ha, so, that's your game, that's the way you mean to cheat me, I know. Come give me my money, mine, mine; give me fifty per cent. Come, be a man and don't cheat a hard-worker like me; give me my money."

"I know nothing about these notes, and I care not how you obtained them," replied John, "but they are not yet due, and you have no right to ask for your money until they be. Now sir, I should be sorry to be guilty of a rudeness towards you for the sake of your grey head, but more for the sake of my father, who once employed you, and trusted you, and enabled you by his generosity to grow rich, and I beg you will save me the shame of putting my hands upon you, by walking out of my office."

"Do you know who I am, sir, do you know how much I am worth, sir? do you know I could count out dollars for your cents, sir," exclaimed the enraged grocer, snapping his fingers and dancing furiously round the counting-room, "me, me, yes sir, me, Andrew Kittle, sir; I made it myself, sir, it wasn't left to me, sir, I made it myself. It's my money; mine, mine," and again Mr. Kittle beat his breast violently to impress the young man that he meant himself, Andrew Kittle, and no mistake. "I could buy a dozen of you, with all your dandy clerks and blue curtains. Yes, you were forced to come to me to endorse your notes to keep up your credit, and you wanted to cheat me, but you couldn't. There's your paper, I won't have it; plead usury and cheat me out of money; take 'em, I won't have 'em!" so saying he rolled up the notes and threw them at John's head, who thereupon jumped up from his desk, and pushed the old grocer out of the office. He repented of it the next moment, and would willingly have called him back and apologised to him, but it was too late.

John had scarcely resumed his seat, when Mr. Teunis Mildmen, the junior of the brothers Mildmen, made his appearance, and although his countenance was as smooth and as placid as a new cheese, and every particular hair of his glossy head occupied its accustomed place, and a perfect serenity reigned over his shining black suit, it was easy to perceive, from a peculiar cast of his keen black eye, that the broker had some weighty business on hand. He sat down close by John's desk and took a deliberate pinch of snuff, as if to fill up an awkward pause that necessarily occurred while he was gaining entire possession of himself.

"How is money with you, plenty?" said Mr. Mildmen.

"No," replied John, "you know it is not, or we should not have applied to you for a loan."

"O, yes, ah, very true, yes indeed, I remember," said Mr. Mildmen, as though he had forgotten the circumstance, when in fact he had remembered nothing else for the last hour or two, "I didn't know, however, but you might have received a remittance. It's confounded tight with us, confounded tight," and he took another pinch of snuff and looked John steadily in the eye while he held open the box.

"I never snuff," said John.

"O, ah, indeed? Is it possible! You don't. You are one of Colonel Stone's men; you don't smoke, perhaps? Well they are both bad habits, I suppose, but there are worse," and again he looked steadily in John's face.

"That may be, but there are none nastier or more unnatural," answered John, with a strong expression of disgust.

"Yes indeed, ah, very true, I don't know about that, I suppose so; I like a cigar, myself, sometimes, and a pinch of snuff is company to me when I am alone."

"Very fit," thought John although he did not say so. "A man may do a worse thing than take a pinch of snuff," continued the broker, "at all events," and he looked steadily in John's face as he uttered the words, "it harms no one, sir."

"Excuse me," said John, a little disconcerted at the broker's earnest stare, "perhaps I expressed myself with a little too much emphasis, but tobacco is particularly offensive to me; it is a nauseous thing in any shape, and I have known some dealers in it who were such dirty contemptible fellows, that I have, perhaps, imbibed an unreasonable dislike to it. I hope I have not offended you."

"O, no indeed, not at all, don't mention it," said he, as he knocked off a scarce perceptible particle of dust from his black satin vest, "not in the least, by no means, I wouldn't have you think so. So, then you are not flush to-day. I must have some money. Must. I'm short as pie crust."

"I am sorry that I cannot help you. But how much do you want?"

"Not much; a trifle; just the amount of those last notes that I did for you. But you look ill, anything the matter?"

"I have slept badly of late, but I am well," replied John.

"O, ah, indeed, is it possible? well, I shouldn't wonder. That's bad though. You must take more exercise. Brother Peter, he has been quite sick with the gout in his toes. And you don't sleep well? Something on your mind perhaps?" And again he looked seriously into John's face as though he expected to find something very strange and startling there. "A good many are disturbed in their sleep about these times; money is so tight! the dry goods men suffer some now. I must have some money. You must squeeze me out something."

"I cannot."

"You must, I am in earnest; I must have it."

"I assure you it is impossible; and it strikes me that you are a little too pressing, sir."

"O, ah, does it, indeed; well, come, but I am in earnest. Credit is a slippery thing, now; just reflect a moment; here's the three last notes that I did for you, come, give me your check for them, and take off a commission, come."

"I have already told you that I cannot do it," said John, "furthermore, the notes have a long time to run, and you told me that they were sold to a third party."

"O, ah, yes indeed, well, that's very true, but it's for a friend, your friend as well as mine. I won't say too much, but let me tell you, I am in earnest, it will be for your interest to cash up. You can trust me, I am your friend. It's not necessary to tell all I know."

