University of Virginia Library

1. THE HAUNTED MERCHANT.

1. CHAPTER I.

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 in 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 neighbour, and when, with
his neighbours free consent, he has done so, it may well leave
him and his neighbour 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 assinine 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 back gammon
boards are smuggled into pious families with “Brown's Concordence”
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
favour 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 accomodating 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.

2. CHAPTER II.

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 protruberance 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 practise 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 housekeeper, 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 housekeeper, 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.

3. CHAPTER III.

IN the little vagabond whom we left asleep in Mr. Tremlett's
back parlour, 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 colours 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
colour, 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
slighest 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
honour 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 labour 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!” exlaimed
the housekeeper.

“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 housekeeper'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 housekeeper.

“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 housekeeper.

“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 housekeeper 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 housekeeper
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 hankerchief?”

“Could you?” said the little culprit looking up good humouredly
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 percieve 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
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 housekeeper, 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.

4. CHAPTER IV

WHEN Mr. Tremlett came down to breakfast, he discovered
that something had occured 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 villian; 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 housekeeper that he would do as he pleased in his
own house.

“What has the boy done?” asked Mr. Tremlett.

“Every thing,” 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. Swazy, 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. Swazy,
“and she is so wain that she is always fishing after compliments
from every body. 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 covey up stairs,”
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. Swazy 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. Swazy 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. Swazy 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. Swazy. “I do wonder if the world is coming to an
end, or if the millenium 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 wont be. The goodnees
be praised, I am no matron yet! I desire to be thankful I
come from as ginteel a family as some folks, if I aint 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. Swazy 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 herhave
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 the 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 hin 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.

5. CHAPTER V.

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 labour, 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 housekeeper 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 housekeeper 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 favours,
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 fellings 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 wouldnot.

“Never mind, let him stand,” said Mr. Tremlett, good humouredly,
“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 housekeeper; 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 nathy 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 wont,” replied the boy.

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

“I wont, I wont, I wont,” 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 aint 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 housekeeper,
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
favourably 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.

6. CHAPTER VI.

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 colour, 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 Messers. 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 visiters.

“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
every body 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-coloured 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 honoured 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 your 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 every body take care of themselves and then every
body will be taken care of.” Mr. Tuck hoped by this original

piece of philosophy to convince his visiters of the absurdity
of benevolence that they might leave his office without asking
him for anything. But ladies who go a begging 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 favour; 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 reclained 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 mysterious 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 any body, in any manner beneath him, whether
in age orstation; 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 coloured 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 tyranized 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 though
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 housekeeper being at home,
the two ladies, after despatching 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 protege 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 labours 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.

7. CHAPTER VII.

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
marvellous and bright saying of Johnny's to tell him. Even
David the coachman, whenver 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 adoptedson 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
to the favor of the world without regard to the favouritism
of his sole protector; yet let us not be disappointed if he
should meet with disfavour 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, every body 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 every thing 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 every thing,
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
did'nt 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 colour, 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 occean 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 occean
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 every where, she is every thing,” 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 letters in the Bye-field 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 dissappointed 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.

8. CHAPTER VIII.

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
laboured 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 stubborness 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 coud 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 occason 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. Every body 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
dissappointed 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 riffle
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 dawn 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 weak-fish,
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 do n'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 any body 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 every body, 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 piecemeal,
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 despatched 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
should'nt 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.

9. CHAPTER IX.

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 smoothe 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 every body 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 suprised 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 every body 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 every body 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 kness almost sank
under him.

10. CHAPTER X.

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 endeavored 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 inclose 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 off-spring;
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 bad 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 steamboat
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 steamboat
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 't was a very flourishing place, and so
't was; but 't was 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 Jeremah
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
fallow 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 every thing 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 dependant 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.

11. CHAPTER XI.

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 every thing 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 every thing 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 goose-berries.
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 green-horns 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, a 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 he 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 drakness 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 every body exclaimed
“merciful heavens!” and John clasped his arms
around the gentleman's neck and kissed him. It was Mr.
Tremlett.

12. CHAPTER XII.

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 housekeeper'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 occured to him
before, and he felt very sad, but he did not care that his
housekeeper 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 insticts lead them to devour each other.
He left the meeting at a late hour with his thoughts full of
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
housekeeper 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 Willowmead
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 metamorphesed 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 shamefaced;
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
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 behaviour, 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. Tremtett 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 every thing 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.