MY DEAR MATTHEW:—

IF gifts were weighed by the intentions of the donor, the humble offering which I here make to you, would be accounted equal to the proudest gift that ever one poor mortal bestowed upon another. To you, who so well know the love that I bear you, such a declaration is altogether gratuitous, but I am unwilling that the public should think that I make the dedication of so trifling a work as this, to one who is worthy of having the highest efforts of genius inscribed with his name, thinking that it is entitled to so great an honor.

Your partiality for the author, my dear Matthew, will no doubt blind your eyes to the defects of this book, which are painfully obvious to himself. But with all your partiality for me, and your abounding good feeling for all the world, it will be necessary for you to bear in mind that the story was written day by day, in the midst of more pressing duties, to meet the exigencies of a weekly paper, and that the present volume does not fully develop the design of the author, which will be completed in another volume of the same size.

You will not object to this manner of publishing a story by instalments, for if it be worth publishing at all, a part will be more acceptable than none; and if it prove not worthy of publication, the half will be much better than the whole. Moreover, it is the fashion in literature to make two bites to a cherry, and the greatest fictions that have been given to the public, were published in this manner. I have been extremely pained to learn, my dear Matthew, that several excellent people, for whom I entertain the highest regard and esteem, imagine that I have drawn their portraits in these pages; but you know how incapable I am of doing aught that could give a moment's pain to a human being. I would as soon strike a friend with my hand, as to prick an acquaintance with my pen, and I can see no great difference between wounding the feelings and wounding the flesh, excepting that I regard the first as more humane and less wicked than the last. All that I have aimed at, was to embody certain peculiarities of humanity in developing the great moral lesson which it is my design to teach in this story; and it, in so doing this, I have unwittingly touched a tender spot in any of my accidental acquaintances, you, at least, will believe me when I say that I am heartily sorry for it. There is but little danger that every human being will have as many hard rubs in his way through the world as the most malignant heart could wish to befall an enemy; why then should we inflict a needless pain upon another? I know that you would not, and trusting that you believe I would not, I subscribe myself,

With admiration of your genius,
And love of your virtues,
Your friend,
THE AUTHOR.

IT is generally believed that mankind are blind to their own defects, and for that reason that artists are incapable of drawing correct likenesses of themselves. But this is an error. If men did not see their own faults, they would not take such pains to hide them. No lady with a red head, ever thought it black, or brown, or flaxen; no dumpy gentleman ever believed himself to be six feet high. It is true that a lady cannot hide her head, because it happens to be of a scarlet color, neither can a gentleman hide himself because he happens to be dumpy. But the first will dye her hair with a tricopherous compound, and the other will do his best by high-heeled boots to elevate himself in the eyes of the world. Ladies who are naturally snappish will be at infinite pains to appear in public with smiles on their faces; if their figures lack a becoming rotundity they will endeavor to save appearances by the aid of a little cotton or by some other artifice: if they are older than they wish to be, they will deface the family record, that the important truth may be known to none save themselves. The propensity to disguise personal characteristics is quite as strong in the other sex, who have the same keen perception of their own deficiencies. If a gentleman loses his hair, he covers up the fact with a wig; if his beard is grey, he shaves it off; if he is in straitened circumstances, he makes a show of spending money, lest he should be thought poor: if he is a tyrant in his family, he will take particular pains to seem amiable to his wife and children before company, and if he is knavish in his disposition, with a strong tendency to overreach his neighbors, he will join a church that he may not be thought a cheat. All these facts, which every reader of mature age knows to be true, prove that mankind do know themselves very thoroughly, and are quite competent to the task of delineating their own character, if they have but the honesty to do it.

As for myself I have two motives for being true to myself in presenting my memoirs to the public; in the first place, I am thoroughly known to all of those whose good opinions I covet, and any departure from the truth would gain me more contempt from them, than the increased favor which a flattering likeness of myself might gain from a stranger, would compensate; secondly, I have a pride in my own individuality, for if I were not myself I should be nobody, and I would rather be what I am than not be at all.

J. J. Rousseau made a very thorough confession of himself, but it has always appeared to me there was something lacking in his portrait. A moral daguerreotype of character is still a desideratum, which can only be filled by an autobiographist. The personages of fiction are more true than those of history, because they are consistent with themselves, which historical characters never can be, for the lack of motives, which marvelously change the complexion of actions. If you could know all of a man's actions, you would know his character, but this is impossible, owing to the keen instinct which leads most men to disguise their mean deeds. It is evident, therefore, that the only true character is that drawn by the autobiographer, because no man can know another so well as he knows himself.

MY name is Tom Pepper, and I must caution the ladies and gentlemen who propose making my acquaintance, not to call me Thomas, for the sake of being genteel, because that is not my name. Tom was the maiden name of my mother's mother, who was the daughter of Major Thomas Tom, of Great Marshes, the celebrated Revolutionary hero, whose exploits must be well known to the reader; at least they were well known in that part of the country where I was born. However, as it is my object to relate my own adventures, and not those of my grandfather, I shall say nothing more about him. But, perhaps, the reader will not like me less for knowing I have revolutionary blood in my veins. My mother's father was Major Pepper, and his name was bestowed upon me at the time of my birth, owing to their being some doubt of the real name of my own father, a circumstance which I learned some years after that important event took place. I was one day playing with some boys, in a neighbor's barn, when a man asked me who my father was. It so happened that I had never been asked the question before, and was rather put out by it, but I replied, without much hesitation, that my grandfather's name was Major Pepper. At this the man laughed, and I felt confused, without exactly knowing why. But I ran home, and throwing myself into my dear mother's arms, took her soft hand—oh! that I could feel its pressure, now!—and asked her to tell me who my father was. I had no sooner pronounced the words, than she pressed me to her bosom, with such violence, that I thought she would stop my breath, and then, bursting into tears, she fell upon the floor, and terrified me by her shrieks.

But my grandmother came in and helped her to the bed, where she was confined for many weeks. My poor mother never smiled again, and I remember now that I never after looked up into her face that I did not see a tear fall from her eyes, I was cautious not to mention a subject in her hearing that gave her so much pain; but my curiosity was excited in respect to my immediate progenitor, and feeling that I had a right to know something about him, I kept teazing my grandfather whenever I found him alone, until I learned that I was born at the close of the last war with England, in something less than a year after the landing of a party of frolicsome Midshipmen in the neighborhood of Apponagansett, who belonged to the British frigate Endymion, which was blockading the Sound. These young officers, it appears came ashore near my grandfather's house on the pretense of buying eggs and poultry, and finding themselves well treated by the inhabitants of Apponagansett—who had always been opposed to the war and were rather favorably inclined to the British, as they left a good deal of gold behind them whenever they came ashore—concluded to spend the night and have a dance. Women, I believe, have always been fond of gold lace, particularly when it is worn by a handsome young fellow with a sword by his side; and perhaps the ladies, if no body else, will not deem it unpardonable in my mother, who was young and beautiful herself, for falling in love with one of the Endymion's handsome officers. I must be excused for dropping this delicate subject; I cannot say more with propriety, and the reader will not probably be satisfied with less.

The town or village of Apponagansett, in which I was born, is a little rocky spot somewhere in Buzzard's Bay. I have never seen it named on the map of North America, and I am not sure that it can be found in any gazetteer; it was one of the most beautiful places in the world, and I love it very much; but I have never returned to it since I first left it to seek my fortune, and it is not unlikely that it would look very different to me now from what it did when I used to climb the rocks and fish in the transparent waters—a shoeless and thoughtless boy.

It was not many months after the occurrence of the scene which I have related, with my mother, when feeling sick one day, I crept into her bed and lay down by her side. She pressed me to her bosom again—but very gently, for she had grown quite weak—and said, "Oh, my poor fatherless boy, how can I part with you?" But I—never having dreamed that one I loved so well could die—said to her, "do not cry, mother—I will not leave you—I am not going to die." This only caused her to weep the more, and they wanted to remove me from her; but she would not let them, and I fell asleep in her arms. When I awoke it was dark, and all was still, I turned to kiss my mother, and was frightened on touching her cold lips. I spoke to her, but she made no answer. I cried for help, and in a moment some body came with a light, and I saw that I was an orphan. Ah, me!

The next year my grandfather died, and my grandmother soon followed him and left me alone in the world. After this nobody kissed me and patted me on the head; one of the neighbors suffered me to eat in his house, but I yearned for something more than Indian dumplings and a garret. I wanted to feel the warmth of a loving hand, and the music of a reproving voice; they who cared nothing for me never reproved me. I used to wish that somebody would scold, or whip me, that I might know I was cared for. But there was nobody to take any trouble about me now, and I went wherever I liked, spending nearly all my time on the shore, fishing from the rocks, and diving into the clear depths of the cool water that flowed into the little harbor. Then there were bird's nests to plunder, and berries to pick, and clams to dig, and wild flowers to gather, so that I never was at a loss for amusement and I was always happy and cheerful, with a good appetite and an entire absence of bad dreams. Sometimes I used to steal away to the little rocky enclosure where my mother and grandparents were buried, and lie down by their graves and cry. But it was not in my nature to despair; I was as free as a bird, and more careless, for I had no nest to feather and nothing to fear. There was plenty of sun-shine and good fresh air in Apponagansett, and as I never saw a scarcity of Indian dumplings I think there must have been plenty of meal, I am sure that I never saw anything to the contrary. I believe there was no school there, or if there was I never entered it; by some means or other my poor mother had contrived to teach me the art of reading, but I had never practiced it to any great extent, and my book-knowledge was exceedingly limited. If the Edinburg Review had put that tremendous question in my hearing, "who reads an American book?" I could have answered plumply. "Not I, for one," little dreaming that the time would arrive when, if it should be asked, "who writes an American book?" I could reply in the affirmative!

One day when I was fishing from the rocks and looking out upon the bay, wondering what kind of a world it was that lay beyond the line of my vision, or whether, indeed, there were a world there at all, a stately vessel came drifting into the harbor, for it was quite calm, and dropped her anchor, to wait for the turn of the tide, or for the wind to spring up. The appearance of this vessel, a large schooner, with a topsail, awakened the liveliest curiosity in me to know where she came from, whither she was bound, and what kind of beings peopled her. While I sat looking wishfully at her, a plank came drifting by and seemed to invite me to bestride it, which I instantly did, and using a stick for a paddle, I contrived to reach the strange vessel. The tide was running rapidly and as I caught hold of a ring-bolt in the schooner's side my plank drifted and left me hanging by the arms. I was afraid to cry for help, so I exerted myself and succeeded in climbing upon deck and found it deserted. The crew were all below in the cabin eating their dinner. When I looked back to the shore and saw that all retreat was cut off, I was terribly frightened and knew not what to do. I thought if the crew saw me they might throw me overboard, or flog me, and when I heard them coming out of the cabin, I jumped down into the forecastle, where I saw nobody and covered myself up under a blanket in one of the berths. Soon after I heard them raising the anchor, and then I know by the motion of the vessel that she was under way. I thought of my poor mother's grave, which I never expected to see again, and wished myself back on the rocks, but the pitching of the schooner and the close air of the forecastle brought on a horrid sickness which drove all thoughts out of my head. I lay trembling in my uncomfortable hiding place until it was dark and the watches were set for the night, the part of the crew whose turn it was to sleep came down into the forecastle and lighted a large lamp which hung suspended from the ceiling. There were three men and I learned from their conversation that the schooner was a packet bound from Boston to New York, and that they had contrived to break open a box of merchandise belonging to the cargo, and had secreted some small matters about their persons, of which they began to divest themselves and stow them away in their chests. After they had done this they sat down and began to sing songs and tell stories. One of them said he would tell them a witch story, but he didn't want to frighten them: the other two then insisted that he should tell it and defied the Devil himself to frighten them.

"Once upon a time," said the sailor, "when my grandmother was a girl, long before the Revolution, there was an old witch that used to plague the whole neighborhood with her pranks. Ah, those were the good old times when they had witches and everything, now we haven't got anything worth having."

"That's true enough," said another sailor, "steamboats are ruining everything."

"Well," continued the story-teller, "this old witch was one of the ugliest hags that ever was seen, nobody would visit her, for her husband was dead, and her children had all run away, and how she lived nobody knew. She had a little old house that stood all alone by itself, and the boys used to amuse themselves by breaking her windows. She was wrinkled and crooked, and would have been blind, if it hadn't been for a pair of great goggle spectacles which she wore. When she went out to pick up chips, she used to walk with a stick, pretending to be lame, but that was the stick she used to ride upon, when she couldn't steal a broomstick: and many a time has she rode through the air, in the height of a sou'-wester, when it has been thundering and lightening. Once she set fire to a barn, in that way, by a thunderbolt, and got ducked in a horse-pond. Once, when my grandfather was going to sea, on a fishing cruise, she made a head wind for a whole week by keeping a black cat under a wash tub, and once she spoiled everybody's thanksgiving dinner by sending the soot down the chimney, and got whipped for it at the whipping-post. There was no end to the trouble the old hag used to bring upon the neighbors, and everybody hated her, of course. One day my grandmother was out in the fields, when she saw the witch gathering herbs, and she said to her, go home, you old witch, but the hag said she was only gathering some life 'lasting, and was doing no harm to anybody. So my grandmother took up a stone, and threw at her; the old witch pretended to be hurt, and said, 'you will be sorry for this, one of these days.' Well, my grandmother was terribly frightened, to-be-sure, for she knew that the witch would do her some harm. So she went home, and nailed a horse-shoe over the door, and never went to bed without putting a darning-needle in her pillow, for they say that witches never pass under or over steel; but my grandmother forgot the chimney. Witches, you know, have always the odds in their favor, in a quarrel, and if you cannot hang or drown them, it is always safest to keep on good terms with them. This my grandmother found out to her sorrow. A young fellow came a-sparking to her, one night; he was the squire's son, and she thought she had got a great spec; as they sat before the fire, a-courting with all their might, just as he was going to pop the question, and she felt as sure of having him as though they had been published three times in church, down came the old witch through the chimney, in the shape of a tremendous black cat, in a cloud of soot, and capsized both of the lovers on the floor, and after scratching my grandmother's face all over, vanished like a streak of lightning. The squire's son was carried home in a swoon, and never had the courage to come back again. So my grandmother lost her beau just by throwing a stone at a witch."

By this time my feelings had become so uncomfortable, that I suffered a groan to escape me without perceiving it.

"What was that?" exclaimed the story-teller; "I vow I heard a groan."

"Pooh! pooh!" exclaimed one of the sailors, "you are superstitious; it was only the jib-sheet."

A dead silence ensuing, caused my hitherto inaudible breathing to be distinctly heard.

"O, Lord! O, Lord !" exclaimed the story-teller, and without more ado, darted upon deck, followed by his companions, who, in their hurry, upset the lamp and left me in darkness. Finding that I could no longer remain concealed below, I crept out of my hiding place and climbed upon deck, dreadfully frightened, and expecting to be thrown into the sea when they should discover me. But when I emerged from the forecastle I did not encounter one of the watch; they had all run after the frightened sailors, who had gone to tell the Captain what they had heard. I crept along the lee side of the vessel, and the night being dark, remained undiscovered—while the Captain, with a lantern in his hand, and followed by all the crew and passengers, went down into the forecastle to investigate the cause of the strange noises that had been heard, and which the frightened sailors had represented were awful groans.

As soon as they had passed me, I stole softly along to the cabin, and seeing it was empty, stepped down and crawled behind a pile of mattresses which lay in one corner. This was a much more comfortable hiding-place than the other, and I should soon have dropped asleep had not the Captain and his two passengers returned from inspecting the forecastle, and seating themselves in the cabin, kept me awake by their conversation. The Captain cursed his cowardly sailors, and the two passengers laughed at their idle fears.

"This fear is a curious matter," said one of them.

"Nonsense!" said the Captain; "I was never afraid of anything in my life!"

"Perhaps not," replied the passenger; "but that is no proof that you never will be. I do not know that I have ever been frightened myself, but I can easily imagine circumstances and objects which might cause fear."

"That's all stuff," said the Captain; "you are superstitious."

"Perhaps I am," said the passenger; "and that is the very point that puzzles me. Why should I be superstitious? Why should I be frightened without an adequate reason? Those ignorant fellows in the forecastle thought they heard a noise; but they knew a noise could not harm them—therefore they should have searched for the cause of it; and if they had found that it proceeded from some terrible object, then it would have been time enough for fear."

"Exactly," said the Captain; "that is what I would have done, only I don't believe that I should have been frightened, let me have seen whatever I might—because its not in my nature. I am not one of that kind."

"But suppose you were sitting in a secluded place," said the passenger, "and should suddenly see a man's shadow on the ground by your side, you would start with fear; but if you were to turn deliberately round you might not be afraid, even though the substance that cast the shadow were a terrible fellow. So a man who could hear the roar of a cannon unmoved might be terrified at the slightest sound breaking upon the stillness of night, if he didn't know what caused it."

"I shouldn't," said the Captain.

"I think you would," said the other passenger, "and you needn't be ashamed to confess it. Fear is not cowardice. You may encounter unmoved the greatest danger that can threaten you, as death in any shape, and yet be frightened at a trifle, merely because its exact magnitude is unknown to you. And this convinces me that there is something somewhere in the universe, more terrible than death or any ill that we know of, or whence comes this all-pervading instinct of fear which begins in the cradle and follows us to the grave. There is some undeveloped cause of fear somewhere, some terrible evil which the imaginations of men have not been able to find a shape for, I am certain, and therefore I do not hesitate to confess that I am afraid at tines, but I know not why, and this ignorance of any cause only adds to my fears instead of abating them. We know but little yet of the world we inhabit."

"You are a coward," said the Captain, scornfully.

"No, no; I am not willing to admit that. I may believe in supernatural powers and not be a coward," replied the passenger. "Now let me tell you a little story.

"I was once travelling in Massachusetts with an old friend, who had recently lost his mother. He had been a wild youth, and perhaps her death might have been hastened by a report of his indiscretions, for he was the youngling of her flock, and she loved him very tenderly. We were travelling on foot, and one morning just as the sun was rising, we entered a neat little village and sat down by the side of a garden wall to rest. I observed that my companion looked unusually grave, and that tears were falling from his eyes. I asked him the cause of his grief. 'This,' he replied, 'is the place in which I was born, and on this very spot I took my last leave of my poor mother. O, that I had never left her, or that I had heeded her parting words.' Just at that moment, a clear, distinct, but mellow sound was heard high above our heads in the air. It was unlike any sound I had ever heard before, and I have heard none like it since. I looked above and around, but I could see nothing. There was not a breath of air stirring, nor a cloud in the sky. I cast my eyes upon my companion; he was as pale as death. 'Did you hear that strange noise ?' I said. 'Yes,' he replied, 'it was my mother's voice.' "

I had listened so attentively to the passenger's story, that, when he concluded, I involuntarily drew a long sigh.

"Hark!" said the Captain, "I heard something."

I sighed again, for in attempting to check my respiration, I had become quite out of breath.

"I heard it again!" said the Captain.

"And so did I," said the two passengers. And without waiting to find out the cause they jumped upon deck with the Captain close upon their heels. Left to myself once more, I crept from behind the pile of mattresses, and seeing a board loose in the bulkhead which separated the cabin from the hold, I shoved it aside and crept in, and stretched myself out upon some cases of merchandize; although I was both sick and frightened, I fell asleep in a very few minutes. But I might have remained in the cabin in perfect security, for I learned afterwards that neither the Captain nor his passengers would venture below until the next morning, when they boldly jumped down the cabin stairs and ransacked every corner in the cabin. The Captain insisted that he was not at all frightened the night before, and swore that if he were to meet the "old boy" himself, he would take hold of his horns. The cowardly passenger said that for his part he hoped they would arrive in port before night. But the other one merely whistled Yankee Doodle and said nothing. As the partition which divided the hold from the cabin was made of thin boards, I could hear every word that was spoken. I was greatly refreshed after a night's sleep, and there being but little motion to the vessel, I felt very hungry. In crawling about the hold I stumbled upon an open bundle of hard biscuit, from which I made my breakfast. I had never been under restraint for so long a time before, and I longed to be upon deck and see all that was passing; but fear of a flogging kept me quiet, and I lay in my hiding place until the night watch was again set, and I could hear no one moving upon deck. Then I ventured to steal out, and removing the loose plank in the bulkhead of the cabin, I crept softly upon deck, and found the crew, helmsman and all, sound asleep. It was a dead calm, and the motion of the waves was just sufficient to move the rudder, so that it made a dismal, creaking noise; the peaks of the sails were dropped, and the canvas hung like a dead weight against the masts. There was a little piece of a moon, but it was very bright, and the stars all shone out, as if trying to vie with the silver bow which hung in the midst of them; and all their brightness and beauty were reflected without a ripple to mar them in the smooth water of the Sound; at a short distance, a small, but bright red light, glared on the line of the horizon, and so noiseless was the night that I could hear the faint dashing of the waves on the distant beach. Familiarity with the ocean had not bred contempt in me. I had that kind of fond awe for it which a child feels for a stern mother; I had been accustomed to watch it under all its varying aspects, and now I could not resist an impulse to view it in its sleeping loveliness, while a host of heavenly beauties were resting in its quiet bosom. Yielding to my feelings, and without further reflection, I climbed up the shrouds of the main-mast and seated myself upon the cross-trees with my arms around the mast. Here I sat and looked about me, and felt very grand. I felt indeed as though I were a companion of the stars; they did not, in truth, seem to be above me, and I reached out my hand as if to embrace them. Entirely forgetting myself, I opened my throat and began to chaunt a song that I had learned of my mother, hoping that she might hear my voice and would answer me us the mother of the passenger's companion had done. But no mother's voice responded to mine. I was heard, however, by the helmsman on deck, who, roused from his slumbers by a noise above his head, and seeing nobody near him, in his fright, ran to the cabin doors and called all hands upon deck. The Captain and his passengers jumped up in their shirts, and the sailors came running aft to learn the cause of the tumult. The helmsman gave the best account he could of the sounds he had heard, and vowed there was a ghost on board the schooner, but omitted to say anything about his having dropped asleep. The Captain was about to administer a rope's end to the man's back, when casting his eyes aloft, he discovered me sitting at the mast head, and fell upon his knees, and began to exclaim, "O Lord have mercy upon us! O Lord, we are going to the bottom!"

The mate of the schooner was more of a matter-of-fact person than the Captain, so he ordered one of the sailors to go aloft and see what it was at the mast head; but nobody offered to move.

"Blast your tarnal eyes!" said the mate, "why don't you jump?" But nobody offered to jump; on the contrary, they all huddled close together, and the Captain still kept upon his knees.

One of the passengers hinted to the mate, that as he was an officer, it belonged to him to go up and see what the appearance was; but the mate replied that he didn't ship to go aloft. He threatened the sailors with a committal for mutiny, for disobeying orders; one of them said that he had no fears for himself, but as he had a wife and family dependent upon him, he did not think it was proper to risk his life. Another of the men said the proper course was to read a chapter out of the Bible, and his proposition met with a very general approval, but upon inquiry it was found that there was not a Bible on board.

"O Lord be merciful to me!" exclaimed the Captain, "I turned a Bible agent out of the schooner the day before we left Boston. O, Lord! I will subscribe to the Bible Society as soon as we get into port, if we only do get there." One of the men said that if he had a good stiff horn of rum, he thought he would as soon go up as not. But the schooner was owned by a temperance merchant, and they had no spirits on board. Notwithstanding that I was elevated so high above their heads, I could distinctly hear the chattering of their teeth. I remained as motionless as possible, for their eyes were all turned towards me. The Captain wrung his hands in great agony, and begged that somebody would make a prayer. They all pleaded their extreme unfitness for the duty, on the score of sinfulness and ignorance, except the black cook, who was about to commence, when one of the passengers, who was a southern gentleman, said he would rather sink to the bottom than be prayed for by a nigger. The cook said it was all the same to him; he thanked God, he had the privilege of praying for himself in spite of white folks. The sailor who had told the witch story the night before, said he had heard his grandmother say that you could shoot a ghost with a silver bullet, upon which the mate said he would go below and get the rifle, provided the captain would find the silver for the ball. It was now my turn to be frightened. I had before been more amused than alarmed, at what I had heard, but the mention of the silver bullet was too serious a joke to laugh at, so I made immediate preparations for descending to the deck. I had no sooner begun to descend than the Captain called out to clear the boat, but the men all ran forward, and the passengers jumped into the cabin. The mate alone remained on deck, standing by the Captain, who had prostrated himself and covered his face with his hands.

"What in the name of Heaven do you come after here?" said the mate, in a solemn voice, as I jumped upon deck.

This was a question, for which I had no answer, so I remained silent.

"Who has murdered you? If it is either of the schooner's crew, point him out," said the mate.

"Nobody has hurt me," I replied; "I only went up to the mast head to look out."

"Where did you come from?"

"From home."

"From home?—and where is your home—in heaven?"

"No, I wish it was; my mother is in heaven."

"Is your home in hell, then?" said the mate.

"No; it is in Boston," I replied. I do not know what prompted me to tell this lie, for I had never told one before.

"In Boston!" exclaimed the mate; "when did you leave there?"

"To-night," I replied; for having told one lie, I felt obliged to tell another.

"How did you travel here?" asked the mate.

"I came on a plank," I replied.

The mate had kept drawing closer and closer towards me as I replied to his questions, and being within arms' reach he took hold of my shoulder, and seemed not a little astonished at finding me solid flesh and bones. The Captain seeing that the mate remained unhurt, now got upon his feet, and the passengers and the crew made their appearance from below. The end of the matter was, that I confessed the truth, but got no credit for my sincerity, for having told one lie, they could not, of course, decide which of my stories was entitled to belief. The crew believed that I had got on board by supernatural means, and the Captain and his passengers concluded that I had secreted myself in the vessel's hold while she lay at anchor at the wharf in Boston. A fair breeze sprung up soon after I came down from aloft, and before the next night we arrived at the dock in New York.

MR. BASSETT, one of the passengers on board the schooner, was a merchant, a kind gentleman, remarkably handsome in his person, and very gentle in his address; at least he appeared so to me. When we arrived at the dock, he called me aside, and told me that he would take me home to live with him, provided his wife did not object to it. He gave me his portmanteau to carry, and I followed him to his house, which was a long distance from the vessel, and, as I thought, in a very disagreeable spot. It was in the month of August, and the flagging of the side-walks almost blistered my bare feet. I began to repent of my folly in leaving such a delightful spot as Apponagansett, and determined to embrace the first opportunity of getting back to my old haunts by the sea side. The first glimpse of the city gave me a distaste for a town life.

When Mr. Bassett reached his house, his wife came into the hall to meet him, but instead of welcoming him with a kiss, she began to scold him for not coming sooner.

"I could not get here before, my dear," said Mr. Bassett, "the vessel was becalmed."

"Then why did you not come in a steamboat?" said Mrs. B. in a whining voice.

"Because, my love, you know that my physician advised me to travel in a packet on account of my health."

"I hate your physician!" replied Mrs. Bassett; "he is always advising you to go away from home. If you loved me you would not listen to him. But what creature is that?"

"That, my dear, is a poor little fellow, who has got neither father nor mother to take care of him, and I have promised him that he should live with us."

"Oh! I hate such creatures!" said his wife; "you love everybody but me; you are always bringing home some nasty creature with you, on purpose to plague me. I won't have him in the house."

"Well, well, my dear," said Mr. Bassett, soothingly, "he must remain here to-night, and in the morning we will see what can be done with him."

So Mrs. Bassett sent me into the kitchen, where the Irish cook maid gave me some cold meat for my supper, and then led me up a pair of long, winding stairs, into a little chamber, as hot as an oven, where she told me I was to sleep. I did not like my apartment in the least. It was much finer than the garret I had been accustomed to sleep in, but not half so comfortable. But I did not feel myself privileged to find fault with my accommodations, so I threw myself upon the bed, and soon fell into a sweeter sleep than I fear was enjoyed by Mr. Bassett, for unless he found some means of soothing the temper of his affectionate wife, she probably kept him awake until the next morning, merely to convince him of the warmth of her love for him.

The rumbling of carts and other strange noises, awoke me, early in the morning, and I got up and dressed myself long before a soul was stirring in the house. O! how I wished myself back again in the poor but happy home I had left! What a contrast did the hot and filthy street present to the clean, pebbly beach, and the green fields to which I had been accustomed. I rose from my bed, languid and weary, and experienced an indolent sensation that I had never known before.

I was disappointed, too, in the appearance of the houses; I had imagined that the streets of a great city were filled with magnificent palaces, and all kinds of beautiful objects; nothing could be further from my expectations than the reality. But a philosophy that nature had kindly endowed me with—as if she had designed to heap all manner of burdens upon my back, and so had furnished me with extra muscle to bear them—would not allow me to dwell long upon my altered condition; and when I was called to my breakfast in the kitchen, I ate the remains of a broiled mackerel and the whole of a loaf of broad which the cook gave me, with a keen relish and a thankful heart. Indeed I could not but feel that I was well treated, seeing that I had done nothing to entitle me to the favor of my entertainer. Mr. Bassett left the house as soon as he had swallowed his coffee, but he had hardly stepped upon the flagging of the street when his wife called me into the parlor.

"Come here, you dirty little beast!" said Mrs. B. "What's your name?"

"Tom Pepper," I replied.

"Tom what?"

"Pepper."

"Pepper!" screamed the lady, "Pepper! Merciful heavens! I won't have such a name in my house! Pepper! I'll pepper you, you nasty wretch!" and to make her promise good, she slipped off the shoe of her right foot, and struck me three or four smart blows on the head. I beg the reader not to accuse me of a want of spirit because I submitted quietly to such treatment, for Mrs. B. being the first city lady that I had seen, I supposed her conduct was according to custom; and, furthermore, as she had treated her husband but little better than she did me, I did not really think I had any right to complain. I could not help dropping a tear, however—not from the smart of the blows, but because the strange behavior of the lady brought to mind the gentle image of my mother, from whom I had never received even an unkind word.

"Don't cry!" said Mrs. Bassett; "I will have no crying in this house. Stop—hush up! You silly thing! What's your father's name?"

I had felt the inconvenience of having this awkward question put to me once before, and my first impulse was to invent a name, but on a second thought I replied as before, "My grandfather's name was Major Pepper."

"Your grandfather, indeed!" said Mrs. Bassett; "that's not what I want to know; tell me your father's name."

I was sorely puzzled for a reply, and as the lady still held her shoe in her hand, I acknowledged the truth, and said that I had never had a father, and didn't know who he was.

On hearing this, Mrs. Bassett turned blue in the face and trembled violently, so that I was very much frightened. I couldn't conceive why she should take so lively an interest in a matter so purely personal to myself, for whom she did not appear to have much love. She sat and glared upon me a few minutes, and then flew at me with such fierceness, that I tried to escape; but she had caught me by the collar of my jacket, and held me fast. This was an unpromising introduction into the world, and I heartily wished myself back again in Apponagansett, and resolved to embrace the first opportunity to escape from the hands of my unmerciful patron. After giving me a severe shaking, and boxing my ears until they tingled with pain, she locked the door of the parlor, and made me sit by her on the sofa. First she made me hold up my head and look her in the eyes—then she told me to walk across the floor, which I did.

"Yes, yes," she said, "I see it all. Now come here and answer my questions; and if you do not tell the truth I will take your skin off. How old are you?"

I did not know my age, but I answered promptly, "Twelve years and two months."

"Twelve years and two months," she replied, counting upon her fingers; "yes, yes; twelve years and two months. I knew it. Now tell me where your mother is."

"She is dead," I replied, bursting into tears at the mention of her name.

"Dead—I thought so," said the lady—"just as I thought; and my husband took you and brought you home, because there was nobody to take care of you?"

"Yes," I answered.

"And how many times did he come to see your mother before she died? Mind how you answer me!"

I was on the point of saying "Never," but as I hesitated, she struck me with her shoe again, and being afraid that my reply might in some way excite her wrath, I replied that "I did not know."

"Ah! you little wretch!" she cried, and again made an attempt to strike me; but now my temper was fairly roused, and by a sudden jerk I escaped from her and got under one of the tables, where I succeeded in defending myself for a time, but at last was conquered and dragged out into the middle of the floor, where I fought so stoutly that she let me alone and sat down on the sofa again and cried a long time. She afterwards sent me back into the kitchen, where the Irish servant treated me very kindly, and called me a "poor craythur."

At three o'clock Mr. Bassett came home to his dinner, and I was told by Bridget to go up stairs into the parlor. There I found Mrs. Bassett with her hat on, and as soon as I entered the room she said to her husband:

"There, sir—there is your brat; of course I have no right to separate a father from his child—I don't wish to—it would be cruel. I do not blame you—how can I? If you do not love me you cannot help it. The child must not suffer for his parent's crimes—no, he must be taken care of and educated: I know that, and I am not unreasonable. But I cannot live in the same house with him, and you will be happier, far happier, when I am gone. I am of no consequence in this world—I have long known that you never loved me—I now feel it; but I have kept all my griefs, all my sorrows, to myself. I will go to my mother's, and you will live here and be happy with your son. There are the keys, and here is my miniature—give me mine, that you may never be reminded of me when I am dead and gone."

"Jane," said Mr. Bassett, "you amaze me."

"Of course I do," replied the wife, turning to leave the parlor; "you thought that I could bear everything because I never complained of your conduct. I knew that you did not make those long visits to Boston for nothing. Mother has always told me so, and sister. I have been a poor, broken-hearted, suffering creature, and now it has come to the turning point. The world knows what I have suffered, and what I have sacrificed for you; but I don't blame you—no, George, I don't blame you, for I know you are fond of children, and if I had had any of my own this wouldn't have happened. But it's my misfortune. Only promise me that you will never think of me, or speak my name; and when I die don't come to my funeral, or I shall rise from my grave, I know."

"For heaven's sake, my love——" said Mr. Basset.

"Don't call me your love! don't be a hypocrite, I beg of you!" sobbed the lady, suddenly bursting into a hysterical fit of weeping.

"I will call you anything that will restore you to your senses," replied her husband; "if you have no regard for me, for heaven's sake have some for yourself. How can you distress me by your ridiculous jealousies? Come, come my dear, take off your hat and sit down, and let me convince you how absurdly you have been acting;" so saying, he put his arms gently around her waist, and forced her to sit upon the sofa.

"Don't touch me!" said the lady, yielding to him; "don't pretend to care anything about me."

"I see what it is that has excited your feelings, and perhaps you are not altogether to blame," said Mr. Bassett; "but I swear, if there is truth in man, you wrong me cruelly by your suspicions. Come here, Tom, and answer every question truly, that I put to you."

He then made me repeat every particular of my discovery on board the schooner, and promised to have the captain and crew of the vessel to confirm my story. Mrs. Bassett protested that it was all a lie made up between her husband and myself, and insisted on going to her mother's to die; but allowed her husband to take off her bonnet, and at last threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. I was sent back to the kitchen, where Bridget repaid me by her kindness for all the ill treatment I had received from the mistress.

"Och! but the master is a jewel," said Bridget, "and the misthriss is jist the torment of the poor craythur's life. All she wants is a good basting, and more's the pity he won't give it to her."

Bridget was the first specimen of her class that I had ever seen, and although her strange manner of speech repulsed me at first, I very soon took a vehement liking to her, which she fully returned.

Although Mrs. Bassett had, for the present, concluded not to go home to her mother and die, she had not abated a particle of her animosity towards me, and as soon as her husband had left the house to return to his business, she came down into the kitchen to wreak her jealous fury upon me; but Bridget, suspecting her motives, shut me up in a closet, and said that I had gone out to play in the street. As soon as she was gone, Bridget let me out, and set me to work cleaning her knives, telling me to keep up a good heart, and she would learn me how to gain my own living in any gentleman's family in the land.

ALTHOUGH I was very willing to work for Bridget, and indeed it gave me pleasure to assist her, I spurned the idea of being a servant to anybody. There were no servants in Apponagansett, and I hardly know what the term meant, excepting the practical demonstration of it which I saw in Bridget. It seemed to me that I was a prisoner in Mr. Bassett's house; the little yard hemmed in by tall fences, and all prospects shut out by dingy brick houses, a miserable street in front, paved with hot stones, and a confined room in a hot garret, were a wretched change from the sea beach, and hills and rocks to which I had been accustomed all my life, and already I longed for my freedom. Nothing more occurred that day. I saw neither Mr. Bassett nor his wife, but the next morning after breakfast, he called me to go out with him, and when we were in the street he laid to me, "I will keep you, Tom, and educate you, and make a man of you, if Mrs. Bassett is willing that you should remain in the house; but you must never give her an unhandsome word, for she is a good woman, only she has her little odd ways, as we all of us have."

To which I made no reply, for I had nothing to say, and he continued. "I like you, Tom, because you seem innocent and good hearted, and I have no children of my own to love and to educate, and by-and-by I shall be old, and there will be nobody to care for me. But I cannot love you if you are not good, and above all things, truthful; for it is a dreadful thing not to regard the truth in the smallest circumstance. Now, Tom, when you were first discovered, you said that you got on board the vessel at Boston, and afterwards, that you swam off on a plank, while we lay at anchor at Apponagansett. You were frightened, and told a lie, I hope, because you did not know what you were saying; but you must never be guilty of such an offence again."

My face burnt with shame, and I thought that I would never tell another falsehood, and so promised.

"Well, I hope you never will," said Mr. Bassett, "for if you once indulge in the habit of making false representations, even though it be in the most trifling thing, you will be ruined. Therefore, keep a watch upon your thoughts, and do not allow yourself to think an untruth, for that would be as wicked as to speak one. There are no degrees of comparison between truths and falsehoods; all truths and all falsehoods are great. Accustom yourself to speak truly always, for even though you were to say you feel well when you feel ill, although it might seem like a very trivial matter to you, something serious would grow out of it. Your soul would be tainted with dissimulation, at least, and you would be less able to resist the temptation to lie, when it might appear to your advantage to do so. If, now, anybody should ask you if you liked him, although it would appear unamiable to say no, yet if you did not, you should say so. Then, too, you should always let your thoughts appear in your countenance, for that will be a caution to you not to harbor evil thoughts, lest they should be seen, and your countenance will wear that expression of ingenuousness which is worth more to a man than a fortune, because he always carries a letter of recommendation in his face, and will need no other bill of credit. Such kind of men are always lucky, because they find friends wherever they go. Now, if I should ask you what you thought of me, or how you liked me, what would you say?"

"I would say I liked you very much," I replied.

"Ah, would you, indeed?" said Mr. Bassett, pressing my hand. "And why do you like me? Of course we always like or dislike people for some particular reason."

"I don't know," I replied, feeling, in truth, rather sheepish.

"Have a care, Tom," he said; "you must know."

"Because you are good and handsome," I replied.

"What, do you think I am handsome, Tom?"

My face burnt with blushes to say so, but I thought I must tell the truth. Mr. Bassett was indeed a very handsome man. His countenance was fair, his voice mild, and his whole manner gentle and winning. He dressed himself with extreme neatness, and I thought him to be the best man in the world.

"And, I suppose, you thought Mrs. Bassett handsome, too?" he said.

"No, I didn't!" I replied, quickly.

We walked some distance further, without his saying anything more. He hummed a tune as he went, and directly we stopped at a clothing store, which appeared to me to contain all the clothes in the world, it was so large. Here he bought me an entire new suit, which made me feel very proud and very uncomfortable. He asked the price of the articles, which he bought for me, and the salesman demanded a price at first, from which he afterwards made considerable deduction, although he said at first that he would not fall, so I spoke out and said—"What a liar he is!" because I thought so.

At first, the salesman was very angry, and threatened to flog me, but Mr. Bassett defended me, and said I had only spoken what I thought, and that the fault was his own, for saying, in the first place, that he would not take less than a certain price, and then falling from it. As we came out of the door, the salesman said something about putting a beggar on horseback, which I supposed was intended to apply to me. Mr. Bassett said I had done all right, to say exactly as I thought, and hoped I would continue to do so. He then asked me what I thought of the city, and if the houses did not look very fine to me. I told him that the streets were very dirty and narrow, and as for the houses, they did not look to me half so pleasantly as my grandfather Pepper's house in Apponagansett, and that I wished myself back there once more. This seemed to surprise him. But I have generally found that people who live in cities entertain extravagant ideas of the splendor and magnificence of their residences, which is owing partly to the common habit of judging of the excellence of a thing from its cost, and partly from their ignorance of the beauty and attractions of a country life.

Mr. Bassett commended my sincerity, and asked me several more questions, all of which I answered with the same candor and unreserve. At last we reached his place of business, which was in Pearl street; he was a jobber in dry goods, and had a partner, and employed a great many clerks; and I was quite surprised at the beautiful merchandize with which his store was filled, and thought it the largest and most magnificent establishment in the whole world. Here I remained with him until late in the afternoon, when we went home to dinner, and instead of being sent into the kitchen to help Bridget in her dirty work, I was allowed to sit at the table with Mr. Bassett and his wife. She took but little notice of me, and I took no other notice of her than to keep as far from her as I could, for my head was still sore from the raps she gave me with the heel of her shoe. The dinner seemed to me like a dream, it so much exceeded in elegance anything that I had ever seen before. The fineness and glossy whiteness of the table linen, the beautiful plates, which looked to me like pictures, the silver castors, and cut glass ornaments, the delicious meats and vegetables, the pudding, and its rich sauce, and the ceremony of carving and helping, performed by Mr. Bassett, with a graceful dignity of manner that I had never seen on such an occasion, all made an impression on my mind that can never be effaced. They gave me a taste for elegant refinements, or rather awakened it in me, for I am sure I must have inherited it, it came to me so naturally, and had so much influence on my after life. I perceived at once the essential difference between town and country, or rather between Apponagansett and New York, and I at once resolved that the city and its elegancies should be my portion of the world. It gave me a strange feeling for a gentleman like Mr. Bassett, to say to me, in a pleasant voice, "Tom, shall I help you to another piece of this kidney?" or, "Tom, let me give you a piece of toast with your asparagus." Even Mrs. Bassett after she had helped me to some pudding asked me if I would take more sauce.

All this magnificence and condescension filled my heart full of pride, but still I could not help asking myself what I had done to deserve it. But I readily discovered that Mrs. Bassett was only acting a part in her kindness towards me, for when her husband stepped out of the room, she immediately changed her manner towards me, and called me a little wretch. I afterwards went into the kitchen, and Bridget ran and caught me up in her greasy arms, and vexed me by her kisses.

"Faith, Tom," she said, "but you've put yer fut in it; indade but I shouldn't wondher if the masther made yer fortune. Ah, yer a darlin', Tom. Faith an' troth yer a beautiful by. Let me kiss ye agin."

But I would not let her kiss me again, and remembering what Mr. Bassett had told me about speaking exactly what I thought, I said that I did not like her because she smelt greasy.

"Ah, ye nasty beggar!" exclaimed Bridget; "out wid yez, or I'll pour a ladle of hot water over ye! Go along, ye beggarly spalpeen! Faith, Tom, but yez are in a fair way for the gallis. Yez got no father, ye spalpeen!"

So I took myself from the enraged cook, and I was not sorry that I had roused her anger, for she was hideously ugly; her face was horribly scarred with the small pox, and she squinted frightfully, and had red hair into the bargain. Mr. Bassett having returned to his store, I was allowed to do as I pleased; I sat down on the front door steps, and watched the people as they passed, and wondered who they were, and what they were employed about. At dark Mr. Bassett returned, and seeing me upon the steps, asked me what I had been doing, and why I was sitting there. I told him that I was waiting for him to come back. He patted me on the head and said:

"And are you glad to see me Tom?"

"Yes, sir; I was in a hurry to see you," I replied.

He pinched my check, and said I was a fine fellow, and that I must always speak the truth, and say exactly what I thought, and I would have nothing to fear. As he stood talking to me his wife came to the door and said:

"You are breaking my heart, George, by your cruel conduct."

"What is the matter, my love?" said Mr. Bassett, mildly.

"Matter!" said she, "to stand there talking to that impudent little wretch, before you come into the house and speak to your wife!"

So she began to cry, and he put his arm around her waist and led her into the parlor. I did not follow them, but I heard her scolding him and crying a long time. He sat silent for a while, and then I heard him say:

"Jane, you will drive me mad. Tell me what I shall do to please you. Will you allow me no freedom of will? Must I be treated like a child, and not be allowed to love anything nor anybody?"

"Love anything!" said his wife; "I do not see what right a married man has to love anybody but his wife!"

"Good heavens! Jane," said Mr. Bassett, with some violence, "how can you torment me so? I have renounced everything that gave me pleasure, for your sake; you were jealous of my old companion, Wimple, and I offended him to please you; you suspected me of visiting my sister whenever I was detained by my business at night, and I deserted her for your sake; you would not allow me to caress my poor dog, Ponto, and I gave him away to pacify you, although I loved the faithful beast like a child; you quarreled with me for reading, and destroyed my favorite authors; and now, when I have taken a poor child, who has no one in the world to provide for him, with the hope of training him to love us and be a companion for us, you quarrel with me for speaking a kindly word to the poor boy."

"It's a disgrace to you," said his wife "to talk about loving anybody else when you have got a wife, and you ought to know better than to be taking people's children when there is an asylum for the nasty brats. Goodness knows, if you have got any money to spare I want it myself. I am not dressed fit to be seen."

"I can endure this no longer! I will be master of my own house!" exclaimed Mr. Bassett, in a passion; "I have already told you that the boy shall live here, and you promised to say nothing more about him; but you have no feeling, no thought, no love for me, and I will learn you, madam, that I will have my own way; the boy shall not be sent away from the house, and you shall treat him kindly." He then came to the door and called me in. Mrs. Bassett had been crying during his speech, but when he came to the door and spoke to me, she broke out into terrible screams. He ran back to her, and, in a softened tone, begged her to be quiet; then he kissed her and took her in his arms, and called her his dear love, his darling Jane; but she continued to scream and cry, and say that he had killed her and broken her heart by his cruelty. At last he procured some brandy and tried to force it down her throat, but she would not swallow it, and then he promised her that I should be sent away; upon hearing this she gradually hushed her screams, and ended by falling upon his neck and calling him her dear George.

I must be pardoned for describing these disagreeable scenes; they made such a painful impression upon my mind that I have never forgotten them. I pitied poor Mr. Bassett very much, and wondered why he did not give his wife a flogging. But I was a mere child, and had never been taught how vile an offence it is for a man to strike a woman.

It was one of the defects of my education to believe that the only cure for misbehavior was a flogging. I had been flogged myself often. I had seen mothers flog their children, and men their wives; men flogged each other; and I had heard my grandfather Pepper talk continually of flogging the British, and I knew that officers in the navy flogged their sailors, having heard shocking stories told by a young sailor in the neighborhood, who had been on board a man of war, of punishment by a cat with nine tails. A most terrific image to a young mind.

After a while, Mrs. Bassett grew more quiet, and having been persuaded to swallow a spoonful of brandy, she dropped her head upon the sofa and fell asleep. I had crept quietly out upon the piazza at the back of the house, for fear that she might be provoked, in her rage, to make another attack upon me with her shoe, which I had a great dread of, my head being still sore from the effect of her blows. While I sat there Mr. Bassett came out with a cigar in his mouth, and sat down by me. He smoked a long time without speaking a word, but every now and then he sighed deeply, and seemed to be very melancholy. After he had smoked two or three cigars, he began to talk, and gradually seemed to regain his customary composure and good humor.

"You see, Tom," said Mr. Bassett, "what I have to suffer on your account."

"Yes, sir," I replied, for I had seen it very plainly, and of course was bound to say so.

"What can I do, Tom? I don't like to send you away, poor boy, and I don't know how to pacify Mrs. Bassett."

"I know what I would do," I replied.

"Tell me what you would do, Tom."

"I would give her a good flogging," I replied.

Mr. Bassett puffed away at his cigar and made no reply for some time, and then patting me on the head, he said:

"That's right, Tom; always say exactly what you think, and you will do well enough; but then you must always endeavor to think rightly. Now, you thought very ill then, although you did very right to let your thoughts come out, because if you had not I could not have corrected your error. Perhaps you may have been taught to repeat a little rhyme which I learned when I was a boy, but which I have forgotten now; but I remember the last line, "Your little hands were never made to tear each other's eyes." You must try and remember it. There was a time once when it was considered proper to beat and maul each other. I hope that time is past; but there never was a time, no, not even in the darkest days of the dark ages, when a man was justified in striking his wife; but in these days a man is regarded as a brute who is guilty of so base an act. Women, Tom, are our helpmates, companions and comforters, and although they have their little ways, as you see Mrs. Bassett has, they are sometimes very necessary to our happiness, and as my grandmother used to say of certain bitter herbs, they are excellent in sickness. You loved your own mother, of course, Tom?"

I assured him that I loved her very much, and that she was a different sort of woman to his wife.

"Of course," said Mr. Bassett, "of course, all women differ. But you must learn to love Mrs. Bassett, and then she will love you."

I told him that I could learn almost everything, but I was afraid that I should never learn to love her, but I would try. Mr. Bassett then patted me on the head again, and told me I must go to bed and rise early in the morning, as he wanted to see about sending me to school.

AT this distance of time, when I cannot be suspected of taking any particular pride in my boyhood, I may be excused for speaking with entire candor, of my appearance, as well as of my thoughts and actions, for as the life of the boy is the foundation on which the character of the man is erected, or rather the soil out of which it grows, to thoroughly understand the one it is necessary to have a knowledge of the other. The life of no man would be a riddle, if his whole life could be known. The acts of the greatest or vilest men never take their parents by surprise, because they follow as natural consequences of early training, or of early inclinations; and for myself I can look back and discover the origin of all my trippings as plainly as though I were tracing the course of a river from the summit of a high mountain.

Until I left my native village of Apponagansett, I had bestowed as little thought upon my personal appearance as though I had been an oyster, and I do not remember that anybody had ever told me whether I was ugly or handsome, the good people of Buzzard's Bay caring nothing about looks, but thinking that behavior was all. Since my entrance into the world of commerce and fashion, however, I began to discover that nature had endowed me with good looks, and my little heart had swelled with pride, to hear people say, "What a pretty boy Tom is!" Then the fond attention of Mr. Bassett helped to increase my admiration of myself, and upon consulting the little mirror which hung in my chamber, I discovered that I had a fair complexion, with a profusion of brown, curly hair, a bright flush in my checks, a dimpled chin, and a perfectly clean and even set of teeth. My health was perfect, and my spirits always cheerful and gay, excepting when I thought of my poor mother, or reflected that I had never had a father. But these things never distressed me unless something was said to recall them to my mind, and then I strove to keep my feelings to myself. I saw that Mr. Bassett loved me, and I thought I had nothing to do but to obey his instructions and always speak the truth, and say exactly what I thought, to retain his affection. So I was very cautious whenever I spoke to say nothing different from what I thought, and I wondered that anybody could lie when it was so much easier and pleasanter to be honest and speak the truth.

I do not know what promises or arguments Mr. Bassett had made use of to his wife, but the next morning she treated me quite tenderly, and I thought that I might, perhaps, love her in time. After breakfast she even took a small tortoise shell comb out of her head and parted my hair, which made me feel very happy, for I loved to be caressed by women much better than by men. Mr. Bassett then carried me to a school-house and gave me in charge of a man whom I disliked exceedingly the moment I saw him. His name was Bidler. He was tall, thin and sallow; his voice was a kind of squeak, and before he spoke to you he had a strange manner of glaring upon you through a pair of very large spectacles. I was very much frightened at first, for I had never been in a school-house of any kind before, and I had a great dread of learning, probably because I was very ignorant, and was ashamed to discover it. When I found myself in the midst of a room full of boys, who looked at me very curiously from behind their books, I felt abashed and would have cried if I had not been ashamed to let them see me. But this feeling did not last long. I soon found that there were greater dunces than myself in the school, and got into a fight the very first day, and came off victorious. I discovered that I was rising in the esteem of my school-fellows; but my shocking ignorance prevented the master from showing any marked respect for me. I flattered myself, however, that I should soon gain his good opinion by attention to my studies, for I had an ambition to be thought well of by everybody. But an unfortunate accident made me an enemy in my teacher, whom I never succeeded in converting into a friend. One day while I was poring over my book, one of the boys whispered something in my ear which caused me to break out into a laugh. The master asked me what I was laughing at, and I immediately replied that I was laughing at him, which was true, for the boy who whispered in my ear had said something funny about his goggle eyes. All the boys in the school then laughed, and the master was in a great passion, and asked me how I dared to tell him such a thing to his face.

"Because it was true," I replied, "and I must never tell a lie."

"Come here, sir!" said the master, seizing a cowskin which he kept hanging over his desk, "and I will teach you to speak the truth, you young villain!"

But I was so much frightened by the angry expression of his face that I caught my hat and ran out of school. I went home, and when Mr. Bassett heard my story, he said I had acted exactly right, and praised me for telling the truth and speaking my mind boldly. This made me feel very proud, and I thought I would always continue to speak the truth, since it gained me the good will of such a person as Mr. Bassett, whom I began to love very much. As we were sitting at tea that day, the school-master called to make a complaint against me, and related to Mr. Bassett the circumstances just as I had told them, upon which he turned to the schoolmaster and said, with more severity than I had heard him use before:

"What a precious teacher you are for infant minds, to attempt to punish a child for having the ingenuousness to speak truly, instead of denying his thoughts, as most children would have done. Sir, I am ashamed of you; you would make liars of the little ones entrusted to your charge by flogging them for telling the truth. It is by such as you that the world is filled with hypocrites and deceivers. And you are a professor of religion and a believer in the Bible! You would punish this honest little fellow for setting your scholars an example of candor and integrity! I am ashamed of you. But you shall have no boy of mine to ruin by your bad instructions."

"If you had ever read your Bible," replied the schoolmaster, "you would know what King Solomon says, namely: 'Spare the rod, and spoil the boy.'"

"I care nothing for King Solomon," said Mr. Bassett, "but I can tell you this: I will not send the boy to you again, and if he cannot be sent to school without being taught to lie, he shall grow up in ignorance."

The schoolmaster looked very sheepish, but still he did not confess his error, as he should have done. He said that he thought it of very little consequence whether I was sent to school or not, for I was too great a dunce ever to learn anything, and he could see it in my face that I should come to the gallows; besides, he had intended to dismiss me, for he kept a select school for young gentlemen, and he did not wish to take anybody's illegitimate spawn.

Having said this, he retreated very suddenly, which was fortunate for him, as Mr. Bassett turned red in the face with passion, and would no doubt have taken hold of him and thrust him out of the house, if he had not gone of his own will so quickly.

But a new trouble now beset us: Mrs. Bassett burst into tears and would not be comforted; her husband coaxed her in the tenderest manner to tell what ailed her, but the only reply she made was to clasp her hands and declare that now she should die, and there would be an end to her sufferings. I was surprised to see him so much troubled—for, from what I had already observed of his wife's conduct, I knew that such attacks were not dangerous; and I was sure that he must have seen her recover from a good many like it. But he was too good a man to be indifferent even to his wife's hysterics, and he ran about, in great alarm, with vinegar cruets and camphor bottles, trying to do something to quiet her; but she continued to cry and twist her hands in a frightful manner, and whenever he came near her she would turn from him and beg him not to touch her or look at her. Thinking that my presence might put some restraint upon the lady, I withdrew and went up into my room, where I remained until the next morning, at breakfast time.

There was no one at the table but Mr. Bassett and myself: he told me that his wife was too ill to come down, and that I must be very careful and treat her with the greatest respect, for at present she had taken a dislike to me; but he had no doubt she would, in time, learn to love me. To which I replied that I was very sure I should never learn to love her.

"That's right, Tom," said Mr. Bassett, "that's the way—always speak out your thoughts, and you will in time learn to have no thoughts which you should not speak. But if you can help it, you must not think in that way about Mrs. Bassett, because it will prevent her loving you."

"Then she must behave better to you," I replied—"or I am sure I shall always think so."

"Ah!" said Mr. Bassett, heaving a deep sigh, "Poor Jane! it's all owing to her love for me, Tom; and how can I blame her? She loves me to that degree that it makes her unhappy to think that I love any thing besides her. I am afraid, Tom, that I shall be compelled to find another home for you."

As he said those words I began to cry myself, for I had now begun to love him, and having experienced the delights of a pleasant home, I was frightened at the prospect of being deprived of it.

"Poor little fellow!" said Mr. Bassett, "I am grieved for you. But do not be frightened—I will not desert you. If I send you away I will provide another home for you, where you will be happier than you can be here."

I was too much grieved to speak, and covering my face with my napkin, I continued to sob and cry, until he drew me kindly to his chair and wiped my eyes and told me to be quiet and listen to him while he explained to me the necessity of my being sent away.

"I was once," said Mr. Bassett—"a little poor boy like yourself, only I was more unfortunate than you are, because I had a cruel father who neglected me, and a feeble mother whose misfortunes I had to endure besides my own; and there was no kind friend to take care of me, because people said I had parents whose duty it was to clothe me and send me to school."

"Did you know who your father was?" I said.

"Yes, Tom, I did," replied Mr. Bassett, smiling.

"Ah, then, you are not so unfortunate as I am," I replied.

"Yes, I was;" he said, "to have a father whom you cannot remember with affection or respect, is the greatest misfortune that can befall a child, and this misfortune was mine. So do not think yourself unhappy, my dear boy, because you are ignorant of your father's name, perhaps you would be still more unhappy if you knew it.

This did not appear possible to me, I had thought so much about not having a father, and had heard other boys talk of their parents with such envious feelings, that I looked upon myself as the most unhappy boy in the whole world, and believed that everybody must be happy who could boast of a father. But I did not tell Mr. Bassett all my thoughts.

"My father not only treated me unkindly," he continued, "but he ill-used my mother, and by his bad conduct hastened her death if he did not cause it. The remembrance of this you may be sure is enough to make me always unhappy; however, I had so much unhappiness when I was a child, that when I grew up to be a man, I resolved that I would make amends for my early sufferings by having a happy home of my own. So I got married and anticipated a good deal of pleasure in educating my children, and showing them the love and kindness which I had felt the want of in a father myself, and as I had seen my mother suffer from the ill-treatment of my father, I meant to make some amends for his errors by tender treatment of my own wife. But this is a strange world, Tom! I have never known the pleasures of a father, and Mrs. Bassett is so unfortunate in her temper that you have seen how she defeats all my endeavors to render our home the paradise which I had hoped to make it. I thought, Tom, that she might be induced to love you, and that we would adopt you as our own, and you should be our son. But, ah! I did not foresee what this scheme would cost me. Instead of loving you, Tom, she hates you so intensely that I am afraid she will never be reconciled to your living with us. But it is not for anything that you have done, my poor boy! it is because she is jealous of me and thinks that I have bought you home because I am your father."

A new light broke upon me and I could now account for Mrs. Bassett's cruelty to me; I began to hate her, too, for her suspicions, and a thought flashed upon my mind that perhaps he was my father. My face must have looked very red, and I felt as though I were on fire, and the blood seemed to boil in my veins. I pressed closely to him and felt that I must be his child, or else why should I love him so well and why should he love me? It was a tormenting, thrilling sensation that I experienced, but I was afraid to speak my thoughts, as I had done on other occasions, lest they should displease him.

"Perhaps she would have outgrown her foolish suspicion," continued Mr. Bassett, "but the school-master gave new life to her jealousy last night, by a word that he dropped, which was the cause of her crying so bitterly; and her passions have been so wrought upon that I shall be afraid of her life, if you should remain here longer."

"This intelligence made me very unhappy, but I could do nothing to avert my fate; the next day Mr. Bassett told me that he had found a home for me where I would be very comfortable, and that he would not desert me, and that I had only to be a good boy and speak the truth always, and I should find a father and a protector in him. This word father, again struck upon my heart, and filled me with tormenting suspicions, and made me feel very wretched; but I struggled with my feelings and tried to hide them, and if Mr. Bassett discovered anything unusual in my looks, he probably attributed the cause to my grief at leaving him.

During all this time I saw nothing of Mrs. Bassett, and I supposed that she stayed in her room to avoid seeing me, for which I was very glad, for I now felt jealous of her power over her husband, and I hated her not only for driving me away from her house, but because she made him so unhappy. But I discovered afterwards that I was mistaken in this supposition; that unreasonable woman had left her excellent husband the same night on which the difficulty with my school-master occurred, and having gone home to her mother's house, had refused to return while I remained under the shelter of her husband's roof. Mr. Bassett at first refused to turn me out of doors, but afterwards resolved to board me in a private family, and keep it a secret from his wife. But he never told me of his wife's conduct on this occasion, probably out of delicacy to her infirmities of temper, which he tried hard to hide from the world's observation; in this, however, he was not very successful, for her character was well known amongst his acquaintances, who, knowing his own kind disposition, pitied him, while they censured his yielding to her whims.

My only grief in leaving the house of my protector was the loss of his society, and the dread which I felt of entering the family of a stranger; but I looked as cheerful as I could, and having packed up my clothes in a little bundle, ran down into the kitchen to say good-bye to Bridget, from whom I had to run hard to escape being half smothered in her greasy arms.

Since leaving Apponagansett, I had encountered but one enemy, who was the wife of my best friend, and I had gained so much confidence in my powers of pleasing, that I think my behavior must have sometimes bordered upon rudeness to my superiors. Feeling entirely confident of making friends wherever I went, and never yet having experienced the miseries of want, I felt no apprehensions for the future, and I would have been as happy, to use an expression of my grandfather Pepper's, as a clam at high water, if it had not been for separating from Mr. Bassett, whom I loved as well almost as I had loved my mother.

On leaving his house for my new home, he waited until it was quite dark, to avoid, I supposed, the observations of his wife. He took me by the hand as we walked through the streets, and employed the whole time in repeating to me the importance of perfect candor and truthfulness in all the conduct of life, and exacted a promise from me that I would continue to act with as much sincerity and ingenuousness as I had done since he took me under his protection. When we arrived at my new home, he entered the house with me, and having introduced me to the family, he gave me a silk purse containing four half dollars, which seemed to me an immense fortune, for I had never been the owner of a sixpence at a time in my whole life; he then pressed my hand tenderly, and bade me good night, and I was so much affected at parting with him that I sat down and wept until the little daughter of my new keeper called me to supper.

My new home impressed me more disagreeably at first than the house of Mr. Bassett had done, for it was much smaller, in a worse neighborhood, and more meanly furnished. It was a little brick house, with a wooden stoop, jammed in between two tall buildings in Hague street, and surrounded on all sides by leather dressers' shops, which sent forth effluvia in hot weather very far indeed from being pleasant, although I was told it was very wholesome; the street, too, was extremely narrow, and so much below the level of the neighboring streets that it was called the Swamp; there were no trees, no grape-vines, no green patches of ground to be seen anywhere, and the inhabitants of this dismal place were completely excluded from the face of nature, excepting the little blue strip of sky, to be seen by casting the eye up above the tops of the houses. Why men should consent voluntarily to bury themselves from all the charms of nature, in such melancholy holes, was a mystery to me then, and is a wonder to me now. The room in which I slept was a little chamber under the eaves of the house, with a low dormer window, into which the sun never once did me the favor to peep while I occupied it. Although it was small and dark, it was perfectly clean; and I was most happy to find a picture hanging at the foot of my bed, representing a subject which was very agreeable to me—a ship under full sail, with an immense flag of the stars and stripes flying at her mast head.

THE exact motives of Mr. Bassett in placing me in this family I never knew, but I suppose that he wanted to put me in as obscure a place as possible, in the hope of his wife not being able to find me out. The family consisted of a man and his wife, and a daughter very nearly my own age; she might have been a year or two younger. The family name was Swayne, which the wife who had a peculiar pronunciation, used to pronounce with great pomposity, when addressing her husband, Swine. He kept a small ship-grocery in Water street, and happily for us all only remained in the house long enough to eat his meals. The daughter's name was Sylvia, and as fresh and beautiful as anything lovely that can be conceived. If I had been of the proper age to fall in love I should have lost my heart in five minutes after seeing her, but as it was, I looked at her and admired her as innocently as though she had been a beautiful picture or a wax-doll. Her father was something more than the opposite of Mr. Bassett, he was altogether a different sort of man.

He was short in stature, but his arms were long, his eyes were crooked, his face was very brown and pock-marked, his manners were rough, and his conversation was coarse; and to complete his disagreeablenesses, he always had his mouth full of tobacco. The first time that I saw him was at supper, when he entered the room, and without speaking a word, sat down at the table.

"Swine, my dear," said his wife—"this is Master Thomas Pepper, our new boarder."

"Well, what of it?" growled the master of the frightened household.

"Nothink in particular, my love," replied his wife, soothingly, "only he is a pretty fellow—don't you think so?"

"No!" replied Mr. Swayne.

"Well, I rather thought so," said the terrified woman, looking up in his face with a faint smile; "but it's no matter: 'andsome is as 'andsome does, any 'ow. He'll make a nice beau for our Sylvia, won't he?"

"Shut up, and don't be a fool," said Swayne; "but let me catch him cutting up any monkey shines in this house, and I'll beau him!"

"Why, Swine, my love!" said his wife, with an affected air of astonishment—as though she was not perfectly familiar with this style of conversation—"what does ail you to-night? 'as anythink 'appened at the store?"

"Give me my tea, will you!" growled her husband, in reply.

"Don't be frightened, Master Thomas," said Mrs. Swayne, "my husband don't mean anythink—it's only one of his little ways."

"I am not frightened," I replied; "I don't care anything about him;" and, in truth, I did not—for I was rather amused at the strange beast. Little Sylvia laughed merrily at my reply, and her father only looked at me and shook his head, as much as to say "Look out for yourself," which I meant to do; and if Mr. Swayne should dare to offend me, I intended to inform Mr. Bassett, whose power I thought vast enough to crush an entire community of such ruffians. The truth was that Mr. Swayne was not so rare a specimen of my species to me as Mr. Bassett—for I had seen many similar to him in Apponagansett, and knew that they were not dangerous, although they were disagreeable. But this respectable head of a family was rather an exaggeration of his class—being unlike the greater part of those I had seen, worse than he appeared. Not relishing the merriment of his little daughter—whose innocent laughter must have grated harshly in his ears—he struck her a hard blow, and then sent her away from the table for crying.

His wife held the carving knife in her hand, and probably felt inclined to thrust its point into his heart; but she affected not to hear the cries of her little daughter, and looking mildly at her husband, she said—

"Swine, my dear, will I give you a nice little bit of the 'am?"

"If I want any ham I can help myself," replied Mr. Swayne. He then finished his supper in silence, and rose from the table hastily, put on his hat, and hurried out, slamming the door after him. He had no sooner gone than Mrs. Swayne caught the weeping Sylvia in her arms and kissed away her tears.

"Come, now, he is gone, and we will have a nice quiet bit of supper," said the poor woman; "here's a nice bit of cake I saved on purpose for your suppers: O, it's very good. You mustn't think. anythink at all about Sylvia's father, Master Thomas—he is a good soul and an excellent provider, and he loves Sylvia and me like everythink; but he is so worried in his business that sometimes he is quite out of humor. I think Swine will one of these days go on to a farm, and then we shall have everythink very comfortable, and he will never be out of humor at all. I am sure I should be just as bad if I were in his place—for it's dreadfully bad collecting bills, and the shipping merchants won't pay until the ships come back, sometimes. I suppose, Master Thomas, you are not used to such things; but there is always somethink in every family: if it isn't one think it is another. Swine is a good 'usband to me, let him be what he will to others; and I am sure he never gave me a cross word in his life, only when he is just a little out of humor with his business, which doesn't amount to anythink at all, you know—for what's the matter of a few words from a man that's a good provider, Master Thomas? We always have the best of everythink in the 'ouse, and I am sure if Sylvia and me could eat gold he'd bring it home to us: I am certain of it. But Swine has one little fault which I'm sure he can't help, because it's his nature, and so I can't blame him for it: he is dreadful jealous, and I can't look at anybody without his getting in a passion about it; and I shouldn't wonder, Master Thomas, if he was out of humor because I called you a pretty fellow."

"What," said I, "does he think himself handsome?"

"Well, I rather think he does," said Mrs. Swayne; "and I am sure Swine is not the ugliest man in the world."

"I think he is," I said.

"Nay, Master Thomas," said the good wife—"Not quite so bad as that, I hope; but however, 'andsome is as 'andsome does,' and I am sure Swine is not the worst man in the world."

Here again I differed with the lady, and of course said so.

"Well, I declare; but that beats everythink, Master Thomas. Upon my word, you speak your mind very plainly!" said Mrs. Swayne.

"To be sure I do," I replied; "I mustn't disguise my thoughts, because that would be telling a lie."

"Well, I declare! If ever I heard anythink to beat that!" exclaimed the astonished lady, throwing down the napkin with which she was wiping the cups, and holding up both hands to express her amazement. "Sylvia, did you ever hear anythink like that before? Well, Master Thomas, such principles as them won't do for this world, I am sure. If you tell my 'usband what you think of him he will act dreadful."

In similar talk we passed the time while my mistress was clearing away the tea table, for she kept no servant, and little Sylvia sat looking on in eloquent silence, with her large black eyes fixed wonderingly on my face. I was completely fascinated by the little creature, and already felt glad of my change of home, since it had brought me into the presence of such a beautiful object; and good Mrs. Swayne appeared to me still better for being the mother of so sweet a daughter. By and by it was time for bed; but the master of the house had not come home, and Mrs. Swayne said—"Come, children, let us go up to our beds and say our little prayers, that we may all get up bright and early in the morning. Bid Master Thomas good night, Sylvia."

But Sylvia hung down her head, and cast a glance at me from the corners of her eyes, without uttering a word.

"Nay, my daughter," said her mother, "but that is very unginteel. You must say good night to Master Thomas."

But Sylvia would not say good night, and my pride was hurt at her refusal.

"Then if you will not say good night, Master Thomas shall give you a kiss: he shall, indeed;" and as she still persisted in her silence, I took the hint of her mother, and attempted to put my arms around her neck. But the little creature ran screaming from me, and I pursued her until at last I succeeded in penning her behind a door; and in spite of her screams and struggles, held her fast in my arms while I kissed her luscious cheeks.

Sylvia's mother laughed merrily as she witnessed the struggle, and applauded my gallantry; but the little girl blushed as red as scarlet, and hid her face in her hands. The tussle and excitement had raised my blood to a boiling heat, and the touch of her burning cheeks sent a thrill of wild delight through my veins which I can never forget. It was one of the eras of my life. I had made a discovery which should have been delayed for years: it was one of those accidents which can never be foreseen, and the consequences of which cannot be controlled. I had, unknowingly, unlocked one of the great mysteries of life, and was thereafter to be a wiser though not a better boy.

Mrs. Swayne followed me up stairs into my little dormitory, and the kind hearted soul would persist in putting me to bed in spite of my remonstrances. It was so long since I had been used to such attentions that they amazed me; but I could not escape from her tender officiousness, and after she had covered me with the sheets she stooped down and gave me a kiss. How differently it affected me from the burning kiss of the bewitching Sylvia!

"Good night, Master Thomas" said the kind soul as she took the candle to go down stairs; "good night, and if you wants anythink just rap on the floor, and me or Swine will come up to you."

"Good night!" I cried, and the next moment I was asleep and dreaming of little Sylvia.

TWO or three days passed without Mr. Bassett coming to see me, and I had grown so intimate with little Sylvia, and so fond of her mother, that I had almost forgotten him; but I was very glad to see him again, notwithstanding, when he did come—the third day after I had parted with him; and I told him everything that had happened since I had been living, as he called it, at the Hague—excepting only the tussle which I had with Sylvia behind the door. Mrs. Swayne praised me very highly to Mr. Bassett and said "she and Swine were perfectly delighted with me."

The delight of "Swine" I thought a rather doubtful matter—for he had hardly spoken to me, and seemed quite the reverse of pleased when he looked at me; and I declared my doubts without any hesitation.

"Nay Master Thomas," said Mrs. Swayne—"my 'usband likes you like everythink. But Swine is such a strange creature, sir; and he is so much engaged with his business at the store, that he has no time to make himself agreeable in the 'ouse at all. I dare say it is the same with you, sir."

Mr. Bassett smiled at the good woman and told her she must not call me Master Thomas any more, because my name was Tom. He then took me aside and told me that the reason of his neglecting me so long was because his wife had set a watch upon him, that she might find out where he had taken me; and that he had great difficulty to come and see me then, without her knowledge. This information excited my animosity to Mrs. Bassett very much, and I spoke my thoughts freely, and said—"How I do hate that homely woman."

"That's right, Tom—speak out your feelings; but you must endeavor, my poor boy, to feel differently," said Mr. Bassett, patting me on the head.

"O, I am astonished with you, Master Thomas!" said Mrs. Swayne, quite horror-struck at my boldness—"I am sure you don't think so."

"Yes I do," I replied.

"Well, I never heard nothink to beat that!" said the good soul, lifting up her hands; "if you should talk so about me I am sure Swine would flog you like anythink."

"My dear Madam," said Mr. Bassett—"I am afraid you will instill very bad principles into Tom's mind. Pray do you punish your own child for speaking the truth?"

"Well, I hope not," said Mrs. Swayne, blushing; "but I am sure everybody ought to be punished for saying anythink about anybody's wife to his face."

"My dear Madam, do you pretend to say that we should not utter our thoughts candidly?" said Mr. Bassett—"do you not believe it is better to speak freely what we think than to think badly without speaking?"

"Well, I dare say it is all right; but not when anythink is said about anybody's wife," replied Mrs. Swayne, with a considerable show of temper.

"My dear Madam," said Mr. Bassett—"I differ from you on that point. As sin was first introduced into the world by lying, so is it kept in the world by the same means."

"But that has nothink to do with saying things about anybody's wife," added Mrs. Swayne.

"In discussing a broad principle, Madam," said Mr. Bassett, drawing his chair towards her—"we must not allow our reason to be influenced by personal feelings, nor deny a truth because it happens to be unpalatable."

"Well, I am sure, I knew all that before; but that hasn't anythink to do with calling anybody's wife homely. I am quite sure it hasn't."

"I perceive, Madam, that you don't understand me," said Mr. Bassett; "let me explain myself: since it is only by entire truthfulness that we can be happy in this world, or hope for happiness in the next, who will dare to peril his own salvation and that of others, by acting a falsehood? And I maintain, Madam, that to disguise the truth is to pronounce a lie."

"Yes, but what's the need of saying anythink about a man's wife when she isn't by? I am sure there's nothink good in that, and Swine would go on like anythink about it if he was to hear somethink said about me, and that's the truth," said Mrs. Swayne.

"I have no doubt," said Mr. Bassett, mildly; "but still, Madam, that does not in the least invalidate my position. All the evil in the world springs from falsehood; therefore are we bound to speak and act truthfully in the smallest as well as in the most important affairs of life, that evil may be removed from the world. I have suffered too much, Madam, from false appearances, and from false representations, not to hate falsehoods and love truth."

"Yes, but when anythink is——"

"Hear me out, Madam, I beseech you," said Mr. Bassett, interrupting her—"hear me out, and then I will listen to your argument. Now, I am willing to acknowledge that I have not always acted with that strict regard for truth which I am determined hereafter to exact from others. I was educated to lie and deceive. I shudder to think of the lies I have uttered. I have often told my friends I was glad to see them when I wished them in Flanders: I have expressed regrets at the death of people in whose fate I felt no interest whatever: I have smiled upon men when I have felt angry enough to strike them. In short, Madam, I have been a thorough social hypocrite; and such is the force of habit and the influence of example, that I fear I shall always continue so. But this darling boy shall be imbued with a love of truth: he shall be educated to regard everything as of minor importance when compared with candor and sincerity; for I believe if there were but one really truthful person in the world, the influence of his example would spread until all mankind would be released from the thralldom of sin. It was once asked—'What is truth?' but truth need not be sought: it dwells within us; and we have only to remain quiet, and she will reveal herself to the world through us. It is my aim to be instrumental in educating one soul to a life of truth and purity; and in this ingenuous child I have found a subject that has thus far equalled my highest wishes."

"Yes, but I am sure it isn't polite to say anythink uncivil about a man's wife to his own face. That I will stick to," said Mrs. Swayne.

"My good woman," said Mr. Bassett, with greater seriousness—"you seem determined not to comprehend me. Which is better: to offend the pride of a silly woman—or to pollute a young and innocent soul with a corrupt thought?"

"Well, I am sure, I can't say as to that; but if Swine should hear Master Thomas say anythink about me, I don't know what he wouldn't do," she replied.

Mr. Bassett sighed, and said—"My dear friend, you will oblige me very much by not calling Tom 'Master Thomas:' it is these little departures from truth in trifles which lead to deceptions in more serious matters. Ah! madam, I have endured too much from the dissimulations of others, to tolerate deceit."

Just at this moment little Sylvia ran into the room and said that a lady at the door wanted to see her mother. Mrs. Swayne stepped out of the room, and returned directly with her hands held up in a manner to express the greatest consternation.

"O! 'evans!" she said, in a loud whisper—"it's your lady, sir, Mrs. Bassett!"

"My wife?" exclaimed Mr. Bassett, in alarm—"what shall I do? Did you let her know I was here?"

"Not a bit," said Mrs. Swayne.

"Can't I jump out of a window? What shall I do?" said Mr. Bassett, scrutinizing the apartment; but there were no means of escape: the only windows in the room opened upon the street, and the only stairs led to the door where his wife stood.

"She must not see Tom," he said—"or I shall never know another quiet hour. My dear Madam, you must hide us. There is no help for it. She will be gone, soon, and then we can come out, and nobody will be the wiser. Tom, you must creep under the bed, and take that little girl with you; and don't breathe loud for your lives. Now, my good woman, just allow me to step into that wardrobe, and then turn the key upon me. It will all be over soon; and you will not be the poorer for it, I assure you. Don't keep me here any longer than you can help, for it is very close. There."

Mr. Bassett said no more, for a footstep was heard upon the stairs, and Mrs. Swayne closed the door of the clothes press quickly, and turned the key. The next moment Mrs. Bassett came in.

"This is very strange, Madam," said that lady; "Very strange. Are you quite sure that my husband has not been here?"

"He was here a week or two ago, I think, to see my 'usband on some business about somethink," replied Mrs. Swayne.

"And you don't know what his business was ?"

"Well; my 'usband never tells his business to nobody; and I am sure I am not the one to ask him."

"He doesn't!" screamed Mrs. Bassett—"It's well he's not a husband of mine. And you take no boarders in your house?"

"O, no—my old man is too good a provider for me and my little girl, to allow of that."

"And is there no house in this neighborhood where they would be likely to take a suspicious little boy to board?"

"No—I am sure there isn't," said Mrs. Swayne; "I am quite positive of it. There's Mr. O'Neil—the grocer, on the corner—that's quite above such business; and there's Mr. Scrymger, that keeps the finding store, he's got too many boys of his own."

"It is very strange, indeed—very strange," said Mrs. Bassett, doubtingly. "This house answers the description exactly. But I am sorry to have given you this trouble. Perhaps, Madam, you have not got a deceitful husband, who is all the time doing things against your will; and so you cannot know how to pity me."

"Well, I am sure Swine is one of the best of 'usbands, and a most hexcellent provider; and such an affectionate creature I am sure, is no telling," said Mrs. Swayne.

"What a happy woman you are!—how much to be envied! And with such a sweet little daughter! Where is that beautiful child? Hark! what was that? I heard something!"

"It's the cat, I am sure," said Mrs. Swayne. "But, good 'evans! there's my 'usband's tread! I can hear him coming down the street."

There was a dead silence for a few minutes, and then the heavy tread of Mr. Swayne's feet was heard in the entry below. Presently he called out from the foot of the stairs—"Mary Ann, who's hat is this?"

"Well, I am sure I don't know, Swine," she answered: "it must be Master Thomas'."

"Master devil's!" he roared out; "it's a man's hat."

"Well, I am sure I can't help it, Swine," said his wife, in a trembling voice.

"You can't help it!" he cried out, in a furious rage; "I must know about this," and immediately be came stamping up stairs.

Sylvia and I had lain very still under the bed, with our arms round each other's necks; but from some cause or other, just as her father came up stairs, she screamed, and we were discovered. As we crept from under the bed, she began to sob; but I was too much frightened to speak.

The moment that Mrs. Bassett discovered me, she pounced upon me as a cat pounces upon a trembling mouse. "O, you little wretch!" she exclaimed, as she caught me by the arm, "O, you villain! I will teach you manners. Where is my husband? Speak, before I shake the life out of you! Don't deceive me, or I will have you sent to the alms-house, you monstrous villain. Where is he? But you won't speak; he has taught you to be as deceitful as himself."

Although I knew the consequences of revealing the hiding place of my dearest friend, I had no alternative but to obey his instructions and speak the truth. "He is in the clothes-press," I said.

"O, Master Thomas! how can you fib so?" said Mrs. Swayne, turning pale, "I never heard anythink like it, I am sure!"

This disclosure produced a wild scream from Mrs. Bassett and an oath from Mr. Swayne, both of whom immediately sprang towards the door of the clothes-press.

"Where's the key?" demanded Swayne.

"O, Swine!" said his affrighted wife, falling upon her knees, "O, my dear, don't say anythink about it. It was only a joke, wasn't it, Sylvia? warn't it, Master Thomas? Don't be angry, Swine; I couldn't help it." "The key! the key!" shouted Swayne and Mrs. Bassett, in concert; "the key!"

Mrs. Swayne produced the key from her side pocket, and the next moment my dear benefactor was released from his hiding place; as he stepped into the middle of the floor, he seemed, as might be expected, a good deal confused, and quite at a loss what to do with himself, but his wife immediately began in her old strain, to reproach him with unfaithfulness and want of love. As for "Swine," he was quite speechless with rage; he turned as pale as a person of his brown complexion could and filled his mouth with tobacco; only intimating, by shaking his clenched fist at his wife, his feelings towards her. Mrs. Bassett, having poured out her usual torrent of words, fell into a chair and began to shed her usual quantity of tears.

Mr. Bassett having had time to recover himself from his confusion, said, "I am sorry to have caused any trouble in your family, my friend, and I beg you will not think ill of your wife because I was found here in such a suspicious situation; the fault is all my own."

"It was, indeed, Swine," said Mrs. Swayne.

"Shut up!" said "Swine."

"I will, Swine, only don't swear at me," said his wife.

"As for you, my dear," said Mr. Bassett to his wife, "I am ashamed of you. How can you expose yourself, and render me ridiculous by such conduct? Come, let us go home."

"Good heavens! hear him!" cried Mrs. Bassett, suddenly drying her tears, and rising from her seat; "I render you ridiculous! Did I bring you into a woman's bed-room and lock you up in a clothes-press? Did I encourage you to bring home that nasty brat?"

"Hush, hush, my love," said Mr. Bassett.

"Don't, don't call me your love; anything but that. You never loved me. I know it and feel it, and mother and sister always said so. I am a poor, broken-hearted creature, and I will go home and die. But don't follow me. Stay here with your son. I can't expect you to love me, and I don't. You love him best, I know, and it's natural. I have no children, and I have no right to expect your affections. There was a time once—but that time is past. Don't follow me. Don't be a hypocrite. I know you don't love me, and it's no use for you to say so. I shan't believe it. There's the object of your affections. Stay and be happy, only don't weep for me; don't put on mourning when I am dead and gone. If you should, I wouldn't rest in my grave. Ah! sir" (turning to "Swine,") "you little know the deceit and wickedness there is in this world."

"Jane, my dear, I beg you to be quiet" said Mr. Bassett, soothingly, "don't expose yourself."

But the expostulations of her husband only fanned the flames of her resolution to go home and die, and when she had repeated her firm conviction two or three times more, that he didn't love her and never had, and that he had formed a determination to kill her, by his cruelty, she marched off and left us all standing in fear and trembling of each other.

"This is a most unpleasant affair," said Mr. Bassett, "a very foolish piece of business; and all brought about by my own folly. I beg your pardon, madam, and yours, too, sir, for the trouble I have caused. Ah, Tom, my little fellow, you little know the harm you have done by telling Mrs. Bassett that I was in the clothes-press. But you did right. The fault was all mine in attempting to secrete myself. I love you for your truthfulness, and will not desert you. In fact, I am glad that your place of concealment has been discovered, for I hate dissimulation. Good bye, sir; good bye, madam; good bye, Tom, until I see you again. I must go and find my wife." Mr. Bassett took his hat out of "Swine's" hand, and hurried down stairs, and little Sylvia and I immediately followed him, for we were in a hurry to get out of the reach of her father's hard hand, which seemed to be preparing itself to execute some commission from its master. What occurred between "Swine" and his terrified wife, after we left, I never knew; but when we came in to our supper, a few hours afterwards, he sat looking very sulky, and she was wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. I suspected that he had struck her, for I never saw her look so heart-broken before and I wished myself big enough to flog him, not only for his cruelty to her, but because he had struck little Sylvia; and I promised myself that I would give him a good thrashing as soon as I got to be a man.

"Come, Master Thomas, come, Sylvia," said Mrs. Swayne, trying to smile and look cheerful, "come to your suppers. I have got a nice bit of cold meat for you."

"There, quit that!" said "Swine," as I attempted to whisper something in Sylvia's ear; "I will teach you to behave yourself, you rascal."

"Swine, my dear, Thomas didn't mean anythink, I am sure," said Mrs. Swayne.

"Yes, I did," I replied; "I meant to say I hated him because he is so ugly."

This piece of candor very nearly cost me my life, for "Swine" immediately jumped at me, livid with rage, and seizing me by the throat, would undoubtedly have put an end to my adventures, had it not been for the screams of Sylvia and the cries of her mother. By the force of their united efforts at screaming, I got clear from his iron hands, a good deal frightened, and something hurt. Mrs. Swayne threw me my hat, and told me to run, which I did as soon as I reached the street, and never looked behind me until I was quite clear of "the Hague."

THE streets were quite dark, but crowded with passengers, and as I had never been out alone, in the evening, I began to be frightened, and was at a loss which way to turn. But I hurried on, for fear of being overtaken by the savage "Swine," and soon found myself in Broadway, where the brilliancy of the scene quite took me by surprise. I spent an hour in looking at the shop windows, and then feeling very hungry, I bought some cakes and beer of an old woman who kept a stand at the corner of the street. My first impulse was to go in search of my benefactor, but knowing the peculiarity of his domestic relations, I thought it would be advisable to wait until morning and then call upon him at his store. I still had the four half dollars in my pocket, which he had given me, and knew that I could purchase a lodging for the night, as well as a breakfast in the morning. As I strolled down Broadway, I came to the "Franklin House," where, I remembered having heard Mr. Bassett say, some of his customers boarded. So I went in, and asked the man at the bar to give me a bed.

"Give you a bed?" said the bar-keeper; "yes, my man, I will give you a bed if you will give me six shillings."

This I was very willing, as well as able, to do; and I paid the money with the greater pleasure for being called a man. A servant was called, and ordered to "show this gentleman to 49."

This made me feel very grand, and I followed the servant up long flights of stairs carpeted with sheet iron, and through entries and passages innumerable; sometimes going down and sometimes going up, until at last we came to a very narrow passage, with a faint light glimmering at the further end, in a cracked lantern, giving it the appearance of extreme distance. There were doors regularly numbered, on each side of the passage, and 49 was about mid-way. The waiter unlocked the door, and I entered the room in which I was to sleep, when he bade me good night, and left me. There being nothing in the room to divert my thoughts and keep me awake, its furniture consisting of one chair, a wash-hand stand and a small looking glass, I was soon in bed and asleep. How long I slept I do not know, but I was awakened by a strange noise in the adjoining room. I had left my lamp burning upon the table, very fortunately, for the noise frightened me, and I got up to listen. The noise sounded like the groans of a man in great pain, and thinking it might be a sick person in want of assistance, I jumped out of bed, and taking the lamp in my hand, went into the next room, from whence the noise seemed to come, where I found a stout, red-faced gentleman, lying upon his back, and groaning in a most terrific manner, but apparently sound asleep. I was going to return to my bed again, without speaking to him, but I remembered that my grandfather Pepper used to have the night-mare and I thought that the gentleman might be suffering from the same cause, so I stepped up to the bed side and put my hand upon his shoulder, and he immediately awoke and started up. "Thank God! thank God!" he exclaimed, and then opening his eyes and staring in my face, he said: "But who is this? Good God! How came you here?"

His violent manner, and strange exclamations, startled me, and the lamp dropped from my hand and left us in darkness. I groped my way back to my own room and crept into bed again, and soon fell asleep.

I was awake by daylight, and immediately rose and dressed myself, and with a good deal of difficulty, groped my way through all the narrow passages and ups and downs which I had travelled over the night before, until I reached the bar-room, when I wished the servant who was scrubbing the floor, a good morning, and walked into the street. The open air was always delightful to me in all weathers. I had as great a dread of being shut up as a bird; but I could never feel myself entirely free in the streets of the city. It seemed, at best, but a large prison to me, and now in the grey of the morning, when the shops were all closed, and the only travelers in the streets were laborers going to their daily work, and here and there a melancholy female, stepping timidly along with a basket in her hand, and her head bent down as though she felt herself an intruder, it was really dull and saddening. So I hurried off to the Bear Market, for the sake of the life and bustle, the squealing of pigs, the cackling of hens, the fresh vegetables, redolent of country air and dews, the butchers, with their rosy faces and snowy white frocks, the boarding-house keepers cheapening their day's provision, the robust fishermen, the hearty-laughing market-girls, and, not the least attractive of all the pleasant things in this noisy locality, were the hot coffee stands, at one of which I breakfasted on hot dough nuts, in a most sumptuous and grand style, at the cost of nearly a shilling.

My sole object now was to find my protector again; but as I was forbidden his house, I was forced to wait until he came down to his store. It happened to be later than usual when he came to his place of business this morning, and I thought he looked weary and melancholy. Probably he had been kept awake all night by his wife, who rarely allowed him the luxury of a full night's rest. This loving woman did not choose the time spent in bed with her husband, to impress upon his mind her regard for him, and her opinion of his disregard for her, because it was a time favorable to privacy, for she used to utter her complaints in so loud a voice, that I was many a time an unwilling listener to her griefs. I will take this opportunity to aver, in the most pointed manner, that I never knew her husband to return her an impatient answer on these occasions, or to say anything calculated in the slightest degree to excite her ill feelings.

Although I can bear testimony to the perfectly amiable conduct of Mr. Bassett towards his wife, I am well aware that an opposite opinion has been entertained by many of his friends, who, knowing that she was an exceedingly unhappy woman, charitably attributed her unhappiness to his misconduct; and he, with a generosity which distinguished all his actions, always assumed the blame whenever any of their bickerings became known to his friends. But even those really kind people, who had no disposition to be censorious, used to say, when speaking of the domestic infelicities of my benefactor, "Well, there must be fault on both sides." And so, poor man, he suffered a daily martyrdom to his honorable feelings, without ever gaining any credit as a martyr. But, this must always be the lot of a truly good man, who, like the sun, still continues to shine, though the light of his good deeds may be reflected below the horizon of our observation. My experience has compelled me to believe, that the acts of domestic heroism performed around us every day in the seclusion of private life, are more truly worthy of being perpetuated in history, and by monumental inscriptions, than the dazzling deeds of public performers, who act their part on the great stage of life with a consciousness that a world is taking note of their doings. Indeed, I believe that in almost every family there may be found a hero or a heroine; a wife who is sacrificing her happiness and health to preserve the character of a brutal husband; a sister who is wasting her precious hours in wearisome labor, to keep a heartless brother from disgrace, nursing in her breast the cruel secret that is preying upon her health, and at last dying a martyr to her noble soul, unpitied and unwept; or a husband who suffers the reproaches of the world rather than divulge the infirmities of a wife, whose ill conduct poisons every hour of his life. When I remember what those men were, in memory of whom monuments have been erected and histories written, how acts of violence and selfishness have gained immortality and present rewards, and then remember the heroes of private life whom I have known, who have died and been forgotten, I grow cynical at the thoughts of fame, and wish that my own name may rest in oblivion with those of the unknown great. Among all the friends of my dear benefactor, probably not more than one or two knew the true nobleness of his character, and none, I am persuaded, could know it so well as myself, because they could not have enjoyed the same opportunities of observing him in the closeness of his domestic relations.

I observed that Mr. Bassett looked weary and dispirited when he came down to his store, but when he found me there his countenance brightened, and he expressed a pleasure at seeing me which made me feel very happy. l related to him faithfully everything that had happened after parting with him in the Hague, and as usual he applauded me for what I had done, and particularly praised me for telling "Swine" my honest opinion of him. He said he was very glad that I had left them, for he feared that Mrs. Swayne would have corrupted my morals and taught me to dissimulate. Finding that I had nearly spent the money which he had given me, he reached me a silver dollar, and told me to go and amuse myself as I pleased until a certain time in the afternoon, and then return to him again. This was very agreeable to me, for I had naturally a vagabond disposition, and my affection for the water was quite unconquerable. I liked work well enough, if it but kept me out of doors and did not confine me too long in one place; but I was better pleased when I was wholly at liberty and could wander where I liked. On this occasion I quickly found my way to the Battery, which pleased me better than any other part of the city, because it bore some resemblance to my favorite haunts in my native village. I had not been there long when two young men came and sat down upon the bench along side of me. One of them said: "Tell me the time, mister, by your watch;" to which I replied that I could not tell him the time, as I had no watch. The other said that I wouldn't dare let him feel in my pocket, and satisfy him that I told the truth. It vexed me to have my word doubted, so I told him to search my pockets and be convinced, which he did, and then begged my pardon for doubting my word. He immediately jumped up and said to his companion, "Come, Bill, there's Tom waiting for us with his sculls; if you sit there by that young chap, perhaps he will pick your pocket!" and then they ran off. They had scarcely disappeared when I put my hand in my pocket and found that my money was gone. I only mention this circumstance because it was my first experience of the villainy of the world, and because it made a deeper impression on my mind than many losses which afterwards I sustained, a hundred times the amount of which I was then robbed, and I have ever since felt a horror for the detestable meanness of a thief, let him assume what shape he might, that I cannot but think has had a salutary effect upon my character. Having lost all my money I could buy no dinner, so that when I returned to Mr. Bassett, at the appointed hour, I was almost famished. He laughed at the loss of my money, and told me it would learn me a good lesson, not to allow a stranger to put his hand in my pocket, and so it did. I have many a time since had occasion to remember this incident, and when a stranger has approached me with a smooth face and a plausible tongue, I have said to him, no, no, my friend, I shall not allow you to put your hand in my pocket; and I have many times saved my money and my time in consequence. So let me advise you, reader, whenever anybody attempts to make too free with you upon a short acquaintance, to just remember my loss, and not let him put his hand in your pocket, unless it should happen to be empty.

Mr. Bassett gave me another dollar, and then introduced me to his book-keeper, with whom he had made an agreement for my board. My place of residence was to be kept a profound secret from everybody, excepting Mr. Bassett himself and the book-keeper's family, for fear of Mrs. Bassett's finding me out, and causing more difficulty. This arrangement pleased Mr. Bassett exceedingly, for he could hear from me every day without resorting to any means which might excite suspicion in the mind of his wife. I must confess that all this secrecy and manœuvring on the part of Mr. Bassett appeared to me very inconsistent with his love of truth and transparent actions, but as he did not seem conscious himself of violating the principles which he was striving to instill into my mind, I thought it advisable not to remind him of it. It is probable that he had adopted his theory of truthfulness so late in life as to be unable to carry it out wholly in action.