"Keep nothing back if you know aught that can affect me or my firm; speak out, I neither understand your dark sayings nor like them."

"O, ah, very true, yes, but I think I had better not now. But let me see, by the way, you are not the financier of the firm I believe?"

"No," replied John.

"Ah, well, very true, by the way, perhaps you give out the notes."

John signified that he did.

"Ah, very well, you do, perhaps then you have seen that note before?" and Mr. Mildmen held up to him one of the notes that he had passed to Madder & Co., but a few hours before.

"Certainly I have, I delivered it myself, and I am surprised to find it in your hands."

"Ah, very likely, very likely indeed, and I dare say you would not care for anybody else to see it?"

"I should not, indeed."

"Well, let me see, by the way, just hand over the money for these three pieces of paper, and it shall go no further. You understand?"

"No, I do not understand, and I promise you I shall give you no money before the time agreed upon."

"Ah, indeed, perhaps you will change your mind. Talk to your partner about it. I'm in earnest, I am, indeed; I shall wait in my office until three o'clock; but remember! I must have my money back again. Good morning."

John was completely confounded at the strange behavior of Mr. Mildmen, and as he had regretted his rudeness towards Mr. Kiltie the moment the old grocer had quitted the office, he now regretted that he had been so civil to the broker and had half resolved to follow him and pull his nose, when Jeremiah appeared before him.

"What has happened, Jeremiah, and where do you come from?" he exclaimed, not a little moved by his downcast looks.

"I came from prison, but I cannot tell you, in this place all that has happened. You must go with me to your own room where we shall not be liable to interruptions."

"From prison, Jeremiah, and have you been visiting the prisons with friend Hogshart and his daughter?"

"Surely you knew that I have been in prison on charge of stealing!" said Jeremiah with a blush.

"Stealing, Jeremiah! you are jocose."

"Ah, I thought you could not have heard. And you did not receive a note from me yesterday?"

"Indeed, I did not; explain this riddle to me. I have lived in the midst of mysteries to-day, and this is the strangest of all. Explain, Jeremiah, explain."

"I will, but not here; go with me to your house, there's no time to lose; I have something to tell that I wish I had never lived to know."

"I will go with you this moment," said John, and having given some orders to Mr. Bates, the two friends left the counting-room together.

————

CHAPTER XII.

A SUDDEN DISSOLUTION OF THE FIRM OF TREMLETT AND TUCKS.

THERE is no need that we should follow the two friends and listen to the narrative of the one and witness the grief and amazement of the other. Horror-struck at the dreadful crime of the Tucks, John could think of nothing at first but the shame and disgrace that must attach to himself from his having been associated with the brothers in business; and his first impulse was to screen them from exposure as much for his own sake as for theirs. The world only knew him as their partner and brother-in-law, and how should he free himself from the suspicion of having been polluted by his close connexion with them. He shuddered at the thought, even, of suspicion attaching to his name. He had kept it unsullied, and he meant for the sake of him from whom he received it without a blemish or a stain, to preserve it pure while he lived. Disgrace appeared to him a thousand times more terrible than death; he knew how sensitive his father had been on the score of integrity and mercantile honor, and he had a feverish fear of being suspected of unfair dealing in the smallest trifle. Although conscious of his upright intentions, he had, perhaps, too little reliance on his own integrity and feared too much the appearance of evil. As to seeing the brothers again, he felt it was impossible; the thought of meeting them or their mother completely unnerved him and he resolved never again to hold intercourse with them in any manner. After some discussion with Jeremiah, he at last determined to endeavour to bribe Mr. Jacobs to silence that the brothers might have time to escape. Unhappily it was an emergency in which they could not ask advice, or they might have been cautioned against pursuing a course that would be attended with so much difficulty and peril to themselves. In pursuance of this plan, however, Jeremiah started immediately for the prison to make overtures to Mr. Jacobs, and John agreed to remain in his chamber until he returned to report the success of his negotiation.

In the mean time, Tom Tuck was working out his own destruction, and bringing ruin on the heads of those who were periling their lives for his sake.