The book-keeper's name was Dribble; he had once been a jobber himself, but had "bursted up," to use his own phrase, and ever since, for a good many years, had been employed as book-keeper by the firm of which Mr. Bassett was the head. Mr. Dribble was rather elderly; he might have been forty-five or fifty-five, and rather stout; his head was perfectly round and smooth, bald on the top, and not a hair on his face. He was one of those men who consider a beard as an infallible sign of a highway robber or a Spaniard, and who think that every man who wears a moustache must be a German. Shaving was a religious duty with him, and his razors and his prayer-book were always kept in the same drawer. He had entire faith in the good old times, and despised all fashions that were not old; he went to church three times every Sunday, and believed everything that was uttered in a pulpit or that was called a sermon, let it be what it might. Mr. Dribble was too soft in his nature to entertain a hard thought about anybody, but he had a great contempt for foreigners and Catholics, and prayed for everybody but the Pope of Rome, whom he chose to typify as a scarlet lady. The only other remarkable peculiarities about Mr. Dribble, were his wearing shoes and white cravat. I have heard Mr. Bassett say that he was an excellent accountant, and honest as the day was long. The last compliment would be a very flattering one if pronounced in June, but a very doubtful one in January.

However, I forget now at what season of the year it was that I heard Mr. Bassett make the remark, but I know that he entertained the highest opinion of his book-keeper's integrity.

Mr. Dribble lived in the upper part of the city, and when he went home he took me with him in an omnibus. His house was one of a long row, all of which were built precisely alike, in a very genteel street; indeed, the gentility of the neighborhood was so excessive as to be distressing, and the uniformity of the houses and the people that inhabited them, were more distressing than all. It was surprising that each man should know his own house, and his own family, they were all so nearly alike. Every door had a silver plate upon it bearing some such name as Brown, Davis, or Dribble; every little yard had a little sickly pine tree precisely in its centre, and a little piece of slight trellis-work, painted green, with a scraggy-looking grape vine trained upon it. The facade of the block presented a desolate view of green blinds, and the rear afforded a chilling prospect of piazzas and white board fences. On the opposite side of the street was a piece of unimproved property surrounded by a shabby high board fence, and the ground itself was filled with tall poles, which, upon inquiry, I learned were young mulberry trees that had been planted by a speculator in morus multicaulis. The inside of the book-keeper's house was in admirable keeping with the exterior. It was most uncomfortably genteel, and most ambitiously shabby. As you entered the front door, you stepped into a hall so very narrow that two persons could not stand abreast with comfort; and yet, notwithstanding the narrowness of it, by the aid of bleak bare walls, a piece of green paper over the sky-light of the door, and a pair of steep, white pine stairs, with a faint mahogany-colored balustrade, it had a desolate, uninhabitable appearance; all the walls were cracked, and the doors very much shrunk, although some parts of them were too small, others were too large, and prevented their being shut close. Mr. Dribble ushered me into the parlor, which had a centre-table in one corner, on which was placed, in an ostentatious manner, a lady's magazine and a morocco covered album, filled with extracts from Mrs. Barbauld and Young's Night Thoughts; a pair of dismal caricatures of humanity, which were probably intended for portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Dribble, hung on each side of the chimney, and on the mantel-piece were two card-racks in the shape of lyres, constructed of scallop shells and paste board; there were besides, a very narrow looking-glass covered with fly-paper, a veneered sofa, with horse hair cushions, and half a dozen mahogany chairs, arranged cornerwise round the room so that they should cover the greatest space possible. To me who was in a course of training for a life of sincere actions and undisguised thoughts, these palpable attempts at fraudulent representations, appeared excessively ridiculous and criminal. Poor Mr. Dribble was probably keeping himself a miserably poor man by an insane attempt to appear more prosperous than he really was. His fruitless endeavors to keep up appearances deceived nobody. Poverty, like murder, will out, and an honest confession of it deprives it of its ugliest features. While I sat alone in Mr. Dribble's parlor, I could not help saying to myself, "What a lying place a great city is! How all the inhabitants strive to deceive each other, and how useless are all their endeavors, when I, a simple country boy, can penetrate so easily the mask with which they disguise themselves."

Presently Mr. Dribble returned, bringing with him Mrs. Dribble, to whom he introduced me in a formal and solemn manner, saying:

"My dear, allow me to introduce to your acquaintance my friend, Mr. Tom Pepper, a friend of Mr. Bassett's. Mr. Pepper, this is Mrs. Dribble, my lady."

Mrs. Dribble curtsied very low and said "How do you do, sir?" to which I replied, "Very well."

Then Mrs. Dribble said, "I hope you will excuse my dress, sir; for I was busy about some domestic affairs, and Mr. Dribble would not give me time to put on anything fit to be seen."

Now this was a dreadful bouncer, for I had seen the lady steal up stairs in a very different dress, and, as I afterwards learned, the dress that she had on was the best that she owned, and she took particular pride in it.

After a few general remarks on the weather, and the state of religion, Mrs. Dribble withdrew, and soon afterwards we were summoned to the tea-table, which was spread in the basement.

When we sat down to the table, as I was very hungry, I helped myself immediately to some bread and butter; but Mr. Dribble closed his eyes and bending over the table, said, in a low, trembling voice, "For these good creatures of thy most gracious bounty, make us, O Lord! suitably thankful; consecrate them to our use, and us to thy service, for Christ's sake."

As I had never witnessed such a ceremony before, it seemed very strange to me, and I asked Mr. Dribble what the meaning of it was.

"Well," said Mr. Dribble "we are commanded to do it in the Bible."

"Indeed?" I said; "I didn't know that before."

"Of course we are," said Mrs. Dribble; "everybody of any respectability does it. I am sure I should be afraid me victuals would choke me lf I didn't ask a blessing. For my part I think it's the duty of every head of a family, if it were only to set a good example."

Here the servant girl came in and said that a little girl at the door wanted to beg some victuals for her mother, who was sick at home.

"Tell her to go away," said Mrs. Dribble; "we have got nothing to give to beggars. It's as much as we can do to take care of ourselves these hard times."

The tea was a very good one, for Mrs. Dribble prided herself on three things: her gentility, her religion, and on being a good liver. Not because she was particularly genteel, or religious, or a great epicure, but because it was highly respectable, and all the neighbors were genteel—religious—good livers. And she loved to talk about her housekeeping, her preserves, and her dinners, and she must always be prepared for a sudden visit from any of her friends. Mrs. Dribble was the opposite of her husband in appearance, being tall, thin and flimsy in her make. But in other respects this excellent couple were very much alike, and never disagreed upon any occasion. They belonged to the same church, thought the same thoughts, eat the same food, and talked the same talk. This harmony did not seem to have been abnormal with them; but they were of that class of persons, who, having no particular character of their own, take upon themselves the character of those with whom they come in contact; they resembled each other just as they tried to resemble the rest of the world, and nothing gave them so much uneasiness as the fear of differing from their neighbors. They belonged to the most popular party in religion and politics, and conformed to all fashions that had become universal and well known, so that they were always dressed in the latest fashion but one, and were called dowdies by their acquaintances without even suspecting that such an odious appellation was applied to them. What such people would do if left upon a desolate island like Robinson Crusoe, it would be difficult to conceive. With no precedents for their conduct and nobody to imitate, they would probably try to conform themselves to the habits of the beasts by which they were surrounded.

Mr. and Mrs. Dribble always addressed each other as "my dear," and I never found out the Christian name of either, as the door-plate simply bore the name of DRIBBLE, and at the store he was never called by any other name than that of book-keeper. But Mr. and Mrs. Dribble were not alone in the world; they had two children, a boy and a girl, who seemed to reflect each other, as their parents did, and were, in fact, their parents in little. The boy, however, resembled his mother, being long, lank, and flimsily made up, altogether of an unsubstantial and uncertain appearance; his name was William; the girl had a strange resemblance to her father, being short, round and smooth, with light hair, and a perfectly vacant face; her name was Mary Ann. I could not help contrasting the stagnant quiet of the Dribble family with the exciting domestic episodes which I had witnessed at Mr. Bassett's and "Swine's." It was a strange thing to see a man and wife living together in such perfect harmony; for I had begun to think that men and their wives made it a point to disagree about everything, and do all they could to make each other miserable. But the tranquility which reigned in my new home was not altogether to my taste; the active principle of love was lacking, and I used to think that little Sylvia and I might live together very happily, without being so dull as Mr. and Mrs. Dribble were.

The little Dribbles went to school every day, and performed all their duties in the most circumspect manner, like well regulated machines, but I could never contrive to get up a romp with Mary Ann, or a fight with her brother; and I was beginning to wish myself back in the Hague where I was always sure of a growl from "Swine," and a kiss from pretty little Sylvia, when I was introduced into a sphere of life entirely new to me.

Mr. Bassett came home with the book-keeper one night, and after looking carefully up and down the street to see that he was not watched, entered the house and called me into the front parlor, wanting, as he said, to speak to me in private. I was so glad to see him again, that I took his hand and kissed it, and he returned my affection by patting my head and praising my good looks. After questioning me about my treatment from the book-keeper's family, he said: "Tom, how would you like to be a lawyer?"

I could only tell him that I didn't know, as I had never tried.

"And how would you like to try?" he said.

"Very well," I replied, "if you wish me to."

"That's right, Tom," he said; "I do wish you to, for I wish to see you grow up a great man as well as a good one. Now, all great men in this country, Tom, are lawyers. The President is a lawyer, the Governor is a lawyer, the Senators are lawyers, all our Foreign Ambassadors are lawyers, and so are all the heads of departments at Washington. So you see, Tom, if you would be a great man, you must first be a lawyer."

It sounded very strangely to me for Mr. Bassett to talk about my becoming a great man, but as it seemed to give him a good deal of pleasure, I didn't tell him exactly all that I thought, but I said that I only wished I could be as great a man as he was. He pinched my cheek, and said:

"Ah! my poor boy. You will be a greater man than I, for you will be truthful and honest; and you will have the benefit of an education, which was denied to me, and you will not be harassed and dwarfed by the cares of business and the annoyances of a—a——"

"A wife?" I suggested.

"Never mind, Tom," he said, "never mind; I forgot what I wanted to say. Now, my dear boy, I have tried to impress upon your mind the importance of Truth, and you have profited by my lessons; but I have conceived a plan for promoting your happiness, and laying the foundation of your future greatness, and you must try and second my efforts. I wish to make a lawyer of you, that you may be called the honest lawyer. This will not only be fame in itself, but it will be the means of procuring for you the best business in the country; and as soon as it becomes known that you are an honest lawyer, they will want to send you to Congress, where you will become still more renowned as the honest Member of Congress, and from that you will of course rise to other and higher stations; and, my dear boy, when I am old, I will point to you with pride and say: that's my boy, the honest lawyer!"

"My boy!" Ah! how little he knew what a tumult those words caused in my heart! I was on the point of asking him if I were in reality, his boy, when he went on, as follows:

"Yes, Tom, it will be the delight of my heart to hear you called the celebrated honest lawyer. And do you think that you will love me then, and remember me?"

I pressed his hand, and said I knew I should never cease to love him.

"Well, my dear boy," he said, "I have secured you a place in the office of Jasper Ferocious, Esq.; he will instruct you in the elements of the noble science, and by the time that you arrive at the age of twenty-one, you will have passed the number of years in an attorney's office which the laws of our State require before you can be admitted, to practice at the bar, and then, my boy, you will be an esquire. In the morning I will send the book-keeper with you to the office of Mr. Ferocious, and you can begin your studies."

He then kissed me and bade me good night, and left me in quite a bewildered state of mind; for I had but a vague idea of what it was to study the law, and I could hardly stretch my mind forward to the time when I should become an Esquire. The only lawyer of whom I had any knowledge, was the 'Squire in Apponagansett, a most formidable personage, in the shape of a weazen-faced old gentleman, who wore a bob wig, white as snow, a little cocked hat, black velvet knee-breeches, and a whale-bone cane. This was my beau ideal of a lawyer, and such a person I supposed that I must become myself before I could be endowed with all the privileges of the profession. But my opinion on this subject underwent a very violent change, when I was introduced to Mr. Ferocious, by the book-keeper, the next morning.

The office of that gentleman was in the third story of a high building in Pine street; it was very small, very dusty and very dark. It smelt uncomfortably, and looked extremely unpleasant.

Mr. Ferocious was a small gentleman, dressed in a fancy cravat and a pair of steel-bowed spectacles; when I was presented to him by the book-keeper, he sat at his little shabby writing desk, with a pen in his hand, and his eyes fixed on a sheet of blank paper.

"Ah! you're my student," said Mr. Ferocious; "very well. Sit down in the outer office, if you please; I will have some conversation with you directly. An idea has just occurred to me which I wish to commit to paper."

"If you will have the goodness——" said Mr. Dribble, and he was going to say something else, when Mr. Ferocious suddenly interrupted him:

"When one individual calls upon another, of course I do not mean you, Dribble, and finds that individual engaged in committing to paper an important thought, in which the better life of the country may be involved, together with the interests of sundry inhabitants of this country, hoping well and wishing well, the least that he could do in the way of civility, would be to wait that individual's pleasure to be addressed."

"I beg your pardon," said the book-keeper; "I meant no offence."

"Of course. I didn't mean you," said Mr. Ferocious; "it was merely an incidental remark I made; but you can wait, if you please, in the outer office, until I am disengaged."

So Mr. Ferocious seated himself at his desk again, with his countenance as blank as the sheet of paper lying before him, and Mr. Dribble took himself off and left me alone in the outer office, which contained nothing more than an old table, partly covered with faded moreen, a rickety chair, and half a dozen little square boxes, made in a very substantial manner, as though they were designed to contain something very heavy and very precious. The outer office was separated from the inner one, where Mr. Ferocious sat, by a thin partition, and a door with a window in it, I sat here alone for about an hour, when Mr. Ferocious opened the door and summoned me into his presence.

"So, you want to study law?" said Mr. Ferocious.

"Mr. Bassett wants I should," I replied.

"Ah! Very good. Stop a minute; let me put that down, it's a good idea. Young man studies law because his guardian wants him to. And your name?"

"Tom Pepper," I replied.

"Tom Pepper! That's Good," said Mr. Ferocious; "individual, national, indigenous, capital, and spicy, too. Do you remember whether anybody has ever made a pun upon your name?"

I did not. In truth, I had to discover my want of education by confessing that I didn't know what a pun was. This seemed to give a good deal of satisfaction to Mr. Ferocious who took up his pen again and made another memorandum.

"Spicy, decidedly! Home, home made. Pepper!" said Mr. Ferocious. "Do you read, Mr. Pepper, imaginative literature, the home article, or foreign trash, in pink covers?"

I merely replied negatively, in a general way, to these inquiries, not understanding very clearly their precise import.

"Ingenuous, individual, and characteristic," said Mr. Ferocious, speaking to himself, and looking earnestly through his glasses at nothing in particular. "National, idiosyncratic, and peculiar. A certain individual, Mr. Pepper, or Thomas, rather; mind, I name no names; author of a certain work, indigenous, and born of the better life of the country, has a natural desire, or rather a patriotic wish to test the real, homogenous, distinct, separate qualities of that production. Now, it strikes me that that individual, mind, I name no names, may safely, securely and properly trust his work in your hands for an opinion. Young, unsophisticated, a real true American, and free from all foreign influences, your opinion must be fresh, home-born, and congenial with the better life of the country. Bold, bold, decidedly bold!" said Mr. Ferocious, making pokes at the air with his fore-finger. "Rather bold attempt and, upon the whole, fortunate."

Rising from his chair, and opening a box in one corner of his office, Mr. Ferocious took out a pamphlet with yellow covers, which he put into my hands. "You needn't look at the author's name. He is an individual who has done something for the honor of his country, producing its better life in certain plays, novels, romances, poems, and essays. An individual, I say, nothing more; I name no names. But read his works; dig into them, get at their better life, dive into the ocean of their meaning and bring up the pearls of thought that lie at the bottom. But don't say anything to anybody about it. Keep dark, dark, dark. Say nothing. Remember the book was given to you by an individual. No matter who, I name no names—close, close."

All this was said very rapidly, and with a good deal of earnestness.

"Now sit down at your desk. There, refresh yourself with the better life of the country; true, native, real, genuine, American literature;" and, seating me at the table in the outer office, he opened the book before me at the first chapter, which professed to give the "Life, Adventures, Fortunes and Fooleries, of Christopher Cockroach, Citizen." Then Mr. Ferocious brought a sheep-skin covered book from his desk, which was called Chitty's Blackstone.

"Now," said my instructor in the mysteries of law, "when anybody comes in, put Blackstone on top, and when they go out bring up old Kit, Kit Cockroach, you see," and Mr. Ferocious placed the books before me, first putting one on top and then the other. "But don't laugh loud, when there's anybody in the private office. Dark, sly, quiet, close, decidedly close."

There was a noise of somebody at the door, and Mr. Ferocious immediately placed Blackstone on top of the better life of the country. Another gentleman now entered, who shook Mr. Ferocious by the hands.

"Tibbings, how are you?" said Mr. Ferocious. "Sit down; this is my new student, Tom Pepper. Spicy name, isn't it? Fresh, vigorous, new, indigenous."

"Them's something piquant and racy in it, as you say," replied Mr. Tibbings, rapping his leg nervously with a slender ebony stick, which he carried in his hand.

"His name would sound well in a magazine, wouldn't it?" said Mr. Ferocious.

"I don't know about that, exactly," said Mr. Tibbings, "it is rather suggestive of Tom Jones. I am in favor of a pure, vigorous, national literature. There's a want of picturesqueness in the name of Tom, too, it's rather low. The people want something that is bold, vigorous, and original. Anything new in the magazines?"

"Trash, trash, stale, old tea leaves," replied Mr. Ferocious.

"Here's something new," said Mr. Tibbings, pulling a blue-colored pamphlet from his pocket; "The Weekly Cab"

"Cab, Cab, Cab," said Mr. Ferocious; " 'twon't do, English, Foreign, Cockney. What we want, Tibbings, is a pure, bold, original, strong, vigorous, indigenous, and native literature; something that has the better life of the country in it, fresh and racy."

"That's a capital idea of yours, Ferocious, in the sixty-fifth chapter of the Cockroach, where the oyster rises up in the night and makes a journey through Ann street. It has a national look with it."

"Tibbings, there's a certain individual, I name no names," said Mr. Ferocious, "who despises praise. What the country wants is a bold, clear, strong, sagacious critic, to point out an author's faults."

"If he have any," said Tibbings.

"If he have any! Yes. That's well added," said Mr. Ferocious. "If he have any. The better life of the country wants nourishing, bringing out, strengthening. But what's this, Tibbings! I see through it all. This paper has been established to inflict an assassin-like stab on the native literature of this hopeful country. A certain individual, I don't mean you, Tibbings, of course, obtains a paper containing a slanderous, malicious, assassin-like attack on a certain author, who has done his country some service in certain plays, poems, novels, essays and romances—that individual brings that paper into the very office of the author assailed, and places it in his hands."

"What is it?" said Tibbings, turning very red in the face. "What is it?"

"Malice, malice, assassins, bought up by the enemies of a sound, healthful, indigenous, national, home literature," said Mr. Ferocious, in a hasty and excited manner. "That paper, Tibbings, contains an attack on a certain author, I don't say whom, I name no names. Perhaps a certain individual don't know anything about it. But it's very plain. There's a conspiracy of those freebooting barons that go prowling on the high seas of literature, hoping to destroy the prospects of a certain author. But it won't do. A certain author glories in such persecutions. Ha! hear what he says: 'Christopher Cockroach is the most stupid book in the world!' "

"It's shameful!" said Tibbings; "the country shall hear of it."

"Shameful!" exclaimed Mr. Ferocious, tearing the paper to pieces, and dancing round the little office; "fiends! murderers! villains! The most stupid book in the world! If they had said one of the most stupid, it would have been nothing; but the most stupid!"

"It's all right," said Mr. Tibbings; "it will do you good in the end. It's a good thing to be talked about."

"A certain author, Tibbings," said Mr. Ferocious, dropping suddenly into his seat, "has no desire for notoriety. It's all plain to me; there's a conspiracy, a wicked, shameful, assassin-like conspiracy to destroy the literature of the country."

The door of the inner office being partly open, I sat in my chair at the little ragged table, looking in great amazement upon the excited actions of Mr. Ferocious, who appeared to be quite frantic at something which was said in the paper that his friend Tibbings gave him about the very book which he had given me to read as a kind of sandwich to Chitty's Blackstone. On turning to the title-page of Christopher Cockroach, I found that the certain individual hinted at by Mr. Ferocious, as having a desire to know my opinion of that work was no other than himself. I found on closer examination that the work was dedicated to his friend Tibbings, who was then sitting in his office. Mr. Tibbings was a slender looking gentleman, with a very boyish face, and light hair.

He seemed to be afraid of Mr. Ferocious, and sat timidly in his chair, nursing the head of his little ebony stick, and blushing very red, while my new master gave a terrific loose to his passions, and glared through his glasses in a manner quite frightful. I was not much frightened, however, myself, by the denunciations of Mr. Ferocious as they were all directed against certain individual assassins, barons, and malicious people not within striking distance. I knew that I had done nothing myself to excite his anger, and felt perfectly safe. Poor Mr. Tibbings, however, had no doubt been guilty of offending a certain author, by having been the unconscious bearer of an attack upon his book, and he had to sit and hear himself alluded to in no very delicate terms, as a certain individual who was no better than an assassin, and a marauding, piratical baron. After a while, the wrath of a certain individual expired of its own accord, and then that individual became as gentle as a sucking lamb, and sat quietly down and began to discuss literary topics with another individual, all of whose opinions were exact echoes of his own. As my own knowledge of literature was very limited, I could not take much interest in the conversation of Mr. Ferocious and his friend Tibbings, so I made a beginning upon the Adventures of Christopher Cockroach, Citizen, and experienced such a soothing effect from the perusal of a few sentences, that I fell directly into a sweet slumber, with my head resting upon the open page of that remarkable production. I do not exactly know how long I slept, but I was suddenly aroused from my slumbers by a sharp pain in one of my ears, and starting up, I perceived Mr. Ferocious glaring at me through his spectacles. Mr. Tibbings had left, and no other clients had come in, so we were alone.

"Well," said Mr. Ferocious, "is that the way you attend to your studies? Young America, sir, must keep his eyes open; he must study deep, dive down into the mysteries of his author; grapple with him; bring up the pearls and diamonds of his fancy, and play with his leviathan thoughts. How do you like old Christopher? Amusing, exciting, absorbing, ha!"

I assured Mr. Ferocious that I was quite unable to get along with Christopher Cockroach, and begged him to give me something else to study that would keep me awake.

"Keep you awake! you little sleepy-headed assassin!" exclaimed Mr. Ferocious; "keep you awake! why the thunders of Niagara Falls wouldn't keep such a dreaming, dozing, sleepy numskull awake. A certain author, who has written plays, romances, essays and novels, places one of his various writings in the hands of a poor, ignorant sluggard, hoping well and wishing well, when that illiterate and assassin-like dunce, who hasn't got sufficient critical ability to discuss the merits of an original work, falls into a profound slumber, because he hasn't life enough to keep awake and then attributes his own want of sense to that author's productions. Avaunt! Hell not the quiet of this office!

Mr. Ferocious was so highly excited, that I was at last terrified by his manner, and not comprehending the exact meaning of his objurgations, and fearing that he might have some murderous intentions, I caught up my cap, and ran down stairs into the street. I resolved not to trust myself alone with another enraged author, and felt sure that Mr. Bassett would laugh good naturedly when I should tell him of the occurrences in the office of Mr. Ferocious. Being past the dinner hour at the book-keeper's, I hurried home in anticipation of a cold dinner; but I was very hungry, and didn't care for that. I rang the bell, and directly the servant came to the door with my little trunk in her hand, and told me I mustn't come there again, that Mr. Bassett was dead, and I must go and find a home somewhere else. She then dropped the trunk on the stoop, and without saying another word shut the door in my face.

MY benefactor dead! I heard nothing else distinctly, and cared little for being turned into the street. There was no selfishness in my grief, for I loved him tenderly, and had no fears for the future. Seating myself upon my trunk I gave way to my feelings, and wept loud and long, until at last the servant came to the door again and told me to go away, and make no more noise. My heart was bursting, but I felt too proud to remain where I was not wanted, and I took my trunk on my shoulder, for it contained but a few thin clothes, and left the stoop of the book-keeper's house. But whither should I go? or where find an asylum, now that my only friend was dead? My feelings would have taken me to his house, but fear of his wife kept me away. It would have been a happiness to me to see him before he was buried, but this was a privilege which I knew would be denied me. It was growing late in the day, and I continued to walk down town, crying as I went, and stopping to rest when I was tired, in some out-of-the-way place, until just after the lamps in the shops were lighted, I reached that part of Broadway where the hotel was in which I had once slept. I had some money in my pocket, and being now very weary, and, in spite of my grief, very hungry, I thought I would ask for some supper and a lodging at my old hotel. I entered the bar-room with my trunk on my shoulder, and asked the bar-keeper if he would give me something to eat and a bed.

The bar keeper looked at me earnestly a moment or two, and exclaimed: "Hollo! mister; you are the very chap I want to see. Come here!"

"What do you want of me?" I said.

"You are the youngster that slept here once, are you not?" he said.

"Yes," I replied.

"Well, there has been the devil to pay about you. It's deuced lucky for me that I have found you. Come here!"

The bar-keeper was coming towards me, but I had taken alarm at his earnest manner, and his saying there had been the devil to pay about me; knowing that I had no friend to trust in now, but my legs, I dropped my trunk and ran.

"Stop that boy! stop that boy!" shouted the bar-keeper, as he ran after me, followed by a dozen waiters. The streets were crowded with people, and I had great difficulty in making my way, but I dashed under horses' legs, between omnibusses and cabs, and succeeded in reaching the opposite side of the street, where, finding the way more clear, I ran with all my might. But the bar-keeper and the waiters followed shouting out, "Stop him! stop him!" until just as I was going to turn down into Wall street, a boy put out his foot and tripped me up. Before I could recover myself, the bar-keeper caught me by the collar of my jacket, and calling some of the waiters to his assistance, they bore me off to the hotel, but not without receiving half a dozen kicks from my heels.

"Don't be frightened, you little fool!" said the bar-keeper. "You will not be hurt. But you are good to me for fifty dollars, and I am not going to let you go. Come along, my fine fellow, and give up squirming."

Finding that it would be idle to resist any longer, I told them to let me walk and I would promise not to escape. But he said, "No, no, my fine fellow: I have caught you and mean to keep you." So they carried me back in their arms, every one of them appearing anxious to have hold of me. As they took me into the hotel an old gentleman in spectacles met us at the door; "What," said he, looking curiously at me, "is that the young rascal there has been such a noise about?"

"It isn't anybody else, I can tell you," replied the bar-keeper.

"Well, take him up to the Captain's parlor," said the old gentleman, "he's waiting for him there."

All this had occurred so rapidly that I had had no time to think what it all meant, and as they took me up the stairs of the hotel, I felt terribly frightened. I was not conscious of having done anything wrong, but the harsh treatment I had received at the book-keeper's house had rendered me timid, and I remember that the thought occurred to me that it would not do now to speak my mind too plainly, for I had no friend to protect me from the consequences of thinking in too transparent a manner. So I resolved to be cautious and give no offence to anybody.

They took me up stairs to the third floor, and opening a chamber door, sat me down in a small room, which was occupied by a stout-looking, middle-aged gentleman, who clasped his hands together as soon as he saw me, and said "My God! it is he; what a likeness!"

"Yes, and a pretty race I have had after him," said the bar-keeper; "but it takes me to know a chap after I have eyed him once."

"I should have known him," said the gentleman, "if I had met him on the top of Chimborazo."

"So should I," said one of the waiters; "I knew him all to pieces as soon as I caught sight of him."

"As to knowing him," said another, "I knowed he'd be cotched to-day, because I felt it in my bones, and I tolt Pat Donovan so this morning when I took up the captain's breakfast. Didn't I, Pat?"

"Ay, sure, you may say that with truth," said Pat, "only it was me that said it til you."

"Hold your tongues, every one of you!" said the bar-keeper, "nobody saw the boy but myself. I knew him and gave chase to him, and the reward is mine."

"You shall have it," said the gentleman, and taking out his pocket-book he reached the bar-keeper some bills.

"All right, all right" said he: "and what shall I do with the young fellow's baggage? he said he wanted some supper and a bed."

"Then send up his trunk, and supper for both of us," said the gentleman; "So, be so good as to leave us alone." The bar-keeper immediately retired, followed by the waiters; but as they went out the old gentleman in the glasses, who had met us below, came in.

"Well, Captain, this is the very boy, is it—I think so?" said the old gentleman.

"Yes," said the Captain, for so they all called the gentleman, "I should have known him in Timbuctoo."

"Well, he is really a fine looking little fellow," said the old gentleman, feeling of my arms; "quite a stout piece of a boy. There's something curious, though, about his coming here again, isn't there? Well, good night, Captain."

"Good night to you," said the Captain, as the old gentleman retired.

"And so, my lad," said the gentleman "you were going to lodge here to-night? Well, you won't object to eating a bit of supper with me, will you?"

The kindness of his manner and the tones of his voice, for some reason quite beyond my power to explain, had a strange effect upon me—perhaps they recalled the image of my dead benefactor, or of my mother, but let it have been what it might, I was strongly affected and began to cry.

"Come, come, my lad," he said, "you must belay that, or I shall be pumping away myself," and drawing me towards him he wiped away my tears and told me to cheer up. I looked up in his face and discovered a tear trickling down his own cheek, which only caused me to break out afresh.

But supper was brought up very soon, and the smell of a mutton chop and the sight of a smoking tea-pot, had an immediate effect upon my grief. I ceased crying instantly, and without any delay drew a chair up to the little table.

"Now, my lad," said the Captain, "eat hearty and you will feel better. A ship wants plenty of ballast to keep on an even keel in a squall. Look out, you young rogue, you will scald your tongue with that hot tea. That's right, pay away; there's no allowance. Why, my lad, you eat as though you were hungry."

I told him that I was, as I had eaten nothing since morning.

"Ha! I am glad of it" he said; "I like to see you eat hearty. Take another roll, my lad; stow it away. Here's another tender bit of mutton: don't spare the butter, nor the milk. Ha! ha! ha! But that's capital. Eat away. I would rather see you stow away the grub after that fashion than eat myself, my lad." And the Captain reached across the table and patted me encouragingly on the shoulder.

"I tell you how it is, my lad," he said, "there's a hand of Providence in this meeting. You don't know it, but I do. As I sit and look at you, my heart swells as though it would burst. Do you know, my little admiral, that you saved my life once?"

I assured him that I had not the most remote suspicion of such a thing, and that I thought he must have mistaken me for some other person.

"Mistaken you!" he exclaimed; "no, my lad; your image is here, here," and he placed his hand upon his breast; "I saw you before you were born. You may open your eyes lad, but it is true. You can't know anything about it, though. No, that's a secret. But, eat, eat away. Don't give up so soon, you will spoil all my pleasure."

I told him that I could eat no more, and must stop. He then ordered the table to be removed, and seating himself near me, gazed at my face until I felt quite abashed. He sighed deeply, rose from his seat and paced the chamber back and forth for sometime, without speaking. This gave me an opportunity of observing him more closely than I had done. His manner towards me had been altogether so strange, and his saying that I had saved his life, had excited my curiosity to the highest degree, so that I was impatient to know something more about him, and to learn the cause of the interest which he seemed to take in me. I felt my heart warm towards him every minute, and almost forgot Mr. Bassett and my grief at his loss. The Captain was an exceedingly good looking person, and quite the reverse of Mr. Bassett in everything but his apparent kindness. He appeared to me about forty; he was of middle height and rather stout; he wore no whiskers, and his complexion was brownish and ruddy, his hair was dark and curly, his eyes were a deep blue, and his mouth had an expression of singular sweetness. He was dressed with scrupulous neatness, in a suit of blue cloth, and a black vest and cravat.

After pacing the floor in silence for a long time, he stopped and sat down close by me, and after looking intently in my face, he said, "I see it there, and yet I am afraid to know. I will prolong my dream to-night, at least. It will be time enough for disappointment to-morrow. Did you ever see me before, lad? Don't you think that you know me?"

I assured him that I had no recollection of ever having seen him before, and was quite certain that I did not know him.

"I fear so," he said; "but stand up here, let me feel your heart beat against mine; let me see if they respond to each other." He held me tightly to his breast, so that I could feel his heart throb distinctly. "Now, lad," he said, "do you feel anything?"

I replied that I felt his heart beat.

"Ah, lad! you can feel it beat, but you cannot feel its feelings," he said; "and you don't remember having seen me before, but I remember you. It was only a glimpse that I caught of your face; but it was enough. Do you not remember when you slept here one night, months ago, how you went into another chamber at midnight and woke somebody who was groaning from the effects of the nightmare?"

I recollected the circumstance, of course, although I had entirely forgotten it until now, and looking at him closely, I perceived that this was the person whom I found.

"Yes, it was me that you saved," he said; "I should have died but for you, lad; I knew that I was going; I felt it; and O, the horror of it, which I cannot tell you, and you could not feel if I should. I woke from death and saw the face of an angel sent from Heaven to save me; yes, lad, the face of an angel! And I lay awake all night thinking of it, dreading to sleep again, and hoping to see that face once more. In the morning I found that my door had been opened; but I could not find that anybody had been in my room, unless it were a boy that, they said, had slept in the next apartment, and he was gone. I looked for him through all the streets, I advertised for him, I hunted in all the by-places and boarding-houses in the city. I offered rewards for his discovery; I travelled all over the country trying to find him; I prayed for him; I sought for him wherever I could penetrate; but I was doomed to disappointment, and in despair of ever seeing him again, I had prepared to leave the country, and after to-morrow I could never have seen him: never! But here he is before me. Yes, lad, it is you. But don't tell me where you have been; don't tell me where you have come from, to-night. It will be time enough to-morrow. I must dream once more. Now, lad, let us go to bed; I have been weary, watching; I have been afraid to sleep, but now I can lie down peaceably and dream. But promise me that you will not leave me in the morning without seeing me. Remember, lad, the happiness of a human being depends upon my seeing you again."

I promised him that I would not leave him; and, indeed; I began, now, to be apprehensive that he might leave me. There was something in his manner, his voice, looks, and every movement, that seemed natural and familiar, and I felt already that I had found a new friend, and one who was nearer to me than Mr. Bassett.

I LAY in the same room in which I had slept before, adjoining that of my new friend; and when I awoke in the morning I hurried on my clothes, and opening his door stepped softly in and found him still sound asleep. I sat down upon the chair at the head of his bed, and gazed upon his placid features with a feeling of awe. It seemed to me that I had seen his face before in my dreams, and a sense of some past acquaintance with him, but when or where I could not tell, quite bewildered me. He had a broad, smooth forehead, and dark, glossy hair, which, although it was cut very close, clung in crisp curls to his temples; he breathed as gently as a child, and a sweet smile played round his half open mouth. As I sat and gazed upon him, every moment his features grew more and more familiar, until I knew that I had seen him before. Presently he opened his eyes and looked at me a minute or two in silence.

"Ah, lad!" he said, "I knew in my sleep that you were sitting there; I have not enjoyed such refreshing slumbers this many a day." He then sat up in bed, and taking my hand, said, "Come, now, tell me your name."

I had already determined not to acknowledge the name of Pepper again; it had subjected me to so much ridicule, and I had experienced so much inconvenience from not being able to tell the name of my father, that I had also determined to invent a paternal name until I should find one that I was entitled to. I had some misgivings about telling a falsehood, but I quieted my conscience with the reflection that if I lied from a good motive, there could be no harm in it; and I had found that it was quite impracticable to be as transparent as Mr. Bassett had required of me. In short, I first made up my mind to tell a falsehood, and then convinced myself that I was justified in doing it. Surely, there could be no harm in changing my name. Of what consequence was it to anybody in the world whether I called myself Tom Pepper or Matthew Mustard, or any other name, spicy or otherwise? Clearly, it was nobody's business: neither could the circumstance of calling some imaginary being my father, do anybody the least harm; and as I didn't know who my father was, I might by accident, light upon his real name. My first impulse was to claim Mr. Bassett for my father, and assume his name, but I thought that I might, by so doing, get myself into some trouble with his widow, whom I hoped never to see again; so I hastily adopted a name that I saw on a sign the day before, and replied coolly, though not without a tingling in my cheeks, and a quickened pulsation, "Bedford Horton."

"Ah, my lad!" said my new friend "it is as I feared," and shutting his eyes he fell back upon his pillow.

This puzzled me more than anything that had happened. Was it possible that he had anticipated that my name was Bedford Horton, when I had not anticipated it myself much more than a minute? But there was no help for it now. I had baptized myself with a new name, and I must abide by it. I repeated it again lest I should forget it. "Bedford Horton."

"Well, lad," said my friend, raising himself in bed again, with a sadder look than he had worn before, "was that your father's name?"

"Yes," I replied.

"And where are your father and mother?" he said.

"Dead, dead," I said, bursting into tears, for I could not yet speak of my mother's death without crying.

"Poor lad! poor lad!" he said; "and whither are you bound, and where is your home?"

Having persuaded myself that there could be so great harm in inventing a name, it was no difficult matter to persuade myself that I should be quite justifiable in exercising my inventive powers to the extent of furnishing myself with a home and a birth place; so, I said that my home was in Boston, where I was born, that I was not bound anywhere in particular, being on the look out for a fortune, with but a few shillings in my pocket, and was quite indifferent whither I went, having no friends, and no prospects of employment.

"Well, lad," he said, "you have saved my life and given me one pleasant dream. The least I can do is to save yours, and if I do not give you a pleasant dream in return, the fault will not be mine. I like you. There is something in that face which brings the dead to life again. Will you live with me; lad, and let me be your father?"

"Yes, yes," I replied eagerly, and taking his hand I pressed it to my lips. "O, yes, I shall be too happy!"

"Then call me father," he said, "and I will call you son. You are not ashamed to change your name, lad?"

"No, no," I replied with a blush.

"Well, then, my boy, you shall be called Bedford no more; you shall have my name. A good British name, lad, it is; more than a thousand years old and still without a blot. Now, reach me that sword."

I reached him a sword which hung suspended from the wall near the head of his bed, and as he drew it from its scabbard, I started back in alarm as he held the glittering blade above his head.

"What, lad!" said he, "do you start at the sight of a sword? Nay, that must not be if you wear the name of my ancestors. Kneel, now, at the side of my bed. Never flinch, lad."

I knelt as he told me, and closed my eyes, with a misgiving that the next moment I should feel my head drop from my shoulders. But, instead, I felt the back of the sword upon my neck.

"Rise, Eustace St. Hugh!" said my new father. "Now, embrace me." I put my arms around his neck, and he kissed me. "Now, lad, you are a St. Hugh, and a gentleman, and remember that the name which you can claim as your own was never coupled with dishonor. Leave me now, lad; go down into the parlor and wait until I come; we will breakfast together."

NOW, I was supremely happy. My name was Tom Pepper no longer; and when anybody said to me, "Who is your father?" I could boldly reply, "Captain St. Hugh;" and there was no Mrs. St. Hugh to be jealous of the kindness shown me, or to interfere with my pleasures. The Captain was quite a different person from Mr. Bassett; he was not more kind to me, but he allowed me to do as I pleased, and never exacted of me that inconvenient transparency of thinking which was such a hobby with my first friend. He was himself, blunt enough, and always spoke his feelings with sufficient honesty, but it was natural with him, and he appeared, too, to think that nobody ever had a disposition to do otherwise. He was the very soul of honor, and I never reflected upon the gross deceit which I had practiced towards him, without a burning sense of shame. But I had committed the fault and could not mend it, or at least, I thought I could not. And, then, I used to reproach myself for disowning my poor old grandfather Pepper, who had been a father to me as long as he lived, and I had deprived myself of the pleasure of telling the Captain about my mother, how good and beautiful she was, how she had loved me, and how sadly and suddenly she died. I regretted this the more because he used to take a peculiar delight in making me repeat every circumstance of my early life, and every particular respecting my parents, all of which I had to invent to make all parts of my story agree. If I had anticipated how intimate I should become with the Captain, and if I could have known how little he cared who and what my parents were, I should, of course, have told him the truth in the beginning. But all these ifs come too late after the lie has been told. I felt the importance of Mr. Bassett's principle, but I had become so deeply involved in my own snares, that I saw no way of escaping from them. These reflections did not trouble me much, but they were the only draw-backs to my pleasures, and but for them I should have been perfectly happy.

Captain St. Hugh remained at the hotel only a few days after our first meeting; he then removed to a seat which he rented at Bloomingdale, on the banks of the Hudson; it was a large, old-fashioned, wooden house, with a Grecian portico, painted a bright lemon color, and with green Venetian blinds to all the windows. Between the river and the house there was an orchard, filled with a variety of apple and pear trees, and in the rear was the kitchen garden, and a large conservatory, and a grape-house paved with marble, both of which had been very much neglected. At the foot of the orchard there was a landing and a boat-house, and, better than all, a boat with oars and sails. Here Captain St. Hugh and myself used to spend a good many hours, sailing on the river and fishing. There was an old dilapidated summer-house in the orchard too, having a view of the river, where we used to sit and watch the steamboats and other river-craft as they glided past, I with a book, and he with a cigar and a newspaper; and then he would tell me long stories about the St. Hughs, a number of brave men who had borne the name, and gained distinction in battle; but most of all, he delighted to tell me of Sir Eustace St. Hugh, whose name he had bestowed upon me; his own name was Charles John. This Sir Eustace was his great grandfather, a most valiant and honorable soldier, who had fought innumerable battles, and acquired a large fortune, which he had expended in the purchase of an estate in England, having a castle and a very grand park, called Blackmere. The Captain, or rather my father, for so I called him now, and he called me his son, had a miniature of this grand old Sir Eustace, set in gold and surrounded with diamonds, which he showed me a good many times, and pointed out a remarkable resemblance which I bore to the brave old soldier, particularly in my nose, which was a rather prominent feature in my face, being aquiline in its shape. Next to telling me about his own family, he seemed to delight most in asking me about mine. This troubled me a good deal, for as I invented everything that I told him, I had to keep a strict watch upon myself to prevent his discovering my falsehood. Although he never preached to me about telling the truth, as Mr. Bassett did, yet I soon discovered that he valued his word more than he did his life or his money; and that he held everybody whose honor was sullied by deceit, in unmeasured contempt. He was continually telling me of the noble virtues of old Sir Eustace, and holding him up to me as the model after which I should form myself. So that I was in a constant state of alarm lest I should be discovered by some one who had seen me while I was under the protection of Mr. Bassett, and all my falsehoods exposed; for I knew that my father would be grieved at my wickedness, if he didn't instantly discard me; and I should be compelled to relinquish the grand name of old Sir Eustace, and take that of Tom Pepper again.

Among the many acts of kindness which my new father showed me, he presented me with an agate seal, having the arms of the St. Hugh family engraved upon it; he also had an exact copy of the portrait of old Sir Eustace painted and enclosed in a gold case, but not set with diamonds, which he gave me. He would not send me to school, but he hired a schoolmaster in the neighborhood to give me lessons in Latin and mathematics, and he taught me French himself. He purchased a pony for me, and never seemed so happy as when he could surprise me by an anticipated gift. The house in which we lived belonged to a gentleman who was travelling in Europe with his family: it was rented ready furnished, and the gardener and his wife, who had lived many years on the place, were all the servants that were employed. We never saw any company, and the schoolmaster was the only person who visited the house. I had the liberty to go where I pleased, but I found so many sources of amusement at home that, excepting when I took a ride upon my pony, I never left our own grounds. The room in which I slept opened into the one occupied by my father, who would not allow the door to be closed at night, lest he should be troubled again with the night-mare, and I should not hear him. Although he was generally in a happy humor, and talked and laughed with me freely, yet at times, he seemed sullen, dispirited, and gloomy, and if I spoke to him, he would either remain silent, or answer me in an impatient, testy manner. Those gloomy fits did not last long, and when he came out of them he would be unusually kind to me, as though he wished to make me forget his sullenness.

I remember on one occasion he had been more sullen and reserved than I had ever seen him before, and at night he had even closed the door which communicated with my room, on going to bed. This touched me to the quick, for I thought that he intended to shun me, that he was getting tired of my company, and it gave me more anger than grief. I had been under his care so long, and had received so many proofs of his affection, that I no longer felt any gratitude for his favors, but began to look upon them as my due, like any other spoilt child. But the next day, as I went to go into the summer-house, I found him sitting there, and was going to withdraw when he called me to him.

"Eustace! Eustace!" he called, in his customary manner; "what, my boy! do you shun me?"

"I only shun you, sir," I replied; "because I thought you would have me do so."

"How dare you think so?" he said, half playfully, and half angrily; "how dare you say so, rather, for I know you didn't think so?"

"I hope, sir," I replied with a haughty air, that was not wholly affected, "you do not think that I would say what I do not believe."

"Ha! that's brave my boy!" he exclaimed, taking me by the hand, and drawing me towards him, "Come. Now you look as though you were worthy of being called Eustace St. Hugh. That's the true spirit, my boy. If you are not the son of a soldier, remember that you bear the name of one, and never allow anybody to cast an imputation upon your sincerity."

Good Heavens! How the blood tingled in my temples as I thought of the deceit I was practicing towards this good man.

"Tut, tut, my son," he said, laughing, "do not take it so much to heart. Come, come, I beg your pardon; let us be friends once more. Now I see that you will never disgrace the name of St. Hugh. Sit by my side here and let us talk together."

"But why, sir, do you bid me remember that old Sir Eustace was a soldier?" I said, wishing to turn the tide of his thoughts; "are there no honorable men but what are soldiers? Is the business of throat-cutting, and town-destroying, and orphan-making, and powder-burning, and sword-wearing, the only one that admits of honorable feelings?"

My father started back in amazement as he heard me utter these compound queries; and he well might, for I had learned them but an hour before, of my Latin teacher, who put them to me in reply to a foolish boast that I was the grandson of a soldier.

"Ha, lad!" he said, "but this climate ripens men too early. You are growing old too soon. I must take you home to Blackmere castle to check your growth. The fogs and cold air, and a little hard riding, will bring out your color, and give your mind rest while your body is developing itself. That cut-water of yours, my boy, would not look out of place among the portraits in Blackmere Castle, but there should be a little more breadth of beam to make your picture look as though it belonged there, the St. Hughs were all square-shouldered and high-nosed, and there never was a pale cheek in the family. This Yankee atmosphere braces one up a little too sharp."

He had never before said anything about taking me to Blackmere Castle, and I am sure my eyes must have sparkled with pleasure to hear him talk of it, for, once away from New York, I should lose all fear of ever being detected. But my gay feelings were soon checked by what followed.

"Yes, my boy," he said, "I am getting tired of this country, and I must go home again. But before I return, I must go with you to Boston, and find out some of your relations there. Would you not be glad to see them again?"

He must have noticed my confusion, when I replied "Yes;" but he probably attributed it to some other than the real cause; so he continued:

"Ha! my boy! how little you dream of the cause of my visit here. How little you suspect the origin of the love I feel for you, and the strange sympathy which seems to bind us together. But you will never know; you never can know. Because I was down-cast, and sullen, and gloomy, yesterday, feeling weary of the world and of myself, you thought, perhaps, that I had taken a dislike to you. But you were mistaken, my boy; it was not you to whom I had taken a dislike, but to myself. O, God! O, God! forgive me, but I have cause!"

He covered his face with his hands for a few minutes, and then lifting his head again, looked into my face with his accustomed good nature, and said:

"Ah! my little philosopher! I forgot; you were talking about orphan-makers and honor. Faith, Eustace, but those were home questions, and I must confess to you that I have queried in that way to myself before now. It is not, my boy, that the mere throat-cutting, town-destroying, powder-burning and widow-making part of a soldier's duty is more honorable than any other kind of hard labor, by which men earn their fortunes, but the life of a soldier is more honorable than that of a mercenary trader, because he risks more, endures more, and receives less; and he does this not for himself alone, but for all the rest of his countrymen. To be sure, he may fight in a bad cause, and his labors may produce more harm than good, but still his motives are not mercenary, and as he professes to be guided by a spirit of honor, all his actions must square with his professions. Therefore, he is bound to resent an imputation upon his honor, because a soldier who would be so base as to violate his word, may well be distrusted in the other essentials of the character of a brave man.

"So, Eustace, my boy, keep a sharp look out while you are young, and be careful that you do nothing to make you ashamed when you grow old. Ah, lad! had I done so myself, I would not now be sitting here with you!" He sighed deeply, and resting his head upon his hand, sat in silence until it grew quite dark, when we returned to the house together.

Nearly two years passed away in this secluded retreat, and during the whole time I never once went into the city; my father went in but seldom, yet he received the morning papers daily, and often had letters, the contents of which he never alluded to, and I never troubled myself to think about his business.

IT was late in the autumn, the nights had grown longer and cooler, and instead of sitting out upon the piazza during the evening to escape the mosquitoes which the light drew into the room, we had removed in doors, and could spend an hour or two after supper, comfortably by lamp light. One evening, as I sat studying my lesson, my father threw down the newspaper he had been nodding over, and exclaimed, "For England, ho!" I looked up and laughed, and he said:

"Now, lad, it is time to go home. We can spend a pleasanter winter in old England than we can here in this rickety old lath-and-plaster castle. Yes, lad, God willing, you shall eat your Christmas dinner at Blackmere, and drink the king's health in his own dominions." The thought of it seemed to exhilarate him, and he leaped from his chair and danced around the room in great glee. "Yes, my brave Eustace, and you shall go to Oxford and finish your education."

I could have danced with delight, too, for I longed to see Blackmere, and stroll through the great hall where the portrait of old Sir Eustace and the rest of the St. Hughs were hanging in grand state. And, then, I was more than all desirous to get clear from New York, where I would be in continual danger of encountering somebody who had known me as Tom Pepper, although I had grown so tall, and was so much altered in my appearance, that there was little danger of my being recognized. However, I did not let my thoughts escape, but kept my eyes fixed upon the book I was studying, although I could not read a work of the lesson, because my mind was wandering elsewhere. The next morning as he sat at breakfast, reading the paper of the day before, as was his custom, I saw his face suddenly grow pale, his hand trembled, his lips quivered, and his whole frame seemed to be convulsed. I was frightened at the sudden change in his appearance, and jumped towards him, fearing that he would fall from his seat.

"Don't be alarmed, lad," he said, "there's nothing the matter with me. Sit, sit down, and drink your coffee."

"But, surely, you are sick," I said, "you look so pale, and your hand trembles so. I am frightened. Let me call the gardener."

"Yes, lad, call him," he replied, "for I must go to town. But do not be frightened, I am not sick. It is something which I have read here that has unnerved me. Go call Mackintosh, (that was the gardener's name,) and tell him to saddle my horse, for I must start at once."

I ran for the gardener, and when I returned my father was already dressed, with his riding-whip in his hand, and prepared to start. He paced the piazza impatiently until his horse was brought, and then leaped into the saddle, and, without bidding me good bye, or, indeed, speaking to me at all, or even looking towards me, he put spurs to his horse and dashed out of the gate. It was the first time that he had ever gone to town without bidding me good bye, and telling me what to do in his absence, and I was so much grieved at his strange coolness, that I felt my eyes running over with tears. But now I was too old to indulge in tears, and I tried to gulp down the choking sensation in my throat, by persuading myself that I had been insulted by his coldness. In a short time my teacher came to hear me recite my lessons, and with the carelessness of my disposition, I forgot my griefs and went about my usual occupations as light-hearted and happy as ever. In the afternoon, I took advantage of my father's absence to treat myself to a ride on my pony, and having come across a party of cricketers during my ride, playing in a field, I stopped a long while to see them play, so that before I returned home it was quite dark. These was a light in the dining-room, by which I knew that my father had returned, and there was a horse and gig standing at the door, by which I knew that there must be company with him. This latter circumstance surprised me, because it was so unusual, and I looked around for Mackintosh to enquire who the stranger was, but I could not find him, so I jumped off my pony, and tying him to the fence, stepped softly upon the piazza to look into the window and see who it was that my father had with him. It was a gentleman; he sat with his back towards me, at the centre-table, and my father was showing him some papers. They were conversing with great earnestness, but as I could not approach close to the window without being discovered, I was unable to distinguish what they said. The stranger held something in his hand, that he was examining closely, and I presently perceived that it was the miniature of old Sir Eustace. He looked at it long and steadily, and then my father seemed to be explaining something to him about it, as though he were pointing out each separate feature to him as he had often done to me. I was just on the point of leaving the piazza, when I fancied that I beheld my father say "Tom Pepper." I was not sure, and, indeed, it was impossible that he should have said it, but I was so strongly impressed with the thought that he had, that I stole still closer to the window, and heard him distinctly say, "The young rogue!" and I felt certain that I was the subject of their conversation. My blood was on fire in a moment, and I was all impatience to discover who it could be that my father was talking to. But he wouldn't move. There he sat glued to the chair, and nothing could induce him to turn his head. By and by my father walked across the room, for he seemed impatient and uneasy; then he came to the window and listened as though he was watching for my return.

I stood in the shadow of one of the pillars so that he could not see me, and as he turned from the window to walk back to the table, I heard him say, "The rogue stays late!" The stranger looked round as my father spoke, and instantly I recognized the countenance of Mr. Bassett. The sight of his face gave such a shock to my heart, that I came near falling from the effect of the fright. Now he stood up, and as the light fell full upon his face, I saw that it was, indeed, my old benefactor, whom I had believed was in his grave so long. He did not seem changed in the least since I had seen him last; he wore his cravat in the same peculiar manner, his features wore the same mild, benevolent expression, and even his clothes appeared to have suffered no change. It occurred to me at once that I had been deceived in regard to his death, and turned from the book-keeper's house by the instrumentality of his wife. But what could have brought him here? Nothing, but to discover me. By some means or other he had heard of me, and had informed my father of my real name. I could now understand the cause of his coldness to me in the morning, and of his singular conduct. Alas! alas! My good fortune was at an end. All my falsehoods must now be exposed, and I should be spurned by my best, my only friends, who had endeavored to instill into my mind principles of honor and a love of truth; and I had basely, wickedly, foolishly, deceived them. How could I meet them and endure this reproach? I had not the courage to endure it. I should be stripped of all my honors, I felt certain, be forced to abandon the name of the St. Hughs, and perhaps turned off with indignity and reproaches. I stepped off the piazza to reflect for a moment what I should do, and my mind was instantly made up. There was no other course but flight; to face these excellent and most honorable men to whom I owed so much, and whose kindness I had so basely betrayed, was impossible. So, casting another look towards the window, the light from which seemed to shine out as if from a heaven that was closed upon me, I unfastened my pony, and leading him out quietly into the road, jumped upon his back and began to gallop towards the city. The night had grown very dark, not a star twinkled in the sky, and a low, moaning wind swept through the trees. A thousand voices seemed to be calling after me as I dashed on, "Tom Pepper! Tom Pepper! Stop him! Stop him!" My heart throbbed violently, my head pained me, my throat was hot and husky, and I felt wild and delirious. The echoes of my horse's hoofs sounded like somebody pursuing me, and every carriage that I passed seemed to contain somebody that knew me, and pointed at me saying, "There goes the cowardly runaway, who deceived his best friends!" It grew darker and darker as I approached the city, but still I thought that everybody was looking at me as I galloped along the road, and when I entered upon the lamp district, where the fungous-looking lights threw a faint glimmer across the road, I thought that I was watched by every horseman and foot passenger that passed me. But on I galloped, until my poor pony was covered with foam, and it was not until I found myself in a crowded street, filled with shops and brilliant with gas lights, that I slackened his speed, and began to think what would become of me. I was half inclined, at one moment, to turn round, go back, and ask pardon of my two fathers. I had been guilty of deceiving them, and knowing their sternness and their integrity, I had no hope for forgiveness; or, if they should forgive me, I could not endure their commiseration. Now I began to see how unnecessarily wicked I had become, and the truth of what Mr. Bassett had so often told me, that no departure from the truth, let the motive be what it might that instigated it, ever failed to bring its evil consequences. But my thoughts were immediately drawn from myself to my poor pony. I could not spend the night on his back, and I knew not where to find him refreshment, which the poor beast greatly needed. Poor pony! He was dreadfully tired and weary, as well as myself. I got off his back, and patting him on the neck, told him how sorry I felt for him, and how sad I felt myself. He rubbed his head against me, and seemed to say that he wanted hay more than sympathy. So, throwing his bridle across my arm, I led him along the street until I found a livery-stable, where I entrusted him to the hostler, who promised me that he would feed him well, and give him some clean straw to lie upon. I hope he kept his promise, for pony had been my only play-fellow for almost two years, and I loved him as well as a brother. Poor pony! he rested better that night than I did, I dare say, for he had done no wrong, and had not to suffer the galling reflection that he had brought harm upon himself by his own follies. Having found good quarters for the companion of my flight, my next thought was to provide quarters for myself, and as I knew that there would be no difficulty in purchasing good treatment while I had money to pay for it, I felt under no great apprehensions, and so proceeded leisurely to look for some hotel, where I should not be likely to encounter any one who knew me. It was so long since I had been in the city that I was somewhat confused by the crowds in Broadway, and I suppose that I betrayed my country living by my manner, for I had not walked far when I was accosted by two handsomely-dressed young ladies, who talked in a very sprightly and friendly manner, which immediately made a favorable impression upon me.

"Where are you going, Bub?" said one of them, who wore a green satin dress and a scarlet shawl.

I told her that I was going in search of a hotel, and said I would be obliged to her if she could direct me to a good one.

"Go home with me, Bub," said the lady with the green dress. But before I had time to answer, the other one caught hold of my arm, and declared that I should go home with her. This lead to an altercation between these ladies, in which they indulged in coarser language than I had ever before heard from one of the sex. Each accused the other of being "no lady," and I found that they were proceeding to dangerous extremities, so I told them that I would put an end to their quarrel, by refusing to go with either. But this only made them more abusive than before, and the scarlet shawl taking me by the arm, fairly compelled me to go with her; the other lady vented her anger in rather a loud and bold manner, and then left us. As I was determined not to practice any more deception where there should be no particular necessity, I frankly told this generous lady that I was a stranger, without a home, without friends, and with but little money, and that she would be doing a charitable deed by giving me a supper and a bed. All this she very kindly promised to do, and when we got to her house, which was a very nice looking one, she took me into a small parlor, which was rather shabbily furnished, although there were a great many articles of finery, and asked me what I would have for supper. I told her that I was by no means particular in my appetite, but that if it was perfectly convenient, I could manage to dispose of a cold chicken, some stewed oysters, with bread and butter, and a glass or two of pale sherry, and a cup of coffee. She had the ill-manners to laugh at my simple request, and said she guessed I would have to be satisfied with some soft-crabs and a bottle of root beer, and after being absent a few minutes, she returned with these homely delicacies on a little japanned waiter. I was so exceedingly hungry, that I dispatched the crabs in a very short time, and drank part of the beer, which was by no means palatable. I had grown quite dainty in my tastes, for my father was extremely partial to a good dinner, and he had accustomed me to eating a variety of made dishes, as well as drinking two or three glasses of sherry every day. It was his custom always at dinner to drink the health of the King, which I did to gratify him, although it always brought my grandfather Pepper to mind, and the stories which he uses to relate about flogging the British, and as I drank off the root beer, I could not help thinking that my father St. Hugh was just then, probably, drinking the King's health in a glass of delicious sherry. I thought it would be uncivil to ask the lady for more, although my hunger was not half appeased; indeed, it was rather whetted sharper by the crabs. But I made no complaints, only I determined to make amends the next morning at breakfast.

"You are a pretty fellow, Bub" said the young lady; "won't you give me a lock of your hair before you leave me?"

This rather flattered my pride, and I replied that I would not give her a lock of my hair, but I would exchange with her for one of her silken locks.

"What else will you give me, Bub?" she said.

Emboldened by the freedom of her manner, and not wishing to be outdone by her in politeness, I replied that I would give her a kiss. This was rather bold, but it did not offend her, and she said, "How much money have you got, Bub?"

I took out my pocket book, and showed her that I had but four or five dollars.

"And what is that hanging to that ribbon?" she said.

I was proud to show her the portrait of old Sir Eustace, which she took from my neck and hung round her own.

"And what a sweet ring that is," she said; "let me try it on to my wedding finger."

So she took off my turquoise ring that my father had given me, and put it upon her own finger.

"Where is your watch?" she said; "hasn't my little beauty got a gold watch?"

I told her that I had left my watch at home, which was the truth, and very sorry I was, too, that I had.

I thought it very strange that she did not ask me my name, but considered it a proof of her delicacy. And, I was very glad that she did not, for I should have been exceedingly embarrassed if she had, as I had not yet christened myself with a new one, and had not made up my mind whose to take. As to the lady's name, I was rather curious to know what it was, but concluded to wait until morning before I asked her. I felt myself every moment growing so sleepy that I could scarcely keep my eyes open, and had to turn my head two or three times lest she should see me yawn. At last I had to confess to the lady that, in spite of her sprightly conversation, I could not keep myself awake, and that I would be obliged to her if she would allow me to retire to my room.

"Well, Bub, if you are sleepy, I will put you to bed," she replied, and I followed her into the next apartment, where she said I could lie down. But as she offered, with more good nature than delicacy, to remain in the room while I undressed myself, I positively refused to go to bed unless she withdrew; which she did after a while, and then I took off my clothes, and having placed them carefully within reach, I jumped into bed and was asleep in a moment. I was not, naturally, of a sleepy turn, but after drinking the root beer I felt uncommonly drowsy, which I attributed to the nature of that beverage.

If I was troubled with any dreams that night, I have forgotten them now, but what happened on my waking next morning, may appear like a dream to some of those unimaginative people who will probably read my autobiography.

Even the greatest heroes, whose deeds have been chronicled by the pen of history, have been censured by students in their closets; and I have known jobbers and lawyers to say what they would have done had they been placed in Napoleon's shoes at the battle of Waterloo; and militia colonels have demonstrated to their own satisfaction, that the Emperor might have gained the day had he done thus and so, which they would have done had they been placed in the same circumstances. This is one of the disadvantages of having your life read by the public. There will always be some priggish reader to measure his understanding by yours, and condemn you for doing as he would not have done. This is as unwise as it is ungenerous; for, by continually quarrelling with the hero whose exploits you are reading, you deprive yourself of the pleasure which may be derived from identifying yourself with his fortunes, and making his affairs your own. It is ungenerous to condemn the acts of another, who has been moved by the sole desire to promote his own pleasures, and has consequently done the best he could to gain that object.

It is not improbable that some persons, if placed in the condition in which I found myself on awaking that morning, would have acted very differently from what I did, and if I could have had their advice, it is not unlikely that I might have followed it. But I was alone, without much experience in the crooked ways of the world, and placed in circumstances which I had never heard of anybody being placed in before, since the transgression of our first parents. I was, in fact, stark naked. On rising from my bed I could not find my clothes, and on reflecting upon the transactions of the past night, no doubt remained in my mind that I had been entrapped by one of those wicked Syrens that infest large cities, but of whose actual existence I had never dreamed, and that I had been robbed of everything I possessed in the world. The thought of remaining in such a den terrified me exceedingly, but the impossibility of making my escape frightened me still more. I pounded upon the floor, but nobody came near me; I shouted with all my might for my clothes, but nobody heeded me. The window of the room in which I had slept looked upon a little court yard, surrounded by mean wooden buildings, and the only living thing that I could see, was a Maltese cat, sitting with most provoking composure in the open window of the opposite house. I thought that people who were wicked enough to rob me in that scandalous manner, might be wicked enough to murder me, and I was determined to make my escape as speedily as possible, even though I should be compelled to leave the house in that state in which Adam left Paradise. But there happened to be a closet in the chamber, and opening the door in hopes of finding my clothes, in which I was disappointed, I found there the dress of the woman who had enticed me into her den. There was no other alternative for me, but to habit myself in petticoats, and I found that the clothes exactly fitted me. As there was a complete wardrobe of female garments, I attired myself with an entire suit, and when I looked at myself in the glass I hardly recognized myself, I was so completely transformed by my feminine garments. The gown which I put on was rather gay, being a light green silk, with a flounce, and the shawl, a bright red Canton crape, embroidered with white flowers, was rather more showy than I liked; but there was no other, and I was forced to take it. The bonnet, too, was exceedingly gay, being a light straw, trimmed with pink ribbons, and having large bunches of artificial roses on the inside. I should have been troubled for shoes, for I found that the lady's were much too small for me, but by good luck my own had not been taken; probably they were not considered of sufficient value. As my beard had not yet made its appearance, and my hair was long and curly, it is but simple justice to myself to say, that there have been worse looking faces under a bonnet than mine. There was a pot of rouge on the dressing-table, but I had no occasion to use it, for my cheeks had a good deal of color, which was now considerably heightened, partly by shame, and partly by the uncomfortable tightness of my dress. I ransacked the closet in hopes of finding some article of jewelry to recompense me for my ring, money, and the portrait of old Sir Eustace, the loss of which grieved me more than all the rest.

Having finished my toilet and surveyed myself in the glass, pretty closely, to make sure that I had omitted nothing essential to render me comme il faut in my new character, I opened the chamber door softly and stepped quietly down the stairs into the hall; but here I had to encounter a new difficulty; the street door was locked and bolted, and the key was removed. This alarmed me still more, for it appeared as though there was a plan to prevent my escape. I could hear no one stirring in the house, and thought that if I could get one of the inmates to open the door, I could contrive to make my escape even though I should be opposed. So I pulled the wire of the street door bell, until I made such a noise that I brought, the keeper of the house down. I heard her coming down the stairs, muttering and shaking a bunch of keys, so I retired to the back part of the hall, where I waited until she opened the door to see who had been ringing the bell, when I ran towards the door, but she perceived me, and closed it again, and stood with her back towards it.

She was a stout, red-faced woman, with a gruff voice, and a muscular-looking arm.

"What's the meaning of all this madam," she said, "are you going to run off without paying for your night's lodging? Come, come, just hand over your money, or I'll have that shawl off your shoulders."

"Let me go out," I said, "I owe you nothing."

"Let you go out, indeed!" screamed the wretch, "let you go out. You shall not go out of this house. This is very pretty to have a strange lady sleep in my house, and after turning me out of bed at this hour, to walk off without paying for her lodging. No, no, madam. You shall not leave this house in my debt."

I saw now that I should be detected, if I did not make my escape at once; for the old woman began to talk very loud, and scream, and she would doubtless soon have somebody to aid her. So I determined upon a bold push, and stepping up to her, I said "Will you not allow me to go out?" and, at the same moment I seized her by the throat, and attempted to thrust her aside, but she proved harder to manage than I had anticipated, and I was so much cramped by my clothes that l could not move myself with freedom. After struggling with her ineffectually some time, I disengaged myself from her, and struck her a blow with my fist which sent her reeling against the wall; whereupon she set up a cry of murder, and I succeeded in opening the door and getting into the street. Without stopping to look behind me, or see whither I was going, I ran as fast as my strange garments would allow me, and soon reached Broadway, where I felt myself secure from further molestation. It was still early in the day, and the tide of life set down towards Wall street; the shop-keepers were taking down their shutters—the omnibusses were creeping slowly down with hardly a passenger—the milk-men were crying out their dismal notes; and the only females seen in the street were plainly-clad work-women proceeding to their daily labor; some to hatter-shops, some to milliner's, some to color maps, and some to the manufacture of band-boxes and artificial-flowers.

I looked at these poor women with a good deal of interest, and wondered whether or not I should be able to find any employment in my new character, by which I could earn my daily bread. Whether it was owing to my gay dress, or my ungainly walk, I do not know, but I was a good deal annoyed to notice that everybody who passed me turned round to look at me; but with a proper sense of what was required in the character of a lady, I hung down my head, feeling more ashamed, I dare say, than the most timid young girl could have felt, and walked quietly on, without turning round, or daring to look anybody in the face. In my anxiety to escape from the dreadful den into which I had been entrapped, I had never once thought of the consequences of putting on female apparel, or reflected that I had no money to procure me a home. But a little reflection convinced me of the distressingly awkward position in which I was placed. I could do nothing as a woman, and was still less capable of doing anything as a man in my present dress. I was completely bewildered in my embarrassment, and knew not what to do. But I could not stand still in the street without attracting a mob, so I walked on, quite uncertain when I should stop. If it had been night, I could have contrived some means of procuring a shelter, but early in the morning, with the whole day before me, and not a penny in my purse, the prospect was dreadful. My troubles were thickening every moment, and my appetite growing sharper and sharper. I half resolved to seek for Mr. Bassett, and throw myself upon his generosity, but I could not endure the thought of the mild reproaches of that most excellent man, for my shameful disregard of his precepts, and the wicked deceits I had practiced upon the noble hearted and generous Captain St. Hugh. What a fool I had been to deprive myself of the protection of such a man! and to cheat myself out of a visit to Blackmere Castle, and all the privileges of the home of the St. Hughs. And this was the effect of not speaking the truth! I had persuaded myself that it was right to do wrong from a good motive, and this was the result! If I had not been so hungry I would have sat down and wept for vexation. But I had no time for grief. Tears will not flow readily from an empty stomach. Hungry men are generally terribly in earnest, and I could think of nothing seriously but breakfast. I remembered that I had seen men eating their breakfasts at the open stands round the markets, but I had never seen any women there. But I knew of no other place where there was a probability of finding anything to eat, and I bent my steps towards the Bear Market, on the North River, where I had once before refreshed myself with dough-nuts and coffee.

Here I found a scene of the most charming description for a hungry youth; the air was loaded with the perfume of fried sausages, and broiling steaks. Hot coffee steamed up from scores of tables, at which cartmen sat in their snowy white frocks, regaling themselves with luxurious breakfasts in the open air; news-boys were seated on benches screened by a piece of tattered canvas, while some red-faced Irish women served up for them buttered crumpets and coffee. Negroes were there, too, in great numbers, joking and laughing, and as happy as lords over their fried liver and onions. There were fat market-women breakfasting on beef steaks, which they ate holding their plates in their lap; but I saw no lady with a green silk dress and a crimson shawl among all the groups of lively feeders.

The scene was a very pleasant one, and under different circumstances I should have enjoyed it greatly, but in my present condition it was sad enough for me; I saw no prospects of a breakfast, and as I wandered around among the stalls, I was completely at a loss in what manner to contrive to get something to eat. If my dress had not been so glaringly fine, I could have stepped into one of the eating-houses and offered my services as a servant; but habited in a green silk gown, a crimson shawl and a pink bonnet, I should only have excited suspicion, and, perhaps, have been sent to prison. Almost every butcher made me a mock bow, and winking to his neighbor, would say, "Any beef this morning, madam?" while some of the women who sold fruit and vegetables, favored me with rather broad compliments upon the extravagantly gay manner in which I was dressed; but one sturdy fellow, in a white frock and a pair of checked sleeves, swore that I was the ladiest woman he had seen in market in many a day. I gave some of these rude people terribly hard looks, and was sorely tempted to give them a blow with my fist, but that, I thought, would so ill accord with my character, that it might lead to my detection. While I stood debating in my mind what course to pursue, I saw Mr. Bassett enter the market with a basket in his hand. I could scarce refrain from running to him and acknowledging myself. But I had been guilty of such monstrous deceits, and even then was acting such a prodigious lie, that I was afraid to meet his reproofs, which I was conscious of richly deserving; I passed him two or three times while he stood at the stall bargaining for some meat, with the hope that he might recognize me; but he took no notice of me, and when he went out I felt more desperate than ever. What a provoking place a market is for a man who wants a breakfast, but who is without the means to pay for one. As I stood looking wistfully at a round of beef in the stall at which Mr. Bassett had made his purchase, the butcher, who was an old man, said to me:

"Young woman, do you want some beef this morning?"

"No," I replied, "but I want some money to pay for my breakfast."

"O, ho!" said he, "that's it, is it? Take this and tell me your number;" so saying, he put half a dollar into my hand.

"Friend, art thou not ashamed of thyself!" exclaimed somebody, and turning round I saw a Quaker gentleman, with a basket in his hand, who had been standing near and had heard the conversation between the butcher and myself. He was an elderly gentleman, dressed in a suit of drab clothes, after the Quaker fashion, with knee breeches and white stockings; he was short, but stout, and he had a very benevolent countenance, which did not look the worse for being set off with a white muslin cravat.

"What is thy name?" he said to me.

I blushed at the question, for I had not yet thought of a name; but I replied, after a moment's hesitation, "Sarah."

"Well, Sarah," said the Quaker, "has thee got no home, that thee comes to the market for thy breakfast?"

"No," I replied; "I had a home once, but I have none now."

"Well, I see by thy blushing thou art not wholly lost. Return the money which the man gave thee, and come with me."

"Look at that old sinner!" said the butcher, as I followed the Quaker.

"Friend," said he, stopping and addressing the butcher, "thou art welcome to thy jeers. I know thee well, as thou knowest me. I have rescued this young woman from thy libidinous hands, and thou may say what thou pleases."

The butcher said something in reply, about a canting hypocrite, but the Quaker travelled on without stopping to listen, and I followed him.

"Young woman," he add, when we had got clear from the market, "I perceive from thy dress what thou art, but I pity thee and as thou art young yet, thou may return to thy friends, and become an honest woman once more."

I felt so indignant at the Quaker's suspicions, that I had a good mind to tell him was not half so penetrating as he thought he was, and that my dress, instead of being an index to my character, had entirely misled him. But I was so impatient for my breakfast, that I didn't care to destroy my chance of getting it, by a too hasty exposure of myself. As the old gentleman's basket was heavy, I said, "Will you allow me to assist you with your marketing?"

"No Sarah," he said, "I am used to carrying a basket, and thou hast a sufficiently heavy load to carry already. One that thou canst not put down as easily as I can this when I reach my home."

I assured him that so far from having a load to carry, that I was so unfortunate as to have nothing in the world but the clothes I wore.

"I perceive, Sarah," he said, "that thou art yet young in wickedness. The load I spoke of was one that weighs upon the conscience. If thou does not feel any, it is only worse for thee."

I told him that my conscience was quite free from loads of any kind.

"Well, Sarah, thy feelings are to come by and by," he said; "but can it be possible that thou feels nothing now?"

"Nothing," I replied, "but a most terrible gnawing in my stomach, for I am very hungry."

"If that is all, Sarah, thou shalt be satisfied," said he; "my wife, and my daughter, Desire, will give thee a hearty breakfast. Thou hast escaped, a great mercy, this morning, and hath cause to be grateful; the man that offered thee money, is a wicked person, and thou must not go to that place any more. I will see that thou art provided with the means of earning an honest living. Can thou sew, Sarah?"

I told him that I feared I should make but an indifferent hand with a needle and thread.

"Perhaps, then, thou art good at housework, and can handle a broom with dexterity, or do the work of a chamber-maid?" he said.

But I had to acknowledge that I was no more of an adept at such business than with a needle.

"What, then, can you do?" said the Quaker.

"Nothing, but ride, and drive, and swim, and fish, and study," I replied.

"So, I see the cause of thy misfortune, Sarah; thou had a foolish mother, who brought thee up in idleness, and now thou must resort to crime for thy support. Well, I will give thee in charge to my daughter, Desire, and she will instruct thee in some useful employment; but thou must never leave the house alone. If thou art expert at learning, thou wilt soon be able to earn thy living. Thou must take off all those wicked red and green dresses, and put on the becoming garments of Friends. Then thou wilt not have to run into the streets to show thyself; and thou wilt be in no danger from wicked men."

In conversation somewhat like this, we engaged until we reached the house of the benevolent Quaker, which was in East Broadway. It was a comfortable-looking house, excepting that it was uncomfortably clean and tidy, and that everything about it was drab color. We entered at the basement door, and I saw through the windows that the breakfast table was spread, which was a very pleasant sight to me. A sedate, but fat old lady met us in the entry, dressed with extreme plainness, and looking comfortable and contented.

"This is my wife, Rachel Goodwill," said the old gentleman, "and this young woman, Rachel, is one of the unfortunate kind, that we must take care of. Her name is Sarah; what is thy other name?"

"Martin," I replied, happening, just then to be thinking of a female of that name, whose other name was Betsey.

"This is Sarah Martin," said the old gentleman.

"Thee is welcome, Sarah; come in and take off thy bonnet," said Mrs. Goodwill, and I followed her into the breakfast parlor, and sat down upon the sofa. Presently there came in a young lady of such surpassing sweetness of countenance, and so graceful and quiet in her carriage, that I was quite enraptured with her at the first glance.

"This is my daughter, Desire Goodwill," said the old gentleman, who, having given the basket in charge of his wife, had taken off his hat and smoothed down his hair over his forehead; for although he had one of those high, broad foreheads, which any man might be proud of, he took no pains to display it to advantage, but combed his hair over it with as much indifference as though it had been a wig on a barber's block. In another moment, a fresh, hearty-looking young man entered, and the old man said, "This is my son, Wilson Goodwill." I bowed to him instead of curtseying, as I should have done, and he reached out his hand and said, "How does thee do? I am glad to see thee." Directly afterwards breakfast was placed upon the table, and I was asked, unexpectedly, to sit down with them.

The breakfast was admirable, and the neatness of the table appointments quite delighted me. After we had taken our seats, they all sat in motionless silence for the space of one or two minutes, which seemed dreadfully tedious to me, I was so impatient to begin, and then, at a sign from the old gentleman, they all began to unfold their napkins, and then proceeded very deliberately to the grand business of dispatching the breakfast. I observed that the young man eyed me rather closely, but the young lady seemed to avert her bright hazel eyes from me on purpose.

Nothing could exceed the kindness of these good people; it was so quiet, so hearty, and so free from ceremony, that I was quite enchanted; and, then, the breakfast was so good, and my appetite so keen, that I really thought I had never before known what it was to sit down at a well furnished table. Not many words were spoken, but they were all soft, gentle and persuasive. Rachel Goodwill's words flowed as smoothly from her lips, as the rich cream which she poured from a silver cup into my coffee, and the looks of Desire were as sweet as the new honey which she helped me to from a china dish, of snowy purity; as for the old gentleman, he was not one of those persons of whom it is said that butter will not melt in their mouths, for the mild warmth of his manner would have melted a rock. He was continually jogging Wilson to re-fill my plate with a very delicate species of food, which I tasted then for the first time, called flannel cakes; and that plump-cheeked, bright-eyed young Friend seemed to take peculiar pleasure in responding to his father's hints, looking slily into my face and saying:

"Sarah, wilt thou take some more of the flannels?" And once he said, as if by mistake, "Shall I change thy flannel——I mean thy plate, Sarah?" And, at the same time, the wicked rogue trod so hard upon my toes, as to cause me to start involuntarily. But he looked so demurely that neither his father or mother seemed to suspect anything wrong. After breakfast, this good old gentleman and his son Wilson, left the house to go down town to their business, which was that of commission merchants, they were agents of some calico manufacturers in Rhode Island and Pennsylvania.

And now I had to undergo a harder trial, and tax my inventive powers more severely than I had ever done before; for Rachel Goodwill sent for one of her neighbors, noted for her literary abilities as well as her benevolence, and taking me into a private apartment, they advised me to confess to them the whole of my past career, and reveal the name of my undoer. This was something for which I was wholly unprepared, but my blushing and stammering rather helped to deceive these excellent ladies, and greatly increased their pity for me, by convincing them that I was not wholly and irretrievably lost.

"You need not hesitate to tell the name of your lover," said the friend of Mrs. Goodwill, "nor to confess to what extent you have sinned, for it is not our mission to condemn, but to pity and reclaim the erring. It is because that you have loved and erred that we love you, and would do you good. Come, Sarah, raise up your head, poor child, and tell us your griefs. It is no sin to have loved too well. Our sex have suffered too deeply from men, not to make us compassionate those who fall from listening to their wiles."

I could scarcely refrain from laughing to hear myself addressed in this manner, and was forced to cover my face with my pocket handkerchief two or thee times, to conceal my emotions, which they mistook for shame and grief, and only renewed their tender entreaties for me to unburden myself. But I was in doubt as to the best method to pursue, for I found that I should engage their sympathies exactly in proportion to the enormity of my transgressions; but I was unwilling to assume the character of a Magdalen, lest they should think me an unfit inmate of their families, and send me off to some house of reform, where I should not be able to escape detection.

"Thee needn't be ashamed, Sarah," said good Mrs. Goodwill, "our friend here, Sophia Ruby, knows how to pity such as thee."

So, at last, I told them I was as innocent as an angel; that my only fault was having left the kindest of fathers, a clergyman in the country, at the request of a young gentleman who had fallen in love with me, and who had promised to marry me, but that on bringing me to the city, has first tried to accomplish his base purposes, and then left me penniless; and that I was ashamed to return to my father's house.

The ladies were filled with indignation on hearing my story, and begged to be told the name of the villain who had seduced me from my home. I resisted their entreaties for a long while, and at last confessed that it was Mr. Ferocious.

"Ferocious!" exclaimed Mrs. Ruby, "surely, it cannot be Jasper Ferocious, the author of Christopher Cockroach?"

"Yes," I replied, for I thought that this would be a favorable opportunity to repay that remarkable man for his rudeness to me.

"What a monstrous villain!" exclaimed Mrs. Ruby: "I always thought there was some hidden iniquity in the conduct of that wretch. But I have a scheme for punishing him, which I will reveal hereafter. And now, good bye to you, Sarah; remain here quietly with friend Goodwill, and you shall be well cared for."

Mrs. Ruby then pressed my hands warmly between her own, and kissed my cheek, and left us. Friend Goodwill now called in her daughter, Desire, who had probably been listening at the key-hole of the door, to consult with her about procuring me a more becoming suit of clothes than those I had on, for they were greatly scandalized at the excessive gaiety of my apparel. Desire suggested that probably some of her own dresses would fit me, and proposed that I should accompany her to her room and try on some of her brown Cashmere gowns.

"No, Desire," said her mother, "Sarah is larger than thee; thy dresses will not fit her."

"Yes, mother," insisted Desire, "I know they will; at least let her come and try them on." And she took my hand and tried gently to compel me to follow her.

"Come, Sarah," she said, "I am sure I can fit thee exactly; come with me to my room, while my mother is preparing the dinner."

But I would not go with Desire, and begged that they would allow me the liberty of lying upon the sofa until dinner, as I was weary and sleepy. But still Desire insisted that I should lie upon her bed, and still I insisted that I would not, and at last her mother told her it was rude and wicked to wish to force me against my will; so they left me at last, and I was rejoiced to be once more alone.

Dear Desire! what a precious girl she was! So loving! so good, and so innocent! I had never before seen such a perfect assemblage of all the elements of beauty, as were met in her. It was not hyperbolical to call her teeth pearls, for I am sure that I never saw any pearls that were worthy of being compared with them; and as for her lips and cheeks, I would like to see the cherries and roses that would not lose their beauty by being placed by the side of them; and so would the horticultural society, I dare say. Her eyes were incomparable; there was nothing in nature to which they could be likened; they were a dark hazel, bright and dazzling, yet soft and full of tenderness; she had a profusion of rich, brown hair, which was braided plainly, as if to hide its luxuriousness. Her form was perfect and most delicately rounded, and her darling little hand, which I could hardly keep from kissing when she took hold of mine, was the plumpest, sweetest, and most bewitching hand in the whole world. At least I thought so then, and think so now. She was dressed with the most charming simplicity, and her clothes had a becoming grace, as though they had been arranged by the hand of a Phidias. My gaudy apparel looked strangely in the drab-colored parlor of friend Goodwill, and I was rather anxious to cast it off, but still more anxious to assume my proper clothing.

The morning paper was lying on the centre-table, and I took it up and was glancing my eye carelessly over it, when I encountered this advertisement, the reading of which quite prostrated me.

"Information wanted, of a young man, who has called himself at different times, Tom Pepper, Bedford Horton, and Eustace St. Hugh. He is supposed to be about seventeen years of age, has a fair complexion, light hair, and grey eyes. A handsome reward will be paid to any one who will give any accurate information respecting him, or his family, or respecting his present place of residence. Application to be made to Jasper Ferocious, Pine street."

There could no longer be any doubt that Mr. Bassett and Captain St. Hugh were determined to ferret me out, and expose my deceptions, and they had employed my old enemy, Mr. Ferocious, to aid them. But I was most fortunately placed in a situation to defy them. Instead of looking upon myself as the most unlucky of human beings, I esteemed myself the most fortunate, in having been so strangely placed in a situation where detection was impossible. As distasteful as it was to me to dress in women's clothes, I now resolved not to abandon them until some better disguise should be offered to me; and, after dinner, I selected a dress from the wardrobe of Desire, and accepted of some other articles from her mother, which completely transformed me from a dashing lady of fashion, to a sedate and modest Quakeress. Desire's dress was, in truth too small for me, and I felt myself so pinched up, that I could hardly move in it, but she and her mother congratulated me on my improved appearance, and when her father and brother came home at night, they laughed heartily at the change, but said that I was greatly improved. When they learned from the lips of the old lady the story which I had told her, they expressed great compassion for me, and Wilson threatened to go immediately in pursuit of Mr. Ferocious to punish him for his villainy, but was restrained by his father, who reproved him for his wrathful feelings. But as he was prevented from showing his anger towards Mr. Ferocious, he contented himself with showing a greater degree of good feeling for me than he had done, and was so amiable and tender that I was forced to keep my eyes continually bent down to avoid his glances. When bed-time came, there was quite a strife between Desire and her mother, and Wilson, as to where I should sleep. The only spare bed-room happened to be a small closet adjoining the chamber occupied by Wilson, and both friend Goodwill and his wife, Rachel, said that, considering all things, they thought it would be better that I should sleep with Desire.

"Yes, Sarah," said Desire, looking kindly in my face, "thou must sleep with me, and thou shall tell me about thy father and mother, and sisters in the country."

I thanked Desire, and said that I would prefer sleeping alone, for I had always slept alone at home.

"Yes, sister," said Wilson, "thou must not insist on Sarah's doing anything against her will. If we are going to offer her a home, let it be a home and not a prison to her. I think, mother, that she had better occupy the little room adjoining mine. There is a lock upon the door, and if she should be frightened in the night we can all hear her."

"Wilson," said the old gentleman, "thou must allow thy mother to know best. Sarah must sleep with Design, to-night, at least, and to-morrow we must examine the lock upon the door of the little room. Has thee any choice thyself, Sarah?"

"Yes," I replied, "I would prefer sleeping alone."

"There, father," said Wilson "thou hears what Sarah says. She must sleep alone. Stick to it, Sarah. It is only a whim of father's wanting thee to sleep with Desire. I think, father, thee must allow Sarah the privilege of doing as she likes. Poor child! she will have to suffer hardships enough in the world; and I think she will hardly wish to remain with us if we tyrannize over her instead of controlling her by love, as Sophia Ruby advised, thee knows."

"Perhaps Wilson is right," said his mother; "there is nothing to fear from robbers, in the house, and if Sarah prefers sleeping alone to sleeping with Desire, we will not constrain her."

"Yes, mother," said Wilson, rubbing his hands, "that is it; thee is right. It is just what Sophia Ruby would advise, I am sure."

"Well," said the old gentleman, "I will yield."

"There, there, Sarah!" said Wilson, taking my hand and looking tenderly in my face, "thou hears what father says. Thou shalt have thy own way, and no constraint shall be put upon thy actions."

"But," said the old gentleman, "Sarah must occupy Desire's room, and Desire shall sleep in the little chamber adjoining Wilson's; and, then, if either should be alarmed at anything in the night, she can call to us, and we shall hear."

"Yes, Yes," said Wilson, "that is very thoughtful in thee, father; very much so. Thou sees, Sarah, how much regard my father has for thee."

I was greatly relieved by this arrangement, for I had determined, if they persisted in my sleeping with Desire, to leave the house. The evening being now well advanced, friend Goodwill said we had better all retire, for which I felt very thankful, and having said good night to them all, Desire took a candle and conducted me to the chamber which I was to occupy, and having furnished me with a night-cap, and kissed me, she withdrew and left me alone. I was too weary to delay undressing, and after disrobing myself and locking the door, I leaped into bed and fell at once into a profound sleep, from which I was aroused about midnight by a noise at my door. It was very plain that somebody was trying to unlock it.

"Who's there?" I called, at the same time springing out of bed.

"Hush! hush!" said a voice at the key-hole, which I recognized as belonging to the rogue Wilson.

"I am frightened!" I said "I will call out for friend Goodwill!"

"Silence, it is I," said Wilson. "Open the door if thee is frightened."

"No, no, I will call to your father, if you do not go away," I said.

"Thee needn't, Sarah, I am going. Lie still. I thought thou might be in want of something, and so I called; but don't say anything about it. If thou shouldst want come water, there is the Croton in the hall."

So the hospitable young gentleman withdrew himself, and I fell asleep again, and lay undisturbed until the sound of the breakfast-bell woke me in the morning.

A FISH out of water is a melancholy spectacle, unless, indeed, it happen to be served up with butter and parsley, or with oyster sauce, and then it can hardly be said to be out of its element. But no fish floundering on a dry beach, or gasping in a basket, ever felt itself more completely out of its proper sphere than I did in friend Goodwill's house, dressed in the habiliments of a woman, and compelled to conform to the prim manner of that exemplary household. I was in continued fear of exposure from the attentions both of the roguish Wilson, and the affectionate, tender-hearted Desire. The brother had the audacity to put his arm around my neck and attempt to kiss me, as I was passing through the hall, and his sister, feeling herself under no restraint, hung about me in a manner quite distracting. Then, the old lady read me lessons on propriety of conduct, and the old gentleman hinted to me that it was necessary that I should find some kind of employment by which I might earn my living; and Sophia Ruby called in to talk to me about the importance of cultivating the affections and tormented me to the last degree of endurance, by questioning me as to the means employed by Mr. Ferocious to induce me to leave my father's house. Poor Mr. Ferocious! I believe that Mrs. Ruby entertains to this day the opinion that he was a dreadful reprobate. But for my own part, I am willing to confess that I never saw anything in his conduct to lead me to believe that he was not as chaste as Adonis. Although I was treated with the greatest kindness by these benevolent people, yet, knowing myself to be entirely unworthy of the least regard from them, I could hardly enjoy their well-meant attentions. But the Irish servants in the kitchen showed the greatest contempt for me, and refused to wait upon me, even when they were required to do so by the mistress of the house. This, however, I have always found to be the case, that the lower you descend in the scale of refinement, the more intolerant the people become towards transgressors, and so it has always been, as Christ forgave the wretched woman whom his followers would have stoned to death. The Goodwills and Mrs. Ruby were people of the highest education, and most blameless lives, yet, believing me to be a guilty woman, they felt themselves bound to imitate the example of their Great Master, and by kindness and forgiveness, to entice me back to the ways of virtue. If I had been the wretch they thought me, I should have abandoned my wicked ways and tried to become worthy of their esteem, as my misfortunes would have rendered me an object worthy of their love.

Mrs. Ruby was not a Quaker in her habits; on the contrary, she loved all the beautiful objects in the world, which the people of that unnatural sect make it a part of their religion to despise. She talked continually about the beautiful, and surrounded herself with everything that was pleasing in nature or art; she loved birds, flowers, pictures, music, children, poetry and rainbows. She was not fastidious in her tastes, but admired everything that was beautiful, for the sake of its beauty. Thus, a handsome man and a handsome woman was as much an object of innocent admiration to her, as hyacinths or mocking-birds. It was her religion to worship the Beautiful, and she saw in its endless developments and forms, the Spirit of the Ruler of the Universe, and as nature had not given her a form of perfect beauty, she felt herself bound to make up her natural deficiencies by all the means in her power, that she, as a part of the universe, might not produce a discord in the sublime harmony of beauty which pervaded it. All these things she told me, or I should not have known them, for they sounded to me like down right atheism. To imbue my mind with a love for the beautiful in art and morals, she invited me to go with her to her house, which was but a short distance from the house of friend Goodwill. It was but a small house, but it was furnished in what seemed to me a style of great magnificence. The walls were covered with pictures, chiefly of beautiful saints, copied from Raffaelle, Guido, Corregio and Titian. They were very bad copies, I have no doubt, but I didn't know it, and she believed that the greater part of them were undoubted originals. Then she had a vast quantity of pink conch shells, and birds, in gilt cages, and gold fish, in glass vases, and peacock's tails, and geraniums, and other plants, in pretty china pots. After showing me all her beautiful things, and telling me their history, and their correspondences in the moral world, she invited me into her dressing-room, which I called her boudoir; and was checked for it, because she thought it wrong to speak a foreign language. According to her theory, language should be a natural development of the soul, and it was violating nature for an American soul to utter itself in French words. This I thought a very rational theory, but I couldn't avoid thinking that Mrs. Ruby was shockingly inconsistent in her philosophy, when I saw her take out a small pot of liquid rouge, and begin to mend her complexion with it. For, if French words were unbecoming to an American soul, surely a French complexion was very far from being proper for an American face. But I did not think myself under any obligations to say exactly what I thought, and Mrs. Ruby went on talking about the beautiful, and patching up her complexion here and there; after which, she began to put some coloring liquid upon her hair, which was a bright purple when the light fell upon it.

"As for you, Sarah," said Mrs. Ruby, "you are not compelled to aid nature in making yourself beautiful, because you are beautiful already. But I suppose you do not think so of me?"

"Indeed, I think you are very beautiful;" I replied, for I saw that she wished me to say so; "and I am sure that your figure is much better than mine."

"Do you really think so, Sarah?" she said. "But you are such an impulsive creature, you say anything."

"Anything that I think, I say, of course," I replied.

"You are a mere child of nature, I see," said Mrs. Ruby, "and you really think me beautiful? Well, Sarah, I was beautiful once, but I am not so now, I know. You may think so, and therefore I am so, to you, as every mother is beautiful to her child. But I am not so vain as to think that I am beautiful now, merely because you tell me so. Young people have an instinctive love for the beautiful, as bees have for flowers which contain honey, but they are not analytical in their tastes; they love things without knowing or caring why, and think that all is beautiful that they do love. Now, you may love me, Sarah, because I have been kind to you and praised you, and therefore think that I am beautiful; but you could not tell why you think so;" all the time she was looking in the glass, and arranging her hair, and after awhile, having satisfied herself, she put on her hat and shawl, and we walked back to friend Goodwill's, where she stayed to dinner.

While we sat at dinner, a carriage stopped at the door, and Wilson and his father came in, bringing another subject with them, a lady rather more unfortunate than myself, and, of course, more deserving of the love and tender affections of these good people, who graduated their compassion to the miseries of their proteges, and ceased to have any regard for them the moment they were in a condition to contribute to their own happiness. Thus, their affection for me had sensibly diminished since they had discovered that I was not entirely ruined, and if they had known the truth respecting me, I fear that they would have had but a very small amount of love to bestow upon me, and I am quite sure that the feelings of the ardent Wilson would have undergone considerable change. The arrival of the last subject of benevolent sympathy excited the liveliest emotions of pity and commiseration. She was a young woman, well formed, sprightly and neatly dressed, with large gold rings in her ears, and a Madras handkerchief tastefully tied upon her head, in the place of a cap or bonnet; she had woolly hair, and her complexion was a very dark bronze.

"Here is another subject, mother," said Wilson, as he exultingly handed in the new comer, "that we have plucked from slavery."

"Who is the wretch that claims this poor creature as his property?" said Sophia Ruby; rising and offering the negress her seat.

"Thee needn't inquire too particularly, Sophia," said the old gentleman, as he took off his hat and smoothed down his hair over his forehead; "he is a friend of ours, a customer from Louisiana, who arrived in the city last night, on his way to the South. He mentioned to me his fears that somebody might entice away his wench, and I thought it would be as well to put an end to his apprehensions at once, as he appeared to be uneasy in his mind."

"Thee sees, Sophia," said Wilson, rubbing his hands and smiling very quietly, "that father is more benevolent than I should have been, for I proposed not to take her until to-morrow, that our friend might enjoy his misery as long as convenient. However, I hope he won't hang himself to-night, for there's a small balance still due from him on the ledger."

Mrs. Ruby and Desire both laughed at the sly humor of Wilson, but Mrs. Goodwill having placed another plate upon the table, said to the negress, "What is thy name friend?"

"Phillis, madame," she replied, with a slight French accent.

"Phillis, wilt thou eat some dinner? Come, sit down at the table, thou art among friends; there is nothing to fear," said the old lady.