The firm of Madder & Co. had agreed not to offer the notes of Tremlett & Tucks, with the endorsement of Mr. Kittle, at Bank, and the financier in making this stipulation, supposed that he had a sure warrant of their being kept in the hands of that firm, for he knew them to be exact and conscientious merchants, and by the term "offering at Bank," he meant offering them for discount in any manner; and he thought that he was so understood. But the managing partner of the house of Madder & Co., like other merchants, was satisfied if he kept to the letter of his agreement, which, it must be owned, is the only safe rule for a merchant, and being in want of money he did not scruple to offer the notes for sale to the Brothers Mildmen. Mr. Teunis Mildmen had been tempted by the very liberal offer of Fred Tuck, to discount some of that young gentleman's renewed notes, with his own private funds, unknown, even to his brother Peter; although he had reported the sale as to a third party; and when Mr. Madder brought in the note of Tremlett & Tucks, with the endorsement of Mr. Kittle, he became dreadfully alarmed, for that prudent grocer had but a few moments before returned three of Fred's notes with orders for them to be sold at any sacrifice. Mr. Mildmen perceived at once that there must be something amiss in regard to the endorsement of Mr. Kittle, and in strict obedience to his instincts, although directly opposed to his professions and principles, he resolved to get rid of his own notes first, and then save his employers if he could. Brother Peter was confined to his room with an attack of gout, but Mr. Teunis was fully equal to his position. He had not the slightest doubt that the endorsement of Mr. Kittle was a forgery, and he thought that by hinting as much to John Tremlett, and promising to keep it secret, he might induce him to repay the money which he had given for Fred's note. But in this he was disappointed, as we have already seen; and, in fact, the coolness with which John had received his hints, led him to believe that his suspicions were unfounded. But to satisfy himself, he showed the notes to Mr. Kittle, who pronounced his signature a forgery. The old gentleman was still inflamed with anger against John, and swore that he would cause him to be immediately arrested; but Mr. Mildmen knowing that such a course would endanger the payment of the note which he held, prevailed upon him to restrain his passions and allow him to try to get some security from the firm before he made the arrest. Mr. Kittle reluctantly consented and the broker hastened back to the office of Tremlett & Tucks, where he find Tom Tuck alone, and without much delicacy of expression accused him of uttering forged notes, and told him that unless a certain sum of money were paid on the spot, a complaint should be lodged against him.

The financier heard the accusation without other emotions than such as were perfectly natural to indignant innocence. He swore in the most solemn manner that the notes had been brought to him by his partner with the endorsement of Mr. Kittle, and that believing them to have been properly obtained, he had asked no farther questions about them; and to substantiate his own assertions he referred to Messrs. Madder & Co.

who stated that the notes were brought to them by the senior partner of the firm. Mr. Kittle also stated that John had called upon him and tried to procure his endorsement. These facts, when put together, seemed to confirm the statement of Tom Tuck, and fasten the guilt of forgery upon John, but Fred Tuck coming into the office while the broker and Mr. Kittle were in conference with the financier, unhesitatingly swore to all his brother had said, and to manifest his abhorrence of his partner's crime, insisted on his being immediately arrested. The financier made a solemn promise that the claims of Mr. Kittle and Mr. Mildmen should be secured the next day, and though he entreated that his partner might not be arrested, confessed that his crime deserved the utmost rigor of the law.

But Mr. Mildmen, having, as he thought, secured the payment of his claim, felt extremely loth that so dangerous a person as John should be allowed to roam at large through the world, and he insisted on having him arrested without delay; Mr. Kittle also had so keen a sense of his obligations to society, that he refused to listen to any delay. The senior partner of the firm of Madder & Co. was sent for and informed of the forgery, and he confirmed the suspicion of John's guilt by stating that himself and his partner had noticed a very strange expression in the young gentleman's face when he delivered the notes, and that he trembled and looked pale when he took them from his pocket. Indeed, Mr. Madder was so entirely convinced of the innocence of the Tucks, and that they had suffered from an unworthy partner that he consented to hold to his sale of the coffee, and allow them to secure the payment of their notes at their leisure. He then proceeded to the office of a magistrate, accompanied by Mr. Mildmen, to procure a warrant for John's arrest, after which Mr. Kittle and the brothers were to accompany them, to aid, if necessary, in securing him.

Not satisfied with the harm they were doing to their innocent partner, the Tucks persuaded Mr. Madder to include Jeremiah in their complaint, for they knew that he would be very likely to frustrate their ultimate plans if he were left at liberty. It so happened that just as they were about to leave the magistrate's office with the warrant, Jeremiah passed by on his way to the prison. Tom Tuck saw him and dispatched an officer after him with orders to keep him until they returned with John, that they might be both examined together. This was an exceedingly unfortunate move for the Tucks; for Mr. Jacobs, having been in a state of great uncertainty as to the proper course for him to pursue in regard to them ever since he had discovered that Jeremiah had been released, had just resolved to make a confession of his crime, partly out of revenge and partly through fear; and had sent for the keeper of the prison for that purpose. But had Jeremiah been allowed to proceed on his benevolent errand, he would have arrived in time to have prevented the unfortunate disclosure. But affairs were differently ordered. Mr. Jacobs made a full confession to the keeper of the prison, who lost no time in making the matter known to the district attorney, and that indefatigable officer was not long in deciding upon his proper course of action.

Mr. Madder and Mr. Mildmen proceeded in a cab to the house of Mrs. Tuck where they were joined by the two brothers in their own carriage, who took up Mr. Kittle on their way and they all proceeded to John's house together.

They found him in the hall pacing the floor with impatient strides, and his countenance wore a pale and haggard look, such as it had never worn before. He was hardly startled at sight of his visitors, although he shuddered when he saw his partners.

"Poor fellow," whispered Mr. Madder to Tom Tuck, "he evidently knows what we have come for."

"Sit down gentlemen," said John, "sit down;" but he averted his face from the brothers, for the sight of them chilled his blood, "I would I could have been spared this painful scene."