But Phillis evidently thought there was abundant cause to fear, and she kept casting uneasy glances towards the door, and when she sat down at the table, was unable to eat anything, for the tears kept falling from her eyes, and at last she withdrew from the table, and fairly wept aloud.

"Poor creature!" said Desire, "how I pity thee!"

"She will soon get over it, daughter," said friend Goodwill, who was now eating his dinner; "it always affects them that way at first."

"Yes," said Mrs. Ruby, "the transition from slavery to freedom is so sudden, and the change is so great, that we cannot wonder at the feelings of these unsophisticated children of the sun."

"Yes, Sophia," chimed in Wilson, suspending his fork between his plate and his mouth, while he spoke, "think how thou wouldst feel suddenly transposed from freedom to slavery; it's the change that makes the feeling, and I dare say thou wouldst bellow, too."

"Thee must not cry, Phillis," said Desire, in her sweet, persuasive tone; "thou wilt be better cared for here than thou wouldst have been in Louisiana. Here thou wilt enjoy thy freedom, and thy time will be thy own."

"There are more objects of the beautiful here than in the South," said Mrs. Ruby, "and when your taste becomes developed, you will find more to sympathize with; your capacity for enjoyment will be greater, and the circle of your over-soul will be enlarged. You may go with me to my rooms, and I will show you many works of the beautiful in art. We have no mocking-birds in our fields, as you have at the South, and the blossoms of the magnolia are neither so large nor so highly perfumed as they are in your forests. But we have many beautiful flowers, and delicious singing birds, which you will learn to love in time; for everything that is beautiful is alike worthy of our love."

But in spite of these encouraging prospects, Phillis continued to sob, and seemed to have made up her mind not to be comforted for the present.

"This is getting to be rather distressing," said the old gentleman, who could not enjoy his dinner with such an accompaniment to the music of his knife and fork, "what is the matter with thee, Phillis; art thou afraid of being sent back to thy master?"

"No, massa," sobbed the wench.

"Then why do you cry?" said Mrs. Ruby, "or are these tears of gratitude at being restored to your freedom, and all your natural rights?"

"Perhaps," said Desire, "she has left behind her some friend to whom she was attached. Is it so, Phillis?"

"No, missus, dat's not it," she sobbed.

"The poor creature may be too conscientious to desert her master," said the old lady.

"Well, if she is, I am too conscientious to allow her to go back," said Wilson. "I am rather inclined to the belief that her master will hang himself to-night, and if he does, the firm of Goodwill & Son will lose some hundreds of dollars. Come, Phillis, what does ail thee? These friends are rather anxious to know. I care nothing about it myself."

"Missus promised to buy me a shawl to-day," said Phillis, bursting out a-fresh.

"And you are crying for the loss of it?" said Mrs. Ruby; "it is a hopeful sign of her love for the beautiful."

"Where is thy scarlet abomination, Sarah?" said Wilson.

I was very glad to have an opportunity of assisting these benevolent people, and ran and brought the scarlet crape shawl in which I had been taken, and threw it over the shoulders of the weeping Phillis, whose grief was immediately changed to a transport of joy. Friend Goodwill was greatly scandalized at this exhibition of levity by the escaped slave, who showed herself so incapable of appreciating the great blessing which had been conferred upon her. But Mrs. Ruby said it was a very gratifying development of the natural love of the beautiful.

"Thou art right" said the old gentleman; "why should not Phillis be true to the impulses of her sex? Here is Sarah, who probably would have lost more than her freedom for a red shawl, and men every day peril their happiness for gew-gaws as trifling. There is always a red shawl in the way, to draw men, as well as women, from the important concerns of life. We must not laugh at Phillis, for we all have some trifle to seduce us from duty."

The old gentleman and his son left the house soon after, and Phillis was locked up in an upper chamber lest she should be discovered. Sophia Ruby returned home, and when Wilson and his father came back, we learned that it had been arranged for the former to go off with the escaped slave, in the morning, to some place in the country where an asylum had been established for such subjects. But when bed time arrived the difficulties of the night before, in respect to sleeping, were renewed, only they were now more embarrassing than ever; for it was determined that I should sleep either with Phillis or Desire; or else that Desire and Phillis should sleep together. For my part, I plumply refused to consent to the arrangement respecting myself, and Desire as plumply refused to sleep with Phillis.

The old gentleman said that he thought I was more precise than wise, and Desire, dear girl! with her sweet, persuasive voice, good naturedly reproached me for my obstinacy.

"If thou wilt not sleep with my daughter, Desire," said the old lady to me, "thou must go and sleep with Sophia Ruby; her husband is not at home, and Wilson shall walk with thee to her house, for it is getting late."

"No, mother," said Wilson, "we must not treat Sarah so inhumanly as to turn her out of doors at midnight. Sarah, thou shalt not be used in that manner; I will give thee my own room, and lie upon the parlor sofa." The rogue pressed my hand warmly, and, looking into my face, added: "thou must not give way to my sister's whims."

I was too much rejoiced at this offer to make any objections to it, and it was at last arranged that I should sleep in Wilson's room, while he occupied the sofa in the parlor. Before retiring for the night, friend Goodwill whispered in my ear and told me to be careful and see that my door was locked and well secured, "for," he said, "there have been robberies committed in the neighborhood, and if thou hears any noise, scream with all thy might and alarm the house."

There was no need to give me this advice, for I had already resolved to alarm the house if I should hear a mouse stirring. But it so happened that I slept quietly through the night, and awoke at daylight, greatly refreshed; so much so, in fact, that I longed to be at liberty again, and as I looked at my drab-gown, lying upon the floor, I felt such a disgust for womanly apparel, that I resolved never to put it on again. It would be impossible to keep my secret much longer, for the symptoms of a beard were already apparent on my chin, and my voice was growing rough and hard. A clothes-press in the room stood partly open, and I saw that it contained a good many clothes, which I took the liberty of inspecting, and found they were articles which I stood most in need of. The only objection that I had to them, was that they were all cut in the Quaker fashion. It was the wardrobe of the rogue Wilson, and I soon equipped myself in a complete suit of drab-colored clothes; the coat was cut extremely plain, and fitted me exactly; the drawers of his bureau being unlocked, I selected a fine shirt and a white cravat, and when I was completely dressed I was so entirely changed in appearance, that I should not have known myself in a mirror. It was early in the morning, and opening my chamber door, I listened, but could hear no one stirring. I stepped softly but quickly down the stairs, and finding Wilson's broad-brim hanging in the hall, clapped it on my head, and the next moment I was in the street.

IN my anxiety to get free from women's clothes, it had never once occurred to me that I had not a shilling in the world to pay for a dinner, until, as I happened to pass a barber's shop, I remembered that my long hair would not correspond with my Quaker dress and I stepped in for the purpose of getting it cut, and suddenly remembered that I had nothing to pay the barber with. As the morning was chilly, the air bracing, and the walk I had already taken was rather long, with the recollection of my want of money, came a demand from the gastric juices of my system for something to feed upon. The love of money is, unquestionably, the root of evil, but the want of it is evil itself. The law should make some distinction between the penniless wretch who robs to satisfy the demands of his appetite, and the wealthy rogue who wrongs his neighbor to satisfy the cravings of avarice. But, as to that, the law does make a distinction, and visits the crime of the starving wretch with the hardest punishment. There are certain philanthropic fanatics in the world, who are trying to reorganize society, and so arrange human affairs, that no man shall suffer for the means of living, who may consider life worth preserving. Such a proposition is hooted at by the rich and well-to-do, who denounce it as atheistical and anti-Christian; in proof of which they quote the saying of Christ, "The poor ye have with you always;" arguing therefrom that an attempt to banish poverty from the world, would be flying in the face of Scripture. I do not remember to have seen any better reason than this, for denouncing the fanatics who claim that those to whom God has given life have a right to live; and that the constitution guaranties to every one living under it equal privileges. A man who has never known what it is to want; who has never been placed in the midst of a populous and wealthy city, without a penny in his pocket, and with heaps of money and stores of luxuries all around him, can ever fully conceive the real meaning of poverty. In the forest, on the ocean, or by the sea-side, one cannot experience that feeling of destitution which want produces in the midst of a city, because there is no one to forbid the taking of whatever may be caught: there are nuts in the forest, though they may be but acorns; there are shell fish on the sea-shore, and there are waifs on the ocean, which may be enjoyed without danger of a prison. But the city affords nothing to the stranger in want; everything there has an owner: a straw cannot be picked up in the street without peril; whatever you may have, you will be allowed to keep, but you must not touch anything you see, let your necessities be what they may. In a large city it must often happen that some unlucky victim of circumstances will be destitute of the means of sustaining life. His wants are immediate and pressing. He goes into the streets and wanders through a maze of superfluous wealth, yet cannot touch even a grain of corn. If he were drowning, a thousand men would jump to rescue him, but if he is starving, not a hand will be extended to aid him; his rags excite no sympathy, his hungry looks bring him no bread. Society, which has monopolized all the wealth, makes no provision for him; the law does not recognize the man in need. If he were dead, he would be an object worth caring for; society would provide him a shroud and a grave; but living, she does not recognize him. The law being framed by men who have never known want themselves, they have made no provision for such a phenomenon. There are no convent gates to which he may apply for relief; the churches only supply spiritual food, and the injunction of the Master, "Feed my lambs," is interpreted "preach to them." You may have a Bible for the asking, and tracts without demanding them, but you can apply nowhere for bread. All the philanthropy of the age, all the Protestantism, all the missionaries and Bibles, all the reforms, and battles with might for right, end at last in this,—that a human being without money, if placed in the midst of a large city, has but two alternatives before him—either to starve or to steal. A few starve, but a good many steal, and a tenth part of the cost of putting the thieves into prison, and the dead into graves, would supply an asylum which would have kept these wretches alive and honest.

As philanthropy is fashionable, and every man without a fortune a reformer, it will not be out of place if I suggest a plan for keeping men from starving and stealing. Let the city erect a house proportionate to its size, or two or three of them in different parts of it, in which various branches of industry shall be established; let it be called by some name which does not imply disgrace, as the City Hotel, the Public Restaurant, or anything but a poor house; let it be always open, and when any man, woman, or child applies for food or shelter, let it be supplied, and be paid for in labor, so that the city shall lose nothing, and the person relieved shall suffer no degradation from eating the bread of the pauper. If such an establishment existed in the cities of the Union, there would be fewer calls for coroner's inquests, and less call for a day and night police.

A boy of seventeen, in full health, and who had never suffered from actual want, was not likely to be troubled with many thoughts about the duties of society, but distress quickens the perception wonderfully, and even while I stood in the barber's shop, thinking of the consequences of having neither money nor employment, a plan, something like the above, suggested itself to me; but I did not think long enough about it to invent any details, for, putting both hands into my coat pockets, as if to feel for my pocket-book, which I was going to pretend I had left at home, my right hand fell upon a little wallet, which, upon examination, I found contained fifteen dollars in bank bills. My heart bounded at the sight; but the next moment I blushed at the thought of keeping what did not belong to me. However, I persuaded myself to keep the money, and repay it at a more convenient season. Perhaps some very honest, or only passably honest reader, will say that I should have returned the money immediately, and not have left it to the chances and contingencies of life to make restitution at some after time; but all this knew I perfectly well at the time, though having committed one wrong, I was compelled, or thought I was compelled, to commit another to cover it up. Besides, I was greatly in need of the money myself, and Wilson, I knew, could well afford to do without it. So I sat down in the barber's chair, and told him to cut my hair close. The man said it was a pity to out off such beautiful hair, for it hung down upon my shoulders, and curled naturally. But, knowing that it would soon grow out again, I was perfectly willing to be deprived of it, and told him to make use of his scissors at once, for I was in a hurry for my breakfast, or I should go in search of another shop. So the barber cropped my hair close, which altered my appearance very much, and with my Quaker clothes, I do not believe that even Captain St. Hugh would have recognized me. After leaving, the barber's shop I found out a French restaurant, and treated myself to a breakfast of chocolate and an omelet; and, on looking into the morning papers, I again saw myself advertised, and a large reward offered for my discovery. I never once questioned the motives of Mr. Bassett, or Captain St. Hugh, in trying to discover me, for feeling conscious of having deceived them by false representations respecting myself, I thought that they only wanted to find me that they might punish me. But I had taken leave of my former self. I was Tom Pepper no longer, and henceforth I was to become a new man. I did not determine to leave all my former associations without some bitterness of feeling, and a good many struggles. I longed once more to see beautiful little Sylvia Swayne, and her good mother; I had not lost a particle of the love which I had felt for Mr. Bassett and Captain St. Hugh, nor felt the least disposition to be revenged on Mrs. Bassett, or the family of the book-keeper. I could have sat down and wept at the thought of never again seeing any of the good friends who had shown me a kindness, and for whom I found that I entertained a warmer affection than I had suspected. The tender, hazel-eyed Desire, the good hearted lover of the beautiful, Mrs. Ruby, the bewitching Sylvia, and even the mild-spoken and grand-motherly friend Goodwill, were all endeared to me, but I could never see them again. The past was a dream to me. I had, by my own folly, deprived myself of all the advantages which fortune had bestowed upon me. But it was some consolation to me to reflect, that no one but myself suffered from my wrong doing. At least, I consoled myself with such a thought, for I did not then know that wickedness is twice cursed, and that there are no solitary sufferers from falsehood. Mr. Bassett had taught me that every transgression of God's law will surely meet its due punishment; but he had not told me that the innocent must suffer from the sins of the guilty. This I learned afterwards to my great sorrow. I vainly imagined that because I had intended no harm to any one, that none would be would be suffered by my deceits, and I said, "Well, if I have lied, I am the only sufferer." I now saw very plainly that all my trouble had come to me from neglecting to speak the truth always, and upon all occasions. I little dreamed, when I gave a false name to Captain St. Hugh, that so trifling a deviation from the truth would bring such a heavy punishment. But I was now convinced that falsehood in any degree could not be tampered with, and I vowed to myself that I would never again be guilty of practicing a deception. I was still young enough to begin the world truthfully, and establish a character for veracity, and as I now knew all the benefits of candor and all the evils of deceit, I could have no excuse for falsehood or double dealing.

But before I could begin to be anybody, it was necessary to determine who I was. I had assumed so many characters, that I was rather puzzled to know which one of right belonged to me, particularly when looked into the mirror opposite to the table where I sat, and saw my Quaker clothes and close-cropped hair. It was so long since I had been Tom Pepper, that I had forfeited all claim to the name and character of that unfortunate boy; besides, the name of Tom Pepper was only bestowed upon me for temporary purposes, until I could learn the name of my father, to which I was properly entitled. As for the name of Eustace St. Hugh, although it had been bestowed upon me by a blow from a sword, it was clearly not mine by right, and I resolved not to claim it again: my last name, of Sarah Martin, was of course out of the question. So I stood alone in the world, without name or connection, like Adam when he woke into being, from a state of non-existence, and found himself a mature man in his infancy. But I had this advantage of Adam, I knew something of the world, and I had a good suit of clothes. My past life was a dream, which I resolved to forget as soon as possible, and that I might begin at once to be somebody else, it was necessary that I should christen myself with a new name. I was not very fastidious, and soon determined upon one that would fit the initials with which my clothes were all marked—W. G.

To prevent the difficulty which I had experienced with Captain St. Hugh, from calling myself a Bostonian, I resolved that I would be an Englishman, and as I had learned from him a good many particulars about Lancashire, and Blackmere, I fixed upon that part of England as my birth place. My name should be Walter Grimshaw, which sounded foreign, and this I resolved to stick to through thick and thin.

My next object was to find some kind of employment, and now I felt the inconveniences of not being bred to a trade. I could do nothing that was useful, and was entirely at a loss where to look for occupation, but unless I did look it was very certain that I should not find any. So I first examined the morning papers, but not with much hope of seeing an advertisement for a young gentleman who was not qualified for anything in particular, which was fortunate for me, because I was not so much disappointed at not seeing such a one. I found one advertisement which almost suited me; it was for a partner with a cash capital of fifty dollars. But that was considerably above my mark, and I thought that I had lost a very favorable opportunity for commencing business for the lack of a few dollars. There was no thing for me now but to seek employment wherever I could find it; the restaurant at which I had breakfasted being in the neighborhood of Wall street, I went into that busy mart with a vague expectation that somebody might make me a present of a few hundred dollars, or invite me to accept a situation in an office where the duties were light and the pay large, or propose to take me into partnership in some profitable business. But all such wild expectations soon vanished when I saw how intensely interested every man seemed to be in his own affairs, and how little notice anybody bestowed upon me. In a walk through the woods, I always encountered something to notice me; the squirrels would eye me with curiosity when they were out of my reach, and the ground moles would run from me as they heard the tread of my feet among the dry leaves; but here the crowd rushed by me without recognizing me. I was no more to them than a stick or a stone. But the bustle of the street was infectious, and I hurried along with the rushing crowd as though I too had a mission to discharge, a note at bank to pay, or a bill to collect, or a deposit to make, or differences to settle. I had enough to do in truth, for I had employment to find, a character to establish, and a fortune to make. But how to accomplish these things I knew not. In the innocency of my heart I went into two or three banks and asked if they wanted to hire anybody to count money, for it struck me that I should be quite equal to such employment as that. But I met with no encouragement from the men to whom I applied. Then I asked for employment in a money broker's office, and in an insurance office; at last I stepped into a very small, and very dark office, in the basement of a high building, and without knowing or caring what the business might be which the occupant followed, I asked boldly if he wanted an assistant.

"An assistant!" exclaimed a gruff voice, "pray, in what manner do you propose to assist me?"

The voice came from an elderly looking man with an immense head, who sat at a little desk writing. But it was so dark that I could not readily distinguish him, until I had been some minutes in his presence. He was the sole occupant of the office, which was dusty, cramped up, and poorly furnished. There were only three rickety old chairs, and a little pine desk, besides the desk and the chair which the old man occupied. There were stains of ink on the wall, and cobwebs in the window, and dust on everything. The old gentleman seemed to be a part of the furniture of the office, for he was dusty, slouchy, and apparently out of order. He was a large framed man, with shoulders like a giant, and a monstrously large head, which appeared the larger from his wearing a very rough, foxy-looking wig. He was dressed in a blue coat, which hung loosely about him, and he wore a white cambric cravat, tied in a crooked knot, which he had contrived to slip under his right ear. He had a broad, hard-looking face, which was not much improved by a stream of tobacco juice which ran from both corners of his wide mouth. His appearance made a strong impression upon me, because it was so widely different from anything that I had seen in the street. Everybody there looked jaunty, precise and fashionable; but this old fellow might have passed for a hermit in some secluded dell, so serious was he in his countenance, so solemn in his voice, and so careless in his habiliments.

"Indeed, I don't know in what manner I can assist you," I replied.

"Then how can I know whether or not I want you," he said.

Emboldened by this reply, I said, "Perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say that it was I who wanted assistance."

"Ha! what do you want?" he said, looking sternly at me, with his mouth half open, while a small rill of tobacco juice trickled from the corner of his mouth.

"I want employment by which I can earn my living," I replied.

"Are you good for anything?" he asked.

"Try me, and see," I replied.

"Take this letter to the Post Office" he said, reaching me a package, "and let me see how long you are about it."

I caught the letter and ran with it. I had never been at the Post Office, and didn't know where to find it, but I enquired the way, and as soon as I had dropped the letter into the box hurried back to the little dusty office.

"So you are good for something; you can run, it seems," growled the old fellow as I re-entered.

"Where did you come from?"

"England," I replied.

"Oh, ho!" said the monster, lifting up his head and taking a look at me, which he had not done before, "you are a John Bull, are you? What part of England did you run away from, Yorkshire?"

"No," I replied, "Lancashire."

"Lancashire, ah! Did you ever see a witch there?"

"Never, that I remember," I said.

"You are a Quaker too, ha! Well friend, how old art thou?"

"Eighteen," I replied, for I had determined to be that age.

"And what did you say your name was?"

"Walter Grimshaw."

"Ah! I knew somebody of that name once; he was a Quaker too, and a great rogue he was; he cheated me out of a thousand dollars; but I guess you are not a relation of his, you look too honest."

The old gentleman took up a pile of loose papers that lay on his desk, put them in his hat and stood up. He was so tall that he had to stoop as he went out of the door; his whole dress, gait, and speech, harmonized in a marvelous manner. His hat sat loosely on his head, and the rim was turned up behind; his trowsers hung about his heels, and his mouth hung down half open. But notwithstanding his huge, ungainly figure, and the general slovenliness of his making up, he had a pleasant, boyish look in the face; his complexion was fresh, and his face was smoothly shaven. He had pleasant greyish eyes, which were only half seen, for it seemed to be too much trouble for him to keep his eye-lids wide open.

"I am going out for an hour, Walter," he said, "sit down at my desk, and if anybody should come in tell them I shall be back before the banks close."

And without another word being said he went out and closed the door after him.

I felt, at first, rather elevated at this evidence of confidence in my integrity from an entire stranger, but on examining the office more closely, I perceived that I had no great cause to congratulate myself on that score. There was nothing on the premises worth carrying away; an old inkstand, a couple of rusty steel pens, some loose bank checks, and a box of wafers comprised the entire desk furniture of the office. There was nothing even from which I could learn the name of my new employer, but the back of an old check-book, which bore the initials G. G. Neither was there a sign at the door, from which I inferred that he must be somebody too well known to require a sign, or any other notice of his place of business. I had not been seated long before a gentleman came in, with a flushed face, and inquired: "Where's Gilbert?"

"He will be back before the banks close," I replied, and the flushed gentleman darted out again.

So, I had learned one of my employer's names. Gilbert. Presently, another gentleman dashed in, and seeing me at the desk exclaimed: "Where's that old Gilson?"

I replied as before, and the gentleman dashed out again, exclaiming as he went, "Confound him!"

So, I was in a fair way of picking up all the parts of my employer's name. Gilbert Gilson, or Gilson Gilbert, I knew not which. Directly, the door of the office opened, and a round, glossy, and quiet gentleman stepped quietly in, and looking at me, took a pinch of snuff from a tortoise shell box which he held in his hand, and brushing off one or two particles which fell upon his satin vest, he remarked quietly, "So, the old gentleman is not in?" and disappeared again in the same smooth manner in which he had entered.

All these movements were highly interesting to me, and kept my thoughts busy trying to imagine who these men were, and what they could want of old Gilson, and who and what old Gilson himself could be. It was not long after the last gentleman disappeared when another came in, puffing and wiping the sweat from his forehead; reaching me a piece of paper which he held in his hand, he said: "Tell Gil it's no go. Too much shave. Everybody knows it in the street. There'll be an awful smash somewhere. Lord! how hot is!" and then he disappeared. What could he mean by the heat? I was half frozen; there was no fire in the grate, and the office being a subterranean one, it was damp and chilly.

While I sat wondering at the last apparition, there came another who rushed in, holding the door open in hand, and exclaimed: "Tell Gil, Pickings & Company is O. K.," and immediately disappeared.

Scarcely was the door closed than it was opened again, and I recognized a voice which I had heard before.

"So, Mr. Gilson is not in," said the last comer, "it's very strange, very strange. An individual, I name no names, makes an appointment with a certain person, at a particular hour, and when that hour arrives, a certain person calls upon that individual, and he is not to be found. But it would be quite a work of supererogation to demand an explanation of a subordinate of that individual's—I don't mean you, of course. But, sir, if you please, you can inform Mr. Gilbert Gilson that a certain person called upon him according to appointment, and not finding that individual in his office, where he should have been, that person, I name no names, will in future expect Mr. Gilbert Gilson to call at a certain person's office. The name of that person is Jasper Ferocious, but I don't wish you to say anything about it. Keep dark, close, deep." And having uttered these mysterious words, Mr. Ferocious withdrew, leaving me in a cold sweat, lest I should be recognized by him.

After this, there was a dead calm for half an hour, when I heard the voice of my employer in the passage way, uttering brief sentences like these: "I can't! I am hard up! I won't!" To which another voice replied: "You must! I shall be smashed! You must do it, Gil!"

Then the voices ceased, and I heard nothing more; old Gil did not return, and as I listened to the shuffling of feet on the pavement over my head, I kept wondering who and what he was, until my brain was filled with the wildest fantasies respecting him. The tread of feet grew fainter and fainter, no one came near the office, it was getting darker and darker, and the little office grew so dim that I could scarcely distinguish the forms of the old chairs, or see on which side of it the door was. I had just determined to leave the dismal old hole, when I heard a hand on the door; I rose up, expecting to see old Gil enter, but instead, I heard the lock click, and jumping to the door, found it was locked.

Finding myself locked up in a place of which I was already heartily sick, I began to see how I could effect an escape. There was but one window to the office, which opened upon the area in front, which was covered by an iron grating overhead, and escape that way was impossible. I tried, but without success, to force back the bolt of the door, and then called with all my might for somebody to let me out. But nobody came to my assistance. The street, indeed, which so lately had been filled with hurrying crowds, was now as silent as a cemetery. It soon grew dark, and finding that all attempts to escape without breaking open the door, were useless, I resigned myself to my fate, knowing that I should be released in the morning, and comforting myself with the reflection that I should save the expense of a lodging.

"HOLLO!" exclaimed old Gil, as he unlocked the office door the next morning, and started back in alarm as he saw me sitting at his old desk, "how got you there?"

"Didn't you leave me here?" I replied.

"And did I lock you in? and have you been here all night?"

"Of course I have; how could I get out?"

"Haw! haw! haw!" roared the old man. "Well, you are good stuff, Grimshaw. I forgot you. I don't want you, I must confess to you, but I like your patience, and your good nature. But you must be hungry. So, take this money, and go and get yourself a good breakfast at one of the coffee-houses, and then come back to me."

As I was almost famished, and trembling with cold, I caught at the money and ran for the nearest eating-house, and after recruiting myself with a beef steak and some coffee, and refreshing myself with a bath, I returned to the office of old Gil whom I found sitting at his desk with a heap of papers before him, just as I had found him the day before.

"Well, Grimshaw," said the old man, "you want to assist me?"

"Yes," I replied, "I want to assist you for the sake of being assisted myself."

"Well, I like that, Grimshaw; that's honest," said old Gil, looking me in the face; "come, sit down by me, and let me see what you are made of. That's the only principle in Wall street, never to give something for nothing. Everybody don't profess it, but they all strive to act up to it, and such as do not, fail and become poor devils. Always keep that principle in your mind, and act accordingly, and you will be president of a bank one of these days. Never give something for nothing."

"But," said I, "must I reverse the principle, and never take something for which I give nothing?"

"Ah, that's a different matter," said he; "you must always get what you can, and if you can get it for nothing, why, that's all the better. But, be honest, whatever you do, because cheat in play will never prosper."

"I hope I shall never be otherwise," I said.

"I don't believe you will, unless you go into speculations; but that there is no danger of your doing yet awhile. However, it's best to be cautious, Grimshaw; I suppose you have got a recommendation?

I confessed to him that I had none, and could give no references whatever as to my character, and that if he took me into his service at all, he must take me upon trust.

"Well, that's honest, Grimshaw. I don't believe you resemble your namesake, whom I knew, for he was a most shocking liar. You have an honest face and an honest coat; I like the Quakers. Where do you come from?"

"Blackmere, in Lancashire," I said.

"Ah, I remember; Walter Grimshaw, of Blackmere. Well, Walter, I will take you for an assistant in my business, because you are a stranger, and know nothing of the ways of this wicked city; and to keep you out of harm's way, you may come and live in my family. I don't like these boarding-house fellows, and that's the reason why I have had no assistant before. Are you willing to live with me, Grimshaw?"

Of course I was.

"Well, I have got some daughters, but I have got no boys; perhaps you can find some means of amusing yourself at my house. Sit down at my desk and say that I shall be back in an hour, if there should be any calls for me."

He then filled his hat full of papers, and left the office with the ends of his white cravat sticking out from under his right ear, as usual, for he had a very short neck, and his cravat always contrived to slip round, with the knot under his ear. As he never troubled himself to look into a glass, he was quite unconscious of this awkward derangement of his dress, as he was of the two streamlets of tobacco juice which ran down from the corners of his mouth, and sometimes dripped upon his shirt bosom, which usually gaped open, and revealed a red flannel wrapper underneath. He had not been gone a moment when he returned, and said:

"Grimshaw, was there an individual here yesterday, who called himself Ferocious?"

"Yes; and he said if a certain individual wished to see a certain person, he must call at that person's office," I answered.

"He didn't name any names, I suppose," said old Gil.

"No, he particularly said he didn't," I replied.

"He never does; and he called me an individual, did he? Well, I will get the little man in a corner directly," and so saying he again left the office. It was not long before people began to rush in and ask for "old Gil," "the old man," "the old gentleman," "Gilbert," "Mr. Gilson," and half a dozen more different names, by which my employer was called in Wall street. I soon found out the nature of his business, and was inducted into all its mysteries and technicalities. He was a note shaver, besides being a negotiator of paper of all kinds. I found that it was his practice to partially promise to loan as much money as he expected to have at his disposal, and then when his customers should call, contrive to be out of the way until a few minutes before three o'clock, the hour at which the banks close their doors, when he would happen to fall in the way of his distressed customers, who, having no other recourse, were obliged to pay him whatever interest he had the conscience to charge them; and his conscience being regulated altogether by their supposed necessities and ability to pay, he used to deduct a rather heavier rate of interest than the law authorized. In reality, he was an outlaw, and his little office was a real robber's den, where the public were robbed of their earnings as effectually as though they had fallen into the hands of some Fra Diavola among the Appenines. But the law makes its own outlaws. As the custom-house, the priests, the nobility, the protective tariffs, the feudal tenures, the legal church, and the primogeniture of Italy, make their Fra Diavolas and their Rinaldo Rinaldinos, so do our debtor's prisons and usury laws make the Old Gils and outlaws of Wall street. While I remained in the service of Mr. Gilson, a man one day brought a petition into the office, and asked him to sign it.

"What is it for?" said old Gil; "to give everybody a farm and a family?"

"No, it is better than that," said the man; "it is a petition to the Legislature to allow every man equal privileges in striving to get a farm, by repealing the usury laws."

"Take it away! out of my sight with it!" said the old man, working himself into a passion; "do you think I will sign a petition to deprive my children of their bread and butter?"

"Why, sir," replied the man, "if you repeal the usury laws, you will be able to collect the debts which they render null."

"Pooh! pooh!" said old Gil, contemptuously, "if the usury laws were repealed I should have no debts to collect. Do you think I could ever get ten or fifteen per cent. for my money, if the law allowed my customers to pay me exactly what it is worth? No, no; it is the risk of lending at usury which gives me my increase. My debts are now all debts of honor; they are more easy to collect than legal debts. Take your petition away. If you make free trade in money-lending, you will ruin my business."

The next day old Gil returned to his office at the hour appointed, about fifteen minutes before the banks closed, and just in time to relieve the wants of two poor devils of jobbers, who were so excited and nervous that they could hardly speak. But the old usurer knew that they were waiting for him, and kept away from his office on purpose, knowing that a difference of five minutes in time would make a difference to him of at least five per cent. in the interest they would be wiling to pay.

"Good heavens! Gilson," exclaimed one of the jobbers, as the old man came in, "where have you been? I must have a thousand dollars. Here take the collaterals and give me the money. It is almost three o'clock, and my credit will be ruined if I get protested to-day!"

"And how much do you want, Faxon?" said the old man to the other jobber, not seeming to have heard what the first had been saying.

"Double the amount that Dobson wants," replied Faxon, looking at his watch anxiously.

"It's too much. I can't do it. I have drawn too close already," said old Gil, sitting down at his desk.

"You must! You shall!" exclaimed the two jobbers simultaneously.

"Come, Come," said Faxon "I know you can, and you must. Here's security to four times the amount. Be quick! it's almost three!"

"Easy, easy, Faxon," said the old man, as he took the collaterals and looked at their amounts, "there's time enough. Don't get excited. You have got five minutes to spare."

"Gil!" said Dobson, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead, "I am a ruined man if you don't give me a check at once!"

"If I do it I shall be ruined myself," said my employer; "do you think they will take my check at the bank, Grimshaw?"

"I dare say they will," I replied, at a venture.

"Well, if you think so, I will see what I can do," he replied, and taking a couple of checks from his hat, he filled them up and reached them to the jobbers, who immediately darted out of the office without stopping to make any acknowledgments.

"Now, Grimshaw," said the old man, as he stuffed his hat full of the papers which his two customers had left with him, "let us go home and get some dinner; I will take you on trial for a while, and if I find that you understand yourself, you shall have your board, and something for clothes, and pocket money. Come."

I followed him out, and he locked the door and put the key in his pocket. We rode in an omnibus to the upper part of the city, and having landed at Twenty something street, we walked a few blocks until we came to a tall brick house with a granite basement, having a bronzed door, with a broad silver plate upon it, bearing the inscription, GILBERT GILSON, in German text. This was his residence, of course, and I now learned, for the first time, his real name. We entered, and found in the front parlor, a lively-looking young lady, with flaxen ringlets, playing upon a pianoforte; as she kept on playing and singing without regarding us, her father said: "Pauline, don't you see I have a stranger with me?"

"O, father!" she said, turning round, "is it you?"

"Is it I? Of course. And this is friend Grimshaw, from England. This is my daughter, Grimshaw; she is just two years younger than you. I believe you are sixteen, Pauline, or is it your sister Winnifred?"

"I am sixteen," replied the young lady, rising from the pianoforte, and making me a curtsy.

"Sit down, Grimshaw," said old Gil, as he took a seat himself, "my other daughters will be in presently. Where are your mother and sisters, Pauline?"

"I will call them, sir," said Pauline, and ran out of the parlor.

"I have some more daughters, Grimshaw, but I believe I told you that I have no son, excepting two sons-in-law, who live in the next street."

Well, thought I, if they are all as bewitching in their looks as Pauline, how shall I help falling dead in love with them? I wonder how many there are, and what the old gentleman means by "some?" Little Sylvia Swayne was a lovely child, and Desire Goodwill was surpassingly beautiful, but such a perfectly fascinating creature as Pauline I had never dreamed of. She had a round, dimpled face, light blue eyes, flaxen ringlets, and a mouth full of pearly teeth. I could see no more, but I heard her voice, which was sweeter than a bob-o'-link's. Old Gil's parlor was well filled with rosewood chairs and sofas, mahogany tables, large mirrors, and mantel ornaments of ormolu and Sevres china. There was a harp in one corner, and a music-stand filled with music-books; there were two easy-chairs, lined with purple velvet, and the window drapery was of some kind of rich stuff, embroidered with silver flowers. But there were no pictures. This magnificence gave me an extravagant idea of his wealth; but I could not help thinking, as I looked at the rich furniture, that it had been purchased at the expense of such distressed jobbers as Faxon and Dobson, whom he had just left. Old Gil seemed strangely out of place in his his handsome parlor, his huge frame and slovenly dress contrasted oddly with the elegancies and luxuries with which he was surrounded. Directly the door opened, and in ran two charming girls, one about five years, and the other probably a twelve-month older. They began to climb up the old man's knees, and having succeeded, they put their arms around his neck and kissed him.

"You don't love father," said old Gil.

"We do! we do!" said the little creatures, and again put their arms round his neck and kissed him.

"These are my youngest daughters, Grimshaw," said the old man, seating one on each knee. "Agnes is the youngest, and Magdalen is the next. That young man is friend Grimshaw, children; he has come to live with us." The children looked at me curiously, and then began to search the old man's pockets, from which one of them fished up a Seckel pear, and the other a paper of figs.

"Where are your sisters, Agnes?" said the old man.

"They are dressing, because there is a stranger here," replied the little prattler, probably revealing a secret she was charged not to divulge.

"Ah! they will be here directly, Grimshaw," he said. And directly they came in.

"This is my daughter Lizzy," said old Gil, as a tall, sedate girl, with jet black hair, and full, dark eyes, entered. Lizzy smiled graciously upon me as I rose and bowed to her; she was the very opposite of Pauline, but not so old.

"Ah! here's Nancy," said her father; "my daughter, this is Mr. Grimshaw. And this is Matilda, Grimshaw, my oldest daughter. Are you better to-day, daughter?"

"A little, I think," replied the last comer, in a feeble voice, "I am getting better of my cough."

Matilda looked as though she might have been handsome once, but she was very pale and thin, and her tall figure was slightly bent. She walked quietly across the room, and drawing her shawl tightly round her shoulders, sat upon the sofa and began to cough. I saw at a glance that she was far gone in a consumption.

A fine looking woman now came in; she was tall and rather stout, but she looked hardly older than Matilda.

"This is my wife, Grimshaw," said old Gil, and I thought that I perceived something like an air of exultation in his voice as he spoke. "This is the young man I spoke about, my dear, Mr. Grimshaw, from England. Mrs. Gilson is a Lancashire woman herself, Grimshaw."

I trembled to hear it, but felt reassured when she reached me her hand, and said:

"I am glad to see you. It is a great many years since I left Lancashire, but I am happy to see one of my countrymen."

"Where are the other girls?" said old Gil.

What! were there more?

"Here are Maria and Judith, just come home," said Mrs. Gilson, as two more young ladies entered, who were dressed alike, and looked exactly alike. I learned afterwards that they were twins. These last bore a striking resemblance to their father; they were about nineteen, and rather shy in their manners, holding each other by the hand, and seeming afraid of being separated.

These are the last, thought I, as their father presented me to them. But they were not. Maria and Judith had scarcely curtsied to me, when in walked four more, whose ages ranged from ten up to fifteen. They were laughing hoydens, full of life and fun, and their father introduced each to me separately, as Rachel, Charlotte, Caroline and Love.

The clock struck four, and the servant announced dinner.

"Come, Grimshaw, come, children," said the patriarch of the flock, "let us go to dinner."

I offered my arm to the invalid, Matilda, and followed the troop through the hall into the dining-room, which was in a building connected with the house by a narrow passage. The old man looked like a different person at the head of his table, with his large flock seated around him, to what when sitting at his old desk, in his little dusty office.

"Whose turn is it to ask a blessing to-day?" he inquired.

"It's sister Paul's to-day," said little Agnes, "because it was Rachel's yesterday."

"So it is. Implore a blessing, Pauline," said her father.

A blessing on a usurer's dinner! thought I. But when Pauline, with her sweet voice, implored a blessing from on high, the dinner seemed blessed to me; and candor compels me to admit, that the dinner was a blessed good one. Old Gil being an elder in a Presbyterian church, doubtless had sufficient faith in the efficacy of prayer; but to make sure of a blessing on his dinner, he had the good sense to secure the services of a first-rate cook. It was a delight to sit at such a table, with a dozen of youthful and beautiful faces beaming upon you. As I looked at the head of this happy family, and saw him looking so contented with his lot, I could not help contrasting the father with the broker, and wondering how he could undergo so complete a metamorphosis, while riding in an omnibus from Twenty something street to his office.

"Well, Grimshaw," said old Gil to me the next morning, when we reached his office, "do you think you will like to live with me?"

I assured him that nothing could give me greater pleasure.

"You see that I have got a house full of girls, and when my married daughters come home with their husbands and children, we have no great room to spare; but Mrs. Gilson will find a corner for you if you are willing to stay."

"But, how can I serve you, to repay this kindness to me?" I said.

"Don't trouble yourself about that, Grimshaw; I told you before that it is one of my principles not to give something for nothing. I shall get full returns for all you cost me, and more. My business requires a good memory, and a quiet tongue. All you have got to do is to sit and listen, and remember what you hear; some time or other you may be called upon to testify. Then, you can go to the bank for me; but this morning I will give you a different kind of commission to execute, and if you do this well, it will lead to something better."

Old Gil took off his hat, which was his only strong-box, and taking out a bundle of notes he selected some five or six bills, and told me to find out where the makers and endorsers lived, and ask if the signatures were genuine or not, and whether the papers were of a business character, or merely accommodation. He gave me the notes, and with the aid of the Directory, I found the business residences of all whose names appeared upon them, and made the inquiries as directed, and then sat at the old desk and answered questions as before. I learned that my employer was a very famous man in Wall street, and that he was known almost universally by the name of old Gil, very few even spoke of him in any other manner, and only strangers called him Mr. Gilson. I had but one cause of uneasiness, and that was fear of being discovered by Mr. Bassett or Captain St. Hugh. The latter, I had reason to believe, would soon leave the country, and as for Mr. Bassett, I should not then stand much in fear of him, as my altered looks and Quaker garb would be sure to save me from detection. But it was my misfortune to be sorely tried when I had been with old Gil a fortnight; I had not only ingratiated myself with him and his whole family, but Pauline and I had contracted an intimacy which filled me with the most extravagant anticipation of happiness. I was every day growing more satisfied with myself, and had kept so strict a watch over my tongue, that I had not made the slightest deviation from the truth, when, one day my employer reached me a note and told me to find the endorser and see if the signature was genuine. The endorser was Mr. Bassett! I was terribly frightened, but I disguised my feelings as well as I could, and went out of the office. I could not acknowledge to old Gil that I had any objections to calling on Mr. Bassett, for that would excite his suspicions and lead to my detection at once. I saw no other way open for me but to take it for granted that the signature was genuine, and tell old Gil that it was all right. Although I determined to do this, I also determined to make amends for it by increased candor and truthfulness in other things. So, after being absent from the office a sufficient time, I returned, and reaching the note to my employer, told him it was all right. This made me exceedingly unhappy for the next twenty-four hours, for I had no sooner told the falsehood than I began to consider what serious consequences might flow from it, not only to myself but to old Gil. I had never before been guilty of a misrepresentation where the happiness of any one besides myself was concerned. But now I had involved the interests of a second party, and I trembled at the bare thought of the possibilities arising from my wickedness. The note was for three thousand dollars, and I found that my employer had advanced a large sum upon it, on the strength of Mr. Bassett's name. What if it should prove a forgery? I was appalled at the thought, and resolved to confess my fault. But it was too late; the money had been paid, and I should be disgraced by the confession. And now I remembered how easy it would have been for me to have asked one of the clerks in the neighboring offices, with whom I had scraped an acquaintance, to present the note for me; but I had been needlessly wicked, and this thought distressed me more than all. Indeed, in all the wrong I had ever done, nothing grieved me more than to find that I not only gained nothing by it, but that I might have gained more by acting honestly. After having broken my resolution never to be guilty of another deception, I again fortified myself by the strictest watch over my thoughts and tongue, and grew so very candid and truthful, that old Gil twice reproved me for my bluntness. But I was so constantly at my desk, and showed so little desire to be absent from his house of an evening, that he grew very partial to me, and used to praise me for my steadiness and sobriety, always ending his encomiums by saying that I should yet be President of a Bank, for this seemed to be the highest earthly position in old Gil's imagination. But my ambition did not lead in that direction. My fancy had been filled with very different visions than such as a bank-parlor presented. Sitting at the head of a board of directors, and canvassing the standing of grocers and ironmongers, did not appear half so delightful to me as sitting on a green bank, by the side of Pauline, or lording it over the tenants of Blackmere; for although I could never hope to see the castle of the St. Hughs, I could not help nursing the thought of a castle somewhere in the air, in which I should live like a lord.

Pauline and her sisters soon became familiar, and I one day heard Lizzy call me their handsome Quaker. The family of old Gil were all pious, excepting Pauline, who was too full of high spirits and good humor to conform to the strictness of Presbyterian discipline; but she always took her turn in saying grace at meals. She was pious enough for that, and lent her sweet voice to chaunt a hymn every night; for old Gil was very fond of praying, and we had religious exercises nightly, at ten o'clock. Sometimes there would be a considerable dispute as to whose turn it was to ask a blessing upon the dinner, and once old Gil, to settle a controversy between Lizzy and Judith, said to me: "Come, Grimshaw, you shall decide the matter by asking a blessing yourself, and then the girls shall begin afresh."

To my shame I must acknowledge, that I had never invoked a blessing upon my dinner, and was so confused by this unexpected call, that I blushed, but said nothing.

"You forgot that Walter is a Friend, father," said Pauline.

"Ah! and Friends don't ask blessings, unless the spirit moves. I remember how it is; Grimshaw, you shall be excused. But the dinner is getting cold; I will implore the Divine Aid myself to-day, and then you shall begin again, children, from Agnes." So, the old man cleared his throat, and invoked a blessing upon the dinner, for Christ's sake.

I felt very grateful to beautiful Pauline for coming to my aid, and I thought that she blushed when she excused me. Her sisters were all sufficiently kind to me, but Pauline was continually doing or saying some little thing that had a meaning beyond the common civilities of the others. I thought so, at least, and every day discovered some new cause for liking her better and better. They had music every night, and the younger children had games, and some of them read, and some worked, or made-believe work, with Berlin wool and beads. Dancing and cards were forbidden. Mrs. Gilson busied herself about her affairs, and old Gil sat in his rocking-chair, nodding over the money articles of the morning papers.

AS old Gil always carried his business papers in his hat, I had no means of knowing either the extent of his operations, or the exact amount of his capital; but I discovered by accident that he had a secret partner, who furnished him with an almost unlimited amount of money, and shared with him in his usurious profits. This partner was the president of a bank; I shall call him Mr. Barton, but that was not his true name, for it is not my intention to reveal anybody's secrets in the course of my autobiography, besides my own. Mr. Barton being a religious man, like old Gil, and like nearly all other treasurers since the time of Judas, enjoyed a high reputation for sanctity of character and financial ability, in Wall street. The manner in which he aided my employer in his operations was very simple, and as it illustrates in a very striking way the benefits which the modern science of banking confers upon mankind, by promoting commerce, I hope I shall be pardoned for explaining it, as the reputation of no one will be hurt thereby, old Gil and Mr. Barton both having retired from active business, and being entirely unknown to the present Wall street generation.

A bank is simply a society of a few individuals, to whom the Legislature grants the privilege of issuing little pieces of paper as a substitute for gold and silver, on the supposition that they have in their possession as much of the precious metals as their bits of paper represent. The manner in which the banks put their paper into circulation is not by purchasing goods and paying for them in promises to pay, but by exchanging their own paper for the paper of merchants, making the merchants pay a certain rate of interest prescribed by the Legislature. To exceed this rate of interest is called usury, and those who do it, forfeit the whole amount which they loan. This exchange of paper between the bank and the merchants is called discounting, and it is the amount of discount taken by the bank which furnishes the profits to its proprietors, and pays the salaries of its officers. But, as the bank is allowed to issue no greater amount of paper promises than it has gold and silver to redeem with, it is very clear that there could be no profit in its business unless there were some means by which a surplus fund could be produced. This fund is obtained by the voluntary deposits in the bank of money, for safe keeping, by merchants, who expect in return, the favor of a discount, when they need it. These merchants, who deposit their spare funds in the bank, are called dealers, and are supposed to have greater claims on the bank than other borrowers, who do not deposit. It is not to be expected that a bank would issue a greater amount of bills than it had specie to redeem, because that would be committing a fraud upon the public; but banks have been accused of doing so by a certain class of mischievous writers, whose sole aim seems to be the overturning of existing institutions. Some of these meddlesome people direct their feeble spite towards banks, some towards the domestic institution of the South—negro slavery—which, according to an American statesman, is the natural production of a hot climate, as mosquitoes and alligators are; and others are frantic in their exertions to re-model the wise ordinances of the law. But it fortunately happens that every institution which enables people to live out of the labors of others, can always afford to pay for its defense, and therefore there is no danger that any will be abolished while they yield a fair profit to those belonging to them. All the insinuations and charges, therefore, that have been made against banking institutions, have had no more effect upon these admirable contrivances, than the manœuvres of the valiant Commodore Conner have had upon the Castle of San Juan d'Ullos. They stand firm and immoveable, because they are profitable to those who manage them, and the people preserve them with a kind of superstitious feeling, as though they were conservators of the welfare of the nation. The bank of which Mr. Barton was the president, had been chartered by the Legislature for the express purpose of aiding mechanics in their business, and the more fully to carry out the design of the Legislature, the directors had caused an elegant gilt sledge-hammer to be suspended over the door of the banking-house, enclosed in a wreath of myrtle. But I have been told that this laudable design of the legislators who chartered the bank, was never seconded in any other manner, and that the funds of the bank, or rather of its depositors, were used chiefly by stock-jobbers and speculators. But I know nothing of its affairs, excepting in the dealings of its president with old Gil. Mr. Barton was the opposite of my employer in everything but religion and finance, and in these particulars they were so much alike, that they never had any differences of opinion, but seemed to understand each other's thoughts and wishes, as if by intuition. Mr. Barton was a smooth, velvety man, who was careful to exhibit his well-formed person to the best advantage, by the means of scrupulous neatness, and tight-fitting clothes. He was about fifty years old, a widower, and, like old Gil, an elder in a Presbyterian church. He lived in a fashionable street, and rode down to the bank every day in his carriage, and established a reputation for financial skill and piety by pursuing a course directly opposite to that by which his secret partner accomplished the same ends. People said of old Gil that he must be rich and honest, and have entire confidence in himself, or he would not have the independence to brave the opinions of the world by his rudeness of manners, and utter disregard of all the proprieties of dress. In a world where so much depends upon mere show, it was wisely thought, no man could afford to put his fortune in jeopardy by such an experiment, unless he felt himself entirely independent of the world; and in respect to Mr. Barton, they thought that no man could indulge in so expensive a manner of living and make such an aristocratic display in Wall street, unless he knew himself to be too wealthy to be embarrassed by the suspicion of living beyond his income. In short, they were both supposed to be independent, because they appeared so, and many a sloven, who was compelled to dress himself decently, for fear of giving offence to his creditors, looked at old Gil with envy, and longed for the time, when they, too, could be independent, and wear a greasy old hat, while ambitious jobbers, who were afraid of being seen in their own carriages, lest a suspicion of extravagance should injure their standing in Wall street, looked at Mr. Barton when they saw him alight at the bank door, from his elegant carriage, with admiring wonder, and dreamed of the time when they might safely indulge in the same pomp. Mr. Barton was mild in his manners, and extremely polite to everybody. Time had dealt gently by him, and he had done all in his own power to preserve himself in a good condition. He wore a wig, which fitted his head so well, that it seemed to have grown upon it, and his teeth would never have been taken for other people's, but for their supernatural whiteness and evenness. He had good eyes, which was extremely fortunate for him, as no means have yet been discovered for replacing old ones with new, and he might have passed for a young man, had it not been for his double chin, and a disposition to corpulency. Dandies are not thought to be good business men, and it is only a real genius among merchants who can venture to indulge in the elegancies of dress and manners which distinguished Mr. Barton; he could, and the directors of the bank allowed him, the management of its affairs, only going through the formality of doing as he suggested, twice a week; and whenever he hinted that he was growing tired of business, and thought of travelling in Europe, or retiring to his country seat on the Hudson, they would raise his salary a thousand dollars to induce him to remain. Old Gil was very rarely, or never seen in company with Mr. Barton; indeed, he did not even keep an account at his partner's bank, but after I was taken into his service, I was made the messenger who carried their brief communications back and forth, and often was entrusted with enormous sums of money. The dealers at Mr. Barton's bank would offer their notes for discount, but the greater part of them would be rejected by the President, on some pretense or other, when the disappointed merchant, to save his credit, would have recourse to old Gil, who would charge them a rate of interest proportioned to their necessities, making those who could least afford it pay the heaviest usury; he would then take the same notes, and Mr. Barton would either discount them at the legal rate of interest, or loan the amount of them at a smaller rate, upon condition that the money should be returned when called for. Some of the beauties and benefits of banking may be imagined, from the nature of these transactions, but I would by no means wish the ignorant reader to believe that every bank-president is a Mr. Barton, or that every old slovenly broker in Wall street, who carries his hat full of jobbers' notes, is an old Gil, for such is not the case. The propensity of the public to show their penetration, by identifying the characters in professedly fictitious works, is very common; I have even heard that a certain person in Wall street has already been pointed out as old Gil, while another has done me the honor to swear that the character of Mr. Ferocious was a portrait of himself. Some ingenious discoverer of likenesses has already named the original of Mrs. Ruby, and friend Goodwill is said to be known to everybody. Flattering as these testimonials are to the reality of the personages that I have been compelled to introduce into my history, because they had a direct influence upon my fortunes, the effect of which has yet to be seen, it has given me no small degree of pain to know that I am accused of wantonly exposing the private conduct of any person to the public. I have been extremely careful so to disguise the distinguishing peculiarities of the characters in my little drama, that I am very sure the originals will never be suspected. The gentleman who has done himself the injustice to say "I am Mr. Ferocious," as well as the friends of old Gil and Mrs. Ruby, are assured that they lie under the most melancholy mistakes; if I thought that this solemn asseveration was not sufficient to save me from any more unjust suspicions, I would throw down my pen at the end of this sentence, and never again resume it; for nothing is more painful to my feelings than to know that I have inflicted pain upon others, and I have always looked upon those authors who write histories of their own contemporaries from mercenary motives, with abhorrence. Such a person I became acquainted with while residing in the family of old Gil, whose character shall form the only episode in my autobiography, and the reader may skip it or not, without danger of being greatly a loser in either case.

One of old Gil's daughters, Lizzy, had a passion for literature, and, greatly to the grief of her parents, she would associate with literary people, and send her compositions to the magazines signed with her full name, Annie Elizabeth Gilson. This gave old Gil a good deal of uneasiness, for he classed the literati with dancing-masters, players and artists, for all of whom he entertained unmeasured contempt. He thought that the pen could be put to no higher or better use, than making entries in a ledger, unless, indeed, it were in writing sermons, and an author and a beggar being synonymous terms, he naturally looked upon his daughter Lizzy as a lost sheep, when he discovered the direction of her ambition. He could tolerate music because it formed a part of the church service, and a music-master was endurable, because he could be made serviceable to the cause of religion, but as for "a parcel of poets, and such kind of blackguards," he used to say "they ought all to be sent to Sing Sing, where they could learn an honest living."

Poor Lizzy took all the scoldings of her parents as good naturedly as she could, and instead of trying to argue them out of their prejudices, which she knew would be a hopeless task, she used to utter her complaints to the Muse, and vent her griefs mysteriously in a magazine. She had addressed lines to every member of the family, and had even done me a similar favor, in Mr. Post's Magazine, in a sonnet, To "——" which I have unfortunately forgotten, and cannot, therefore, furnish the reader with a copy, but I remember that it was highly complimentary to my truthfulness, and that I was compared to a rose with drab-colored petals. It was the height of Lizzy's ambition to give a conversazione, and invite all the literati and famous artists about town, and taking advantage of a revival of religion in the church of which her father was an elder, gave out that she would be at home on a certain evening, when she knew he would be engaged at a prayer meeting. Pauline had entrusted me with the secret, and requested me to remain at home, promising me delightful fun with her sister's visitors, for she had hardly a better opinion of the literati than her father. Old Gil and his wife went off to the prayer meeting, taking with them Nancy, Judith, Maria and Charlotte, who were inclined to be serious; the two youngest children, Agnes and Magdalen, were sent to bed, Caroline and Love were at their sisters' in the next street, and the others were bribed to silence.

The family library of old Gil consisted chiefly of Bibles, with one or two Concordances, the works of Charlotte Elizabeth, the Presbyterian Confession of Faith, Doddridge's "Rise and Progress," the writings of Hannah More, and the complete works of Mrs. Sherwood, besides a collection of little books, with such titles as "Charles Davis, or the Power of Grace," "Matilda Brown, or the Sinner Saved by Charles Burdett," etc., etc. These books were carefully arranged in a small bookcase in the back parlor, but the moment that old Gil left the house, Lizzy had them all removed, excepting only the complete works of Mrs. Sherwood, and their places supplied with "Moore's Byron," "Griswold's Poets," and some bound volumes of the "Lady's Book." The candelabras in the parlor were lighted up, a decanter of wine borrowed from her married sister, for old Gil would allow no fermented liquor in his house of any kind, some other refreshments were procured, and Lizzy stood in the middle of the room to receive her guests. Pauline and I seated ourselves as much out of the way as possible, that we might enjoy each other's conversation without being overheard, as well as watch the literati without mixing among them, and soon after they began to arrive. They were so unlike the usual visitors at old Gil's, that they probably appeared to us more outre than they would have done elsewhere. Pauline was delighted with the opportunity of sitting by me and showing her wit by making remarks upon the company as they entered the room. The first who entered was an artist, whose name I have forgotten; they called him the American Sir Martin Archer Shee, because he had written verses and painted portraits. He was a little man, with high-heeled boots, which pitched him forward as he walked; he was tightly strapped and buttoned, and he wore his lank black hair very long, and his moustache in imitation of Reubens. The American Shee talked but little, and so lisped his words that we could not make out what he said. A pensive lady, in a black silk dress, with very long curls, came next accompanied by a learned Pole, who could speak all languages but English. The greeting between Lizzy and this lady was very cordial, she was the celebrated Miss Arabella Andrews, the American L. E. L., and the "Sappho" of the magazines. Then followed a Unitarian clergyman, and a German professor; another authoress, in spectacles, who was called the American Joanna Bailie, but there was nothing notable about her, except that she was dreadfully ugly, and wore a pink gauze cap, with a large bunch of yellow roses. A very pompous gentleman was next introduced as Mr. Myrtle Pipps. Lizzy said she was happy to have the honor of seeing the American George Paul Rainsford James in her father's house. Mr. Pipps bowed very low, rested his right hand inside of his outrageously fine vest, and elevating his head a little, remarked that there was no hospitality at the North, and that the only true article was to be found in the Palmetto State, where the domestic institutions encouraged the growth of a chivalric public sentiment. Two or three gentlemen of the press came next, whose names I suppress, and then Mr. Fitch Greenwood and his lady, the joint authors of a translation from the Swedish. Mr. Fitch Greenwood wore spectacles, and he looked through them as though it cost him an effort and didn't think much of anything that he saw through them. He spoke to nobody, but he looked at everything. Mrs. Fitch Greenwood was a slender little body, with red eyes; she talked to everybody, and looked at nothing. I was startled to see Mr. Ferocious and his friend Tibbings enter next, followed by a gentleman who was announced as the celebrated critic, Austin Wicks, author of the "Castle of Duntriewell," a metaphysical romance, and a psychological essay on the sensations of shadows. Mr. Wicke entered the room like an automaton just set a going; he was a small man, with a very pale, small face, which terminated at a narrow point in the place of a chin; the shape of the lower part of his face gave to his head the appearance of a balloon, and as he had but little hair, his forehead had an intellectual appearance, but in that part of it which phrenologists appropriate for the home of the moral sentiments, it was quite flat; Pauline said, if he had any moral sentiments, they must be somewhere else, for it was very evident that there was no room for them there. He was small in person, his eyes were heavy and watery, his hands small and wiry, and his motions were like those of an automaton. He was dressed primly, and seemed to be conscious of having on a clean shirt, as though it were a novelty to him. Pauline was excessively amused at the monstrously absurd air of superiority with which this little creature carried himself, and was vexed with her sister Lizzy for receiving him with such marked respect. But the truth was, he had praised some of Lizzy's verses, and had talked to her about spondees and dactyls until she thought him a miracle of learning. He was shallow enough on almost all subjects which tend to make a man respectable in the world, but he had committed to memory a few pedantic terms, and contrived to pass himself off among literary ladies, like Lizzy, for a profound critic. Mr. Ferocious, and his follower, Mr. Tibbings, listened with open-mouthed admiration to Wicks, and declared he was the most profound critic of the age. There were many more notable people dropped in during the evening, among them a native tragedian, with a round and inexpressive countenance, a stoop in his shoulders, and a halt in his gait; he was called, I think, the American Kemble, for it was a peculiarity of those originals to call themselves after some English prototype. Mr. Wicks was the American Jeffrey, a singularly unfortunate name to apply to the poor creature, as he had neither the learning, the wit, the respectability, the honesty, the independence, nor a tithe part of the talents of the great Scotch critic. But Mr. Wick called Jeffrey a humbug, and sneered at the pretensions of everybody who attempted criticism, although his highest efforts in literature had been contributions to a lady's magazine. The literati conducted themselves with great propriety during the evening, doing nothing worse than saying the most ill-natured things they could utter about all their acquaintances who were not present, and complimenting each other in the most fulsome and laughable manner, until the refreshments were introduced, when Mr. Wicks, having drank a glass full of wine, the little spirit that it contained flew into his weak head, and he began to abuse all present in such profane and scurrilous terms, that all the ladies went into hysterics, and poor Lizzy was in great tribulation, for fear that her father should return before he could be got out of the house. Mr. Ferocious and Tibbings were lamenting in dismal tones that a man of such splendid abilities should have such an unfortunate propensity. "However," said Mr. Ferocious, "I like it. It shows the inner life of the individual being!"

"I endorse the remark of Ferocious," said Tibbings; "it is one of the infirmities of genius; Savage used to drink, and Byron was fond of gin. I think that an American author should be allowed quite as much liberty as an English one, for you know, Ferocious, this is a free country."

"Tibbings," said the American Jeffrey, staggering towards that slender gentleman, "you are a fool."

"Don't notice him," said Mr. Ferocious; "keep cool, quiet, sedate. It's only a phase of his genius. I like it. It's original, peculiar, American. He will bring up something fine, directly, out of the depths of his inner existence."

"Ferocious!" said Mr. Wicks.

"Listen, ladies," said Mr. Ferocious, winking at the ladies, who were standing aloof in terror.

"Ferocious," said Mr. Wicks, again, "do you know what I think of you?"

"In vino veritas. What is it?" said Mr. Ferocious, smiling complacently towards the ladies.

"Ferocious you are an ass!" hiccupped Mr. Wicks, "a dunce; you can't write English; I praised you once, but I am sorry for it; I said that you were one of our greatest poets, but I now say you are one of our greatest asses."

The revulsion of feeling with Mr. Ferocious and Tibbings was so sudden, and their admiration of the critic so completely changed to raging scorn, contempt and hatred, that the natural language of their passions, instead of clothing itself in words, found a more forcible expression in actions, and utterly regardless of the presence of the ladies, they fell upon the helpless critic, and would probably have done him a serious injury if the tragedian and I had not jumped to his rescue and saved him from the terrible revenge of the enraged author and his friend. The poor wretch being entirely unconscious of his danger, immediately began at me and the player, bestowing upon us a string of scurrilous epithets, which must have been quite familiar to him when he was sober, or he could not have used them so freely. The company now broke up in great disorder, and we took the drunken critic home to his boarding-house, and delivered him into the hands of his wife, who thanked us meekly for the care we had taken of her poor husband. This incident was rather fortunate for Lizzy, as she got rid of her guests in time to put the house in order before the return of her parents. Her admiration for Mr. Wicks was not in the least diminished by this scandalous occurrence; she regarded it as an eccentricity of genius, and wrote a sonnet about it, which she published in a weekly paper. Mr. Wicks sent her a letter, lamenting his destiny, praising her poetical abilities, and asking for the loan of five dollars. The kind-hearted Lizzy was so shocked at the idea of so great a genius being in want of so trifling a sum, that she made a collection among her friends, for a man of genius in distress, and sent him fifty dollars, accompanied by a note so full of tender compassion for his misfortune, and respect for his genius, that any man possessed of the common feelings of humanity must have valued it more than the money. But Mr. Wicks had no such feelings, and with a baseness that only those can believe possible who have known him, he exhibited Lizzy's note to some of her acquaintances, as an evidence that she had made improper advances to him. The scandal had been very widely circulated, before some candid friend brought it to Lizzy, who, on hearing it, was thrown into an agony of grief and shame, which nearly deprived her of reason. She could not call upon her father to avenge the wrong that had been done her, but one of her married sisters having heard of it, told it to her husband, who sought for the cowardly slanderer, with the intention of chastising him for his villainy. But he had become alarmed for the consequences of his slanders, and had persuaded a good natured physician to give him a certificate to the effect that he was of unsound mind, and not responsible for his actions. Having showed this to Lizzy's brother-in-law, and signed another paper acknowledging that he had slandered her and was sorry for it, he was allowed to escape without a personal chastisement. But shortly after, being employed to write for a fashionable magazine, he took an occasion, in a series of pretended biographical sketches of literary men and women who had been so unfortunate as to become known to him, to hold poor Lizzy up to ridicule, by imputing to her actions of which she was never guilty, and by misquoting from her verses. Lizzy had the good sense to laugh at such imbecile spite, and when the poor wretch had brought himself and his family into a starving condition by his irregularities, she had the goodness to contribute her quarterly allowance of pocket-money to the gatherings of some benevolent ladies who had exerted themselves in his behalf.

The conduct of Wicks had a very wholesome effect on Lizzy. It opened her eyes to the meretricious and worthless character of a mere literateur, and cured her forever from hankering after the transitory fame of a magazine contributor. She had seen her verses in print, and had been traduced and criticized by a mercenary writer, and was ever after content to remain unknown except to those whom she loved. Her first and last literary soiree had afforded her a source of unfailing merriment, whenever it was mentioned, and she describes with great gusto the tragical encounter between Wicks, Tibbings and Ferocious, for the amusement of her intimate friends. The poor creature, Wicks, having tried a great variety of literary employments, and growing too dishonest for anything respectable, at last fell into the congenial occupation of writing authentic accounts of marvelous cures for quack physicians, and having had the imprudence to swallow some of the medicine whose virtues he had been extolling, fell a victim to his own arts, and was buried at the expense of the public.

NOT many days after Lizzy's literary soiree, Mr. Ferocious walked into old Gil's dusty little office, accompanied by his friend, Mr. Tibbings, and his friend Tibbings' ebony cane, for Tibbings and his stick were as inseparable companions as Tibbings and Ferocious, and he would as soon have thought of cutting one as the other; and there seemed to be as much attachment between Tibbings and his stick as between that gentleman and his friend, for the affection was all on the side of Tibbings. Old Gil looked very solemn as the gentleman entered, and kept his eyes fixed upon the papers before him.

"Good morning, sir," said Mr. Ferocious, smiling agreeably, while Mr. Tibbings looked on without speaking, waiting for old Gil to look up before he smiled.

"Well, sir, what is it?" said old Gil, without raising his head.

Mr. Tibbings' face was immediately suffused with scarlet, to see his distinguished friend treated with so little consideration; he said nothing, but caught hold of his mouth as if to check his rising indignation, which he couldn't do, however, as I have said before, for it spread itself all over his face, which looked as though he had suddenly broke out with St. Anthony's fire, or scarictina.

"An individual of this city, occupying a distinguished position——"

"Stop there, Ferocious" said old Gil, rising from his desk and looking down upon the distinguished gentleman, "who is the individual you speak of?"

"It's a certain person, I name no names," said Mr. Ferocious, "of the highest repute, occupying a prominent position among the good people of this nation."

"And of other nations, too," said Mr. Tibbings.

"That's of course, a certain individual has no desire to be known beyond the boundaries of his own nation. But this much I will say——"

"This much I must say, too, Ferocious, if you have anything to say to me about any individual, you must name his name!" said old Gil.

"This is most extraordinary," said Mr. Ferocious, "but, sir, to be more precise, explicit, and to bring down my propositions at once to the common level of mercantile intellects, I will say that a certain author of this good land, hoping well and wishing well, who has done some service in the cause of his country's honor, by writing certain plays, novels, poems, essays and romances——"

"That certain author is yourself, Ferocious; why don't you say so?" said old Gil, impatiently.

"Yes, it is," said Mr. Tibbings, who was growing excited. "It is himself; but he is so modest that he is never willing to hear his name mentioned."

"Tibbings," said a certain author, "a certain individual, I name no names, is abundantly qualified, or ought to be, at least, by this time, having done much, thought variously——"

"Well, what of it, Ferocious, what of it?" growled old Gil, hoping to bluff him off.

"Good; I like that, myself," said a certain individual; "prompt, exact, decided, to the purpose. Mr. Gilson, if you have a moment's leisure, I will open to you a plan that has been broached by certain parties, citizens of this country, by which a large amount of money will be realized."

"Money!" said old Gil, "what can you want of money, Mr. Ferocious? but, come, let me hear what you have got to say about it."

"The scheme is a feasible one," chimed in Tibbings, "and highly respectable."

"Sit down and be quick, Ferocious; I'm in a hurry this morning," said old Gil, but as there was nothing to sit upon excepting the floor, outside of the railing which divided the office, Mr. Ferocious and his companion continued to stand as before, and Mr. Ferocious began to unfold his gigantic scheme.

The countenance of Mr. Ferocious beamed with delight, while that of his friend and follower, Mr. Tibbings, was suffused with purple pleasure, convinced, probably, by old Gil's manner, that the object of their call was within their grasp.

"I will read you all about it, sir," said Mr. Ferocious, taking a tape-tied bundle from his coat pocket, and, unfolding it, he began to read: "Whereas, a national literature being essential to nerve the bold right arm of a nation's glory——"

"There! there! there!" exclaimed old Gil, vehemently, "stop there, Mr. Ferocious; I have heard enough of that, and tell me at once what it is that you want."

Mr. Tibbings clapped his hand to his mouth and held his breath, but Mr. Ferocious rolled up his manuscript and replaced it in his pocket. He then began again to unfold his plans.

"A certain author, I shall name no names, now; it is not necessary," said Mr. Ferocious, with more seriousness than before, and a little less of glowing satisfaction in his countenance, "proposes to dispose of the copyright of his various writings, consisting of novels, plays, essays and romances, for a certain sum, to be paid yearly, or in one amount, as the parties may agree; provided that a company can be formed of high-toned lovers of their country, a national literature, and with sufficient means, and willing to undertake to circulate a certain number of copies of that author's works in these United States, and in the various countries of Europe."

"What goal will that do me, Ferocious?" said old Gil.

"Deep, cool, quiet, calculating," said Mr. Ferocious, making stabs in the air with his forefinger as he spoke; "why, sir, I did not make this proposition to you, thinking that you were going to get up the company, procure the signers to the stock, and do all for nothing. The business will be a highly respectable one, to-be-sure, and such as some men would be glad to do for no other recompense than the honor of it. But, sir, I think I can promise, in the name of a certain author, that you shall be the president of the company, and receive a liberal per centage on the amount received."

"I must take time to consider on this proposition, gentlemen," replied old Gil, "but I must say, it appears to me a very hard plan for raising money in Wall street."

"It has been done in London and Paris," said Mr. Tibbings, "and I don't see why it shouldn't be done here. I know that LAMARTINE sold the copyright of his works to a company in France, and there was a company formed for the purpose of negotiating with WALTER SCOTT."

"Besides the entire copyright, a certain author, who, from motives of patriotism, is induced to make this offer," said Mr. Ferocious, "will agree, also, to place in the hands of the president, for the use of the company, all the complimentary presents which may be sent to the author by foreign powers, in return for copies sent to them."

"I think you are too free," said Tibbings; "a diamond ring from Victoria, or any trifling memento from the King of Prussia, would be more valuable to you, Ferocious, than to the company."

"Well, I think I may promise that a certain author will show an enlarged liberality. Perhaps it will be better, Tibbings, to insert a clause of redemption within a certain period."

"And do you really think this plan a good one?" said old Gil, turning to Tibbings.

"I am certain of it," said he; "it would be pleasant, profitable and honorable to all parties."

"Well, I must take time to consider about it, Mr. Ferocious."

"When shall I expect a reply?" said Mr. Ferocious.

"To-morrow," said old Gil; "but don't call here for it; I will send Grimshaw to you."

"A certain individual——" began Mr. Ferocious, but old Gil began to button up his coat as though he was going out, and said he couldn't hear any more then, upon which the two gentlemen said good morning, and took themselves off.

"You have no idea, Grimshaw," said old Gil, as they went out, "how these literary fellows have bothered me with their nonsense. It's all owing to Lizzy, Grimshaw, and I wish you could laugh her out of her foolish notions. Did you ever see such a pair of fools as these fellows are?"

"Never," I replied; "but why did you not tell them what you thought of them?"

"Because I wanted to get clear of them the easiest way I could. If I had disputed with them, that little Ferocious would have got into a passion, and abused me, and then I should have had to put him out on to the side walk, for which he would have brought a suit against me. The whelp is a lawyer as well as an author, and he would have given me trouble some way, or mortified my daughter Lizzy, by squibbing her in the newspapers, which would annoy me more than all. You must go and see him to-morrow, Grimshaw, and invent some excuse that will satisfy him."

"O, I can't invent anything," I said, "but I will tell him whatever you instruct me to say."

"Very well; then tell him that I have got no money myself, and can't find anybody that has; and if he comes here again, put him out of the office."

I anticipated a jovial laugh from Pauline in the evening, for she was so full of good nature and merriment, that her laughter was easily provoked. But Pauline never smiled even when I told her of the magnificent project of Mr. Ferocious; on the contrary, she looked very serious, and hardly seemed conscious that I was talking to her. I was mortified at her coldness, and thinking that I had done something to displease her, I said: "I see that you are offended, Pauline; what have I done that has displeased you?"

"Nothing, Walter; you have done nothing," she said, still averting her eyes from me.

"Ah! then I see that you are ill, and that pains me more—even than if I had offended you—for I could have convinced you that I had no design to displease you, but I cannot restore you to health."

"No, I am not ill, Walter," she replied, "but I am not well. Something has happened to me, that, I fear, will never allow me to feel well again."

"You frighten me, Pauline; what can it be?"

"It is nothing that need frighten you, Walter; it concerns me alone."

"Ah, Pauline! do not say that what gives pain to you need not frighten me. But do not let me press my sympathy upon you. I will say no more. I see that my presence troubles you."

"No, Walter; your sympathy does not distress me. I should be more distressed if I did not feel sure of having it. I am very wretched, Walter, and I will tell you the cause; but no one must know it from you."

"Dear Pauline!"

"Did you ever hear of Mr. Barton, Walter? O, how I dislike him!"

"What! your father's friend?" I said.

"Yes, Walter, and he would be more than my friend; but I would soon let him know the kind of friendship he may hope for from me, if it were not for my father, who insists that I shall receive his attentions to me with politeness, if nothing more."

"And will you obey your father, Pauline?"

"O, I cannot, Walter! I cannot! It would be base in me to dissemble in such a case as this. Don't you think, Walter, it would be better to tell him that I detest him, and can only respect him by his desisting from his overtures to my Father?"

"Of course I do, Pauline; but, does your father know your feelings?"

"Towards Mr. Barton? Yes. But—"

"Well, Pauline?" I said.

"But, Walter——"

Here we were interrupted by the whole family pouring into the parlor, where Pauline and I were sitting alone for a few minutes, a privilege which we had seldom enjoyed in that crowded house. The remainder of the evening Pauline sat silently at her work, and I tried to occupy my mind with a book. But there was a film over my eyes and confusion in my thoughts; I could neither read nor think. I remembered now that I had lately taken two or three notes, marked private, from Mr. Barton to old Gil, supposing that they related to some secret financial operations. But now I could guess at the contents. Doubtless, they contained a proposition for the hand of Pauline. Knowing old Gil's estimation of Mr. Barton's wealth, and his anxiety to be on good terms with him, I could readily understand his willingness that he should become his son-in-law. But what was of greater consequence to me, I knew now, from Pauline's confession, that she would prefer me to the bank-president, and I was fully assured that she would persist in her preference; but I was afraid that if it were known to her father he would immediately dismiss me from his employment. With my mind full of these thoughts, and schemes for getting Pauline out of her difficulty, and keeping myself in my place, I retired to bed.

After reaching the office the next morning, old Gil said to me, "Now Grimshaw, go and see that little fellow, Ferocious, and don't let me be bothered with him again." As there was no possibility of avoiding this new duty, I was obliged to obey my employer's commands, but I had many misgivings that Mr. Ferocious might, on closer acquaintance, recognize his former pupil. He still occupied the same office in Pine street, where I had been first introduced to him, and I saw sitting at the ragged desk where I had been placed, with the writings of a certain author before me, an unhappy-looking little wretch, with the self same books open before him, straining his feeble eyes in endeavoring to master their contents. "Where is Mr. Ferocious?" said I to the little imp.

"He is in his private office, sir; will you please sit down, and let me announce you, sir?" said the little imp, and, as the ceremony of announcing me was a very brief one, I was soon ushered into the presence of a certain author, whom I found engaged in drawing up a plan of an association to purchase, print, publish, circulate and advertise, the works of a certain individual.

He rose to greet me with a courteous smile, and said, "I forget your name, sir."

Everything about the office looked so familiar, and brought to my recollection so vividly the occurrences of the day that I had spent in it, and Mr. Ferocious himself looked so exactly like himself when I met him, that I was thrown completely off my guard, and forgetting who I was, unconsciously replied to him, "Tom Pepper!" without being aware of what I had done until he started in surprise, and exclaimed, "Tom Pepper! So it is."

I attempted to correct my blunder, and immediately said, "I mean Grimshaw."

But it was too late. Mr. Ferocious remembered me as soon as he heard my name, and said: "So, Mr. Tom Pepper, you are caught at last. Good, capital, excellent. Ha! ha! ha! Run, Jackson, and tell Mr. Bassett to come to my office at once. Sit down, Mr. Pepper. So, you have turned Quaker, and changed your name to Grimshaw? Excellent, capital, superb. Let me take your hand, that I may be sure you are not a ghost."

I was going to attempt to convince Mr. Ferocious that he was mistaken, but it was no use. I had convicted myself, and I had no hope of escape but in immediate flight. So, I said: "You are in error, Mr. Ferocious. I must return to my employer and tell him of your strange conduct." As I attempted to pass out of the door he caught hold of my arm and attempted to stop me, but I threw him off and sprang out of the office, jumped down the stairs, and hurrying into Broadway, ran until I was out of breath. I then got into a cab, and ordered the driver to take me into the Bowery. There I alighted, and, wandering through the bye-streets on the east side of the town, I found myself, near the middle of the day, among haunts of sailors and ship-carpenters, in Cherry street. Here I felt myself secure; but here I could not long remain. I had now more reason than ever to dread exposure, for I could not hope to remain in favor with old Gil and his family, after they should know of the deceptions I had practiced towards them; and even Pauline would spurn me and despise me. Now I began to taste the real bitterness of the draught I had prepared for my own lips. To leave Pauline just as I had been convinced of her love for me, was the hardest punishment I had yet had to endure. I walked about the remainder of the day, with my eyes filled with tears, and hardly conscious of anything about me, until it was dark, when I entered a cheap restaurant which was frequented by seafaring people, and while sitting at one of the tables I heard two men talking about a shipping office next door. As something was said about green hands, I asked if they shipped green hands there, for the navy. One of them, who wore a blue jacket, replied that they didn't do anything else, and asked if I knew any likely young fellow who wished to make a man of himself. I told him that I might want to ship myself.

"Well, old Fellow," said the short jacket, "if you will take my word for it, you couldn't do a better thing. It's the only service in the world where a man can get his real deserts, plenty of grog, a bit of a flogging, when he needs it, and light work. If a man don't like that, he is no man at all. I have tried it, and I know how it is. Good wages, tobacco and small stores, and a toot of whiskey three times a day."

"You may well say that," added his companion. "Uncle Sam takes good care of his sailors. Plum-pudding on Sundays, and only one banyan day in the week. I have tried Johnny Bull and Johnny Crapeau, but give me Uncle Sam, after all."

"Come, ship-mate," said the other, "take something to drink with me, and then I will show you to the shipping agent."

I declined the drink, but accepted the invitation to the shipping agent, for I saw that the best way of escaping would be by entering on board a United States ship. I had, in truth, always entertained a very strong desire for a sea life, and wondered now that I had not thought of a ship before. It so happened that one of the men whom I encountered in the restaurant, was employed to pick up men for the shipping office, he therefore caught greedily at me, when he discovered that I had an inclination to ship in the service, and related a good many stories of Uncle Sam's good treatment of his sailors, all of which had no other effect upon me than to convince me that my new acquaintance had some sinister design in relating them. But I had no apprehensions of harsh treatment from Uncle Sam, having been accustomed to consider him the merest lump of good nature, from the manner in which his servants spoke of him, and I believed implicitly in the plum-puddings, in particular. The rendezvous was kept in a dirty bar-room, where there were some drunken sailors, and a Scotchman making a dismal noise with a bag-pipe. My restaurant friend, who turned out to be one of that class of servants employed by Uncle Sam, that sailors call Crimps, presented me to a burly Dutchman, as a young fellow as wanted to enter Uncle Sam's service, in the capacity of a green hand or landsman. The Dutch shipping-master gave me encouragement to hope that I might be accepted in the morning by the lieutenant in charge of the recruiting station, and very obligingly furnished me with an entire suit of sailor's clothes, in part payment of which he received those that I took off, and accommodated me with a bed for the night. The next day, having been duly received into the service of Uncle Sam, and the Crimp having received, on my behalf, the advance wages to which I was entitled, I was put on board the Constitution frigate, lying in the North River, and stationed in the after-guard. It was the first time I had ever set my foot on the deck of a man-of-war, or, indeed, of any vessel larger than the coaster in which I made my escape from Apponagansett, and the scene was full of novelty and excitement for me, yet it appeared to me that I had been familiar with something like it before. I had a confused sensation which puzzled me exceedingly, of a former state of existence, but when or where I could not tell, in which I had known something of a life like this. Almost every object and every sound that I encountered, I had a feeling of having known before, and as I walked about the decks I continually saw old faces that had a dreamy look of recognition, which I could hardly prevail upon myself that I had not seen before, but when the boatswain and his mates blew their whistles, the shrill sound made my heart leap, they sounded so familiarly in my ears. Yet, I had never heard them before. On the poop-deck, walking to and fro, with a telescope under his arm, and dressed in extremely neat clothes, was a man, whose gait, face and voice were so familiar, that I could have sworn I had seen him before, had it not been for the strange mystification of other objects on board. But the man on the poop soon grew into a reality that I instantly recognized, on hearing one of the officers say to a side-boy: "Tell Swayne to keep a sharp look out for the Captain's boat." It was, in fact, the father of little Sylvia. I expected to see Captain St. Hugh next; but Swayne's was the only face I saw which I could positively identify, although the greater part of the crew seemed like old, half-forgotten acquaintances. I strolled about the ship's decks, gazing at the guns, and wondering at everything, until all hands were piped to dinner, when I was sufficiently hungry to eat my allowance of salt beef and biscuit. I looked for the plum-pudding, but saw no indications of a second course. The ship was crowded with men who seemed very happy and careless, and took particular delight in abusing Uncle Sam and his officers, which I saw not the least occasion for, neither Uncle Sam nor his officers appearing to care anything about them.

I had shipped under the name of William Brown, for the sake of preserving the initials on my clothes. The Dutch shipping-master said: "That's a purser's name of course;" and when I told the purser's clerk my name was William Brown, he made the same remark, and told me I was William Brown the fifteenth, there being that number of William Browns on board the ship, and that I must answer to that name and no other. I wrote my new name on the lining of my hat, that I might not forget it, and get myself into trouble again as I had done by revealing my real name to Mr. Ferocious. I had remarked a number of young men, some of them mere lads, in short jackets and turnover collars, in different parts of the ship, with daggers at their sides, suspended from a glazed leather belt, and being curious to know who they were, I asked an old sailor. "Ah, these are some of Uncle Sam's chickens," said the old tar; "you needn't take any pride in 'em; they ain't of any account till they got swabs on their shoulders."

"But what do they do here?" said I.

"Do!" said the sailor; "why, they don't do anything but sharpen the Commodore's tooth picks."

"Indeed!" said I, "is that really true?"

"True!" said the sailor, looking fiercely at me; "do you mean to insinnywate anything, ship-mate?"

"Here comes one of them now," said I, as I saw one approaching us.

"Well, don't mind anything he tells you, ship-mate, and see if I didn't tell you the truth about him," said the old sailor, and moved off to another part of the ship. Directly, the youngster with the dagger at his side, came near me and said: "What are you doing there, Johnny Raw?"

"What are you doing yourself?" said I in reply.

The youngster stopped short, and looked at me with as much amazement as though I had struck him.

"You impertinent rascal!" said he, "I will teach you how to answer your superiors. Boatswain's mate, what's this fellow's name?" But the boatswain's mate not having learned my name, was sent to the purser's steward, and directly returned and informed the youngster that name was William Brown the fifteenth.

Away went the enraged youth, and soon I heard a hoarse voice bellowing out my new name at the main hatchway, and then another voice on the deck below roared out in gruff tones—"William Brown, the fifteenth."

"What do you want of me?" I said to the sailor who was calling out my name. He was a giant-like man, with an immense pair of red whiskers, and he wore a silver chain round his neck, to which was suspended a silver whistle.

"Go aft to the officer of the deck," said he, "and see what is wanted." I went as directed, and found a pale-faced young man, wearing a sword, a pair of epaulets, and a gold laced blue cap, standing near the poop-deck, with his arms folded, as if he was waiting for me. "Did you want me, sir?" I asked.

"Do you speak to me without touching your hat, you rascal?" said the officer, drawing his sword. "It is time you were taught how to behave to your superiors. Is this the fellow who insulted you, Mr. Paltry?"

"Yes, sir," said the youngster whom I had offended.

"Very well, sir," said the epauletted gentleman, "I will give him a lesson in good behavior that he won't forget while he is in Uncle Sam's service. Go tell Mr. Grummet to call all hands to witness punishment."

"To witness punishment," said I, thinking it not unlikely that the officer was either going to reprimand me in the presence of the ship's crew, or put a fool's-cap on my head, as a terror to evil doers, for I perceived that I had quite unconsciously committed a wrong act; "if I have broken any of the ship's rules, I am sorry for it. Surely you do not mean to punish me for committing an unconscious offence."

"Make no back answers, you scamp," said the lieutenant, "or I will flog the life out of you."

By this time there was a commotion in the ship, the crew were gathering on the spar deck, the marines were turned up with their muskets bayonetted, the officers came out of their cabins with swords in their hands, all work suddenly ceased, and the faces of the men became as solemn as though they were going to witness an execution. I trembled with apprehension, although I had not the most shadowy conception of what was going to be done. But I saw from the looks of the men who came thronging about me, that I was an object of especial interest and commiseration. Among the rest who came was Swayne, with a couple of small cords in his hand. I was so terrified, that I could hardly help revealing myself to him, and claiming his protection. But I knew what a cruel beast he was and had little to hope from him. I was taken to the gangway, and ordered by the lieutenant to "strip."

"What do you mean by stripping?" I said; "what shall I strip?"

"You shall have another dozen for that, you rascal," said the lieutenant: "quarter-master take off his shirt."

"Take off your shoes and shirt, my lad," one of the sailors who stood near whispered, "and be a man; you shall have a toot of grog as soon as it's all over. Don't flinch."

But as I still hesitated in spite of this encouragement, Swayne and another man took hold of me, and began to pull off my jacket. But I resisted them, and demanded to know what I had done deserving of punishment.

"Silence, you villain, or I will run you through the body!" exclaimed the officer, his lips livid with rage.

In spite of my resistance, Swayne had succeeded, with the help of another quarter-master and the boatswain's mate, in taking off my shirt and shoes. They then tied cords on my ancles and wrists, and fastened my hands to bolts above my head in the gangway, while two other men secured my feet to a wooden grating on the deck. I turned my head, and saw the red-whiskered boatswain's mate standing near in his shirt sleeves, which were rolled up above the elbow, and displayed a huge sinewy arm that might have felled an ox; in his hand he held a short whip-handle having nine thongs of hard twisted cord, the end of each being rendered nearly as hard as iron, by twine tightly wound round them to prevent their untwisting. The boatswain's mate coolly and deliberately shook this frightful looking instrument to disentangle the tails, and carefully separated them by running his fingers through them, for they appeared to have stuck together, probably from the blood of the last victim of Uncle Sam upon whose back they had been used, that still remained upon them. Terrible as all these preparations were, the fear of the lash was nothing to me, compared with the degradation of the flogging. I thought that in leaving Capt. St. Hugh, and in being separated from Pauline, I had experienced the severest trials possible for me to bear. But this was something worse than death. To be publicly flogged like a criminal, was an ignominy that I could never recover from. I turned round to make an appeal to the lieutenant, and saw him smiling carelessly at something which the surgeon had said to him. My ears were quick to catch anything like an expression of feeling or pity, and I heard the lieutenant say in a low voice, " 'twill do his young flesh no harm, doctor. He will be able to show Uncle Sam's stripes on his back for a passport, when he is in a foreign country."

"Surely," said I, as he turned his face towards me, "you do not mean to put such an indignity upon me."

"Silence, you scamp!" said the lieutenant in reply.

"Oh! I cannot be silent," I said, "I will not. I am a man like yourself; be merciful to me: if I have broken the rules of the ship, turn me ashore—let me go back again. But do not, O, do not suffer a lash to be put upon my back. Kill me, but do not flog me."

"Boatswain's mate, do your duty," replied the officer.

"Hold, hold, but one moment," I cried, as I saw the boatswain's mate preparing to raise his arm; "where is Mr. Swayne."

"What's the matter?" growled, the quarter-master.

"Save me! save me! Swayne!" said I, thinking of nothing now, but the indignity of the flogging, and regardless of the consequences of revealing myself to him, "don't you know me? I am Tom Pepper!"

"Avast! avast!" exclaimed the quarter-master, as the boatswain's mate lifted his arm, "Avast! Are you Tom Pepper? I believe you are."

"What's the meaning of this, Swayne?" said the lieutenant; "do you want to be made a spread eagle of yourself?"

"If you please, sir," said Swayne, "I can tell you something about this young fellow, perhaps, that you don't know. He is a gentleman's son, and——"

"Silence!" said the lieutenant; "I would flog him if he were my brother, and I will have you there next, old fellow, if I see you shake your head again. Go on, Harris."

I turned my head to make another appeal to the cruel brute, but, before I could speak, I felt a sensation as though melted lead had been poured upon my back. I was but flesh and blood, and I believe that I made an outcry so dreadfully unheroic, that some of the old tars were ashamed of me. After the first cut of the cat, I bore it better; but the lashes were rained upon my back to the amount of two dozen, each lash cutting into the flesh, until the blood trickled down my sides. I screamed for mercy, but the obdurate lieutenant only sneered at me, and called me a booby, which inflamed my anger the more, and made my punishment the harder to bear. The lashes fell thick and fast, and at each stroke of the cat I thought my life would go, the pain was so excruciating. The master at arms, an old, superannuated marine, stood behind me, and kept a tally of the lashes, counting slowly as they fell upon my back, and as he pronounced "Twenty-four," the lieutenant called to the boatswain's mate to stop. When they cut the lashings by which my feet and hands were fastened, I was so weak that I could hardly support myself, and one of the crew having thrown my shirt over my bleeding back, I was taken down to the berth-deck, where somebody gave me some whiskey. The sailors all had a comforting word for me; some complimenting me on the brave manner in which I had taken the flogging, telling me that the next time I would care nothing about it, and others congratulated me upon being able to show Uncle Sam's stripes upon my back. But my pride was more deeply wounded than my flesh, and I felt ashamed to lift up my eyes and look into the faces of my companions. The purser's steward and one of the master's mates had a warm dispute over me, in relation to the power of an officer to inflict more than a dozen lashes without a court martial. The purser's steward contended that the lieutenant had violated the Constitution, and advised me to send a memorial to Congress and have him broke, while the master's mate maintained that Uncle Sam gave his officers authority to inflict as many dozens of lashes as there were stars in the national flag, and advised me not to trouble government about the matter, but to drink all the grog I could get, and forget my flogging as soon as possible.

I was surprised that Swayne did not come near me, and upon inquiring why he kept away, was told that as soon as the flogging was over he had got permission to go ashore, and had gone off, dressed in his best togs. This intelligence alarmed me, for I had no doubt that he had gone to inform Mr. Bassett of my being on board the ship, and I saw no means of escape. I dreaded detection now more than ever, since I had been disgraced by a flogging, and began to think how I could get clear from the ship. It was approaching evening, the hammocks had been piped down, the crew had eaten their suppers, the watches had been set, but Swayne had not returned. My back was so sore that I could not lie down, and I crept up to the gun-deck, and, resting on one of the guns, looked through the port-hole, and perceived that the turn of the tide had brought the frigate much nearer to the landing place at the Battery than she was when I came on board. It was early in the spring, and the water was still very cold, but I determined at once to attempt to swim ashore, if I could contrive to drop into the water unperceived. I had swam a much greater distance often, and had not the least fear of drowning. Unfortunately for my scheme, there was a full moon and a clear sky, and as the sun set the moon rose, and shone so brightly that I began to be afraid I should not be able a effect my escape. But slipping off all my clothes excepting my shirt and trowsers, I crept along under the shadow of the guns, and got into the fore-chains without being observed. The height from the water was too great to allow me to drop overboard without being heard, for the night was perfectly calm, and every ripple of the current was distinctly heard. But I found a piece of rope in the chains, and fastening it to a bolt, I lowered myself down into the water. It was almost freezing cold, and the salt water made the sores of my back smart so that the pain almost took away my breath. But I struck out resolutely for the shore as soon as I had drifted clear of the ship. The distance, however, seemed to have suddenly doubled, and I did not feel quite so confident in my strength as I had before dropping into the water. But I had no fears, and never looked back to the ship, being determined to drown rather than be subjected to the indignity of a flogging again. I had swam nearly half the distance when my strength began to fail me, the water was icy cold, and I was so completely chilled that I had lost all feeling in my extremities. I could easily keep myself afloat, but the tide running very strong prevented me from making any head-way. Every moment I was growing weaker and weaker, I was still but half way between the ship and the shore, and calculating the chances of reaching the landing, I saw that they were greatly against me. I cannot say that I was not frightened, but I was perfectly composed, and being determined to save myself, if possible, I struck out afresh, and tried not to think about drowning. A thought now flashed upon my mind, which had never entered it before, and gave me such a desire to preserve my life, that for a moment I seemed to be endowed with superhuman strength, chilled and cramped as I had been, the blood shot through my veins, and I struck out my limbs with desperate energy; my eyes seemed to swell out of their sockets, and a ball of fire seemed to be floating before me. All the incidents of my life passed like a flash of lightning before me, from my earliest recollections to that moment; the most trifling act and thought of my youth, things long forgotten, old sounds, old names, and old faces, appeared to me vividly and distinctly, and I saw how I had brought upon myself every evil that I had suffered. But the strange thought which set my heart on fire, and made my life sweeter than it had ever been before, was the conviction that Captain St. Hugh was my father. As all the events connected with my meeting him flocked before me, his strange exclamations when I first awakened him from his nightmare, the mysterious sympathy which he had shown for me, the meeting between him and Mr. Bassett, and my own sensations on board the ship, produced instant conviction in my mind. The effect of this thought lasted but a moment, and a chilliness succeeded, which nearly deprived me of the power to keep myself afloat, and then came the intense agony of despair. I saw it was impossible to reach the landing. I had become so chilled and exhausted that it required my utmost exertion to keep my head above water, and I had once already sunk beneath the surface. I could hear the crew of a vessel that lay at anchor in the river, laughing and talking, and endeavored to call for help, but I could not raise my voice loud enough to be heard. But I kept crying out, and hearing the plashing of oars, I discovered that a boat was approaching me from the shore. This gave me new life for a moment, and again I cried out as loud as I could raise my voice, for help. The moon was shining brightly, and I knew that the boatmen could very easily see me if they heard my voice, and I kept crying out, but the exertion was too great for my exhausted condition, and as the boat neared me I grew so faint that it was impossible for me to keep my head above the surface, and once more I sank, but rose again, and heard a voice calling to me to hold on and never say die. These joyful sounds quite overpowered me, and as the boat, rushed through the water towards me, and as I found myself within reach of the gunwale, there was a sudden sound of rushing waters in my ears, I felt myself sinking—sinking—sinking—all consciousness forsook me, and I was lost, for a while, to the world.

WHEN I recovered my consciousness, I found myself in a carriage, accompanied by two men, who were supporting me between them; I was wet, cold, sore, weary and sick, and could only groan, being quite unable to articulate a word. I was soon taken from the carriage, and borne into a small room, where I was put upon a soft bed, and covered with warm blankets, when I fell asleep and dreamed pleasant dreams, and, waking, heard a soft and well-remembered voice say: "Call your father, Sylvia, the young man is moving."

I opened my eyes and looked about me, and soon discovered Swayne, in his quarter-master's dress, standing by my bed side, with a light in his hand.

"Well, matey," said Swayne, "how do you find yourself now? Is all the salt water out of your mouth?"

"I am well, now," I replied; "but how came I here?"

"Never mind that," said Swayne; "lie still until you get better, and then you shall know all about it."

"Don't you know me, Swayne?" I said.

"Know you!" said he, holding the light to my face, and then ripping out one of his accustomed oaths, he exclaimed: "Sylvia, come here; I am a horse marine, if the young fellow we fished out of the river ain't Tom Pepper!"

"Why, Swine! why, Swine!" cried Sylvia's mother, rushing to the bed side, followed by her beautiful daughter, who stood at a distance, while she, looking me in the face for a moment, cried out: "It is! it is! It is Master Thomas, Sylvia!" and then put her arms around my neck and kissed me, until her husband told her to "mind her eye." Sylvia had the tenderness to burst into tears, which so affected me that I could not refrain from crying myself.

"Come, come," says Swayne, "just belay that kind of work. The young fellow has had salt water enough already. Keep a sharp look out for him while I go and call Mr. Bassett."

As soon as Swayne had left the room, good Mrs. Swayne renewed her embraces, and Sylvia again let fall some tears.

I could get nothing out of Mrs. Swayne but hugs and kisses, and exclamations of, "O, Master Thomas! how you have grown!" and, "O, Master Thomas! where have you been? And how lucky it was that Swine and Mr. Bassett saved you from a watery death!"

The good creature did not confine herself, however, to such evidences of her affection, but brought me some warm spiced wine, a little of which I drank to gratify her; and I then learned that Swayne had failed in business, and having thought to mend matters by taking to the bottle, finally reduced himself so low that he was compelled to ship on board of Uncle Sam's ships, where he was promoted to the rank of quarter-master, he having once been chief mate of a liner; and his wife and Sylvia lived very happily without him, partly by their own industry, and partly by the half pay that he allowed them.

It was not long before the quarter-master returned, bringing Mr. Bassett and his wife with him, at the sight of whom I would very gladly have sunk through the bed on which I lay, and become suddenly extinct. But all possible means of escape were now denied me, and, seeing that I must meet my old benefactor face to face and confess all my wrong doings, I resolved to meet him as frankly and cheerfully as I could. As he approached the bed side I sat up and held out my hand to him, which he pressed warmly, and looking kindly upon me said: "Ah, Tom! Tom! what a wanderer you have been!"

"Will you forgive me? Will you love me again?" I said.

"Yes, my poor boy, I will forgive you, for you have done me no wrong. But how can you ever forgive yourself?"

"I am sure, now," said Mrs. Swayne, "Master Thomas has never done anythink wrong; and as for the cruel lieutenant, Swine says he shall——"

"Stop! stop! Belay that!" said Swayne.

Mrs. Bassett came up to the bed side, and giving me a disdainful look, merely said "Humph!" By which she meant, "So, you have been caught at last, and flogged too: well, I dare say you deserved it."

"Poor Tom!, poor Tom!" again ejaculated Mr. Bassett, and seating himself upon my bed, he looked fondly and kindly into my face, and said he had something important to tell me, which he would not reveal to me then, as it was getting late, and I must want rest. And then pressing my hand again, and telling Mrs. Swayne to take good care of me, he bade me good night, and said he would see me again in the morning. I was impatient to know what he had to tell me, and could not rest for thinking about it. Mrs. Swayne would tell me nothing, and her husband having gone to sleep in another room, I lay until morning thinking about Captain St. Hugh, Pauline, and my future course of life.

In the morning Mr. Bassett came as he had promised, and much earlier than I had expected him. But still he refused to tell me anything, until I had been removed to a boarding house which he had provided for me. As I was entirely destitute of clothes, excepting a shirt and pair of trowsers, he sent me a full wardrobe, and when I had dressed myself, took me in a carriage to the rooms which he had engaged for my accommodations, and when we were alone together, he made me repeat to him all my adventures since we had parted. And then he learned for the first time, the cause of my leaving the book-keeper's house, at which he was very indignant. Having heard me to the close, patiently, for I gave him a faithful account of all my adventures, he said:

"You now see, Tom, some of the consequences of falsehood. But you have yet to learn all the consequences to yourself and others of your own deviation from the truth. But first, let me tell you the end of my wicked book-keeper, that you may see how dangerous it is to injure another by misrepresentations, and how every wrong act will receive its reward. That foolish man having been induced by some one inimical to yourself to invent so ridiculous a plan for getting rid of you, would have been immediately detected and exposed, had it not been for your own want of truthfulness; he remained in my service until it was discovered that you were living with Captain St. Hugh, when, fearful of the consequences of his villainy being exposed, he suddenly left the city, causing the suspicion that he had committed some undiscovered fraud, and being reduced to extreme poverty in a neighboring city, where he had been seeking employment committed a petty theft, for which he was thrown into prison, and there died."

"Alas! alas!" I replied, in all sincerity, "I need no proofs of the folly of violating the truth. And if I had experienced no other evils, the forfeiture of your good will, and the loss of your society and example, which I have suffered, would be enough."

"Poor Tom!" said Mr. Bassett, "if you have met with no greater loss, you will prove fortunate. But let me tell you what has happened, and the loss you have sustained without knowing it."

"You know Captain St. Hugh," said he, and at the bare mention of his name my heart swelled as though it would burst, "and have had good opportunities of becoming acquainted with the character of that noble-minded gentleman."

"Ah!" said I, "I knew him and loved him, too."

"It is well that you loved him, Tom, for you know not how well he loved you, nor how he has bewailed your loss, nor what cause you had to love him."

"And did he love me?" said I.

"Listen to me patiently and you shall know. I will tell you his story, as he told it to me."

"CAPTAIN ST. HUGH," said Mr. Bassett, drawing his chair by my side, "was the youngest of three brothers; their father was an Admiral in the British Navy, who died, leaving them, in their childhood, to the protection of their uncle, a baronet in Lancashire, whose name was Eustace St. Hugh. The two elder brothers were put into the army, while the younger, who resembled his father, and had a predilection for the sea, was put into the navy, where he distinguished himself by his bravery in several engagements with the French, and just previous to the close of the last war between England and America, he was ordered on board the frigate Endymion, which, soon after he joined her, formed one of the blockading squadron in Long Island Sound. During a cruise of the frigate in Buzzard's Bay, he once went ashore, accompanied by some of his young companions, and the chaplain of the ship, and while frolicking at a farm house, he became enamored of one of the farmer's daughters, and prevailed upon the chaplain to marry them, in sport. When the time came for the frolicking officers to return to the ship, young St. Hugh discovered that he had, in the little time that he had been on shore, more than gained the love of an innocent girl, whom he could never expect to see again. He had, in truth, become the husband of a woman, in jest, but found, on leaving her, that in her simplicity she believed herself married in earnest. His companions laughed at him, and he laughed at himself, but being possessed of honorable feelings, he secretly reproached himself for his thoughtless conduct, and could not drive from his thoughts the parting words and lovely looks of the innocent creature whom he had wronged. Time passed on, he was constantly in active service, and was soon promoted to a captaincy for his gallant conduct. He unavoidably mingled with gay company, visited all the maritime countries of the world, was courted and caressed wherever he went, but he could never forget the innocent beauty of Buzzard's Bay. She haunted him in his dreams, and in his waking moments was ever present to his thoughts. So lightly did he think of his pretended marriage with her, that he had not even inquired her name on leaving her. He remembered that her companions had called her Patty, and that was all he knew about her. But her looks, the tones of her voice, and her innocent grief on parting with him, were all fixed indelibly in his memory. He strove to forget them, and endeavored, by forming new attachments, to efface the impression she had made upon his heart. But all was in vain. The older he grew, the more vividly would her image appear before him, until at last she so completely occupied his thoughts, and obtained such entire control of his affections, that he shunned all society, and was never happy excepting when alone with the phantom that haunted him. Society having no charms for him, he sought for constant service at sea, where he could indulge in his solitary moods, and sometimes find a temporary relief from his thoughts, in the excitement of a storm. Returning home after a cruise round the world in his favorite frigate, the same Endymion which had witnessed his boyish frolics, he found himself, in consequence of the death of his two brothers and his uncle, the possessor of the estates and the title of the St. Hughs. He was the last male representative of his ancient family, and at his death the name would become extinct, and the estates would fall into the possession of a very remote branch of the family. He spent a year at the castle, of which he was now the lord, endeavoring in vain to drive from his imagination the image of the poor girl, whose confidence he betrayed. He had never entrusted his secret to a living soul, but the chaplain who had performed the ceremony of marriage having become old, sedate, and the rector of a parish church not far from his estate, he called upon his former wild companion, and making known his case, asked the advice of the now dignified clergyman. The chaplain, thinking, perhaps, that it was an idle whim of Captain St. Hugh, and naturally believing that a sight of the woman whose idea haunted him would immediately dispel all his fondness and remorseful feelings, advised him to make a journey to America for the purpose of finding her, and if he should succeed, to ease his feelings by making her such a recompense as would satisfy his conscience. The chaplain, at the same time, told him he was not sure but that the marriage was strictly legal, and warned him against the consequences of making himself known to his wife, who might possibly be married to one of her own countrymen, and in her own condition. Captain St. Hugh was well pleased with the chaplain's advice, and having arranged his affairs in a short time, embarked at Liverpool for America, and on his arrival here proceeded immediately to Buzzard's Bay, in search of the woman whom he now believed to be his lawful wife. As he did not even know her name, and there had been many changes in the neighborhood, he had great difficulty in learning anything respecting her. To his sorrow, however, he discovered, after a painful search, that his wife had died, broken-hearted, leaving a boy, of whom he was the father. But nobody could give him any intelligence of his son. He was well remembered by some of the inhabitants, who gave a glowing account of his sprightliness and beauty. But he having disappeared suddenly, one day, it was supposed that he was drowned. This intelligence only added to the melancholy of Captain St. Hugh. He offered extravagantly large rewards for any positive intelligence in relation to his son, and spent an entire year in the neighborhood, but without being able to gain the slightest clue to his fate. The family with whom the boy lived after the death of his grandparents, were also dead, and it was only known that he had suddenly disappeared from the village.

"What had become of this boy nobody could tell. He was remembered as a careless, happy lad, who, having no guardian, was allowed to play where he pleased, and as he was addicted to diving and fishing from the rocks, they supposed he had been drowned, and he would have been forgotten but for the inquiries of his father. Although there was no reason to believe he was living, or, if living, that he could ever be found, as it was so long since he had been seen, yet Captain St. Hugh would not give up the idea of finding him. Having no attachments to draw him back to England, he resolved to remain in America until he should receive some tidings of his son. He remained in Apponagansett long enough to superintend the erection of a simple marble tomb, over the remains of the woman whose death he had caused, and having generously rewarded the poor people who had given shelter to his son, he left the little village, uncertain in what direction to turn. Thinking it probable that the boy, if alive, would instinctively prefer a sea-life, he travelled from port to port, making search wherever he went, and offering rewards for any intelligence of his lost son. The fancied image of his child haunted him in his sleep, and filled his thoughts in his waking hours. He wandered from city to city, and from port to port, regardless of everything that he saw, and heeding neither man nor woman, but watching with intense scrutiny, and questioning every boy that he encountered of the apparent age or fancied appearance of his son. Many a time did his heart leap in his breast at the sight of some curly-headed, bright-eyed youth in a sailor's dress, in whose face he fancied that he recognized a resemblance to his own family features. But he was always doomed to disappointment. His unfruitful search never wearied him, or weakened his conviction that he should some day discover his child; but his intense anxiety, and incessant application to one sole pursuit, and lack of sympathizing friends, had brought on a melancholy habit, which was mistaken by some for insanity, and by others for misanthropy. However, those who knew him intimately, testified to the kindness of his heart, and the perfect sanity of his mind, unless the wild hope he cherished of some day seeing his son, might be considered evidence to the contrary. In this frame of mind he continued his pursuit, without ever gaining the slightest thread to guide him, and yet without his hopes being in the least degree weakened. It was a strange infatuation, for which he could not account, for he received no encouragement from anybody, and many tried, by various means, to divert him from his purpose. But it was a religious duty, which he fulfilled as an atonement for his error, and he could not be turned from his course. Returning, one night to his hotel in New York, after having performed his customary task, he retired to bed more weary than usual, and being distracted in his sleep by a frightful dream, he suddenly awoke and saw standing by his bed the exact image of the boy that had so often appeared to him in his dreams. Amazed at the apparition he made some exclamation, when it suddenly disappeared. He thought that it was nothing but a hallucination of his fancy, and again fell asleep; but, in the morning, finding from the appearance of his room that there had actually been a visitor in it, he made inquiries, and, to his surprise and delight, he learned that a lad, the description of whom answered to the apparition of his bed side, had slept in the chamber adjoining his own, the night before. This gave him new hopes and he determined not to leave the city until some intelligence was had of the boy, whom be fondly believed was his lost child. Months and months were passed in fruitless enquiries and wearisome expectations, when the long-sought boy was suddenly brought to him, just at a time when he had abandoned all hope of ever seeing him again. But the boy proved not to be his. His name was different; there was no similarity in the manner of his birth or fortune, and even his age did not correspond with that of his son's. But then, he bore a surprising resemblance to the St. Hugh family, and the fond-hearted Captain, having so long sought for an object to lavish his affections upon, and finding this boy destitute of a home, resolved to adopt him, and if he should never find his own son, to make him the inheritor of such parts of his estate as he had a right to bequeath. You know how fondly he loved him, and how generously he behaved towards him."

I had not listened thus far without interrupting Mr. Bassett, for I was wild with joy, not unmingled with grief and shame; but here I fell upon my knees before him, and begging his forgiveness, besought him to let me go without delay in search of my father.

"Your father, Tom?" said Mr. Bassett; "how do you know that you have a father?"

"O! I know that I have; I know it now; do not keep me longer in misery!" I said.

"Patience, my boy," said Mr. Bassett, with a coldness that frightened me, "be patient, and you shall know all. Let us leave Captain St. Hugh for a while, and go back to the time of our last parting, to the sudden termination of your apprenticeship to Mr. Ferocious. I need not tell you, Tom, that jealousy is one of my wife's infirmities. You have seen too many proofs of it. But as it springs from her excessive fondness for me, I could never censure her for it, although it has been the cause of much unhappiness to me. So jealous is she of engrossing my entire affections, that it makes her unhappy if I show a liking even for an inanimate object. When she found that I put you to board with my bookkeeper, she bribed the wife of that weak-minded man to turn you out of doors, which she did, and by the singular accident that immediately placed you in Captain St. Hugh's hands, I lost all trace of you, and believed that you had either been murdered, or that you had run away and gone to sea. But a year or two after this event, I made another journey to Boston, on business, and remembering the benefit to my health from having returned in a packet through the Sound, I determined to try it again. It so happened that the vessel in which I took passage was obliged to make a harbor, on account of a storm, and the captain, at my suggestion, came to anchor in the little harbor of Apponagansett; I had a curiosity to know something about your family, and thought I might there get some intelligence of you. You may judge of my gratification and astonishment to learn that you had been sought for by your supposed father, who had family honors and wealth to bestow upon you, and on my return to New York, I caused an advertisement to be published in all the papers, offering a reward to any one who would give any intelligence of you. This advertisement having been seen by Captain St. Hugh, he immediately sought an interview with me, and was at once convinced, from my description of your person, that the boy whom he was educating, and upon whom he had, in a moment of enthusiasm, bestowed his family name, was his long sought son. Great as his joy at this discovery was, Tom, it was not greater than my own; for I had loved you, and it gave me inexpressible delight to witness the overwhelming joy of Captain St. Hugh. Yet, Tom, our pleasure was greatly marred by the recollection of your inexplicable falsehoods in respect to your name, and the place of your birth. It grieved Captain St. Hugh, and it mortified me, to find that all my lessons had been wasted upon you. We were puzzled to divine your motives for such monstrous deceptions, and for my own part, I had no trifling curiosity to know the causes of your abandoning me, whom you had always appeared to love. Captain St. Hugh hardly waited for me to satisfy him that his protege and mine were the same person, so impatient was he to see you again, when he mounted his horse and insisted on my accompanying him to his house and witnessing his meeting with his son. I had no disposition to refuse, and followed him in a gig. It was late in the afternoon when we got to his house, and we had the mortification of finding that you had gone to ride on your pony. So he showed me the portrait of his ancestor, Sir Eustace, whose name he had bestowed upon you, and whom he fancied you resembled. I saw the resemblance, myself, and all doubt of your being the son of Captain St. Hugh, vanished. The Captain was so impatient that he made the gardener mount his horse and go in search of you. It grew dark, and he began to be alarmed at your absence. By and bye, the gardener returned and reported that he had not been able to find you. You had never staid so late before when you rode out on your pony, and the alarm of the Captain grew to such a height, that I began to fear some dangerous consequences to him. Hour succeeded hour, and you did not come; the night was dark, carriages and horsemen had disappeared from the road, and all was quiet and still. We watched at the gate, and listened with intense anxiety for the sound of horses' hoofs, but heard none approaching the house. The Captain at last became so nervous, that he proposed summoning the neighbors and requesting them to aid in searching for you. As Captain St. Hugh had shunned any communication with his neighbors, they were not very favorably disposed towards him, and when they heard that he wanted them to go in a search of a boy who was old enough to take care of himself, nearly all refused. But there were two who said they would do anything in their power to relieve his apprehensions. Five of us, including the gardener, mounted our horses, and each one having a torch in his hand, we set out in search of the vagrant boy. The whole night was spent on the road, and towards morning we returned to Captain St. Hugh's house, the Captain being hardly a remove from insanity. All the next day and the next night were spent by the Captain and his gardener in seeking for this long-sought boy, who seemed to have such a remarkable talent for getting lost just at the moment when it was most essential to his own happiness, and that of others, that he should be on hand. Poor Captain St. Hugh was nearly distracted; he could neither sleep nor eat, but ran about asking all whom he met if they had seen his boy. What amazed him, and me, too, was your strange perversity in concealing your true name, and representing yourself as a native of Boston. But this did not, in the least degree, diminish his love for you, which was ardent before, but now that he knew you to be his son, was so strong as to overpower all other feelings. The police of the city having been incited by large rewards your recovery, found your pony at the livery stable, where you had left him, and shortly afterwards your clothes and ring, in the possession of a woman of doubtful fame. The account which she gave of the manner in which she became possessed of them, being contradictory, and in the highest degree improbable, she was arrested on suspicion of being concerned in your murder, and now lies in prison awaiting her trial. And here all attempts to recover you ceased."

"But, Captain St. Hugh!" said I, "where is he?"

"Alas! Tom!" said Mr. Bassett, in a solemn manner, "I cannot tell. Before the discovery of your clothes and ring, he dreamed that you came to his bed side with a pale and bloody countenance, and looked upon him and seemed to reproach him. This dream, which was the natural effect of his waking thoughts, convinced him that you were murdered. So strong was the conviction, that he immediately gave up all hope of ever seeing you again. He became melancholy and dispirited, avoided all society, and either shut himself in his room, or took solitary walks at night. The discovery of your clothes removed all doubt from his mind, if he had any before, that you were murdered, and he put on mourning, and spoke of you as one among dead. Every expedient was resorted to compel the woman suspected of being accessory to your death, to confess her accomplices, or to give some information respecting you, but while she acknowledged the crime of having robbed you, she persisted in saying that she knew not what had become of you but believed you were still alive. But, if he be alive, Captain St. Hugh would say, why does he not return to me? To this I could make no reply; but still I believed that you were alive. I could not impart my belief to Captain St. Hugh, who would listen to no persuasions, but gave himself up to remorseful grief, and reproached himself with having caused the death of his son. His residence at Bloomingdale having become hateful to him, he took lodgings in the city, which he seldom left, except at night; the friends who had become acquainted with him, exerted themselves to cheer his spirits, but without effect, and finding that any allusion to the subject of his grief did but increase his melancholy, they refrained from naming you in his presence. The time arrived for the trial of the woman who had been arrested on suspicion of having made way with you, Captain St. Hugh was called for to identify your ring and clothes, when, to our consternation, he could not be found. He had suddenly disappeared from his lodgings, leaving his travelling trunks behind him, and up to this hour has not since been heard of. His strange disappearance just at the moment when his evidence was required to convict your supposed murderer, caused a suspicion that he had also been murdered by the confederates of the woman to prevent their exposure. But your recovery removes that suspicion, and gives me reason to hope that the unhappy gentleman will yet be heard from, and that you may yet be blessed by meeting your father.

"So, Tom, you now see the evil that you have brought upon yourself, and the pain you have caused to others, by forgetting those important precepts which I had endeavored to fix in your mind. But I will not reproach you; as the fault was your own, so is the punishment. It may be too late to retrieve what you have lost by your untruthfulness, but you are yet a youth, you have good health, the world is open to you, and if you should never again hear of your father, nor be able to establish your right to his estate and title, you have only to be perfectly truthful for the future, and you may gain a fortune and be happy."

I could make no reply to Mr. Bassett when he ceased speaking. I could not even raise my eyes and look him in the face, or thank him for his repeated acts of kindness to me, which I had so little deserved. He saw my embarrassment, and probably fancying the condition of my feelings, took me kindly by the hand, and said: "Do not distress yourself, my poor boy; you may still depend upon me as a friend. I will leave you to your own reflections a while, but when I see you again you must be prepared to act whatever part you may be required to fill hereafter. Good bye, Tom; good bye;" and, after pressing my hand, he withdrew, and left me, as he said, to my own reflections. But I was so entirely overwhelmed with grief and shame, that I could not reflect upon my condition, or form any plans for my future conduct.

WHEN the first delirium of my feelings had passed away, after parting with Mr. Bassett, I began to look about me, and found that I was the occupant of a handsomely furnished room, looking out upon Hudson Square. It was a bright cheerful day, the trees in the Park were clothed in their most beautiful foliage, and birds were chirping and trilling among their tender branches, exulting in their new life and unrestrained freedom. Through a narrow lane on the opposite side of the Park, I could just catch a glimpse of the river, which sparkled in the sun, and looked as blue as though it were a stream of lapis-lazuli. I felt a twinge in my still sore back, as I looked at the river, and remembered how treacherously it had served me the night before; but still the bright aspect of everything out of doors had an enlivening influence upon my spirits, and I felt a strong desire to be again at liberty, and I turned from the window that my thoughts might not be diverted from my present condition. I had now to anticipate the mortification of having all my different deceptions and falsehoods exposed, and of being despised and spurned by all the people for whom I felt any reverence or love; but nothing troubled me more than the thought of being rejected by Pauline, who, I feared, after my disappearance from her father's house, might be prevailed upon to listen to the propositions of her father's secret partner—the bank-president. As to old Gil himself, I knew that the prospect of my one day being a man of wealth would atone for all the falsehoods I had told him, and, perhaps, make me an acceptable suitor for the hand of his daughter, but being a close calculator, he might think that the present wealth of Mr. Barton was more desirable than my prospective inheritance. These and a thousand other thoughts kept my mind busy; but after a while I began to grow weary, and wish for the return of Mr. Bassett, that I might devise some scheme for seeking my father; but the day wore away, and he did not return. The people of the house had sent me my dinner, but I had had no communication with any one, and as the sun went down I began to feel impatient, and had half resolved upon going out in quest of Mr. Bassett, when a note was brought to me from him, cautioning me against leaving my room, and informing me that important business, in which I was personally interested, would prevent him from visiting me before the next day. This message only served to increase my uneasiness, and I was more than ever anxious to know what detained him. But I had no choice but to obey his commands. I saw how I had erred in neglecting his advice, and now resolved that I would never again forget his precepts, or in any manner be guilty of the least equivocation or falsehood. While I sat pondering on the consequences of concealing the truth, and the evils and dangers of falsehood, there was a tap at the door, and on opening it I found a little girl, who said her mamma sent her compliments, and would be happy of my company to a little dance in the drawing-room. I was at first going to decline and plead illness, but my resolution to be perfectly truthful in the smallest matters occurred to me, and as I now felt quite well, and had no aversion to company, and had, besides, a curiosity to know what kind of people they were with whom I was making my home, I kissed the child for her kindness, and followed her down stairs into the drawing-room, where I found two or three young ladies, an elderly one, and three or four gentlemen. The old lady rose as I entered and calling me Mr. St. Hugh, introduced me as her new boarder, to the company.

I noticed a slender gentleman, who was turning over the leaves of a music book open before one of the ladies who was seated at the piano, but I did not see his face until I had been some time in the room. The elderly lady, who was the mistress of the house, presently spoke to the gentleman, and said: "Lieutenant Minton, allow me the pleasure of making you acquainted with Mr. St. Hugh."

As the gentleman turned his head to speak to me, he said:

"St. Hugh, St. Hugh; I am happy to see you, Mr. St. Hugh;" and I recognized instantly the officer of the ship who had caused me to be flogged the day before.

I blushed and bowed, and hoped that he would not recognize me. But he looked puzzled, and said:

"Your name is not familiar to me, Mr. St. Hugh, but your face is. Surely, I have met you before. Do you recollect seeing me ever?"

"Yes!" I replied, clenching my first, "I remember you well, and you shall remember me hereafter!"

Pale as the wretch was before, he grew paler as I spoke, and starting back, exclaimed: "Explain yourself!"

There was a sudden rush towards me by the other gentlemen in the drawing-room, but I struggled past them, and before they could prevent me struck the dastardly wretch a blow in the face which knocked him over an ottoman into the lap of the frightened old lady. Then turning to the other ladies, I begged their pardon, and as the lieutenant gathered himself up, and made an effort to come at me, I said to him:

"Now, sir, I am on even terms with you. My name is St. Hugh, but I am the poor boy whom you yesterday inflicted an ignominious punishment upon, believing him to be friendless and unable to protect himself, as he then was. My name was then William Brown, and poor as it was, I had to share it with fourteen others. Now it is Eustace St. Hugh, and I am at least your equal, but I am no better than I was yesterday. Let this teach you, hereafter, to respect a man for his manhood, and not for the clothes he may chance to have on his back."

The ladies and the gentlemen now stood aside, and left me face to face with the trembling lieutenant, who grinned at me, and swore he would be revenged upon me, but he made no attempt to strike me, and shaking his head at me, suddenly left the room. As soon as he was gone, I explained to the ladies and gentlemen the cause of my assault upon him, and they all applauded me for what I had done; except the mistress of the house, who went into hysterics, and declared that the character of her establishment would be ruined forever, and that she could never again be able to obtain another naval officer for a boarder. One of the gentlemen endeavored to quiet her by reminding her that the loss of the lieutenant's patronage would be a real benefit to her, as he was then in her debt nearly a quarter's pay, and that he probably had an intention of paying her with the fore-top sail sheet.

"But as for you, Mr. St. Hugh," said the gentleman, turning to me, "let me advise you to beware of him. Cowards are always revengeful, and you may anticipate an attack from him in some way that will not expose himself to danger."

I affected to be under no apprehensions, and said that I should always be prepared to meet him or any other person who treated me dishonorably; for I now felt that I had a name to support, and if I was entitled to be called St. Hugh, I was resolved that no act of mine should sully that honored name. The old lady being in a degree restored to her former equanimity, I begged the ladies not to let my slight difficulty interfere with their intended dance. Presently, two more boarders came in, and there being enough to form a cotillion, one of them volunteered to play on the piano, and the remainder of the evening was spent in dancing.

My landlady's name as Nicely; she was the widow of a bankrupt merchant, and a very grand person, who loved to make the most of everything. She wore an immense turban, with a cornelian brooch in front, large bunches of curls, that had grown on a less genteel head, and every other article calculated to give an air of majesty and gentility to her person. She called her house an "establishment," and her boarders members of her family. She knew the names of all the rich people in the city, and talked a good deal about Europe. In fact, her establishment was conducted on the "European plan," and silver forks and finger-glasses were things of course. Some English traveler having said that the Americans were fast eaters, she had drilled her boarders up to what she thought a high point of European slowness at their meals, compelling them, by her management of the courses, to sit at least two hours every day at the dinner table. As she admitted no one into her establishment but the most unexceptionably genteel people, it was considered something of an honor to be one of her family. Her boarders were chiefly merchants and their wives, but she had, besides, a bank notary and his lady, a lawyer, an editor, and Lieutenant Minton. This naval officer, when not on duty, spent all his time on shore, and being one of those patriots who enter the public service to save themselves the trouble of working for a living, he always put on plain clothes when on shore, and boarded with Mrs. Nicely because her establishment was select and genteel, and he thought it more honorable to pass for a private gentleman than a public servant. All these particulars, and a good many more in respect to the establishment of Mrs. Nicely and her boarders, I learned from Mr. Hopton, the notary, who, being very much gratified at my manner of treating the lieutenant, with whom he had had a quarrel, invited me into his room to smoke a cigar and drink a bottle of wine. The notary's wife very obligingly gave me the private histories of all the other ladies in the house, who, I learned from her, were all most frightfully addicted to scandal, and would trouble themselves about other people's business, and neglect their own. Such conduct Mrs. Hopton could not bear, and she thought of leaving the establishment and going into housekeeping, it was so dreadful living in a house with people who would tattle and talk about their neighbors.

"And then," said Mrs. Hopton, "it is so disagreeable to live with people who are not professors of religion. If you will believe me, Mr. St. Hugh, I and my husband are the only pious people in the house."

"Come, come, my dear fellow," said the notary, "fill your glass again; take another cigar."

"I and my husband," continued the lady, "have done everything to keep up the respectability of the establishment, for Mrs. Nicely is a good sort of a person, and we pity her very much because she is a widow, and is trying to get along and support her family, but she will take all sorts of people into her house, and only last week rented one of her rooms to a Unitarian!"

"It's a fact, sir!" said the notary, as he filled his glass, and then repeated again, "a positive fact, sir!" as though so great an outrage required a double attestation before it could be credited.

"But I can't put up with everything," said Mrs. Hopton, "and I and my husband have given Mrs. Nicely notice that we shall leave here in the fall. The ladies in the house, too, are all so very quarrelsome; I never got into such a family before. They talk about everybody, and carry tales from one room to another, and if you will believe it, Mrs. Witchley, that I have done everything for, has had the cruelty to tell Mrs. Bumstead, that I said that Lieutenant Minton had told my husband that she dressed like a dowdy!"

"That Minton is a dangerous fellow," said the notary.

"I am sure it was nothing but the truth, if Lieutenant Minton did say so," continued the lady, "but it isn't at all likely that I should repeat such a thing about anybody, especially to Mrs. Witchley, for everybody knows what sort of a woman she is, and I should as soon think of trusting I don't know what with almost anybody, as trusting her with a secret. But if Mrs. Nicely will have such people in her house, she must take the consequences. I am sure I can't put up with everything."

"Witchley!" said I; "the name sounds familiarly to me. I think I have heard it before."

"It's Witchley & Mittings," said the notary, as he lighted another cigar.

"O, I don't think you ever knew her," said Mrs. Hopton; "she isn't anybody. She comes from a very ungenteel family. To my certain knowledge, her father kept a retail shoe-store in Pearl street. But notwithstanding all that, I have done everything for Maria Witchley. However, there is no such thing in the world as gratitude. But for my part, I think it is the duty of every Christian to put down such conduct. They say her husband is rich, and I hope he is, for such a wife would soon ruin her husband, if he was as rich as Cassius."

"Crœsus!" said the notary.

"It's all the same thing," said his lady; "I and my husband live as prudently as we can, and our expenses are frightful. But I am sure we give away for charitable objects twice as much as Maria Witchley ever did. I am working purses now to get money enough to make our minister a life member of the Foreign Missionary Society. But I don't believe Maria Witchley has contributed anything for any benevolent institution this year. For my part, I think we might as well be out of the world as in it, if we do no good to anybody. But what can people do if they spend everything on themselves? Mr. Witchley may be able to bear it, and I hope he is. I am sure I should be sorry to hear of anything happening to him, for Maria Witchley is not the person to bear adversity, and her friends are dreadfully poor. She is an Episcopalian, and we all know what they are. I have said everything to that woman; I have even told her sister how imprudent she was, but still she will go on in her own way, dressing in the most extravagant manner, and doing everything. I love her like a sister, but——"

"Her husband has got stuck for a pretty good sum today," said the notary, filling his glass again. "He may be able to stand it; but I don't know how it will be with him."

"You don't tell me, my love," said Mrs. Hopton, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, "that Maria Witchley's husband is going to fail?"

"I don't know whether he will fail or not, but he is among the bears to-day, in Wall street. He discounted a note for old Gilson, with Bassett's name upon it, which I protested today, and it turned out that Bassett's name was a forgery."

"Pray, sir," said I, "was it a note for three thousand dollars?"

"The exact sum," said the notary.

"Then I am sure he will fail," said Mrs. Hopton, "and as I think it the duty of every Christian to put people on their guard against losses, particularly poor widows, I have a great mind to go this very night, before I get into my bed, and tell Mrs. Nicely, for I am sure I can never rest, knowing that I have neglected my duty. O, what a world this is, Mr. St. Hugh! To think that Maria Witchley's husband should fail! It makes my heart bleed for that poor woman. Well, it only makes my words good, for I always said, and I always shall say it, pride will have a fall. Maria Witchley has carried her head too high. It won't do for people in this world to put on airs; particularly for professing Christians, for we know what the Apostle says: 'He that is first shall be last of all,' and I have always found it so in my experience. Maria Witchley little thought, when she brushed past me with that Cashmere shawl, last week, in Broadway, that the time would come when she would be very glad to wear a broche shawl, like mine, which is good enough for any body. But I and my husband don't depend upon outside show for respectability. I come from a better family than ever Maria Witchley did, and my father would no more have associated with her father, than I don't know what. But, poor thing, I pity her, and would do anything for her; and sooner than see her want, I would go round with a subscription paper for her to all of her friends. But I shall say nothing about her, for, as I often tell my husband when he goes on about people that have their notes protested, a still tongue, as the Apostle says, is a wise one."

"And who will bear the loss of the note?" said I, for I remembered now that it was the very note which old Gil had told me to take to Mr. Bassett, and inquire if his signature was genuine.

"That's hard to say," replied the notary, "but old Gilson will suffer some to-night, for Witchley's partner was so enraged about it, that he had the old fellow arrested for passing a forged note. Gilson made a very lame statement about the affair; the man of whom he took the note had gone to Texas, and his clerk, who, he said, had shown the signature to Bassett, had also run off; and it is now a question of veracity between Gilson and Bassett. But nobody doubts Bassett, while nobody will believe Gilson. So the old fellow has gone to prison for to-night, and there is no knowing what will come of it. All I care about it is that I shall get a fee for protesting the note."

"Well, I always said there was something wrong about that Mr. Gilson," said Mrs. Hopton, "and though he is an elder in our church, I never had any confidence in him. His daughters are the most extravagant girls that come inside of the church, and the way they dress is very unbecoming in professors. Two new figured silks in one season, such as that Pauline wears, and not scintched in the pattern, either, but made very full, with deep flounces, and capes with ruffles, is enough to ruin any man, and I shouldn't wonder if he has done a good many other things. I guess everything will come right in the end. I and my husband are plain kind of people; we make no show, but mind our business and let other people alone. I guess we shall be thought as much of in the end as though we were always talking about everybody, and trying to make a noise in the world. I guess it will be found in the end that there's good and bad of all persuasions, as the Apostle says. For my part I think the best way for everybody in this world is, to mind their own business and have no nonsense, and I rather think it will be found in the end, that——"

"Excuse me, my dear madam, for interrupting you," I said, for I was growing very nervous and impatient, "do you say that Mr. Gilson has actually been imprisoned on a charge of passing a forged note?"

"Fact!" said the notary.

"And why," said I, "did not Mr. Barton stand his bail?"

"Old Gil sent for him," said the notary, "but he refused. I don't know why, but it was something about one of old Gil's daughters. I didn't hear any of the particulars, for all that I was thinking about was the protest of the note."

I had heard enough, and my face burnt with shame. Here was another effect of my falsehoods. I grew sick at the thought of the misery of old Gil's family, which I had occasioned. And poor Pauline, who had such a fondness for her father, how must she be grieved at his disgrace. There was but one course to pursue, and that I resolved upon without hesitation: to go and inform the Gilsons of the old man's innocence and my own guilt. Humiliating as it was to my pride, I resolved to do it before I slept, even though it should cost me the regard of Pauline, which I feared more than all. The loss of the money I could not make up, but I could remove the stain upon the old man's character, and relieve the distress of the family, and this I intended to do without delay. So, declining Mrs. Hopton's polite invitation to join her and her husband in an address to the Throne of Grace, and assuring her that Mr. Gilson was innocent of the crime of forgery, let him be guilty of what other crimes he might, I left the notary and his wife to their devotions, and putting on my cloak and hat hurried into the street, and walked rapidly towards old Gil's house. Had I been Tom Pepper still, I might have fallen into the wretched sophistry that had misled me before, and caused me to commit so many errors. But as Eustace St. Hugh, the heir of an honorable name, and the descendant of ancestors who had never been accused of a dishonorable act, I felt myself bound to confess my past errors. To confess my baseness would be some mitigation, I thought, of my offence; and Pauline might forgive me out of gratitude for relieving her father from the odium of the crime with which he was charged. It was already late; the bells had struck twelve before I left the house and I hurried myself in the hope of reaching Gilson's before the family had retired. But when I got to the door there were no lights to be seen. Everywhere was dark and silent. I listened, but could hear no one stirring, and had partly determined not to disturb the unhappy family, when, looking up to the window of Pauline's chamber, in the hope of seeing a light, I thought of that lovely girl, and fancied her lying grieving at her father's disgrace. This thought fixed my determination, for I could not endure the reflection that one whom I loved so sincerely should be suffering from any fault of mine. I rang the door-bell, but no one came. I knocked upon the door and made a great noise, but still there was no reply. I could not conceive the cause of this, but finding that it would be idle to continue to knock at the door, I returned to my boarding-house, sad and dispirited. I had forgotten to inform Mrs. Nicely that I was going out, and now I found it as difficult to get into my boarding-house as into old Gil's. I rang the bell with great violence, but the sleepy servants either did not hear me, or would not leave their warm beds, and finding that I as not likely to effect an entrance that night, I had just made up my mind to go to a hotel and procure a lodging, when I saw some men coming up the street, and stopped to see who they were. I stood on the steps of my boarding-house, and I was startled, as they got abreast of the door, to see them halt. It was a bright moonlight night, and although they stood in the shadow of the house, I saw at once they were a party of marines, with cutlasses in their hands, and the man who appeared to be their leader I discovered the next moment to be Lieutenant Minton, and guessed the object he was after, which was myself. There were half a dozen of the marines, with a corporal, dressed in their long light-blue coats and foraging caps, and with cutlasses by their sides. I pulled the bell furiously and pounded upon the door with all my might, with the hope of getting inside, where I could defend myself or call for help; but no one came to let me in, and the lieutenant, seeing who I was, ordered the marines to seize me. Resistance was useless, but I endeavored to make my escape. The lieutenant swore that he would flog every soul of them when they returned to the ship, if they allowed me to escape; hearing this, they seized me, and in spite of the resistance I made, dragged me off the steps and hauled me along the street. I not only fought and struggled with all my might, using both feet and fists without the least reserve, and dealing some pretty hard kicks upon the shins of the marines, but I cried out for help as loud as I could bellow. The streets were perfectly still, for it was long past midnight, and the noise I made soon attracted some watchmen, who came running towards us, striking their clubs upon the flagging. As soon as they came within hearing, I claimed their protection, but the lieutenant told them that I was a deserter from Uncle Sam, and threatened, if they attempted to interfere, to order the marines to charge bayonet upon them, upon which they took themselves off, and left me to my fate. The lieutenant kept his sword drawn in his hand, and threatened, if I did not desist, to run me through the body. But the thought of being taken to the ship and subjected to another flogging, made me desperate, and in reply to his threats I called him a cowardly poltroon, and defied him to do his worst upon me. The distance they dragged me though the street was not far, for they landed from the frigate's cutter at one of the piers on the North River, nearly opposite my boarding-house; there the boat was waiting, in charge of a midshipman, to receive me, and the lieutenant, in his hurry to get me on board, gave me a shove with his foot, in return for which, suddenly jerking my right hand from the grasp of the marine who held me, I struck him a blow in the face that would have knocked him into the river, if he had not been caught by one of the marines. They got me into the boat at last, but not without some difficulty, and then, with the aid of the boat's crew, put my wrists and ancles into iron hand-cuffs. As soon as they had done this, the coxswain gave the order to shove off the boat, the crew tossed their oars, and then letting them fall, gave way, and began to pull for the frigate that lay a mile off, looming up, a black, indistinct mass against the leaden sky. The water sparkled as the boat rushed through the ripples of the river, and at every dip of the oars my heart sunk, as I saw the line of the wharves growing more and more indistinct, as we shot away from them. As I thought of the probable fate which awaited me on board the frigate, of the imprisonment of old Gil and the distress of his family, but, more than all, of the astonishment and doubt of Mr. Bassett when he should hear of my absence, and know nothing of the cause, I could not refrain from tears and begged the lieutenant to put me on shore again, telling him that the happiness of a good many people depended upon my being at liberty. All the reply he made was to strike me with the flat of his sword, and assure me that I should never step my feet upon dry land again, as I would be hung at the yard arm before I was ten days older. By this time the cutter reached the frigate's side, and the shackles were taken off my ancles, to enable me to ascend the companion-way ladder.

The frigate's deck presented a novel sight to me. There were no lights to be seen; a solitary marine was pacing a plank in the waist of the ship, with his musket to his shoulder; the officer of the deck, wrapped in a shaggy jacket which reached nearly to his heels, stood by the companion-way, and a quarter-master was walking to and fro on the poop-deck, with a spy-glass under his arm. Those were the only forms stirring; the decks were dark and silent, but I saw that between the guns the watch lay coiled up, some of them with their heads resting on shot-boxes, and some lying flat on the deck, sound asleep.

But I had little chance to make any observations, for I was seized directly by the marines, who took me down on to the lower deck, and thrusting me into a very small room, which was perfectly dark, again put the shackles upon my feet, and a sentry being placed at the door, with a cutlass in his hand, I was left to myself.

One of the boat's crew came down very soon, and gave me his pea-jacket to lie upon, and kindly offered me some tobacco, which I took, lest he should think I slighted his favor, but I had never fallen into so bad a habit as to use the vile stuff. Although I was sufficiently alive to the perils of my situation, and could do anything desperate, I was so enraged, yet I had scarcely sat down upon the pea-jacket to rest, when I fell into a sweet sleep, which continued until I was waked by the firing of a gun, and the noise of a fife and drum playing the reveille. There was a great hubbub over head, the shrill notes of the boatswains' whistles were constantly heard, and from the running about and bustle I concluded that something unusual was going on, and began to think that preparations were making for my execution. It was still dark, and the marine who had been placed as a sentry over me, had been called away. I could see nobody moving on the berth-deck, where I was confined, and I passed an uncomfortable hour, thinking of the probabilities of my fate, and wondering at the opinions which would be entertained about me by Mr. Bassett. By and bye I perceived a ray of pale light which poured down the hatch-ways, but I could not see a soul moving. The noise on deck continued, and rather seemed to increase than abate. Another hour or two passed away, when a marine was again stationed as a sentry over me. The irons had been removed from my ancles, but my hands were still in ruffles, as they called the hand-cuffs by which they were fastened together. Knocking with these against the door of the little room in which I was confined, I attracted the attention of the sentry, and asked him what was the cause of the hubbub on deck, when I learned, to my amazement and horror, that they were getting the ship under weigh, and that in a very short time we should be at sea.

The marine could not tell me where the ship was bound, but he believed it was round the Cape, but whether Cape Horn or Cape of Good Hope, he didn't know.

I was nearly stunned by this crushing intelligence, and at once gave up all hope of ever again seeing my father, or conveying to him and Mr. Bassett the cause of my last disappearance. But I remembered that Swayne was on board, and asked the marine who was stationed to keep watch over me, to have the goodness to tell the quarter-master that Tom Pepper was in irons below, and wished to speak to him.

The marine said that it would be as much as his life was worth if he left his post; and, furthermore, that Swayne had been transferred to the receiving ship at the Navy Yard, by the request of a merchant, who wanted to use his evidence in an important case, in which Swayne was in some way concerned, and that he had left the frigate with his traps, the day before. On hearing this I uttered a loud groan, for I now saw that there was no possible hope of my escape, either from the ship or from a flogging.

The marine inquired of me the nature of my offence, and hearing that I had struck an officer, said that I might make myself entirely easy as to the result of my trial, for he could promise me that I should be hung, as that was an offence which Uncle Sam was never known to overlook. The marine told me not to be disheartened about it, for I might be sure of a watch below all the time, and my messmates would keep me well supplied with plenty of grog and tobacco.

The marine evidently looked upon me as in a situation to be envied, but I was not much elevated by his encouraging manner of treating my misfortune, which he perceived by my dejected looks, and to give still more comfort, he said:

"There is one thing you will be sure of, ship-mate; if you be hung you will not die before your time comes. There is a good deal in that; and you must die sometime or other. As for hanging, I have heard it is as easy a death as a man can die, and for my part I would much prefer being hung on board a ship, than in the yard of a dismal jail. There are no doctors at sea to cut you up, and as for being buried in the ocean, I can tell you, ship-mate, it is as comfortable a way of having a funeral as need be. I have seen many a one at sea, and hope to see many more. They just take and sew you up in your hammock, with thirty-two pound shot at your feet, put you on a plank, rest one end of it in the companion-way; back the main-top sail, read some prayers, raise up the inside end, and plump you go overboard. It's doing the thing clean, and no mistake. I always hated those dismal black hearses, and stones rattling on your coffin."

I begged the fellow to stop talking in this vein, as I had sufficient cause to be melancholy already.

"O, very well," said he, "if it's unpleasant to you I won't say anything more on that subject. But as you haven't been in the service before, I thought you would like to know how it was done." He walked back and forth in front of my den for a while, and then suddenly stopping, appeared to be taking a particular view of my person.

"That's a good fit you have on, ship-mate," said he. "I rather guess I can tell you who made that coat. Wasn't it Washburn? Just stand up; now, turn round. Yes, it is; I know it. I worked for him many a year, and I should be working for him now, if it hadn't been for brandy smashers. But it's all one now; what must be, will be, you know. But, ship-mate, if they do run you up to the yard-arm, and I can promise you they will, you won't have any use for those new clothes, and you had better give them to me. I can sell them to the purser's steward for grog. If you are agreed to it, I will exchange with you for a suit of my old uniform.

Fortunately for me, all hands were now piped to breakfast, and I got rid of my troublesome visitor. He was relieved by another marine, from whom I could not extract a word. From the motion of the ship it was very certain that we were under weigh, and I soon learned from some of the crew, who came to look at me out of curiosity, that we were already outside of the Hook, with plenty of wind and a taut bowline. Nothing surprised me more than the perfect indifference and carelessness of the crew; none seemed to have a care where the ship was bound. Every one that came to look at me offered me a piece of tobacco, and although none besides the marine told me that I should be hung, I could read in their countenances such a presentiment of my fate. During the whole of the first day I was kept confined, and saw nothing of Lieutenant Minton, but the next morning I was taken upon deck, and ushered into the presence of the Captain who heard the accusations of the lieutenant against me, and asked me what I had to say for myself.

I replied that I had nothing to say, but that I hoped my ignorance of naval discipline would be some mitigation of my offence. I confessed that I had struck the lieutenant, and would do so again if I ever met him where we stood on equal ground. The captain cautioned me to be careful of my words, as they would weigh against me on a court martial.

The captain, whose name was Willing, formed a striking contrast to the officers by whom he was surrounded. They were nearly all pale and slender, but he was tall and stout, with a broad, rosy countenance, and keen, black eyes. His hair was but slightly sprinkled with grey, and there was frankness in his manner that commanded respect.

"Well, my man," said Captain Willing, "there are serious charges against you. The discipline of the service must be preserved, and your ignorance of its rules can hardly be considered an excuse for your striking your superior. First, you spoke in a disrespectful manner to your superior officer; then you deserted, which is an offence that cannot be overlooked; and, in addition to this, you have been guilty of striking an officer, which is the highest crime that can be committed. You will be tried by a court martial to-morrow, and whatever the sentence of the court may be, that you must make up your mind to abide by. I can give you no hope to anticipate any mitigation of sentence by me. The ship is bound on a long cruise, and it is necessary, in the beginning of the voyage, to show the crew that order and subordination must be preserved on board at all hazards. I shall, therefore, make short work, and you shall soon know your fate. Let it be what it may, you must bear it like a man; it will be all the better for you. You entered the service of your own free will, and have no right to murmur at its regulations."

"Ah! it was not my own free will," I replied, "but my unfortunate condition that drove me to it."

"That's the old excuse," said the captain; "I have heard it a thousand times before. But I can make no allowances for that. You came to us unsolicited, and if it was your ill luck that sent you, why, you must blame your hard fortune, and not the service."

I was then taken back again to my place of confinement, having had but a glance at the ship, and only catching a glimpse of the sea out of the half open port-holes on the gun-deck.

The perfectly calm but resolute manner of the captain gave me greater cause for fear than I had had before; and his telling me that it was necessary, at the commencement of the cruise, to set an example of severity to his crew, convinced me that I should be severely dealt with, and that the chances of hanging were greatly against me. But I thought less of what I should have to endure myself than of the distress of Mr. Bassett and Pauline at my disappearance.

TOWARDS evening I was again taken from my place of confinement, the irons were removed from my wrists, and I was escorted by the sergeant of marines to the cabin of the captain, whom I found sitting at his writing desk, attended solely by his private secretary. He had just risen from his dinner table; his face was flushed, and his eyes sparkled as though he had been indulging in wine. He as dressed in full uniform, and his noble figure as set off to great advantage by the addition of epaulettes and a gold laced coat. On the table before him was his gold-hilted sword, and looking round upon the guns and cutlasses displayed in different parts of the cabin, I felt more sensibly than I had done before, the real power of the hands into which I had fallen. Whether the captain had put on his uniform to impress me with an idea of his dignity, or whether it were a piece of etiquette, I do not know, but his majestic appearance certainly gave me a higher degree of respect for his authority than I had felt after seeing him in plain clothes. Directly after I entered the cabin he told his secretary to withdraw, and when we were alone, he said to me:

"Young man, I have learned from one of my officers that you have respectable connections, and that your name is not Brown. Is it so?"

"I replied that it was true, my name was not Brown; that I had been guilty of a falsehood in saying that it was, for which I was heartily sorry, and begged that he would allow me to be called by my father's name, which was St. Hugh."

"St. Hugh!" said the captain; "that is an unusual name. I once knew a fine fellow named St. Hugh, but of course he was no relation of yours: and yet," he exclaimed, with an oath, "you resemble him in the face. Come near me. Yes, by all the sea gods! you do look like him! Who is your father, and where is he?"

"Ah! said I, "my father was the best and bravest of men. He was an Englishman, and a sailor, too; and he once commanded as good a frigate as this, but where he is now I know not; and I fear I shall never see him again."

"Do you know the name of the ship he commanded?" said Captain Willing, starting upon his feet.

"I have been told it was the Endymion, and I know that he sailed in her once," I replied.

"Ha! ha! ha!" roared the captain, catching hold of me, and squeezing me in his arms; "ha! ha! ha! You are the son of my old friend St. Hugh, of the Endymion! ha! ha! ha!" and he gave me another hug that came near putting an end to my breathing existence. "What an ass I was not to see it in your face at first! But, tut, tut, tut; I can't believe it, after all. You have been deceiving me, and I will have you to the gangway for it. Somebody has told you to say it. That villain of a marine has put you up to it."

"Sir!" said I, "I will explain nothing. If you think me capable of a falsehood, it is very plain that you cannot think I have any right to the name of St. Hugh! Send me back to my place of confinement, and let me wait the issue of my trial. But do not insult me by suspecting my honor."

"Enough, enough; say no more; I see who you are," said the captain, resuming his seat. "Sit down by my side. My old friend's son shall not stand before me. Your father and I, sir, were friends together, ten years ago. Our ships lay in the harbor of Valparaiso; we were together one night returning from a dinner party, at the house of our Consul, when we were attacked by robbers. It was late, the streets were deserted, and I was unarmed. But St. Hugh had his sword, and by his courage he beat off the three assassins, and saved my life as well as his own. We were ever after like brothers; our ships sailed together, and many a social time did we have in the Pacific. When we parted he made me promise to pay him a visit at his house in England, which I have never done, and I did not know that he was living still. And you are his son? Ha! ha! ha! Now tell me, if you choose, by what strange luck you got yourself into this scrape; but if it is unpleasant to you, do not tell me a word. I wish to know nothing more than that you are the son of my old friend, St. Hugh. But, stop: he always told me he was unmarried. He would not have deceived me. Have you been trifling with me? If you have, you shall kiss the gunner's daughter for it. Come, come; you are caught."

"No, sir," I replied; "I am not caught. I am the son of Captain St. Hugh, and yet he thought he told you true when he said that he had never been married."

"What! was he married and all, without knowing it? Well, that is a story you may tell to the marines, but you must not tell it to an old sailor like me. I have been married myself, and know all about it."

The captain laughed at his wit, and called his steward to give him a glass of brandy and water. I then was obliged to relate to him the story that Mr. Bassett had told me, respecting my father, and also the particulars of my leaving my native village, which he listened to with great eagerness, and at the end, begged my pardon for doubting my word. He said that he remembered having heard Captain St. Hugh talk about frolicking in Buzzard's Bay.

"But, St. Hugh," said he, "I am in a quandary. You have broken the rules of the service, and if I allow you to escape without punishment it will destroy the discipline of my ship. I have ordered a court martial for to-morrow, when you must be tried. If you were my own son I would not interfere, for the discipline of the ship must be preserved. If you should be flogged, St. Hugh, as soon as we arrive at Rio, where I mean to remain a few weeks, to take in a fresh supply of provisions, and visit some of the donnas of my acquaintance, I will give you your discharge. You shall then send a challenge to Lieutenant Minton, and have the satisfaction of a gentleman out of him, to which you are entitled. I will provide a friend for you myself, and send you across to Praya Grande in my own gig, where you shall fight him like a man. I know that your father would have done as much for a son of mine if he had fallen in with him at sea, in this way."

I thanked the captain for his kindness, and asked him if there was no way by which I could escape punishment without interfering with the discipline of the ship. He shook his head, and said he was sorry for me, and would do anything he could to save me from the court martial, but he knew of no way in which it could be safely done.

"It's nothing when it's all over," said the captain; "you must learn to rough it, as your father and I did when we were of your age. You will be all the better for it when you grow up. A little discipline will be good for you."

I told him that I had already been pretty well disciplined by the two dozen lashes which I had received.

"What!" said the captain, "have you had two dozen lashes on board this ship?"

I then told him the particulars of my flogging, upon which he said he was very glad to hear it, for he would have the lieutenant put under arrest for breaking the rules of the service, which allowed of no more than twelve lashes being given at one time, unless by order of a court martial.

I was going to leave him to deliver myself into the hands of the sergeant of marines again, when he called me back and said: "A thought has popped into my head, St. Hugh. You shipped under the name of William Thompson!"

"Brown," said I.

"Ah, yes; William Brown—and you escaped under that name, but you are brought back as Eustace St. Hugh. Now, I can swear that you are the son of my old friend of the Endymion, and all you have to do is to deny that your name was ever anything besides St. Hugh, and how will they prove it! Ha! ha! ha! You will have them there! Then I will take you into my cabin, and you shall be my companion the remainder of the passage. Yes, there is nobody on board to prove that you ever was William Brown, or anything else than Eustace St. Hugh. Ha! Eustace St. Hugh, the son of my old friend of the Endymion! And when we arrive at Rio, you shall be sent home in the first ship. So, make yourself easy to-night; go back to your quarters, and when you are called before the court to-morrow, deny that you are William Brown, say that your name is Eustace St. Hugh, and leave me to do the rest."

"No, sir," said I; "that I cannot do. I signed my name as William Brown and I cannot deny it. I will not be guilty of falsehood, let the peril of truth be what it may."

"Pooh! pooh!" said the captain; "why did you enter the service under false colors, if you are so scrupulous about your word now?"

"Because I had not then learned how vile and dangerous it is to lie. If I had always been sincere and truthful, I should not be here now, but with my father. I will never sully the name of St. Hugh by uttering an untruth. It was my own folly that brought me to this condition, and I must put up with the consequences as I can, unless you have power to shelter me."

"You are a trump, St. Hugh," replied the captain, "and I would save you from a flogging, if I could. But, as I told you before, if you were my own son I would not interfere with the court martial. The discipline of the ship must be preserved, and you must be prepared to meet your punishment like man, let it be what it will. But I cannot see the son of my old friend flogged on board my ship. Think over your nice scruples, to-night, and in the morning do as I advise you."

"Never!" I replied; "I will never again be guilty of an untruth. I have lost my father by a falsehood, and hereafter my life shall be sincere and true; the truth can do me no greater harm than a lie has already done."

"Poor St. Hugh!" exclaimed the captain, rising from his seat and taking me by the hand; "poor fellow! I cannot serve you now; but I will serve you hereafter. Lieutenant Minton shall be dismissed from the service; before you reach your quarters he shall be sent to his state-room. So good night to you; keep up your spirits, but don't hope that I will remit the sentence of the court, for if you should be sentenced to be run up to the end of the fore-yard; or keel-hauled, or flogged, it must be done. So, good night my boy, and keep a tight eye to leeward for breakers."

It was not difficult to see that the captain was not himself; he talked thick, and his face was flushed and feverish. I hoped, therefore, that in the morning, when he felt more cool, and remembered who I was, that his humanity would be stronger than his love of discipline, and that he would save me from the court martial.

When I left the captain's cabin, it was nearly dark; there was a fresh breeze, the top-sails and top-gallant sails were all set, and the frigate was dashing through the water most gloriously. It made my heart leap as I looked aloft and saw her immense sails, and caught glimpses of the sailors in the tops, and saw them running out to the extreme ends of the huge yards. I could only see the water through the half opened ports of the spar-deck, for the bulwarks were too high to look over them, excepting when the frigate rolled to leeward, and then the glimpse which I caught of the ocean filled me with grand but melancholy feelings. I was not allowed to remain long on the upper deck, and I left it very unwillingly. The hammocks had been piped down, the dog watch had been set, and many of the sailors were below asleep; but there were still a good many on deck, gathered together between the guns in clusters of eight or ten, some listening to a long yarn told by one of their number, others were singing, and some of the youngsters were dancing to a fiddle, which was scraped by one of the cooks. As I went below to my place of confinement there was a sharp flash of lightning, and very soon after I heard a peal of thunder. This was followed by a call of all hands to shorten sail. The fiddle ceased, the story tellers and dancers were all dispersed to their different stations, and nothing was heard but the shrill whistles of the boatswain and his mates, and the hoarse bellowings of the first lieutenant's trumpet. The marine who stood guard over me said that we were on the edge of the gulf stream, and that we should have a bad night of it. And it so proved. The thunder kept growing louder and louder, until it sounded like a discharge of guns over our heads, or like huge shot rolled over the decks. The ship trembled at every peal, and notwithstanding that the hatchways had all been covered over with tarpaulins to keep out the rain, which had begun to fall in torrents, the berth-deck was illuminated by the constant flashes of lightning. The motion of the vessel was much more violent than it had been, and I could plainly discover that the wind had increased to a gale. It was frightful to hear the hubbub and noise above my head, and not to know what was going on. I begged the marine to allow me to go upon deck, but he would not, and congratulated himself that he was not exposed to the storm, like his companions. What with the roaring of the wind, the rattling thunder, the dashing of the waves, the creaking of timbers, the banging of ropes, the flapping of sails, the bellowing of the officer of the deck, the pattering of rain, and rattling of shot that had broken loose, the uproar was frightful and stunning. There were no lights below where I was confined, and, excepting when there was a vivid flash of lightning, we were in complete darkness. This hubbub and hurly-burly continued more than an hour, seemingly growing louder and louder all the while, until there came a flash of lightning, accompanied by a crushing clap of thunder, which very nearly deprived me of my senses. The whole between-decks seemed to be filled with fire, the air was suffocating, the ship trembled, and there was a crushing noise, accompanied by a great uproar, that filled me with fright and amazement. The darkness and silence which immediately followed, were hardly less alarming. I called to the marine who stood sentry over me, but he made no reply. The decks appeared to be filled with smoke, there was no one near, and I shouted with all my might, but no one came to me. The noise above my head completely drowned my voice, but I could distinguish sounds which seemed to me like groans of distress. The little place in which I was confined was secured by a wooden bar across the door. I tried to force it open, and after two or three attempts, succeeded; bursting out upon the deck I found the marine lying upon the floor, apparently dead, and a cloud of smoke was rising from one of the hatchways. It was evident that the ship was on fire, and I shouted, fire! fire! fire! and forced my way upon one of the ladders which led to the main deck, where a scene of great confusion presented itself. The alarm of fire instantly spread, the captain came from his cabin, speaking trumpet in hand, and gave directions for extinguishing the fire, which had taken somewhere in the fore part of the ship, near the place of my confinement. The foremast had been struck with lightning, and a great number of the crew had been stunned, but none had been killed. By the activity of the men, and the good order which was preserved among them, the effect of the strict discipline of the captain, the fire was extinguished below before it had done much harm; but, it having originated in the neighborhood of the magazine, the utmost consternation pervaded the crew and officers until it was completely smothered. Having gained my liberty, I felt very unwilling to return to the dismal little cupboard of a prison in which I had been confined. The captain stood upon the poop-deck, with his trumpet in his hand, giving orders, and I was completely charmed by his coolness of manner, his perfect readiness, and his fine sonorous voice. I could easily understand now the necessity of preserving the most rigid discipline at all times on board of a ship, where there were so many men, even in comparatively trivial matters, to insure perfect obedience in times of difficulty and danger; and I could readily conceive of the feelings of Captain Willing when he refused to screen me from the decision of the court martial while he showed so strong a desire to do me a kindness. I could not understand the orders that were given, but I saw that they were obeyed, and that there was no confusion, although there was so great a noise, and such a variety of commands. The rain still continued to pour down in torrents, the lightning glared, and the thunder pealed. But the wind had almost subsided into a dead calm, which was very fortunate, for I afterwards learned that the foremast had been so much shattered by the lightning, that if it had continued to blow with the same degree of violence as in the commencement of the storm, it would have gone by the board, and the ship would have been completely disabled.

Sheltering myself under the projecting roof of the poop, which formed the captain's cabin, I stood and watched the operations of the crew, and having on my citizen's dress, the lieutenants and midshipmen passed me without noticing me, probably thinking that I was one of the gun-room officers. But when the captain came off the poop-deck to go into his cabin, having given up the command to his first lieutenant, he spoke to me as he passed and said—

"Ha, doctor, what an escape we have had!"

"It's not the doctor," said I.

"Who is it then?" he said, taking me by the arm and looking in my face, "What, St. Hugh! By all the sea gods, my boy, you have seen more to-night than I have ever seen before in all my going to sea. But how got you here? Come into my cabin and tell me how you escaped."

"So then," said he, when I had told him how I had first discovered the fire, and given the alarm, "So then, we are indebted to you for the safety of the ship. Good, by all the sea gods, my fine fellow, I would like to see the man who would attempt to put the weight of a rope-yarn upon your back. This is all right. It was your father who saved my life once, and now you have saved it again, and the lives of my noble fellows, and my old ship. I have put that pale-faced Minton under arrest, and now that I have got you here you shall stay."

The commodore, for they called him commodore on board, was all this time taking off his wet clothes, and he made use of tremendous oaths all the while, which I have not thought it proper to introduce into my narrative. He one of the old school of naval officers, who think that oaths, grog, and flogging are necessary parts of the service; and that without them there would be nothing worth living for. He called for his brandy and water, and would have me drink with him, very much against my will. But he did something better than this, for he gave me a dry suit of clothes, which were very acceptable, as I was wet to the skin.

"This is a fortunate affair for you, St. Hugh," said he, seating himself at his table again, after changing his clothes; "with my shattered foremast I cannot proceed on my cruise, so I have given orders to change the course of the ship, and I shall put into Norfolk and repair damages; and then you shall be sent back to New York, and if you ever see my old friend of the Endymion again, tell him that you and old Willing drank his health in the gulf stream. Does anybody on board know of your escape?"

I told him that nobody had spoken to me, and that I had kept out of sight to prevent my being taken back to the place of my confinement.

"Very good," said he; "ha! ha! ha! They shall not know what has become of you. I will keep you here until we arrive at Norfolk, and then you shall be sent on shore."

He then called his steward, and told him he had got a messmate, and cautioned him to say nothing about it unless he wanted to be made a spread-eagle of. A cot was provided for me to sleep in, and having fallen into a profound slumber in the middle of a long story which the captain was telling me, a sequel to the adventure which he and my father had together in the Pacific, I was allowed to lie down, and slept soundly until morning. I was roused by the captain calling loudly for his steward; he demanded, upon the appearance of that sable functionary, an explanation of the strange appearance of an extra cot in his cabin. He had forgotten the circumstance of taking me in the night before, but as he recollected himself, he called to me to lie still, and be careful not to expose myself to the observation of any of the crew.

As no one but the captain's steward pretended to open his cabin door, I was in little danger of being discovered, and finding myself in pleasant quarters, with a full view of the sea from the open ports and cabin windows, I felt in no hurry to arrive in port. The morning had cleared off very pleasant; there was just wind enough to fill the sails, a warm sun, and a bright blue sea. The captain went out upon deck to see the extent of the damage by the lightning, and when he returned had breakfast served, of which I partook with a hearty appetite, for I had before eaten but little of the ship's provisions. He told me that these was a great ado among the officers about my disappearance, and they supposed that I had jumped overboard. The marine had recovered from the effects of the lightning, and the damage done to the spars being too great to be repaired at sea, we were bound into Norfolk, where he expected that we should arrive the next day.

Whether any of the officers on board knew of my being in the commodore's cabin I do not know, but I suspect that he informed them all of the secret, for after our arrival at Hampton Roads, which we did not reach until ten days after the accident which happened to the frigate, partly in consequence of calms, and partly on account of the crippled state of the foremast, he borrowed a lieutenant's coat and cap for me to go ashore in. After the ship came to anchor, he had his own boat got ready, and having waited until dark, he took me to Norfolk. As we left the cabin I observed that all the officers were on the poop, apparently waiting to catch a glimpse of me, but I did not see Lieutenant Minton among them, and have no doubt that he was in his cabin under arrest, as the commodore assured me. It was too late when we reached Norfolk to make any arrangements for leaving the next day; but in the morning my new friend, for whom I felt so strong an attachment, that I parted from him with real sorrow, provided me a passage on board a steamboat, and embracing me warmly cautioned me to keep clear from Uncle Sam's service in my future rambles, and not to forget to remember him to my father if I should ever find him; as though it were possible for me ever to forget that brave old commodore, who had treated me with such overflowing kindness. But he did not seem conscious of having done a good deed, and for that reason his kindness made a stronger impression upon my heart. He gave me sufficient money to defray my expenses back to New York, and would take no obligation for it, telling me that I might pay it to the first sailor in want that I might fall in with, when I got able.

LEST some accident should again befall me, to prevent my reaching New York, I put a letter in the post office before leaving Norfolk, informing Mr. Bassett that I was on my passage back, and would explain to him the cause of my absence when I should get home. It was fortunate for me that I did so, for I was detained on the road between Philadelphia and Baltimore, by an accident, and when I arrived in New York I found Mr. Bassett at Mrs. Nicely's establishment, anxiously waiting for me. He had never before shown so much pleasure in meeting me; the good man's eyes filled with tears as he pressed me in his arms, and said: "Thank God, Tom, for permitting me to see you once more!"

I was delighted myself to be with my first and truest friend once more, and felt the liveliest gratitude for his goodness to me. But I was at a loss to account for the pleasure which he evidently experienced in seeing me, for he had nothing to hope for from me; I could render him no service, and I was now past the age when he could find pleasure in petting me as he had done when he first took me under his protection. I could not help thinking that, having no children of his own to bestow his affections upon, and being married to a woman who would not allow him to love her, because she was so selfish as to forbid him to love anything but her, that he lavished upon me the affection which his gentle nature required should be bestowed upon something. I had not the vanity to think that I was in any manner worthy of the esteem of so good a man as Mr. Bassett. I knew my own wickedness and deficiencies too well for that. But then I saw that all human beings, however low in the scale of intellect, or base in conduct, demanded sympathy and love from something, and that those whose uncouthness or baseness repelled the sympathies of their own species, found in horses and dogs, or in cats, monkeys or birds, the sympathy and attachment which all nature demands.

I not only know, from observation, that love was a necessity of all human beings, but I knew it from my own feelings; and I thought that Mr. Bassett's kindness to me was the natural effect of his being denied the privilege of having a child of his own. Duty is a different thing from love, and if I had had any claim upon Mr. Bassett, I cannot help thinking he would not have shown so much regard for me. He told me that after my last disappearance he had given up all hope of ever seeing me again, and began to think that I and my father were the victims of some secret enemy who had been dodging at our heels watching for an opportunity to distress us. But now that I had returned, he had hopes that I should yet have the good fortune to meet my father, which made me very happy.

He then made me sit down and tell him everything that had happened to me since he had last seen me. When I had finished the narrative of my adventures, he looked at me very seriously and said:

"It is a very strange story, Tom. It sounds like a romance. Do you expect me to believe it, after all the fictions you have told me?"

I was too much hurt by this unexpected reproof to reply at once, but as soon as I could collect myself, I said to him:

"I now feel how guilty I must be, since my conduct has lost me your confidence. This is a blow that I was not prepared for; but the fault is my own."

"Pardon me, my poor boy," said Mr. Bassett; "I did not mean to reproach you; I do believe your story. I am sorry."

"Ah!" said I, "you are sorry that you have hurt my feelings, but you believed what you said, and it is that which grieves me. I know now that you have lost your regard for me; that you no longer believe what I tell you, and therefore you cannot love me."

"I did not mean what I said, Tom;——"

"Then why did you say it?" I replied. "You did mean what you said, but you did not mean to say it; and it is because you spoke unconsciously and therefore truly, that I feel the force of your words. It is not you that I blame, but myself."

"You are right Tom," said Mr. Bassett; "you have distinguished rightly between my thoughts and my motives. It cannot be helped, my boy; you see what power there is in a word, and how important it is to remember the lesson which I once taught you, to keep your thoughts pure, that your words may never give offense. Man is not a mere talking machine, but a thinking one, and speech was designed to express his thoughts, not to disguise them, as has been thought by some. But thoughts cannot be disguised; they will show themselves without the thinker knowing it—there is a language of action, and of looks, as well as of words—and your thoughts will discover themselves in spite of all your endeavors to hide them. Therefore, accustom yourself to good thinking, that you may never be compelled to play the part of a hypocrite, which is the most detestable and universally hated of all the sins which mankind commit."

"I know it all; I have experienced the evils of falsehood in all their bitterness," I replied. "I have been guilty of deceit and dissimulation; I have been a hypocrite and have told untruths; but hereafter my lips shall be unsullied by such sins."

"Be careful, Tom, and remember your propensity," said Mr. Bassett; "remember that to make such a promise and then break it, will be in itself a worse sin than to be guilty of a falsehood without having done it."

"I will never transgress in that way again," I said; "since I knew that my true name was St. Hugh, I have not violated the integrity of my word; and henceforth, no evil that can befall me shall compel a falsehood from my lips, nor any good fortune beguile me into a deceitful act. When I cannot live by truth, I will die."

"Bravely said, Tom!" exclaimed Mr. Bassett; "do but keep your promise, and you will be in no fear of dying. But, do you really love Truth for its own sake, or from some selfish thought that it will promote your own interests?"

"I know not." I said, "what the secret of my feelings is; but I know that I do so detest an untruth, that I will never countenance one again. Believe me, for I am in earnest"

"Be cautious, Tom," said Mr. Bassett; "you will find it hard to overcome an old habit."

"I am strong in my resolution; I know that I shall never swerve!"

"Very well; I believe you. You now know the evils of falsehood, and when you experience the sweets of sincerity and perfect truthfulness, you will have a double inducement to persevere in your resolution. But you have a hard trial to undergo in confessing the deceptions which you have already been guilty of, and of bearing up under the odium of self-convicted deceiver. Can you do this? You can! Very well. My poor boy, I would ease you of your burden, if I could; but you must bear the consequences of your own transgressions."

"I am prepared," I replied.

"It is well for you," he said; "be true to yourself, and you need fear no harm. It is late now, I cannot reveal to you the plans which I propose for your future conduct; it will be time enough to-morrow. To-night you have need of repose. But before I part with you, I must extract a promise from you not to leave this city, nor to make any engagements respecting your future conduct, without first informing me of your intentions."

"I promise," I said.

"Enough; and now, my son, good night. Mrs. Bassett is already impatient at my delay. I will see you again in the morning."

Mr. Bassett then shook my hand and left me. I had taken possession of the room which I had occupied before at Mrs. Nicely's establishment, but had seen no one belonging to the house, excepting a servant. Mr. Bassett had hardly left me when there was a tap at the door.

It was a girl, with Mr. and Mrs. Hopton's compliments, who wished to see me in their room, just one minute. I found the notary and his wife in the same condition in which I had left them; he was smoking a cigar, and occupying two chairs, sitting in one, while his feet were elevated upon the back of the other, and Mrs. Hopton was industriously engaged upon a bead bag, the sale of which, she had informed me, was to help make up a sum to constitute the Rev. Doctor Somebody a life member of some tract society.

"How do you do?" said the notary as I entered, and he made a slight motion with his legs, though he wanted to impress me with the idea that he was going to rise from his seat, and expected me to say, "Don't rise, sir." But I said nothing of the kind, and so he contented himself by thinking that if I had a mind to be uncivil, he wouldn't be at the trouble of throwing away any politeness upon me. But his wife immediately rose and reached me her hand, saying:

"Why, how do you do, Mr. St. Hugh? I am delighted to see you. You look very well."

She evidently expected me to return her compliment to my good looks, and tell her the same; but I did not think she looked very well, by any means, so I merely replied to her by saying that I was very well.

"Come, take a cigar," said the notary. "I found a new brand to-day; they are a very superior article."

I took the cigar, for I was still addicted to that injurious habit, smoking; but I found that the new brand was an old cigar, and told him so, which he didn't seem to like.

"There have been such works in this house since you have been absent, Mr. St. Hugh!" said Mrs. Hopton, laying down her bead-work. "You will be astonished to hear how some people have been going on. Maria Witchley's husband has been behaving in the most dreadful way, and, for a professor, perfectly awful. I am sure, for my part, I don't know what the world is coming to. People, now-a-days, Mr. St. Hugh, seem to have no consciences, no goodness, nor no respect for religion, whatever."

"What can you expect," said the notary, "when there are so many isms going about, and a parcel of agrarians are trying to do away with hanging and the rights of property? I used to think, once, that there was some virtue in the people, but I have given up that notion ever since they began to talk about taking away bank charters. I shouldn't wonder if the next thing were an attempt to choose judges by the people."

"No, my dear, they will never come to that," said his wife. "My father, who was Judge of Queens, always said, if the people laid their hands on the Bench, the country was gone. Poor man! I am glad he didn't live to see these times; he never could have died in the happy way he did if he had."

"However," said the notary, "it is best to take the world easy. For my part, I shall not trouble myself about the people; if they choose to go to destruction, let them go. I shall take care of myself. Come, St. Hugh, try a glass of my pale sherry; it's some that I got of Duff Gordon's agent, and I think the flavor is rather better than that of the Amontillado."

"My father, the late Judge of Queens," said Mrs. Hopton, "was an excellent judge of wines. Ah! he knew something about society; but I declare it makes me really sick to hear a mere parveneer——"

"Parvenue," said the notary.

"I think you are mistaken, my dear," said his lady; "but it makes but little difference what people say, if the heart is only right. But I do say it is enough to make anybody sick, to hear a mere mushroon——"

"Room!—r double o, m," said the notary.

"Well, my dear, I hope you will be satisfied by and bye," said his lady, rather sharply; "what matter is it what people say; if they only mean well? As I was saying, it is enough to make anybody sick to hear a mere nobody, without any pretentions to gentility or family connections, like that Maria Witchley's husband, talk about wines."

"I advise you to be careful of that Witchley," said the notary; "he is a dangerous fellow. I might say something about him, if I chose, but I make it a point never to trouble myself about other people."

"Well, I will say this about them to you, Mr. St. Hugh, because we are friendly to you," said the notary's wife: "there is no end to what he has said about you. He called you everything, and Maria Witchley herself, made use of the most unladylike expressions about you. There is nothing that they didn't say about you—and they are professors, too!"

"Maria Witchley and her husband talk about me!" I said, in amazement. "I never saw either of those persons. Why should they talk about me? I thank you for telling me, and I will call upon Mr. Witchley for an explanation of his conduct."

"Don't do that," said the notary; "treat him with silent contempt. It will work him up."

"What, sir!" I replied, "shall I harbor in my breast ill feelings towards a man, for what he said about me, and give him no opportunity to explain his motives? No; I cannot be guilty of such dissimulation. I shall demand an explanation of his conduct, for his aspersions of me must be based upon a mistake. I have been guilty of many vile things, but none that he can know."

"I think, myself, as the late Judge of Queens used to say," chimed in Mrs. Hopton, "that it is best always to take Time by the fetlock, but——"

"Forelock, forelock, my dear; how many times have I told you, forelock?" said the notary.

"I am not going to give up always; I think I may be allowed to know something," said Mrs. Hopton, "and I shall say fetlock, if it costs me my life."

"O, well, my dear; then I shall not pretend to say anything more about it" replied her husband, with great calmness.

"It is best, generally to take Time by the fetlock, I think, myself," resumed the lady, "but in this case, I would advise you as a friend, Mr. St. Hugh, not to say a word to the Witchleys; and if they say anything to you, don't give them any answer whatever. They are not worth anybody's notice; and it is just as likely as not that they might say something about me; but, for my part, I don't want to have anything whatever to do with them; a still tongue is a wise one; and smooth water always runs deep; the least said is the soonest over, and it is a long lane that never comes to an end. For my part, I think, as the Apostle says, it is an ill wind that blows nobody away."

"My dear, I have often cautioned you against quoting proverbs," said the notary; "you never get them right."

"Well," said his lady, "if I don't, I don't know who should."

I was weary of this tattle, and rising from my seat, I said: "I have no right to question your motives in telling me that the Witchleys have slandered me, and I thank you for it; in the morning I shall demand an explanation from Mr. Witchley, and I have no doubt that he will be able to give me a satisfactory one."

"What!" said the lady, "will you if I request you not to, for my sake?"

"If you were anxious that I should not speak to the Witchleys, you should not have told me of their speaking ill of me," I replied.

"The fact is," said the notary, "the Witchleys are a kind of people who care nothing at all about appearances, and if we had not told you what they had been saying, they would probably have told you themselves."

"They are just bad enough," said the lady, and then took out her handkerchief, and began to be very much overcome by her feelings.

"Calm your apprehensions, my dear," said the notary; "when Mr. St. Hugh hears how we have been drawn into this disagreeable business, if he is a gentleman he will not insist upon disturbing the peace of a respectable family, by calling upon such people as the Witchleys, upon any pretense. I can answer for him. Sit down, my dear St. Hugh, and drink another glass of sherry."

"Do, now, Mr. St. Hugh," said Mrs. Hopton; "it will do you good. I and my husband took such a liking to you, that you don't know what we suffered in your absence, and when we heard you had returned, I said to my husband, we will caution him against those Witchleys, before he has an opportunity to get into any difficulty with them. They are people of no principle or family connection whatever, and they have taken a great dislike to my husband and me, for no reason in the world but because I have been so kind to them, and have done everything for Maria, whom I always loved and thought the world of."

"Very remarkable reasons" said I, "for taking a dislike to a person."

"I know it," said Mrs. Hopton; "and that is why it seems so cruel to me."

"The fact is, my dear fellow," said the notary, "Mrs. Hopton, who takes a great interest in the Witchleys, happened to mention, in confidence, to one of the ladies in the house, that Mr. Witchley either had, or probably would, fail; this was told by somebody or other to Mrs. Witchley, who of course, told her husband, and he pretended to be in a great rage about it."

"Just for so trifling a thing as that," said the lady, "and you may judge from that circumstance what kind of a person he is."

"So, he comes to me for an explanation, I disclaim all knowledge of the business, my wife is then called upon, and she, being under the impression that you had told her, in the hurry of the moment, said that it was you who had set the report afloat; and he, taking advantage of your absence, and thinking that you would never return to defend yourself, made use of the most dreadful expressions about you. You see now how the case stands."

"Yes, sir, I see it plainly," I said; "your wife circulated a falsehood about Mr. Witchley, and took advantage of my absence to lay the invention of it at my door. Is not that it?"

"No gentleman," said Mrs. Hopton, "would ever accuse a lady of telling a falsehood!"

"No lady," said I, too hastily I admit, for I did not mean to tell Mrs. Hopton that she was no lady, because she had confessed to telling a fib, "would be guilty——"

"My dear, will you hear your wife called no lady by such a person as Mr. St. Hugh? Ah, if my poor father was alive, he would protect me from insult."

"Mr. St. Hugh," said the notary, "I rather think you will have to recall those words, and make an apology to my lady."

"I think differently," I replied; "I shall make no apology except to Mr. Witchley, whom I wronged, by being the means of his purchasing a spurious note. For the injury that he suffered though my misrepresentation, I shall make a humble acknowledgment, and if possible, repay him the money he has lost. But I shall clear myself from the charge of having wantonly endeavored to injure his credit."

"That's very plain language, Mr. St. Hugh," said the notary, shaking his head at me. "Do you mean to insinuate that my wife, sir, a professor of religion, told a falsehood?"

"It was on your own authority that I said it," I replied.

"What will you do, sir?" said the notary.

"I shall call upon him and assure him that I never said anything against him, and that all that I ever heard against him was from you and your wife."

"You had better be careful, sir; you must remember that there is such a thing as Law, and, more than that, such a thing as the Law of Libel," said the notary. "If you traduce the character of my wife or myself, I shall have you up for it."

"I shall tell the truth, sir," I replied, "let the consequences be what they may."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Hopton. "You will tell the truth! Well there is one comfort for us, my dear; nobody will believe him. We know you, and the Witchleys know all about you, too; it's all over town about Tom Pepper's lies. You can't hurt our character; we are in regular standing in Doctor Longtext's church, thank you, and our word will be taken before yours. I and my husband are well known as professors, and you can't injure us. You call yourself Mr. St. Hugh, but you are no more Mr. St. Hugh than I am. Come."

"My name was Tom Pepper once," I replied, while my cheeks burned with shame to acknowledge it, "but it is St. Hugh now."

"We know all your aliases," said the notary.

"Yes sir," said his lady; "every horse has his day, and it takes two to make one bargain. That angel of a woman, Mrs. Bassett, has told us all about you. The Witchleys know you, too; so you had better keep clear from them."

"What!" said I "has that jealous woman been prejudicing your minds against me, by turning my misfortunes into crimes?"

"Jealous woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Hopton, "jealous woman! If there ever was a saint upon earth, it is Mrs. Bassett. She is a perfect angel. But, with such a husband, who wouldn't be jealous? Well, you may tell the Witchleys whatever you please; they know you. Everybody is talking about Tom Pepper's lies. You have got your name up, and it will be no use for you to attempt to pass yourself off for Mr. St. Hugh."

"You see you are completely used up, my friend," said the notary; "but if you observe the directions of my wife and myself, we will be friends to you, and keep you out of mischief. Just keep yourself to yourself, and if Witchley should accuse you of reporting that he had failed, give him no satisfaction, but send him to me. I will act as your counsel, free of charge."

"No, sir!" said I, indignantly; "I will consent to nothing that is not true and honest. I shall deny to Mr. Witchley that I ever reported his having failed."

"Let him do his worst, my dear," said Mrs. Hopton; "nobody will believe him after the stories I and Mrs. Bassett have told about him."

I RETIRED to my room after getting away from the notary and his wife, with a melancholy presentiment that I had yet to reap the blighted harvest of my past transgressions. They had told me that my name was already a bye-word, and that I should never be believed again, let me be ever so truthful. The notary said he had heard a broker say on 'Change, "He lies like Tom Pepper!" and intimated to me, that since I must bear the name, it would be as well to enjoy the game of romancing. But this only made me the more resolute to persevere in telling the truth. If I could but deny that I had once been called Tom Pepper, I could establish a reputation for sincerity under the name of St. Hugh. But that I could not do without violating the pledge I had made, and being now fairly convinced that no good could ever result from a falsehood, under any circumstances whatever, I fortified myself with fresh resolutions to be truthful, and quietly resigned myself to whatever hardships or trials the future might have in store for me. Indeed, I had now become so entirely disgusted with every form of deceit and treachery, that I could hardly believe that I had ever been guilty of a falsehood; so easily do we fall into different habits of thought and action, when we will. I cannot deny that I experienced a certain degree of pleasure from framing an ingenious falsehood, and watching its effects upon others, and had prided myself upon my fancied powers of deception, but I had never known what real pleasure was, until I had adopted an opposite course, and caused more surprise by my ingenuous frankness, than I had ever been able to do by the most ingenious fictions. I have no doubt that if the greatest romancer in the whole world could be induced to live with perfect frankness and sincerity, for only one day, he would become so enamored of the charms and beauty of Truth, that he would never again sully his soul with a falsehood. But living as all men do in a community where impudent pretension carries off the rewards to which unpretending merit is entitled, and where the great art of life is to deceive, none but a very courageous, or very desperate man could dare to practice such transparency of thinking and honesty of action as Mr. Bassett had recommended to me. But I was sufficiently desperate, if not sufficiently bold, to make the attempt, myself; I had nothing to lose, and could not change my situation for the worse, as I thought, let what would happen to me.

Having promised Mr. Bassett that I would do nothing without first informing him of my intentions, I was compelled to wait until he called upon me, the next morning, before I could move from the house. He did not keep me long in suspense, but came to see me before he went to his store. I was greatly relieved to learn from him that old Gil had been discharged from confinement, and that the explanations made by Mr. Bassett had cleared him from the imputation of any fraudulent design. But the loss of the forged note fell upon him, because he had been the last endorser. The woman who had robbed me of my clothes had also been discharged; but Mr. Bassett told me of another consequence of my deceit, which gave me still greater uneasiness. The runaway slave had been seen with the shawl which I gave her, and had been arrested for stealing it; this led to an explanation of the manner in which she became possessed of it, by which means the family of friend Goodwill and Sophia Ruby had been greatly scandalized by discovering who it was that they had harbored, under the belief that he was a woman. But the worst part of the story was that the slave had been found by her owner, in consequence of the circumstance of her arrest having got into the papers, and had been taken back into bondage.

"Now, Tom," said Mr. Bassett, when he had related to me the last consequences of my romancing, "you have arrived at an age when it is proper that you should be your own master; your experiences of life have been varied; you have been well instructed in the ways of the world; you know the distinctions of good and evil, and if you have strength of character to resist the temptations to deceive, which, I think, cannot be very powerful to you, since you have had an opportunity of knowing the consequences of transgression, you will be in no danger; but if you have not, it will be in vain for me to attempt to preserve you."

"Try me," said I, exultingly; "prove me, and if I fall again I will forfeit all right to your protection or love. But you say nothing about my Father; I have been afraid to name him to you, lest all my hopes of seeing him again should be blasted by your reply. Can you give me no hope?"

Mr. Bassett looked very solemn, and shook his head, but made no direct reply to my question.

"Do not give up all hope, my poor boy," said he, taking my hand and pressing it warmly; "your father was an eccentric man, and he may have wandered off, as he did when he left England to seek for your mother, and as no harm has been heard of him, it is wise to think that he is well, and may return. However, while you hope that he may return, live as though you knew that he would not, and that your future fortune depended upon your own exertions. It is proper that you should earn your own support, or at least that you should be capable of doing it; for I have consulted with a lawyer, and find that you cannot establish your claim as heir to the estate of the St. Hughs; unfortunately for you, the evidence requisite to prove your identity, and the legitimacy of your birth, is in the possession of your father; therefore it would be idle to make the attempt, or to nurse the idea that you will one day occupy so proud a station as you would have been entitled to, had you been true to yourself, nor lost that great inheritance by your follies. It would be wrong in me to encourage you to expect any essential aid from my property; my business is precarious—the accidents of trade may reduce me to the condition of a beggar, and then the hardship of earning your daily bread would be greater than it can be now."

I had listened in silence thus far, but now my heart swelled with pride at the thought of relying solely upon my own exertions for my support, and I said:

"You have laid me under fresh obligations by this frankness; I am no longer a boy, and I will eat the bread of dependence no more. Hereafter, then, I am free."

"No, not free," said Mr. Bassett; "I have your promise that you will do nothing without my knowledge, if not without my consent. This promise I shall not release you from. In all other things you are free to act as you see fit; I may advise you, but I shall never insist upon your following my advice. But you shall not go into the world to seek your fortune empty handed; here is a check for five hundred dollars, which will be sufficient for all your wants until you can earn something for yourself."

My first impulse as to reject the offered check; but I knew it was offered in kindness, and I would not seem to repel his friendship. I was offended, however, or rather my feelings were hurt, by his offer and his altered manner towards me, and it did not agree with my new resolution to keep a clean breast, not to tell him of it, so I said:

"I will accept the money, but I am hurt by your manner of offering it. I see that your feelings are changed towards me, and I fear that you are already tired of me, and wish to be rid of me."

"Now, that is well done, Tom," said Mr. Bassett; "I like you better for saying what you think. You will know better one of these days than to be offended with one who tries to do you a kindness. Keep the money, and make a good use of it; but do not expect to receive more from me."

"No, I will not—I do not," I replied, hardly able to speak. "I feel your kindness and thank you; I will try to prove worthy of the confidence you have had in me, and of the love which I once thought you bore for me. I can never, while my name is St. Hugh, disgrace it."

"But your name is not St. Hugh yet," said Mr. Bassett; "you do not know that you are entitled to it; therefore you must still call yourself by your old name, until you establish your claim to better one. You must remain Tom Pepper, as you were before you supposed that your name was St. Hugh."

"This is the hardest lot of all," said I; "how shall I ever be able to make way against the bad reputation of my former name? It has become a proverb, I hear that great liars are called Tom Peppers; who will ever trust me, with such a reputation, or how shall I ever succeed in earning my living with such a name?"

"You have a hard task before you, Tom; but you have no one to blame for it but yourself. Had you followed my advice, you would now be in a very different condition."

I saw that Mr. Bassett had resolutely set his heart against me, and had no doubt that he had been influenced by some person who was an enemy to me. So I made no other reply to him, than simply to tell him, that I hoped he would have no cause to regret his goodness to me, and that I would strive to repay him the aid he had given me. But he told me that all he had done for me was a free gift on his part, and that I must never think about returning it.

"Now, Tom," said he, as he rose to go, "I shall leave you to follow the bent of your own inclinations; choose your own employments, your own companions, and your own residence; but remember that you are to do nothing without first informing me of your intentions. You promise me this?"

"I do."

"He then squeezed my hand, and without saying another word, left me to my own reflections, which were bitter enough. As he closed the door, I fell upon the sofa and wept. I felt utterly desolate and broken hearted. I had not, now, a friend in the world, and knew not whither to turn in search of one. It was very evident that Mr. Bassett had no hope of ever hearing from my father again, and that he was disgusted with my former conduct, and was growing tired of me. He had said nothing of his wife, but I attributed the change in his conduct mainly to her, for I knew that she still exercised a strong influence over him, notwithstanding that he knew how little she deserved his love, or even respect. My first care, now, was to get the money for my check, and for that purpose I went down into Wall street as soon as I had done weeping, and having got my money, I felt rather more confident in myself. I could not be utterly cast down with five hundred dollars in my pocket, and feeling myself more like myself, I went boldly into old Gil's place, partly with the hope of being invited to take my old place, and partly to ask his pardon for deceiving him. The old fellow sat at his desk, alone, as I entered, and as soon as he looked up and saw me, he exclaimed:

"Leave my office, Grimshaw! I won't have you here!"

"Not yet," said I, coolly; "not until I have asked your pardon for the wrong I did you."

"The wrong you did me?" exclaimed old Gil, throwing his hat on the floor with violence, "what's the good of your asking my pardon for that? Will it bring back my money to me that you helped to swindle me out of? When you can do that, then come and ask my pardon, and perhaps I will pardon you. But until you do, I don't want to see you."

The old broker looked more slovenly than usual, his white cravat as twisted more on one side than ever, and the knot stuck up more prominently behind his left ear; the tobacco juice that ran down from the corners of his mouth was unusually copious and black; his eyes were heavier, his shaggy hair, shaggier, and his trowsers more than ever down about his heels. It was evident that old Gil's mind had been unusually occupied, and that he bestowed less thought than ever before, upon his mere making-up, if that were possible, for he had never bestowed any particular attention upon his personal appearance.

"My name is not Grimshaw," I said, "nor Walter——"

"And you are no longer a Quaker; you put on a drab suit to deceive me, and now you have come with some new lie to me. But it won't do, Grimshaw; I am not to be taken in the second time. So, go about your business, if you have any; I can't attend to you. I don't want to see you."

"You must hear me out before I go," said I, standing with my back against the door. "No, I am not a Quaker; I never was one, and I deceived you by wearing the dress of one; neither am I an Englishman, by birth; I never saw Lancashire, and all the people whose names I used to talk about, were inventions, and nothing else."

"You are a greater liar than Tom Pepper," said he.

"No, I am not," I replied, while my cheeks burned with shame; "I am Tom Pepper himself."

"You, Tom Pepper!" exclaimed he, opening his eyes.

"Yes," said I, "I am that unfortunate boy; or, rather, I was. But I am a different Tom Pepper now."

"Ha! Then I see how it is; you have come to me with more lies; but you may clear out. I don't want to see your face. You have swindled me out of my money. Go! go!"

"I am sorry for it," I replied; "is there no way that I can satisfy you of my sincerity?"

"Yes," said he; "pay me my money. Did I not tell you at first, that it was against my principles to give something for nothing? Do you think I will give you my confidence and forgiveness in return for the deception you practiced on me, and for aiding some one to swindle me out of my money? And remember, Grimshaw, that you did all this after I had taken you into my house, and made you a companion of my daughters."

"I confess all, and mean to convince you how sincerely I regret my past conduct. I am changed from what I was."

"You are changed, are you?" said he, sneeringly. "You have experienced religion, perhaps, and had a change of heart?"

"No; nothing like that," I replied: "but still I am changed. I will never tell another untruth."

"But that will not bring back my money, will it?"

"Yes; for I will earn it and pay you."

"No, Grimshaw," said he, "you will never earn three thousand dollars; and if you do, you will not have the honesty to pay me."

I felt indignant at the old man's persisting in doubting my honesty, and remembering the money that I had in my pocket, I took it out, and counting it deliberately, reached it to him and said:

"There, take the first instalment of your debt. It is all I possess, and when I get more I will bring it to you."

The old man's countenance brightened up at the sight of the bills, and very much to my disappointment, he clutched them, and thrust them into his pocket.

"I will give you a receipt for the amount," said old Gil, sitting down to his dusty desk.

But I told him I would take no receipt. All my debts should be debts of honor.

"Well, Grimshaw," said he, "when will you pay another instalment?"

"I may never pay another," I said, "and you may never see me again. Good bye to you and——"

I was going to say, "to Pauline," but my heart failed me. I turned to leave, when old Gil called me back.

"Grimshaw," said he, "have you given me all your money?"

"All," said I, "but a trifle of change."

"I won't take everything from you; keep fifty dollars; you may want it."

"No, sir; I will not take a dollar. What right have I to it, when you have lost six times the amount that I gave you, by my dishonesty?"