"It's too late to hope now," growled Mr. Kittle, "you should have thought of this sooner.

"I did not intend it," replied John, "but the bungling of Jeremiah I suppose has imposed it upon me."

"Don't try to put your faults upon other people," replied Mr. Kittle.

"That Jeremiah's a deep fellow; it's well we caught him," observed Mr. Mildmen in a whisper to Mr. Madder.

"My dear sir," said John to Mr. Kittle, "I regret that any harsh words should have passed between us; perhaps I was too hasty. O, if you knew what cause I had for irritation you would not think ill of me! I beg your pardon, for what I said and did;" he reached out his hand to Mr. Kittle, but the indignant grocer held back his own.

"This is an awkward business, sir," said Mr. Madder.

"O, it is terrible," replied John with a shudder, "none of you can feel it as I do."

"No, I dare say not," remarked the broker, with a faint smile, as he glanced towards the financier, who stood with his arms folded, quite confounded at the strange dialogue that was going on.

"What have you done with Jeremiah?" continued John, speaking at large, for he could not discover who was conducting the proceedings.

"Jeremiah? O, ah, very true, well, yes," said the broker, "Jeremiah is safe; he will be kept at the magistrate's office until we return."

"Poor fellow," said John, "it's a painful duty for him; he would gladly have avoided it."

"He might easily have done so," remarked Mr. Kittle, "those that sow the wind must reap the whirlwind."

This ambiguous remark was rather puzzling to John, but after a whispering between Tom Tuck, the officer and Mr.

Madder, he was still more puzzled at a speech of the latter gentleman.

"The officer is in a hurry to be off," he said, "and if you have any little arrangements to make about your family it will be well for you to attend to them immediately. We must return to the magistrate's office; he is waiting for us."

"I have no arrangements to make," replied John, "and I beg that I may not detain you, for every moment that you remain is extremely painful to me; but you must excuse me from going with you; I can be of no service and my feelings have been painfully excited already. You must excuse me."

The gentlemen all exchanged glances, and just the faint shadow of a smile crossed the features of Mr. Madder.

"Singular remark, that!" said Mr. Kittle.

"Well, yes, rather, I must say I think it is," said the broker.

"You do not misunderstand me, I take it?" said Mr. Madder.

"No, no," replied John, "but, indeed, this matter is too painful, for me to speak in more definite terms. I feel more keenly than you can conceive of."

"Tut, tut," said Mr. Madder, "this is the merest folly. We do not doubt the keenness of your feelings; indeed, we only wonder at your moderation; but we cannot consider feelings in such a case as this. You have put it out of our power to exercise our own discretion in the matter. If you want any legal advice we will send for your lawyer to meet us at the magistrates, but really you presume too much on our good nature by obliging us to wait here."

"I know not what you mean," replied John, "I have taken no part in this thing, and my attendance cannot be necessary. Jeremiah will answer all your purposes; and once more I assure you that I cannot go with you. Believe me, I am in earnest."

"We would not make use of force if it were possible to avoid it," replied Mr. Madder, "but you compel us, and the consequences be on your own head. Officer, do your duty!"

"What's the meaning of this? Am I to be treated like a criminal!" exclaimed John as the officer grasped him by the collar.

"The meaning of it!" exclaimed the grocer, "the meaning of it, indeed; ah! my young fellow, it is too late to give yourself airs now; little did your old father think that you would ever come to this. The meaning of it, indeed! The meaning of it is that you have been forging my name; mine, mine, mine, young man, mine, injuring my credit in Wall street! and you are caught and must go to prison for it. Shame on you, you turn an honest man out of your counting-room, when he civilly asks for his money; yes, you! Ah, you look astonished; well, well, I hope you will repent of your roguery."

"That's a little too hard," said the broker.

"Do I understand that you have come here to arrest me, for forgery?"

"I am sorry to say that we have," replied Mr. Madder, "and although I am willing, for my part, to allow you all the benefit which your denial of the charge may secure to you, yet I would advise you as a friend to make a frank confession of your crime. You will stand better in the estimation of business men for doing so, I assure you; and it is no use to deny the charge; the evidence against you is so direct and positive, that you can have no hope of acquittal. I received the notes from you myself, Mr. Kittle here says that you tried to procure his endorsement, and both of your partners, who came very near being suspected of a participation in your crime, swear that you brought the notes to them, and told them that you had procured the endorsements by paying a commission. It is a very clear case and I see no possible chance for your escape. I do not wish to give any distress that can be avoided, for I doubt not that you had no expectation that any harm would come of the act, but you see how impossible it is to do wrong with impunity. Somebody must suffer, and it is well when the chief aggressor is the chief sufferer."

"Ah, yes indeed, that's the ordering of Providence," said Mr. Kittle.

"Do my partners swear as you have said?"

"They do," replied Mr. Madder.

"O, how can I repel this! Have I no friend among you, gentlemen? Will either of you believe me?" As he turned to them he burst into tears and exclaimed, "if there is truth in Heaven, they lie; I am innocent of all knowledge of the forgery which you say has been committed."

"Come, come, young man," cried Mr. Kittle, "don't add to your fault by perjury. Your partners are well known in this community as smart fellows."

"O, O!" ejaculated the broker, quite overcome at the enormity of the young man's hardness of heart.

"Let him go on," said the financier; "his abuse can do me no harm, I expect it as a matter of course."

"So do I," said Fred with an air of determined resignation, "but I can endure his abuse so long as all is right here," and he put his hand to his heart.

"O, God! O, God!" exclaimed John, "I little dreamed of this! I see that I am ruined. O, that I should have lived to be accused of a crime like this. I cannot look upon my friends in this world again, but those that look upon me from the other, know that I am innocent. My partners, gentlemen, have done this thing themselves; it is true that I delivered the notes myself, but I received them from the financier who refused to tell me how he had procured them. But, you do not believe me, I see; it is idle to declare my innocence. O, it is cruel! cruel! I cannot speak to my partners, I cannot appeal to them, I have nothing to hope from them; they are murderers, I dare not look at them; the crime of which they accuse me is a righteous deed compared with that of which they are guilty."

"Let me come at the villain," cried Tom Tuck, while his brother stood gasping, as if for breath.

"Shame! shame!" cried Mr. Madder, as he held the financier back, "we must not allow this. You only aggravate your crime, Mr. Tremlett, by conduct like this; your partners have already suffered too much from your bad acts."

"I can wait no longer," said the officer; "if you wish to take a valise with you, I will go with you to your chamber to get it, or you can send for it, but I must go right off."

"I will not detain you long," said John, "this will soon be over. Be so kind as to call my house-keeper. I must see her before I go." The officer stepped into the next room and returned in a moment with Mrs. Swazey.

"O, my dear God, what is the matter?" exclaimed the house-keeper.

"Mother," said John, "these gentlemen have come here to carry me to prison. They say that I have committed a forgery; but you know that I am innocent, do you not?"

"Know it! Precious sweet, aye; who is it says so? Do you? do you say it? do you? No, nobody shall say so before me!"

"Be quiet old lady," said Mr. Kittle, "I know my own business."

"I am innocent, mother, innocent of this crime as my poor father; and so is Jeremiah; he knows nothing of it; tell me again, mother, that you believe me innocent."

"Help me God! my dear God, I know you are. I do believe it, I know it my precious child!"

"And will you tell Fidelia so, will you tell her I say so, tell her to believe so, for my sake?"

"Precious, precious soul, I will; but why should I," sobbed the old woman.

"Do not weep, I beg of you. There is no need of shedding a tear for me, they cannot harm me. Kiss me mother again. Now, let me go; God bless you, mother! They are waiting, O, take her from me, gentlemen, and I will keep you here no longer. Will you allow me to go to my room one moment, I will not detain you?"

"I will wait for you at the foot of the stairs," said the officer, "but I can't wait long."

"Thank you, thank you," and he pressed the officers hand and hurried up stairs.

"Remember, it is at your peril," said the financier.

"I know my duty, sir," replied the officer.

"Don't be too harsh," said Mr. Madder, as he wiped his eyes. And even the broker and Mr. Kittle were obliged to look out of the window to hide their emotion; but the brothers stood apart, pale and apparently unmoved by pity.

John's footsteps were heard a moment in the room above them, but suddenly it was still as though he had sat down. Mrs. Swazey had retired to her own apartment, and the gentlemen in the hall looked at each other in silence. It was awfully still for a few minutes, and the officer began to look uneasy.

"He is gone a long while," said Mr. Madder.

"I will hasten him," said the officer, and he leaped lightly up the stairs; "we are waiting for you sir," said the officer speaking through the key-hole of the chamber door, "we can wait no longer." But there was no response. He knocked, lightly at first, and then louder, but there was still no reply. "There is something wrong, I am afraid," said the officer.

"Knock down the door," said Mr. Kittle, "he may have fainted."

"Wait, wait," said Mr. Madder, "let me speak, perhaps he will reply to me," but still there was no response.

"Well, upon my word, it is strange, however; what must we do, officer?" said Mr. Mildmen.

"There is but one way, sir, I must force open the door," replied the officer; and after two or three attempts the door flew open and they all rushed in, but started back with an exclamation of horror.

"God of Heaven! What a sight!" said Mr. Madder.

Sitting in an arm chair, with his head resting on the side of the bed on which his father had died, they found the unfortunate young man with a frightful gash across his throat and a stream of thick black blood running upon the floor; an open razor lay on the bed beside him. The wound was very deep, and he appeared quite dead; but they sent off the officer for a surgeon and tried to stop the effusion of blood. But their efforts availed nothing. He was dead.

"Plain proof of his guilt," said the financier.

"I am by no means sure of that; it strikes me differently; there has been foul play somewhere," said Mr. Madder.

"Poor fellow! poor fellow!" said Mr. Mildmen, "what a rash young man; well, ah, indeed, but it's a bad business."