"Grimshaw, come back! Come back you crazy boy!" old Gil exclaimed, as I left his office. But I did not go back, for the old man had insulted me, and I would receive no favor from him. It was a great satisfaction to me to have made a confession to him, and to have partly discharged my obligation to him. My next desire was to see Pauline, and confess to her; then I had resolved to call upon Mrs. Ruby and the Quakers, and make a clean breast to them, that I might no longer have any excuse for deception of any kind. I wanted that all with whom I had had any intercourse under an assumed name, should know me now as Tom Pepper, that they might know who I was, and what they had a right to expect from me. I could undertake no new employment until all these matters were disposed of; so I hurried back to my lodgings from old Gil's office, and sat down to think over my plans. I had not been in my chamber many minutes, before I received a call from Mrs. Nicely, who began to open her business to me in quite a diplomatic manner, talking first of the weather, then of my health, then of the price of provisions, the difficulties which "widow ladies" had to encounter, who attempted to earn an honest living; the plague of servants, the dearness of house-rent, and the impossibility of satisfying everybody—by which she meant her boarders. Then she hinted at the high opinion she had formed of me, and plainly said that she had told one of her family that she knew from my looks, that I was not only a real gentleman, but that I was the most obliging soul in the world.

I trembled to hear Mrs. Nicely express so high an opinion of my obliging disposition, for I suspected that she wanted to put it to a severer test than it would bear; and such proved to be the case, for she presently came to the point and said that she was very much in want of money, and would be much obliged to me if I could pay her a month's board in advance.

"My dear madam," said I, "I have not a dollar in the world, and so far from paying you a month in advance for my board, it is probable that I shall not have it in my power to pay you even at the end of a month."

In all my experience of the world, nothing has so much astonished me as its unfathomable hypocrisy, and the easy transitions which some people make from the most artful disguises to the most naked exposure of themselves. Ever since I had been a member of Mrs. Nicely's establishment, she had treated me with unbounded respect, she had smiled upon me always, so broadly as to expose the fastenings of her false teeth, and manifested an interest in my health that quite captivated my affections; but no sooner did she hear my confession of poverty than her countenance instantly changed from an expression of smiling respect to a look of cold contempt, and her bland voice became a shrill scream, as she said:

"It's just what I expected of you. I knew you were an imposter, from the beginning; Mrs. Hopton told me to look out for you. But I don't believe you. You have got plenty of money, for Mr. Bassett told me he had given you sufficient to pay your board for six months. But you wanted to cheat a poor widow out of her money. Yes, you are a nice young man. You wanted to live at my expense, and occupy my best room, and then go off without paying me. But I have caught, you, Mr. Pepper; you can't deceive me with your lies; I know all about you. Goodness knows that it is difficult enough for a poor widow lady, like me, with nobody in the world but herself to depend upon, to get along, and go to market every morning with cash in hand; and beef at fourteen pence a pound, and the baker's loaves getting smaller and smaller every day. Haven't I been giving you the best of coffee? no mixture with rye; and butter two-and-three a pound. I tell you what it is, Mr. Pepper, I can't stand it. I must have my room. You are a pretty young fellow, to pretend that you have got no money, and want to cheat a poor widow lady. You are nice young man, Mr. Pepper; now, take my advice, and give up telling stories; but I can't keep you in my establishment, for my family are all gentlemen and ladies of the first respectability; they are professors of religion, too, sir, and I can't introduce them to anybody that tells such dreadful stories."

"Ah!" said I, interrupting her, "you are like the rest of the world; you have no other standard of merit than money. Well, I don't blame you. I tell you, truly, that I have got no money, and as I cannot pay you, I will not stay in your house. But, do not be alarmed; I will pay all my debts by and bye."

I left the room immediately, and found all the ladies of the house assembled in the hall, where they had been attracted by Mrs. Nicely's screams. I passed them without speaking, and my disgust was greatly heightened by seeing Mrs. Hopton and Maria Witchley standing with their arms around each other's neck. I was happily unencumbered with baggage of any kind, my trunk being still at old Gil's house, and I walked off and left Mrs. Nicely's genteel establishment without any feelings of regret but from being unable to discharge my obligations to her for my board. It was near the dinner hour of the Goodwills, and as I had not called upon these excellent people to thank them for their kindness to me, and to beg their pardon for the gross deceptions I had practiced upon their good nature, I made my way to their house, and fortunately found them at dinner, with Sophia Ruby in their midst. The servant ushered me into the basement, where they were at dinner, without announcing my name.

"How does thee do, friend?" said the old Quaker, as I entered, "hast thee any business with me?"

"Not with you in particular, said I, "but with all of you. Do none of you recognize me?"

"Yes," exclaimed Desire, dropping her knife and fork, "it is Sarah!"

"Sarah!" exclaimed Wilson, "why father, it is!"

"It is, indeed," said Mrs. Ruby; "the tones of her voice thrilled through my frame," and, rising from her seat, this pure-hearted lady took me by the hand, and smiling upon me very sweetly, said she was most happy to see me once more. Wilson was somewhat confused in his looks, but friend Goodwill and his wife showed no emotion at all, but invited me kindly to sit by, and partake of their dinner. They were all very kind to me, and refrained from making any allusion to my first appearance among them, which affected me so sensibly that I could scarce refrain from tears; the whole tone of their conduct was so different from that of other people with whom I had come in contact since I had left them. They did not call me by any name, not knowing how to address me. Wilson and his sister were somewhat abashed, but their parents and Mrs. Ruby did not seem to notice their confusion. When dinner was over, I said:

"I have come to tell you who I am, and to beg your pardon for deceiving you."

"There is no occasion to beg our pardons," said friend Goodwill; "thou did us no harm. We meant well to thee; and if thou deceived us, thou didst harm to thyself, and must ask pardon of One above us all."

"Friend Goodwill speaks my mind, too," said Mrs. Ruby; "in trying to serve you, we were but discharging our duty, and we therefore want no thanks. But if you wanted to explain to us the motive you had in assuming so strange a disguise, we will be happy to listen to it."

"Not unless thou wishes to do it for thy own sake. Thou art under no obligation to us," said the old man.

"Perhaps our friend will be glad to do it," said Wilson.

"I feel bound to do it," said I; "it was an accident that led me to put on the disguise of a woman's dress, and I am desirous of telling my story to you, for I have begun to lead a new life, and mean that all who have ever known me shall know my true history, that no one may be deceived in me hereafter."

On hearing this, they looked at me more earnestly than they had done before, and I told them who and what I was, and all the adventures that had happened to me up to that moment. They all listened to me very attentively; excepting friend Goodwill himself, who fell asleep directly after I began to recount my history, and awoke just as I concluded it.

"Thou hast lost something decidedly rich, father," said Wilson; "I doubt whether thy dreams have been so strange as the story which friend Pepper has been telling."

"I shall lose nothing by it," said his father, "for Sophia Ruby will write it all off for one of the magazines, and then I can read it at my leisure."

"Mrs. Ruby confessed that she had been very much interested in my story, and thought that she discovered in me the germ of a great principle that lay very close to her heart, and would be glad if I would call at her house, and relate it to her again, that she might commit it to paper. But Desire lifted up her soft eyes, and said she thought it would be better for me to call at her father's house again, and let Sophia Ruby take her notes there, as she was herself desirous to hear me repeat the story. Mrs. Ruby said that she could only write in the seclusion of her own study, and would prefer that I should call upon her at her own house as she would like to ask me some questions that I might feel a delicacy in answering if there were a third person present. Friend Goodwill reminded them that I might object to calling to see either of them again, and they would do well to leave me to act as I thought proper.

Having once spent the day with Mrs. Ruby, I was obliged to tell her that I did not like to call upon her at her lodgings again, but that I would gladly meet her according to the suggestion of Desire. This was probably rude, but it was sincere; I thought myself bound to speak the truth, and I was extremely astonished to discover, that so great an admirer of truth and plain speaking as Sophia Ruby, should take offence at my candor, for she said:

"Upon the whole, I would rather not hear your story again. I perceived that it was not true at first, and I am now convinced that you have not got so bad a name for nothing."

"But, if the young man is so prone to falsehood, Sophia," said friend Goodwill, "thou must have the more charity for him, and teach him by kindness to love truth and candor."

"I think it is a very bad symptom," said Mrs. Ruby, "when such young people give themselves airs, and talk about likings and dislikings. He has evidently no fondness for the beautiful, and looks only upon the outward, without any feelings for the infinite. Such people have their spheres of action, but they are so far removed from the inward sense, that I can never approach them, but to relieve them."

It was quite out of the question for me to make any reply to Mrs. Ruby, because I could not form the most remote idea of her meaning. But I saw that I had displeased her by my sincerity, so I told her that I had spoken nothing but the truth, and if it was offensive to her, I regretted it, but should, nevertheless continue to speak my mind plainly and without reserve, and let the consequences take care of themselves.

"Thou art right," said Desire; and then, as if frightened at her boldness, she blushed deeply, and said no more.

This sweet young lady had never appeared more beautiful, or bewitchingly innocent, and she almost made me forget that charming creature, Pauline Gilson. But Pauline had made an impression upon my heart by the artless confession of her love for me, or, at least, by making a confession that I interpreted in that manner, and I resolutely set myself against the encroachments of Desire's quiet blandishments. Mrs. Ruby showed her feelings so plainly, that the rest of the family appeared quite uneasy at my presence, so I rose to go, when Desire again said:

"Thou will call again, friend Pepper?"

"Stop one moment," said Wilson; "there are thy garments, which thou left in my bed-room; perhaps they will be of service to thee again."

"Wilson!" said the father, giving him a reproving look.

"No," said I; "I shall never need them again. I have worn my last disguise. Good bye to you all," and, quite unconsciously, I took the hand of Desire and kissed it, which caused Mrs. Ruby to frown on me with a harsher expression than I supposed her countenance capable of wearing.

It was towards dusk when I left the house of the Goodwills, and as it was necessary that I should find another boarding-house, I had to tell Mr. Bassett of the change in my affairs, according to the promise I had made him, I started directly for his store, hoping to reach there before he left for home. While walking rapidly across the Park, my attention was arrested by a noise behind me of some men quarrelling, and suddenly turning my head, I saw at a short distance a person walking towards me, who resembled my father so nearly, that I was sure it was Captain St. Hugh. He stopped as I turned my head, and immediately began to walk in an opposite direction but his gait and dress were so nearly like Captain St. Hugh's that I as startled by the resemblance, and determined to follow him and speak to him. I ran towards him, but being obstructed for a minute by a crowd of boys who had collected around the men whose quarrelling had attracted my attention, the gentlemen passed out of the middle Park gate before I could get near him. It was just at that hour of the day when the crowd is greatest in Broadway, and as he turned into the street I lost sight of him, and could not discover whether he turned up or down. I was uncertain which way to proceed, but I first ran up the street a few blocks, looking in the face of every person I met, and then ran down, but without catching another glimpse of the mysterious apparition. An accidental resemblance to my father would have been nothing strange, although he was a man of very marked character, and quite peculiar in his dress, but what surprised me most was the evident wish of the person whom I had seen to avoid me.

If it had been Captain St. Hugh, he surely would not have avoided me; but then I was not certain that he had observed me; it was between daylight and dark, and he might have turned and gone in an opposite direction to that which he was following when I caught sight of him, to avoid the crowd; but, if it were really Captain St. Hugh, Mr. Bassett must know of his being in the city, and I ran as fast as I could to his store, to tell him what I had seen, but he had been gone an hour, and I followed him to his house, where I found him at his supper. I was so breathless that I could hardly tell the servant my name, but Mr. Bassett was so long in making his appearance that I had abundant time to become perfectly cool and composed. He met me very cordially, as usual, but excused himself for not asking me to come in, on amount of his having company. When I told him that I was certain I had met Captain St. Hugh, he said it was quite natural for me to think so, that nothing was more easy than for me to be mistaken, and that I must not allow myself to think that I should ever see my father again.

It was a great damper to my excited feelings to be met so coldly by Mr. Bassett, who evidently had no expectation of hearing from Captain St. Hugh again, and I was about to leave him without telling him of my destitute condition, when he asked me how I had disposed of myself during the day. On hearing that I had left my boarding-house, and the cause of it, he appeared displeased, and said:

"I am surprised that Mr. Gilson should accept your money, but I am not that you should offer it. Be careful hereafter, Tom, and never do so thoughtless an act again."

"It was not thoughtless," I replied; "I had no right to keep money in my pocket while I was indebted to him for a loss which he had suffered by my ill conduct."

"That is very right, Tom," said he, "but you must learn to be just to yourself before you are just to others."

"You used to tell me," I said, "that the surest way of doing myself justice, would be to act justly towards others."

"True, Tom; true. Perhaps I am wrong. Here is more money, go provide yourself a home, and keep clear from old Gil, or he will have it from you. Remember your promise to me, and do nothing without informing me of it. Good night."

THERE was a change in the manner of Mr. Bassett, which distressed me. He so evidently wished to be rid of me, that, had I not promised to keep him informed of all my movements, I should have been tempted to leave him forever, and seek my fortune where I could find it. Why he should manifest so great an interest in my welfare as to keep me supplied with money, and exact a promise from me not to make any changes in my way of life without informing him of it, puzzled me exceedingly, for he seemed to care nothing about me, while he watched over me as carefully as though he had been my own father. But I was sure of one thing: I knew that his motives were good, let his designs be what they might; in all my familiarities with him he had never discovered an ungenerous, nor an improper feeling. I felt myself secure in his keeping from all sinister designs, and was confident that he would never turn my confessions to my own harm.

I did not look at the money which he gave me until after I had left him, when I found, upon examining it, that it amounted to one hundred dollars in small bank-bills, which I put in my pocket, and having no fears about finding a boarding house to my liking, I determined to seek for an interview with Pauline. I had no hope of being admitted to her father's house, but I remembered that it was the evening on which old Gil attended the weekly prayer-meeting of his church, and I knew that he always took one or two of his daughters with him; so I resolved to go to the lecture room where the prayer-meetings were held, in the hope of seeing Pauline—for I not only had a great desire to see her, but I was most anxious to know whether she would continue to look upon me with favor, now that she knew of my guilt. I reached the church in which old Gil worshipped, after the hour of meeting, and going into the basement room where they were assembled together, found the whole congregation on their knees, or rather part were on their knees, while others sat with their heads resting on the backs of the benches. I had never been in the room before, and was quite surprised at its dimensions and the number of devout people engaged in prayer. A gentleman stood in the midst of them praying very loud, whom I recognized as a broker in Wall street, who had extensive dealings with old Gil, and I could not help thinking that it must be a great comfort to them to meet together on neutral ground and offer up prayers for the conversion of the heathen—the special object of the meeting—after having done their utmost during the day to get the better of each other in their money transactions.

The interest which this gentleman expressed in the welfare of the heathen, considering the slight degree of interest which he took in the welfare of anybody else, was really surprising, and I listened with great astonishment to his earnest supplications in their behalf, for I had never before suspected him of being pious, or caring about anybody but himself. I looked round anxiously among the dense audience, but I could see no one who reminded me of Pauline. When the prayer was done, however, I discovered that lovely girl sitting in a pew by the side of her father, who, being called upon by the pastor, after a hymn had been sung, stood up and began to pray in the most fervent manner, for nearly every barbarous tribe on earth, naming them all by name, lest any should chance to escape a blessing through his neglect in not commending them to the divine favor. I was familiar with old Gil's style of praying to be so much overcome by his fervor as to forget the object of my visit; and as soon as he seemed to be fairly engaged with the Tartars and Japanese, for whom he always manifested a more lively regard than for any other heathenish people, I stole on tip-toe to his pew, and watched for an opportunity when he changed his position to glide behind him and seat myself by the side of Pauline, who was not kneeling, but her head was resting on a hymn-book which she held in her hand.

This was a most difficult feat, for old Gil's burly figure nearly filled up the entrance of his pew; but he happened to rest himself against the back of the bench in front of him, when I stepped upon the seat of his own pew, and in a moment sat down by the side of Pauline. It was done so rapidly and so lightly, that she did not perceive me until I bent down my head and whispered softly in her ear, "Pauline!"

She started, but discovering at once who it was, again bent down her head and whispered sweetly,

"Is it you, Walter?"

I took hold of her hand and pressed it, and she pressed mine in return, which sent a thrill of delight through me that I had never known before.

Her father had by this time got through with the Japanese, and was fast drawing towards the subjects of the Soultan, with whom he usually closed his prayer, after barely mentioning Madagascar and the undiscovered parts of Africa; and as I had but a few moments to stay by the side of Pauline before I retreated, I requested her in a low whisper to meet me outside of the church door at the close of the meeting.

She gave my hand another slight squeeze, by way of reply, and I managed to slip past her father and regain the seat I had occupied just as he pronounced his Amen. I was compelled to sit and listen to three more long prayers, which, I hope, had their intended effect, but as I have never heard of a second Pentecost, either in Asia or Africa, I fear that those long prayers never had any particular influence with the Ruler of the Universe; and as I never knew old Gil to express any astonishment at the non-fulfilment of his most generous aspirations for the heathen, I have been almost tempted to believe that he had no great faith in the efficacy of his own prayers, himself.

After the prayers were at an end the audience sung a dismal hymn, and then the pastor made a short exhortation; after this, he pronounced a benediction, and the meeting was dismissed. I did not wait to receive the full benefit of the blessing, but stole quietly up stairs, where I waited in the shadow of the porch with great anxiety for Pauline to appear. By-and-bye she came out by the side of her father, and while he turned to shake hands with somebody in the crowd, I caught hold of her arm and she followed me without hesitation. I put my arm round her waist, and before either of us had spoken a word, pressed my lips to hers in a warm, delicious kiss. This was a sufficient prelude to anything that might follow, but I still felt some embarrassment about addressing her. She did not wait for me to speak, but directly began to question me respecting my absence.

"Dear Walter," said she, "I began to fear that you had gone back to England, and that we should never hear of you again. My father has told us the strangest stories about you, which I did not believe, of course. You know, Walter, that I would never believe any harm of you. But you are so changed in your dress! What is the meaning of it all, Walter, and why did you leave us so strangely? But you shall not tell me. No, you shall make no explanation to me, because I know that you have done nothing wrong. But it was cruel of you, Walter, to leave me so long, and not tell me where you were. And now I remember; I am offended with you, and had promised my sisters not to speak to you when you did come back, for treating us so badly."

Pauline continued to declare that I had forfeited her esteem, she said nothing about love, by going off so abruptly, and that her sisters would never speak to me again, but she leaned more heavily upon my arm, and when I again enclosed her in a tender embrace, she made but a feeble opposition. When I had heard all her complaints, which, so far from giving me the slightest displeasure, afforded me unspeakable delight, because I knew that they evinced the strength of her love for me, I related to her the cause of my leaving her father's employment, and all the particulars of my history up to that moment. It was a bright moonlight night, the air was still and warm, the streets were nearly deserted, and we had walked slowly along in the deep shadows of the tall houses quite unconscious whither our steps led us, until we found ourselves beneath the trees of St. John's Park, and were suddenly startled by the gurgling and splashing of the fountain in the centre of that beautiful, but unfashionable square. The gates of the Park were locked, but I happened to have a key in my pocket, which Mrs. Nicely had lent me in the morning, for all the tenants in the square enjoyed the high privilege of walking in the enclosure, from which all the rest of the world were excluded. So I unlocked the gate, and we walked in, and to prevent intrusion, locked it on the inside. It was delicious to ramble round among the flowering shrubbery of that retired spot, on such a night, and listen to the falling waters of the fountain, and watch it waving in the moonlight, like a white spirit just resting upon the earth, and seeming continually to rise from it. But these were nothing to me then; indeed, I scarcely heeded the fountain, or the perfume of the flowers, or the dark foliage of the trees. Pauline was something better than all; her breath was sweeter than the flowers, her form more graceful than the fountain, and her voice softer than the gentlest whisper of the evening breeze. If I had been created for the sole enjoyment of that hour, and if in reaching it my trials and sufferings had all been doubled, I would have blessed God for his bounty, and thought that my life had not been created in vain. We walked in silence for some moments after I had closed my narrative, with our arms round each other's waists, and our hands warmly clasped together, feeling the palpitation of each other's hearts, and each waiting for the other to speak.

There is a pretty little rustic summer-house, with benches, in the middle of the Park, and when we came near it, I said;

"Let us sit down, Pauline, and rest ourselves."

She made no resistance, but sat down, when I again pressed her in my arms and kissed her beautiful mouth. It is a foolish thing, no doubt, for one man to kneel to another, but there can be no harm in kneeling to the woman whom you love, when your feelings prompt such an act, to show your complete subjection to her will. Without thinking anything about it, I fell upon my knees before Pauline, and said:

"Dear Pauline, you have heard my story; you know who I am; how base I have been; how unworthy I am to be loved by one so pure as yourself; you know how I have wronged your father—how he despises me, and the little hope I can have of his ever forgiving me for the harm I did him. But, Pauline, though I am so unworthy of being loved by you, I cannot help loving you. Can you love me?"

"Yes, Walter, I can; and I cannot help it. Rise—you distress me by kneeling to me. It may be that you are unworthy of me, for, dear Walter, I will not disguise the truth. I have heard stranger stories told about you than those you have told of yourself. I know what my father thinks of you, and my mother, and my sisters. They say that you have brought disgrace upon our family by having been the means of my father's imprisonment; but still, Walter, I do love you, and I feel myself more unworthy of you than you can be of me. Perhaps we are unworthy of each other, and so let our unworthiness be a bond of sympathy to us."

"Darling, darling Pauline!" I exclaimed with rapture, "and would you, if compelled to choose between your father and me, choose to share my disgrace even at the expense of his displeasure?"

"Yes, Walter, a thousand and a thousand times!" said she, resting her head upon my shoulder to hide her burning blushes.

"Then, darling," said I, "let us never part again. Will you marry me?"

"When?" said Pauline.

"Now—to-night;" said I, again pressing her in my arms, "and we will never again be separated."

"Dear Walter!" said Pauline.

"You must not call me Walter any more," said I, as we rose from the bench and walked out upon the path that led to the gate, "but Tom."

"Well, I will not call you Walter; neither will I call you Tom," said Pauline. "but I will call you Love."

"And I will call you Darling," said I. And so we came out of the Park together; and crossed over to a house in the neighborhood.

"Come, let us go in here, darling," said I, as I pulled the door-bell.

"Go in there!" said she; "for what, Love?"

"To be married," I replied; "this is a clergyman's house."

"Dear Love!" exclaimed Pauline, grasping my arm tightly, "you are not in earnest?"

The door was now opened by a servant, who replied to my inquiry that the doctor was at home, in his study, and invited us into the parlor. We sat down, and the doctor made his appearance in a few minutes, in his slippers and robe-de-chambre. Having heard the object of our visit, he said: "Very well; wait until I put on my gown." He then stepped out, and returned again with a prayer-book in his hand, and wearing his gown instead of his robe-de-chambre. He was accompanied by a black servant, who brought in two candles. The doctor asked our names, and whether our parents knew that we mere going to be married; remarked that it was an unusually late hour, and cautioned us against entering into the holy state of matrimony without first duly considering the solemn consequences of such an act. I told him that we had weighed the matter well and seriously, and were bent upon being united immediately, and if he had any objections to performing the ceremony, we should adjourn to the house of the Mayor or the Bishop.

"Well, my young friends, said the Doctor, "it is an affair of your own, and I dare say you are better able to judge what is good for you than I am. I have married many a couple in this room, and God forbid that I should keep asunder those whom He designs to unite in wedlock. It is a good thing to be married; I have tried it myself three times, and have never had cause to repent of it; but I must tell you, my young friends, that people do sometimes make dreadful mistakes that way. However, that is no business of mine. If you will be married, why I suppose you must be. Stand up, and it will soon be over. You of course know whether there are any impediments to you being united or not?"

"None whatever," said I, "we love each other very much, and mean never to be parted again."

"Very well, sir," said the Doctor, opening his prayer-book, "that sounds very well; all I hope is that you will tell the same story a twelvemonth hence:—Dearly beloved, I require and charge you both (as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed,) that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined," etc., etc., etc.

The Doctor was proceeding very rapidly, and in another minute I should have been irrevocably married, when I suddenly remembered my promise to Mr. Bassett, and cried out—

"Stop! stop!"

Pauline turned pale with fright, and the Doctor, letting fall his prayer-book, exclaimed—

"What is it, my friend! Anything wrong in the service?"

"There's nothing wrong," said I, "but I cannot be married; I have a promise——"

On hearing this, Pauline nearly fainted, and if I had not caught her in my arms she would have fallen. I explained to the Doctor the nature of my promise, and told him that we could come back the next night and have the ceremony finished.

"Very well, my young friend," said the Doctor, "just as you please. Call at any time, and I shall be happy to serve you; as I have only gone through half the ceremony, you may pay me half the sum that you expected to give for the whole."

It so happened that I had not expected to give anything; the necessity of paying for being married had not occurred to me. I told the Doctor that I had not intended to give him anything, and asked him if he would take offence at five dollars.

"O, not the least in the world," said he, taking the bill which I reached him and examining it with his eye-glass to see if it was a good one.

It was too late now to call upon Mr. Bassett and inform him of my matrimonial intentions, so that we were a good deal perplexed to know what to do; but Pauline thought it advisable for her to return home, and promised to meet me the next evening at particular place near her father's house. I accompanied her home, when we parted very unwillingly and with many protestations of fidelity and undying love. It was a sad disappointment to me, but it was unavoidable, and I looked forward to our next meeting with unqualified delight. Just as I parted from Pauline, a tall gentleman came out of her father's house, and before I could avoid his seeing me, he peered into my face and said—

"Aw! how do you do, Grimshaw? How aw you this evening, my deaw fellow!"

"I am but indifferently well," I replied, for I not only felt ill from my disappointment, but I had a particular aversion to the tall gentleman, and wished to be alone.

"Aw! But perhaps you do not recognize me. It is Mr. Pilfor. You know that I sometimes accompany the Misses Gilson with my flute."

"I know who you are," I replied.

"O, you do. Well, it's quite delightful to meet you. I will walk down Broadway with you, my deaw fellow. I will have some talk with you, and some oysters."

I knew Mr. Pilfor too well to think of escaping from him. He was one of those persevering gentlemen, who make up their minds never to take no for an answer under any circumstances. They have no conception of such a thing as a negative, unless, indeed, it be according to the rule of Lindley Murray, that two negatives make an affirmative. Two denials they construe as an acquiescence. At least this was the way with Mr. Pilfor, and when I twice declined the pleasure of his company, he took me by the arm, and said;

"Come along, my deaw fellow; come along."

Mr. Pilfor was a lawyer, of course; such kind of fellows always are. He had been an attache of a lawyer's office a certain number of years, but he devoted his talents chiefly to the fine arts, and cultivated music and poetry in particular. He talked no end of German, French, and Italian, and was not ignorant of anything. He acknowledged one weakness, which was Sebastian Bach—a name that he pronounced Bawk. He was very tall, had excessively black hair, and a fierce beard and moustache. His face was pale, and his teeth fair, as he took pains to let the world know by displaying them all he could. He wore a Marseilles vest, a damask rose in the button-hole of his coat, and a diamond stud. He wore a broad brim hat because he thought it gave him a recherche look, and lisped when he talked because it sounded genteel. I had seen him two or three times at old Gil's, who had an unmitigable dislike to him, as he had to the entire tribe to which he belonged, and had been at no pains to disguise his feelings; but Mr. Pilfor was not the man to regard such things; he was either too well used to them, or too independent to care for them. Pauline disliked him as much as her father did, but her sisters tolerated him because he was sometimes useful in waiting upon them to a concert, and in buying music for them. As old Gil would never allow any gentleman to pay anything for his daughters, Mr. Pilfor was always ready to execute their commissions. If I had not disliked him on his own account, I should for the sake of Pauline.

On our way down Broadway I refused all his invitations to go into the various restaurants we passed and take some oysters, until we reached the "Nunquam non paratus," an oyster cellar under the Athenæum Hotel, when he took me by the arm and said—

"Now my deaw fellow, you shall not refuse me. Go in here and take some game and some oysters. If you don't I shall be offended."

Although I cared nothing about offending him, I allowed him to lead me into the Nunquam, thinking it the readiest way to get rid of him; there he introduced me to his friend Riquets, an odd looking creature with a blotchy face, an embroidered coat, and a fierce black moustache which tapered off to a sharp point like a cobbler's awl.

"Come, Riquets, my deaw fellow, join us in some game and oysters," and Mr. Pilfor.

Mr. Riquets had not the slightest objection to game, nor to oysters; he was game himself, but he did not like to be made game of, and thought anybody would find it a dangerous game who tried to do anything of the sort. Mr. Pilfor smiled rather broadly at the immense wit of his friend, and we all sat down at a round table, with a marble top.

"Grimshaw, my deaw fellow, call for what you want," said Mr. Pilfor, reaching me the card. I declined calling, for I did not want anything; the same offer as made to Mr. Riquets, who also declined, saying that he was willing to trust to the refined taste of his friend to order the genteel thing.

"Aw! very well, my deaw fellow," said Mr. Pilfor; "If you don't know how to feed like a gentleman, I will instruct you. Heaw, my good fellow; bring us three dozen of raw oysters, in the shell, mind, with three fresh lemons, with an incision in each, made with a silver knife—don't use steel, you troglodyte—and have three dozens more broiled on a silver gridiron—Shrewsburys, you monster!—and put on each oyster one drop of oil, two grains of white pepper, and one of red; and have three wood-cock ready by the time we have discussed the bivalves. Now, vanish; and direct the principal of the establishment to favor us with a call, if you please. In a moment the keeper of the Nunquam made his appearance, in a white apron, shuffling along in an uncertain manner, as though he had never learned to walk, and stood in need of lessons in that necessary art.

"Now, my deaw fellow," said Mr. Pilfor to the master of the establishment, "have the goodness to bring us three bottles of clos voguel, in a cooler, with plenty of ice."

The astonished proprietor confessed that he had never heard of such a liquor, which brought out a smile of contempt from Pilfor, who was astonished on his part at the ignorance of the canaille.

"I must apologize to you for the absence of a respectable wine," said Mr. Pilfor, "and hope you will be able to survive a glass or two of Prince Metternich's Johannisburg. I suppose, my deaw fellow, you have no objections to a glass of tolerable wine?"

"I have, decidedly," said Mr. Riquets; "I object to anything less than a bottle."

Another smile from Mr. Pilfor, and a very significant glance towards me from his eyes, as much as to say, did you notice the brightness of that coruscation, from my friend, Riquets, my deaw fellow?

It having been determined that we should survive a bottle or two of Johannisburg, which proved to be so sour and cold, that it almost took the teeth out of your mouth when you swallowed it, the proprietor of the establishment was permitted by Mr. Pilfor to retire; the raw oysters, the lemons, the broiled oysters and the wood-cock, were devoured chiefly by Mr. Pilfor and his friend, for my thoughts were still with Pauline, and I had no appetite. Those two gentlemen also drank the three bottles of Johannisburg, for the first glass that I drank satisfied my appetite for that costly wine, which bore the gold seal of Prince Metternich, who certainly showed good taste in not keeping such dreadful stuff for his own use. Mr. Pilfor and his friend both praised the wine and enjoyed the oysters and the game, and I wondered at their marvelous powers in stowing away such quantities of solids and fluids. Mr. Pilfor was bent upon instructing me in the science of living like a gentleman, for he next ordered some Charlotte Russe, then a couple of nutmeg melons, a bottle of Noyau, and finally coffee; but coffee was not the finale, for after that they called for a dozen La Normas. Mr. Riquets lighted a cigar, and put three or four in his cap, and remembering that he had an engagement, shook me cordially by the hand, and after expressing a good deal of happiness in having made my acquaintance, he twirled his little ebony stick round his head, and suddenly disappeared.

"That gentleman, sir, my friend Riquets," said Mr. Pilfor, "is one of the most remarkable men of the age. He is a perfect Admiral Crichton; he can do anything he has a mind to, sir."

"What has he a mind to do?" said I, for I had considerable curiosity to know who he was, having come to the conclusion that he was an Italian image vender, from the peculiarities of his dress, and the manner in which his head was set upon his shoulders.

"Everything," said Pilfor, who had no appearance of having gone through such a marvelous feat of gulosity; "he can do everything, but he prostitutes his splendid genius to the embellishment of dreadful accidents in the DAILY DRIVEL. By the bye!" suddenly exclaimed Mr. Pilfor, "my deaw fellow, I suppose you have some change about you, for I have just remembered that I left my pocket-book lying upon my dressing-table, and I haven't a shilling. If you will just pay the principal of this establishment for the trifles we have had, I will settle with you at my office to-morrow." Before I could recover from my astonishment, he had told the keeper of the house that I would settle for the little matters we had called for, and then disappeared. If I could have avoided the payment I would, for I saw that I had been purposely victimized; but I could not get clear, and had to pay twenty-three dollars and sixty-two cents for the luxuries consumed by those genteel rascals. It was now near midnight, I had made no calculation as to where I should sleep, and was going to ask the proprietor of the Nunquam if he could lodge me, when a little waspish-looking gentleman, who sat at a table near where we had been supping, and had kept his eyes upon us all the while, tapped me on the shoulder with his slender walking stick, and motioned me to a vacant seat near him.

"Good evening," said I to the little gentleman, by way of giving him an opportunity to speak.

"O, of course," said he, disdainfully, and rapping his nose with the head of his stick; "good evening, of course. But I should say it was anything but a good evening. But I don't know anything—of course not; nothing at all—oh, no."

"Your language is very strange," said I, looking curiously at the little gentleman, who smiled scornfully and said—

"Of course it is. Why shouldn't it be? It is a strange world, isn't it?—at least I think it is; but I don't know anything. Resident professors are nobody."

All the time he kept eyeing me, and evidently aiming his remarks at my head, but what he meant by them I could not conceive, for I had no recollection of ever seeing him before, and I was very sure that he could know nothing about me. He had a pale face, black hair, small restless eyes, and a remarkable moustache with a disdainful curl upwards which seemed to bid defiance to everybody. His dress was genteel and shabby, and he wore an eye-glass suspended from his neck by a black ribbon as school girls wear their medals. He didn't seem to be doing anything, but sat at a little table with the stump of an unlighted cigar in his mouth, and amused himself with his cane. As he really seemed to regard me with a sinister expression, I asked him if I had in any manner given him offence, at which he again smiled sarcastically and said—

"O, no! Why should I be offended? I am nobody. A resident professor has no right to be offended with anybody. Of course not."

"Perhaps," said I, "the two gentlemen with whom I supped just now may have offended you."

"Gentlemen! Ha! ha! ha! A pair of fiends! Miscreants! Of course you know who those black-hearted demons were!"

"Not particularly," said I.

"I do," said he, "and let me tell you, sir, to be on your guard; they are musical critics, sir."

There was so much ferocity mingled with an obvious imbecility in the manner of this little gentleman that I felt a curiosity to know more about him; and although it was near midnight, I sat down by him and asked him the cause of his animosity to those gentlemen.

"What cause have I?" said he, again smiling in a terribly sarcastic manner, "O, none; none in the world; none whatever. Of course not; why should I?"

"Excuse me," said I, "I supposed that you had."

"Well, if you wish to know, then, you shall: they are doing an immense injury to public taste. They are humbugs, sir, and know nothing of classical music; nothing at all."

"And for that reason you hate them?"

"And, pray, who may Madam Sprads be?" I inquired.

"O, you don't know, of course! Well. I like to hear anybody carry out the game when they once begin. Only, you will allow me to remark, that I don't allow any person whatever to insult my wife, sir." And then the little gentleman smiled in a really frightful manner.

"Ah! indeed; I wouldn't, if I were you," I replied, not having any idea of his meaning.

"And, of course, you don't know Professor Sprads?" said he, with another vinegar-like smile.

"I never heard his name before," I replied.

"Ha! ha! ha!" burst out the little gentleman, in a demoniac laugh. "I like that." And then he whirled his stick round his head, and hummed a tune. "But if you never heard of Professor Sprads nor Madam Sprads, I never heard of the celebrated English tenor James Charles Winderstool. Of course not. O, no. But allow me to ask, sir, by what name I must address you?"

"My name is Tom Pepper."

"Very appropriate, indeed. Well, that is very cool, and quite delicious. However, I understand your motive. Come, Mr. Pepper, do me the honor to go with me to my house and see Madam Sprads; she will be delighted, perfectly delighted, to meet you."

"It is too late," said I.

"Not in the least," said he, taking my arm; "come; Madam Sprads will be at her supper, and you will be just in time for an oyster and a glass of sherry."

"And is Madame Sprads your wife?" I inquired.

The gentleman assured me rather equivocally that she wasn't the wife of anybody else. But I soon discovered that she really was his wife, and that he was Professor Sprads, and nobody else.

I followed the Professor, or rather allowed him to take me with him, to his house, in the upper part of the city, for it was a matter of very little importance to me where I spent the remainder of the night. Professor Sprads entrusted me with a good many of his secrets and grievances on the way, and quite puzzled me by his frequent allusions to that eminent individual, Henry James Winderstool, whose name I had never heard before. The Professor had a very singular habit of saying "O, no," when he meant to express a very intense affirmative, and say "O, yes." So, when he told me, with great earnestness of manner, that he wasn't appreciated by the public, and that Madam Sprads had met with great opposition from those miscreants, the musical critics, on account of her classical style and the purity of her conduct, I did not know whether he was speaking ironically or not. But it was very evident that the Professor really felt that he was not properly appreciated, and the ingratitude of the world, and its want of discrimination, as well as the generally corrupt state of society, in regard to classical music, distressed him as much as the miseries of the isolated household do a Fourierite. These were enough for one man to bear, but in addition to these distressing evils he had to bear up under the favorable notions in the press of everybody but Madam Sprads, who was better entitled to that sort of thing than anybody else, on account of her delicious voice. The feelings which the Professor entertained towards Mr. Riquets and Mr. Pilfor, the latter gentleman in particular, were really frightful; and the punishments he would inflict upon them if it were not for the consequences, were most ingeniously savage and blood thirsty.

I could not convince the Professor that those gentlemen had not poisoned my mind with tales about himself and Madam Sprads; and as often as I had assured him that they had not even mentioned his name to me, he would reply, with his bitter smile:

"O, no. Of course not. I know they didn't. Why should they? They don't hate me and Madam Sprads. They are not jealous of resident professors. O, dear; no. Not at all. They quite love me, too, I dare say, because I am not a humbug. O, of course. The miscreants!"

And then the little man would go off in a bit of delicious classical music, as he called it.

The Professor's residence was in Orange street, a quarter of the city which I had never seen before, and notwithstanding that he spoke in rapturous terms of his delightful apartments, it did not give me a very pleasant impression when viewed by moonlight. However, I had no right to find fault with the neighborhood in which he chose to live, since he said it was perfectly delicious, and Madam Sprads herself thought it charming. What was it to me that the houses were old and crowded with dubious looking tenants, that the streets were excessively filthy, and that swine were lying about in the gutters, if Madam Sprads was delighted, and the Professor, whose taste was so pure and classical, thought it delicious, it would not have been becoming in me to find fault, as I was only a chance visitor to their residence. The Professor's house was a small two story building, with a brick front, and rickety wooden steps; as he rapped on the door, he said that the confounded servants were probably all a-bed, and it was not impossible that Madam Sprads herself would be compelled to open the door and let us in. This supposition proved true, for presently the door was opened by a lady in a night-cap, and wrapped up in a red blanket-shawl.

"What in the world has kept you out until this hour?" said the lady, in a shrill voice.

"Hush! hush!" said the Professor, as he whispered in the lady's ear. What he said I could not hear, but she reached him the tallow candle which she held in hand, and immediately disappeared.

"Walk into our drawing-room," said he, opening the door; "Madam Sprads will be with us in a moment."

The drawing-room was furnished with a pianoforte and a harp, portraits of the Professor and his lady, sitting in a grape arbor, and each holding a piece of music; mahogany chairs, with blue velvet seats, a crimson sofa, and red moreen curtains. I had but just time to cast my eye round the apartment, before the lady entered who had opened the door, but in place of the night-cap and the red shawl, she now wore a flaming head-dress, full of blue roses, and a black mantilla thrown carelessly over her shoulders.

"Madam Sprads," said the Professor, "allow me to present to you Mr. Tom Pepper. It is not Mr. Henry James Winderstool. O, no. Of course not. Not by any means."

Madam Sprads was delighted to see me, as the Professor said she would be, but why she should care anything about me was quite a marvel to me. She was so monstrously large that the Professor looked quite like a dwarf by her side.

"Have you had supper, my dear?" said he.

"Don't Alfred, be a simpleton," said Madam Sprads; "you know we never eat suppers."

"O, no. Of course not. We don't eat a lobster salad every night, nor boiled crabs, nor a cold chicken pie; nor drink a glass or two of sherry. O, no. Madam Sprads is most deliciously facetious to-night. Don't you think so, Mr. Pepper?"

Madam Sprads was by no means pleased at this sally, and expressed her opinion that the Professor had been drinking at the club.

"Of course. O, yes. I have drank a bottle of brown sherry, two of pale, several glasses of brandy-and-water, and three cocktails. I haven't been doing anything else. Nothing in the world. I haven't been giving lessons to my class all the evening. O, no. Of course not. I never do anything but drink all the time at the club. O, no. But some supper we must have, Madam Sprads. Anything will do. A cold chicken, a glass of wine, some ice, and a biscuit."

"I declare, Alfred, if I don't expose you for going on in this way," said his lady.

"Expose me!" exclaimed the Professor; "well, that is very delicious; perfectly so. Do; I beg you will. It will be delightful to Mr. Pepper. Of course he won't say anything about it to Mr. Henry James Winderstool. O, no."

"If you will provoke me to it, then I will," said Madam Sprads, turning very red in the face; "where is the money to come from, my dear?"

"Money, Madam Sprads! Delicious! If you will expose yourself, madam, allow me to ask where the half dollar has gone that I gave you. Come!"

"If you are not a deceitful man, Alfred!" cried madam, "to ask me for that half dollar, when you know it went for the trimming of Euphemia's hat. Shame! shame!"

"Women are such delicious creatures!" said the Professor, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling and clasping his hands together. "There is no end to the money they throw away upon dress. If you will lend me a five dollar bill, Mr. Pepper, I will return it to you in the morning, or I will give you now five tickets to Madam Sprads' benefit concert, whichever you please, and then we will have a bit of supper—some delicious crabs, and a glass of most excellent gin. We won't enjoy ourselves over it at all. O, no. Not in the least. I should rather think not."

As I now felt really hungry, I gave the Professor the trifle he asked for, and he handed it to madam, who said if the restaurant was not closed, she would order the crabs immediately and the gin, unless I preferred some other drink. But I preferred pure Croton, so it was determined that Madam Sprads and the Professor should regale themselves with gin and boiled crabs.

"You don't know Madam Sprads yet," said the Professor, after his lady went out; "she's a most glorious creature. She has such a pure style! So Classical! If it were not for those incarnate fiends! miscreants! high-way robbers! villains! those musical critics, we should have the most splendid connection. But it's no use to be classical in this country; nobody appreciates me. I am nothing but a resident professor! And there's Madam Sprads, a most delicious soprano, a perfect Catalani, and nobody but myself appreciates her. They talk of Malibran and Pasta. But what are they compared with Madam Sprads? Nothing; absolutely, nothing. And here we are, without any connection whatever, except the ten Misses Gilson, Madam Sprads' pupils."

"What!" I exclaimed with delight, "are the Gilsons your wife's pupils?"

"O, no. Of course not. Madam Sprads hasn't taught the whole family to play upon the pianoforte. To be sure she hasn't."

"And does she know Pauline?" I asked.

"O, no. Of course not. Why should she? She hasn't been giving her lessons for two years. She doesn't come here every morning at twelve o'clock to practice on Madam Sprads' harp. Of course not."

This was delightful news to me, and Madam Sprads really seemed to me, when she returned with a tray, having on it a plate of crabs and a bottle of gin, as magnificent and queen-like a creature as the Professor had described her to me. It was a delightful surprise to find myself in the very room in which Pauline had sat, and I could have hugged the little Professor and his wife for very joy. I was going to inquire more particularly about Pauline, when the Professor discovered that Madam Sprads had forgotten a salad, which threw him into a towering and most tragic passion, and he went on declaring that crabs without a salad were delicious, O, of course they were; and all that sort of talk, until his lady got herself worked up into almost as great a passion, and first burst into tears, and then caught up the tray, and running to the door, threw its contents into the street.

The scene which followed this act on the part of Madam Sprads, was of too delicate a nature to admit of my describing it. The domestic bickerings of men and their wives, are too particular and personal in their nature to allow of their being spread before the public. Perhaps I have already transcended the strict line of propriety on revealing so much of the interior of Professor Sprads' establishment, my design being the exposition of my own character and adventures, and not to expose the foibles and frailties of other people, a practice which is quite too common among authors of the present day.

Madam Sprads very soon retired to her boudoir, and left the Professor and me alone. I would have retired immediately and left the Professor to his own gloomy thoughts, but he would not allow me to do so until he had first explained to me the cause of his inviting me to his house.

"The fact is," said the Professor—But the fact was of so remarkable a character, and took so long in the telling, that I must stop here to take breath, and narrate it in the following chapter.

"THE fact is," said Professor Sprads, "I didn't know who you was, of course. O, no! To-be-sure not. And for that reason, perhaps I didn't want you to hear Madam Sprads' delicious voice."

The voice of Madam, which had ascended considerably above C, in alt, during the duetto between herself and the Professor, after the destruction of the supper, had sounded to me the very reverse of delicious. It was, I had no doubt, classical, a great point with the Professor, for it reminded me very forcibly of what I had read about Xantippe, the wife of Socrates. Therefore, I remarked to Mr. Sprads, that I was quite satisfied with what I had heard of his wife's voice. The Professor smiled in his bitter way at this, and said:

"O! of course. Why shouldn't you be? Madam Sprads is nothing but a resident professor. She is nobody. She hasn't been called the nightingale of the concert room; of course she hasn't. Perhaps a poet didn't say that a flock of mocking birds had built their nest in her larynx. O, no! Perhaps not. But then, perhaps they did. What of it? Those fiends, those Malabar pirates! those assassins!—but, I beg your pardon; I don't wish to speak ill of your friends—I mean those very gentlemanly and pleasant fellows, Messieurs Pilfor and Riquets, of course would not allow any foreign professor to think well of Madam Sprads. O, yes! But I invited you here that you might hear my wife's voice, and be able to judge of her style for yourself."

"I think I have heard enough of it," I said, rising to go.

"O, of course! I am a most wretched creature. I am exquisitely miserable. Nobody appreciates me; nobody knows what a perfectly charming creature Madam Sprads is; and here she has gone and thrown away an opportunity to form a most splendid connection. O, it is delicious to think of! A plate of the loveliest crabs thrown into the street; a pint of the most superb gin wasted; two gentlemen of the press in triumph over me; Madam Sprads enraged, and Mr. Henry James Winderstool prejudiced against us. O! it's beautiful; perfectly ecstatic! I am most exquisitely happy! Very."

The unhappy little object seized his hair with both hands, as though he were going to tear it out by the roots—an act of violence that would not have caused the Professor much pain, for it was very observable that his glossy locks were fastened to his head by artificial contrivances. He must have suddenly remembered this fact, for he let go his hair, and turning upon me with one of his exquisitely miserable smiles, said, in a desponding tone:

"Of course you will not have Madam Sprads to sing at your first concert? Of course not. Resident professors are of no account. Why should they be?"

"Upon my word, Mr. Sprads," said I, "you talk very oddly. What do you mean by resident professors, and by my concerts?"

"O, very well," said the Professor; "if the term displeases you, I will say artistes. I should have said so at first."

"It appears to me that you must be laboring under some strange delusion," said I, "for your conversation has been quite incomprehensible to me."

"O, of course. I dare say," said he, smiling bitterly again; "I haven't been laboring under the delusion that Mr. Pepper is the celebrated English tenor, Mr. Henry James Winderstool. Of course not. Why should I? Perhaps that miscreant, Pilfor, didn't let me into that secret. Perhaps not."

"Is it possible," said I, "that Mr. Pilfor told you such a thing?"

"Of course he told me such a thing, and that villain, Riquets, swore to it, and said you had just arrived, and was going to give a concert next week. Why shouldn't he?"

"Because there is no truth in it. I never heard before of the person you call Mr. Henry James Winderstool. I am no tenor. Those wicked rascals have been making game of you. My name is simply Tom Pepper. Nothing more."

Upon hearing this the little wretch flew into such a terrible passion, and swore so shockingly that he would drink the life's blood of the two musical critics before he slept, that I began to fear that he was in earnest. But the noise brought down Madam Sprads, in her night-gown, at the sight of whom he demanded his pistols, and was more violent than before. On hearing the cause of this fresh outbreak, the queen-like creature begged that I would retire and leave Alfred to her own management, which I very willingly agreed to do. But before I went I got permission to return the next day at the hour when Pauline called to practice on the harp.

It was past midnight when I came out of the Professor's house; the street was entirely deserted, the lamps burned dimly, and from the gloomy and suspicious look of the neighborhood, I felt, for the first time in my life, a little timid. I had not taken particular notice of the turnings of the street when I walked home with the Professor, and was not very clear as to the direction which I must take to find my way back to that part of the city with which I was acquainted. Here and there was a dim light in the upper chambers of some of the dismal old houses that I passed, and every now and then I stumbled upon a slumbering porker lying in the soft mud of the gutters. It was a filthy street, given up almost entirely to vice and poverty, with here and there a family like the Professor's, that were driven by high rents to seek a dwelling place among characters who were so well known as to be quite beyond suspicion. Alas! for the poor, who cannot afford to live in a virtuous neighborhood! and, alas! for vice that rewards its victims so badly that they cannot afford to live among decent people! What a marvelous thing it is that all men are not honest, since roguery so rarely prospers! As I walked through this wretched place, and looking cautiously around, saw how miserably its denizens fared, I congratulated myself on the resolution I had taken to act honorably in all things, and speak the truth without reservation, on all occasions. I had walked but two or three blocks when I fancied that I heard footsteps behind me, at a little distance; I stopped to listen, but I could hear nothing, and supposed that it was the echo of my own tread upon the pavement that had deceived me. I walked a little farther on, and again thought that I heard distinctly the step of a man behind me. I turned suddenly, but saw nothing moving. It would have been an easy matter, however, for a man to have been completely hidden in the dark shadows of the wooden stoops, or to have crouched suddenly out of sight behind the old boxes which lumbered-up the side-walks in front of the grocers' shops, or to have slipped behind the clumsy awning-posts. So I was not the less convinced that I was followed by some one, from a sinister motive, because I could see nobody near me. I began to think how I should defend myself, if I were attacked, and as I had no weapon of any kind, I had made up my mind to run, in case of danger, when I distinctly saw a man's head projecting from behind a stoop but two doors from where I stood. The sight startled me. But without betraying any fear, I began to walk on, and immediately heard the same step behind me that I had heard before. There was now no room to doubt that I was followed, and so stealthily, that it could be for no other than an evil purpose. I quickened my pace, and found that the person who followed me did the same. I was not a little alarmed at this, but I began to have less fear when I remembered that if the person who was following me had any evil designs, he could not find a more suitable place for putting them into immediate execution. The street was entirely deserted, there was not a watchman within hearing, the inhabitants of the neighborhood were probably too much accustomed to midnight brawls to be easily disturbed, and the darkness of the night, and the dimness of the street lamps, were all favorable to acts of violence. But there seemed to be as much anxiety on the part of the person, who was evidently dodging me, to escape from observation, as there was on my part to escape from him. Being convinced of this, and reflecting that I was acting in violation of my principles, by making him think that he was not perceived, I determined to stop and face him, and let the consequences take care of themselves. I proceeded a few steps farther, and then suddenly turned round and saw very plainly a man but a short distance from me. He stopped immediately, but did not attempt to hide himself.

"Who are you?" said I, but no answer was returned. "What do you follow me for?" I asked, but these was no reply. My curiosity was now excited, and I determined to know who it was that dogged my steps, and for what purpose I was followed. I was not without a misgiving that there might be a design to entrap me in some way, but I thought that it would never do for a descendant of old Sir Eustace to show the white feather; so I began to approach the stranger, who immediately turned upon his heel and walked from me. This puzzled me more than ever, and growing more bold as the danger of an attack grew less, I called out to him to stop, whereupon he quickened his pace, and began very rapidly to widen the distance between us. I saw that he was a much stouter person than myself, and his step was much heavier, so that if it came to running, I felt very confident that I could get the better of him. It was very evident that he had some designs upon me, from his first following and then shunning me, and I was resolved to know what they were. I continued to follow him, until as he passed beneath a lamp which gave more light than any other of the street lanterns, when I thought that I discovered a resemblance to the man I had seen in the Park, who so closely resembled Captain St. Hugh. I was so confident of its being the same person, that I hurried eagerly forward, determined to overtake him and find him out. So I began to run, and when but a short distance from him, he suddenly turned the corner of the street and disappeared. What became of him I could not surmise, for there were no doors open, and I searched every nook and corner in which he could have secreted himself. The appearance of this stranger was a great puzzle to me, but his sudden disappearance was supernatural, and I began to think that I had seen the apparition of my father. But I was not superstitious, and had no faith in ghosts; unaccountable as the sudden disappearance of the stranger was, I was convinced that he must be secreted somewhere in the neighborhood, and I thereby resolved to remain near until he should reappear. I had a curiosity to know who it could be that so nearly resembled Captain St. Hugh. I walked back and forth until I heard the clock of a neighboring church strike three, without hearing a mouse stir, and feeling tired, but not sleepy, I sat down upon the stoop of the corner house to rest.

It seemed to me but a moment since I sat down, when somebody took hold of my shoulder, and jumping up, with my thoughts full of the stranger, I saw that it was broad day. The keeper of the shop on whose door-step I had fallen asleep, had roused me, and laughed at my perplexity when I asked him if he had seen anything of a strange gentleman about his premises. The sun was up now, and the street, which looked so dismal by night, looked disgusting by day. The swine that had been sleeping in the gutters were now in motion, turning over the heaps of filth in the middle of the street; wretched looking creatures, of both sexes, were hobbling to the grocers for their morning dram; the stealthy dissipaters of the night before were cautiously leaving the foul haunts where they had been overtaken by sleep; the mechanics who lived in the neighborhood, were going to their daily labors; the milkman and the baker were travelling their rounds, supplying the daily wants of miserable beings, who ate the bread of vicious idleness, and lived by the wages of infamy. The place was sickening and disgusting, and I was so much confused by suddenly waking upon such a scene, that it was long before I could remember in what manner I got there, or why it was that I was out of my bed at such an hour; but when I recollected the appearance of the stranger, I renewed my search for him, but without avail. Nobody in the neighborhood had ever seen or heard of such a person as I has described, and I was almost persuaded that I had been bewildered by my dreams, or that it was the spirit of Captain St. Hugh, come back to the earth to watch over me, or to reveal the cause of his death. Finding, at last, that it would be useless to seek any longer for an explanation of the cause of my perplexity, I hurried to the store of Mr. Bassett to tell him of my night's adventure, and to inform him of my intended marriage with Pauline. He seemed a good deal surprised at what I told him about the strange being who resembled Captain St. Hugh, and smiled incredulously at my suggestion that it might be the ghost of my father.

"Ghosts, Tom, have had their day," said Mr. Bassett, "or rather, their night; for it was only in the darkness of the mind that they ever made their appearance. When men die they have done with the earth; so, rest assured, my boy, that if your father should really have quitted the world, which, I trust, is not the case, he will never come back again. You have been deceived by your imagination, or else you have seen somebody who bore an accidental resemblance to Captain St. Hugh. But why should you be perplexed in either case? Do you not know that your father would be too happy to encounter you, and if he were permitted to visit the earth, his spirit would not be backward in revealing itself to you. So give up these wild fancies, Tom, and think of the more serious matters of providing yourself with some permanent means of subsistence. It is dangerous to dream of ghosts and strange appearances; you live in a world of hard facts, where everything is as solid as granite. Do not indulge in schemes, and nurse wild hopes of growing suddenly rich, but make up your mind at once that there is no fortune in store for you but such as you can gain by your own industry and integrity, and forget, if you can, that there is such a place as Blackmere in the world. I am afraid that your thoughts are running upon the estate of the St. Hughs, and you forget how much more honorable it will be to you to make a fortune for yourself than to inherit one from your ancestors.

I assured Mr. Bassett that he had altogether misunderstood me, that I was not addicted to dreaming or scheming, and had firmly resolved to depend upon my own exertions for my future support, and to give him convincing proof of my earnestness, I would accept of any employment he could help me to, that would afford me sufficient pay to support myself and wife.

"Your what!" exclaimed Mr. Bassett.

"Myself and wife," said I "for I am going to be married this evening."

"Excuse me, my boy," said he, as he burst into a fit of immoderate laughter; "marriage is no laughing matter, but I cannot help laughing at you. What has put such a monstrous thought into your head? You have fallen in with some sharpers who have heard of your relation to the St. Hugh family, and hope to make something by an alliance with you."

I soon undeceived him, and told him that it was the beautiful and incomparable Pauline Gilson whom I designed to marry, and feeling myself insulted by his laughing at me for thinking of marriage, I was going to tell him that it was probably his own experience of the marriage state that caused him to think so lightly of it. But I checked myself, for I had too much regard for him to say an uncivil thing to him. He saw that I had repressed something that I was going to say, and told me to make a clean breast and keep nothing back. So I told him what I thought, and he said that I must not judge too harshly of Mrs. Bassett, as she had many excellent qualities, and was, on the whole, a very good wife, and that he could easily pardon the little irregularities of her disposition, as they all arose from her too great fondness for him. He then requested me to tell him what had caused us to think of getting married so suddenly, and expressed his surprise that I should have fallen so deeply in love without informing him of it.

"This is but a boyish freak," he said, when he had heard the particulars of our betrothal; "wait a while, and you may get over it. Besides, do you not see, Tom, how grossly you are deceiving old Gil, by forming a design to marry his daughter and not letting him hear of it? And what could have been more base and insincere than the manner in which you stole into his pew while he was engaged in the solemn duty of prayer, and arranged a meeting with his daughter? This, Tom, was not acting up to your resolution to be candid and honest in all things."

I was forced to confess that I had behaved most basely, but without being conscious of it. My love for Pauline had blinded me to the true aspect of my conduct. But I would not allow that we were under any obligations to inform her parents of our intentions, and persisted in my determination to be married that very night, and moreover told Mr. Bassett that I expected to meet Pauline at the house of Professor Sprads, at noon.

"Well, Tom," said Mr. Bassett, as though he acquiesced in the reasonableness of my proposition, "you see how easy it is to get married, from having gone half way through the ceremony. But the difficulties all come afterwards. The want of money is not the worst thing that can happen to a newly married couple, but you will likely find it so. How much have you got left of the sum that I gave you yesterday?"

I told him that I had it all excepting a small loan that I had made to Mr. Pilfor, and five dollars that I gave to Professor Sprads; and putting my hand in my pocket to examine the exact condition of my treasury, to my surprise and mortification I discovered that my pockets were empty. I had been robbed while sleeping in the street, and was forced to confess that I had not a penny left.

Mr. Bassett now gave me a lecture on the importance of taking good care of money, and told me that he could not much longer continue to supply me, but that he would not see me want, provided that I manifested a disposition to take care of myself, which I promised to do, and told him that as I had never applied to him I did not think that he had a right to lecture me on my carelessness, although I felt myself under obligations to him, and would repay him all that he had given me as soon as I was able.

"I am afraid, Tom," said he, "that you will not very soon have the ability, if you are so thoughtless as to get married without first making provision for your wife."

"As for making provision for my wife," said I, "I confess that I had thought nothing at all about it, for it seemed to me that with so beautiful and so good a creature as Pauline, nothing else could be needed to make me supremely happy."

"And she, I dare say," said Mr. Bassett, "was quite as silly and thoughtless? Well, Tom, you have escaped a great peril; think what the consequences would have been if your promise to me had not prevented the consummation of so rash an act."

"The consequences" said I, "no doubt appear very terrible to you, as they would have been, because you would not have loved Pauline as I do, and she would not have loved you; but to me, the consequences of marrying her appear to be perfect happiness."

"I hope, my poor boy," replied Mr. Bassett, "that you will always feel as hopeful and as confident of happiness as you do now. I believe that I had some such feelings myself once, and thought of Mrs. Bassett as you do of Pauline."

"Is it possible?" said I.

"Yes," said he, smiling, "but it was a very long time ago. However, I would not dampen the happy ardor of your young feelings. Pauline is as good as she is beautiful, I believe; I hope she does not resemble her miserable old father, and if you should ever marry her, you will be very happy. But you are too young to think of such a thing now. Seek first for some honorable employment, and when you have gained the means of supporting her then it will be time to talk of marriage, but not before. I must leave you to your own discretion, however; but take my advice, my boy, and be cautious about taking a step in life which you can never retrace. But you must now be in want of your breakfast; take this bill, it is less than I gave you before, and try to put it to better use than you did the last. Lend no money to the Pilfors and Sprads that you meet; the city is full of such fellows, who live on the earnings of honest people, and decoy such thoughtless boys as yourself into dissipation. Remember your promise to me, and do not commit yourself in any manner without first informing me of your intentions. You did well to advise me of your marriage. I have no authority to forbid it, and you must be guided by your own judgement. And do not run about the street after people who happen to bear a resemblance to your father. If you should meet the stranger again whom you followed so foolishly last night, pass him by, unless he should speak to you first."

Feeling truly grateful to Mr. Bassett for his advice, as well as for the money he had given me, I thanked him warmly, and left him, to return to the house of Madam Sprads, where I was determined to wait for Pauline, and, if she should be still willing, consummate the ceremony of our marriage.

Volume II.

IT was my intention when I began to make a record of my trippings, and their consequences, not to allow their publication until after my death, lest some of those persons whom I had been compelled to introduce into my biography should think themselves ill used, and find fault with me for exposing their foibles. But there had been so many erroneous stories told about me, and my acquaintances generally entertained such very wild ideas respecting my early history, that I thought it would be the wisest way to tell my story plainly, and let it be known while I was alive and could reap the advantages of being perfectly understood by the rest of the world, for I come of a long-lived race, the early death of my mother being the result of an accidental cause, I enjoy excellent health, am blessed with a naturally strong constitution, which has not been impaired by improper habits, and bid fair to outlive all those, excepting my children, for whom I have been at the pains to write my biography. It could benefit me nothing to have my life published when I should be dead myself, and all those for whom it was written should have gone before me. An ordinary marble slab will contain as much of my personal history as I am desirous that posterity should possess. My only fear is that in the brief record which the stone-cutter shall make of my life, some errors will creep in, for brevity is no safeguard against mistakes, as the literature of the country will show.

As to the objections of my friends to being put into a book, I could not but think that such delicacy was rather an affectation of modesty than a sincere feeling. Besides, what right had they to complain if I treated them no worse than I did myself. To do better by your neighbor than you do by yourself is clearly transcending the Christian injunction. And then it is quite impossible that I should add to, or diminish, the stature of my friends. I am not accountable for their crookednesses. If I misrepresent them, then my impersonations are not them, but mere names; and if I represent them truly, what right have they to quarrel with the mirror that gives a correct reflection of their features? Thus I reasoned with myself; and determined to publish my biography at once. But I did not reason correctly, as I have since found, and it would have been better for my peace to have left my auto-biography for posthumous publication. Even those with whom I consulted, when I first thought of publishing, and who advised me not to be too scrupulous about mentioning the names of certain persons, were the first to complain when they found that I had included their own in my memoirs. They were tickled with the thought of seeing their friends showed up, but when they found they had been shown up themselves all their philosophy left there, and from being my best friends they have become my worst enemies. This is very unreasonable. If I were writing a work of fiction, instead of penning a sober narrative of truth, it would be quite another matter, and they might find fault with some reason; but even then, I might plead the practice of all great authors, who have invariably introduced their acquaintances, as well as themselves, into their works. The King of Novelists, as Madame George Sand calls Walter Scott, says, "no original character was ever composed by any author, without the idea having been previously suggested by something which he had observed in nature." This is an honest confession from the most prolific of novel writers, who built up a great fortune and a great reputation by using a capital which he found ready invested in the characters of his acquaintances. Another great master in the art of characterization, Sheridan, has slily said, through one of his personages, "what is the use of having friends unless one makes use of them." The portrait painter puts his friends upon canvas; the historian sends them down to posterity in ponderous volumes; the novelist and romancer transform their friends into knaves and saints, for the amusement of the world, while the daguerreotypist hangs up half the world in little mahogany frames, and arranges them on the walls of a room ten feet square for the inspection of curious visitors. There is no good reason, that I can see, why the auto-biographist, who writes an honest history of his life, or any part of it, should be deprived of the privilege which all other men are permitted to exercise. My friends must quarrel with their parents for making them what they are, they have no right to quarrel with me for describing them as they are. However, why should I attempt to apologize for doing what has always been done, and always approved. It is not improbable that King Richard the Third would have quarreled with Shakespeare for drawing his portrait so correctly, but all the rest of the world have confessed their obligations to the dramatist for it; so, although one or two of my friends may quarrel with me because I have enabled them to see themselves as others see them, there are multitudes who have thanked me, and begged that I would go on and finish the other volume of my auto-biography. It is in obedience, therefore, to the demand of those whom I have no right to disappoint, having, in fact, by the publication of one volume, bound myself, by implication, to furnish a companion to it, that I now resume my narrative, and promise to continue it until I shall have given all that the reasonable curiosity of the public has a right to demand.

It is extremely inconvenient to me to receive letters by every mail, asking when I am going to finish my life, and to have people stop me every day when I happen to go to my bookseller's, for the last new work, or to my banker's, for my dividends, and say, "Where's the rest of your memoirs?" "What has become of that funny Ferocious?" "What ever happened to old Gil?" "Is your present lady's name Pauline or Desire?" "Who inherited the Blackmere estate?" "Do tell me if Mr. Pilfor and Professor Sprads are living now?" "I wonder if I didn't see your Riquets at the theatre last night, dressed in a blue cap and fancy cravat?" To rid myself at once of these annoyances, by gratifying the curiosity which I have excited, I have again resumed my pen. The nights are getting longer and cooler, in a short time fires will be agreeable, and already I can sit comfortably at my desk and write by lamp-light without being disturbed by mosquitoes. There is nothing, therefore, to interrupt me, and I shall finish my task as speedily as possible, and trust that when I get to the end of my second volume, none will repent having followed me from the first.

I am not naturally churlish or unsocial. I probably take as much unaffected pleasure in the society of my friends as any other person in similar circumstances. But the circle of my acquaintances is already very wide; in my varied fortunes I have necessarily formed many intimacies, and I find it already extremely difficult to entertain all whose company is a pleasure to me, and who have claims upon my gratitude; I must therefore hint to my numerous readers, that the fact of their becoming acquainted with me from reading my memoirs, does not necessarily impose an obligation upon me to become acquainted with them. I trust that they will be able to feel an unreciprocated sympathy in this case. I have been compelled to make these seemingly ungracious remarks from having been called upon during the past summer by a considerable number of persons who addressed me in the most familiar terms, laughed knowingly in my face, and when I told them, with some embarrassment, that I had not the pleasure of remembering them, would reply that they knew me like a book, as they had read my autobiography; and I could not find it in my heart to give them to understand that I had no ambition to cultivate such one-sided acquaintances. My wife has been the greatest sufferer by these peculiar friends, for they have eaten up all the fruits in my garden, and she has none left for preserves. It is true, that from these numerous visitors I have picked out two or three intelligent friends, whose acquaintance I value highly, but I am willing to rest content with the acquisitions which I have already made, and hope to be excused hereafter from any more visitors of the kind.

At the close of the first volume of my autobiography it will be remembered that I had again called upon Mr. Bassett and had my pockets refilled by that excellent gentleman, who had never refused to supply my wants, nor met me with a frown upon his countenance. But I could not help thinking that there was an evident coolness in his manner towards me which made me feel that he now befriended me from a sense of duty rather than from affection, as he did at first; and I would have rejected his pecuniary assistance had I not thought myself bound by his former kindness to follow his instructions implicitly. He was a man of such upright principles that duty was to him a matter of affection, and he seemed, even in his mere business transactions, to be influenced as much by a feeling of love towards those whom he dealt with, as a desire for gain; and I have heard it said that his customers all regarded him as a personal friend rather than as a jobber with whom they dealt from motives of interest. His treatment of me had been from the beginning kind and parental, and I felt more deeply grateful to him from knowing how much trouble it had cost him from the opposition of his wife, who without having any decidedly bad qualities, was one of the most disagreeable persons I have ever encountered. No one knew how disagreeable she was so well as her husband; but he had taken her "for better for worse," and he felt himself bound to make the most of her. He knew that she was too old to alter, and instead of making himself unhappy about her, he wisely made up his mind to try and get used to her. By resolutely maintaining his good nature, and allowing her to have her own way when it did not interfere with his sense of duty, and accustoming himself to looking at the few good points in her character, he contrived to live with her and enjoy a tolerable degree of comfort in his own house. It is not unlikely that my own feelings towards her were somewhat embittered by her hatred of me, but I do not think that I have given a prejudiced view of her character. Mr. Bassett was in time very happily relieved from her, so that he afterwards enjoyed many years of domestic felicity with a wife who was in all respects the reverse of that troublesome woman; but as the circumstances attending the exit of Mrs. Bassett from this stage of existence were very peculiar, and intimately connected with my own history, I must defer any further allusion to them until the proper period shall arrive for their introduction.

The money which Mr. Bassett gave me, I found upon examination, was a twenty dollar bill; and as he had impressed it upon my mind that I must now seek out some means of employment by which I would be enabled to live by my own exertions, I determined to husband this small sum so carefully that it should suffice for all my wants until I could hit upon some means of getting a living by my labor. This appeared to me a very easy matter; there were so many different ways of earning one's bread that I felt no uneasiness as to my success. But my mind happened to be too much occupied, just then, with the thought of meeting Pauline at the house of Professor Sprads, and consummating my happiness by our marriage, to entertain any other project seriously. So, having eaten a slight breakfast at a public restaurant in Broadway, and made my toilet at a barber's shop, I went directly to the Professor's house, expecting to meet Pauline, for it had never occurred to me that her running off from her father the night before, at the prayer meeting, might prevent her leaving the house the next day.

I had some difficulty in finding the Professor's residence again, and some trouble, after I had found it, in gaining access to the Professor and Madame Sprads, who happened to be at their morning meal; and as the Professor afterwards confessed to me, engaged in a little domestic scene cause by his remarks on the coffee, similar to the one I had witnessed the night before on the basis of an absent salad. These little difficulties were not uncommon in this musical family. But on this occasion I saw nothing to indicate a want of harmony between the Professor and his lady; but, on the contrary they seemed to act wonderfully well in concert, and their thoughts harmonized in the most extraordinary manner.

The Professor kept me waiting a long while in his parlor to amuse myself as I best could with the objects which it contained before he made his appearance; and then he detained me a long while in expatiating on the remarkable qualities of Madame Sprads, before that distingue lady, as he called her, came in. I was all the while waiting with great patience for Pauline, and every time a cart rumbled past the house, Madame Sprads would run to the window and say she was quite sure it must be the Misses Gilson coming in their father's carriage. To wile away the time she volunteered to play some difficult pieces of the Professor's composition, on her harp, which fairly set my teeth on edge.

Then the Professor performed some difficult passages on the piano, which had even a more unpleasant effect upon me than his lady's performance on the harp. There is really nothing so difficult to endure, that I know of, in the way of enjoyment, as difficult music; and that which the Professor and Madame Sprads treated me to, was the worst I had ever listened to. But the thought that Pauline had sat in the same room, and produced similar sounds, made it much more endurable than it otherwise would have been. When they had finished all their pieces, and found that I was not much soothed in my feelings by their performances, they began to entertain me by relating their grievances with the press and the critics; and my hair stood on end almost, at the recital of the wrongs that had been inflicted upon them by Mr. Pilfor and Mr. Riquets, who had been employing their talents and their pens in the base design of injuring the reputation of every artiste who would not purchase their silence, and who had an intense jealousy of Professor Sprads, on account of his elevated character, and who persecuted Madam Sprads for two reasons: Firstly, because she was pure and classical in her style; and, secondly, because she was the lady of Professor Sprads. I was quite willing to believe that Mr. Pilfor and his friend could be guilty of any enormity, after suffering as I had from their voracious appetites and luxurious tastes; so I allowed the Professor and Madam Sprads to indulge in the most liberal strain of remarks upon the character of my two friends, without taking the least offence; indeed, I am not quite sure that I did not myself speak of them in terms not altogether complimentary. I will not repeat any of the many stories that the Professor and Madam Sprads told me respecting those gentlemen, because I have understood recently that they are both endeavoring to get up in the world, and become honest members of society; Mr. Riquets having been promoted to the situation of a check-taker in a circus, and Mr. Pilfor being an assistant in a daguerrian gallery in a neighboring city. It is true, that I shall be under the necessity of detailing two or three little transactions of these worthies, before I conclude my memoirs, but I shall not do them an unnecessary injury by repeating the stories told about them by other people; for I have once before remarked that it was for the sole purpose of narrating my own adventures, and not those of other people, that I undertook to write this history.

The time passed wearily enough at the Professor's house, in spite of all the attempts which he and his accomplished lady made to amuse me; for apart from the distaste which I had for these people, who were dreadfully shallow, and never for a moment succeeded in deceiving me as to their real character, I was so impatient to see Pauline once more, that the wittiest or wisest person in the world would have been tiresome to me. Although the Professor and Madam Sprads did not succeed in imposing themselves upon me for the great artistes they represented themselves, yet I must acknowledge that they succeeded in convincing me that they were a pair of greater rogues than I at first suspected them to be. But it is quite impossible for any one to be always guarded against a cheat. The most shallow-witted knave may succeed by misrepresentation in deceiving the most worthy people. I sat in the little dingy red-curtained parlor of Madam Sprads—she chose to call it her boudoir, until I began to think I had been deceived by the Professor, and that Pauline had never been a pupil of his wife, a suspicion that was greatly strengthened by the recollection that I had never heard the Gilsons make any allusions to Madam Sprads, when a knock was heard at the door, and the Professor starting up, exclaimed:—"Heaven be praised! These are those Gilsons, at last."

I was going to rush to the door, but Madam Sprads caught me by the arm and begged that I would be seated, saying that it might compromise the character of her establishment if I were seen by the neighbors. So I sat down again, and allowed Madam Sprads herself to usher in the Gilsons, and I felt very much relieved when the little Professor himself made his escape from another door, saying that he could not allow himself to be caught by the young ladies in his roquelaire. Madam Sprads had been gone but a few minutes when she returned and said: "Alfred, my love, your purse, if you please; I want a trifle of twelve shillings." But suddenly discovering that the Professor had left the room, she exclaimed, "Mercy on me! I declare I have unconsciously exposed myself. Would you have the kindness Mr. Pepper, to loan me so trifling a sum as twelve shillings, I am sure I am quite ashamed to ask for it, until the Professor comes in?"

I knew that if I loaned her the amount I should never get it back, but I was desirous not to offend her until I was sure that Pauline would not come; so I took out my pocket-book, reached her the twenty-dollar bill that Mr. Bassett had given me, which was all the money I had in the world, and told her to bring me back the change. Madam took the bill and disappeared, but she was gone so unreasonably long that I began to mistrust that she did not intend to return. The Professor did not come back, the Gilsons did not make their appearance, and I was now thoroughly convinced that I had been grossly swindled. I was just on the point of searching the house for the Professor and his wife, when Madam Sprads burst open the door, and rushing wildly into the room threw herself upon the sofa and began to wring her hands, and exclaim that she was ruined, and unless I would have pity on her, her character was gone forever.

As my thoughts were mainly occupied with Pauline, I imagined at once that the distress of Madam Sprads must be in some way connected with that idol of my heart.

"Pray, tell me quick," I exclaimed, "what has happened? Has any harm been done to Pauline?"

"O, no! no!" said Madam Sprads, falling upon her knees, and lifting up her hands and eyes to me; "O, no! no! no! Worse, much worse than that. But say you will forgive me; only say that!"

"I do not know, Madam Sprads," said I, rising and taking my hat, "what you may have done requiring my forgiveness, of course, but I forgive you; only give me my money that I may go, for I perceive that there is no prospect of meeting Miss Gilson in your house."

Hereupon Madam Sprads clung hold of my legs and nearly tripped me up by her violent action.

"O, my dear, dear Mr. Pepper!" she exclaimed, "how can I bring my mind to tell you that just as I was going to reach your twenty-dollar bill to that baker's-man, a puff of wind came and blew it entirely out of my hands, and I have not been able to find it since."

I saw how it was; I had been robbed of my money, and there was no help for it. But in the anger of the moment I told the lady that she was a cheat, and that I had suspected as much in the beginning; and that I forgave her, but that I would have a separate settlement with the Professor. This, unhappily, only made matters worse, for she now clung to me with such force that I could not get away, and she would not allow me to depart until she had exacted a promise that I would not injure a hair of his head, nor even tell him of the loss of the bill, for she said it would ruin her dear Alfred's peace of mind forever, if he knew how careless she had been. This, too, I promised, for a moment's reflection convinced me that it would be a waste of time to attempt to get my money back from these sharpers. Madame Sprads said that I should not lose a penny in consequence of her carelessness, for her benefit concert would come off in a few days, and then she would have it in her power to repay me in full. But she said it would oblige her if I would consent to receive twenty tickets, which I might very readily dispose of among my distingue acquaintances.

I was heartily sick of such shocking knavery, and could not but pity people who were reduced to the practice of such despicable tricks for the means of subsistence. "Ah!" thought I, when I came out of the Professor's house, and found myself once more alone in the world, without a shilling in my pocket, "why will not people die when they find it impossible to live with honor."

But I then had never known what it was really to feel the want of money, and had not been compelled to resort to practices which my necessities afterwards drove me to. A poor man needs a greater stock of virtue in this world, to fortify him against temptations, than a rich one does; and yet, from my observations, I am bound to say that I believe there is more unequivocal honesty of intention among the poor than among the wealthy.

Whether the Professor and his wife had been deceiving me, respecting the Gilsons, I knew not, but I had no doubt now, that they were mere needy sharpers, and I resolved never to see them again. If Pauline had ever been to their house, I did not believe that I was likely to see her there again, and therefore determined to seek and interview with her elsewhere. But being now without a dollar in my pocket, and having no home, my first thoughts were bent upon finding some employment, by which I could earn my living, and get money enough to enable me to pay off my indebtedness to old Gil. It was idle to think about marrying Pauline, until I could provide a home for her; and as I could never think of anything but that bewitching girl, when I was in her company, I concluded to avoid her, lest I should be tempted to commit some imprudent act. My first impulse was to conceal my last loss from Mr. Bassett, but as I should have to tell him in the end what had become of my money, I resolved to get rid of that unpleasant duty at once, and bear his censures as well as I could. But, moneyless as I was, I was determined not to accept anything from him again. I felt that it was now time that I took upon myself the responsibility of my own support. I could not but think that if ever I should be restored to Captain St. Hugh, that he would think the better of me for meeting my fate manfully, and refusing to live upon the charity of my old benefactor. With such feelings I once more sought Mr. Bassett, and related to him my new misfortune. He listened to me with greater gravity than he had heard my other confessions, but did not show any displeasure.

"You have done right, Tom," said he, "to tell me of this last accident. If you had kept your loss to yourself it would have subjected you to a good many mortifications, and the truth would have leaked out at last. But I am surprised that you should have been so easily taken in after having been so recently imposed upon. I think you will be more careful hereafter. But you will never know the real blessing of having money in your pocket until you have had to earn it by your own labor or ingenuity."

"Sir," I replied, a little touched by his insinuations, "whether that will make any change in my conduct I cannot say; but I trust I shall never be a miser in my feelings, or refuse to aid those whom I have it in my power to assist, let me receive my money as I may."

"I should hope not, Tom," said Mr. Bassett; "but there is a difference between giving your money and allowing yourself to be robbed of it."

"Well, sir," I replied, "I am determined to know what effect it will have upon me to depend solely upon my own efforts for support hereafter."

"That's a brave resolution, my boy," said Mr. Bassett; "you will feel happier for it, I have no doubt. But remember your promise to me, and do not enter into any engagements without first informing me of your intentions. If you require a character, send to me without any hesitation, and I will aid you all that I can in that respect."

"You are very good," I said, "but I am afraid I that I must depend upon what I can say of myself for a character. I will try to recommend myself by my fidelity."

"That's better and better," said he; "with such a determination you have nothing to fear."

I discovered that he was not desirous that I should remain any longer in his counting-room, so I shook his hand and wished him good morning. But he had not offered me any more money, and I was doubly mortified. In the first place I had lost the opportunity to refuse it, which I had calculated on, and had arranged a speech in my mind for the occasion; and then, I was convinced that he no longer felt for me the affectionate anxiety which he had before so unequivocally manifested. Let what would happen to me, I was fully resolved to perish before I would accept any assistance from him again. I could hardly hope now ever to see my father again, and but for Pauline, I should have felt quite indifferent what became of me. But I had no time for melancholy speculations, my wants were immediate and pressing, and I had the city before me to seek some means of supplying them.

I HAD consumed nearly the whole afternoon, after parting from Mr. Bassett, in searching for some kind of employment, but had found nobody willing to employ me, probably because I was not fit for anything in particular, and as I had eaten no dinner I felt very hungry. My appetite was probably the sharper from the dubious prospect before me of being able to gratify it, and as I passed by the old coffee-house near Sloat Lane in William street, which was pulled down many years ago, and new stores erected on its site, and burned down and rebuilt two or three times since, the fumes of turtle soup rose from the grated windows of the spacious kitchen of that celebrated house, and caused both my eyes and mouth to run with water. That was a fine lordly-looking old house with an old-fashioned portico, arched windows and noble fan lights that let the sun shine stream into its wide hall. I wish they could have allowed that or some of the other spacious old houses to remain; such a wilderness of square granite columns as are now seen in that neighborhood present nothing to awaken a reminiscence of old times; the place is as much changed as though it had been overturned by an earthquake; and if it had not been for the incident which I am about to relate having occurred there, I should have lost all recollection of Sykes' old coffee-house. It was a famous place for good dinners, or at least what was considered good dinners in those days, for it cannot be denied that the last generation were shockingly gross eaters, and that they understood very little about the pleasures of the table, for after eating until their eyes almost started from their sockets, they would drink until all sense of taste was blunted and all perception of wit destroyed. To drink until you fell under the table, or grew so hilarious that you broke everything upon it, was considered gentlemanly and humorous. A man who should do such things now would create no other feelings than those of disgust or pity, but a shadow of the good time that's coming is already upon us, and gluttony and drunkenness are going out of fashion. The art of enjoying life is better understood than it used to be. Decanters and corsets are both out of date, and many other similar things for which we are indebted to our ancestors are passing away. Temperance, loose dresses and silver forks, we owe to our selves. Our ancestors did all for us they could, but they bequeathed us some shocking bad habits that we have been at great pains to get rid of. One of the worst, was the fashion of gormandizing and guzzling which was carried on to a greater extent at Sykes' than at any other place in the city. There was a large bar-room with a billiard-room attached, which was a great place of resort for the dashing young merchants, cotton brokers, and sporting characters of the day. I had been invited there on two or three different occasions to dine, and although I disliked the place exceedingly, from the boisterousness of the company, and the strong smell of cigars and whiskey punch which pervaded it, yet when I scented the reeking fumes of the hot turtle soup, I could not help wishing that I had the means in my pocket to go in and pay for my dinner. I resolutely walked past the door and was just turning the corner, when I came full upon Mr. Pilfor, who, as usual, was dressed very fine, with a white vest and a damask rose in his button hole. It was the first time that I had met him since our supper at the Nunquam. I was going to pass him by without speaking, but he reached out his hand and said, "My dear fellow how are you? You are just the individual in the whole world whom I had the greatest desire in life to meet. Do you know that I have been looking for you every where? I have been wanting to pay you that trifle which I became indebted to you through your extreme goodness at the Nunquam. Pray, how much is it?" I told him that I had forgotten the exact sum, but that I would be content with twenty dollars.

"Twenty dollars!" said he, "O, it's quite a trifle. But hang business before dinner. Let us go into Sykes' and eat a spoonful of soup and then we will settle the matter."

I was really but too happy to accept the invitation of Mr. Pilfor, because I wanted my money back, and because I was so very hungry. We accordingly entered, when Mr. Pilfor called for a private room and wrote upon a card at the bar directions for our dinner. It happened very oddly that just as we were going through the hall we encountered that Italian-image-vender-looking gentleman of the press, Mr. Riquets, whom Pilfor insisted should make the third of our party. I will do Mr. Riquets the credit to say that he blushed when he saw me, which showed that his intimacy with Mr. Pilfor had not rendered him quite so thoroughly proof against shame as that gentleman was. But he directly recovered himself and began to make puns on my name, calling me Spicy, and saying a great many smart things which were excessively common place, and too palpable to excite a laugh. I told him that it was no use for him to pun upon my name, because it would be altogether impossible for him to say any thing which somebody had not said before him. This did not stop him, however, for he kept on all dinner time, and by way of varying his humor and showing the extent of his wit, he would address me very gravely and say, Mr. Mustard, I will trouble you for the pepper, and when I told him he was extremely silly, he said that he didn't ask me for any Pepper-sauce. He laughed immoderately at these brilliant sallies and so did his friend Mr. Pilfor. For my own part, I couldn't see the humor of these merry gentlemen, and frankly told them so, at which they laughed all the more. The dinner having been ordered by Mr. Pilfor was an extravagantly good one, as a matter of course; there were four or five courses, an abundance of wine of the costliest description and some hot-house fruits; Mr. Riquets having discovered upon the bill some very curious old wines charged at twenty dollars the bottle, took it into his head to taste it, and so ordered a bottle. I told him he was an extravagant rascal, and that he had no right to put his friend Pilfor to such a needless expense.

"Much obliged to you for the hint," said Mr. Pilfor; "upon my word, Riquets, you are putting it upon me rather strong. I must examine my exchequer and see if I can stand such a drain upon it."

Thereupon Mr. Pilfor began to feel in his pockets, first of his vest pockets, then in his coat, his hat and his pantaloons. "How very unfortunate it is," said he, affecting an alarmed look and turning to his friend, "upon my honor, Riquets, I have been robbed. Some desperate wretch has certainly picked my pockets."

"Is it possible!" exclaimed Riquets, rising, "let me go off to the police office and give information, that the rogue may be caught."

"Don't trouble yourself, my dear fellow," said Pilfor, "let us finish our cigars first, and then we will all go together; I dare say our friend, here, Mr. Pepper, will loan me the trifling amount necessary to pay for our dinner, until tomorrow, unless you happen to have money enough about you for that purpose, Riquets?"

Mr. Riquets was excessively sorry, but he had just borrowed a large sum and hadn't a dollar in his pocket.

"How very unfortunate!" said Mr. Pilfor, looking at me; "if you and my friend Riquets will have the goodness to amuse yourselves while I step to my office and replenish my purse, I will be obliged to you."

"I have no objections to remaining here," said I, "but as I am not the owner of a shilling at present, and don't know where to obtain one, I would prefer not being left here unless the bill is paid."

"What an extraordinary concatenation of circumstances!" said Mr. Pilfor, turning quite pale, "since that is the case I must go immediately to my office."

"Very good, gentleman," I replied; "of course you did not call for this expensive dinner without the means to pay for it; and as I was invited by you to partake of it, I am not going to be left as a hostage with the landlord until you return. So have the goodness to keep your seats until I go and explain the matter to him."

"The fact is," said Mr. Pilfor, "I would prefer for you not say any thing about the matter at present. Leave all to me. You and Riquets walk arm-and-arm together and say nothing to anybody, and I will follow after you, and we can go with you to your friend's where you can borrow a small sum until to-morrow, when I will return it to you."

"No, I will consent to nothing of the kind," I said, planting myself against the door to prevent either of the gentlemen from going out; "I will ring for Sykes and tell him that I have eaten his dinner, but have got nothing to pay for it."

It is probable that the wine I had drunk made me a little more determined than I should otherwise have been, but I was not going to allow those genteel rascals to feed themselves at my expense again. I would not have sat down to eat with them, but hunger is a great destroyer of distinction, and I must confess that I did not feel the same contempt for my table companions before dinner as afterwards. The two friends seeing my determination, looked at each other in considerable alarm, and Mr. Pilfor said, "Upon my life but this is really a most extraordinary occurrence. My dear fellow," to me, "I hope you don't intend to involve us in a disgraceful brawl at a tavern?"

"I shall simply do as I promised," I replied, and caught hold of the bell-rope and gave it a pull. "Riquets, my dear fellow," said Mr. Pilfor, coming towards me, "we must floor this vulgar rascal and get out of his company."

Both of them came upon me together but I soon gave Riquets a blow that laid him sprawling, and would have sent his friend after him, when the door was opened by a waiter, who Mr. Pilfor no sooner saw than he caught hold of me and cried out help! help! with all his might. The noise brought more waiters, and Sykes himself, who came rushing into the room, when that villain Pilfor, who had caught hold of my collar, began to roar out that I had robbed him of his pocket-book, and Mr. Riquets, who just then picked himself up off the floor, swore to the fact, and added of his own accord that I had attempted to put a couple of the spoons in my pocket, and had knocked him down for trying to prevent my escape. These unlooked-for accusations enraged me to such a degree, that I could not refrain from giving that rascal another blow which sent him a second time sprawling upon the floor. Unhappy for me this exhibition of violence only served to confirm in the mind of Mr. Sykes, the truth of what Pilfor and Riquets had told about me, and he and his servants caught hold of me and dragged me into the bar-room, where I was exposed to the gaze of all the company assembled there. As for Pilfor and Riquets, they availed themselves of the confusion to step out without saying any thing about the cost of the dinner and when they were called to give their testimony against me, could not be found.

"You are a precious rascal, sir," said Mr. Sykes, the landlord, "to come into my house, without a dollar in your pocket, order a dinner of eight or ten courses, drink up my costliest wines and then walk off with my silver spoons in your pocket. I will have you in Bridewell for this. I have had many such a trick played upon me, and now I have caught one rogue he shall suffer for the whole."

This is the justice of the world. But I did not feel inclined to submit to the kind of treatment which Mr. Sykes was disposed to award me; so I related to him the entire trouble, which he seemed inclined to believe, the more so as neither Mr. Pilfor nor Riquets could be found to substantiate their charge, and the bar-keeper stated that it was Mr. Pilfor who had ordered the dinner. Still Mr. Sykes was quite unwilling to liberate me, for he thought it was quite time that somebody was made an example of to deter other rogues from imposing upon him, and the effect would be precisely the same whether I was guilty or innocent. I looked around among the people in the bar-room to see I could meet a familiar face, but they were all strangers to me, and I was beginning to feat that I should either be compelled to send to Mr. Bassett for assistance or spend the night in Bridewell, when a gentleman who sat smoking a cigar close by with a glass of brandy and water before him, spoke up and said, "It appears to me, Sykes, that you are acting in a very unbecoming manner towards the young fellow. I have not the pleasure of knowing him personally, but he has the manners of a gentleman, and I remember perfectly well seeing him one night at the Nunquam when he was swindled out of a costly supper by those rascals in the manner which he has stated, and I have no doubt that they attempted to gammon him again. Let him go, Sykes, and I will be responsible for his appearance to-morrow."

"Very well, very well," said Mr. Sykes "if you wish, Mr. Wilton, I have nothing more to say about the matter. The gentleman is quite welcome to his dinner, if he cannot afford to pay for it, but as for his companions, I will put a stop to their marauding expeditions into other people's larders. Confound their luxurious appetites!"

"You are at liberty to go, sir, if you please," said the gentleman who had volunteered to be security for me, and. whom Sykes called Mr. Wilton. "You understand, however, that I am bound for your appearance here to-morrow?"

"I am grateful for your kindness," I replied, "and will certainly be here any hour you or Mr. Sykes may appoint, for unhappily I have no business to prevent my coming. But there will be no good in coming back. I have no money to bring with me."

"Have you not, indeed?" said Mr. Wilton, puffing out a cloud of cigar smoke. "That's bad. I am sorry for you. But you have friends, of course, who can assist you?"

"If I have they do not know where I am, nor that I need their assistance," I replied.

"Ah! indeed!" said Mr. Wilson, as though my situation were quite new to him. "No money. No friends. No home?"

"No home," said I.

"That's very bad, indeed. Very bad!" added Mr. Wilton, soliloquizing, as he knocked the ashes from the end of his cigar. "Have the goodness to sit down by me until I smoke my cigar. Do you smoke? Ah, then you don't smoke! That's very well. But I like a good cigar, myself, there's a kind of comfort in it. Old bachelors who are guiltless of the crime of matrimony must have some sins. But you drink?"

I shook my head.

"Well, that's better still. Drinking is a shocking bad habit. But I rather enjoy it, than otherwise; and as long as Sykes keeps such capital Otard, Dupuy & Co., I can't think of giving up my glass of brandy and water. Of course you don't gamble?"

"I never have," I said.

"Better and better still," said Mr. Wilton, "but still there is something very agreeable in the excitement of whist when there's just enough staked on the game to make it worth while to win. You do well to shun cards and dice, they are ruinous to young men; but as I have got no wife nor children, nor anything of that sort, a game of cards is a very necessary kind of excitement, and I am willing to acknowledge that I like gambling in moderation."

Mr. Wilton having made these confessions to me in a very ingenuous manner, remained for a few minutes entirely silent, apparently quite absorbed in watching the smoke which he puffed from his mouth, as it curled above his head. He appeared to be about forty years of age, he had a fine benevolent countenance, handsome features, and his nose was just enough exaggerated from the standard of nasal beauty to give an individuality to his face; his eyes were black and keen, but he wore spectacles; he had a lofty forehead, coal black hair which clung to his head in crispy curls, a broad manly chest, and altogether the air and manner of the kind of man who passes for a gentleman at first sight without any question being asked. His dress was peculiar, but not odd.

He wore a blue frock coat with a standing collar, and a buff vest buttoned close up in the throat, which gave him the look of a soldier, although there was a freedom in his manner which is rarely seen in one who has been taught how to carry his head and hands by a drill sergeant. He had a nobility of carriage which was an inheritance. When he had smoked his cigar so that he could hold it in his mouth no longer, and drained the last drop of brandy out of his tumbler, he said, "Come, go to my room with me. I rather like you. I think there must be something very curious in your history."

I was but too happy to encounter a new friend, who seemed disposed to render me a service, and I very gladly accepted his invitation to accompany him to his apartment. "I must beg the favor of leaning on you, my young friend," said he, as we came out of Sykes' coffee-house. "I believe that I have got the gout in my right foot, and since I have felt a twinge this evening, I have been debating with myself whether the pain of the gout is not greater than the pleasure of drinking a glass of brandy-and-water. What do you think of it? But as you don't drink, and have never had the gout, of course you don't think about it at all?"

"True," I replied. "I have never had the gout; but as the penalty of every sin must of necessity exceed its pleasure, there can be no doubt that the pain of the gout exceeds the pleasure of the brandy."

"Well, upon my word," said he, "that's a view of the subject I never happened to take. You are right, of course. If the penalty did not exceed the pleasure of a transgression, why, we might always sin with impunity. But it's very clear that there is no remission of sin. Every transgression must exceed its penalty. Well, I will give up my brandy-and-water, and perhaps the other things. Faith, you have made me your debtor already. I must pay you for this. But here we are at my lodgings. Let us walk in."