"I hope he thought nothing of my remarks; for I liked the young man, after all; I meant nothing," said Mr. Kittle, and his carbuncled visage changed to a dismal blueish hue.

"This is too much for us; my brother and I must retire," said the financier, "you know where to find us. My poor mother will be prostrated by this sad news."

The brothers hurried down stairs together, and leaping into their carriage, which stood at the door, drove with all haste to their mother's house. They found her in her dressing room alone, just prepared to go out to a dinner party.

"My children! my children! What ails you? How dreadfully pale you are. You tremble, Fred. What has happened to you? Tell me quick!"

"Ask no questions, I have no time to talk; I am journey, and you musn't know where," said Tom.

"My son! my son! you will kill me!"

"I cannot help it, I tell you I am off, and you must not know where."

"My dear, dear Fred, tell me what has happened, or I shall die. You will not leave your poor mother!"

"Nothing has happened to speak of, only we are ruined; it matters not how; it is better for you not to know."

"O, my children, if you are ruined, if you have failed, don't let that trouble you. I can get money for you."

"You can?—O, yes, I dare say.—By stealing, I suppose." said the financier.

"Ah, now, my son, how can you say such a word to your dear mother?"

"Dear mother! yes, you have been a dear mother to me; and dearly am I paying for you now. Come, don't stop to cry. Don't you see we are in earnest? If you know of any way of getting money, let us know it. I am serious. I must have some money."

"O, my children, O, my son, if your poor father could have heard that speech——"

"Will you leave off with your trifling, and if you can help us to anything, let us know it," said Tom.

"My dear son; be patient, and you shall know. But don't reproach your mother, remember that I have lived only for your sake, and what I am going to tell you was done for your good——"

"Well, well, let us hear it, then," said Tom.

"The day that old Mr. Tremlett died," said Mrs. Tuck, "I watched by his bed-side, and while I was engaged in changing his pillow, I discovered a small package lying under the bolster; I had a curiosity to look at it, and being left alone in the room a few minutes after he died, I slipped it into my pocket—"

"Stop! stop!" cried Tom, while large drops of sweat ran down his face, "don't tell me it was his will,—don't tell me that!"

"It was, my son, it was. I have got it now. He bequeathed all his money, to that bad fellow who robbed us of our Julia, and our property. I was resolved to be revenged for the wrong he did us, and I kept it to spite him. But, now that you are in want of money, my children, you shall have it; he is your partner and you can, of course, share with him.—"

"O, mother, mother, why did you not tell us of this before!" said Fred.

"He our partner!" said Tom with a sneer, "he's in Hell; The will is worth nothing to us, nor to him."

"O, my son, you affright me, what is it?"

"It is this; he cut his throat not an hour since, and he now lies drowned in his own blood."

"O, horror! horror! but do not blame me my son, do not blame me, it was done for your good; love me still my children; do not forget that I am your mother."

"Love you," said Tom, as he shook his clenched fist at her. "I hate you! see what you have brought us to. I tell you I hate you. Yes, I am in earnest. You have ruined us, you have learned us to——. But never mind, you will know in the end. Love you! I tell you I have not so much love for you as could fill the space which a needle's point would occupy on the surface of my heart. Now let me go, I have no time to waste."

"Never, never," shrieked the wretched woman, as she fell upon his neck, and clasped her arms around him, "never shall you leave me until you recall those words and tell me that you love me; never! never! until you tell me that you forgive me!

"You will strangle me, you will murder me," exclaimed Tom as he struggled to free himself from her, "you will repent this; let me go, or you will murder me;" but she clung to him and shrieked wildly, while Fred sat pale as a ghost and trembled as though he had been shaken by an ague.

While this terrible struggle was going on between the mother and son, the sound of men's feet was heard on the stairs. The brothers started at the sound.

"Hush! mother! hush you will destroy us," said Fred, there was no way of escape, and he crept into a clothes-press and hid himself beneath a heap of clothes.

"Mother! mother! let me go, I will do anything, I will promise anything," cried Tom as he struggled in vain to free himself from her embrace.

The sound of footsteps approached nearer, the door was forced open and three men made their appearance. They started back at the strange sight that presented itself, but immediately re-entered.

"You are my prisoner," said the foremost one.

"For what?" said Tom, haughtily, as he turned upon them. for his mother had released him as the door opened.

"For murder!" replied the officer, "for murdering your uncle."

"O, my son! my son!" shrieked his mother, and fell, as though she were dead upon the floor.

For the first time the financier was thrown off his guard. The announcement was so unexpected that it fell upon him like a stunning blow. He staggered; his eyes glared wildly; his face turned ashy pale; his tongue was stiff with fright and he gasped for breath.

The officer, accustomed to distinguish between the evidences of innocence and crime, which, to the unobserving, often appear the same, saw with an unfailing instinct that he was guilty, and fearing some violence on his part, immediately secured him. "Where is your brother?" demanded the officer.

"Am I my brother's keeper?" replied the financier, helped no doubt to this little scrap of scripture by the enemy of men's souls, who has the reputation of making apt quotations when they can be done to serve his purpose.