The lodgings of Mr. Wilton were in an old fashioned brick house in Wall street. We struggled up stairs together, he leaning rather heavily upon my shoulder, and delivering himself of very gentlemanly and moral maxims all the while. There was no light in the hall, or passage way, but when he opened the door of his room, I perceived by the light that was emitted by a small chamber lamp, that the house had been once a grand mansion, but it was now cut up into offices for printers, lawyers, attorneys, brokers, agents, editors, and all the tribe of nondescript laborers whose implements of business consist of an ink stand, a box of wafers, a few steel pens, a bundle of envelopes and a dusty writing disk. Mr. Wilton's room was on the second floor, and, from the appearance of the walls, had probably once been the parlor of the house; the walls were covered with French landscape paper, the cornices were heavy and constructed of wood, the windows wide, with deep casements, and the fire-place was ornamented with a richly carved Sienna marble mantel and set round with Dutch tiles, illustrated with Scripture subjects.

The furniture of the room corresponded with its decorations; from the ceiling hung a glass chandelier, with here and there a broken pendant, the sofas and chairs were of old mahogany, and almost as black as ebony, all of them having griffin's paws for feet. In one corner, there was a camp bedstead, and in the centre of the room a new writing desk placed on an old table which was filled with books and loose papers.

Mr. Wilton trimmed his lamp, lighted another cigar, stirred up his Liverpool coal fire, and seated himself in his easy chair.

"And so, my young friend," said he, "you have got no money, no friends, no home, and, by the way, no name, ha? I have not heard your name yet."

"Tom Pepper," said I.

"Tom Pepper!" said he, "what a remarkable name. Stop, I must make a note of that. Tom Pepper! Well, I never heard a better name for a good slashing magazine story. Is it real, or one that you have picked up?"

"I was born to it."

"Born to it. Born to a name. Well, I like that, too. Why that is in the regal style, I think, my young friend you will be worth something to me, and I may be able to do something for you. Have you been to College?"

"No. But I have had a little instruction in College learning."

"Very good," said he, "and you know a little Latin and French, and Mathematics, and Greek?"

"No Greek," said I.

"And you have seen something of the world, too, I dare say."

"A little."

"And a very little, too, I perceive, or you would not have been taken in by those scamps Riquets and Pilfor. I know them well, the rascals; they took me in once."

"And you know so much of the world," said I.

"That's true. But you see, my young friend, that an honest man can never be on his guard against a rogue. Some people adopt the villainous rule of believing every man a rogue until he is proved otherwise; but I reverse the rule and trust that every man is honest until he is proved to be a scamp. That's the more gentlemanly and Christian way, I think. How do I know, now, but that you are a rogue yourself!" And he eyed me very sharply, but seeing no appearance of a blush upon my face, he said, "pardon me my young friend, I know that you are what you seem. In fact there are some faces that carry a letter of recommendation with them, and yours is one of that kind. Give me your hand. Let us be friends. And now tell me your history."

I narrated to him in as brief a manner as I could the particulars of my past life, not without a good many interruptions from him, and ejaculations of, "You astonish me!" "You don't tell me so!" "How very remarkable," &c., &c.

At the close he said, "well my young friend you are just the person I want; why with such experiences as you have had, I would make a fortune by publishing my life in numbers. How very strange that nothing of the kind ever happened to me.

"I cannot remember at this moment that I ever met with a romantic adventure in my life. And yet I have been about in the world some too. But somehow or other it has always happened that everything has always gone on so smoothly with me that my course of life has never had a ripple in it. Something once happened to a brother of mine, though, that was quite equal to any of your adventures, but all the rest of my family have done nothing but just live and die in the most ordinary manner, as I suppose I shall do too; our family have all been in comfortable circumstances. But I am fond of adventure, and every spring I make excursions with my dog and gun up in Orange county, but nothing ever comes of it."

"Pray what was it that befell your brother?" said I, feeling a curiosity to know what accident my new friend counted as so much superior to any that befell me, in point of romantic incident.

"My oldest brother," said Mr. Winton, renewing his cigar, and resting his heels on top of the Sienna mantel-piece, "when he left college took a fancy to make the tour of Europe, which was considered quite an undertaking in those days. Well, my father fitted him out with a letter of credit on the Barings, and letters of introduction all through Europe, from Liverpool to Constantinople. He started off in one of the old packets for London, for you know there were no steamships in those days, and we got letters from him by every arrival, dated at Paris, Naples, Rome, &c.; after a while the letters ceased, and we wondered what had become of him; but we had no fears of his being assassinated, or of his having fallen into the crater of Mount Vesuvius, nor anything of that sort, for, although he sent home no letters, he sent a plenty of drafts upon my father, which the old fellow grumbled terribly at having to pay.

"Well, my brother had been absent about two years, and my father was talking seriously of sending me to bring him back, when, to the astonishment of all, and my particular chagrin, we received a letter from master Bob, his name was Robert, informing us that he was on the point of being married to a lovely Countess, with whom he would embark for home in the next packet from Havre, in which he had already engaged his passage and forwarded his trunks and so forth. Such a piece of news as this put us all in the greatest ferment you can conceive of. The idea of Bob's marrying a Countess was amusing enough, and the terror of my mother—rest her soul! she died yesterday a twelve-month—was laughable in the extreme.

"What she was going to do with a Countess, how address her, and in what room to put her, formed the topic of our tea-table circle every night. My father, who was a cautious old fellow, went about everywhere asking what fortunes Countesses usually had, as a general rule, and whether they were related to the royal family or not; my sisters were delighted, of course, with the prospect of having a Countess for a companion, and as for myself, I was merely vexed at losing an opportunity of seeing Europe.

"We got no more letters from Bob, but we heard of the ship's leaving HAVRE in which he had taken passage, and began to look for his arrival with great anxiety. The old house was newly painted and papered and a room fitted up expressly to put Bob and his Countess in. The whole family were dressed in new suits, and we were all in great glee, when our merry house was converted into a house of mourning by the intelligence that the packet in which my brother and his bride had taken passage was wrecked on Barnegat Beach, and every soul on board had perished. You may imagine our grief, but it is hardly worth while to attempt to give you any idea of it. Bob had always been a rather wild boy but he was a brave, generous hearted fellow, and in spite of his little excesses, I believe he was the favorite of his family, if he was not the flower of the flock.

"After the first shock occasioned by this terrible news was over, my mother begged that some of us would go down to Barnegat and try to recover the body of my poor brother, as well as that of the Countess, whose name would look very handsomely on the family vault. My father would allow none of us to go without him, so he and my two brothers started off on their melancholy duty. It was in the winter season, and there would be no difficulty in preserving the bodies provided they could be found. Well, when my father and brothers reached the beach, there lay the ship, with a tremendous surf breaking over her, the trunks of the passengers strewed about the shore rifled of their contents, and the bodies that had been found frozen stiff and buried in the sand without their clothes upon them. It was a melancholy task, of course, to disinter all those frozen corpses and find which of them had belonged to poor Bob, whose better part, we fondly believed to be in heaven. But it was a pious duty, and notwithstanding the freezing weather, they performed it without hesitation. After disinterring a good many, they at last discovered a body which they recognized as that of our unfortunate brother, from the color of the hair and its size, although it was considerably bruised. There had only two females floated ashore, and as one of then was black, and the other was the body of a young and handsome person, with beautiful golden hair, and had altogether a distingue appearance, they had no doubt of its being the corpse of the unfortunate Countess, and of course they took it, and having packed it in a box with brother Bob's, started off for home. The grief of all the family was intense, you may be sure, for although Bob was a great annoyance to us from his extravagant habits, yet now that he was dead we mourned for him the more for having spoken rather harshly of him during his life time; and then there was something so tragic in the end he made, with the golden-haired Countess whom he was bringing home to us, who for aught we all knew, might have brought a fortune into the family. Well, they were both laid out in separate coffins, side by side in our parlor, where the whole city came to see them; there was no end to the poetry that was published in the papers about them; and the golden hair, the frozen strand, the storm, the wreck, the hapless bride, and all the horrors of the scene in which they perished were worked up in every conceivable form of verse. A funeral sermon was preached on the day of their burial, by our Dominie, who had married our parents and christened Bob, and a most affecting discourse it was, you may be sure; the Dominie rubbed up his reading and quoted almost the whole of Falconer's Shipwreck in his sermon, and there was not a dry eye in the church, as there never is on such occasions. The funeral was an immense procession, for Bob had a good many friends, and all the sentimental people in the city came to indulge in the tender thoughts which such an event naturally engendered. Well, sir, the funeral was over, the family had all gone into mourning, my mother, pour soul! had begun to look up again, and my father began to reckon up the time that must elapse before we should know definitively, as he expressed it, whether or not we should be any the better for Bob's marriage with a Countess, when, one night about a fortnight after the funeral, as we all sat in the parlor feeling very melancholy and trying to look cheerful, we were startled by a loud knock at the door, for they had knockers in those days; we all looked at each other in alarm, but no one could tell why. It was late in the evening, and it had been a cold, dull day, and it is not unlikely our spirits were affected by the weather. But let the cause have been what it might, we were all in a most drooping state, and there was something peculiar in the knock that seemed to go to our very hearts. I can't say that I have ever heard anything like it, unless it be the thundering noise which the marble spectre makes in Don Juan, when he comes to settle accounts with that rascal.

"It seemed to us that the servant would never get the front door open, but at last we heard it turn on its old hinges, a gust of wind rushed through the hall and seemed to shake the whole house, and nearly extinguished the candles that were burning on the parlor centre-table. As we listened breathless to catch the next sound, and were fully prepared to hear something that would curdle the blood in our veins, if it were possible for such a phenomenon to happen, we heard as distinctly as we ever heard anything in our lives, a voice say, "Where is my father?" It was the voice of my poor brother Bob. There was no mistaking it, and I believe you might have knocked us all down with a marabout feather. Not a soul of us stirred or spoke a syllable; and the next moment the door opened, and who do you think appeared before us?"

"Why, your brother Bob, of course." said I.

"Why should you think so?" inquired he.

"Because, I saw from the first that he was not dead; you began by telling me that your brother Bob had met with a singular adventure, and there is nothing singular in a shipwreck and death."

"You are right, sir," said Mr. Wilton, "it was my brother Bob, and looking as well an distingue as he ever did in his life. He was so confounded good-looking, and rushed into my mother's arms so hastily, and kissed her so heartily, that we saw at once it was no ghost but Bob himself. However, his appearance was so sudden, that it caused a terrible uproar among us, and such hysterics as the women went into I could not give you the least notion of. There it was, Bob dressed in the most recherche style, and with a pair of the most frightful looking moustachios. We were all so flustered, and Bob himself was so much astonished at the kind of reception we gave him, that it was a long while before he could understand what had happened to us; or we, what had happened to him. The whole thing was at last cleared up, by Bob's telling us that he had been left by the packet in Havre in which he meant to embark, and so had taken passage in the next one."

"And the Countess, Bob?" said my father, "what became of the Countess?"

"Don't mention her, father," said Bob, holding up both his hands, "don't mention her to me again. It was a regular sell."

"And were you actually married?" said my father.

"Thank heaven! no," said Bob, "I found out that my Countess was a——but never mind; I escaped two great perils at the trifling cost of a thousand francs, and here I am, a wiser if not a better man. If ever I do marry, I assure you it shall not be a Countess."

"Bob then sat down while one of us read to him all the odes and poems that had been written on his death. He said he had not the least idea he was possessed of so many virtues as were attributed to him, and my father told him that we had all been equally astonished at the good qualities which had been discovered in him. And then my father told him he would have to keep a sharp look out on his future conduct, lest he gave the lie to his eulogists. It was afterwards ascertained that the bodies we had rendered funeral honors to were those of two steerage passengers, poor Swiss emigrants, so we had them taken out of our family vault and buried in Potter's Field. As for Bob, he is still alive and hearty, president of an insurance company and the father of a dozen children."

"And this," said I, "is the only romantic adventure that ever befell one of your family?"

"The only one," said he, "somehow or other, they didn't seem to be natural with us; and yet I am very fond of that sort of thing. I think I should like to lead exactly the kind of life that Sinbad the Sailor did, or Gil Blas, or the young man in the Golden Ass of Apulius, who, I have always thought, was more to be envied than any other man that ever lived. Although it would have been pleasant enough to lead such a life as Benvenuto Cellini did, excepting that I should not have cared about working in a goldsmith's shop; there was always something revolting to my mind in mere mechanical labor."

"If you were so fond of adventures," said I, "it appears to me a little strange that you should never have gone in search of them, for nothing can be more easy than to put yourself in a condition where you will be sure to encounter more marvelous and exciting accidents than any that you ever read of; for it is my opinion, from what I have read and what I have experienced, that men who relate their adventures always omit the most remarkable part of them, for fear of not being believed."

"Indeed! you amaze me!" said Mr. Wilton, "pray now, what should I do to meet with any of those surprising accidents which you think so common?"

"You have only to start off from here some morning," I replied, "step on board the first steam packet, ship or stage coach you meet, leave your trunk and your purse behind you, change your name, and ask some respectable looking person to lend you money enough to pay for your breakfast."

"There is some plausibility in what you say, I must acknowledge," said Mr. Wilton, "but suppose I should not be able to borrow money enough for my breakfast, what then should I do for my dinner? Hang me if I would be willing to go without my dinner for all the adventures in the world."

"I thought so," I replied, "people generally do that which is most to their mind, when they are let alone, and as you prefer the comfort of a good dinner and a quiet night's rest to the excitement of the wild adventures which appear so delightful to you, because they serve to beguile the time that would otherwise hang heavily upon your hands, you remain quietly at home in your snuggery here, and delude yourself with the thought that you would fancy the life of a Knight Errant. But you may be sure, that those who are fond of adventures, and love the excitement of a vagabondizing life, are just as fond of reading about quiet fire-side scenes, and dreaming of the homely delights of a farmer's life, as you are of reading of wild adventures and the perils of the ocean and the forest. Sailors at sea lie awake, in their short watches below, and as they swing in their hammocks, beguile each other with pleasant stories of country life, and make vows that when they return to port they will make their way into the interior of the country, far away from the smell of salt water, and hire themselves out for shepherds or milk-men. But no sooner do they reach port than they long again for the excitements and dangers of an ocean-life."

"There is something in that," said Mr. Wilton, "but my love for the romantic is——"

We were now interrupted by the appearance of a smutty-faced boy, having a paper cap on his head, who opened the door without rapping, and said, "they want some more copy."

"More copy," ejaculated Mr. Wilton, "why you little imp, what have they done with that capital manslaughter I sent them? But I forgot that I have been talking here these two hours, when I should have written a letter from London to be received by the packet that arrived this afternoon; and I have left all my memorandums in my brother Bob's office. Stop for a moment. I will write a leader on the probabilities of a general war in Europe; and, my young friend, you take a pen and just write me off a free, dashing and humorous account of the occurrence of the dinner at Sykes', and of the conduct of your friends, Riquets and Pilfor. It will be a capital chance for you to do them up very brown. Just be so good as to head your article with something that will catch the eye, as—A Scene at ——'s Hotel; or, How to get a Supper Without Paying for it."

"May I ask, for what purpose you want it?" said I.

"Why, I want it for my paper, of course. You know that I am editor of the Morning Luminary," said Mr. Wilton.

"Indeed, sir, I did not," I replied, rather frightened at finding myself on such familiar terms with the mysterious person who, under the shadow of his imposing "WE," I had been used to consider one of the greatest men of the day; "and I am afraid that you estimate my abilities too highly, in believing me capable of writing anything worthy of being printed in your paper."

"Fudge, fudge," said he, reaching me a pen, and placing a quire of ruled paper before me. "Write out the account for me; it shall go in, and I may give you a place on the paper."

My ambition was excited by this promise, and taking the pen I wrote a plain account of the dinner at Sykes', and headed it thus: AN EXPERIMENT IN DINING; OR, EATING AND NOT PAYING. By the time that Mr. Wilton had finished his leader on the prospects of a general war in Europe, I had finished my account of the dinner, and gave it to him.

"This," said he, "is the thing. There is a freshness, a vigor, a simplicity, an earnest truthfulness in what you have written, which I am exceedingly pleased with. Here, boy, take this to the office and tell them to put it up, and let them fill up with any little horrific accident they can hit upon. I shall send them no London letter to-night."

"It is not possible," I exclaimed, "that you actually manufacture those foreign letters which I have often read with so much satisfaction, and with such entire faith in their truth."

"Of course I do," he said, as he lighted another cigar, "and I save by it a very handsome sum; the fact is, those London writers require such extravagant pay that we can't afford to employ them, and I, therefore, have to write my own foreign letters."

"I am amazed at it!" I said, "How can you do it?"

"O! it is not such a very difficult matter," said he, "a very little practice would enable you to write excellent letters from any part of the world."

"No doubt," I said, perceiving that he misapprehended me; "but how can you be guilty of such a piece of untruthfulness?"

"Untruthfulness! ha! ha! ha! Why, my young friend, a little experience in the business of instructing the public will soon give you correct notions on this subject. The object of publishing a newspaper, sir, is to make money, and as in all other trades, that course which is the most profitable is the most honorable."

"I thought it a very different thing." said I.

"Of course you did; people always form incorrect notions of things seen at a distance," said my new monitor; "when you walk on the Battery, for instance, of a bright afternoon, the Highlands of Neversink loom up across the bay like a great lump of lapis lazuli bathed in liquid gold, but when you approach them you discover that they are nothing but a heap of red sand covered with scrubby cedars. But I believe that I am making use of another man's idea, ' 'tis distance lends enchantment to the view,' as Campbell says; when you come to know a little more about newspapers you will have more correct notions on the subject. I may say to you as the old statesman said to his son: go, my child, and see with how little wisdom newspapers are conducted. And may this be said of every profession. Mind, I do not mean to underrate the importance of my own calling, for it is one of the most dignified and responsible that a man can engage in, and to be tolerably successful, requires a much greater degree of knowledge, tact, information, industry and honesty, aye, honesty, than any other calling I know of. A merchant or lawyer may be secretly dishonest, but the newspaper editor cannot be, whatever he does wrong is done in the eyes of the world; his acts are all known, his thoughts are daily inspected by his readers, and this necessity of openness begets in him a habit of honesty which I think you will find no other class of men who labor for their living can pretend to. Whenever an editor is prosecuted it is for speaking his mind too freely, but the sins of other men are committed in secret."

I was charmed at this view of the editorial profession, and, in the warmth of my admiration for such a noble occupation, which led to such habits of candor, I exclaimed, "it is just the business that I have been looking for; I will be an Editor. I must have some trade which does not encourage lying."

"You shall," said he, seizing my hands and pressing them; "I am delighted with your ingenuousness and sincerity. I have long wanted to meet with a person of your character, and I am delighted to have found you. But, I am getting confounded thirsty; this cigar that I have been smoking has such a shocking flavor that I must take the taste out of my mouth. We will just have a drop of toddy. I have got some capital Glenlivet that was sent to me by that jolly good fellow, the Governor of Coney Island."

"Is there a Governor of Coney Island?" said I.

"Of course there is," said he, "and I only wish that every island has as good a one. The Governor of Coney Island is—but stop, you shall judge of him by the taste of his whiskey."

Mr. Wilton now drew a small iron-clamped oaken case from beneath his writing table, and, having unlocked it, took out a square-cut glass bottle with a gilt stopper, a couple of tumblers, some lumps of sugar which were contained in a brown paper, two silver tea-spoons, and a fresh lemon. Having arranged these articles on the table, and shut up one eye to enable him to take an accurate view of the exact quantity of Glenlivet still remaining in the bottle, the sight of which seemed to give him such pleasure that he smacked his lips, while he contemplated the gift of the jolly Governor. He drew a sauce-pan, filled with water, from a little nook behind the fire-place, and having stirred up the fire and replenished it with some fresh coals, set the sauce-pan on the grate to heat. As soon as the water boiled he mixed two tumblers full of punch, dividing the lemon between them, and making the mixture so sweet that I was quite unconscious of its strength until I began to feel it in my head after drinking my portion of it. During all the time of his preparing the punch he spoke not a word, being too much engrossed in the important business which seemed to give him very great delight. When it was all done, and he had tasted a drop to assure himself that it was quite right, he sat down in his chair with the air of a man conscious of having done something worthy of note, and pushing one of the tumblers towards me, said,

"There! taste of that you dog! Is it good, ha?"

"Very," said I. "It is equal to my father's rum punch which he used to make in the winter nights, when we lived together at Bloomingdale."

"I presume it is better," said he. "I do not take much pride in my leaders; but I think I may say without vanity that there is not a man of my years in the world who can mix a better tumbler of punch."

"Of course you do not mean that I should understand you to say that the composition of a leader is not a more dignified and honorable kind of labor than that of mixing a tumbler of punch?" said I.

"Of course not; but I was only thinking of how much greater pleasure I take in making the punch than in writing the leader."

"But in all our labors," said I, "we should think more of the good we are doing to others than of the pleasure which we derive from our work ourselves."

"I am not sure that your philosophy is sound," added he, at the same time adding a few drops of the Glenlivet to his tumbler; "I am beginning to think that no labor can be profitable to others which is not profitable to the laborer himself. And by profit, I do not mean pecuniary gain, but pleasure; for surely nothing can be counted profitable which is not pleasant. The days of asceticism are past, or, at least, they are passing away, and those of enjoyment are coming. I am rather doubtful, I must confess to you, whether I am justified in continuing in a profession which has so many more penalties than pleasures."

"And is the duty of an editor so severe?" said I.

"Severe, my young friend," said he, "that is not the proper word. Some stronger expression is needed. No body labors, in reality, but an editor; other men merely amuse themselves in their occupations; the merchant has a merry time of it; the lawyer trifles with his clients; the clergyman is but a grave idler, who has only to study to keep his countenance free from smiles; the mechanic and farmer, who literally live by the sweat of their brow, and breathe the pure air of Heaven, are the happiest of God's creatures; but the editor of a daily paper is a poor slave to the public; he works when other people are asleep, and never can know the luxury of taking an unconcerned view of human affairs. Let what will happen, in whatsoever part of the world, it can never be a matter of indifference to him; he must turn the matter over in his mind, and have his say about it. All is grist that comes to his mill, and whether a man be married or murdered, the editor must be equally interested in the event.

"He is happy to hear things every day that are perfectly indifferent to him, and continually regrets to learn that events have occurred which he forgets the moment he has given utterance to such a thought, while he must be indignant at wrongs which he never felt and recommend measures and men of which he is profoundly ignorant."

"If that be the case, then," said I, "I think you have abundant cause to be dissatisfied with your occupation; and I do not see how you can reconcile it to your conscience to sacrifice so much of your time and happiness as it calls for."

"Precisely, very true; I have long viewed the subject in that light myself;" said he, "but we are happy to have it in our power to announce——"

"To do what?" said I, looking up in his face.

"O, by the way," said he, starting suddenly, as though some idea had just occurred to him; "what was it that you observed just now, my young friend?" The next moment his head drooped, his eyes closed heavily, the half smoked cigar fell from his mouth into his shirt bosom, and he began to snore. The punch had overcome him; and I soon felt myself sinking beneath the same potent influence.

The room began to assume a strange appearance, the old furniture with which it was filled grew dim and indistinct, and the next moment I too was fast asleep.

It was day-light when I awoke, the fire had gone out, the smoky lamp was flickering and threatening to go out too; the room was in confusion and the air chilly; from the uncomfortable position in which I had been sleeping my legs were cramped, and I had a burning pain in my head.

Mr. Wilton sat in his easy chair, with his head resting upon the table, snoring very loud, and apparently sound asleep. His wig had fallen off; and he made such a ridiculous figure that I sat and laughed at his odd appearance, as I thought that the helpless object before me was the brilliant, learned, profound and sagacious editor whose daily observations on human affairs were so eagerly sought after by the public, and who talked of Governors and statesmen as though they were children standing at his knee, and receiving lessons in life from a superior bring. Well might he say to me, "go, my son, and see with what little character a newspaper may be conducted." But he was at least honest in his dishonest business. He pretended to nothing which he was not.

The gray light of the morning began to assume a warm hue, and hearing carts in the street, I knew that the city was awake; I rose up quietly from my resting place, and stole softly out of the room, leaving my new friend asleep in his chair, intending to return to him again after I had refreshed myself by a walk.

From the force of early habit, I still took pleasure in a morning ramble; the freshness of the air, and the vigorous looks of man and beast when they first rise from their night's rest and go forth to their labor, have always had a peculiar charm for me, and as soon as I left the apartment of the sleeping editor, I wandered down to the markets, the centres of morning life and bustle in a great city, where I remained longer than I intended to do, and as I was returning to the room of my new friend, I was accosted by a rough-looking man, who asked me my name.

"Tom Pepper," I replied, as usual. "O, ho!" said he, at the same time seizing me by the collar; "you are the very person I was looking for. Come, Mr. Pepper, you must go with me."

"Not unless I know who you are, and where you want me to go," I replied, endeavoring to free myself from him.

"You will find where I want you to go soon enough for your own comfort," said he, dragging me after him. But he found it was not going to be so easy a matter to compel me to follow him against my will. As a crowd began to gather around us, he told me that if I made any resistance he would call for help, and that nobody would dare to refuse him assistance.

"Tell me who you are, and take your hand from my collar, and I will go with you, but not otherwise," I said.

"As for who I am," said he, "you are welcome to know that; I am Jack Davis, the deputy constable of this city, and I am going to take you to Bridewell, where you will be kept until you can be tried for stealing a watch."

"Stealing a watch!" I exclaimed, in horror, "who accuses me of such a crime?"

"Who?" said he, "why the gentleman you took it from, of course. who else should?"

"Hallo! here's an item," exclaimed a voice that I recognized, and turning my head I perceived that rogue, Riquets, with a memorandum-book and a pencil in his hand. "What's the go, Davis?" said he.

"It is nothing but a young fellow who has been making love to a Mr. Wilton's watch," said the officer. "He has hardly had time to pawn it since he walked off with it."

AT the risk of being denounced as a radical and an innovator, I must assert that the laws which permit an innocent man to be locked up in a prison with rogues and poor debtors, are imperfect, and require amendment. At least, this was the opinion I entertained when I found myself locked up within the stone walls of the old Bridewell in the Park, without having committed any offence against the laws of the State. The officer who had arrested me, told me that I had been guilty of stealing Mr. Wilton's watch, and my angry attempts to convince him that I was innocent of the charge only seemed to confirm him in his opinion of my guilt. Finding that resistance was entirely useless, I at last suffered myself to be led into the prison, where, as soon as the key was turned on me, I was surrounded by a set of rascals who had just been let out of their separate cells into the long gallery on each side of which they were ranged. They crowded around me with eager curiosity, and began to enquire what I had been doing; some of them offering me their sympathy, and others joking at my dejected appearance. It was sufficiently annoying to find myself among such a set of confirmed villains, who only laughed at me when I asserted my innocence of any crime; but I soon had to endure a still greater cause of vexation, which was only a prelude to other mortifications and misfortunes. I had not been long in the wretched place, when one of the turn-keys called me to the barred entrance to the cells, and on going to the door I beheld Mr. Pilfor accompanied by his friend, Riquets. The latter person nodded familiarly to me, but his tall friend only smiled at me, and then exchanged glances with his satellite. Mr. Riquets drew his cloak over his shoulders, with a stage strut, and throwing back his head, informed me in his peculiar jerking manner that as he had formerly known me, he had no wish to do me an injury in any manner, and that if I would pay him a certain sum he would prevent the particulars of my arrest appearing in the papers, and would see that my name was not mentioned in any manner to compromise my character. Of course I rejected this base overture with suitable indignation, and told him that I had no fears for the result of the strange accident which had led to my arrest as a thief.

"O! very well," said Mr. Riquets, "you are the best judge of the value of your own character; if you prefer seeing yourself in to-morrow morning's papers as a thief, to paying a trifle to prevent it, it is nothing to me; only as a friend to you, I felt myself bound to do you a good turn. So, good-bye to you. I shall be present at your examination before the Recorder."

With this parting speech these precious rascals took themselves off, and it was a relief to me to turn from such rogues at large to the comparatively honest rascals who were my fellow-prisoners. A young fellow among them, who had the appearance of a well-educated youth, and whose dress and manner certainly indicated a familiarity with genteel society, took me one side, and said that I had made a great mistake by not bribing Mr. Riquets, who was a reporter for many of the city papers, and had it in his power to do me a vast deal of harm by giving a florid, if not a wholly false statement, of the particulars of my arrest. I replied to him that I was wholly innocent of the crime with which I was charged, and that there would be no difficulty in proving it; that to attempt to bribe a reporter to keep my name out of the papers would only strengthen the suspicion of my guilt, and that besides I had no money to bribe the rascal with, even though I had been disposed to listen to his infamous proposition.

"But what has become of the watch?" said the young fellow. "Of course you have not spent all the money you got for it; for I suppose you put it in pawn as soon as you got away with it?"

It was no use to attempt to convince this hardened young thief, for such he was, as I afterwards found, that I had not stolen a watch, and weary and disgusted I sat down on the floor to avoid the ribald conversation of the reckless rogues by whom I was surrounded. But it was some consolation to me, to know that I was among men who had the candor to confess all their villainies, and who were certainly no worse than they pretended to be; for they took a pride in reciting their feats of roguery, and those who had been guilty of the greatest enormities, were accounted the best fellows. The genteel looking young fellow who had advised me to bribe Mr. Riquets, I was shocked to find had been long guilty of robbing his employer, a merchant who trusted in his integrity, and whom he had nearly ruined by his robberies. As I sat revolving in my mind what would be the best course for me to pursue in my unfortunate position, I was called to the door again where I found Mr. Wilton, who immediately began to reproach me.

"I little thought," said he, "that I was warming into life such a specious scoundrel as you have proved. But I now find that you have not got your character of a romancer for nothing. Return me my watch, you scoundrel, and you shall have the full value of it in money, and I will not appear against you if I can avoid it. If you had asked me for money, you should have had it. In fact, I had determined to make you a handsome present this morning, for you had so deceived me by your specious manners and plausible stories, that I must confess I was completely deceived by you."

I was at first so agitated by rage, to hear myself addressed in such a manner that I could hardly speak at all, but I at last told him that if he had lost his watch, I was wholly innocent of knowing what had become of it; that I intended to have returned to him when I was arrested by the police officer, and begged that he would see me out of prison, and not subject me to the mortification and disgrace of being tried as a criminal.

"It is of no use, you villain;" said he, shaking his fist at me through the bars of my prison door, "you need not deny it, for there is no room for you to escape. If there were even a doubt of your guilt you should have the benefit of it.

"But what are the circumstances? I fall asleep in my chair, with you sitting by my side; when I suddenly awake I see something stirring in the room, and, opening my eyes discover you are just opening the door to go out; I call, and you make no answer, but hurry down stairs; the next moment I look up to see what the hour is, and the watch which I had hung up in the watch pocket above the mantel, is gone; thinking that I had neglected to hang it up, although I am certain of having done so, I feel for it in my vest pocket, and it is not there. Now, as the door had been locked on the inside, it was quite impossible for it to have been taken by any one but yourself; and coupling the circumstances with your stealthy disappearance, your former bad character, and your confessed penniless condition the night before, makes it certain that you stole the watch. I am exceedingly sorry that a young man of your really clever talents and interesting manners should have been guilty of this act, but really, as a good citizen, I am bound to see you properly punished. But still the watch was of great value to me, it was worn by my father many years, and contained the miniature of my mother; I would almost as soon have lost my life, and for the sake of getting it back again, I will promise to do my best to have you set free, if you will confess what you have done with it."

I could only repeat what I had already sworn; but I saw that my denial had no effect upon him.

"My fine fellow," said he, "it will only be worse for you if you continue to deny your guilt, for I can promise you that you shall not escape the punishment you deserve, if there is any power in the arm of the law, and if Justice has not put the scales upon her eyes which she generally carries in her hands. But, let me reason with you; let me persuade you to act honorably in this matter. I can easily conceive that a youth like you, in want of money, brought up in the loose manner in which you have been, might have been tempted to take even an article of greater value than a watch; I could forgive such an offence, aye, even forget it, if you acknowledged your fault and made all the restitution in your power. But such obstinate villainy as you show in retaining the watch, when you know that I prized it infinitely above its intrinsic value, strikes me as one of the most atrocious instances of thorough scoundrelism in the whole annals of crime, I never heard any thing like it."

"I see," I said, "that circumstances are greatly against me, and I may be found guilty of the crime by a jury, and be condemned to punishment as a thief, and bear the reproach of having robbed my benefactor, but, I cannot help it; I can only swear to my innocence as before."

"Astonishing! astonishing hardihood!" he exclaimed. "Let me remind you of another thing; what you will lose by this yourself; not only personal liberty which must be very precious to one who has led such a vagabondizing life as yourself; but consider your loss of character, the loss of the esteem of your friends, of the confidence of those who even think you honest; think of your father, if he should be alive, think of the grief you will inflict upon him by your obstinacy, and of all the mortifications that may be spared to you by your confessing your crime. The affair has not yet been made public, it can be all hushed up; you can be released from confinement, and I will pledge you my word that you shall have some honorable employment, in which you can retrieve your character, if you have honesty sufficient to behave yourself properly."

"Do not afflict me any more," I exclaimed, "you have tortured me enough already; it was not necessary for you to remind me of my misfortunes; I see that I must suffer, and that my past misconduct will be brought up to confirm my fault."

"Let me then," said he in, a softened tone, "make an appeal to those generous feelings, which I perceive are not already stifled in your youthful breast, it is a good sign to see you moved, those tears are real, and they convince me that you are not so bad as you seem. What have I done to you that you should injure me? I never wronged you, but on the contrary I would have done you good; I had taken a sudden fancy for you, and would have shared my last dollar with you; in fact, even now as much as I regret the loss of my watch, I solemnly declare to you that I am more moved at the sight of so promising a youth as yourself in this degrading place, I would freely part with my watch to set you free."

The other prisoners being attracted by the earnest expostulations of Mr. Wilton, came crowding into the passage to listen to him, and one of them called out in a gruff voice, "why don't you give the gentleman his watch, or tell him what you have done with it, you young scamp?"

"Do you hear that?" said Mr. Wilton. "Why you will be the scorn and contempt of your fellow-prisoners; they will despise you for your meanness. You will be hooted from the company of all honest men, and even thieves will disdain to associate with you."

"God knows," said I, "that I am innocent. And I can only trust that I may be able to convince you of it. You must think of me as you will until I can establish my character, but what to do I know not. I know not where to look for help, but I am bound to advise my old benefactor, Mr. Bassett, of all my turns of fortune; so if you have really a desire to befriend me, let me beseech you to inform that good man of my trouble and where I am. He will not think me guilty when I tell him that I am innocent."

"Give yourself no trouble about Mr. Bassett," said Mr. Wilton; "that excellent gentleman has already been informed of your crime, and will soon be here to talk with you; and I hope that he may produce more effect upon you than I have been able to do."

Before he had fairly completed the last sentence, I looked up and saw Mr. Bassett standing by his side.

"Why, Tom," said Mr. Bassett, in his usually kind tone of voice, although he looked very serious as he spoke, "what is the meaning of your being in this place?"

"It is owing to one of those strange accidents," I replied, "of which I have been the sport ever since I was born. I know nothing more than that I am accused of stealing this gentleman's watch, and am here by force."

"And you are not guilty?" said he.

"No," I replied, for my feelings would not allow me to say more.

"I believe you," said he; "you had no motive to rob; for you knew that when you were in want you had only to apply to me for aid, and that you would receive it."

"How, then, came he to be in want?" said Mr. Wilton; "he was penniless when I found him."

" 'Tis but too true, and the fault was mine," said Mr. Bassett; "I permitted him to go from me, when I knew that he had no money in his pocket, because he did not solicit me for it.

"My poor boy," continued Mr. Bassett, "it is I who am the guilty person in this case; if I had not allowed you to leave me when I knew that you were in want of money, you would not be here. Forgive me, Tom. Keep up your spirits and you shall soon be released."

"Never, sir," said Mr. Wilton; "he shall never come out of prison until he restores my watch to me. You may believe him innocent, but I know him to be guilty."

"We will see, sir," said Mr. Bassett, with more of passion than I had ever before seen him exhibit; "we will see about that, sir. Go back, my boy, to your cell, and give yourself no further trouble. You shall be released from this place, soon."

"Not if I am alive!" said Mr. Wilton; "I will not be robbed of my property without having the satisfaction of seeing the thief punished, if there is any such thing as law."

"I will stake my life on his innocence," said Mr. Bassett, with increasing warmth, "and if there is any justice in law, he shall not be kept in prison."

The two gentlemen left the prison together, and I felt very little hope of being released, notwithstanding the confident tone of Mr. Bassett's assertions, for I saw that the circumstantial evidence against me was very strong, and Mr. Wilton's anger was thoroughly roused. I went back again to the further end of the prison, that I might be free from observation, and out of hearing of the other prisoners, who persisted in believing me guilty, and encouraged me in their rude way to hold out and not confess my crime. I had not been there long, when I heard my name again called, and going to the bars had the mortification to find there Sophia Ruby and Wilson Goodwill. It was a mortification to me to see these persons, because I knew by their coming to see me that the fact of my imprisonment had become notorious, and I dreaded to think that Pauline should hear of my disgrace. But there was nothing in the manner with which these excellent people greeted me, to make me feel that I was in a situation which is ordinarily considered a degrading one. Mrs. Ruby reached her hand through the bars and pressed my hand very kindly, and smiled upon me more tenderly than she had ever done before. "You are very good to come and see me in my disgrace," I said, "I am grateful for your kindness, which is not wholly undeserved, for I will swear to you that I am not guilty of any crime which should cause me to be sent to this place, and am wholly innocent of that which I am accused of."

"Thee is perfectly right to say so; I would if I were in thy place," said Wilson; "but we did not come to hear thy confessions; Sophia and I just dropped in to say how does thee do, for we heard thou was here, and it happened to be the first time we have known where to call upon thee."

"It makes no difference to me," said Mrs. Ruby, "whether you are guilty or not; I am not your judge; and I do not see why it should make any great difference whether you or we stand on the other side of this ugly barred door; we bear the same spiritual relation to each other; there are many men who deserve to be in prison, and I am sure that the accident of their not being there does not increase my respect for them. Whether you be guilty or not is not my business; you are a human being like myself; and I know that you have not injured me. I fear that there are not many objects of the beautiful in this place, so I have brought you something to refresh your inner life."

From her allusion to internal refreshments, and seeing her put her hand into her pocket, which apparently contained something heavy, I concluded that she had brought me a flask of brandy or some kind of cordial, which would have been a very acceptable present at that moment, for I had not entirely recovered from the effects of the whiskey punch which I had drank the night before. But Mrs. Ruby's refreshments were always of a nature purely spiritual, or, as she sometimes called it, æsthetic. I was a good deal disappointed when I saw her draw from her pocket a porcelain sheep instead of the expected flask.

"This is a beautiful type of innocence," she said, holding up the piece of crockery; "it was presented to me by a German friend. I think that the mouth has a remarkable expression of innocence."

"It has certainly as sheepish a look as it would be possible to give to porcelain, Sophia, I think myself," said Wilson. "If friend Pepper should take it into his cell with him he would not be able to think of any thing but mutton while he remains here."

"I think that the beautiful should be introduced into all our places of confinement," said Mrs. Ruby; "the influence of beautiful objects on the minds of the depraved cannot but have a refining effect."

"As for that matter," said I, taking the toy in my hand, which she reached through the grated door, "if objects of beauty had the effect which you attribute to them, I do not see why there should be any such thing as depravity in the world, for surely the earth has always been full of the most beautiful objects, and, so far as I can remember, mankind have always been the most grovelling where the earth has been most liberally garnished with beauties."

"Ah! but you confound merely natural objects with the works of art," said Mrs. Ruby; "you do not mean to deny the elevating effects of music and painting."

"I can only say," I replied, "that so far as my own observation has gone, musicians and artists, are the least elevated class of men that I have known; and if an art will not elevate those who practice it professionally, I do not see how it can have such an effect upon the mere amateur. You would not pretend to say that the inhabitants of Rome and Florence, who live in what is called an atmosphere of art, surrounded by the finest examples of sculpture, painting and architecture, and listening continually to the choicest music in the world, are so elevated in their morals, so pure in their philosophy, so rational in all their actions, as the inhabitants of our country villages who live in mean wooden houses, see no pictures but the head of Washington or Lafayette on a sign-board, and hear no music but the dismal wailing of a church choir?"

"Why, as to that matter," said Mrs. Ruby, "I believe there is an all-pervading sense of the sublime in our natures, which surrounds us like circles and encloses us within its spiral influence, until we are elevated by it to a higher stand-point than that which is occupied by baser spirits. There is always a yearning after the infinite and the beautiful in all nature, and I was struck on my way here at seeing a young chimney-sweep listening to the tones of a hurdy-gurdy which was played by one of those dark-eyed children of the south, who bring to us from their sunny Italy, those little plaster images so redolent of art and beauty."

"ALL that is unquestionably very prettily said," I replied; "but it has always appeared to me that a love of nature is much more ennobling than a love of art, and that those who do not love nature first can have no real love for that which is at best but an imitation of it. This little porcelain lamb that you have so kindly bestowed upon me, might, if I were shut up in a dungeon, be a pleasant object to gaze upon, but a real sheep would be infinitely more so."

"Perhaps," suggested Wilson, "then thou would prefer a dead sheep even to a live one, particularly if it were dressed, for so the butchers call an animal, I believe, when they have taken its skin off and left it in utter nakedness. In short, thou art fond of mutton chops, I perceive, friend Pepper."

"To say the truth, I am," I said, "and I must confess that my mouth waters to hear you name them, for I have eaten nothing for my breakfast yet, as the prison fare is not altogether to my taste."

"I can have but little sympathy with tastes which are so purely animal," said Mrs. Ruby; "I think that the soul should rise to a plane that is elevated above mere animal appetite."

I had no disposition to offend Mrs. Ruby; indeed, I was so far from feeling any, that I loved her for the simple-hearted kindness she had manifested by coming to visit me in a place which ladies generally avoid. It was a loving nature that had prompted her to bring me an offering in my confinement of what she looked upon as an object of beauty; and an amiable desire to render herself agreeable, had no doubt induced her to increase her personal attractions by the application of a little rouge to her cheeks, and some kind of liquid dye to her hair. She was not an accomplished artist, it is true, and from a lack of skill had failed to conceal the art of her making up, so that the effect she aimed at was not obtained. But her motives were good, and she appeared to me in a very amiable and agreeable light. But I could not help at last smiling at the extreme oddity of her opinions, and at the contrast which she offered by her finery and simplicity, to the subdued cunning of Wilson. There appeared to be some hidden bond of union between these oddly matched persons which puzzled me a good deal. When Mrs. Ruby discovered that I was laughing, she blushed very red, but said good naturedly, "I see that you are ridiculing my strange notions, but I do not, of course, expect that you should see truths with my eyes."

"It is true," I replied, "that I was laughing at what you have been saying to me, for it sounds so oddly, and I can discover so little in it that I can comprehend, and it sounds so strangely to hear one talk palpable nonsense with so grave a countenance that I could not help it."

"I admire your candor, Mr. Pepper," said Mrs. Ruby, "although I see nothing to admire in your philosophy. It is not strange that one who can be so blind to spiritual enunciations, should have been so indifferent to the simple rules of right and wrong, as to take the property of another person and appropriate it to his own use. For my part I have great charity for criminals of all kinds, and, indeed, I cannot say that I have ever felt a strong regard for any, but the oppressed and degraded; but still, I think that there should be a limit to our sympathy even for those who are in your situation."

"Madam," said I, seriously, "you address me as though I were guilty of the crime of which I am accused!"

"As I said before," she replied, drawing her shawl closely around her, "it is a matter of indifference to me whether you be or not. You have not robbed me. But they rarely put people in prison for their good deeds; if you should be sentenced to a long confinement, the Secretary of the Prison Society, of which I am a member shall visit you."

"Thee is in good hands, friend Pepper," said Wilson; "but if I were in thy place, I should do as thou does and deny my guilt, because somebody may believe thee, particularly those who do not know thee. But thou has not forgotten of course, the trifling mistake thou made one day, in walking off with my entire suit of clothes. Thee is welcome to them; but Sophia and I have not forgotten the fact, and if thou shouldst remember it, it would be advisable not to say anything about it on thy trial, because it might prejudice the minds of the jury in regard to the present charge against thee, which thou says is not true."

I gave the rogue of a quaker an indignant glance, and was going to reply to him in a becoming manner, when a noise of struggling was heard in the passage way, and I stopped to ascertain the cause. I heard the clinking of the keeper's keys, and the voices of Mr. Bassett and Mr. Wilton, and I began to tremble lest these two gentleman had got into a broil respecting my innocence. Directly afterwards they came in sight, and rushed simultaneously towards the grated door, both of them in a state of great excitement and high perspiration. "Open the door quick," exclaimed Mr. Wilton, "open the door that I may myself take him out of this shocking place. Be quick, Mr. Keeper. Why how you stumble along. Will you never open the door."

"Be patient, Tom; be quiet, my son, one moment longer," said Mr. Bassett, panting as be spoke.

"He shan't be patient a moment, not the shadow of a second," said Mr. Wilton, "why, I wonder if he will ever forgive me. Come out! come out, you precious fellow, come out!" shouted Mr. Wilton, in the most excited manner as the turnkey threw open the door. And thrusting aside Mrs. Ruby and Wilson, who were quite confounded at this exhibition, I found myself suddenly seized by Mr. Bassett and Mr. Wilton, who dragged me out of the prison down into the front yard.

"You are free, Tom," said Mr. Bassett, "you are free to go where you please."

"He is not free," said Mr. Wilton, as he clasped his arms around my neck, "he is my prisoner, I claim him as such, and I will keep him the rest of my life, unless he runs away from me like an ungrateful fellow. But, I declare, I have a good mind to go back into the prison myself, and remain there a week, as a retribution for my stupidity."

Such was the suddenness of my liberation from prison, and so excited were Mr. Wilton and Mr. Bassett, as they hurried me down the stone steps and through the yard which enclosed the Bridewell, that I had no time to ask any questions, nor could I understand the meaning of the hurried remarks of my liberators. A hackney coach was standing in front of the prison, and into it they thrust me; they were about to follow me, when, turning my head, I saw at a distance the same person whom I had already encountered twice before, standing and gazing towards me, with his arms folded, who bore so strong a resemblance to Captain St. Hugh. I was determined now to speak to him, and I attempted to jump out of the carriage, but Mr. Bassett caught hold of my arm, and Mr. Wilton grasped me round the neck so firmly, that, in spite of my exertions, I found it impossible to escape, and I had the mortification of seeing the gentleman turn and walk away, and in another moment he was out of sight.

"Come, come, my fine fellow." said Mr. Wilton, "don't flatter yourself that you are at liberty yet. I have got charge of you now."

But he said it so good-humoredly that I perceived he had no intention of putting any restraint upon me. They both got into the carriage, and Mr. Wilton ordered the hackman to drive to Sykes'.

"I suppose," said I, "that you have found the real thief."

"Yes, I have," replied Mr. Wilton, "and the watch too, and here it is. And now who do you think the thief was? But you couldn't guess, for he is in the carriage with you. It was I. I stole the watch myself. Such a piece of stupidity is without any parallel in the whole annals of crime; but, no: there was no crime about it but the crime of accusing you of doing it. Upon my soul, Mr. Pepper, I don't think I can ever forgive myself, because I don't deserve it. If I were in your place I would certainly shoot any man who put such an indignity upon me as I did upon you.

"But you have not explained to him how the mistake occurred," said Mr. Bassett.

"Very true, very true," said Mr. Wilton; "you see, Mr. Pepper, that yesterday I happened to break my watch chain, so I dropped in at Demilt's when I was going to my brother Bob's office, to get it mended, and left it there with my watch, meaning to call for in the evening. Now, it so happened that I had no occasion to look at the time through the day, and having dropped asleep by accident in my arm chair, after drinking that confounded Glenlivet that Gil Davis sent me, I did not discover that my watch was not in my pocket, for I always make it a point to wind it up before going to sleep, and then hang it up in the little embroidered case over the mantel-piece, which my brother Bob's oldest daughter made for me when she was at boarding school. So, when I woke up this morning, I naturally looked up to see what time it was, and not seeing my watch in its place, I felt for it in my pocket, and not finding it there, what could I think but that you had taken it?"

"What? Why I see no necessity for your thinking so," said I.

"Well, I am glad to hear you say so," said he, "for I shall feel very uncomfortable if you don't show some signs of resentment for the manner in which I have used you. However, there was a necessity for it, because the thought was purely spontaneous, and once having taken possession of my mind, it prevented me from recollecting what I had done with my watch. In fact, I am really not so much to blame, after all, for according to the psychological law of the human mind, it cannot entertain two different thoughts at the same time; therefore, while I was thinking that you had run off with my watch, I could not, of course, be thinking that I had left it the day before at the watchmaker's. Full of the thought that you had robbed me of my precious time keeper, I went into Demilt's to inform him of my misfortune. 'Well,' says I, 'Demilt, my watch is gone,' 'Gone!' exclaimed Demilt, opening his eyes very wide. 'Yes,' said I, 'a young thief; whom I took into my room last night out of charity, ran off with it this morning.' 'Well, that is very remarkable,' said he, 'I thought that this was your watch,' and so saying he handed me my highly valued time piece."

"How did you feel, when you saw it?" inquired Mr. Bassett.

"Why, sir, I was so tremendously mortified that I didn't feel at all. I was completely overwhelmed. You might have knocked me down with a feather as easily as with a sledge-hammer," said Mr. Wilton. "Of course, I then remembered where I had left my watch the night before. I came out of Mr. Demilt's wishing that the sun might be suddenly eclipsed so that nobody should see me, for I thought that everybody would be looking at me and laughing at my folly; fortunately I met with Mr. Bassett who was just going in company with——"

"Another gentleman," said Mr. Bassett.

"Very good, yes; another gentleman," said Mr. Wilson, exchanging glances with Mr. Bassett, "to bail you out of prison; and when he heard that the watch had been found and everything about it, we jumped into a hack and started off together to free you from your unpleasant situation. Now, my fine fellow, I am desirous of making some reparation to you for the harm I have done you. I am most confoundedly sorry that I can do nothing better for you than to offer you a situation on my paper."

"You could not do him a greater service," said Bassett, "and I hope Tom, that you will have the prudence to accept of the offer."

"Most cheerfully," I replied, "I am only afraid that I shall not be able to render myself useful to him."

"Never fear that," said Mr. Wilton, "I have seen enough of you to be convinced that you have just the kind of talents that I require. But what is more desirable to me than all, you are fresh in your manner of thinking, and vigorous in your style of expression. Besides, your candor is really something new and entertaining. The mere mechanical routine of the business you will soon make yourself perfectly familiar with, while your originality of thinking, and freedom from the common-places of the press will make your services invaluable to me."

"Let it be understood," I replied, "that I do not accept of the situation as an offset from you for the wrong done me. If my services do not prove profitable to you, I will not stay with you."

"Very well, very well. I like that," said Mr. Wilton. "I will engage you on those conditions; and as to the offset for the wrong done you, why I would give you this watch if it had not been a dying gift from my father. But you shall have one quite as good."

"No, no," said Mr. Bassett. "Tom will not accept one from you; but he shall from me. You shall have a watch Tom, and I would add to it a portrait of old Sir Eustace St. Hugh if I could. But perhaps it is better that you should forget him, and be the founder of your own fortune."

"I have determined to found my own fortune if I can," I replied, "but I do not know how I shall do it; as for old Sir Eustace I fear I shall never see his estate, or be permitted to assume his name, but until such a piece of good fortune befalls me, I shall try to make the name of Tom Pepper more respectable than it is now."

"That's a brave resolution, my fine fellow," said Mr. Wilton, "and I will not hide the fact from you that there is rather a bad odor about the name now, which this most unlucky imprisonment will not have the effect to lessen. But here we are back again to Sykes'. Let us go in and have some dinner. Confound that Glenlivet, I have felt it twitching in my gouty toe all the morning. It is such subtle stuff that the moment I imbibe the least drop of it, it runs like quicksilver to my extremities; one half of it runs down to my toes and the other flies into my head; so that it completely trips me up. I must beg the favor of leaning on your shoulder. So, hereafter, I will let the Glenlivet alone and stick to my old friends Otard, Dupuy & Co.; brandy is the only gentlemanly, respectable drink after all. Mr. Sykes," said he to the keeper of the Hotel, as we entered the bar-room, which smelt as strongly of cigar smoke as it had done the night before. "Now, Sykes, my old boy, you must give us the best dinner that your cuisine can produce, for three. But, by the way, Mr. Pepper, just make out a catalogue of the dishes you would like, for I suppose that by this time you feel like eating everything in Sykes' larder."

I declined the privilege of choosing my dinner, for I was so hungry that nothing eatable would have come amiss to me.

"Don't order your dinner for three," said Mr. Bassett, "my good lady has exacted a promise from me to dine at home to-day."

"Nonsense," said Mr. Wilton, "I would like to see any good lady exacting a promise from me."

But Mr. Bassett was resolute, and he whispered in my ear not to drink too much, and took his leave.

"Never mind," said Mr. Wilton; "I am determined upon ordering a dinner for three, and perhaps I shall light upon some clever fellow to share it with us before it is ready. Now, Sykes, let me look at your larder. Upon my soul, it is a fine sight. There is a noble saddle of bear's meat, venison, canvas backs, woodcock, wild turkeys, pigeons, sea bass, and prize beef. I think we can pick a little something out of all these delicacies. Let me see, Sykes, give us some Shrewsbury oysters and a lemon to begin with, in the shell, of course; oxtail soup, if it is very good; venison steaks on a chafing dish, and plenty of jelly; half a dozen wood cock, and then canvas back ducks. Pastry and a dessert, and a bottle or two of champagne, and a decanter of Otard, Dupuy & Co. Don't imagine that I dine in this manner every day, my young friend; for the fact is, I am forced to be rather abstemious on account of my sedentary habits; and, by the way, as this is to be a particular occasion, one not likely ever to recur again, I will indulge myself in just a drop of Glenlivet, and after this I will forswear it altogether. In fact, I believe that a reasonable quantity of that kind of drink is very excellent, as a corrective, after eating a hearty dinner."

So in addition to the already formidable order, a bottle of Glenlivet was ordered, with hot water, sugar and lemons.

"And now," said he, "as it will be half an hour before dinner will be ready, I will smoke one cigar, although I am not in the habit of smoking, generally, before dinner. The practice is a very bad one, I know, and I am happy that you are not addicted to it; but just one cigar, and a mild one, too, on a special occasion like this, will not do much harm."

As Mr. Wilton lighted his cigar and sat down, I was rather annoyed to see my old friend, Mr. Ferocious, enter the bar-room accompanied by a gentleman who proved to be Mr. Tibbings.

"There are two remarkable persons," said Mr. Wilton, "I do not think that I ever heard of a more singular attachment than that which exists between those very individuals."

"Then you know Mr. Ferocious?" said I.

"Know him?" repeated Mr. Wilton, in a tone which implied his astonishment at the supposition of his not knowing him. "Of course I do, and a most diverting character he is. If he were not with Tibbings, I would invite him to dine with me, but I cannot have one without the other, or at least I cannot have Tibbings without I invite Ferocious. Look at them. Now they are going to drink a glass of port wine bitters together. See with what reverence Tibbings bows to his substance, for he is but the shadow of Mr. Ferocious, and how like a conscious idol Ferocious himself receives the adulation of his worshipper. Ferocious, sir, is one of those rare specimens of humanity who are only endurable for their rarity, just as one monkey is an amusing companion, but half a dozen of the simian tribe would be an intolerable nuisance. Yet Ferocious has a few good points in his character."

"So has a monkey," said I.

"Well, there is something in that; but Ferocious is really a fellow of some talent."

"And pray," said I, "did you ever know a man who had not some talent?"

"Well, as to that matter, perhaps not; but what I mean about Ferocious is that he has some of the talents he pretends to; his friend Tibbings there gives him credit for all that he pretends to and I believe a little more, which is altogether the most wonderful instance of delusion that the whole annals of literature can furnish. Ferocious is the author of one book which nobody but Tibbings has read, and on the strength of that one work,——"

"The adventures of Christopher Cockroach, is it not?" I asked.

"Yes, you are right. And you have heard of the book! Well that is really wonderful. But pray have you read the Adventures of that wonderful person, Christopher Cockroach?"

I assured him that I never had, but that I had made the attempt.

"Ah! that is precisely my case," said Mr. Wilton; "as Mr. Ferocious is my personal friend, and an American author, I have actually imposed upon myself the reading of his book as an imperative duty, but in spite of myself I cannot do it. A poor devil of a reporter once called upon me for assistance and said he was willing to do anything for the sake of earning an honest living, and to encourage him I agreed to employ him for a week; so I thought I would try an experiment; I accordingly took the copy of Christopher Cockroach, which the author had sent me in the most obliging manner, and told the poor devil of a reporter to read it through and make me a brief analysis of the story. Well, sir, although the man was actually in a starving condition, with a wife and small family dependent upon his exertions for their support; after trying a whole day he came to me and said he must resign his situation; he said he was willing to do any thing in reason, but as for reading the book I had given him he couldn't do it; he would sooner starve. Now, I think that the man who can write a book which nobody can read, is a more remarkable author than he who writes a book which is read by everybody."

"But," said I, "you say that Mr. Tibbings has read his friend's book!"

True, very true, I did I say so, and I have been told that he has gone to the extent of reading it twice; but the fact is I do not believe he has ever read it at all, for although Tibbings is a very good fellow, and really a man of some energy of character, yet I do not believe he is a Hercules, and nothing short, I am sure, could ever accomplish such a task. But, we are not likely to have the pleasure of Mr. Ferocious' company at dinner. He and his shadow are going. Well, I am sorry for it. It is really amusing to me to hear Ferocious talk; he is so sublimely egotistical, that, I must confess, I relish his company. However, we can do without him, a good dinner is of itself good company, as my brother Bob says, and even a bear when he is roasted and served up with a plenty of jelly is by no means an unpleasant companion to sit down to; and those dumb creatures, oysters, when they are broiled are really good fellows to be acquainted with; and we may spend a pleasant evening with no other company than a cigar and a bottle of wine. We bachelors are obliged to make social companions of everything and anything."

As my thoughts were never long absent from Pauline, and I could not conceive of being happy without being in the society of that darling creature, I could not help replying to Mr. Wilmot that hungry as I was, and with a keen relish for the luxuries he had named excepting only the cigars, which I abominated, I would much prefer a dinner of bread and water if shared with those I loved to the greatest delicacies in the world eaten alone.

"Why the fact is, Mr. Pepper," said my new friend, "there is a great diversity of opinions and feelings in respect to such things. Now, there's my brother, Bob, who was forever getting married, as you see by his affair with the Countess; he must be always head over heels in some domestic scrape, or other, with his hands full of children, and parties for his wife's relations, and all the multifarious engagements growing out of a large domestic connection; but for myself there was never anything half so pleasant as a nice quiet room with a good fire, a cigar, a glass of wine, a new novel and sometimes a quiet friend. By the way, what a remarkable circumstance it is that when you think of any one he is sure to appear to you; I was that moment thinking of my quiet friend Woollish, and there he is, just in time to join our dinner."

A rather stout gentleman with light curly hair, who wore a blue-frock coat covered with braid and frogs, and a white Marseilles vest buttoned close up to his chin, and with an umbrella in his hand and a book under his arm just then entered the bar-room, and walking up to Mr. Wilton shook him by the hand and made some slight remark about the weather.

"Woollish," said Mr. Wilton. "allow me to make you acquainted with my friend Mr. Pepper."

I rose to salute Mr. Woollish, who first deposited his umbrella and book on a chair and then extended his right hand to me, while with the left he raised his blue cloth cap. After this ceremony was over we took our seats again, and my new acquaintance said to me, "I believe there is nothing new in literature?"

To this half interrogation I replied that I had heard of nothing, but that I was not in the way of knowing much about the occurrences in the literary world.

"I suppose," said Mr. Woollish, without seeming to heed my reply, "that you prefer the quiet style of literary composition."

I replied that I could hardly pretend to have formed any tastes in literature, and that I generally found something to interest me in every author.

"I think Cowper is one of the greatest of the English poets," said Mr. Woollish. "I like the quiet movement of his verse, and his happy domestic subjects. Rabbits and tea-kettles, and the heel of an old shoe, and a soft sofa are very pleasing themes for a poet; such subjects have a soothing effect upon the mind."

"Why as to that matter," said Mr. Wilton, "I think, Woollish that you are in error, so far, at least, as Cowper is concerned. I think that in the whole annals of British poetry there is nothing so violently exciting as the race of John Gilpin."

"I cannot say positively as to that particular poem," said Mr. Woollish, "as I have never read it. The subject is not suited to my taste, it is altogether too violent; but there is nothing finer in the whole range of English poetry than the lines on the feather curtains of Lady Montague. What is your opinion," continued Mr. Woollish, turning to me, "of Gray's Elegy?"

"It is a very good Elegy, for a country church yard," I replied; "but I think the world would hardly have felt the want of it if it had not been written."

"What did you say is the name of your young friend?" said Mr. Woollish turning to Mr. Wilton.

"Pepper;" said Mr. Wilton. "Now don't attempt to make a pun upon the young gentleman's name, Woollish."

"Of course I shall not," said Mr. Woollish, "but I was going to remark that if he should mix a little attic salt with his pepper it might assist him to appreciate the quiet poetry of England."

"Very good, that's most capital, Woollish; but, do you know that my brother, Bob, said something very similar to it the other night at a party?"

At this point I was greatly delighted by the appearance of Sykes, who came in with a flushed face to say that dinner was ready, and that the soup was done to a bubble, for I was dreadfully weary of the conversation of Mr. Woollish who was as quiet in his manner as he was in his literary tastes. I had taken him at first for a military gentleman from the peculiarity of his dress, but I perceived that he was one of those persons who take pride in appearing to be the reverse of what they are, and that he wore a sort of military undress because his habits were altogether unlike those of a military man. As we walked from the bar-room into the little dining parlor, Mr. Woollish took occasion to ask me whether or not I had read his last work entitled, "A few calm Thoughts on Literary Criticism." and on my saying that I had not; he added, "you have heard of it, of course?"

But I was obliged to acknowledge that I had not even heard of it.

"Then, I presume that you are not a literary man;" said Mr. Woollish.

"Not yet, but he soon will be," said Mr. Wilton; "I have engaged him for an assistant on my paper, Woollish, and you will see traces of his pen to-morrow. But come, be seated; the soup is getting cold. Now close the door, Sykes, and don't allow us to be disturbed unless the house should take fire, and don't in that case, unless the danger should be imminent. You must excuse me, Woollish, if I help our friend here first, because I have reason to know that he has had no breakfast and his appetite must be rather keen. What a delicious aroma arises from this tureen?"

"Don't give me any, I beg of you; it is too gross; such food is apt to excite strong passions in a man of my temperament. I will drink a glass of water while you are eating your soup," said Mr. Woollish.

"Don't drink water," said Mr. Wilton, "allow me, to take a glass of brown sherry with you."

"I could not consent to it with consistency," replied Mr. Woollish "it is a kind of drink that has too sensible an effect upon my system; I will drink part of a glass of hock, provided they have any green glasses in the house, otherwise I shall be compelled to decline pledging you in anything stronger than water."

It happened that there were green glasses in the house, and also some fine old hock, and Mr. Woollish deliberately drank our healths out of a dismal looking green goblet and seemed to enjoy it. The reason of his singular taste, I did not learn.

After the soup came a succession of rich dishes which I partook of without much discrimination, and listened alternately to the comments of Mr. Wilton on the cookery and wines, and to the remarks of Mr. Woollish on the quiet style of poetry, which seemed to be the only passion that he indulged in. After the dinner came cigars, which Mr. Woollish did not object to, because they were gentlemanly and quiet; and he and Mr. Wilton got engaged in an incomprehensible dispute about the merits of some poet of whom I had never before heard, and I got into a very profound and comfortable slumber which I enjoyed greatly.

It was nearly dark when I was aroused by Mr. Wilton, who shaking me by the shoulder said, "Come, my young friend, wake up; it is time to go to the office and prepare a leader for to-morrow. Rise Cynthia, rise!"

As I was enjoying the delights of an interview with Pauline in my dream, and had been alternately visited by visions of that young lady and Desire Goodwill since I fell asleep, I was not very well pleased on being disturbed so roughly, and to be so suddenly transported from a chamber of bliss to the dining room of Sykes' Hotel, which was filled with tobacco smoke and looked in the dim twilight as gloomy as the cavern of despair. The feeling was but momentary, however, for I directly came to my senses and saw that I had got to engage in the hard reality of working for my living, instead of whiling away my days in a dream of love and pleasure.

"Come, my friend," said Mr. Wilton, "I must beg the favor of leaning on your arm again; I have been listening to Woollish's remarks so long that my legs really feel unsteady. It is rather late, too, and those confounded printers will be waiting for copy. We must hurry."

Whether it were owing to the remarks of Mr. Woollish, or to the drop or two of Glenlivet, which Mr. Wilton had indulged in for the last time, it is not necessary for me to say; but I found that he leaned more heavily than usual on my arm, and was more than ever troubled by his gouty toe. Mr. Woollish himself had withdrawn in his quiet manner and left us alone, but he had generously left his book behind him, with his autograph on the fly leaf addressed to me, with a request that I would review it.

"Woollish is an excellent fellow, in his way," said Mr. Wilton, as we walked towards his office, "an exceedingly gentlemanly fellow, in fact; and the only literary man I have any intimacy with. Literary men are such queer kind of persons, that have so many odd whims and require so much deference that I cannot put up with their nonsense; but Woollish is a gentlemanly quiet fellow, and an admirer of my political writings, I may say without vanity, and I like him much. Your literary men have no appreciation of that sort of thing, and I don't know one of the whole brood that has ever had the discrimination to discern the kind of merit which my leaders possess besides Woollish. I like to do him a favor because he is a capital good fellow, a most capital good fellow! and as he has addressed a few sonnets to me, I would like to give him a good review of his book in my paper. He has taken a great liking to you and I think it would be a good subject for your first attempt. You shall review him in your fresh and original style."

I was not very well pleased to have such a duty assigned me, and pleaded my inability to do justice to Mr. Woollish's writings from not having studied them sufficiently. But Mr. Wilton would listen to no excuse, and thinking that he might possibly have a different opinion on the subject, when he awoke in the morning, if he did not forget it altogether, I made no further objection, and we arrived at his room in a few moments, where we found a boy waiting for copy.

"Wait but a minute, my lad," said Mr. Wilton, as he seated himself at his desk, "and you shall have my leader;" and, seizing his pen, he immediately began to write with astonishing rapidity, on little slips of paper, which he threw towards the boy as fast as he filled them. I was amused to see him write with such facility, and, when the boy had left, expressed my astonishment, and asked him if he had been actually writing a leader for his paper, and what the subject of his remarks was.

"The art of thinking is about as mechanical," said Mr. Wilton, "as that of writing; and once you acquire the habit of arranging your thoughts in a manner fit to be presented to the public it matters not whether you communicate them by speech or writing. The art of communicating your thoughts or your information to another, is one which may be easily learned, but the faculty of thinking correctly is innate; now I think that you possess the power of thought, and of course the art of communicating what you think will be readily acquired; it will take some time for you to learn the still greater art of hiding such thoughts as may not be profitable to communicate to other people, for the object of writing for the public is to please them, that they may buy your paper, and not to instruct them, or benefit them, contrary to their wishes."

"I am afraid, then," I replied, "that I shall not succeed as well as your assistant, for I am determined not to conceal my opinions. I must be true to myself, for I am bound for the rest of my life never to be guilty of dissimulation or deceit; and as I have already found by my past experience that the habit of secreting my thoughts leads to falsehood, let what harm come from speaking plainly that may, it cannot be so injurious as that which would result from dissimulation."

"O, of course not," said Mr. Wilton. "I am quite charmed with your sincerity. The idea of speaking what you think, however, on all occasions, is so decidedly novel, that I am not sure but that it would take in a newspaper. In fact I am quite delighted at the idea, and I have a good mind to try the experiment. But, pray, Mr. Pepper, do you really intend to practice that kind of sincerity at all times, and towards everybody?"

"Of course, I do," I replied; "is falsehood ever pardonable?"

"Well, upon my soul, that is taking rather exalted ground, my young friend, and I cannot say but that you are right. But pray, would you express yourself with the same degree of openness and unreserve to the public that you do to me; would you call a knave a knave, in so many words, without any respect to position in society?"

"Indeed, I would," I replied. "Why should I respect knavery in one position more than in another? Does God, does the Law, make any distinction?"

"Yes, but how do you think that the thing would work? do you think it would pay? do you think that the public mind is prepared for such a radical change? Is it not in advance of the age, and would we not subject ourselves to the charge of radicalism or fanaticism."

"Very likely," said I, "but what then? do you think there are not more honest men than rogues in the world, and are you afraid of being too honest, too truthful, too magnanimous, too just, too pure, too candid, too virtuous?"

"I cannot say that I ever have feared anything of the kind yet," said Mr. Wilton, as he rubbed his glasses and put them on again and looked me very earnestly in the face; "but to confess the truth to you, my young friend, I have been guilty of the most dreadful dissimulation and deceit; that is, if your theory of truth be the correct one. But how can it be helped? The people will not bear the truth; they would stop their subscriptions, if I should venture upon such an experiment, and I should starve."

"Well, I am not experienced in your business, but if that be the case, then you are bound to abandon it. I would not continue in any employment which required so tremendous a sacrifice; it would be better at once to go upon the highway, and commence robbing passengers of their purses."

"O, no, no, no, my friend, there you are wrong," said Mr. Wilton; "that would be a double crime—it would be breaking the laws of both God and man; and it would subject you to disgrace and imprisonment. It is surely better to commit a legal sin than an illegal one."

I was forced to acknowledge that he was right. "But I will not believe in the necessity for falsehood," I continued; "all the evil that has befallen me has had its origin in untruth, while no harm has ever come to me from practicing the most transparent sincerity in my conduct."

"There is so much plausibility in your theory that I have half a mind to try it," said Mr. Wilton. "I am almost inclined to believe it will pay. It will be novel, at least; and novelty, you know, is the life and soul of a newspaper. I would like very much to have my brother Bob's opinion about it, however, before I begin, for he knows the world, and I have generally found his judgment in such matters to be better than my own."

"He, of all men, in the world," said I, "should be in favor of candor and honesty; after having been so deceived by that French Countess."

"That is true, a very good argument, I must confess," said Mr. Wilton, "if brother Bob should be of your mind and recommend such a course, I would venture upon it at once. But it would make a great excitement in Wall street; and among the Booksellers. Good Heavens! what a regiment of old common places would have to go immediately into a state of retiracy."

"Where they should go, of course," said I; "and their places should be supplied by new thoughts, new expressions, new feelings and new truths."

"There you are wrong, again," said Mr. Wilton, "you must not delude yourself with the idea of propagating new truths in a newspaper; it is not the proper vehicle for novelties of thought, but for novelties of fact. What I have just been writing now I have had in my thoughts all day; part of it I found in an old newspaper, and part of it I gathered from other sources; the subject is not an important one, but what I have written upon it will be new to my readers in arrangement, but old and familiar enough to be easily recognized and understood; if it were new or profound it would require time, study and thought to comprehend it, and therefore it would not be read at all. What I mean by novelties, is a new mode of expression which your principles if adopted in the conduct of a newspaper would call into use.

"Thus, instead of saying, in regard to a new book, that it was one of the most remarkable productions of the age, you would simply say that from reading the title page, and feeling of the covers, you had not been able to form any opinions of its merits; or, instead of penning a few lines to announce the death of some person, about whom you cared nothing, that it was with the most profound feelings of regret that you announced the departure from this scene of action of so-and-so, you would merely put the man's death in your obituary, and say that you cared nothing about it, if you said anything at all. All such expressions as 'it is with the greatest pleasure that we hear so-and-so,' or 'we are extremely mortified at this occurrence,' or 'we are deeply grieved at that,' which are generally written with the same pen, and with the same feeling of perfect indifference, would all have to be laid aside; and as nothing but the simple truth would ever be stated, each paper, instead of being a mere modification of another, would be entirely original, a thing by itself; and not an unsubstantial shadow of something else. Then what would become of all the patriotism, all the chivalry, all the eloquence, all the thrilling excitement, all the dreadful accidents, all the brilliant audiences, all the incomparable singers, all the overflowing houses, all the most remarkable men of the age, the gentlemanly addresses, the ravishing music which put an audience to sleep, the thrilling romance which nobody can read, the ardent patriots who sell themselves for an office, the upright lawyers, who take fees from rogues. How do you think, Mr. Pepper, a newspaper would look without any of these things?"

"Remarkably well," said I, "if they could not be honestly put into it. The truth is, now, that hyperbole has exhausted itself; the most extravagant praises sound tame and spiritless, and you will find that a return to, or rather the adoption of a simple and truthful policy in the management of your paper, for I cannot find that anybody has ever tried such an experiment, will be more startling and popular than any other course that you could pursue. At all events, I will not consent to follow any other; and if you are not willing to employ me on such terms I will seek some other business where starvation is not the penalty for speaking the truth."

"But the difficulty will be, my young friend," said Mr. Wilton, "to find any such employment, for I will confess to you that I know of none that you would be likely to succeed in; the world is so given to deceit; mankind have been so long accustomed to being cheated that when one attempts to be more honest than his neighbors, he is sure of being cried down as a humbug or a fanatic. If the press should once get to accusing me of nursing an ism I should be ruined. I couldn't make way against it."

"What is that ism," said I, "that you fear so much, is it plagiarism, for that is one of the worst that can be laid to the door of a newspaper, I think."

"O! no, nothing of that sort," said he, "that is a kind of an ism that happens to be popular; but they accuse an editor of harboring an ism when they want to make an indefinite charge against him which will cause the public to avoid his paper; it has no particular meaning and therefore it is the more terrible, as an object seen in a fog always appears more formidable than in a clear atmosphere. But I will confess to you that I am struck by your proposition, and I think I will try it; I will have a talk with my brother Bob, who has an interest in the paper, and ought to be consulted, and then I will see what our Domine, Dr. Dollarsworth, thinks of it. And in the meantime you shall write what you please, and we will see what effect it will have upon the public; I rather think, that I shall come into the measure in the end. There now, is a heap of papers, just look them over and see if you cannot find some subject to write about. Be just as candid, and as truthful as you please; be pointed, fresh and slashing, and we will see how it affects the stomachs of the public. But, by-the-way, speaking about stomachs, it has given me a kind of cholic; if it should strike to a vital part the consequences might be fatal. I think, Mr. Pepper, that just for this occasion, as I find there is a drop of that Glenlivet remaining that I will mix a tumbler of punch for you and me and then I will give it up forever. One more taste, will do no particular harm, of course, and I think that after so much earnest talk it will benefit my system. To-morrow we will begin the world anew and give up the Glenlivet and take to telling the truth. It will create a tremendous excitement in Wall street, though; you may depend upon it."

"Is truth, then, so rare a thing in Wall street," said I, "that it will create more astonishment there than in any other place?"

"I believe it will, upon my soul," said he, "and the fact is that I fear its effects there the most, because I have there the greatest number of subscribers. But my brother Bob will be able to tell me all about it. Let us for the present drink up the last of the Glenlivet. In vino veritas, you know, is an old maxim, so you will not object to just the merest drop of Glenlivet, as it is for the last time."

"If there had been any truth in the maxim——"

"Ha, ha, ha! very good. I know what you were going to say, I should have been one of the most truthful of men. Well, perhaps I am; at least, Mr. Pepper, no man ever yet had the assurance to doubt my word."

Mr. Wilton having mixed his punch to his taste and drained the last drop of Glenlivet from the bottle, leaned his head back in his easy chair and in a very few moments began to snore.

I had taken but a sip of the liquor, for although it had an extremely pleasant flavor I had a great dread of becoming a tippler from seeing the effect of drinking upon some of the people with whom I had come in contact. It was extremely flattering to my pride to be taken into the confidence of so distinguished a person as Mr. Wilton, and to feel that he deferred to my opinions; and as the post of a public writer was one that seemed to be of great dignity in the eyes of the public, I was most desirous of pleasing Mr. Wilton that he might keep me as his assistant, but I was resolved not to yield a hair's breadth of my determination to be perfectly honest and candid in anything that I might write for his paper.

It so happened that nothing occurred on the first day of my engagement with Mr. Wilton calculated to test the effect of telling the truth to the public. I wrote a few paragraphs of no great consequence, and I will confess that I experienced a degree of pride on seeing my writing in print the next morning, that I had never before felt on any occasion. It was a delightful thought to me to reflect that thousands of intelligent readers were actually receiving impressions from me, and that among them were probably those whom I loved and held in the highest esteem. Knowing the exact hour at which the morning paper was usually received and read in the family of old Gil, and that Pauline generally was the first to glance over it, reading, as young ladies are wont to do, the marriages first, and then the dreadful accidents of the day; I felt a thrill of strange pleasure at the thought that she might be then reading my chance reflections, and I could not help flattering myself that she would discover by some sympathetic touch of feeling that I had written them. Then again, I knew that Mr. Bassett would be looking over the paper to discover what I had written, and this too gave me a new sensation of delight, but quite different from that which I felt in regard to Pauline. This consciousness of communicating with, or rather speaking to thousands of minds at the same time, and daily influencing the thoughts of people whom I should never see, gave me an exalted opinion of the importance of the position of a Journalist, and caused me to feel more satisfied with myself than I ever had before been. A new sphere of life was opened to me, and I was now more than ever impressed with the necessity of cultivating a frank and truthful disposition. If the mere tradesman, or preacher, or mechanic, or farmer, whose influence is confined to a small circle, is bound to be truthful and sincere in his dealings with other people, how much more imperative is the duty of truthfulness in the Journalist, whose influence is almost unlimited. I do not include the legal advocate, or lawyer, in the category of those who are bound to be truthful, because it is his professed business to make the wrong appear right, the right wrong, to prevaricate, to suppress facts, to conceal frauds, to defend evil, to give counsel to law-breakers, to screen the guilty, to oppress the innocent, to mystify, quibble, and countenance subterfuges. Lawyers being allowed to take bribes from rogues, and suffered to live by screening the guilty from punishment, cannot, of course, be ranked with men who are under a moral as well as legal obligation to do right. It is their vocation to disguise the truth; they are a class by themselves to whom the law grants the privilege of misrepresentation, and perhaps it is one of the most melancholy evidences of the proneness of men to do wrong that the profession of the law is more crowded than any other.

Mr. Wilton having expressed himself entirely satisfied with what I had written, I entered at once upon my duties with ardor, and with my mind filled with sublime thoughts of reforming the world and remodeling society. Nothing seemed to be more easy than to produce a great moral revolution by the means of the pen. As I had often been forcibly impressed by the inconsistencies between the professions and actions of church members, and other pious persons, I determined to make this subject the ground work of my first leader. It had not then occurred to me that almost everybody was not only capable of scrutinizing his neighbor's conduct and indicating his inconsistencies and failings, but that everybody did so, and that such a feat would not be regarded as very novel or startling in me; neither had it then occurred to me that one of the surest and most efficient methods of reforming the world is first to reform yourself. Charity generally begins at home, as she should, but the charity of reformers generally begins abroad.

Considering myself in a situation which I should not very soon change, I furnished a room adjoining the one occupied by Mr. Wilton, and bargained with Sykes for my board. I made no particular agreement with Mr. Wilton about wages, feeling quite sure that he would give me all the recompence that I might be entitled to; I had but very little money, however, and was obliged to get credit for the furniture of my room, which I experienced no difficulty in doing.

After the appearance of the first paper on which I had employed my talents, I was introduced to brother Bob, by Mr. Wilton. Brother Bob was a very different looking person from what I had expected to see; instead of being a wild, rattle-headed fellow, he was an exceedingly grave-looking gentleman, not far from fifty years old. His hair was nearly white, he dressed very much like a clergyman, wore a gold-headed cane, and spoke in a deliberate, thoughtful manner.

"Brother Bob," said Mr. Wilton, pointing towards me as I sat at my desk, "this is my new assistant, Mr. Tom Pepper."

I rose and bowed to him.

"Keep your seat, sir," said brother Bob; "I am glad to see you and hope you will be able to agree with my brother."

"O, there's no danger of our disagreeing, brother Bob," said Mr. Wilton; "Mr. Pepper and I understand each other pretty well, although our acquaintance has been but a short one. But, by the way, that reminds me. I want to ask your opinion, brother Bob, on a very delicate question."

Brother Bob, on hearing this, put his cane upon the mantel-piece, and taking off his hat, sat down and hemmed, as though he was prepared to hear almost anything, and to give his opinion without hesitation.

"Mr. Pepper, here," continued Mr. Wilton, "has made a rather embarrassing proposition to me in regard to the paper; he professes to have a very nice sense of his obligations to speak the truth on all occasions, and thinks it would be a good feature to adopt into the paper. What do you think of it, brother Bob, would it be safe? Do you think it will pay?"

"I think it a very excellent plan," replied brother Bob; "I do not see what objections there can be to such a course; provided of course that nothing is said against religion."

"I am glad to hear you say so," said Mr. Wilton, "for it is just my way of thinking. I like the idea, and I think the novelty of the thing will make considerable stir in Wall street. We may get some subscribers by it, and we shall be quite sure of not losing any, for who will have the courage to confess himself an enemy to truth? By the way, brother Bob, give me a cigar. What are these, Principes?"

"I believe so," said brother Bob; "you know that I don't smoke, myself; but I generally put a handful in my hat at the meetings of the board, for I like to have my share of plunder."

"Brother Bob is an Alderman, you must know, Mr. Pepper; and he finds me in cigars at the public expense," said Mr. Wilton; "and capital good cigars they are, too. Try one."

"Although you continue to smoke, I hope you have given up drinking Glenlivet," said brother Bob, gravely.

"O, long since," said Mr. Wilton. "I may sometimes take a drop, as a medicine; but I mean to give it up as a drink altogether. We are going on a new plan in the paper, and this will be a good time to make a permanent change of habits."

Brother Bob commended this resolution, and paying me a handsome compliment on my integrity, and wishing me success in my new employment, he withdrew.

"I knew that he would approve of your plan," said Mr. Wilton, "because he has lately become pious, and is, of course, very favorable to any scheme for promoting the cause of truth."

I considered myself very fortunate in having fallen into the hands of such excellent people, who so heartily entered into my scheme; and I began my first leader on the inconsistencies of the professedly pious, with the most high toned and exalted feeling and soon completed an article I supposed would be the means of placing me at the head of journalists, and gain me the confidence and regard of the editor and brother Bob, both of whom I was very desirous to please. Mr. Wilton happened to be out of his room when my leader was finished; I could not submit it to him for his examination, and the printer's boy having called for copy, I gave it to him, and it was set up and printed off. The next morning I read my leader with great satisfaction, and felt myself of immense consequence, when I heard one gentleman observe to another, in the bar-room at Sykes'. "There's a good deal of truth in that article about religion, in the —— this morning; it will touch somebody on a sore spot."

Going back to the room of Mr. Wilton, to enjoy my triumph, and receive his congratulations, I found the truth-loving editor walking the floor in a state of great excitement, with the paper in his hand.

"Pepper, you have ruined me," he exclaimed, as I entered. "Brother Bob says he would not have had that article to appear for ten thousand dollars. We shall lose half our subscribers."

"Does it contain anything that is not strictly true," said I.

"Perhaps not," replied Mr. Wilton, "but I did not suppose that you meant to put such kind of truths into the paper."

As we were talking, a boy came in and delivered a note to Mr. Wilton.

"There, there!" he exclaimed as he read the note; "It is just what I expected. Here is a note from old Gilson, ordering his paper to be stopped. Good heavens! Pepper, I am a ruined man; that leader of yours will lose us our best subscribers."

I could easily understand why old Gil had stopped his paper, for I had, quite unconsciously, sketched some of his religious peculiarities in my leader, and I was not a little mortified to find that I should no longer have Pauline for one of my readers.

"Perhaps there are not many more like old Gil," said I; "the truth may not be quite so unpalatable to all; besides, a truth which displeases one will be sure to please a good many."

"But the worst of it is," said Mr. Wilton, "brother Bob will have it that you meant him; and he will not consent to your writing another line for the paper. He says you are a dangerous character, and insists on my discharging you immediately. I must put in an apology to-morrow morning for your plain speaking, or we shall not have a subscriber left on our books."

The office boy here made his appearance, and handed another note to Mr. Wilton, who read it with a falling countenance and then handed it to me, saying: "there's another stoppage, from one of the most high minded and honorable men in Wall street." On reading the note I could not help smiling when I discovered that it was written by my old friend Barton, the bank-president, whose religious feelings had been shocked by my leader. He, too, ordered his paper to be stopped, and even returned the one containing the obnoxious leader.

"I see now," said I, "what is understood by the influence of the press; it means the influence of the subscribers to a paper. Is not that it?"

"Why I am not sure but that it is, Pepper, after all," replied Mr. Wilton.

"I am quite sure it is," said I; "the experience of this morning has dissipated a very fine dream in which I have been indulging. I see that I cannot be a newspaper editor if I would preserve my individual integrity."

"Well, perhaps you are right. But the truth is, my dear fellow, I fear that you are a little too impracticable for this world. You may depend upon it that you must give up your high-toned abstractions and come down to the level of common people if you expect to have common fare in this world. No individual has any right to set himself up as a standard for all mankind. There's my brother Bob, now, one of the most strictly conscientious and pious men in Wall street; he was perfectly shocked at your radical notions."

"But he said that he was delighted with my truthfulness," I remarked, "and advised you to adopt my suggestions as to the conduct of your paper."

"Of course he did; but he did not understand that we intended to meddle with religion and offend the prejudices of our subscribers," said Mr. Wilton; "I am sorry to part with you, but really I am not yet prepared to starve, and I am very sure that you would soon reduce me to that condition. I couldn't afford to dine at Sykes' if we published a leader every day like that of yours this morning. Independence is a very good thing, and I must say that I like it very well in the abstract; but when it comes to depriving a man of his dinner, it is not one of those virtues that I feel myself under any moral necessity of cultivating."

"Well, sir," said I, rising to go, and feeling a growing contempt for Mr. Wilton in spite of his amiabilities, and his flattering partiality for me, "my determination has been taken and I will not swerve from it. I will be true to my own convictions of duty, let what will come of it. Good heavens! sir, I could starve with pleasure, if it were necessary, to preserve my integrity of opinion. I am young and vigorous, I have good health, my wants are few, there are none dependent upon me for support, to make me waver in my resolutions; and henceforth, with God's blessing, which I hope for, I will live a true man."

Remembering my promise to Mr. Bassett, as soon as I quitted the editorial office of Mr. Wilton, which I must confess I left with a good deal of reluctance, for there was so much true manliness in his character that I felt a very strong attachment to him, I hurried to the store of my old friend and mentor, to tell him that I was once more afloat in the world, and without any means for earning my subsistence.

"Never mind, Tom," said Mr. Bassett, laughing as he spoke, "perhaps you will at last hit upon some business which will admit of your telling the truth, without subjecting you to ruin."

"I hope so," said I, "but I almost despair of it. If so good-hearted and intelligent a person as Mr. Wilton finds it dangerous to be truthful, I fear that I shall hardly fall in with anybody willing to give me employment and allow me to speak my mind. But I will try to find somebody."

"Persevere, and you will succeed," said Mr. Bassett. "Mr. Wilton is a very good and a very intelligent man, as you say; but you must remember that it is his business to echo the falsehoods of the world, not to proclaim new truths to it; and you must not hastily conclude that all men are given to glozing over the truth, because you happen to fall into the hands of one who earns his daily bread by doing so."

"I am willing to be encouraged by what you say," I replied. "I shall not give up my trust in the power of truth, for so slight a reason; and now I must go out again into the streets and alleys and seek for employment, before night, for I do not yet know where my home will be to-morrow."

"That's bravely said, my boy," said Mr. Bassett; "and how much money have you remaining in your pocket of what I gave you last, for when a man goes on such a hazardous expedition as you are bent upon, he wants something besides his resolution to sustain him?"

"I have but three pistareens left," said I, exposing the contents of my pockets, "and of them I have found that one is a counterfeit."

"That's but a small capital to begin with," said he, "for one who goes in search of a situation where he can be allowed the privilege of speaking the truth. Take these bills, my boy, and if they should be exhausted before you find yourself a situation to your mind, come to me again and I will give you more."

The bills that he offered me were three bank bills of the denomination of ten dollars each, but I refused to receive them, upon which he seemed annoyed and pressed them upon me.

"Take them, Tom," said he, "you do not know what difficulties may befall you from not having money in your pocket. I shall feel uneasy respecting you, if you do not. You have no right to refuse me."

But I had become infatuated with my resolution to depend upon my own exertions for my support, and was determined to test the experiment to the full, of dealing with all men with perfect sincerity and truthfulness. I had no desire of being a martyr, but I felt something of that pride of opinion which has, probably, influenced the majority of those who have courted martyrdom; and feeling myself quite sufficient for myself, I was too proud to accept assistance.

"You have often," said I, "strove to impress upon my mind the importance of candor and open-heartedness, and I have suffered too severely by neglecting the lessons that you taught me, ever again to transgress. I have lost my father by my falsehoods, and it will be but a slight atonement to devote the remainder of my life to the practice of entire truthfulness."

"But, my son," he said, endeavoring to force the bills into my pocket, "that need not prevent your receiving aid from me; there is no violation of truth in receiving money from one who loves you. Take it, my boy, lest, not having it, you be led to commit the very error that you hope to guard against."

"No, sir," said I proudly, "it would be but a small merit in me to preserve myself pure if I were not subject to temptations. I shall trust to my principles, and if the world really be so bad that an honest man cannot earn his living in it, then the sooner I get out of it the better."

"Be careful, Tom," said he, looking me seriously in the face, "that you do not in a moment of disappointment or anger, forget your promise to me not to change your condition without informing me of your intentions."

"I shall not forget it," said I.

"Remember, too," he said, again looking me seriously in the face, "that no one has a right to selfishly regard his own feelings alone; if there are others whose happiness depends upon your conduct, you must consult their feelings as well as your own."

"I shall not forget," I replied; "but those who feel the most for me will be best pleased when I do that which promotes my own happiness; so, in taking care of myself, I should confer the most happiness on those who love me, if there be any such."

"If there be any such!" said Mr. Bassett, looking reproachfully at me; "do you not know that there are such?"

"I hope there are," said I.

"You may be sure there are," said he.

As I was bent on looking for employment, and anticipated with great delight the pleasure of eating a meal which was paid for with my own earnings, I again shook hands with Mr. Bassett, and left his store, with no settled purpose for the future, excepting my determination to be honest, let it cost what it might, and quite uncertain whither to turn. Remembering that I had left my penknife at Mr. Wilton's office, I called there for it, and found a letter lying for me on his desk, directed in a hand which was new to me, and opening I was surprised to discover that it was written by a person of whom I had never heard before. The note was as follows:

"My very dear Mr. Pepper, come and dine with me to-day, at 4 o'clock. I want to talk over a little business affair with you.

Yours truly, and most friendly,
ARTHUR SLOPPERTON.
—— Hotel.

P. S.—Strictly confidential."

I was a good deal puzzled by this extremely odd note, which was written so very badly that I could with difficulty make it out. Mr. Wilton was not in his office, and I could not learn where it came from, nor anything respecting Mr. Slopperton. A suspicion crossed my mind at first that it might be some deeply laid plot of those shallow gentlemen, Messieurs Riquets and Pilfor, to entrap me into some kind of difficulty, for I had heard they had both sworn to be revenged upon me for exposing them at Sykes'. But I was not in the least afraid of them, and as Mr. Slopperton had invited me to one of the best hotels in the city, I had little cause to fear any danger in so respectable a place; so I determined to go and see who Mr. Slopperton was, as I should save the cost of my dinner by accepting his invitation. But what business could a gentleman have with me to whom I was an entire stranger? This question kept popping into my thoughts all day, so that I could hardly divert my mind to any other subject. I busied myself until near the appointed time for meeting Mr. Slopperton, in seeking for employment, but without success, and as the clock struck four, I entered the bar-room of the —— Hotel, and inquired for my new acquaintance; the waiter showed me into a private parlor, which was furnished in a very sumptuous manner. I did not perceive as I entered that there was any person in it, but as I advanced to the centre of the room, a gentleman rose from the crimson velvet sofa on which he was lying, and seizing me by the hand, said:

"Well, how are you? how are you? Punctual to the hour. I like that. Come, sit down, I am devilish glad to see you. How are you? It is Mr. Pepper, isn't it?"

All this was said with so much heartiness and apparent good feeling, that I was at once most favorably impressed with my new friend; but I was more than ever astonished to be received in such a manner by a total stranger.

"Are you Mr. Slopperton?" said I.

"O! of course I am. Didn't you expect to see me here. I should be devilish sorry to find anybody else taking possession of my apartments. Come, Antoine, spread the table; what are you looking at? let us have dinner immediately."

This was said to the waiter, who immediately disappeared and directly after began to spread the table and bring in the dinner.

"Well. And how have you been? I am devilish glad to see you," again said Mr. Slopperton. "How are you? I like you. There is a deep vein in you, a—a—a man-of-the-worldish air I like. I am always open, candid and sincere with people I take a liking to. I like your general style and making up; there's such a devilish gentlemanly-mannered way about you."

Mr. Slopperton gave me no opportunity to reply to him or demand any explanation, but kept running on with great volubility, repeating how well he liked me, and reminding me of the good points in my character which had captivated his fancy. But if I had no opportunity to ask an explanation of his conduct, and of his motives in sending for me, I had sufficient time to scan his person and form an estimate of his character. He was a dark-haired gentleman of the middle height, and a rather slender person, dressed in the extreme of the fashion, and with great niceness and precision. His clothes rather manifested a full pocket than good taste; they were rich and fashionable, and he wore considerable diamond jewelry, a very showy gold watch chain, and a most obtrusive seal ring on his finger; but the colors of his clothes were badly chosen, and nothing but his extreme cleanliness and the richness of his apparel saved him from appearing vulgar and common. He stooped in his gait and his eyes were dark and heavy. In spite of his vivacity, he was dull and spiritless in his manner, and he had the appearance of being worn out. His complexion was very pale and when he stopped speaking, his features were dull and the expression of countenance was that of weariness and ennui. His room was furnished with upholstery of the most sumptuous description, but, like his dress, it indicated a distressing want of taste. The curtains, the sofas, the lounges, the chairs, and the carpet, were of all ill-assorted colors, and composed of such heavy and rich materials that they conveyed a sensation of oppressiveness. Although there two large mirrors on the walls in heavy gilt frames, there was a full length psyche glass in a richly carved frame standing in a corner of the room. The pictures which hung upon the walls were bad copies from some of the voluptuous female heads of Titian and Rubens; and there was a portfolio of gaudily colored French prints on the centre table; there was a small book-case in the room which contained a few books in rich bindings with gilded backs; they were principally French authors, and instead of Le Diable Amoureux, and the novels of Paul De Kock, De Balzar, and books of a similar class which I expected to see, they proved to be chiefly on political economy and various other subjects of a kindred nature.

The dinner having been brought in and placed upon the table while he was telling me how he liked me, and how devilish glad he was to see me, and asking me how I was, and how I had been, before I had an opportunity of asking how he knew anything at all about me, and on what occasion he had ever seen me, he asked me to be seated at the table.

I am not ashamed to confess to the weakness of liking a good dinner; like charity, it covers a multitude of sins; and, let my mysterious friend's taste in dress and furniture have been what it might, I am bound to do him the justice to say that his taste in ordering a dinner was beyond reproach. I never sat down to a more beautiful tableau than that which his centre table presented. It was a delicious picture of still life, in which there were no incongruities to offend the eye, or tricks to deceive the judgment; the whole affair showed consummate art, and, as they say in the newspapers, reflected the highest credit upon the accomplished artistes under whose superintendence it was arranged. But my admiring friend rather unsettled my opinion of his judgment on such affairs by beginning to apologize for not having something more suitable for me.