But it was not necessary to repeat the question, for the reply was hardly uttered when the door of the clothes-press flew open and Fred Tuck rolled out upon the floor; he had fainted; but a dash of cold water soon restored him and the brothers were taken to prison, while their mother lay insensible in the arms of the servants who were striving to revive her.

Tom preserved a haughty, stern demeanor, and conducted himself with great dignity and propriety; but Fred set up a most dismal howling and behaved in a manner altogether different from what one would have supposed a gentleman of his elegant tastes and fondness for aesthetics would have done.

————

CHAPTER XIII.

THE CONCLUSION.

HAVING no ambition to furnish a history for Lawyers to quote from, or to help establish precedents for the bad practices of criminal prosecutors, we shall refrain from giving a report of the trial of Mr. Jacobs and the brothers Tuck. The verdicts alone must satisfy our readers. The brothers were both found guilty. Not that the evidence against them was by any means strong, or the prosecution conducted with unusual ability; for one was exceedingly slight, and the other remiss and gentle, and in ordinary cases would have failed to procure a verdict of guilty; but there had been three or four acquittals of murderers during the year, in cases where the evidence was of such a nature that the juries could not have failed to convict without perjuring themselves; and the public had manifested such a spirit of resentment that the jury who sat upon the Tucks, rather consulted the wishes of the public (like good republicans as they were) than their obligations as jurors, and returned a verdict accordingly, after being absent from the jury box but a very few minutes. They were sustained by the public sentiment, and highly complimented for their moral courage by the press, and even clergymen thanked God in their pulpits that there was some virtue yet left in the community. Demonstrations like these must have been infinitely more gratifying to good citizens, than the approval of so inconsiderable a monitor as conscience. A man's conscience having no vote, and being without any political influence whatever, can never be a safe tribunal for an American citizen to appeal to.

It was midnight when the brothers were brought into court to hear the verdict; and as soon as it was pronounced, the judge and jurors, hurried home to their wives and little ones, the prisoners were hurried back to their cells, and officers and lawyers, and all the denizens of filthy court rooms and hideous prisons,—human vultures that love to prey on human suffering and crime—the whole brood of unclean creatures that gorge themselves with such pickings as may be found in the precincts of the gallows, threw aside their wooden badges of authority, their red tape documents, and bundles of worthless papers, and hurried home to their places of rest like the spectators of a melo-drama when the last scene is ended. The judge and the jurors, the crier and the counsel, the attorneys and the turn-keys, had all earned their fees and lay down to sleep with the consciousness of having done their duty to their country. They had succeeded in condemning two fellow beings to death, and then put up their prayers for pleasant dreams and long life to themselves. Of the whole brood, perhaps not one thought more of the wretched men whose sufferings had been the subject of their gratification, than the crow does of the once noble racer whose carcass has afforded him a meal.

The next morning Tom Tuck was found hanging by the neck from a beam which crossed his cell. It having appeared in the course of the trial that he was the sole originator of the crime for which himself and his brother were condemned, the Governor was induced to pardon Fred, and the public was cheated of all the agreeable incidents of a hanging, for Mr. Jacobs got clear of the gallows by turning State's evidence, although he was found guilty of uttering counterfeit notes, for which he was sentenced to the state-prison, where he had the satisfaction of being joined in a short time by every one of his old associates.

There being not the slightest evidence to criminate Jeremiah, he was released from confinement the day after his committal, and during the whole trial of the Tucks he labored incessantly in their behalf, and exerted himself to the utmost of his ability to solace and comfort their mother, making many sacrifices for her sake, and sending her money when he supposed her to be in want.

The estate of the firm was put into the hands of receivers appointed by the Chancellor, who employed Jeremiah for their chief assistant at the same salary that he had been receiving as correspondent clerk. The coffee speculation turned out as profitable as the financier had anticipated, and fully justified the high character as a merchant which his friends had given him. The year before had been one of unusual depression in the mercantile world; everybody felt poor, without any particular cause, however, and it was universally admitted by business men and politicians that the country was on the verge of bankruptcy and ruin; now, a change had taken place and prices of everything were advancing, and everybody felt rich with as little cause as they had before for feeling poor. The consequence was that the estate of Tremlett & Tucks, to the astonishment of everybody, paid all its debts, including even the fraudulent notes of Fred, which had been sold to the brothers Mildmen, and there being a balance of a few hundred dollars left, the Receiver presented it to Jeremiah, as a reward for his industry and honesty. But Jeremiah did not consider himself privileged to keep it, and made a present of it to Fred Tuck, who was thereby enabled to establish a shop in the Bowery for the sale of segars and cheap novels, from the profits of which he supported himself and his mother quite genteelly, although in a style so far removed from their former magnificence, that it will admit of no comparison with it. After a few months he removed from the Bowery into Broadway, where he enlarged his stock and made a very manifest change in his manner of living, which caused many ill stories to be circulated in regard to him, for it was supposed that he had not become honestly possessed of his means. But lest the reader should entertain any such ill thoughts, we will explain the cause of his sudden advancement.