The remarks of Mr. Slopperton were so direct and complimentary that they neither gave me a better opinion of myself than I had before entertained, nor a very exalted one of himself. It was very easy to perceive that Mr. Slopperton "had an axe to grind," and that he required my aid in turning the grind-stone, but how or in what manner I could be useful to such a person I could not conceive, and I was extremely curious to find out how he became acquainted with me. What puzzled me most of all was his continually complimenting me upon being "such a devilish gentlemanly-mannered man," for I had never taken any pains to cultivate those peculiar graces of manner which are supposed to belong exclusively to the class of persons called gentlemen. In fact I was sensible that a lack of their graces was more likely to be remarked in me than their presence. But I discovered afterwards that Mr. Slopperton was only endeavoring to conciliate me by bestowing upon me the kind of praise which would have been most agreeable to himself. But he got no return for his compliments, for I soon discovered that he was very far from bring gentlemanly-mannered, and that he was quite aware of his deficiencies in this particular. Mr. Slopperton made the very common mistake of thinking that everything could be procured for money, but was woefully disappointed when he attempted to purchase that which he most needed, which was self-respect; as this was something that no money could procure him, and he found that upholstery, jewelry and fine clothes, could no more gain him the admiration of the world than they could do the same for the shop-keepers of whom he had purchased them, he had conceived a new plan for gaining the esteem which all his efforts had hitherto failed to secure.

Poor Slopperton! With a handsome fortune, a well-made person, and a tolerably good college education, he had not learned the art of enjoying life. In spite of all the trappings with which he had surrounded himself, and all the luxurious appliances at his command, he was still wretchedly unhappy because he could not get rid of the conviction that he was nobody. He would have been perfectly willing to exchange all his wealth for the honest feeling of self-sufficiency which many a hod-carrier possessed. It was some time before he confessed to me his object in inviting me to dine with him; but I discovered his motive long before he acknowledged it. When we first sat down to dinner something like the following conversation passed between us:

"I am rather blase you see. I dare say some people think me a mere trifler; quite a man of the world, and nothing more. But they'll find out all about me one of these days. Don't you think they will, ha?"

"Very likely, people generally get to be pretty well known to those who come in contact with them."

"Faith that's a devilish shrewd remark of yours, Pepper, devilish shrewd. By the way, what an insight you have into character."

"The fricandeau is capital," said I.

"O! hang the fricandeau. Come, now, that's one of your deep manœuvres. What's the meaning of it?"

"I meant nothing more than I said," I replied.

"Ha! ha! ha! Very well, indeed! Bravo! Let me give you just another drop of this wine. It's Chateau Margaux, or some such devilish stuff, that I got from my friend Lynch. By the way, I'll introduce you to him. Fine fellow—knows every body in Europe—George the Fourth, and everybody of that sort. I'll give you a letter to the king when you go to Europe, our minister to the Court of St. James, attache, lots of duchesses, opera girls, and all such trifles. By the way, you'll appear devilish well in Europe with that piquant, free, candid, gentlemanly manner of yours. Antoine, bring on your game, or some such nonsense of that sort, partridges, woodcock, canvas backs, or something of that sort; any trifle; I don't care what. You like game?"

"Particularly well," said I, "and all the better for not having eaten any this season. Moreover, if you had not invited me to dine with you I should probably have been forced to stay my stomach with dry rusk in a baker's shop."

"What a confession! What a devilish piquant way you have of telling the truth. It's just what I like. There's a style about what you say, a sprightly, sincere, candid air about you that's devilish fresh and delightful. What a happy fellow you must be. Now you think me an aristocrat. and all that sort of thing; but the fact is, Pepper, I am heart and soul with the masses, like yourself. What do you think I am going to do now?"

"Apprentice yourself to a butcher, perhaps," said I.

"Devilish good; ha! ha! ha! Not quite so bad as that, but almost, I am going to Congress. What do you think of it?"

"I think you will be going a long while before you get there," said I, upon which his countenance looked more blank than ever.

"You do? But wait and see; I have laid my plans devilish deep; nothing more easy than to get into Congress; don't you see what blockheads get there every day."

"Very true; but you are not the kind of blockhead to accomplish such a feat, I think."

"You think so! Ha! ha! ha! I have already bought up three editors——"

"Who will, of course, be bought up by somebody else to-morrow. Editors who can be bought are not worth buying."

"Ah, my dear Pepper, I see you are quite a novice. Immense Power of the Press, lever of public opinion, they can do anything; I have got them bound hand and foot. I am quite a man of the world, you see; make it for a man's interest and he will do anything. Money is the secret. No mistake about that. See how I will have all the readers on my side. I'll identify myself with them; make a democrat of myself, make speeches in Tammany Hall, shake hands with everybody, hail fellow well met every where. Don't you see!"

"And pray what is your motive for wanting to go to Congress? It is an odd fancy."

"To serve my country. To be useful to mankind. You don't think I care anything about patronage, or political distinction; or that I would give the toss of a penny to see myself called the Honorable so-and-so; no, no; nothing of that sort. I am above all that sort of thing. All I want is an opportunity to do good; to be serviceable to my country; and be looked up to as a man of—that is, a man who does good to mankind, makes laws and all that."

"It's a very easy thing to do good without going to Congress," said I; "and, in fact, there is so very little good done there that it strikes me the safer way would be to keep out of Congress if it's your aim to do good."

"Ha! ha! what a devilish gentlemanly way you have of saying sarcastic things. If I had your talents, now, I might be justified in going to Congress to display them. But, come, let's put your doctrine home to you. Some Heidsick? It's good, is it?"

"Superb."

"Yes, I believe it is fair; so, so; but I care nothing about such trifles; however, my aim is to mingle among honorable men."

"Men called Honorable," said I.

"Well, that's good again. Devilish sarcastic, though; now, my good fellow, I shall begin to think, by and by, that you have been soured by the world."

"Soured by the world! No, the world has no power to sour me. Because I speak the truth you think it is because I am soured in my feelings; but no, it is owing to my excessive good nature that I speak so plainly. If I were sour, I would lie and flatter, and laugh in my sleeve at the credulity of the world as knaves and humbugs. But, I love the world too well to deceive it by any false devices. Do you think you could be guilty of double dealing towards anybody whom you loved?"

"There is a devilish sight of truth in what you say, I must confess," said Mr. Slopperton, trying to look solemn and important; "but, my dear fellow, all your words are like acidulated drops, so made up of sugar and lemon that it is difficult to tell whether they are sweet or sour. Ha! ha! ha! I have you there, ha?" And he shut one eye and looked at me knowingly with the other, as though he were trying to impress me with the force of his brilliant sally.

"Very good," said I.

"Well, that's encouraging. Come now, my dear fellow, let us proceed to business."

I pricked up my ears at the mention of business, for I had been so much amused with the oddities of my entertainer that I had forgotten that I was ignorant of his object in sending for me. "Very good," said I; "if you have any business matters to arrange with me I shall be most happy to know it, for business is precisely the thing that I am in pursuit of. But pray what business can you have with a person whom you never saw before, and can know but little about. But perhaps it is something concerning my father," I exclaimed, as the thought suddenly occurred to me; "if so, speak quickly I beg of you."

"No, no, nothing of the kind. The fact is, my fine fellow, that I know you devilish well, better than you think for. How I came by my knowledge of you is no matter, at least, not now. I am quite a man of the world, you see, indifferent to money and such trifles and all that sort of thing; but I want to use you and am willing to pay you devilish well."

"I shall be but too happy to serve you in anything that is honorable," I said, "provided you pay me for it."

"Oh, it's strictly honorable, of course; I am incapable of proposing anything base to you, you know, of course. But, I like your precaution, vastly. It strengthens my good opinion of you, and, in fact, confirms the high idea I had formed of your character for ingenuousness, honesty and all that, you know. You are such a devilishly unique fellow, now, that a man of the world, like myself, cannot be altogether prepared for you. What an excellent talent you have, by the way, for a diplomat. I can get you an appointment, if you wish, to the Court of St. James, St. Cloud, or any other Saint you may like. Faith, you are quite the man of the nineteenth century, piquant, deep, brilliant, comprehensive, and so devilishly refined and finished."

These compliments were poured upon me so thickly and rapidly, that I began to be annoyed by them; so said I—"But the business, let us arrange the business, I am anxious to be employed."

"Oh, ah, to be sure." said he, filling my glass with sherry; "try a glass of this Amontillado, first; it will soothe your nerves and assist your digestion; then we will have a cup of coffee. Antoine, bring the coffee, a glass of liqueur, noyeau, or maraschino, or something in that way; and then a cigar, and then we will go regularly to work. It's only a trifling affair; you will laugh at me I know. But I shall pay you well. I am a man of the world you know, and understand perfectly well that something cannot be had for nothing; or ought not, at least. I am a philosopher you see, and understand perfectly well the whole routine of trade, although I may seem like a mere superficial sort of a trifler to a chance observer.

"Some people say," continued Mr. Slopperton, growing more and more familiar, "I am a remarkable man, to be sure, and all that; and Lord Brougham, Webster, and Dr. Chalmers, and men of that class, have complimented me on my character."

"Have they, indeed," I exclaimed; "that is remarkable."

"Isn't it?" said he; "but what do I care for compliments from such humbugs as they are. A compliment from you, now, mixed up with some of those devilish nice acidulated drops that you let fall so gracefully, would be something to a fellow. What I want is the honest truth, and nothing more."

"O, then, they were not sincere in what they said about you?"

"Well, now, I won't say that. Brougham is a good fellow in his way, and so is Webster; I wouldn't like to charge them with duplicity, you know. But, they are men of the world, and they are lawyers too, and lawyers you know get in the habit of lying from taking fees professionally, to suppress the truth. But this brings me to the point at once. The truth is, my dear fellow, I have found out from my friend Barton, my banker, too, by-the-way, all about you."

I blushed at the mention of Mr. Barton's name, I must admit, not from any guilty feeling, but because I suspected that he had told my unaccountable acquaintance the particulars of my intimacy with Miss Gilson. Mr. Slopperton perceived my momentary confusion, and began to laugh in his vapid way.

"Blushing! ha! ha! Well, my good fellow, I like it in you; it's devilish piquant and pleasant."

"And so," said I, "Mr. Barton told you all about me—all that he knew, I suppose—but he don't know much about me; nor nothing that I would not have told you myself."

"O, of course not," said Mr. Slopperton. "Barton is a devilish spiritual, piquant, pleasant fellow; he told me nothing that he should not have told, and if I had not heard from him what a devilish gentlemanly-mannered man you are, I would not have sent for you on this business. Not I. I know too much about the world for that, you will find. Quite too much, altogether."

"Very good," said I, rather impatiently, for I was beginning to grow tired of hearing myself called a devilish piquant, gentlemanly-mannered dear fellow, and of being informed by Mr. Slopperton that he was quite a man of the world—it would be but a sorry compliment to the world, though, to believe Mr. Slopperton what he represented himself; "Very good," said I, "but I am getting weary. Will you be so kind as to inform me of your object in sending for me to dine with you, and let me be off?"

"O! that's exquisite!" exclaimed my entertainer, greatly to my astonishment. "Capital! delicious!" and he rubbed his hands together with great glee, and leaping up from his chair danced round the table and clasped me round the neck with such earnestness as to nearly choke me.

I was by this time nearly convinced that Mr. Slopperton was a lunatic, but his eye was so dull and heavy, and he so easily sank back into his chair and resumed his old manner, that I saw he was not exactly insane of mind.

"You are such an extraordinary person," said he as he resumed his seat, "so devilishly remarkable and piquant, that you must overlook my warmth of manner. What a genius you are. Barton, confound him, did not half prepare me for such a devilish extraordinary fellow. You are worth a mint of money to me. I haven't had such a delicious sensation this month. You are better than a new prima donna. Wine?"

"No, no," I exclaimed, putting up my hand, "I have eaten and drank enough."

"And heard enough, too. Ha?" said Mr. Slopperton, rubbing his hands together. "And so you are beginning to get weary of me? Well, that's delicious. You see I know how to appreciate you, my dear fellow; your frankness is so devilishly piquant, that I am really enchanted with you. Faith, if you ever get into your baronetcy what a sensation you will make among those devilish distingue aristocrats in England. Confound them all, say I! You see my sympathies are all with the masses, and the down-trodden millions, and all that sort of thing, my dear fellow."

"My baronetcy!" I exclaimed; "ah! there's little chance of anything like that for me. I shall be but too happy, if I can but earn my bread and butter honestly, without sighing after a fortune which I have lost by my wicked folly."

"Don't talk about earning your bread and butter, my dear fellow," said he, "while you have that devilish remarkable talent of yours for telling the truth so piquantly; it will be a mine of wealth to you. You will become one of the most distingue men in town, and all the women will be running after you to hear you talk. But to business——"

"To business then, let me entreat you. I am impatient to be gone. My time, probably, is worth more to me than yours is to you."

"Not a bit, my good fellow, not a bit. I will pay you well for every moment you spend with me. You shall name your own price. I am not quite a millionaire, to be frank with you, Pepper, but I have got enough for both of us, and while I have a crust of bread you shall never go hungry. Everything I have is at your disposal. My wardrobe, library, cigars, bank-book, all but Sophie, but never mind about her. And now to business. You see, my dear fellow, as I was saying to you just now, my friend Barton, who is also my banker, and one of the most devilishly agreeable men about town, has told me all about you; so that will save you the trouble of making any expose of your private history to me.

"I am glad of it," said I, "for I had made up my mind not to tell you anything about it to-night."

"Very good. That's capital. I owe you something for that. Delicious!" exclaimed Mr. Slopperton again, rubbing his hands with unfeigned delight. "Everything you say confirms what my friend Barton told me about you. But, as I was saying, I know all about you, now you shall know all about me, and then we shall understand each other the better."

"But if that is all the business you have with me," said I, rising from my chair, "I had better go, for I——"

"Better and better!" exclaimed Mr. Slopperton, again jumping from his seat and clasping me in his arms. "Exquisite! Delicious!"

So, seeing that I had no other recourse but to sit still and wait for the gradual development of Mr. Slopperton's secret business, I sat down again, resolved to allow him to have things his own way; it was growing late, and it was now a matter of indifference to me where I spent the remainder of the night. So I merely said to him, "Very well, my friend, if you will have me to remain until morning, I shall not quarrel with you. But truly your conduct is so strange that I am rather impatient to learn the cause of it."

"You think it strange, ha?" said he, as if surprised.

"Very," said I.

"Well, you are a devilishly piquant fellow, as my friend Barton said, and I like you the better for it. But let's to business. We must have some more coffee first. Antoine! Why the fellow is asleep on an ottoman. Confound the devilishly luxurious rascal, I shall have to discharge him from my service."

A well directed hickory nut having hit Antoine upon his forehead, and roused that saffron colored personage from his slumber, we had a fresh pot of coffee, and greatly to my relief Mr. Slopperton braced himself up in his chair and began to talk in a more coherent and earnest manner than he had done at any time before.

"The fact is, my dear fellow," said he, once more, "you are just the man I have long been in search of. I have been going through the world like what's his name, the old fellow with the lantern, in search of——"

"Hark! hush!" I exclaimed, jumping from my seat and overturning Antoine, who stood behind me with the coffee-pot in his hand.

"What in God's name has happened, my dear fellow," said Mr. Slopperton, with alarm in his countenance, as he too started from his chair.

But I has no time to make any explanations; without looking for my hat, or stopping to say another word, I jumped to the door, and ran along the gallery into which it opened; but in my hurry I turned in the wrong direction, and instead of finding myself at the top of the stair-way which led to the principal entry below, I found myself at the head of a narrow pair of stairs which communicated with the kitchen of the Hotel. Discovering my mistake at a glance, I turned back, and in my haste to get below, came very near knocking Mr. Slopperton down stairs, for he had followed me out to enquire the cause of my sudden flight. Shoving him aside, I jumped down the broad stair-way, and entered the bar-room which was so filled with tobacco smoke that I could not distinguish the faces of the people who were present, at a glance, but it did not require long time to satisfy me that the object of my pursuit was not there. I asked the bar-keeper if a gentleman had entered the bar-room within a few minutes.

He had seen no one.

I glanced on the register, but could not find the name I searched for, and immediately ran into the street, which was nearly deserted, for it was now quite late, and looked in vain for the form I longed once more to behold.

Perhaps the reader will remember that I have alluded to the very remarkable tone of Captain St. Hugh's voice, or at least of its remarkable sound to me. He had a peculiar dry cough, which could not be mistaken for the voice of any other person by anybody who had once heard it; and to me, who had so often listened to it, and in whose ears it sounded sweeter than music, it could not fail to be distinguished among a thousand voices. Just as Mr. Slopperton commenced his explanation, I heard the same dry, quick cough, apparently of a person passing his room door; it made my heart leap with delight as the sound fell upon my ear, for I knew that it was my father's voice, or, at least, I thought so, and this will explain the cause of my sudden movement, for I rushed out with the confident expectation of seeing my father in the hall. But I was miserably disappointed, and after inquiring at the bar if any person lived at the Hotel resembling Captain St. Hugh, I returned to Mr. Slopperton so depressed in my feelings that I could hardly sit and listen to him while he told me his strange reasons for seeking my acquaintance.

I was not given to waking dreams, and was but little subject to superstitious fancies; but being satisfied that Captain St. Hugh had not been in the Hotel, I could not help thinking that it was his spirit that I had heard, for the fact of my hearing his voice was too strongly impressed upon my mind to be doubted. It had just become fashionable again to believe in ghosts, and the inter-communication of the spirits of the living and the departed, and I had heard so many stories told of the mesmerizers, and the wonders of clairvoyance, that I could not dismiss from my thoughts the idea that something fearful had happened to my father, or was about to happen to me. It will be seen, in the end, what cause I had for such apprehensions, but I must not now anticipate my story by making any revelations out of the proper place.

There was certainly some great mystery connected with Capt. St. Hugh's strange disappearance; his neglect to inform me of his designs, and his total abandonment of me after having been at such great pains to find me. When I remembered the circumstances under which I had, as I thought, seen him in the street, and my losing sight of him, I no longer doubted that I had, in reality seen his spirit, and I felt more sad and sorrowful, than I had done before since I woke upon my mother's breast, and found that while I had unconsciously slept there, her spirit had fled forever.

"Good Heavens! my dear fellow," exclaimed Mr. Slopperton, as I returned to his room, "what a change in your countenance! Pray what was the cause of this odd freak of yours. Is it only one of your devilish piquant little ways, or was it something really existing? Let me know all about it."

But I had no heart to make any explanations to Mr. Slopperton; he was not the kind of person to whom I could confide my sorrows, and I therefore begged that he would go on with his story at the point where I had interrupted him, and not take any further notice of my abrupt departure from his room.

"Oh, very well. It is rather piquant and pleasant, rather outre, but it helps to diversify life, and makes something of a sensation.

"But, by-the-way, where was I? O, I remember going about like old what's his name among the classics, with a lantern in my hand, looking for a devilishly piquant, honest intelligent fellow like yourself. And I have found you at last, and mean to make your fortune."

MR. SLOPPERTON made so awkward an attempt to let himself out, as he expressed it, and seemed so much at a loss how to begin his explanation, that I began to suspect he had been guilty of some piece of villainy, and wanted me to assist in keeping the secret for him; but he had not the energy to be a rascal, although, as I afterwards found, he did not lack the inclination.

—"Yes, my dear fellow," he repeated again, "I have been looking all my life for a devilish honest, truth-loving, candid, discriminating, clever fellow, like yourself, and I never found one until I stumbled upon you. My friend Barton told me about you, and I said at once, he's my man."

To be just to Mr. Slopperton, I believe he thought me to be all he said.

"Now, my dear fellow, you must know I have always had a plenty of money. I have travelled in Europe, I have been feted, and dined, and educated in polite learning, I have been sought after by men, and courted by women; I might have married splendid girls, first families, brilliant connections, great estates, and every thing of that sort, but nothing of the kind pleases me; I could see through them all. It was not me they wanted, my dear fellow, but my money. Don't you see?"

"I can easily imagine it to be so," I said.

"Well, that's capital! That's encouraging, Pepper. Only keep it up. But what man of generous impulses, or a soul to save, wants to be courted for the sake of his money? I would sooner be a beggar, Pepper, and receive a good, honest, hearty, well-meant kick, from every other man I meet, than to be so fawned upon and run after by a pack of heartless rascals, who care for nothing but my money."

"I should think so," said I, "but surely you must sometimes have met with an honest friend?"

"Never, never," said he, "and the strangest part of the thing is, that I never gave any of the rascals anything in my life, and yet they will run after me. Catch me giving them any money! No, no, I know better than that; I should be worse off than ever if I did. It would be like holding out a piece of meat to induce a pack of hungry dogs to quit you. I know by myself that no man esteems me more for having money than if I were poor; for I know that I do not care the value of a broken tumbler for what a man has, but for what he is."

"And yet," said I, "you choose for your associates the rich rather than the poor."

"Not at all, not at all," said he, "I don't choose anybody. They all choose me. Don't you see that I have invited you to dine with me, and you are not rich, according to your own confession; but you are honest, and that is better. Everybody flatters me; my tailor tells me I have a devilish fine figure, and for that matter, Pepper, it isn't bad, but why tell me of it? Do you think he would if he didn't charge for it in his devilish exorbitant bill?"

"Probably not," said I.

"Of course he wouldn't, and I know it, too; and so I make him discount twenty-five per cent every time he brings in his account. They don't get the advantage of me, Pepper, with all their flattery. Look at my portrait up there now, see how it's flattered. That fellow, McGilp, the artist who painted it, has given me a devilishly brilliant red and white complexion, when you see I am almost yellow, but to tell the truth, Pepper, I was rather fresh when I sat to him; he has given me a pair of eyes as black and bright as an angel's, and the most devilishly piquant smile you ever saw on a man's face. There's nothing like it on mine, you see."

"Then why did you hang the portrait up in your room, and pay the lying painter for misrepresenting you?" I asked.

"Why, the fact is, the picture is not altogether unlike me, and as Barton said it was devilish good, what could I do? But, they are all alike. I can get no truth out of a living soul, and I was going to give up the search and turn misanthrope, and curse the hollow-hearted world all the rest of my life, when I happened to complain to Barton, and he told me that you were my man."

"It was very good of him," I said, "for I did not think he entertained a particularly good opinion of me."

"Well, that is odd, to be sure," said Mr. Slopperton, with a puzzled look, "for he told me that if I found fault with every body for their deceitfulness, I should seek out that most remarkably truthful gentleman, Tom Pepper, who would be sure to please me; and a hard time I had to find you, my dear fellow. And now I will tell you my scheme. I will put myself in your keeping. I will tell you all my secrets, all my hopes, aspirations, and aims; you shall read me as you would a book, and tell me, like an honest critic, if there ever were such a person, exactly what you think of me."

"But I may not be willing to read you, for you may prove a very disagreeable book to me, which I may not consider worth criticizing?" I said.

"Ah! But you will for money?"

"If I can find no better employment, perhaps I may?"

"I will pay you well, provided you are true to me. I don't expect to have your services for nothing. You don't care anything at all about me?"

"Of course I do not."

"Excellent!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together, "and you rather despise me than otherwise?"

"Yes."

"Good! And of course you wouldn't even take the trouble to tell me of my faults unless I paid you well."

"I think not."

"Better and better! So I shall at least spend some of my money with the satisfaction of getting the full value for it. I will pay you well, my dear fellow, if you don't spare me; tell me of all my weaknesses and follies, all my vices, but them I know pretty well myself, by the way. Reflect me like a mirror."

"And you will consult me as often, perhaps?"

"My dear fellow, you have said it."

"And, like your mirrors, set me in a frame work of gold."

"Excellent! What a devilishly piquant fellow you are. I will give you a check on Barton, for a thousand dollars, at once. Antoine, bring my desk."

Antoine placed a small writing desk before him, and, taking out his check-book, he did actually write an order upon the Bank of which Mr. Barton was president, payable to my order, for a thousand dollars. I thought he must be a lunatic, but he appeared so cool and collected that I saw he was in earnest, and putting the check in my pocket, I told him he might consider my services at his command, and that I would begin to repay my obligations by assuring him that I thought him one of the most ridiculous men I had yet encountered.

"That will do in a general way," said he, "but that is not exactly the style of criticism that I want. I must have something more definite and particular. Why am I ridiculous? What particular thing do you see in me that makes you form that opinion of me?"

I told him that it would take so much time to analyze him entirely that he must be content to take my opinion of him in detail, as the nature of his thoughts or actions were developed to me.

"The very thing I want, my dear fellow. You are an angel to me. But, of course, you will find some good in me?" said he.

I assured him that if I did, he should have the benefit of the discovery.

Mr. Slopperton seemed really grateful to me, and appeared to enjoy my candor excessively; he furthermore revealed to me an ambitious scheme which he had planned for hearing himself abused in the most satisfactory manner, by getting himself nominated for Congress. I told him that he could not have adopted a better plan for getting himself slandered, than by setting up for some public office, for if he had a character as pure as an angel's, and were possessed of the wisdom of Washington, he would be sure of being reviled worse than a thief by all the newspapers opposed to him in politics.

"That will do very well as far as it goes," said he, "but I am not covetous of abuse. What I want is the truth; if people must lie about me, I must confess, my dear fellow, that I would prefer they should speak well of me, rather than evil. But it must be devilishly piquant to read whole columns of abuse of yourself in a newspaper. It must give one a devilishly delightful sensation to know that you are of consequence enough to the world for men to sit down and invent lies about you. I have been trying to write a book, so that I might get abused by the critics."

"And couldn't you succeed?" said I.

"No. It was the worst speculation I ever tried. I spent a year, sweating over the devilish thing; I sat up late at night, I let forth the most moral theories in political philosophy; I invented a new system of politics and wove into my book a good many devilishly sly and piquant infidelities, exactly like the same things which had made Hume, and Voltaire, and Rousseau so notorious; I had the book published by the most respectable publishing house, and a devilish sight of money it cost me too, for advertising; but after all my trouble and expense, nobody would ever consent to abuse the book or its author. There seemed to be a conspiracy among the critics to let me alone. All the notice it ever received was from the daily papers, every one of them declaring, in the most remarkably unanimous manner, that the imprint of the publisher was a sufficient guaranty of its merit, and that no gentleman's library could be considered complete without it; and every gentleman seemed to regard this as a sufficient warning to keep it out of his library, for not a single copy was ever sold, except by the editors who sent their presentation copies to the Auction Rooms."

"So you wisely abandoned the foolish attempt to gain notoriety by writing a book, I suppose."

"Of course I did, my dear fellow."

"And now you are going into polities, where you will not succeed much better," said I. "You will probably get abuse enough, if you should be able to buy a nomination for any office, but nothing else."

"Very good," said he, "I am willing to try; and what with the papers abusing me on one hand, you telling me the truth on the other, my dear fellow, and with a good dinner, I think I shall have a most devilishly delightful and piquant time of it."

"Why don't you," said I, "by way of an experiment try the effects of being honest yourself, and treating other people with the degree of candor which you pretend to desire?"

"Pretend!" he exclaimed. "Come, but that is rather blunt, Pepper, do you say I am only pretending to love truth and honesty?"

"I think it is nothing more," said I.

"O right, I understand. Ha! ha! ha! Come, now, you may tell me just what you think, but you will think differently when you know me better. What do you think I gave you the check on my Bank for, if I were not in earnest? A thousand dollars, Pepper, is a good deal of money to pay away in a joke."

"Still I don't believe that you are in earnest," I said, "and when you find out how meanly I think of you, you will quarrel with me for my honesty."

"Never! never! Try me and see. I am determined to know myself. I like you better than ever, my dear fellow. Come to me to-morrow, and see if I cannot bear all your devilishly sarcastic and cutting truths."

I knew too well that he would not hold out long, for I saw that under all his pretended love of truth, that his selfish nature was only craving for flattery, and that he was unconsciously trying to bribe me to deceive him with a good opinion of himself, while he was pretending to purchase my candid opinions of him. He did not want his wounds probed but tickled.

I left him with his face flushed, and his blood evidently in a ferment. He had gained a sensation, if nothing more, and I had gained a thousand dollars, which elated my feelings to the highest point, for with so large a sum of money in my pocket I thought I might safely venture upon getting married, and I knew that Pauline, if I could gain access to her, would not refuse to share my fortunes for the future.

Remembering my promise to Mr. Bassett, not to engage in any new undertaking without first informing him of it, the next morning I hurried to him, and finding him in his counting-room, told him of my engagement with Mr. Slopperton. He laughed heartily at my story, but looked grave when I told him that I fancied I had heard my father's voice the night before, and cautioned me again not to indulge in such vagaries of fancy. He was quite incredulous as to Mr. Slopperton's intentions to pay me a thousand dollars for telling him what I thought of him, and when I showed him the check on Mr. Barton's Bank, thought that the poor man must be out of his mind.

Mr. Bassett advised me not to spend the money until I became satisfied that Mr. Slopperton was in possession of his ordinary faculties. I was somewhat dashed by this very reasonable advice; for I could not but admit that it would be extremely dishonest in me to take the poor man's money for such a trifling service, unless he were perfectly competent to manage his affairs. He certainly did not lack for shrewdness in managing his pecuniary affairs, according to his own account; but I determined to take the advice of Mr. Bassett, and wait for a further development of Mr. Slopperton's whim before I availed myself of his liberality; and Mr. Bassett having offered to loan me a trifle on the check, for I persisted in refusing all assistance from him in the shape of a gift, I left it with him as security, and again sallied out into the world in search of an occupation. As to accepting the post of truth-teller to such a bundle of vanities as Mr. Slopperton, even though he paid me handsomely for doing it, I could not for a moment think of. It was too much like the situation of the dummy at an Egyptian feast, to remind the guests of their mortality. I had no repugnance to telling Mr. Slopperton my opinion of him once, or twice, even though he gave me no recompense for my candor, but to sit at his elbow and witness his self-delusions only to expose them to him, was a task I felt quite unwilling to undertake, and I resolved at our next meeting to tell him what I thought of his weaknesses, and then leave him; it was not a business of my own seeking. I felt impatient for the appointed hour of meeting, that I might be rid of him. Having no home, I had made a convenience of the public room at Sykes', where I had first encountered Mr. Wilton, and I again sought a refuge there to dissipate the time by poring over the newspapers until the hour should arrive for calling on Mr. Slopperton. This hotel was a common lounging place for all the odd characters about town, who seemed to be drawn together by some strong influence, which operated upon me as powerfully as upon many others in my condition. Actors out of engagements, clerks looking for situations, lawyers in want of practice, doctors without patients, reporters without employment, bankrupt merchants, ruined brokers, desperate artists and speculators of all kinds. These were the regular frequenters of the hotel, but as they all had peculiar characteristics, and having no business of their own to attend to, were well informed in respect to the business of everybody else, they made up a very agreeable mixture of society which proved very attractive to the more orderly and better employed classes, who used to come in there to smoke a cigar and drink a glass of punch, and learn all the scandalous news that was floating about town. I had no aversion to visiting here when I came as a looker-on, but now that I felt myself a constituent part of the motley crowd, it gave me an extremely uneasy feeling; and, instead of being amused with the oddities around me, I sat gloomily by myself, devising some means for my future support. The poor devils who, like myself, came to Sykes' to beguile their idle time, put on a very light-hearted air, and drank, and smoked, played at billiards, and discussed politics, as though the world went lightly with them; but it was easy enough to pick out among them those who had nearly reached the lowest point of desperation, and were only debating in their minds whether it were better to die disgracefully by their own hands or live dishonorably by the hands of others, and those who had but entered upon their career of idle dissipation, and had not yet tasted the bitterness which they were doomed to swallow. I felt in no humor to fraternize with any of the unfortunates around me, but directly a gentleman seated himself at the little table where I sat, and without speaking to me looked at me very intently. He was smoking a cigar, and did not appear conscious that he ever and anon puffed a cloud of smoke in my face, although he sat and watched it very closely, and, as I frowned upon him, looked quite delighted at the indignation which I must have shown. He was by no means an impertinent looking man, and there was a certain expression in his countenance which pleased me, even while so indignant at his impudence. He was well dressed, although a little outre in his general appearance; his face was very pale, his forehead high and broad, his eyes grey, and his hair, which was a rich glossy brown, hung low down his neck in thick curls; he wore his shirt collar turned over his vest, and only fastened in front with a small black ribbon. But, what added more than all to the singularity of his appearance, he wore his beard naturally, which at that time was very unusual, except among pirates and other desperadoes who had the courage to follow the instincts of their nature and allow their hair to grow as God designed it should. For it was then considered either the mark of an abandoned villain, or of a silly fop, to wear the beard after the manner of the Grecian sages and God's prophets.

Seeing that the man was puffing his cigar smoke in my face by design, and not from thoughtlessness, my blood rose at once, and I said to him—

"You are an impudent rascal, sir."

"Do you think so?" he mildly replied.

This quiet response only excited me the more; but, without heeding my fierce looks he drew in another mouthful of smoke, and again blew it about my head. As if to assure me that he did it on purpose to insult me, he exclaimed—

"It is very beautiful!"

By this time I had become so fiercely roused that I jumped up and struck at his face, but he parried the blow and said—

"O, I beg your pardon. Are you angry?"

"Angry!" said I, "do you insult me again, you villain?"

"O, I am very sorry," said he, as mildly as before; "sit down and let me apologize to you."

I was so entirely overcome by the manner and soothing voice of this strange person, that quite unconsciously I sat down again and looked him in the face for an explanation.

"Do you know," said he, looking at me and smiling, "that I like you very much?"

"It is news to me, I assure you," I replied, "and I should never have guessed as much from your manner of treating me."

"Wouldn't you?" he said, as pleasantly as before.

"Pray, who are you?" I asked.

"O, then, you don't know me? My name is Ardent," said he, "the Artist."

"Ardent, the Artist," I repeated; "well, Mr. Ardent, I never heard of you before, and before I extend my acquaintance with you, I must have an apology for your rudeness to me."

"Did you think me rude? O, I am very sorry, very sorry; I hope I did not hurt your feelings. I beg your pardon."

"Enough," said I, "but be so good as to tell me what could have caused you to puff your filthy tobacco smoke in my face?"

"O! was it that that annoyed you?" said he, "I am very sorry about it. But you must know that you have got exactly the head on your shoulders that I have been looking for this long while, and I wanted to see what effect it would have when partially obscured by a mist, and so I blew the smoke above your head, and was so charmed with it that I kept repeating it quite unconsciously. You will forgive me, won't you?"

"Freely," said I, for I could not doubt his sincerity, and my curiosity was piqued to discover something further about this odd specimen of humanity. He was so wholly unlike anybody that I had yet seen that I felt a sudden attachment to him.

"Come," said Mr. Ardent, "go with me to my painting room and I will show you the figure that I am painting, for which I want your head."

I was but too happy to get away from Sykes', and as Mr. Ardent promised to be on amusing acquaintance, and as I had a great fondness for pictures, I very gladly accepted his invitation, and rose to go.

"Have you paid for your drink?" said he. As I had not I stepped to the bar, and Mr. Ardent added, "won't you have the goodness just to pay for a glass of punch and a couple of cigars that I had?"

Of course I could not refuse so polite a request.

On our way to Mr. Ardent's room he delighted me by the originality and boldness of his remarks; his entire freedom from the conventional hypocrisies and errors of the day; the earnestness of his manner and the mildness of his voice. It was in vain that I tried to reply to his remarks, for when I uttered a word it immediately suggested to him something else, and before we reached his room, which was in the upper story of a house far up Broadway, I had listened to a greater amount of philosophical truth than I had ever heard uttered before. He seemed to be inspired upon every subject that he broached, candidly acknowledging his ignorance on certain points, but speaking with the confidence of an oracle upon others, particularly in relation to art. He quite astounded me by the easy confidence with which he uttered what I at first thought must be heresies, because they were contrary to my preconceived notions, but which I soon received as truths, from the earnest and simple manner in which they were conveyed to me. I felt happy in having at last lighted upon an intelligent candid man, one who could instruct me by his conversation without disgusting me with his insincerity or vulgarity, and I speedily forgot that he had at first offended me so deeply by his seemingly gross misconduct. When I entered his room I was greatly amused at the incongruousness of its furniture, and the wild disorder which seemed to reign supreme there. It was the first time I had looked upon an Artist's studio, and was not, therefore, prepared to see all the strange sights which such receptacles for curiosities generally present.

There were a great many casts of Venuses and Apollos, empty champagne bottles, elephant's teeth, a lay figure with a white satin robe over its shoulders, but with nothing on its legs, a Roman shield, a gothic chair, a plaster horse, and a marble dog, all placed together in one corner; the walls were covered with cartoon drawings of heads, arms and torsos; some of them were finished with exquisite nicety, and all of them displayed a masterly hand. There were landscapes, half finished portraits and diagrams in abundance, but nothing coarse or vulgar. There was a magnificent mahogany chair, covered with crimson velvet, placed on a kind of throne in front of which stood an unfinished portrait of a lady, which Mr. Ardent took down and turned to the wall before I had an opportunity to mark it particularly, and in spite of all my entreaties he refused to allow me to look at it. One corner of the room was screened off by a large mounted canvas which he turned round, and showed me the figure of Apollo, which he had spoken of. I was charmed by the majestic beauty of the figure, the dignity of expression, which the Artist had imparted to the features, the depth and richness of the color, and the purity with which the figure, although entirely nude, seemed to be invested.

"Come," said he, taking up his maul-stick, brushes and palette; "take off your hat and try to assume that fierce look which you put on when you struck at me."

"I cannot assume a look," I replied, "I can only look as I feel."

"Well, now, I like that much better," said he, "you look precisely as I wish you to. Only remain so for a moment." And he began to touch upon his picture as I stood before him.

"Won't you take off your coat and cravat?" he said. "Thank you. If you could take off your vest conveniently," he said, in his persuasive manner, "I should like it very much."

I took off my vest as he requested, and, to oblige him still further, took off my shirt, then my pantaloons, until at last I stood before him as naked as the figure he was painting; and I was so charmed by his conversation, and so desirous of obliging him, that I felt quite unconscious of my rather novel position. He continued talking and painting, only interrupting himself occasionally to request me to vary my position, and I listened to him without the least diminution of interest in his conversation. But we were suddenly interrupted by somebody turning the handle of the door, and as he had neglected to lock it, I had but barely time to jump behind the canvas, before the door was opened, and a lady entered.

"Ah! How do you do, Mrs. Napkin?" said Mr. Ardent, "are you pretty well this morning!"

"No. I am not well, and you know I am not," said the lady.

"Ah! I am very sorry," said the artist.

"Then pay me my money. I don't want anybody to be sorry for me that owes me money," said the lady, seating herself.

"It is very unfortunate for me," said he, deprecatingly, "but really I have not got a shilling this morning."

"A pretty fellow, you are," said she, "to be up here painting naked figures, and eating my bread, and my children in want of shoes to their feet."

"Good Heavens! Mrs. Napkin," said he, "it is very unreasonable in you to talk in that manner. I have already given you my watch, that is worth more than five times the amount I owe you; you have taken the silver palette that was given to me by the Academy, besides keeping all my wardrobe, and I have paid you a good deal of money besides, since you turned me out of your house."

"Well, all I know is, I want my money, and I won't leave without I get it, or its full value," said the lady. "Everybody must take care of themselves in this selfish world."

"But my dear friend," said he ——

"O, it's a very easy thing to say my dear friend," said Mrs. Napkin, "but that's not giving me my money. I must have my money. However, if you won't pay me, I will just pay myself."

"For God's sake, don't touch those things," exclaimed Mr. Ardent, and hereupon a scuffle took place between the artist and his creditor, and before I could discover what they were about I heard the door slam to, and the artist looking behind the canvas, exclaimed, in great consternation, "My dear fellow, she has run off with all your clothes!"

"IT is very distressing," said the artist, "to be in debt, and particularly to women, they are so urgent in their demands, and so unreasonable in their expectations. I really believe that I have paid my landlady three or four times the amount of her bill, and yet she continues to haunt me."

"My good fellow," said I, "if you have paid the woman, of course you have taken a receipt from her."

"A receipt!" said the artist. "Well, that is something I never thought of. I wish I had, for she is continually threatening me with a law suit."

"Very well," said I; "if you have been so careless you must suffer for your negligence; but that is no fault of mine, and I am not going naked this chilly weather, because you have got a dishonest landlady."

"Ah! I am very sorry!" said Mr. Ardent; "but what can I do?"

"What can you do?" I replied. "It strikes me that the way is very plain before you; go get a warrant against the harridan for stealing my clothes, and I will wait here for you to return with them. But you must be back soon, for I have an appointment to keep."

"Ah! But consider that she is a woman," said the artist.

"A woman! She is a hag!" I exclaimed, growing vexed at the coolness of the painter. "But do as you choose, either strip and give me your own clothes, or go and get mine; I have an appointment to keep, and I cannot break it."

"Have you?" said he; "that is so unfortunate. But just stand up for a few minutes, until I finish glazing over the head with this madder that I have got on my palette."

"No, no, I cannot wait longer," I said.

"You must, or the effect of my picture will be spoiled," said he.

"But, I tell you, that I must be gone," said I; "it is impossible. I cannot."

"Then I swear to you by all that is sacred, if you don't I will not let you budge from the room to-night." he exclaimed, with a determined air, and looking me sternly in the face.

I saw there was no use in expostulating, and, as the enthusiast had me completely in his power, I could do nothing but yield to his demands; and, placing myself in proper pose, he commenced rubbing on his confounded madder upon the canvas, which seemed to afford him as much pleasure as it did me chagrin. At last he laid down his palette and brush, and, throwing his arms around my neck, said—

"You are very good, and I am very grateful to you."

"But, said I, "this is getting to be a very serious matter, my friend; you seem to forget that I am standing here without a rag of clothes to my back."

"Very true," said he, "you are in a rather awkward box. But I will go out and try to get your clothes back. But suppose that Mrs. Napkin will not deliver them without I pay her what she claims to be her due? I have got no money. Couldn't you lend me some, and I will pay you very soon?"

"Do you forget," said I, impatiently, "that the woman has not only carried off my clothes, but everything that was in my pockets?"

"So she has. What shall I do?" again said the artist, as he stood hesitatingly at the door.

"Allow me to suggest to you," said I, "the propriety of bringing me a suit of your own clothes then, that I may be relieved from my awkward position."

"It happens very unfortunately," said he, "that I have left my entire wardrobe in pledge for a small sum that I owe another landlady, for a trifling board bill. I declare to you that I don't know what to do."

There was but one alternative for me, so I wrote a note to Mr. Bassett, requesting him to give the bearer twenty dollars, and told the artist after he procured the money to obtain my clothes and bring them to me; he then left me, locking the door and taking the key with him. He was gone a long time, and I had to leap about the room to keep me from freezing. I partly clothed myself by robbing a lay figure of its mantle of red velvet, which stood in a corner, and tried to amuse myself by looking into Mr. Ardent's portfolios, and examining his unfinished pictures, which were turned to the wall. I was as much astonished at the beauty of his paintings, their surprising harmony of color, and purity of feeling, as I was at his simplicity of character and elevated mind. He seemed, in truth, to be a singular compound of lofty genius, with a mind of more than child-like simplicity. His want of tact in the ordinary affairs of life, was doubtless owing to his mind being so wholly absorbed in his art; for, as an eagle would starve on a dunghill, where a barn-door fowl would easily pick up a subsistence, so do such men as Ardent starve in the world, while meaner persons contrive to live in ease and splendor. I could readily pardon the artist for the very uncomfortable position into which he had unwittingly thrust me, although my vexation was almost unbearable. I had sufficient time to get cool before he returned, and, indeed, when I heard his step in the passage I was so completely exhausted, for it was nearly dark, that my teeth chattered with the cold. He had a covered basket in his hand, which I supposed, of course, contained my clothes; and as I demanded them hastily, he said—

"I have not got your clothes, my good friend, but I have got you something to eat, and here is a bottle of champagne to warm you."

Vexed and disappointed as I felt, I was too happy in having something to eat to reprove him, and immediately fell to upon the cold tongue, bread and butter, and champagne, which he had brought me. We grew very merry together, and I laughed heartily at his perplexities in trying to get back my clothes. He had obtained the money from Mr. Bassett without difficulty, although he had to wait a couple of hours for him to return to his counting-room from dinner, and at last had been so vexed at the exorbitant demands of his landlady, that he swore that he would not pay her a dollar, and had to come away without my clothes after all.

"Well," said I, "it was very good of you to think of bringing me something to eat. How much money have you got left?"

"The truth is, my dear fellow," said he, embracing me again, "I have not got any. But you will not be vexed with me? I am very sorry it happened so. But what could I do? I remembered that I wanted more colors before I could finish my large picture, and so I stepped into De Bistre's to procure what I wanted, and when I gave the mercenary wretch the twenty-dollar bill which I received from your friend, would you believe that the rascal refused to return me my change, and told me he would place the balance to my credit."

"Heaven save you!" I exclaimed, "what shall I do to-night for my clothes?"

"I am very sorry," ejaculated Mr. Ardent again, "but, how could I help it? I did not think that De Bistre was such a kind of man."

"And pray," I asked, "how did you procure the champagne and cold tongue?"

"O, I left the madder which I bought in pledge for the amount," said he.

So I was now worse off than before, and as it was now quite dark, I gave up all hopes of being liberated for the night, and after Mr. Ardent had lighted a candle, which he stuck into the neck of the champagne bottle, I wrapped myself up in the old fragments of cloth which I found in his room, and forgot all my perplexities while he delivered to me a lecture on the principles of his art, which was so mingled up with shrewd observations on men, and profound reflections on the philosophy of life; that I felt myself not only amply compensated for all the trouble he had put me to, but indebted to him for his instruction.

How long he would have continued to talk I know not, for his thoughts seemed to create other thoughts as fast as he uttered them, and he gave no signs of exhaustion nor I of weariness; but the candle having burned down to the end of the wick suddenly left us in total darkness, and Mr. Ardent exclaimed, "What a stupid creature I am! A thought has just occurred to me. My dear fellow, I will let you put on my clothes, and go about your business, while I remain here to-night, and if you please you can come and relieve me in the morning, for I expect a gentleman here who is to purchase the picture which I am painting. I shall then have money enough, for I shall not sell it for a shilling less than five thousand dollars."

"That is a good round sum," said I, "and I hope you may get it. But I fear there are few of our merchants whose enthusiasm in art will allow them to pay so large a sum for a picture."

"Then," said he, "I swear they shall never have it, I will burn it first."

Mr. Ardent then told me that the painters of England and France, who were much inferior to himself, obtained much larger prices for their works from the noblemen who patronized artists, and that he should not undervalue his work by taking a less sum. I commended his self-appreciation; but I reminded him that pictures, like other things, were only worth what they would bring, and that, as he painted for money, he must be content with such prices as could be obtained. I found it was of no use to argue with him on this point, for he seemed to be impressed with an idea that every one would be as sensible of the merit of his work as himself; and having no desire to go out for the night only, I declined the offer of his clothes, and requested him to lock me in, and return to me in the morning with some breakfast, when I would devise some measures for extricating both of us from our difficulties. I intended to make use of the check which Mr. Slopperton had given me, not only to procure a new suit of clothes for myself, but also to loan the generous, but thoughtless man of genius sufficient money to enable him to complete his picture, which I did not doubt he could sell for a very large sum, although he might not get the amount which he demanded for it.

I found that Mr. Ardent was one of those sincere men who believe that men mean what they say; so taking me at my word, he embraced me again, and bidding me good night, locked the door, and left me to my repose.

He came the next morning, but not before I had been on my feet a couple of hours, and brought with him another covered basket with a comfortable breakfast. I was very impatient to get away, but as he requested me to stand for him while he gave another touch to his picture, that it might be in a good condition for his expected purchaser to look at, I could not refuse him so reasonable a request. I must confess, too, that I felt not a little flattered at the thought of standing for a portrait of Apollo, and as the artist had given the god a strong likeness to my features, I was not altogether displeased at the compliment, as I knew it to be sincere. While he was working at the picture and I stood naked before him, there was a knock at the door, and I had but barely time to leap behind the easel, against which the canvas rested, before his expected visitor entered bringing with him two persons whose presence gave me anything but a pleasant feeling.

"I say, Barton," exclaimed one of them, as they entered the studio, "what a devilishly piquant place this is to introduce a young lady. Don't you think so, Miss Pauline?"

"It is very well," replied a soft, sweet voice that made my heart tremble. "I see nothing very piquant."

"These are my friends, sir," said Mr. Barton, to the artist. "who have come to look at your picture and give me their opinion of it. Faith, it is rather piquant, I must confess, Slopperton. But it's a glorious thing, though, isn't it?"

"Glorious! What a figure!" said Mr. Slopperton. "But how devilishly surprisingly Apollo looks like your friend Tom Pepper, ha, Barton. What do you think, Miss Pauline!"

"Oh! it's a noble figure," said she, "and the face is truly the face of a god. You will buy it, will you not?"

"I am not sure that I will," said Mr. Barton, "it was an Apollo that I wanted and not a Mercury. It looks like that rascal, Tom Pepper, indeed. I don't like the sinister looks of the scamp."

"It is as honest a face as your own," said the artist, sharply.

"Devilishly piquant, that, Barton," said Mr. Slopperton. "It's not exactly the kind of talk for an artist to have to his employer; decidedly not, I should say."

"You are unjust to the figure, I am sure," said Pauline, sweetly; "the face strikes me as noble and full of truth and beauty."

"Full of roguery! It's a rascally face," exclaimed Mr. Barton.

"Not so bad as that, my good fellow, not quite so bad," said Mr. Slopperton; "but I must say, Mr. What's-your-name, that you have hit upon a most remarkable cast of features for your Apollo; it is devilishly piquant and knowing, but it resembles one of the greatest liars in existence. Tut, tut, you never heard of such a reprobate; the devil may be the father of lies, but the rascal that your Apollo resembles is the son of lies. Pretty fair that, ha! Barton? Devilishly piquant and all that sort of thing, but true, though, Miss Pauline."

Pauline made no reply, but I fancied that I felt her indignant looks through the pores of the canvas; and I could hardly restrain myself from stepping from behind the picture and embracing her. It was not very pleasant to stand still and hear myself abused by Mr. Slopperton, whose change of opinion respecting my truthfulness angered me as much as it puzzled me. Nothing but my perfectly nude condition could have restrained me from jumping from behind the painting and demanding an explanation of his abuse. But I was doomed to a much greater mortification than any I had yet experienced, as the reader will shortly learn.

"The painting is pretty well," said Mr. Barton; "there is a sort of a Titianesque tone that is agreeable to the eye, but the subject is not a good one, and I think that the trees have too natural a look; I don't like this actuality in a picture; what I wish, Mr. Ardent, is a little more of the elevation of the old masters, the sort of ideality that you see in the works of Mopson, a very clever young fellow whom I sent to Rome, and who has made some excellent copies of the Byzantine school. You know what I mean?"

"No, I don't know, nor do I care," said the artist.

"O, I know, and I hate the whole of them most heartily," said Pauline; "they are those insipid-looking dolls, with gilt rainbows round their heads. They are detestable. I declare, now, I love this Apollo, and I would not exchange it for a room-full of those horrid creatures which your Mr. Mopson painted. Works, indeed! He may be a workman, but he is not an artist."

"Thank you," said Mr. Ardent, "your opinion is worth something to me."

"O, fie! Miss Pauline," said Mr. Slopperton; "you have not been in Europe, and have not had the advantage of studying the old masters. Now let me point out here the defects in this composition; just look at the arm, for instance; did you ever see such foreshortening in any of the old masters?"

"You shall point out no defects in my pictures," exclaimed Mr. Ardent; "neither shall you have it at all, I will burn it first."

And suddenly seizing the canvas, he lifted it from the easel, and before I could call out to him to stop I found myself standing face to face before the artist's visitors. Mr. Ardent at once discovered his blunder, but he was so much astonished, that, instead of putting back the picture and screening me from their gaze, he only exclaimed—

"Good heavens! what have I done!"

There was no retreat for me, so I could do nothing but stand still; Pauline made a hasty exit, followed by Mr. Barton, muttering something which I could not hear; and Mr. Slopperton remained long enough to say—

"That's a devilish piquant exhibition, Mr. What's-your-name. It will do, now and then, by way of a surprise to your visitors, but I would advise you not to repeat it too often. So, Mr. Pepper, this is one of your devilishly piquant freaks. It's pretty fair though, upon my word. Good morning to you." And so saying, Mr. Slopperton look his leave.

Ludicrous as my situation was, I felt too much chagrined to laugh, and Mr. Ardent seeing my confusion showed no disposition to be merry.

"Ah!" said I, "my friend, you do not know what harm you may have done me."

"I am very, very sorry," he replied; "but I could not help it. I was so exasperated to hear that ignorant fool talk about something which he did not understand that I forgot you were standing behind the picture. Forgive me. What can I do for you?"

"Get me my clothes," I replied, "that I may go and look for employment. I fear that you have ruined me."

"If I have," said he, "I shall love you better for it, and I will paint such a portrait of you as the world has never seen."

"But in the meantime I am suffering for the want of my clothes. You seem to forget that I am naked," said I.

"O! true. What shall I do! Heavens, was there ever such an unhappy wretch? But stop. I have an idea. What a dunce I was not to think of it before. Be patient but a moment or two and I will be back to you."

So saying, the artist put on his hat, and covering up his picture of Apollo with some old newspapers, he took it on his back and went out, locking the door after him. From his absent-mindedness, I was afraid that it would be a long while before he returned; but he disappointed me most agreeably by returning in a very short time, bringing my clothes with him in a bundle. I was too happy to be relieved from my awkward confinement to remain long after I had dressed myself; so, promising to return to the artist's studio the next day, as he begged me to do, I bade him good-bye, and made haste to Mr. Bassett's office for the purpose of obtaining Mr. Slopperton's check that I might cash it at the bank. Mr. Bassett did not appear to be very well pleased to hear of my intimacy with Mr. Ardent, although he laughed very heartily when I related to him the manner in which I had been exposed to Miss Pauline and Mr. Barton. He cautioned me against frequenting the artist's studio, and said I should be in danger of falling into loose habits, if I did not get into a habit of loose thinking, by forming such intimacies.

By looseness, Mr. Bassett explained that he meant liberal, and by liberal he again explained that be meant unrestrained, and so he went on explaining what he meant until at last he grew embarrassed, and I said to him:

"What you mean, I find, is, that I should not think at all."

"Not exactly so," he replied. "A man who never thinks is a mere machine."

"And a man who does not think freely," I replied, "had better not think at all."

"There is some truth in what you say," he remarked; "but it is dangerous, my dear boy, to be a free-thinker. If there is no other danger in it, it is dangerous to the reputation of a business man; and as I hope to see you one yet, in spite of all your odd adventures, I must caution you against frequenting the society of such men as Mr. Ardent; for artists have a prescriptive privilege to be eccentric, and they may indulge in a great many absurdities, and even vices, which might be ruinous to a man of business."

I was here compelled to remind Mr. Bassett that he was now teaching me to be a hypocrite after having imbued me with a love of truth and sincerity; and that I was afraid he had lost his love of that transparency of conduct which he had taught me to cultivate in myself, or that he had lost his faith in his ideal abstraction of truthfulness. He blushed and smiled, but replied with a little embarrassment in his manner:

"You are right, Tom, and I acknowledge the justice of your reproof; I have particular motives which I cannot explain to you now, for requesting you not to visit Mr. Ardent again, and yet I would prefer that you should choose a different kind of person for your intimate friend; for you see that however well meaning and generous Mr. Ardent may be, he is continually liable to lead you into embarrassments by his thoughtlessness."

I could not but acknowledge the justice of Mr. Bassett's remarks, and promised him that after I had called to see Mr. Ardent once again, that I would then avoid him, and endeavor to establish my character for steadiness and sobriety, and live down all the evil reports which had been circulated respecting me. It was now too late to get the check cashed, but I took it from Mr. Bassett, and going to Mr. Slopperton's Hotel found that gentleman in his room, dressed in a Turkish costume, reclining on his sofa and refreshing himself with a bowl of soup. He jumped up at sight of me, and at first was going to look heroic, but he appeared to change his mind, and laughing in his half-earnest, vapid manner, said:

"Well, here you are again, my fine fellow, not according to promise, exactly, but as near as I expected, from you, you know, Mr. Pepper."

"Sir," said I, "you are changed in your manner towards me."

"Changed! well, that is devilishly piquant, to be sure. However, Mr. Pepper, let me do you the justice to say that the last time I saw you, you threw off all disguise. There was no concealment then. Faith, but it was a truthful and perfectly plain exhibition of yourself, and no mistake."

"Sir!"

"O! I understood it all. It was part of your plan to be perfectly candid and to conceal nothing. Ha! ha! Devilish piquant and ingenious. But it was shameful in you and the artist to do such a thing when a lady was in the case."

"Do you mean to insinuate that it was a concocted scheme between myself and Mr. Ardent?" said I.

"Very good! very good, indeed! Most capital joke! Piquant, but rather gross. By the way, it will ruin the artist, though. Your friend will pay dear for his humor, I can tell you."

"Come, sir," said I "this is getting to be too serious a thing to banter about. I will not permit it."

"O, you won't? O, very well, if it is unpleasant to you, let us say no more about it. But it was a rather piquant affair, and it will read devilishly well in print. But, by the way, Mr. Pepper, you have not cashed the check I gave you?"

I told him that I had not, but that I should in the morning as I needed the money.

"Aha! That is lucky," said he; "the fact is, I want to make a small alteration in the check, just to add a trifle to it; I was not liberal enough to you for your very, very sincere remarks to me. Antoine, bring my desk. The check now, if you please, for one moment, Mr. Pepper."

"Here it is," said I, reaching it to him.

"That's it, that's it," he exclaimed, clutching it, and tearing it into bits. "That's it, Mr. Pepper, my good fellow, you will not have the pleasure of spending any of my money. Ha! ha! devilishly well done, Antoine, ha! Rather piquant, upon the whole."

"You wanted my candid opinion of you," said I, "and I promised that you should have it."

"O! of course; you gave it to me; very reliable it was too," said he.

"I saw that you were a poor, vain creature, and I intended you should know it, and the large bribe you offered me only made me the more determined to be perfectly sincere with you."

"Yes, yes, Mr. Pepper, I know all about your sincerity," said he, "I saw how capable you were of exposing yourself."

"I will permit no light allusions to that accident," said I. "You are not worthy of my anger, Mr. Slopperton, but I will not allow you to trifle with my feelings nor with the character of my friend; so have a guard upon your tongue. You thought to bribe me to flatter you, and under the pretense of purchasing my candid opinion, hoped to induce me to flatter you. If you had not been a knave you would not have tried to make a knave of me, and if you had really wanted to know yourself you would have been content with your self-investigation. You are not only weak in your head, but you are bad in your heart. You begin with deceiving yourself, and end with deceiving others. You lied to me but just now in trying to obtain your check from me."

"Do you hear that, Antoine!" said he. "The rascal tells me that I lie!"

"Why shouldn't I?" said I. "Did you not wish me to tell you the truth?"

Mr. Slopperton turned very pale, and trembled as he walked across the floor. He approached me and said—

"So, Mr. Pepper, this is just what I expected. I knew you would abuse me. I have heard all about you. I will tell you how it was, my fine fellow. My friend Barton is a bit of a wag, and a devilish piquant fellow, too; I was telling him how I wished I could find one honest, truthtelling and sincere individual—and he, thinking that I knew what a notorious romancer you were, Pepper, said, by way of a joke, 'there's Tom Pepper, now, he is just the man for you, send for him, and he will tell you the truth; he is proverbial for it.' That's the way it occurred, my good fellow, you see I was rather green. It's no fault of mine. 'Twas a devilish good joke of Barton's, though, and he and Pauline, the young lady he is going to marry, had a good hearty laugh at my expense, when I told them what a dunce I had been."

"The young lady he is going to marry!" I exclaimed, with astonishment.

"The young lady he is going to marry, of course, or the young lady who is going to marry him; just as you please, Pepper, it makes no odds to me, not the least in the world I assure you."

"Is it possible!" I exclaimed, "that Pauline is going to marry Mr. Barton!"

"Possible! It is not only possible, but it is devilishly probable; in fact, it is positively the case, Pepper," said Mr. Slopperton; "no romance about it."

"No, no, there can be no romance about a marriage like that," I said, "but it must not be."

"Well, that is good. It would be a devilish piquant joke if old Barton should let his pretty pullet escape from his fingers after all. Have you any objection to the marriage, Mr. Pepper?"

"You shall know in good time," said I, "what objection I have."

And I turned to go out of the room, for I felt too hearty a contempt for Mr. Slopperton to stand and talk with him any longer, and my temper had not been rendered particularly placid by the revelation in respect to the marriage of Pauline. As I was going out of the door, Mr. Slopperton called me back.

"Stop one moment, Pepper," said he, drawing out his purse from the pocket of his dressing gown, and offering me a bank bill, "here's something to pay you for your trouble; it is not quite a thousand dollars, but it will discharge my obligations to you, my fine fellow."

Rejecting his proffered pay with an expression of contempt, I turned and left him, and once more found myself on the side-walk penniless and without an occupation. I was loth to ask assistance again of Mr. Bassett, and cursed my unlucky fate which doomed me to such constant changes and reverses. I reproached my father, in my thoughts, for not binding me an apprentice to some honorable trade, and could not help thinking that Mr. Bassett had rendered me but a cruel kindness in learning me to hate hypocrisy and deceit, while he turned me adrift among knaves and hypocrites to earn my living. If he had placed me in a position independent of the rogueries of the world, he might well have instructed me to be honest; but how was I to live among knaves and not be a knave myself. For a moment my determination wavered, as I looked around me and saw the evidences of prosperous cheating; there were quack doctors riding in their carriages, turn-coat patriots enjoying profitable offices, pettifogging attorneys living in splendid houses, and all manner of tradesmen respected for their fortunes which had been accumulated by deceiving their customers. But my irresolution lasted but a moment, just long enough to allow me to feel that I was in danger of backsliding, and to make me resolve afresh to preserve my integrity, and do honor to Captain St. Hugh, let the consequences be what they might. I had learned to hate hypocrisy and deceit, and I could never again be a knave. Let those who have become sick of the hollow-heartedness and hypocrisy of mankind, but make the experiment of acting honestly and truthfully themselves, keeping a watch upon their actions and words continually, and they will soon learn to be more tolerant of the knaveries of mankind. I have generally found that those who make the loudest complaints about the deceits of the world, are those whose own deceptions have brought them into contempt. It was not a very hard struggle for me to be honest, I had resolved to be so consistently upon principle, for I had no one dependent upon me whose welfare I felt fearful of sacrificing; I had only myself to look out for, and as I cared for nothing but to merit the good opinion of my supposed father, Captain St. Hugh, it mattered but little to me what disasters I fell into, if I could but keep my honor untarnished from the imputation of a lie. It was true that my past conduct had gained me a reputation for lying which had made my name a bye-word but I had such a profound belief in the omnipotence of Truth, that I knew I should be justified in the end. So it gave me no uneasiness, beyond a momentary feeling of anger, to hear myself spoken of in the manner in which Mr. Slopperton and Mr. Barton had alluded to me. I knew myself to be sincere and honest, and the inward consciousness of truth sustained me against all the outward marks of contempt which were shown me. Besides, I continued to entertain the expectation something would yet happen to place me in possession of the property of my supposed ancestors, and perhaps some of my high toned feelings had their origin in the belief that I was the descendant of the chivalric old Sir Eustace, and was therefore bound to conduct myself in a manner worthy of that fine old English gentleman.

As to my grandfather Pepper, who certainly had rather stronger claims upon me than the St. Hughs—for it was to his early care and affection that I was more indebted for my healthy constitution than to any other human being—I must confess that I did not often think of him. The truth is, I had nothing to hope for from him, and Blackmere Castle more frequently introduced itself into my imagination than the roofless old homestead in which I first saw the light at Apponagansett. Tenderly as I cherished the image of my poor mother, for I could never think of her without my eyes filling with tears, I endeavored to divert my thoughts from dwelling upon her. Time had in no degree diminished or rendered indistinct the recollection of her sweet sad face, and to think of her was to call up a palpable and distinct picture of her form as I last saw it, when it lay cold and stiff, and wrapped in the white robe they put upon her when she had ceased to press me to her beating heart. It was only at moments when I was secure from observation that I ever allowed myself to dwell for a moment on this melancholy subject; but now as I walked down Broadway, after I had left Mr. Slopperton's Hotel, I unconsciously fell into a musing humor, and spite of myself and the noise and bustle around me, I could not help dwelling on the early years of my existence, and every event of my boyhood passed through my mind with a strange distinctness, and so impressed me with their vividness that I quite forgot where I was. Again I thought I could hear the sweetly plaintive tones of my mother's voice as she used to bend over me and call me her poor fatherless boy. Tears gushed into my eyes, and I was blind to every thing about me; but I was soon roused from my dreams and made to feel the painfulness of my actual condition by hearing a voice ejaculate—

"Poor Walter!"

Rubbing my eyes with my pocket-handkerchief, and looking around me for the speaker whose voice I had heard, and which I knew to be Pauline's, I could no where see her. A crowd of ladies were moving along, but I could not recognize among them the form of Pauline. The whole vision of my youthful days was suddenly dissipated, and I was again wide awake to myself; I was no longer an unhappy boy in Apponagansett, but an unhappy man in Broadway without home or employment. But I did not long remember even this, for while I stood looking around me for Pauline, I saw the carriage of Mr. Barton standing in front of a jeweler's, and looking into the store I beheld that gentleman, dressed as usual with exceeding neatness and in the extreme of the fashion, examining some articles of jewelry. Pauline stood beside him, and my blood grew hot and my head began to swim, as I saw him take her hand and hold it in his own, while the jeweler fastened upon her wrist a sparkling bracelet.

Pauline's eyes were not regarding the jewel upon her wrist, nor was she heeding the comments of the jeweler, nor listening to the remarks of the Banker who seemed to be saying something complimentary to her while he looked at the trinket with his eye glass; but her eyes were turned upon me, her gentle blue eyes that always seemed to beam with love and pity when they looked upon me. Mr. Barton was so occupied by the trinkets which were displayed before him, that he did not discover that I stood before the open door, and that Pauline was earnestly regarding me. I guessed at once the object of their visit to the jeweler, which was to select her bridal ornaments. Pauline's elder sister, Lizzy was deeply engaged in discussing with another of the assistants in the store the merits of a silver tea-set; her back was turned towards me but I instantly recognized her by her tall form, and her dark hair which she wore in ringlets down her neck. They were all in high glee, and seemed entirely absorbed in the contemplation of the splendid finery which they were examining, but Pauline, who still kept looking towards me, and gave me a glance of her dear eyes which filled me with rapturous feelings. I was on the point of rushing into the store and clasping her in my arms, which would certainly have been a most ridiculous proceeding, but she seemed to divine my thoughts and shook her head to check me. But I was fast losing all command of myself, and know not what extravagancies I should have committed, had not Lizzy suddenly taken Mr. Barton by the arm and dragged him to the other end of the store where she was examining the silver tea-set. Pauline remained behind, still pretending to be engaged in examining the bracelets, but with her eyes upon me. She looked round upon Mr. Barton and her sister at the opposite end of the store, and taking the bracelet from her wrist returned it to the jeweler.

Was she going to turn her back upon me, and join my old enemy!

She paused a moment and turned towards me again. Her face was flushed, and she seemed to tremble; I was in a delirium of passion for a moment, but a moment only, for suddenly she moved towards the door, and looking back upon her sister and Mr. Barton, who were still apparently absorbed in the admiration of the tea-set, she ran hastily to me and said in a low hurried voice,

"Go, Walter, go. You distress me by looking in upon me, here. You must forget me hereafter. I shall never forget you, but you must forget me. Good bye, dear Walter; it will only distress us both by your remaining here."

But I could not go, and I made no attempt to move; on the contrary I took her hand, which she withdrew and looking back to her sister and Mr. Barton, said again,

"Go, Walter. They have not seen you and I shall be unhappy if they do. Go, go, dear, go."

But every time she said go, I but felt more inclined to stay, and utterly regardless of her entreaties I again caught her hand and held it so tightly that she did not withdraw it.

"Pauline," said I, "did you not love me once?"

"Yes," she said, blushing and casting down her eyes, "I did, but——"

"But what, Pauline," I said; "you hesitate; do you hesitate to say you love me no longer?"

"I did not mean to say that, Walter, but——"

"But you do not love me. I see." I replied, letting go her hand.

"You must go, Walter, if you love me," she said, looking back again.

"I do love you," I said, "and therefore I will not go, Pauline, unless you go with me."

And taking her hand again I drew her from the shop door.

"O, Walter!" she exclaimed, "what are you doing? You are mad. You will cause me a good deal of unhappiness. Go leave me."

"I will never cause my dear Pauline a moment's unhappiness," I replied, and holding her hand firmly in my own, I placed it under my arm, and drew her after me. She did not hold back, but leaned heavily upon me; we glided along the side-walk rapidly, and I was in so excited a condition that I hardly knew whither I went, nor whether we ran, walked, or flew. It was one of those tumultuously happy moments of my life that never fails to set my blood in a glow whenever I think of it. I was in an ecstasy of delight, and my blood tingled with the sensations of triumph as we hurried along. I kept looking behind me, but saw no one in pursuit, and at the first corner we turned out of Broadway into a less frequented street.

"Is any one coming?" asked Pauline.

"I see no one that you need fear," said I, "darling Pauline."

PAULINE clung close to my side as we hurried on in silence until we had reached a by-street, for we were both too much excited to speak. For my own part, I never before in my life had experienced such a tingling sensation of happiness as I then felt. It would, at any time, have been sufficiently delightful to me to feel the pressure of Pauline's arm upon my own, but to know that I had succeeded in entrapping her from the fold of my arch enemy, Mr. Barton, gave me the most exquisite pleasure. So sudden and unexpected had been our movements that I had not for one moment reflected on what would be the probable result of stealing her away, and was silent, until she looked up in my face, with her bewitching smile, and said:

"Dear Walter, where are we going?"

"I know not," I replied, "but we will not stop until we get to a secure retreat. But do not call me Walter again, love, for you know it is not my name."

"Is is the only name by which I know you, and I love to call you Walter," she replied.

"Very well," said I, "let it be so now. But, tell me, Pauline, were you going to desert me?"

"Ask me no more questions," said she, "about that; have I not followed you now? and can you think that I would have deserted you ever, when I follow you now at such risks to myself? No, Walter, I would never have deserted you. When you know all you will not censure me, and, I hope, not love me less, than you did."

I only pressed her dear little hand in reply, for I was too much delighted by her frankness and generosity to make any other answer. I was sure of her now; and on we walked, very rapidly, casting uneasy glances about us, and turning down into the most unfrequented streets, and dreading all the time lest we should encounter a familiar face. But happily we saw no one who recognized us, and at last, when nearly out of breath, we slackened our pace, hesitated, and stood still. I looked Pauline full in the face, for I had hardly glanced at her before. She at first laughed hysterically, and then burst into tears, and then laughed again. She leaned upon my shoulder, and as I felt her little heart beat violently, I began to fear that she would lose control of her feelings, and that an embarrassing scene might be the consequence in the street.

"Come, Pauline," said I, "let us not stop here; a happy thought strikes me. I know of a home where you will be happy and safe until I can procure a better one for you. I have no money, Pauline, but I can obtain some, and you will have no cause to repent of the step you have taken."

"Repent!" she exclaimed, proudly; "why should I repent? Let us go on. I glory in what I have done; it has saved me from the necessity of repentance hereafter. You have saved me, dear Walter, from a horrid fate, and you shall never again have cause to suspect me of repentance. No, Walter, I have not acted rashly; it was only sudden, not rash. I know what I have done, and am prepared for the consequences. You may take me whither you will and I will follow you."

It occurred to me that as my old friends, the Goodwills, kept a kind of Asylum for all kinds of runaways in distress, that they would willingly receive such a darling fugitive as Pauline, for I had known them to be at great expense and trouble in enabling negro slaves to escape from their owners. Pauline's sweet face, thought I, will surely make as deep an impression upon the kind hearted Quakers as though it were a jet black, and her golden locks will not be less pleasant to their sight than the crisp wool of the African wenches they have so often given a shelter to.—But, even though they should refuse to give Pauline a home, until I could procure one for her, I could not doubt that Sophia Ruby, who was such an ardent worshipper of the beautiful, would be too happy to have in her house such a glorious creature as Pauline, who was certainly infinitely more beautiful than any of the Dresden China ornaments or French engravings in her cabinets. The love of the beautiful that is satisfied with the imitations of Art is but a sham passion, and I had no doubt of the sincerity of Mrs. Ruby's love for the beautiful, for she made it the prominent topic of her conversation.

As my sole object now was to find a secure retreat for Pauline, until I could make some permanent provision for her, it was no time to be particular, and I resolved to take her first to friend Goodwill's, and if we were rejected there to then appeal to the tender sympathies of Sophia Ruby. I only told Pauline that I was taking her to the house of a friend where she would be kindly received, and that she might feel herself entirely secure, leaving until some other time a full explanation to her of my peculiar position towards my Quaker friends. Pauline was nothing loth to follow me, and having once more become composed and rational, we threaded our way through all the by-streets and lanes until we reached East Broadway, where the Goodwills dwelt. This was happily very far from the house of Pauline's father, and she felt less fear of being pursued, than she did at first. Luckily we found the wife of friend Goodwill at home, and without knowing the cause of my visit she welcomed me heartily and showed as much kindness of feeling for poor Pauline as though she had been a daughter. But Pauline was terribly embarrassed, and when I told Mrs. Goodwill the nature of our relation to each other, and the object we had in view, the dear girl nearly fainted. The kindly manner in which the excellent old lady received her, however, soon reassured her, so that she took off her hat and looked more bright and beautiful than I had ever seen her before, and I could not help feeling very proud for the Goodwills to know that such a lovely creature had deserted her home and friends for my sake.

"Thee is welcome to remain here, friends, as long as thee pleases," said the benevolent old lady, "but we cannot allow thee to occupy one room."

Poor Pauline blushed very red, and I felt not a little confused at Mrs. Goodwill's blunt remark, which was not intended as a reproof, but was only the result of her cultivating plainness of speech as a religious duty.

I inquired after Desire, but that young lady had gone out on some errand of benevolence in company with Mrs. Ruby, and was not expected back until night. The good old lady retired for a few minutes to prepare some refreshment for us, when I arranged with Pauline that she should remain under the friendly roof of the Goodwills, while I called upon Mr. Bassett to tell him what I had done, and procure some money, for we also resolved to be married at once to prevent the possibility of our separation by any accident that might lead to the discovery of Pauline's retreat.

So, after attempting to partake of Mrs. Goodwill's cakes and sweetmeats, for which neither Pauline nor I had the least appetite, I took a tender farewell of her, and begged Mrs. Goodwill not to allow anybody to see the darling girl that I entrusted to her keeping until I returned, and the old lady promised to comply with my request as far as it was consistent with principle.

I had been in such a delirium of excitement ever since I left the jeweler's shop with Pauline, that I had not stopped to think of the propriety of the act of which I had been guilty, nor of its ultimate results. But on my way to Mr. Bassett's office I had more time for reflection, and I began to think that my conduct would not appear to him in quite so favorable a light as it did to myself. It was clear that Pauline loved me, and that was sufficient excuse for running away with her; it as clear, too, that she did not love Mr. Barton, and that was sufficient reason for preventing the match between them; it was quite clear, too, that in my present circumstances I had no right to entice Pauline from her happy home, for I had no home to take her to in the place of her own. But still I could not persuade myself to relinquish the prize which I had obtained, and I trusted to receive sympathy and money too, from Mr. Bassett; but in these expectations I was disappointed, for on telling him the particulars of the abduction of Pauline, he not only did not approve of my conduct but lectured me severely for it.

I felt too proud to attempt to justify myself, and told him that I had called to tell him what I had done in accordance with my promise, and that what I wanted of him was assistance, and not advice, and that if he would not give me that which I most needed I would prefer not to receive the other.

"Now, Tom," said he, "I see that you are really in earnest, and therefore you do need my advice for the reason that you do not feel the want of it. There is no act of a man's life, my dear boy, in which he so much requires the advice of his friends, or so little feels the necessity for it, as in his marriage. You are blinded with passion, your blood is inflamed, your head is turned, and you are wholly insensible of the dangers that surround you; I, on the contrary, am cool and unprejudiced, have no feelings to influence me, except a desire to see you happy, and am therefore more likely to judge correctly in this affair than you can be; and now let me tell you, Tom, that if you were not very much blinded indeed by your passions, that your natural keenness of insight into character would enable you to see that Pauline has no real love for you, or at least not the kind of love which is likely to endure and render a man happy."

I was too indignant at the imputation upon Pauline's sincerity to reply to him, and turned to go out of the counting-room, when he put his hand upon my shoulder and told me to stop.

"Why should I stop here longer," I exclaimed in a passion, "to hear you abuse the purest minded and most beautiful creature in the world? No, I will not allow any person to whisper a word against the unsullied purity of Pauline's character."

"I have said nothing against her character," replied Mr. Bassett, smiling; "I merely said that her love for you was not of that kind which is calculated to make a man permanently happy. Consider, Tom, that after having once promised never to desert you, that she was on the point of being married to a man that she entertained no love for whatever. Does that sound like the act of a woman capable of enduring affection?"

I was startled at this new aspect of the character of Pauline, and replied that, although circumstances might appear against her, yet I was confident of the purity of her mind and the devotedness of her love for me, and that a very satisfactory explanation could be made of her conduct.

"Ah! that may be," replied Mr. Bassett, "but until the explanation shall be made, my dear boy, be careful how you entangle yourself for life. An hour or two of prudent reflection now, may save you from years of wretchedness hereafter. Pauline is a very sweet girl, and I can readily understand the ardor of your feelings towards her; but truly, Tom, I should regard with suspicion a young lady who could so readily desert her natural ties for my sake. Instead of regarding it as a proof of the strength of her love, I should only look upon it as an evidence of the weakness of her principles; for love, Tom, is not a passion, but a principle, and a dutiful and affectionate daughter you may be sure will prove a loving and dutiful wife. You, who so love truth and honesty, or at least profess to do so, could never long retain your love for your wife if you found her lacking in those qualities."

"Of course I could not," said I; "but who will say that Pauline has ever been insincere?"

"As for that," replied Mr. Bassett, "I would not accuse her of duplicity; but it is very clear that she was acting insincerely towards Mr. Barton when she consented to marry him, while her heart was wholly devoted to another, for, of course, Mr. Barton would never have thought of marrying a young lady who frankly told him that she did not love him; and if she did not tell him of the true state of her feelings she was guilty of a very great wrong towards him, one that she could never have atoned for."

I was forced to admit that there was some appearance of reason in what he said, but such was my confidence in the integrity of Pauline's nature and the innocence of her heart, that I was willing to stake my chance for happiness upon my union with her, and I assured Mr. Bassett that sooner than wound the feelings of Pauline by demanding an explanation of her conduct that I would submit to a life of misery. It was enough for me to know that she had placed her honor and happiness in my keeping, and I would not, like a selfish villain, wound her tender sensibilities, for the sake of satisfying my own scruples.

"I shall deem it but a small matter," said I, "to sacrifice myself, if it be necessary, for the sake of so pure, so sweet and so lovely a creature."

"Very well," said Mr. Bassett, "let the consequences be upon your own head, but remember, rash boy, that I warned you in time."

"No, Sir," I replied proudly; as I turned to go, "I will not remember it; I owe you too much already for past kindness to remember that now you endeavored to destroy the brightest prospect of happiness which I have ever yet been blessed with. I will not remember it if I can help it."

"Poor Tom!" exclaimed Mr. Bassett as I closed the door; but what he said besides I did not hear. In spite of all my boasting I felt a slight pang of jealousy, which was caused by the cool and quiet argument of Mr. Bassett. Pauline had certainly manifested not a little frivolity by her flirting with Mr. Barton, and, as I retraced my steps slowly towards friend Goodwill's again I almost determined to ask her to explain to me her motives in deceiving Mr. Barton.

As I walked dubiously along, pondering on the words of Mr. Bassett, which I could not forget, and doing my best to smother the jealous imp that had got possession of my thoughts, I was suddenly startled by hearing my name spoken, and, looking up, I saw before me Mr. Riquets and his friend Pilfor.

I had been so thoroughly disgusted by the conduct of these pretenders, and had so plainly manifested my contempt for them, that I was indignant at their impudent familiarity in addressing me, and frowned upon the graceless rascals. I will do Mr. Riquets the credit to say that he blushed when I looked at him, and appeared confused; but Mr. Pilfor, if he had ever possessed any delicacy of feeling, or harbored an idea of personal dignity, had long since outgrown all such things, and cared for nothing but to gain his ends, which were to dress well and live luxuriously. He took no notice whatever of my manner, but addressed me in his bland voice as follows:

"Why, my dear fellow, how remarkably well you are looking. I was saying to Riquets as we came along, our friend Pepper there is one of the most distingue looking persons I have seen in Broadway, in many a day."

"And I agreed with him, too," said his companion; "I will go before a commissioner, if you please, and take an oath that I never in my whole life was so impressed with the idea of a perambulating Apollo Belvedere, as when I saw you walking along the two-and-sixpenny side of Broadway. Do, my dear friend, just put yourself in an attitude now as though you were going to slay a python, just to oblige me, and I will do anything in my power to serve you."

"Be so good, then," said I, "as to oblige me by leaving me. I prefer to be alone."

"O, if that's the case," said Pilfor, "I regret extremely, in fact it gives me a good deal of uneasiness, to think that we have interrupted you. But we had a proposition to make to you, which it is of some importance you should hear now."

"Let me save you any further trouble," said I; "I have no money that you can rob me of, and cannot serve you at all, neither would I if I could."

"O, you quite misunderstand our motives," said Mr. Riquets; "we had not the least idea of such a thing."

"I am sure I am positively shocked at such an imputation," said Mr. Pilfor; "you evidently have imbibed a prejudice against us, for some very inexplicable reason. Is it not so?"

"It is," said I, "and for no very inexplicable reason either, as you well know."

"Well, I am utterly astonished, I am sure," replied the perplexed-looking Pilfor, "but I cannot help it. The prejudices of some people are really very strange."

"Never mind," said Mr. Riquets, throwing his head back and flourishing his little ebony stick, "you have imbibed a prejudice against your very best friends, now let us go into some fashionable restaurant and imbibe a julep together, after which I think I may venture to presume that the budding thunder gust that seems to be lowering about us will expend into a most deliciously bewitching full blown rainbow of contentment. Come."

"Gentlemen," said I, "you have made a mistake this time; I am out of pocket, and you will not succeed in getting anything out of me. If I go to a restaurant with you, you will have to pay the cost yourselves."

"I really hope, sir, that you do not look upon us in the light of swindlers?" said Mr. Pilfor.

"I must confess to you that I do," said I.

At this Mr. Riquets smiled in a dismal manner, and Mr. Pilfor remarked that there was nothing more common and, at the same time, more dangerous, than for people to form hasty opinions about strangers.

"Really, gentlemen," I replied, "your attentions, just at this time, annoy me extremely."

"That's very unlucky for you," said Riquets, "for we had a proposition to make to you, which we prefer you should hear now, as we have not the pleasure of knowing where you reside, and may not meet you again. If you are in a hurry we will walk with you, or step with us into a coffee-house and we will discuss the matter over a cup of chocolate or cafe au lait.

"That's a very charming suggestion of yours, and I think I can pledge my honor that our rather eccentric friend will oblige us," said Mr. Pilfor.

Such fellows as Mr. Pilfor, I have always observed, make a great parade about their honor, and are willing to pledge it on the slightest consideration. What motive this precious pair might have in thus fastening upon me I could not surmise, but I knew they had some sinister end in view, and would, therefore, have left them without hesitation had I not expected they would dodge me and discover the retreat of Pauline. In the hope, therefore, of getting rid of them, I yielded to their request and accompanied them to a coffee-house near by, but not without feeling guilty of dissimulation in hiding my motives. However, my conscience acquitted me of duplicity, for I had told them frankly enough what I thought of them, and how much I desired to be rid of their attentions. But it was always one of my weaknesses to allow knaves to impose upon me. I had a repugnance to wounding the feelings of a rogue, even, and have many a time allowed myself to be cheated rather than let a knave know that I understood his real character. In the case of Riquets and Pilfor, however, I confess that I had no such scruples, for I had discovered that it was no mortification to them to be found out in their knaveries. They were of that numerous class of adventurers who think that to be well dressed is to do well, and who confound shabbiness of apparel with shabbiness of conduct, and who imagine that fine linen and fine feelings are synonymous terms. Mr. Pilfor had an artistic eye for dress, and I cannot deny him the credit of looking like a gentleman everywhere but in his countenance, which no art can prevent from being the symbol of the mind, to those who can read it truly. Mr. Riquets, on the contrary, in spite of his fine dress, had the look of an organ-grinder or an image-vender, and the manner in which he carried his head suggested at once the thought of his having carried a board upon it. Both of these fellows professed a great love for art, and, like Sophia Ruby, were continually talking about the beautiful, but without any of Mrs. Ruby's sincerity or single-heartedness. They professed to an ecstatic veneration for art but had no feeling for nature; they did not, like Mr. Ardent, the painter, love art because she stood for nature, but they mistook the tinsel and trinkets of art for art itself, as they mistook a man's clothes for the man himself. Although bearing no possible resemblance to each other externally, there never were two persons of the male sex better matched than were Pilfor and Riquets for being alike base they could feel no shame or degradation in each other's society.

"Come," said I, as we sat down at one of the small marble tables in the coffee-house into which I had permitted myself to be drawn, "come, let me know at once what your business is with me, that I may go."

"O, by all means," said Mr. Pilfor, "we would not be guilty of the rudeness of detaining you against your will for the whole world. Would we, Riquets?"

"I would as soon think of detaining a perfumed zephyr, as his feet tripped over my perspiring brow of a summer afternoon," replied Mr. Riquets. "But, come, let us have our cafe au lait and a cracker."

The coffee and the crackers were brought, and Mr. Riquets, as if to relieve my mind from any uneasiness, paid for them in very prompt manner.

"The fact is, sir," said Pilfor, "Riquets and myself, and two other literary gentlemen"——

"Why don't you name them at once," said his companion, "and save any further inquiries?"

"Well, I will, but I beg you will remember it is done in confidence," said Mr. Pilfor. I bowed, and he proceeded—

"The two gentlemen, in fact, are both known to you, and are two very remarkable persons: Mr. Jasper Ferocious and Mr. Tibbings. Ferocious is really a man of remarkable genius, and Tibbings is quite a person in his way, although it is rather a small way; but he is such a gentlemanly creature!"

"He is a perfect amenity of literature," observed Mr. Riquets, parenthetically.

"He is quite so, indeed," observed Mr. Pilfor, "and us four will make up a very desirable quartette party, but I have a superstitious veneration for the number five. There is luck in it, and so Riquets and myself have concluded to invite you to join us."

"Join you!" I exclaimed, "and what, pray tell me, shall I join you in?"

"One of the most magnificent enterprises of the age," said Riquets, "something that will immortalize us all and make us as rich as Rothschild and Astor put together. You will be completely fascinated when you hear the scheme."

"I fear not," I replied, "but let me hear it. I have a scheme of my own on hand which is sufficiently fascinating."

"It is a buttercup to a butternut tree compared with ours," said Riquets, as he jerked his head back as though he had a design of throwing it off his shoulders; "but show him our plan, Pilfor; let it rain its balmy influence upon his soul."

"This is it," said Mr. Pilfor, as he drew himself out and seemed to elongate like an opera glass; "it is one of the most capital things that was ever conceived for making a fortune and achieving a most desirable reputation."

"But what is it to me?" said I impatiently, for I was fearful that something might befall Pauline if I prolonged my absence.

"You shall see all in good time, sir," replied Pilfor, with an important flourish of his hand. "This is our scheme."

"Look out now for rainbows and aurora borealises," exclaimed Mr. Riquets; "you will be perfectly entranced and taken off your feet."

"We propose," continued Mr. Pilfor drawing a paper from his pocket, "to establish a new and brilliant paper in this city to be called the Quizzing Glass."

"Isn't the idea a most felicitously enchanting one!" exclaimed his companion.

"The object we have in view is to shoot folly on the wing, to satirize vice, to hold up to public scorn the follies and fashions of the age, to furnish a perfect magazine of refined wit, genial humor and trenchant criticism, and to preserve, withal, a high moral tone, and teach the world important lessons in good behavior," said Mr. Pilfor, or rather read from the paper he held in his hand.

"Isn't it a perfectly brilliant undertaking?" said Riquets.

"Perfectly so, it strikes me," I said, "but most brilliantly ridiculous for you. Pray do you intend to do this by yourselves."

"O, no, by no means," said Mr. Pilfor, "we have already engaged the services of Mr. Ferocious, a most remarkable person and Mr. Tibbings who has got money; and will lend us the use of his name as we have told you already."

"Well, I have listened to your plans, but as I do not see that they are of any consequence to me," I replied, "I shall not stop to hear anything further."

"Stop one minute, if you please," exclaimed Mr. Riquets as both he and his companion caught hold of my arm. "Stop one moment my dear fellow, you are such an original genius that really we would be most happy to have you join us in our enterprise."

"Not, I," I replied, "let me go. I desire no connection with you."

"O, then, we have another very liberal proposition to make to you. We will give you a share of the profits in our paper, if you chose to become a part proprietor. We will not require any money from you, but will take your note of hand for your share of the capital."

I could not exactly comprehend the designs of these rascals in making this attack upon me, but I was well assured they had some sinister motive which they endeavored to cover up by their absurd proposals. Their nefarious plans leaked out a few days afterwards, but at the time I was at a loss to conceive of their motives. I had become too impatient to return to my darling Pauline to waste more time on them and in spite of their efforts to detain me, I broke away from them and again found myself in the street. My first impulse was to run with all my might towards friend Goodwill's, but fear of being watched compelled me to a more moderate and prudent course.

So, avoiding the public streets, I made my way cautiously through the by-ways of the city, until I reached friend Goodwill's house, where I found things in a very different position from what I had left them. The whole family was in a ferment, and my darling Pauline was in tears, and on the verge of hysterics. The cause of this new difficulty proceeded from a quarter where I had least anticipated any embarrassment. During my absence from the Goodwill's, the hitherto gentle and loving Desire had returned, and on being introduced to Pauline, and informed of the reason of her being there, that modest young lady had become dreadfully excited, and insisted on Pauline's being turned out of doors before I returned. But the good old lady would not countenance such a ruthless and unfeeling proposition on the part of her daughter. Notwithstanding that Desire had on all occasions shown so great a liking for me, she now refused to speak to me, and exhibited a degree of passion that quite confounded me. As soon as I entered the room, Pauline flew into my arms, and entreated me to remain in the house no longer, and expressed as much abhorrence for Desire as that young friend had for herself. I was shocked beyond expression to find how unfortunately things had gone at the Goodwill's, and was grievously disappointed at the reception of Pauline by the hitherto affectionate and gentle Desire. But there was no other course for me than to leave the house with Pauline, which I instantly did, accompanied by the parting blessing of Mrs. Goodwill and the frowns of her daughter.

"It is very odd, dear Pauline," said I, "that Desire Goodwill, who appeared so partial to me before, should suddenly express such a dislike for me now."

"Dear, dear Walter," replied Pauline, clinging to my side, "what an innocent you are. It was not you that she disliked, but me for being loved by you. O, dear Walter, promise me that you will never see her again. She is a wicked creature."

I promised that I would not.

"And now, Pauline, let us go to Sophia Ruby's; she is a true friend to the unfortunate, and such a worshipper of the beautiful, that she will be proud to have you in her keeping; she has always some fugitive or other under her care, and is never so unhappy as when not contributing to the happiness of others. If she was not such a lover of the True as well as the Beautiful, and whatever is true, I believe, she esteems as beautiful, I should think that my candor had sometimes offended her."

"Is she beautiful?" asked Pauline.

"Not so beautiful as you are, Pauline," I replied; "but it is no fault of hers, for she tries to make herself so that she may afford pleasure to others."

"How amiable it is in her, I am sure I shall love her," replied Pauline.

There was such a sweet sincerity in Pauline's manner, that as soon as I saw her I forgot all the jealous feelings which had been awakened by the remarks of Mr. Bassett, and I no longer entertained the least doubt of her devotion to me. So entirely free from anything like the calculating prudence of some young ladies was Pauline, that when I told her of my unsuccessful application for money to Mr. Bassett, she seemed to cling to me more fondly than ever. Our walk to Mrs. Ruby's house was but a short one, yet short as it was, it was long enough to give me renewed confidence in Pauline, and, if possible, to increase my love for that entrancing creature. The unexpected termination of our visit to the Goodwills had rather shaken my confidence in meeting a kind reception at Mrs. Ruby's, but that philanthropic soul received us as warmly and commended us for our courage as heartily as though we had been her own children.

"You have done perfectly right," said Mrs. Ruby to Pauline, "in consulting your affections rather than the will of your parents or the custom of society. If your parents really love you, they will approve whatever gives you the most pleasure, but if they are so very unnatural as to wish you to marry to please them rather than yourself, I do not think they are entitled to obedience from you; as for society I do not think its laws are entitled to the consideration of an independent mind; for my own part, I have long since turned my back upon it, and owe it nothing. The true law of life is enjoyment; whatever adds to your happiness is lawful, and the only sin is the infliction of misery. Suffering is such a discord in the harmony of nature that I do not think it has any right to be in the world, and that therefore everybody is bound to do something towards extinguishing it by cultivating the true and the beautiful. Everybody cannot be beautiful, but everybody can be true, and truth and beauty are more nearly akin than perhaps you are willing to believe."

Pauline was charmed with the philosophy of Mrs. Ruby, it was so unlike the asceticism which had been always preached to her by her parents, who regarded all enjoyments as sinful, and as religiously believed in the necessity of cultivating crosses and hardships, as Mrs. Ruby did in the opposite doctrine. This philosophical philanthropist was dressed with uncommon gaiety, and her hair had been cultivated to that extreme of beauty that it had become a bright purple. She had received us in a lower room, but after we had explained the cause of our visit, she invited us to walk up into her boudoir, where, to use her own language, we should meet one of the truest loves of harmony, a purely intellectual nature, whose daily food was music, and whose spirit was like an infinite circle, it was so comprehensive and embracing. Pauline, as well as myself, would have preferred not to see Mrs. Ruby's intellectual friend, and so we told her, but as she insisted, and we had thrown ourselves upon her protection, we had to yield to her desires; and on stepping into her boudoir were equally astonished and vexed to find in the remarkable gentleman, no greater person than Professor Sprads. No sooner did the ardent Professor catch a glimpse of me than he ran and embraced me with a great show of enthusiasm, and Mrs. Ruby's benevolent countenance fairly beamed with delight. Poor Pauline was so much astonished and frightened at finding a person to whom she was known that she nearly fainted.

"So then you know them, Professor?" said Mrs. Ruby.

"Know them!" exclaimed the Professor in an ecstasy: "O, no! of course, not. I rather should venture upon the assertion that I didn't know anybody else; excepting, of course," bowing gallantly to Mrs. Ruby. "our distinguished friend, whom not to know is to be worse than unknown."

"How delightful these accidental re-unions of old friends are," said Mrs. Ruby, "and how many such will there not be in the infinite future."

"Admirable idea! Magnificent! superb! delicious thought! How delighted Madame Sprads would be to listen to such gushings of a poetical soul! So perfectly delicious in feeling, so superb in conception, so beautifully, admirably expressed!" exclaimed the Professor, clasping his hands together, and casting his eyes up imploringly to the ceiling.

"Isn't he a most remarkable creature?" whispered Mrs. Ruby; "he has such sympathies with the true and the beautiful."