As soon as Mr. Loudon heard the melancholy news of the breaking up of the firm of Tremlett & Tucks, by the death of the senior partner and the arrest of the others, he forwarded on to Jeremiah the will that John had deposited with him for safe keeping, before leaving Charleston. It had been lying in a pigeon-hole of his iron chest, quite forgotten. The testator had bequeathed his entire property to be divided equally between Jeremiah and Fidelia, but Jeremiah refused to receive anything for his own portion excepting a gold pencil case that had been a new year's present from old Mr. Tremlett to his son the year before he died; the remainder of the personal property, consisting of a small collection of books, a few good pictures, a gold watch and his wearing apparel, he insisted that Fidelia should receive; and she was too happy to receive anything that had once belonged to her affianced husband to refuse them. The Staten Island cottage had to be sold. Jeremiah would have bought it, but it was infinitely beyond his reach; he could not hope ever to be rich enough to buy it; but still he could not endure the thought that anybody should inhabit it but Fidelia, for he knew that it was built expressly for her, and he modestly requested the purchaser of it, Mr. Haverstraw, a dry goods jobber, not to sell it without first giving him the refusal of it.

When Fred Tuck heard that John's will had been found, it occurred to him immediately that the legatees might recover the whole amount of Mr. Tremlett's property, which had been taken possession of by the State, upon their producing the will of the latter, which had been secreted by his mother; and having consulted with his lawyer and found that he was right in his conjecture, he determined to bring the matter to a profitable account for himself. He therefore called upon Jeremiah, and after obtaining a promise of secresy from him, told him that he could put him in possession of Mr. Tremlett's lost will by which he could recover one half of the old merchant's estate. At first Jeremiah was incredulous, but Fred told him if he would give a conditional bond for ten thousand dollars, to be paid when he got possession of the estate, the will should be placed in his hands in less than an hour. With these conditions Jeremiah complied, and the will was brought to him within the stipulated time. At sight of this once eagerly sought document he was quite overcome and unable to speak for a long time; not that he exulted in this sudden and altogether unlooked for good fortune to himself. Very far from it. He thought not of his own interests in the matter at all, but of his dear friend whose life had been sacrificed, and of all the suffering and distress that had been endured by others for want of the worthless parchment which he held in his hand. He retired to his chamber and wept, and prayed Heaven not to desert him in the day of prosperity which now seemed dawning upon him.

Having given vent to his feelings in tears and fortified himself against temptation by prayer, he hastened to Fidelia and imparted the strange news to her; but he cautioned her against indulging in too lively hopes for as they could only gain possession of the property by a suit at law, if they gained it at all, he could not allow himself to entertain any anticipations of success. Mr. Polesworthy had assured him that there could be no doubt of his recovering the property, but he had seen enough of legal tribunals to know that of all uncertain things the law is the most uncertain.

In process of time, after being harrassed, and perplexed and put to as much expense, as the law in its most liberal construction would allow its ministers to inflict, the money was recovered, amounting to a trifle more than four hundred thousand dollars.

The first investment that Jeremiah mode, was in the purchase of the Staten Island cottage, for which he was compelled to pay about three times its original cost; for Mr. Haverstraw, the owner, perceiving that he had got hold of a customer who was determined to purchase, demanded a sum which brought a blush into his own face when he named it. But Jeremiah gave his check for it, without hesitation, as he would have done had it been three times as much, and then tendered the cottage to Fidelia. She accepted of it, for she well knew that he would be grieved if she either refused it, or offered to pay for it. Fred Tuck received his reward, but we regret to be compelled to record the fact that he relapsed into his former extravagant habits, got deeply in debt and at last was obliged to abscond to escape imprisonment for some offence, the exact nature of which we never ascertained. His mother being left in complete destitution, Jeremiah took it upon himself to see that her wants were duly supplied, although he never could prevail upon himself to see her, and at her death, which happened in a few months after her son deserted her, defrayed the expenses of her funeral, and caused a plain white stone with the simple record of her death, to be placed above her remains.

While the suit for the recovery of Mr. Tremlett's property was in progress, Jeremiah and Fidelia were, of necessity, often brought together; but apart from this cause a community of grief made the society of each other at first a solace and at last a delight. How it happened we know not; indeed, the parties scarce knew themselves, but when Fidelia went down to Staten Island in the flowery month of June to take possession of her cottage, Jeremiah accompanied her as her husband. Thither her grandparents and the old drab parrot were removed, and a flaunting brick store with square granite columns soon supplanted the modest little yellow house which they vacated. The old bird seemed at first a little discontented by her change of residence, but seeing the same faces about her and hearing the same voices, and above all, inhaling the same fumes from the old sailor's pipe, she soon grew reconciled to her new abode and behaved with unexceptionable propriety for a whole year, when, one morning at breakfast she threw the whole family into ecstasies of delight by striving to imitate the piping tones of a new born child. But to the day of her death, which did not happen until many such little episodes had occurred, she never failed, at the prescribed evening hour, to ejaculate, in her hoarse voice, the always welcome sound

"LET US PRAY."