"Ah! you should see the pleasure of Madame Sprads in listening to poetry like that. I do actually, positively, and decidedly believe that it would excite her to that degree that she could not contain herself. I do actually believe it," said the Professor; "I have often remarked to her that my divine and most charming friend would really prove too much for her nerves, she is such an extraordinarily sensitive creature; so much soul!"

"I am such an enthusiast in music," said Mrs. Ruby, "that I love everybody who helps to produce harmony in the world, because I feel that it is by harmonious circles rising one above another that the divine truths of the universe are sustained."

"What a deliciously profound thought!" exclaimed Professor Sprads; "upon my word, Mr. Pepper, I would give any amount of money if Madame Sprads could have heard that delicious remark."

As I had told Mrs. Ruby our exact situation, how I had run off with Pauline, and wished to find her a shelter where she would be safe from the pursuit of her father, until I could find employment which would enable me to provide a suitable home for her, and had also explained to Mrs. Ruby my own penniless condition, it would be in the last degree ungrateful and base if I did not here acknowledge the generosity of her conduct, and confess myself indebted to her for her unselfish liberality towards Pauline and me. So far from our necessities or improvidences affecting in the least degree her conduct, or causing her to regard us with coolness or suspicion, she seemed to feel more kindly disposed and more earnest in her desire to make us feel entirely at home in her house. But Mrs. Ruby was a remarkable exception to the rest of the world, she felt no particular sympathy for those who were well provided for, and basking in the sunshine of fortune, unless they happened to be of a musical turn, but the afflicted of all degrees and colors, were sure to find in her a sympathizer; the greatest sinners, however, came in for the largest share of her sympathy, and those who were most indifferent about themselves, found in her the most abiding friend. It was enough for her to know that assistance was needed, without inquiring into the cause, and if she could not afford the required aid from her own income, she always sought for it among those who had the means, and knew her character well enough to trust in her dispensing their charity properly. Professor Sprads had called upon her to solicit her aid in bringing before the public by the means of those preliminary notices of the Press, without which no new scheme can ever be successful in an age like ours, which takes its form and pressure wholly from the newspapers; and he had just finished his exposition of his plan as we entered. Mrs. Ruby, it appeared had entered zealously into the Professor's views, and promised him all the aid her pen could render him. Thinking that we might be of service to the Professor and the Professor to us, and that by forming a league with him we might safely marry, and so get up a very pretty little romance; and next to getting some poor wretch released from prison, or rescuing a frail sister from her abandoned course of life, there was nothing that gave Mrs. Ruby so much satisfaction, as promoting a run-a-way match. In doing so she only thought of the pleasure of the runaways, and the tyranny of the parents, and never of the misfortunes that might grow out of the marriage to any of the parties interested. She was an optimist to the extent of believing that every thing should be all right and pleasant in the world; and so much opposed was she to suffering of all kind, that she was puzzled to account for such a manifest mistake in nature as discord. All things, she insisted, ought to be in harmony, and she was almost vexed that they were not.

"Your coming here this afternoon," said Mrs. Ruby, turning to me, "is really providential. Professor Sprads has just been telling me of a project which you and Pauline can join in, and it will be to your advantage, and give you both a very delightful position. You would not object to our young friends joining in your enterprise, Professor."

Here the Professor clapped his hands together, and gave another imploring look at the ceiling, as though the bare mention of such a thing had deprived him of speech.

"It isn't just the thing of all others which I should desire most," said the Professor. "Of course, not; O, no!"

"He is such an enthusiastic creature," said Mrs. Ruby.

"And Madam Sprads wouldn't be delighted; of course, not," continued the Professor, "and it isn't perfectly delicious; by no means. I am enraptured at the thought. What a splendid connection it will be for them. And such mints of money!"

"Pray, what is this scheme?" said I, "which is to produce such mints of money, and work such wonders?"

"The Professor," said Mrs. Ruby, "is about to get up a family, and he wants two such young persons as you and Pauline to assist him, and really I think you may be of great service to him."

"Isn't it exquisite! Perfectly delicious!" said the Professor, grasping my head and shaking it vehemently.

"A family!" said I, quite at a loss to conceive his meaning.

"O, no! of course, not. Not a family, but the Sprads family. Delicious, isn't it?"

"Really I am at a loss to conceive how I can aid you in such an attempt." said I, still more embarrassed.

"Such delicious innocence!" exclaimed the Professor, "it is positively refreshing. Quite so. Madam Sprads will certainly die when I tell her. I shall lose that most estimable woman I know. Exquisite!"

"Be so good," said I, "as to explain your scheme."

"My scheme is simply this, and you will not approve of it, of course, certainly not." said the Professor, with an ironical wink, "such a perfectly delicious scheme nobody would approve who happened to be in want of money and a splendid connection.

"I propose, sir, to get up a Sprads family." said the Professor, grandly, "for the purpose of giving concerts. Don't you think it a perfectly magnificent idea? The Sprads family! Madame Sprads has the most delicious soprano; she is to be the sister and the prima donna assoluta of the family. If a more superb voice than Madame Sprads' was ever heard in the San Carlos Opera House, I should like to know whose it was, that's all. I am to be the elder brother and the basso; and you and Miss Pauline shall be the young brother and sister; I have already engaged a third brother, who is to be the buffo of the family; he is a little old, but he can be trimmed up very well, and with some new teeth and a gentleman's real head of hair, he will pass off by gas light for as young a man as myself."

"But, Professor," said I, "do you really make such a proposition to me in seriousness?"

"I never was more serious in my life, sir," replied he, with a flourish; "why shouldn't I be? Think of the sensation we shall create. Large bills posted all about the streets with THE SPRADS FAMILY in immense capitals; then there will be the notices in the papers; bouquets thrown on the stage whenever we appear; all our portraits beautifully lithographed and placed in the windows of the music stores; then there will be the Sprads Soirees, the Sprads Polkas, the Sprads quadrilles, the Sprads hats, the Sprads everything. O, it will be perfectly delicious! heavenly! superb! Why shouldn't I be serious?"

"But, as charming as it appears to you, Professor, it strikes me very differently; for I could not consent to deceive the public by passing myself off as your brother, even though I had no objections of a more serious nature to assuming the name of Sprads," said I.

"What, not when you could make such a perfectly splendid connection by doing so!" asked the Professor with unfeigned astonishment.

"The Professor's love of art is so strong," said Mrs. Ruby, "and his soul is so wrapped up in music that he has no opportunity to cultivate a love of truth, which is a passion by itself.—But from my own stand-point of observation I can appreciate and reverence the worship for the beautiful which I discover in both of you."

"What a magnificent conception!" exclaimed the Professor again; "if Madam Sprads could have heard that brilliant remark I don't positively think she could ever have survived it."

"If you will allow me," said Mrs. Ruby, "I think I can suggest a plan that will meet the objection of Mr. Pepper and also serve the purposes of the Professor."

"Of course," replied Professor Sprads, smiling and bowing; "Of course she can. That remarkable woman, as I have often said to Madame Sprads, in the sanctuary of our fire-side, can do any thing. She is a perfect Crichton, only she is more admirable, every way. Listen to her:" and the Professor looked knowingly at me.

"Since you have scruples about assuming the name of Sprads," said Mrs. Ruby to me, "and your love of the Beautiful and the True will not permit you to call yourself by any other name than that of Pepper, why not call the association the Pepper Family?" "Never! Never!" cried the Professor, leaping from his seat; "What, Madam Sprads give up her splendid reputation, and be called Madam Pepper! And I Professor Pepper! O, it's deliciously absurd! The Pepper family! O, it's delightful."

"But it's idle to dispute about the matter," said I, "for I cannot sing; and as for Pauline, she must not appear in public. There are other means of procuring a subsistence than by singing; so you must not count upon the assistance of Pauline and I in getting up a family, Professor."

Pauline had sat during the whole of this ridiculous discussion, with her veil closely drawn, and apparently agitated, but whether by mirth or grief I did not know.

"Very well," said the Professor, "very well; there are whole armies of eligible ladies and gentlemen who will be most happy to join us; and such a splendid soprano as Madam Sprads can have no difficulty in getting up a most attractive family. Then don't throw away a most superb chance for a splendid connection. O, no, of course not. That's all."

And having thus delivered his sentiments, the Professor grandly withdrew, for there was an air of grandeur in everything that the little man did.

"Professor Sprads is a man of genius, I know," said Mrs. Ruby, "but he has his peculiarities, as all men of genius have."

"Yes, he is certainly a very singular person," said I, "but his genius all seems to lie in the inordinate estimate which he places upon the powers of that remarkable woman, Madame Sprads, as a delicious soprano."

"He reminds me of Beethoven in his impetuosity," said Mrs. Ruby, "and I certainly do not esteem him the less for having a good opinion of his wife, who is a most remarkable woman; at least I think she must be a remarkable woman who could inspire him with such a profound regard for her genius. But, perhaps this is an unpleasant subject to you, and you would prefer talking about your own affairs."

"I would, indeed," I replied, "for it is time that we resolved what to do."

"You of course love each other," said Mrs. Ruby, glancing toward Pauline, who blushed a deep scarlet.

"Of course we do," I replied.

"And you are willing to make any sacrifices for the sake of each other," continued Mrs. Ruby.

"Yes," sweetly whispered Pauline, as she looked tenderly in my face.

"Yes," I replied, "we would undergo any labor, or endure any hardship, if we might but live with each other."

"Then why not be married now?" said Mrs. Ruby, "you will certainly not increase your hardships by being married, and the enjoyment of each other's society will be a solace to you in your troubles."

This was so much in accordance with our own way of viewing the matter that we agreed entirely with Mrs. Ruby, and assured her that we were not only quite willing to be married, but that we most ardently desired the consummation of our vows; the only bar to our doing so being the want of a home.

"That shall be no hindrance," replied Mrs. Ruby; "you shall have a home here until you are able to provide one for yourself. My style of living is plain; but, such as it is, you shall be heartily welcome."

Pauline was so overcome by the goodness of this generous-hearted woman that she threw her arms about her neck and kissed her. As for myself, I was quite wild with joy, and proposed going for a clergyman immediately. Mrs. Ruby and Pauline both seconded the resolution, and without waiting for any further discussion, I took my hat and was just leaving the house to go in pursuit of a clergyman, when Pauline called me back, and whispering in my ear that a plain gold ring would be necessary, she slipped her purse into my hand, and giving me a gentle push, closed the door upon me, or I know not what I might have done. As Pauline had gone out on a shopping expedition, her purse was well filled; but I would have died sooner than have used a shilling that it contained. I put the precious treasure in my pocket, and set off in pursuit of a clergyman, and fortunately found one in the next street, who promised me that he would go directly to the house of Mrs. Ruby, as soon as he could put on his gown, and would wait for my return. There being no jeweler's shop in the neighborhood, I was obliged to go further to purchase a ring. I had proceeded but a short distance from the clergyman's house, when, as I was turning the corner of the street, I saw on the opposite side old Gil and Mr. Barton, followed by two men who had the appearance of police officers. My first impulse was to turn and run but as that would be showing a want of candor, and might justly subject me to the charge of deception, I walked boldly towards them. As soon as old Gil and Mr. Barton perceived me they ran across the street, and calling to the two men behind them to follow them, cried out—"Here's the villain; seize him before he escapes." The two officers directly laid hold of my collar, and as I had shown them that I was not disposed to run from them, I felt under no necessity of submitting to such an indignity, and I saluted each of them with a blow in face, and told them to take their hands off. But they kept a strong hold of me, and were ordered by Mr. Barton not to let me escape.

"Escape!" I exclaimed, "from what, or whom, should I escape? What is the meaning of this attack upon me?"

"The meaning of it is that you are a villain," said Mr. Barton, "and you are going to be punished for your villainies."

"Where is my daughter?" said old Gil, "whom you have enticed away from me, to repay me for the kindness I showed you, and for taking you into my house when you were starving, you vagabond."

"Your daughter is safe," I said, "and where she prefers living to bring forced to marry a man she despises."

"Gag the rascal!" acclaimed Mr. Barton; "search his pockets officers, he may have some deadly weapons concealed about him."

"I will save them the trouble," said I, taking from my pockets their contents, among which was Pauline's purse.

"The villain has robbed my daughter of her purse," said old Gil, as he caught sight of that precious article.

"Ah! that's enough to convict him," said Mr. Barton, "the rascal! Not content with obtaining the poor child, he must pick her pockets. What an atrocious villain he is. Officers keep a good hold of him."

Such vile accusations as these made my blood boil, and, in my anger I struggled hard to escape from the grip of the mercenary wretches who had seized me; not that I would have run from old Gil, or the hypocritical financier, Mr. Barton, but that I might get hold of the specious rogue, and repay his insolence. But they were too powerful for me, and my rage almost paralyzed me. To be accused of robbing my dear Pauline, for whom I would have gladly sacrificed my life, was so vile a charge that I could not submit to it, and, if I had been free, I would have made the bank-President repent his insolence towards me. Old Gil I could pardon, for Pauline was his favorite daughter, and anything that he might accuse me of I could attribute to his grief at her loss, but the cool and wily Mr. Barton, I did not believe had any love for Pauline, although he was so anxious to marry her, and I could only attribute his vile charge to a malignant spite against me as his rival.

"Tell me what you have done with my daughter?" said old Gil, "and you shall go free. I will not prosecute you even for robbing her, or for your crime in abducting her. All that I want is my child. I have no revengeful feelings against you, notwithstanding your shameful abuse of my confidence."

"Be careful how you promise," said Mr. Barton, "the villain must be punished; he must be put out of the way of doing any more harm. If you are willing I forgive him I am not. It is time he was under the charge of the State. Look out for him officer; if you allow him to escape, I shall hold you responsible."

"As for you," said I to Mr. Barton, giving him as contemptuous a look as I could, "I despise you too much to make any explanation to you. But to the father of Pauline I owe an apology for my conduct, and I love her too sincerely not to respect her father."

"Don't let him blarney you," said Mr. Barton; "you know what a romancer he is."

"I don't fear his blarney," said old Gil; "he knows me too well to think that I can be influenced by it. Tell me, Walter, what you have done with Pauline; my heart aches for the misguided child. It is you that has enticed her from her home and her duty."

"Pauline is well and safe," said I; "no harm can befall her while she remains in the asylum to which she voluntarily followed me. I have put no constraint upon her, and if she wishes to return home I shall not oppose it. But I will not reveal the secret of her retreat, unless you promise that she shall not be annoyed by the addresses of a man whom she despises."

"Make the rascal no promises," said Mr. Barton, "there will be no difficulty in finding Pauline, the villain has taken her to one of his infamous haunts. Hold him hard officers, unless you wish to lose your reward. Trust to me for finding Pauline."

"You have not been married, Pepper?" said old Gil.

"No," said I.

"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed the old man.

"Don't believe him," said Mr. Barton, "I'll warrant he has done more than that."

THE result of my capture by the father of Pauline and her intended husband, the bank-president, was a nights' confinement in the city prison on a charge of abducting the young lady and robbing her of her purse, which the inexorable officer of the law deprived me of. Being in great distress on account of Pauline, and knowing that her tender heart would be pierced with fears for my safety, and fearing, myself, that she might suspect me of deserting her intentionally, I wrote a note explaining to her the cause of my absence, and beseeching her to remain quietly under the protection of Mrs. Ruby until I could procure bail, and be set at liberty once more. I hired one of the turnkeys of the prison to deliver the letter, but the treacherous knave, instead of conveying it to Mrs. Ruby's, immediately carried it to old Gil, who thereby discovered Pauline's retreat, and having secured the darling girl, he caused me to be set at liberty the next morning. Not knowing what had happened, immediately on regaining my freedom, I hastened to Mrs. Ruby's and was made acquainted with the fact of Pauline's being carried off by her father. I knew it would be useless to attempt to regain access to Pauline, and had no doubt that she would be compelled to marry Mr. Barton, for I could not but acknowledge to myself that Pauline, although I had no doubt of her love for me, was easily persuaded by those who had any claim upon her affections.

I was foiled in my matrimonial attempts, and now that Pauline had been removed from my sight my passions were cooled, and I saw that I had been on the point of committing a very great folly, for it would have been wretchedly thoughtless to involve a generous and confiding girl in my own embarrassments and miseries, resulting from my want of reliable means of support. And I could not but wonder that so well meaning a person as Mrs. Ruby should have encouraged us in our inconsiderate designs. But that tender hearted philanthropist so delighted in seeing other people happy that she never looked beyond the immediate effects of her measures and schemes. She was a mere child in her feelings, and played with human beings as though they were toys, caring nothing more about them than for the gratification which their oddities or pleasures afforded her fancy. It was a pleasing sight to her to see two ardent and thoughtless young persons, like Pauline and I, made happy by being married, and therefore she encouraged our thoughtless folly, without reflecting on the ultimate misery of such an act to ourselves and our friends.

It was because wickedness was so very disagreeable to her, that Mrs. Ruby was so great a reformer, for it annoyed her by its hideousness, rather than outraged her sense of justice. The beautiful was never wicked in her eyes, and an agreeable sinner had, for her, all the excellencies of a saint. She talked a good deal about the inner life, but she was most affected by the outward show of things; and whatever seemed fair, was, to her, fair. Although I readily discovered the true character of Mrs. Ruby, and saw that she loved the beautiful on account of its agreeableness, and not because it was true, as was plainly enough shown by the arts which she employed in the embellishment of her own person; yet I felt flattered by her evident partiality for me, and loved her because she seemed to take so much interest in my welfare. In relating to me the particulars of Pauline's meeting with her father, she seemed to regard the whole affair as a little romantic entertainment which had been got up expressly for her pleasure; and my own vexation seemed to afford her as much gratification as any part of the little drama.

Dear, sensuous Mrs. Ruby, what a charmed life she led, in her little sanctuary, surrounded by singing birds, and flowers, and German engravings of celestial ladies, with eyes upturned, and their fingers engaged in sweeping over the strings of a harp, instead of sweeping with a broom. Although there were not many such persons as Mrs. Ruby in the world, yet there were a good many who had a reverence for her, and regarded her as another Saint Cecilia. Music being the most sensuous of the fine arts, and making its appeals solely to the feelings, while it leaves the reason unmoved, it was the favorite passion of Mrs. Ruby, who loved the excitement which it caused in her feelings, and saved her the trouble of thinking. All musicians, therefore, were most kindly entertained by Mrs. Ruby, and some of them, like Professor Sprads, made use of her generous nature for the purpose of furthering their own designs. But Mrs. Ruby, with all her weaknesses, was a true woman, and a genuine philanthropist, for even though some of her acts were not dictated by a far-reaching wisdom, yet they were all calculated to render somebody happy; there was no ill-nature in her making, nor anything of that satanic disposition, which gives so keen a perception of the foibles and imperfections of other people as to render its possessor continually unhappy, and disagreeable to others. No, Mrs. Ruby imparted cheerfulness to others by her own cheerful and summery feelings; and in spite of my disappointments and chagrins I left her feeling tolerably well content with myself. But once out of the warm atmosphere of her presence, I was again chilled to the heart by reflecting on my perfectly destitute and wretched condition, and resolved once more to make a character and position for myself in the world or die in the attempt.

It is very easy to resolve to do great things, but performance is another matter; and a youth with a bad character, without money, and with but one friend, in a great city, is in a most hopeless condition to achieve greatness, or even gain money. As I had made my own character by my unfortunate mistake in supposing that a falsehood could be made to answer the purposes of truth, I had no one to blame for my mishaps but myself; but I could not help murmuring that since I had made so many sacrifices to preserve my integrity, and had done so much to establish a character for sincerity and truthfulness, that so many accidents had thwarted my intentions.

I had no other resource now than my unwavering friend, Mr. Bassett, who had been my good angel from the beginning, and preserved me many times from ruin. So, on leaving Mrs. Ruby's house, I proceeded directly to Mr. Bassett's counting-room, and was received by that excellent man with the same appearance of cordiality and kind-heartedness that he had always manifested towards me.

"Well, Tom," said he as I was about to speak, "so, you have been again in difficulty."

"Alas, sir," I replied, "I fear I shall never again be free from it. I must seek my fortune in another country where my name is unknown, and the past acts of my life will not be stumbling blocks in my way."

"Poor Tom!" said Mr. Bassett, "you have had a troublesome time of it since you took upon yourself the responsibility of your conduct. But do not be discouraged. What do you need most to enable you to accomplish your designs?"

"Money! money!" I exclaimed in a frenzy; "I can do nothing without money. No one will believe the word of a pauper; there is an impression, I find, that truth must have a property basis. The same people who respected me when I had money now laugh at me when they find I have nothing in my pocket."

"I am glad you are coming to your senses," said Mr. Bassett, patting me on the shoulder; "you would refuse my offers of assistance, and thought you could make yourself famous for truth without a dollar in your pocket; and you might have succeeded, Tom, if you had persevered, and chosen to live poor and neglected, that you might be well spoken of after you were dead; for the acts of men are judged of without any reference to their wealth after they leave the world. But that is a costly way of procuring a reputation, for you have to sacrifice everything to obtain it, which is worth possessing. Let people say what they will, Tom, about Fame, it is a frivolous thing to live for; it is something that cannot be enjoyed, and is well called by the Poet, the last infirmity of noble minds. I believe I have quoted the expression correctly, but the sentiment is a just one. The most famous men have cared least about fame, and never knew that they were well known."

"It is not fame that I desire," I replied, "but an honorable reputation, that I may prove myself worthy of the name of my father."

"It is an honorable ambition, Tom," said Mr. Bassett, "and I applaud your motives. Try to believe so that I may applaud your conduct. You have tried the purifying influence of poverty, and now you should try the opposite course. Wealth has greater temptations than want, and since you have said you want money, you shall have it."

"I did not come here to beg," said I.

"I know you did not, and I am not going to treat you as a beggar," said he, "but as a friend. You want money; well, why should I not supply your want? but, you want a character, too; that I cannot supply. If character must have a property basis, as you think, you shall have the basis to begin with, and we will see what kind of a structure you rear upon it, and whether you will prove yourself worthy to bear the name of St. Hugh, if your father should ever be restored to you."

Mr. Bassett then opened his check book, and reached me a draft on the bank of which Mr. Barton was president, for ten thousand dollars. I was surprised at the sum, and refused to accept it. But Mr. Bassett compelled me to take it by assuring me that if I did not he should construe my refusal into an act of unkindness to himself. He would listen to no refusal, and insisted that I should take it without making any other promise than that I would call upon him for more when it should be all spent. He also released me from the obligation which he had before imposed upon me of informing him of every new undertaking which I might engage in, and told me I was free to act as I liked, to go where I pleased and come when I pleased. I was so deeply affected by this generous conduct on the part of Mr. Bassett, and so puzzled by the strangeness of his conduct, that I knew not what to say. But I took the draft, and left the counting-room of my benefactor, almost bewildered by the apparently good fortune which had befallen me. Mr. Bassett really seemed to take delight in conferring benefits upon me, and, as I took my leave of him, he shook my hand so cordially, and appeared to enjoy my surprise so much that I could not help feeling that I had been conferring a benefit upon him in accepting his liberal gift.

But, what was I to do with this large sum of money, which had been so suddenly put in my possession? A suspicion crossed my mind that it had been given to test my character; but why should Mr. Bassett wish to indulge in so costly an experiment. He professed to have already entire confidence in my integrity, and he could hope for no personal advantage to himself from my future course of life. I was puzzled to fathom his motives; but the money was in my possession, and my first impulse was to make a display of it. So, having drawn the amount from the Bank, I called upon old Gil, whom I found sitting at his tattered old desk precisely as I had first seen him, with a heap of papers before him, and his person bearing the same marks of carelessness. He looked up in my face, as I entered his dingy little office, inquiringly, but he said nothing.

"I have called upon you for assistance," said I, as he seemed to be waiting for an explanation of my visit.

"Assistance!" he exclaimed, "assistance! What to enable you to run off with my daughter again?"

"Nothing of the kind," I replied; "the assistance I want is not money."

"I am glad of it," he said, surlily, "for you would not get it."

"I supposed as much," I said, "I knew that you were always ready to receive money, and as I have got some to invest, I want your advice in the matter."

"Don't think to deceive me by any of your romances, Pepper," said he, turning to his desk again. "I know you too well. But how much money have you to invest, a quarter dollar?"

"I have ten thousand dollars," I replied, taking the roll of bills from my pocket, "and would be glad to have the benefit of your advice in investing it safely."

"Pooh! pooh!" said old Gil, "why do you come here to annoy me with such stories. You can get nothing out of me by such conduct. You cannot impose upon me. I know you, Pepper."

"You do not know me," I replied; "is there any deception in these bills; look at them; are they not genuine?" And I threw them upon the desk of the old man, who started as he turned them over, and summed up the value.

"They are all genuine," said he; "but how did you obtain them?"

"Honestly," I replied; "and I mean to use them honorably. Will you keep them for me, until I can determine in what manner to use them?"

Old Gil's countenance brightened up as he spoke, and he said:

"Certainly, Pepper, I will take care of the money for you.

"I never refuse money, Pepper," continued old Gil, as he counted the notes which I handed him, and scrutinized them closely, examining the texture of the paper, and looking at every one separately by holding it up to the light. "I never refuse money on deposit, because I can always operate with it to good advantage. But, you are sure, Pepper, that there is no mistake about the bills?"

"I hope you do not doubt my word," said I, looking at him indignantly; "for if you do——"

"O, no, not exactly that, Pepper," said he, putting the bills into his desk and locking it; "but——

"Give me back my money," said I, "if you have any doubts of my honesty."

"O, no, nothing of that sort," replied old Gil, "I can say with truth, Pepper, that you never robbed me of anything, except my daughter, and I believe you to be honest in money matters."

"But you think me like a good many of your Wall street friends, perhaps, honest in money matters, but dishonest in everything else. Is not that what you were going to say?" said I.

"Pepper, you have a very loose way of thinking about some things, and I am afraid you have not had good religious instruction. You deceived me once, you know, but I will overlook the past; perhaps you will do better hereafter."

"I have done better," said I.

"Well, you have done pretty well to get so much money," said he; "it is none of my business how you came by it, but I hope, I mean I presume, you got it fairly and honestly. I will operate with it and give you half the profits; money is tight, and I can buy some good paper at a large discount."

"I will take nothing but legal interest," said I; "I will not be a party to any schemes for robbing people by taking advantage of their necessities."

"Pooh! pooh!" exclaimed old Gil, "and yet you robbed me of my daughter. You talk about robbing! Do you think money is more valuable than a man's child?"

"If I do not," said I, "it appears that you do."

"I?" exclaimed the old fellow, scowling at me; "what do you mean by that, sir; have I stolen anybody's child?"

"Not that I know of," I replied, "but you did worse, in bartering your child for money."

The old fellow blushed a deep scarlet as I spoke, and the tobacco juice dripped from each corner of his half-open mouth, upon the corners of his dingy white cravat. At last he recovered himself, and exclaimed with passion, "it is false, it is no such thing. I never bartered away my child for money. If you mean Pauline, she never told you that I wished her to marry Mr. Barton."

"She never did tell me so, it is true," I replied; "but she understood your wishes, and was willing to sacrifice her own happiness to please you."

"I have no objection to your thinking so," replied old Gil; "my daughter is more dear to me than she can ever be to you; let her do what she will, Pepper, she could never loosen the cords which bind her to her father's heart. Ah! you think you love her, perhaps, and you may love her with the selfish feeling of a man for his mistress. But you would not love her with undiminished affection if she were to abandon you as she did me."

"But she would never abandon me," said I.

"Did you have this money when you ran off with Pauline?" said he, as if desirous to change the subject.

"No," I replied, "I was then almost penniless."

"And now you have ten thousand dollars," said he, "it's a large sum to gain in so short a time. Tell me honestly, Pepper, how you obtained it?"

"Honestly, then," I replied, "it was given to me by Mr. Bassett."

"And why should he give you this large sum?" said the old man, looking me steadily in the face, as though he were trying to detect evidence of guilt in my looks.

"I know not, indeed; but he gave it to me without solicitation on my part," I replied, "and appeared to do it willingly."

"It is a strange business," said he, "but I think I can guess what it means."

"You were speaking about Pauline?" said I, anxious to hear more about her.

"She is my child, Pepper, and I can neither hear any one speak ill of her, nor name her faults myself. She is my darling daughter," said old Gil, wiping a tear from his eye, "and I love her better than all the others. I don't want her married. You must not tempt her away from my house. There is Lizzy; why do you not fall in love with her; she is as good a girl as her sister, if you must have one of my daughters? Lizzy writes pretty poetry, and likes you as well as Pauline does, I dare say. Come up and see her."

"I will go with pleasure," said I, "if you will allow me the privilege."

"Allow you the privilege!" exclaimed old Gil; "of course I will. We are not afraid of you; my daughters will be glad to see you. Nancy is always talking about you, and Matilda said the other day she would be happy to see you once more. Come up to-night. You remember Judith, and my two youngest daughters, Agnes and Maria, but they always call you Grimshaw."

"I fear they have all imbibed a very bad opinion of me," said I.

"Not at all," replied old Gil, "they have not heard me or their mother say any thing ill about you. And there is Maria, who has just returned from a visit to her aunt, who will be glad to see you once more; come up, come up."

"I will come to-night," I replied, "but, make no allusion to my Grimshaw freak, if you please. It was one of the deceptions which I was compelled, or at least thought I was compelled to practice."

"Let it pass," said he, "and now about the money? Shall I give you my note for it?"

"No, there is no occasion for that," said I.

"There you are wrong," said old Gil; "there is occasion for it. Never trust to any man's honesty in matters of business. The sum you have given me is too large not to have a voucher for. Here is my due bill for the sum. I have business to attend to now, Pepper, but I shall expect to see you at my house to-night."

So he reached me his note for the money; and then thrusting the papers which lay scattered before him into his hat, he left his office, and I bade him good morning.

My reception by Pauline's father was so different from what I had anticipated, that I felt more sure of Pauline than ever, and had no fears now that I should not be able to triumph over Mr. Barton.

As my wardrobe had been a good deal neglected, and my personal appearance had not been much improved by my recent vagabond way of life, I thought it advisable to do myself justice in the matter of dress, and to pay a little more attention to my external appearance than I had done for the past month or two. I was neither vain of my personal appearance, nor particularly fond of dress, but as I was now about to re-enter society once more, and take my place among respectable people as the possessor of ten thousand dollars, quite a fortune in those days, and as the rival in love of a dashing bank-president, and as the prospective heir of a baronetcy, and a large landed estate, I felt myself bound to keep up appearances, and do credit to those who had taken the pains to put me forward in the world. While I was in want and looking about town for employment, uncertain about provision for to-morrow, and with no money in my pocket, I would not be guilty of putting on false appearances by assuming a costly style of dress as many do. When I was poor I preferred being thought poor, but now that I was rich, for the same reason I was anxious not to be taken for a poor devil.

So, when I left old Gil's office, I went directly to a tailor's, who had often solicited me to allow him the pleasure of making me a suit of clothes, and procured an outfit adapted to my circumstances; and being so well pleased with my altered looks in my new attire, I was rather anxious for the evening to arrive that I might make my appearance before Pauline, and enjoy her astonishment.

It was very clear that old Gil had no dislike to me, as he appeared quite willing that I should run off with either of his dozen daughters, except Pauline, who was the only one that I had taken a liking to.

After being fully equipped in the latest fashions from head to foot, and establishing myself in handsome apartments in a good hotel on Broadway, I sauntered up and down that crowded thoroughfare, impatiently waiting for the lamps to be lighted that I might burst upon old Gil and his daughters on my newly donned splendor.

As soon as my sense of propriety would permit, I was in front of old Gil's tall brick house, and on pulling the door bell was immediately admitted by the Irish servant, who exclaimed on seeing me; "Heaven bless me! but it is Mr. Walter come back."

And before I could stop her, she ran into the parlor and exclaimed, "here's Grimshaw come back again!"

I followed close behind her, and was welcomed at the parlor door by Mrs. Gilson, who took my hand in a friendly manner, and told me she was glad to see me once more. This friendly greeting from the kind lady for whom I had always entertained a very sincere regard, as she had been uniformly kind and considerate to me, and seemed to love me because she thought that I was her countryman, dissipated all the apprehensions I had felt of not being well received, and gave me confidence to enter the parlor boldly.

"Here is Grimshaw again," said old Gil, rising and reaching me his hand; "but he is somewhat changed, children, not only in his dress but in his name. He is no longer Walter Grimshaw, the friend, but our friend, Mr. Tom Pepper."

"Thomas, father," said Matilda, who rose and reached me her hand.

"No, my daughter, not Thomas, but Tom. You have heard of Tom Pepper before, children."

"O yes," answered half a dozen small voices; "we have heard about him, is Walter Tom Pepper?"

"Yes, my children, this is Tom Pepper himself. But you must call him Mr. Pepper, until he gets another name. But where is Lizzy?" said old Gil.

"She will be down in a moment," replied Matilda.

"And where is Nancy?" said old Gil, for neither of the two were present.

"And where is——," I was going to add Pauline.

"Yes, yes," said the old gentleman, "where is she, where is she? Where is Maria? and what has become of Judith. Call them down, my child;" he addressed himself to the little one sitting on his knee whose name was Agnes.

"I did not mean them," said I, "I meant——."

"O yes, I know," said old Gil, "you meant Caroline, but Caroline is on a visit to her married sister in the next street."

"O, no, I did not," said I, "it was not Caroline that I meant."

"But here comes Lizzy," said the old patriarch, as the black eyed and sedate girl entered the room, followed by her dumpy sister Nancy, "and there is Nancy too. My daughter, here is Grimshaw come back to see you all, but with a new name. But he is your friend the same as ever."

"I am sure we shall be too happy to see out old friend back again," said Lizzy, reaching me her hand, "to find fault with a change of name."

Nancy merely curtsied to me, for she was the Cinderella of the family, and either preferred retirement, or was forced into it by her more showy sisters, and never ventured to say anything. The old fellow was determined that I should say nothing about Pauline, for whenever I attempted to speak her name, he would say something in reference to one of his other daughters. But as my object in paying him a visit was expressly to have an interview with Pauline, I made another attempt to inquire after her, who was the only missing member of the family.

"It is a great pleasure to me," I remarked, addressing Mrs. Gilson, who had resumed her rocking-chair, "to see you all once more, looking so happy and cheerful; but there is one member of your happy-looking family missing, whose presence would add to my pleasure."

"Caroline?" said Mrs. Gilson as she caught a glance from the eye of her husband, who was looking intently at us.

"No, not Caroline," I replied, "but Pauline? Where is she?"

"O! Pauline!" said Mrs. Gilson with evident embarrassment, "Pauline is——"

"Pauline is engaged;" said old Gil, gruffly, suddenly interrupting. "She is engaged, Pepper!"

"Who is sister Pauline engaged to, Mr. Barton?" asked Agnes.

"Put this child to bed," said her father, taking her in his arms and placing her in the hall; "I am surprised, my dear, that you allow the little ones to be in the parlor when there is company here."

Little Agnes was not disposed of without some pretty loud demonstrations of opposition on the part of that young lady, which had the effect of creating a good deal of confusion in the parlor. But I was determined upon knowing something positive about Pauline; so when composure had been restored in the family group, I asked again what had become of Pauline.

"Pauline, Pepper," said old Gil gravely, "cannot be seen for the present. I will explain to you by-and-by the cause of her absence."

There was an evident feeling of restraint among the girls, occasioned by my enquiring for Pauline, which they made awkward attempts to disguise, old Gil was fidgety, his quiet wife had an uneasy look, and Nancy was silently engaged in attempting a Cinderella-like task of unravelling some skeins of silk, while Lizzy appeared to be busily engaged in looking for a particular passage of a favorite author, which she held upside down. For myself I sat silent and morose, intending to take my leave at once when a fortunate pull of the door bell, and the entrance of a stranger happily caused a diversion of thought into another channel, and relieved us of our embarrassment. The gentleman who came in I had never seen before, but he appeared to be quite at home among the Gilsons, and smiled grimly upon them in a manner which might have been construed into a declaration of defiance rather than a friendly greeting. His visage was very thin and pale, his nose high and sharp, his hair long, black, and glossy like an Indian's. There was an attempt at gentility in his dress, strangely at variance with his manners; as I glanced at his dubious figure and expression, I thought to myself, he must be either a priest turned into a soldier, or a soldier turning into a priest. But first impressions in respect to individuals are generally erroneous. He was neither one nor the other.

"Allow me to introduce you to the Rev. Job Headless, the celebrated Author," said old Gil; "Mr. Headless, this is our young friend Mr. Tom Pepper, of whom you have heard my daughters speak."

Why, Pepper, how are you?" exclaimed the Reverend and celebrated gentleman as he squeezed my hand with his long wiry fingers, and almost tore it from my wrist. "I am delighted to see you. I don't know of anybody I would have preferred seeing."

I could do no less than thank Mr. Headless for his friendly expressions, but I was a good deal surprised at his familiarity, and not particularly impressed in his favor. Without having the least fear of him, I could not help experiencing an uncomfortable sensation of his being about to strike me.

"What is there new in literature?" inquired old Gil; "have you got any new works out since you were here last?"

"Not exactly out," replied Mr. Headless, "I thought of a perfectly splendid history yesterday, which I commenced this morning, and I think I shall have it ready for the press by the end of the week."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Lizzy, who was always alive to hear anything new in literature. "Pray what is it? Do let me know all about it before it comes out in the papers. What is it about?"

"I think of calling it the Bloody Battle of Bunker Hill, or Warren and his Warriors," said the author.

"What an admirable title," said Lizzy, shutting up her book. "How impatient I am for the work."

"Do you think it will be profitable?" asked her Father; "will it pay you as well as your other works?"

"Why, as to pay," said Mr. Headless, "I am sure of ten thousand dollars which have been guaranteed to me by my publishers; but I shall probably get much better terms, as I have had offers from half a dozen rival booksellers, who have got up a public controversy about my work, which will make it sell with a perfect looseness."

Old Gil intimated to the popular author that if he had "anything over" when he made a settlement with his publishers, that he, old Gil, knew of an operation by which it might be employed to good advantage. The author replied that he intended "shaving some notes" for a friend as soon as he could get his money, and hoped to make a beautiful operation by it, as the money market was tight.

"O! Mr. Headless," said Lizzy, "you might read us some of your new work; do now."

"I didn't come out for that purpose," replied the author, putting his hands in his pocket and pulling out a small package of brown paper, "but I have just received a revise of my first chapter from the printer, and I will read you a part of it."

"O! you are such an obliging creature," exclaimed Lizzy.

The author drew up to the centre-table, and spreading his dingy proof sheets before him began to read, while old Gil and his daughters drew around and listened with rapt attention, to the following commencement of the new historical work which was so soon to throw the whole country into convulsions.

"I have long thought," began the author, "that a well written history of the celebrated battle of Bunker's Hill was much needed by the readers of this country."

"I should think," said old Gil, "it was no more needed than a fourth of July Oration, for I had an idea that everybody knew as much about it as they could desire."

"Why, sir," said the reverend author with a sarcastic smile, "you may be in the habit of doing things without giving a reason for it; but it would hardly do to write a history of an event which everybody knows as well as yourself, without pretending to believe it called for at least."

"O, if you put it on that ground I have no more to say about it," replied old Gil, "but you recollect you write that you have long thought of this thing, while you told me just now that you thought about it for the first time yesterday."

"Well, Sir," said the author with another sneer, "where's the inconsistency in that? One day is a long time to me. But, do let me proceed."

"Go on, then;" said old Gil; and the author proceeded in the reading of the first chapter of his work as follows:

"I have long thought that a well written history of the celebrated Battle of Bunker Hill was much needed by the readers of this country, and have, therefore, concluded to supply the desideratum which has been so long felt. The iron hearted men of the revolution having resolved to break the galling shackles of that scourge of the material universe, the British monarchy, assembled together on the lofty heights of Bunker's Hill on the 27th of June, 1775."

"Was it not the 17th?" said Lizzy.

"Not according to my authorities," replied Mr. Headless; "but a few days matters nothing.

"It was one of the finest days of the season. God himself seemed to smile upon the efforts of these iron hearted men to free themselves from the yoke of the tyrants, by arraying the Heavens in their brightest blue."

"But it appears to me that such a mark of divine sanction as that, was as good for one side as the other," remarked old Gil.—The author did not heed the criticism, but went on with his reading.

"The sun rose gloriously from his bed in the ocean, and lighted up with his brilliant fires the rocky heights of Bunker's famed Hill. The high souled and gallant Warren, mounted on a coal black charger, stood upon the brow of the loftiest eminence with the stars and stripes of his country's flag waving proudly above his head. An immense eagle with outspread wings, was seen hovering in the air, and after circling around his head, alighted upon his burnished helmet and seemed to fondle him with his coal black wings. The immense army which lined the side of that rocky steep, and stretched far away over the woody heights of Dorchester, until its serried ranks were lost on the shores of Buzzard's Bay, saw the omen and hailed it with a shout that made the heart of Sir Ralph Abercrombie and his army of British myrmidons quail with terror. Shortly after this, the battle begun by a movement of Prescott, who, by a successful manœuvre succeeded in drawing towards him a battalion under the command of General Howe. Simultaneously with this movement the whole British fleet, to the number of forty-seven three-deckers, twenty-one frigates, three sloops, and two ships of the line, which lay at anchor in Massachusetts Bay, began a heavy cannonade on our brave troops with the most perfect looseness conceivable. A perfect torrent of red hot shot was now pouring down upon the heads of our brave countrymen, who received the overpowering and tremendously destructive charge without moving an inch or losing a single soul. The British army having landed at Charlestown Neck under cover of the batteries of their ships, were advancing with the most perfect lightning like rapidity up the step declivities of the hill, when Warren putting spurs to his gallant charger, called out in his trumpet-toned voice, "God and the Continental Congress," and dashing at a fearful speed down the precipitous sides of the hill, was followed in his irresistible force by Putnam and his light horse, Stark and his dragoons, Wayne and his riflemen, and Green with his heavy artillery. The earth trembled as they advanced, the clouds of dust raised by the tramping of the feet of the chargers created such an impenetrable cloud above their heads, that although the sun was shining brightly in the pure azure above that blood stained battle field, it was darker than Egypt, and the two armies came together with a most tremendous concussion before they knew they were in the presence of each other.

The real work of that memorable battle now commenced in earnest. Warren darted with hot haste into the midst of the Tory ranks, and unsheathing his sword began to wield it about the head of the flower of the British aristocracy with such perfect impetuosity that he found himself in a sea of human gore while whole heaps of carcasses lay piled up around him in the most frightful disorder. The thunders of the marine batteries were still kept up with unceasing vigor, while the flashes of the sabres and the explosions of the muskets, mingled with the sounds of the fifes and drums, the groans of the dying and wounded, and the whistling of the bullets, as they flew over the heads of that devoted band of patriot warriors, made one of the most frightful pictures of war's doings that could possibly be conceived. Torrents of blood were pouring down the sides of the hill, and a perfect hail storm of bomb shells were exploding in every direction, when the noble charge of the brave Warren was seen to rear upon his hind legs, and uttering that famous shriek which the horses of warriors always utter just before breathing their last on the field of battle, he fell, and his rider found himself on his feet alone, and in front of a squadron of cavalry. Throwing away the scabbard of his sword, and looking proudly at the infuriate enemy, the hero of the day commanded them to surrender. Struck by the noble bearing of the hero, the leader of the band without being altogether aware of what he was doing, tendered his sword to the indomitable leader of Freedom's first champion,——That is as far as I have written at present," said the author, rolling up the leaves from which he had been reading. "But you will see the style of the work."

"It is beautiful," exclaimed Lizzy, "don't you think so, Mr. Pepper?"

"I cannot say that I think it beautiful," I replied.

"But you will confess it is very powerfully written?" said she.

"Why, as to the power of such writing," I replied, "it must depend very much upon the feelings of the reader. There is certainly the power of reckless extravagance in it; and the power of misrepresentation, exercised to an extent I have never known surpassed. If it be any proof of power to violate history, to disregard all grammatical rules, to exaggerate scenes of carnage, and dwell with a morbid gusto upon revolting subjects, why then it is powerful; but then it is a kind of power which should be suppressed at once, instead of encouraged."

"Are you in earnest, Sir?" exclaimed the author, jumping from his seat and grinning in a frightful manner at me. "I demand if you are in earnest?"

"Of course it is my opinion," said I. "Why should you doubt it. Are you in the habit of staying what you do not think?"

"You are offensive to me," replied Mr. Headless. "I despise you. I always heard you were a rascal, and now I know it.—As for thinking anything about what you say, or caring for your opinions of my works, of course, I don't. Such an ignoramus as you, can say nothing, nor do nothing to injure my reputation. I have done more towards the literature of this country, than you could if you should live forever."

"Don't get excited, Sir." said old Gil, while his wife and Lizzy held their breath in alarm.

"Excited! Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the author; "excited, indeed. I am perfectly free from any thing of the sort. But let me assure you, sir," and he grinned at me ferociously while he spoke, and trembled as though he would fall to pieces, "let me assure you, sir, I will have my revenge out of you, Mr. Pepper. No man insults me with impunity. I will have satisfaction out of you if it costs me my life." Then turning to Lizzy and her Mother he said: "good evening ladies," and made his exit, slamming the door as he went out.

"I am very sorry, this has happened," said Lizzy, "he is such a dreadfully revengeful person."

"So am I," said her father; "I expected to make a good thing by operating with some of the money from the sale of his book."

"I too am sorry," said I, "since it is likely to cause you any inconvenience; but I care nothing for the gentleman's anger myself."

"Ah! you don't know him as well as we do," said Lizzy; "he regards everybody as a personal enemy who does not read and admire his books; and he is always as good as his word, when he threatens to be revenged upon anybody for disapproving of them. But you must be on your guard against him."

"It was not very polite, Pepper," said old Gil, "to tell him so plainly what you thought of his writings."

"And then," added Lizzy, "your opinions are so different from the public judgement; for his works are very much read and very much admired. I do not much wonder at his feeling touched by your remarks."

"Besides, Pepper," continued old Gil, "books that sell well must be good; and if Mr. Headless finds that the public like to read his books, I think he is all right to keep on making them as fast as he can, and getting all the money by them he can."

"As to his right to do that it is just the same that every man possesses who has no scruples of conscience about doing wrong when he finds it profitable;" said I. "Every species of vice and villainy may be justified in the same way. Those who live by pandering to the ignorance of the ignorant, or the vices of the vicious, who justify themselves by the countenance of the public may all be deemed innocent of moral wrong upon the same plea. The retailer of obscene prints, the writer of vile books, the dealer in unhealthy food, the gambler, the publican, the usurer——"

"That's all very true," said old Gil, interrupting me; "I don't pretend to deny it; but surely, Pepper, you don't class usury, with the other forms of wickedness which you alluded to? Because I must beg leave to differ with you."

"Usury," I replied, "why I look upon usury as one of the greatest curses to society, growing out of our modern institutions; it makes two thirds of the community slaved to the other third; it creates an aristocracy of the most odious character, exempting men from all the responsibilities of labor, and giving them a claim upon the earnings of the poor and needy, more exacting and pitiless than any ever exercised by a despotic monarch. The usurer, sir, I regard as a—— "

"You do not regard me in that light, of course, Pepper?" said old Gil, interrupting me; "you do not mean to insinuate that my business is that of a usurer?—because, I never take anything more in an operation than my customers are willing to pay; and they know, of course, what money is worth to them. Besides, Pepper, we must all live—some by one means, and some by another. It is my business to negotiate notes, and help merchants out of their difficulties when they get in a tight place. It will never do to be too particular in these things; the law, Pepper, is the safest guide to follow; and the law protects me in my calling, which, as Saint Paul advises, I endeavor to make sure. This is no more than the Christian duty of every good citizen, and as the Lord has blessed me with a large family I must not seem ungrateful for the blessing by neglecting to provide for them.

"But, I forgot that I invited Mr. Headless here this evening to unite with us in our family worship. As the hour for our devotion has arrived, Pepper, you will not refuse to join us in supplicating the Throne of Grace?"

"O, no," said I, "there can be no harm in it."

"Come, Lizzy, my daughter, you shall read us a chapter from the Bible, first," said the old man.

The Bible was placed upon the centre table by one of the young children, and Lizzy read a chapter from the acts of the apostles, which, either by accident, or design, happened to contain the narrative of the death of Ananias and Sapphira. Lizzy had a very sweet voice and read in a very pretty and devout manner, but there was a little manner of affectation in her emphasis which her sister Pauline was quite free from. Pauline, in truth, had the happy faculty of doing every thing well because she seemed to do every thing without being conscious of an effort, and by an appearance of impulse. After the reading of the chapter all the family joined in singing a hymn, and, at the close of these devotional exercises, old Gil knelt down and addressed the Throne of Grace, in a very orthodox and business-like manner. The pronouncing the Amen was a signal to go to bed, and all the girls, having given their father a kiss, and been kissed by him in return, retired with their mother and left us sitting together.

Old Gil seemed disposed to enter into conversation with me, and after making two or three attempts, he began thus:—

"I have always liked you, Pepper, from the first time you came into my office, and asked for employment, and although appearances at one time were so much against your character, I now believe that you are really honest, and mean to do well.—But, you have got a bad name, Pepper; it won't go down in Wall street; and a man whose name is not good in Wall street, is hardly a suitable match for my daughter. But, notwithstanding all that, Pepper, I would not oppose your becoming a member of my family, provided you wanted to marry either of my daughters, excepting only Pauline."

"But why object to my marrying Pauline," said I, "when it is Pauline who alone is willing to marry me?"

"I am not sure of that, Pepper," said old Gil; "perhaps you have never asked either of the others."

"To put an end at once to any expectations of my doing so," I replied, "I solemnly protest to you, that nothing on earth could induce me to marry either of them."

This candid declaration seemed to startle old Gil from a comfortable position into which his thoughts had settled, for he received it with a frown and said—"Very well, then; you must make up your mind, sir, not to become a member of my family, for Pauline has other engagements. Good night to you, sir; the chamber-maid will show you to your room." So saying he walked off and left me. It was near midnight, and soon after I went up to the little room in the third story of the house which had been appropriated for my use. I was a good deal vexed at the abrupt termination of my interview with old Gil, for I had determined to find out something in respect to Pauline. But it was too late now to seek for further intelligence of her, and I concluded that she had been sent off to some remote place in the country where it would be useless to attempt to follow her; and being free from any oppressive cares, or guilty remembrances I soon fell asleep and was lost to Pauline and all the rest of the world.

I WAS sleeping very soundly, and lying quite as unconscious of existence as the pillow beneath my head, when a slight noise at my chamber door aroused me. I had forgotten to lock the door, and jumped from the bed and turned the key. Thinking that I had been mistaken in supposing that some one had been trying to open the door I jumped into bed again and was just sinking once more into a sound slumber when the same noise again aroused me. I was now persuaded that there was a thief in the house, and was just upon the point of giving an alarm, when somebody whispered through the key hole, "Walter!" The voice was familiar to me, but now being fully awake I did not recognize it until it whispered again, "Walter, it is I. Hush, don't make a noise."

I had no light, and as the room was darkened by outside shutters, it was a good while before I could find my clothes, and groping about for them I made a terrible clatter by upsetting the wash stand. Then for fear of creating an alarm I was obliged to remain very quiet again; and I did not venture until some minutes had elapsed, to whisper through the key hole and tell Pauline that I heard her, and beg her to wait patiently until I could put on my clothes.

As ill luck would have it, my boots were new and tight, and after I had pulled them on, they creaked so loudly as I walked across the floor, that I was compelled to pull them off again.—Pauline was impatient and whispered through the key hole again, "be quick, dear Walter, or we shall be discovered."

Another difficulty now beset me; I had completed my dress, and, with my boots in my hand was just going to open the door, when I found it impossible to turn the key. The sweat started from every pore of my flesh, as I encountered this new difficulty, and my trepidation was not at all lessened by Pauline again calling in her sweet voice to hasten, or she would be detected.—After trying to turn the obstinate key for nearly half an hour, in my desperation I took hold of the handle of the door to attempt to wrest it off, and to my unspeakable joy, discovered that it had all the time been unlocked; in my agitation I did not discover that I had turned the key.

No sooner was the door opened than Pauline threw herself into my arms, and I pressed her to my heart with rapturous delight.

"Dear Walter," said she, softly, "we must not delay; it is near morning, and if my sister should wake and miss me I shall be lost."

Putting my arm around her waist, partly to support her, for she trembled violently, and partly that she might guide me I followed her along the narrow passage until we reached the head of the stairs when my foot slipped, and we both came near tumbling to the foot of the stairs; but by the self-possession of Pauline, who held me back, we were saved. Fortunately for us, the bed-room of old Gil was on the second floor at the back of the house, so that the noise of the creaking stairs as we descended did not awake him. As he was in the habit of sleeping with a loaded revolver near his pillow, for old Gil had a terrible dread of thieves, he might have put a bullet into our backs if he had heard us as we were attempting to escape.

We at last reached the foot of the stairs, and again were embarrassed by the fastenings of the front door, which I succeeded in removing, after considerable difficulty, and once more found myself upon the side-walk, with Pauline leaning upon me for support. Stopping only long enough to pull on my boots, I seized Pauline by the arm, and ran briskly down the street until we were far enough from her father's house to elude pursuit, when I stopped again to take breath, for Pauline was dreadfully agitated, and her little heart beat violently as though it would burst by knocking itself against her waist. The darling girl had not ventured to open her lips since we came into the street, lest she should be overheard, but now that she was assured of being at a safe distance she began to weep violently, and I found it a difficult matter to soothe her.

"Dear Pauline," said I; "you are weeping from regret at the step you have taken. I will carry you back to your father's house, and he will never know that you left it with me."

"No, no, no," said she; "I would not return for the world. No, no, no; I regret nothing. I am very foolish for weeping, but I cannot help it. Surely, I have no cause to weep, for I am very, very happy Walter."

"Then we will be happy, darling Pauline;" I exclaimed, pressing her again to my heart; "I am now in very different circumstances from what I was when I parted with you last. I am now rich, Pauline. I have got ten thousand dollars of my own, and we will leave the city that we may be free from further pursuit or difficulty until we can be married and safe from ever being parted again."

I was curious to learn from Pauline how she knew that I was in her father's house, and also the cause of her non-appearance in the parlor with the rest of the family.

"Dear Walter," said she, "my father has his own reasons for not consenting to my marriage. What they are I have not given myself the trouble to enquire, for it is enough for me to know that he opposes our union."

"Dearest Pauline," said I, "do you not know it is because he wants you to marry that rich bank-president, Mr. Barton, that he may thereby increase his bank facilities, and be able to shave more notes than he can now?"

"O, no, dear Walter, it is not that," said she, "for he knows that I never will consent to marry Mr. Barton. I was indifferent to him at first, but when he made proposals to me I hated him with all my heart, and since then I have learned to despise him. This my father knows, and he knows, too, that I will never yield, although he should command me to marry him, which he will not do, for I think he loves me too well. But he is more anxious to prevent our marriage than he is that I should be married to Mr. Barton. The reason of his opposition to you he will neither tell me nor my mother; and as I said before I care nothing about his reasons, yet I love my father, Walter, better than any other person but you. Since my return home from the last unfortunate attempt on our part to be married, I have not been allowed to leave my room alone, and as I refused to leave it unless allowed the liberty of going where I liked, without being watched, I refused to leave it at all; so that I have, dear Walter, been a voluntary prisoner, and not by force. I did not know that you were in the house until my sister Lizzy, who slept in the same room with me, told me, when she came to bed. I learned from her, too, that you were going to remain all night and sleep in the same room that you had before occupied. I only waited for Lizzy to fall asleep, when I crept out of bed, and having dressed myself without disturbing her, I had no difficulty in reaching your room. You thought me very bold, did you not, Walter?"

"I thought you very generous and true hearted," I replied, "to risk your good name by such an act, and I loved you the better for it."

"And you did not think me bold?" said she.

"It was a bold act," I replied, "and had it not been you, Pauline, I might have condemned it."

"Ha! Walter, you blamed me for it?" said she.

"Not precisely blame," replied I, "but, I cannot help thinking, Pauline, that I should probably have condemned the act if the visit had not been paid to myself."

"Then you blame me?" she said pettishly.

"Blame you! no, Pauline; I can never blame you let you do what you will," I replied.

"But, if you would condemn in another what I have done, you must think I have done wrong. Dear Walter, tell me truly, for you love to speak your thoughts; do you not think I have been too forward?"

"Truly, then, Pauline," said I, "as tenderly as I love you, I cannot be blind to your failings, and I do think that you have been too rash for your reputation, but as I know the purity of your motives, I do not love you the less for it; yet, as you are to be my wife, Pauline, I should prefer that even slander could find nothing in your conduct to found a report upon."

"Ah, Walter, you do not love me then, as I thought you did, or you would see nothing in me to condemn," said Pauline, as her hand suddenly relaxed its pressure upon my arm.

"Fie, fie, Pauline, don't let us quarrel so soon," said I; "it is beginning to grow light, and we must hasten to a steamboat landing that we may get out of the city before your absence is discovered."

But Pauline did not quicken her steps as I urged her forward.

"Tell me, Walter, once more, that you love me, and I shall be satisfied," said she.

"If you doubt it, my saying so would not convince you. Let me take you back to your father's house, if you are not satisfied of my devotion to you," said I.

"O, no, I do not doubt you; but why not tell me that you love me, if you do?" said she.

"Simply, Pauline, because you and I ought not to be making protestations to each other, as though we were strangers, and knew nothing of each other's feelings. If my past conduct has not satisfied you of my love for you, no protestations that I could make would do so. We are too old friends, Pauline, to be complimenting each other."

"Friends!" said she.

It was a clear case that Pauline was jealous, or skeptical in respect to my protestations; or capricious; or disposed to test the strength of my regard for her. As the thought flashed upon me that she might be of that exacting disposition, the unhappy effects of which I had so often witnessed in the case of Mrs. Bassett, I felt a misgiving that Pauline was not calculated to make me happy as a husband. If she could tantalize me at such a time by her unreasonable suspicions of my fidelity, or affection, what might I not anticipate as her husband, when she would have a prescriptive right to torment me? In addition to these unlucky thoughts, I remembered what Mr. Bassett had said about her leaving her father with so little compunction, and her trifling with Mr. Barton; and I began to think that I was acting in a rather hasty manner, and putting my future happiness at stake in a very desperate adventure. To confess the truth, I actually wished myself asleep in old Gil's house, and Pauline back again, under the protection of his roof. Added to these reflections came the thought of my baseness in repaying the hospitality of the old man, by running off with his daughter, and subjecting myself to the charge of duplicity towards him. It was but just beginning to grow light in the east; the street lamps were burning dimly; here and there we met a laborer going to his work; and now and then the rumble of a cart was heard, giving indications that morning was near at hand, and the city on the point of waking up.—There was a probability of our being able to return to the house, and each of us going back to our chamber without our absence being discovered. Therefore, I said to Pauline; "Let us not act rashly, nor be guilty of any act now, that will be a cause of unhappiness hereafter. If you doubted my love, Pauline, it will be better for us both that you should test it before taking the step that cannot be retraced."

"Let this be the test then, Walter, that you say nothing about returning to my father's. Go on, and I will follow you." And she clung to my arm again as though she were fearful that I would abandon her.

But I was far from being convinced of Pauline's freedom from that womanly capriciousness which is so tormenting to the object she dotes upon, and which shows itself in acts of tyranny that makes fools of the wisest men. I could not help thinking of Mr. Bassett's caution to me respecting Pauline, caused, no doubt by his own uncomfortable experiences with his wife, who was once, as loving, as trusting, and as yielding as Pauline now appeared. I could not endure the thought of being forced to act the part of a master towards my wife, and to save myself from being a slave by making a slave of her; and it was still more repulsive to me to contemplate being the husband of a woman towards whom I should be compelled to make use of deceptions to preserve her good nature. I had thought that Pauline was so entirely devoted to me, so confident of my love for her, and so convinced of my integrity, that, under every trial and in all circumstances she would require no other evidence of my devotion to her than such as my conduct would offer, let it be what it might. But this little exhibition of petulance which she had just made, and without any apparent cause, too, had excited doubts in my mind and made me loth to precipitate our marriage. But there was no help for me. She had thrown herself upon me, and had been induced to do so by my own protestations of love for her, and it was now too late to eject her. She had not changed, certainly; she was the same tender, beautiful, and confiding creature, that she ever was, and showed the same willingness that she had ever done to abandon everybody and every thing for my sake; but then, she exacted everything from me in return. I could not but acknowledge to myself that I was no less exacting, on my part, and so I persuaded myself that it was I who was growing jealous, and not Pauline. In conformity with a determination to deal with everybody in a perfectly frank manner, it was my duty to tell Pauline exactly the state of my feelings, and what suspicious thoughts had been passing through my mind; and I meant to do so, but I could not then take the necessary time to explain myself in full, for we were hurrying rapidly along the streets, and I thought it would be a good subject for discussion after our marriage, at some time when we might possibly be at a loss for a topic, when I would give her a pleasant little surprise by confessing that I had once been so silly as to doubt her love for me. All these thoughts passed very rapidly through my mind, and they should have passed out of my mouth, but I was too happy to be rid of such annoying visitors, and so dismissed them by a shorter method. I forgot them altogether, for the time, but they came back again and caused me more trouble at another day.

Pauline had an old boarding-school companion who was married to a young merchant in Philadelphia, for whom she had a romantic attachment, and as it was quite a matter of indifference to me whither we went, for Mr. Bassett had relieved me from the obligation to inform him of my intended movements, I readily agreed to Pauline's wish to go to Philadelphia, and after consummating our desires by getting married, to make a bridal visit to her friend, who, Pauline said, would be overjoyed to entertain us. As we had still considerable distance to walk before we should reach the steamboat dock, it was getting to be alarmingly light in the streets, and the increasing carriages and passengers gave us a good deal of uneasiness lest we should be recognized by some of her father's friends. We had no baggage, but Pauline had taken the precaution to compress a few womanly necessaries into her work-bag which she carried on her arm, and as I had not yet encumbered myself with any unnecessary wardrobe, we had all our worldly wealth with us. I felt very easy in respect to money matters, as they say in Wall street, for I had taken the precaution, the day before, to draw on old Gil for five hundred dollars, which I had put into my pocket-wallet in small bills, so I had nothing to fear on the score of pecuniary resources, and I promised Pauline that she should have a becoming bride's dress as soon as we got to Philadelphia. We reached the steamboat landing at a very suspiciously early hour, just as they were lighting up the fires under the boilers of the steamboat, and as we walked on board were eyed very closely by the people about the boat, who winked at each other and seemed to guess that we were on a run-away excursion. I took Pauline into be ladies' cabin, and in avoid any further remarks, threw myself upon a sofa in another part of the saloon, where I fell asleep, much to my mortification. Pauline in the meantime sat watching the entrance of the cabin with her veil closely drawn, and scrutinized everybody that came in. By-and-by she came and woke me and told me that I might get up, as the boat was off and there was nobody on board who knew her.

Pauline took my arm and we walked out upon the promenade deck to snuff up the fresh breeze of the bay, which had an exhilarating effect upon our spirits, and Pauline begun to dance and laugh with great glee as she looked back and saw the towers and steeples of the city growing dim in the distance.

"Dear Walter," said she, looking fondly up in my face, "there is nothing now that can hinder our marriage. I am so happy, I could dance for joy. And how delighted my dear friend Sophia will be to see me; she knows all about you, Walter, and has written me that she loves you almost as much as I do, only from what I have told her about you. But she will be so surprised when she finds that we have run away to get married! It will be such a treat to enjoy her astonishment. Shall we be married to-night, Walter, or to-morrow? O! let it be to-morrow, but early. And then I will not call you Walter any more, but Tom, for you cannot be married by false names. And think how funny it will be to make my initials P. P., Pauline Pepper. Well, I think it is a beautiful name, after all. But will you forgive me if I say that I like Walter better, Tom, because that was the name by which I knew you first. Well, I will call you Tom, but I shall always think of you as Walter. But, what shall I say to Sophia; for I have always called you Walter when I have spoken to her about you? Shall I say that you are a new lover, or an old one with a new name? Shall I say that it was I who invented the name of Walter or you?"

She was running on in this strain, chirruping and skipping, when she suddenly stopped and exclaimed, "O! Walter!"

As I was looking in her face at the time, I only saw it turn pale, without discovering the cause which had so suddenly affected her.

I caught her in my arms as she was on the point of falling, and supposing that she had fainted from the excitement she had been laboring under all the morning, I was about to convey her into the saloon, when, raising my eyes, I was startled at seeing Mr. Barton standing near us and gazing earnestly at her. But I recovered myself immediately, and without seeming to regard the bank-president, I kissed Pauline, and, whispering in her ear, told her not to allow the presence of Mr. Barton to annoy her, as he had no power or right to interfere with us. She could not rally her spirits at once, and I was rather mortified that she should manifest so much feeling at encountering a person whom I had reason to believe she so heartily despised.

"Don't allow him to imagine, Pauline, that you care anything for him," said I; "but let us keep on our walk on the promenade deck."

But she was so agitated that she could not speak, and it was not very easy for me to keep her from reeling as we walked across the deck. Mr. Barton retired a short distance, and, without seeming to regard me, was evidently endeavoring to catch Pauline's eye; she turned her head from him, however, and letting her veil fall, screened her face from his observation. Feeling myself insulted by his pertinacity in attempting to annoy Pauline when she was under my protection, I placed her upon a settee, and approaching Mr. Barton, said to him, "Sir, you will oblige me by not looking at the lady under my charge."

"Why not, sir?" said Mr. Barton, in an agitated voice.

"Because, sir," I replied, "it is annoying to her. That should be a sufficient reason for a gentleman."

"I shall do as I please, sir;" he answered, retreating.

"Then, sir, you will expect me to do the same," I said, shaking my finger at him, "and if it pleases you to annoy her in that, or in any other manner, it will please me to pull your wig off and throw it in your face."

Mr. Barton trembled violently, and turned pale as I spoke, and muttering something about my insolence, he turned and left me. Pauline had overheard our conversation, and was terribly frightened, but I told her not to be alarmed, for we were safe from Mr. Barton's malice, and that he could not annoy us on our arrival in Philadelphia, as I had plenty of money, and we could continue our journey farther South, if it should be necessary to avoid him; his meeting us was evidently accidental, for I knew that he was in the habit of making visits to Philadelphia on business connected with his bank. Soon after this the breakfast bell rang, and we followed the crowd down into the cabin and took our seats at the table, which, as usual, was overloaded with hearty food. The morning air, and the exercise I had taken, had given me a keen appetite, which I was proceeding to satisfy with an omelet and a hot roll and butter, when Mr. Barton came down and seated himself in a vacant chair opposite to us. His presence did not in the least affect my appetite, but it had a different influence upon Pauline.

We continued our breakfast without appearing to notice our jealous vis a vis, who watched us very narrowly, and to provoke him I was rather more tender in my attentions to Pauline than I might have been if he had not been a looker-on. We had nearly finished our meal, when the steward of the boat came along calling out, "tickets, gentlemen—tickets, if you please. Don't keep me waiting."

Just then it occurred to me that I had neglected to pay my passage, so I put my hand in my pocket to pull out my purse, and make another provoking display before my old rival, of my roll of bank bills, which would be as good as telling him that I had money enough in my pocket to defy him. But, thrusting my hand into an empty pocket had the effect of an electric shock upon my nerves, and I nearly fainted when I remembered that I had left my purse and my watch under the pillow of the bed in which I slept at old Gil's house. Not only had I left my money, and the only things of value which I possessed that I could leave in pledge with the steward of the boat, but I had left the note which old Gil had given me for the money I had deposited in his hands for safe keeping. Mr. Barton perceived the change in my feelings at the approach of the ticket collector and probably guessed at the cause, for he appeared to brighten up, and a triumphant smile passed across his countenance.

"Pauline, darling," said I, whispering in her ear, "did you bring your purse with you?"

But Pauline, if she had a purse, had not thought it necessary to put it into her small travelling bag, which contained her whole store of laces but not a shilling in ready money.

"Come, gentlemen! tickets! tickets!" exclaimed the steward, stopping opposite to where we sat, and reaching out his hand. "Don't keep me waiting. Tickets!"

"To be candid with you," said I, "I have no ticket."

"Money, then," said the steward. "Out with your money. Don't keep me waiting."

"Unfortunately my money is out already," said I. "I have come off and left my purse at home. But I will pay you when I return."

" 'Twon't do!" exclaimed the steward, looking me sharply in the face; "you can't come such a game as that here. We are used to such customers as you. I have seen you before, old fellow, so just step out here and go on deck with me to the captain."

Mr. Barton, who had been sitting with a flushed face listening to the conversation between us, now jumped up from his seat and walked out of the cabin in great haste; and, I had no doubt, with the intention of prejudicing the mind of the captain against me.

Pauline was now terribly frightened, and I had great difficulty in soothing her fears, which added not a little to my embarrassment. All the passengers at the table had huddled around us, and I found myself a most uncomfortable object of suspicion to them. A thought suddenly occurred to me, and I determined to make an appeal to the passengers, not doubting that I should find some one among them who would have the generosity to help me out of my difficulty.

"Gentlemen," said I, mounting on the seat which I had occupied at the table, "you appear to feel a very great interest in my affairs, for which please accept my thanks and those of the young lady under my protection; you are very good to evince so much generosity of feeling towards entire strangers, which emboldens me to hope that there may be somebody among you willing to help me out of the difficulty in which I find myself accidentally placed."

Several of the most inquisitive-looking among them at this remark took up their hats, and said they must go on deck.—But a very few remained behind, and I continued my appeal.

"The truth is, gentlemen, that I came away this morning in company with a young lady, and intended to go as far as Philadelphia, but since I sat down to the breakfast table I find that I have left my pocket-book and watch behind me, and as I know but one person on board the boat, there is nobody of whom I can borrow the money to pay our passage. If any gentleman will loan me the requisite sum, I will pay him double on my return to New York."

This candid appeal had a different effect, altogether, upon my auditors from what I anticipated. Not a soul offered to lend me a sixpence, but one or two whistled, while another put his hand up to his nose mockingly. But there was one old gentleman who had listened respectfully to me, who said—

"You remarked that you knew but one person on board the boat, why do you not apply to him; because he does know you?"

"Partly for that reason," I replied, "but not because he knows any harm of me."

"What's his name?" demanded the old gentleman.

"Barton," said I.

"Barton!" exclaimed the old gentleman; "I know him well, and if he will say that you are an honest man I will lend you the money, and you may pay me when you find it convenient. But here comes Mr. Barton. How is it sir? Is this young gentleman an honest fellow? He says that he knows you well and that you know him."

"Has he the impudence to acknowledge that I know him?" said Mr. Barton, smiling; "it is more than I should have expected, and it shows how hardened he is in his villainy. Yes, gentlemen," continued Mr. Barton, turning to the passengers, "I do know him, to my sorrow; a greater scamp is not at large."

"Ah! you will repent of that expression," said I. "Gentlemen I cannot explain to you the cause of his animosity to me. But I appeal to the lady under my charge who will assure you that it is purely malignant."

"Who is the young lady?" said the old gentleman.

"I am his cousin," said Pauline, speaking quickly, as if fearful that I should divulge the secret of her name.

"O, ho! You are cousins," said the old gentleman, who evidently was prejudiced in my favor, notwithstanding the remarks of Mr. Barton. "And pray, sir, what is your name?"

"I will tell you his name, and the name of the young lady too;" said Mr. Barton, drawing him aside and whispering in his ear.

I now saw that there was no hope for me, and the unfortunate falsehood uttered by Pauline would only tend to convince the old gentleman of the truth of Mr. Barton's charges against me. The two withdrew from the cabin together, and after a short time returned with the captain of the boat, who told me that I must either pay my passage or go immediately ashore, as the boat was approaching the landing place at Perth Amboy. The captain was perfectly quiet and gentlemanly in his manner, but he was immoveable, and I soon found that it would be as idle to talk to his steam engine as to hope to make an impression upon him by an appeal to his generosity. To the hysterical sobs of Pauline, he was quite as indifferent as to the arguments I used in trying to convince him that I was entitled to his sympathy. The boat was approaching the landing place at Perth Amboy, where some freight was to be put ashore before going to the regular landing place on the opposite side of the river where passengers took carriages for Philadelphia, and the captain urged me upon deck, telling me that I must go on shore there.

Pauline said that she would go with me; but as my difficulties would only be increased by having her with me in a strange place without a penny in my pocket, I was rather relieved than vexed when the old gentleman who had appeared to feel so much interest in me, called me one side and said: "I learn, young man, from Mr. Barton, that the young lady in your company is the daughter of my friend, Mr. Gilson. Is it so?"

I told him that she was.

"And she has run away from her father's house to be married—is that so?"

I informed him that it was.

"Well, sir," said he, "I think better of you for your candor; and I think you must allow that it will be better that the young lady return to her father; trust her to me and I will see that she shall be tenderly cared for, and restored to her parents.—There is no necessity for your being married tonight. If you love each other, a month, a year, or five years hence, will be time enough; and if you are indeed worthy of her, there is no danger that her father will long object to your marrying her."

"Sir," I replied, "You have shown so much kindness in your manner towards me, and manifested so much good sense in your advice that I feel strongly inclined to listen to it. But, perhaps you do not know that Mr. Barton is, himself, a suitor for the hand of the young lady, and that his animosity to me is owing to her preference for me?"

The old gentleman opened his eyes very wide as I told him this, and appeared a good deal surprised.

"There is something in your manner," said he, "that makes me confide in your statement. But you are a stranger to me, and Mr. Barton is an old acquaintance whose good will it is important to me to preserve. Put this in your pocket," and he slily slipped a half eagle into my hand, "but let nobody know that I gave it to you. Go quietly ashore at Amboy, and call upon me at my office, when you return to New York. Here is my card."

I slipped the card and the coin into my pocket, and seeing that resistance would be unavailing, as there was a prejudice against me in the minds of all on board from what Mr. Barton had said, excepting only the old gentleman, I had no other alternative than to take leave of Pauline, and cautioning her against the wiles of Mr. Barton, and to return to her father's house, and wait until she should hear from me again, I submitted to my fate with as good a grace as I could.

We had a very tender parting, for Pauline seemed wholly unmindful of the public manner of our separation, and gave herself up to as many endearing expressions as though we had been alone, and I must confess that they were far from giving me any displeasure, for I knew what effect they would have upon Mr. Barton, and that her earnestness would tend to give my new friend a higher opinion of me. As the boat remained but a few minutes at the dock I was hurried ashore by the captain, and left Pauline weeping on the deck, and supported by our new friend, whose name I had not yet learned.

Mr. Barton eyed me with an expression of scornful gratification as I stood upon the tumble-down old wharf, surrounded by an idle crowd of boys and oystermen, who had assembled to see the passengers land. Being the only person who had come ashore, and not knowing exactly whither to turn, they began to eye me with suspicion, and an old man in a red shirt and an antique hat offered his services to me for the consideration of a ten-pence, if I wished to find anybody, or go anywhere. But I declined his services, and to avoid the gaze of the idle crowd who were sunning themselves in front of a small grocery near the wharf, I buttoned up my coat, and walked up through the quiet streets of this decaying old town, as though I were in pursuit of somebody, and soon found myself alone on the highway.

Finding myself alone, with no one to observe me but a cow that was nipping the scant pasturage by the road-side, I sat down upon the clean green sward, and examined the card which the old gentleman on board the boat had slipped into my hand. It bore the name of Andrew Bonfield, which I remembered very well, having often seen it among old Gil's papers, when I was acting as a clerk in his office; but I remembered nothing more in relation to him, and supposed that he was one of the victims whom old Gil sometimes loaned money to at usurious rates.

I HAD been sitting on the green sward by the road-side nearly an hour, gazing up into the soft blue sky and listening to the droning noises, that came mellowed to my ear from the surrounding fields, and inhaling the delicious air that was fragrant with the mingled odors of blossoming fruit trees, lilacs, and other early flowers, of which there was a rich abundance in the little gardens surrounding the farm-houses in the neighborhood,—when a gentlemanly looking young person walked past me, carrying an umbrella in one hand and a small undressed leather portmanteau in the other; it was the first person I had seen since I had been sitting there, and I raised my head to look at him; he did not seem to notice me but kept steadily forward until he came to a turn in the road, when looking back he seemed, for the first time, to observe me. He paused suddenly, and after looking towards me a few minutes, retraced his steps and stopped opposite to me, and said, in a frank, easy manner, "How are you?"

I nodded in reply to his friendly salutation, and he said:

"Fine morning;" as if to give me an opportunity to be sociable if I wished. But I did not feel disposed to talk, and I merely replied, "Yes."

"You don't know me?" said he.

"No," I replied.

"Well, that's not to be wondered at, for I suppose you never saw me before," said he. "However, I don't know you, and so we are on equal terms." Having said this, he threw down his portmanteau and umbrella, and seated himself near me. "It's a most delicious morning, isn't it?" said he; "I do declare, I think this place is a perfect Paradise, if there ever was one. I suppose you belong here?"

I told him that I did not, and was only there by the most unlooked for accident, and should leave the place by the next steamboat that stopped at the landing.

"Well, I suppose the place looks different to me than what it does to you, for I know something about it, although I don't live here. I only wish I did. Lord! to live here would be living, but to live anywhere else—don't mention it—it will be death to me."

"Pray," said I, "what is there so enchanting about the place? I must confess I see nothing that is so very inviting, although the air is pure, the fields are pleasant to look at, and the river yonder is a broad and lovely stream. But all these things may be seen elsewhere."

"That's all very true. Exactly so. The air is pure enough in any part of this blessed country of ours, and as for green fields there are enough of them anywhere. But there is something else here, and something that can be found nowhere else. Can't you guess what I mean?"

"Indeed, no," I replied.

"Were you ever in love?" said he, looking me in the face; "did you ever know what it was to feel as if you were willing to die for a woman? to have your feelings so wrapped up in her that you would feel it a privilege to be trod upon and trampled under her darling feet? Whether you ever did or not, is no matter; I am just in that condition myself. I know I am a fool, I am a complete ass; but I can't help it, and I am glad of it.—You laugh! Well, you may laugh at me and welcome; I declare to you it would give me an actual pleasure to be despised for her sake."

"No, I was not laughing at you," I replied; "I was only laughing to think of the oddity of my meeting with a person in a condition so nearly like my own."

"You don't tell me so!" exclaimed the man, throwing his arms about my neck and hugging me uncomfortably tight; "you don't say it! Well, how odd! But don't tell me now, that you have been refused by your lady?"

"O, no," said I; "quite the reverse. But since you are so very frank with me, you shall know just what an odd condition I am in, and then you may pity me, or laugh at me, just as you please."

I then told him how I had eloped with Pauline, and of the unlucky accident which had caused me to be sitting there, instead of being on my way to Philadelphia to be married. He heard me patiently to the end, and then said:

"You are a happy man; you will return to New York, get your money, and run off again; but if you shouldn't, you will be happy, you are happy now, in knowing that the young lady loves you. But as for me, I tell you I am dead in love with one of the most fascinating, gentle, beautiful creatures on earth, and I don't believe she cares anything more for me than I do for that old cow in the next field."

"That is a pitiable case, indeed,'" said I, "and if I were in your place, I would certainly try to get the better of my love."

"Get the better of it!" he exclaimed, jumping upon his feet, and dashing his hat into the dusty road; "you might as well tell me to get the better of the color of my eyes. I can't help it. I tell you I love her, and yet I can give you no reason for it; I have tried to argue myself out of it, and the more I try, the worse I grow. If I don't get the better of it, I shall have to jump into the river with my pockets full of stones. It's enough to wear me out; I can't do any business, and I shall go to ruin; she sees it all, and yet she won't give me the least cause to hope that she will ever feel any differently towards me."

"Is she then so cold hearted?" said I.

"No, don't say that—she has a warm heart for everybody but me; she is as tender to the pigs and chickens as though they were her brothers and sisters, and everybody praises her goodness and kindness. She loves everybody, and that is what makes me so miserable to think of. If I were a dog, a hog, or a cat, or a ragged boy, or an old blind beggar, she would be kind to me and pity me; but now she hates me, I do believe, and loves everybody and everything besides in the world. Isn't it too hard?"

"It is very hard; but you do yourself an injustice, I must think," said I. "Such a gentle and tender hearted creature cannot surely hate a man merely for loving her. Perhaps she only prefers another person to you."

"If I thought she did," said he, grinding his teeth, "I would murder him. I would have his life."

"If you really loved her," said I, "you would not feel so savagely disposed towards the objects of her regard; but anything she bestowed her love upon would be sacred to you."

"Would it? No, no, you are mistaken, because you have never been really in love yourself. I know I love her, and I know I hate and detest everything she loves. If you had seen me kick that rascal of a dog of hers that she allows to lick her hand every day, you would have known how I felt. It is some satisfaction to me to know that I have half killed the cur. Just think of it, that I love her more than twenty thousand dogs could, and she will not give me the least look of regard, while if a little cur just wag his tail at her, she pats him on the head and lets him lick her little plump white hand."

"Perhaps," said I, "the reason that she does not love you, is because she had formed an attachment for some one before she had seen you."

"Ah! that's the thing that drives me crazy," exclaimed the stranger, again jumping upon his feet and swinging his arms about as though he were fighting with some invisible antagonist; "that is the thought that kills me, and I believe that it is so too. I have heard her mother say something about a person that she calls Thomas, but whether he is a brother, a cousin, a lover, or what not, I can't find out. But I have suspicion he was some way or other connected with her and stood in my way. If I only knew him, I believe I could kill him as easily as I would smash a mosquito."

"Did you want my advice?" said I; "is that the reason of your making me your confidant?"

"No, I don't want any advice; I can't take anybody's advice. I am driven to desperation, and it is some relief to me to open my feelings to you. You are a stranger and we shall never meet again; and if I should ever get the better of my feelings, you will not be able to laugh at me for my weakness. I know I am foolish and extravagant, but I can't help it, and I am going off tomorrow to travel among strangers and try to forget her if I can."

"Is the young lady a native here?" said I.

"No, not a native, but, like myself, she dropped in here a few years ago, as if on purpose to ruin me; and yet I am so foolishly in love with her that I would not have missed knowing her for the whole world. I was doing well here, at school keeping, and was in a fair way of making my fortune in the world, when this young lady's mother came here and hired that little white house you see opposite the apple orchard up the road, and from that day I have been growing worse and worse. The young lady was nearly grown up, but her mother must send her to me to finish her education. Heaven knows she was more fit to teach me than to learn of me; but I was, of course, glad to have a new pupil, and particularly one who was just from New York, and whose manners would be likely to have a good influence upon my younger scholars."

"Then she came from New York?" said I.

"Yes," replied the enamored schoolmaster, "and I do not believe that the whole city could produce another to compare with her. She is the incarnation of everything that is lovely and winning, and as much as I love her, I cannot blame her for not loving me in return. I know she is superior to me, and entitled to a better husband than I could be to her; and still I am such a fool as to insist on her loving me. But she never will. No, I feel that she is destined to a higher position than I could ever hope to place her in. But, I will tell you one thing, it will not be good for the man who marries her to fall in my way afterwards."

"Perhaps you look upon yourself in the light of a discoverer," said I, "and think yourself entitled to the young lady because you were the first to fall in love with her. But there are no patents granted by society in such cases, I believe, although I am not sure that there ought not to be. It would be a very convenient law for us if we could claim the privileges of copyright in such cases."

"Don't make fun of me, if you please," said the schoolmaster with a rueful look; "I am miserable enough already, and if you laugh at me I shall move off and leave you."

"Just as you please," said I; "but I had no thought of making fun of you; I was only applying my thoughts to my own case; for it surely is a very great hardship, after one has discovered a woman worth loving, developed her fascinations, and bestowed his heart upon her, to have another come along and rob him of his property. Indeed, now that I think of the matter again, if priority of discovery should be allowed as a just claim for right of property in anything, it surely ought to be in that which most affects our happiness."

"I agree with you on that point exactly," said the rueful schoolmaster; "and I think that to run off with a man's wife is not half so wicked as to deprive him of the woman he was the first to fall in love with; and since you are of that way of thinking, and have already disposed of your heart in another quarter, I have a great mind to let you see this young lady, whose loveliness I was the first to discover."

"I should be most delighted to see her," said I, "and who knows that I may not be able to convince her of her unreasonableness in rejecting a man who loves her so ardently."

"O, if you could I would be your slave forever," said the schoolmaster. "Come, let us go to her mother's house. She will treat you kindly and give you a hearty reception, as she does everybody."

"Has the young lady no brother or father?" asked I.

"She has no brother," I believe," said he, "unless it be that villain Thomas; and as for her father, he is at sea. It is two years since they came here to live, and all that time I have been falling deeper and deeper in love; and the more I have tried to get out of it, the worse it has been for me. As soon as the young lady discovered that I had a regard for her she left my school, and although both she and her mother have always treated me in the kindest manner, she would never permit me to say a syllable to her about love. You needn't be at all backward about going there, for they are quite different from the other people about here, and will be as polite and unreserved to you as though you were an old friend. I have sometimes thought that she must be some great man's daughter in disguise, or a runaway princess, or something of the kind, there is such a superiority of manner about her. If you ever had a dream of an angel, or a queen, or anything superhuman and heavenly, she will fully realize your highest fancy, and I dare say, go a little beyond it. I only wish I was a Governor, or a member of Congress for her sake, for then she might be persuaded to marry me, and I should have some confidence in myself in asking her."

"You either do her or yourself an injustice," I said, "for if she is the superior being that you represent her, she would not listen to you any more for the accidents of fortune or station; and I am greatly mistaken if she would not take pride in bestowing herself upon a school master, whom she loved for his good qualities, rather than upon a Governor whom she only respected for his station."

"I wish I could think so," replied the schoolmaster, shaking his head and drawing a long sigh; "but, at any rate, it would give me immense pleasure to have it in my power to bestow upon her the gifts of fortune which I wish I were endowed with. Here is that splendid creature wasting her sweetness on this desert air, and absolutely throwing away her smiles and kind words on oystermen and country bumpkins, and saying the sweetest things to a parcel of grunting pigs and cackling poultry; and here am I, a human being, ready to worship her and marry her, to whom she will say nothing that is either kind, or encouraging. You will not blame me for feeling such a hatred of everything that she loves when you shall have seen her."

My curiosity was so much excited to see this rustic divinity that I was guilty, perhaps, of a piece of dissimulation in not expressing my feelings lest the schoolmaster's jealousies should be aroused and he should refuse to conduct me to her. As we walked up the green lane which led to the little white-washed cottage in which the Circe dwelt, the schoolmaster entertained me with a good many stories of the rivalries, heart-burnings, and small-village wars, occasioned by the marvelous charms of the young lady who seemed to have excited as much hatred in the hearts of all the ladies as she had love in the hearts of all the men. "If you will believe me, sir," said the schoolmaster with a doubting air, as though he did not expect to be credited, in the monstrous disclosure he was about to make, "even the clergy man's lady has refused to call upon her, and has got up a report that she is somebody's mistress."

"I would as readily believe such a thing of a clergyman's wife as of any layman's," said I, "for, as far as my experience goes, I have never found that either the wives or daughters of clergymen were freer from female foibles than the wives and daughters of other men."

"The daughters!" exclaimed the schoolmaster, "why, it is to the daughters that all the scandal can be traced that has been uttered against that innocent young creature who, I believe in my soul, is as pure as her own pet lamb. The truth is, the Miss Hornfagers are the oldest and ugliest young ladies anywhere about, and as they are very virtuous and pious themselves, they seem to have made up their minds that every young lady who is at all good looking must be in league with Satan himself, and given over to reprobate courses. As for the doctor, he too, like his lady, holds the same belief that virtue and ugliness are one and the same thing. He actually shakes his head doubtingly at every pretty girl in the neighborhood, and the incomparable sweetness, beauty and gentleness of my pupil, at the first going off, gained her such a shake of the head from Parson Hornfager and his wife and daughters, that the poor thing has never recovered from it to this day; and all the people round about here say she is no better than she should be, for no other reason than because she is so much better than any of them. However," continued the schoolmaster, "she knows nothing about these scandalous imputations, and is just as happy and innocent, and merry as a humming bird, in spite of them. If there should be anything wrong about her, it must be owing to that Thomas.—Look! look!" he exclaimed, suddenly stopping and pointing with his finger to the house, which we had approached within a few yards. "Isn't she perfectly beautiful?"

"I see nobody," I replied, "but an old woman in the garden."

"An old woman!" he exclaimed in a frenzied manner; "it is the Lost Pleiad. It is my pupil herself. Don't you see how prettily she stands tying up a vine to that little trellis. What wouldn't I give to be that nasturtium that is looking her in the face as she stoops over it?"

I could see nothing of the beauties or fascinations that so entranced the schoolmaster, for the figure that he pointed at as the Lost Pleiad, was that of a female dressed in a calico gown, with a large white hood on her head, which so entirely covered her face and shoulders, that it was impossible to distinguish whether she were eighteen or eighty. But I soon perceived from the ease of her motions, and the apparent quickness of her step, that she was young, and on a near approach, I could see that she had a round and delicate arm. The Lost Pleiad appeared to be engaged in the very pretty occupation of trimming a vine of nasturtiums which were in full blossom, and, like Proserpine, she might have been the fairest flower in her garden, but I could see nothing of her beauties save a glimpse of her arm, which was promising and satisfactory as far as it went.

As we had approached very near to the garden fence she probably heard our voices, for she suddenly dropped a vine that she held in her hands, and ran into the house. The schoolmaster followed her retreating form with his eyes, and, as she disappeared, broke out in a new exclamation of praise of her grace and dignity, not trusting to his own powers this time but quoting the lines which Milton applies to Eve. The cottage was one of those common wooden houses which abound in New Jersey—small, slightly built, but neat, quiet-looking and comfortable. A little more care had been bestowed upon the tidiness of the stoop and door, and the windows were all draped with snowy white dimity, and some of them made a display of pots of geraniums and small rose buds. There was an air of refinement about the premises, which were humble, that would have prepossessed me in favor of the inmates, even though the schoolmaster had not given me so glowing an account of them.

"Do this Lost Pleiad of yours and her mother," I asked of the schoolmaster, "reside here constantly alone?"

"Constantly," he replied; "they have had but one visitor since they came here, and that was an elderly looking gentleman who had the appearance of a foreigner; I never knew where he came from, nor what his name was; he remained but two or three hours, and has not been seen here since."

"Then they will be better pleased to see a stranger," said I.

"Of course, they will," replied the schoolmaster; "and now I think of it, you are too good looking. I won't introduce you there."

"O, very well; then I shall introduce myself," said I; "you have excited my curiosity to see this Lost Pleiad, and as I have a couple of hours more to remain here before the steamboat returns, I shall be glad of so delightful a spot to rest in."

The poor schoolmaster looked very rueful as I announced my determination to make the acquaintance of the young lady and her mother, and told me that if I would promise him on oath not to fall in love with the daughter, that he would introduce me at the cottage.

But I refused to pledge myself, not because I had any expectations of such an event, but because the comical term of the poor schoolmaster was so amusing, and I felt sure of relieving his whimsical fears as soon as we should leave the cottage. Finding that he could neither prevent my going into the house, nor prevail upon me to promise not to fall in love with the Lost Pleiad, he at last consented with a very awkward grace to introduce me, and going timidly to the door of the cottage rapped with his knuckles upon the panel, for there was neither knocker nor bell to the dwelling of the Lost Pleiad. We had not long to wait for admittance.

"She is coming," said the schoolmaster in a tremulous whisper; and the next moment the upper half of the door was swung open, and a good natured countenance exhibited itself which was very far from reminding me of the Lost Pleiad, as I had never associated the idea of an old lady in a cotton cap with that celestial stranger.

"O! 'evans!" exclaimed the old lady who had opened the door. "I never saw anythink like it. Have you come back again, Mr. Gossitt?"

"For a brief visit only, Mrs. Swayne," replied the schoolmaster; "I shall not trouble you long, nor again, very soon."

"O! don't say anythink like that," said Mrs. Swayne, whom I instantly recognized as my old guardian of Hague street.—"Don't say such a think. Come in out of the sun."

"Here's a gentleman I would like to introduce to you and Miss Sylvia," said the schoolmaster, "who is going in the boat with me to New York."

"Won't you walk in, too, sir?" said Mrs. Swayne, opening the other section of the door, and looking out to take a close view of my person. "Sylvia will be glad to see you, I am sure, sir."

"I had forgotten to enquire your name," said the schoolmaster, turning to me.

"Pepper," I replied.

"May I have the pleasure of making you acquainted with Mr. Pepper?" said he, addressing himself formally to the old lady, who was scrutinizing me with an earnest gaze that made me feel rather nervous. "Mr. Pepper, Mrs. Swayne. Mrs. Swayne, Mr. Pepper."

"Good 'evans preserve me!" cried Mrs. Swayne, rushing from the stoop. "Why, if it isn't Thomas! Why, who could have thought of such a think?"

The kind hearted old creature threw her arms about my neck and gave me a kiss before I was aware of what she was going to do. In truth, I was hardly less rejoiced to see her, than she appeared to be at meeting me unexpectedly.

"Sylvia, Sylvia," called out the overjoyed old lady, running back to the door, "Sylvia come here. It is Master Thomas. It is your old playmate, Master Thomas Pepper. Come in, come in, Master Thomas; Sylvia will be delighted to see you, I am sure. Where did you come from? I never knew anythink like it before. Why, dear heart, what has become of Mr. Gossitt? Why, what is that poor man running away for?"

Looking round, I discovered the schoolmaster running with all his might towards the river. Poor wretch! He was probably so terrified at discovering in me the very Thomas of whom he had entertained such a dread, that he gave up the Lost Pleiad as beyond all hope of recovery, and was hastening away that he might not be pained by witnessing the joy of our meeting.

As I had some fears that the poor fellow was hastening to the river to drown himself, I felt impelled to run after him, and save him from an end which I had unconsciously brought upon him. But as Mrs. Swayne's vociferous calls for Sylvia soon brought the Lost Pleiad to the door, the first glimpse of her beautiful face caused me to instantly forget the schoolmaster. I saw at once that the unfortunate pedant had not fallen in love with my old playmate without sufficient cause; and what had before appeared to me a ridiculous passion, I now thought a perfectly rational feeling.

I was completely awe-struck at the beauty of Sylvia, who had grown entirely out of my recollection.

"Dear mother," said Sylvia, stopping upon the grass plat in front of the door, "what is the matter? Who is it?"

"Why, it is Master Thomas, your old play mate," replied Mrs. Swayne; "don't you know him?"

"O! is it, indeed?" said Sylvia, turning her head from me and retreating towards the door; "I did not understand you, mother. Mr. Pepper will excuse my running to the door. I thought it was the schoolmaster."

"Why, where is the girl going?" exclaimed Mrs. Swayne.

"Mr. Pepper will excuse your running to the door, but not your running away from it, because he happened to be there," said I stepping before her.

Sylvia blushed and smiled, and said that I must pardon her, as she hardly knew what she said. Thereupon I took her hand, and pressed it, and led her into the cottage and was followed by her mother, who began to bustle about to show me that I was welcome.

I could see no traces in the tall, graceful, rosy-cheeked and black-eyed young lady before me, of the frolicsome little Sylvia with whom I had romped in Hague street; and but for the well remembered face and voice of her mother, I could scarcely have believed that she was the same individual being. Sylvia's voice was soft and musical as her face was lovely, and the charming simplicity of her manners heightened the beauties of her person. The little house in which they lived was furnished in the most simple and unostentatious manner; there was no pianoforte, nor music stands, nor worsted work, nor cheap pictures in costly frames, nor any of the conventional upholstery, with which ambitious housekeepers in New York encumber their parlors; but the furniture was of the plainest description, and everything wore the appearance of perfect neatness and order.

"It was so good of you, Master Thomas, to come and see us," said Mrs. Swayne, "for Sylvia and me have talked of you every day."

"Mother!" said Sylvia. "Why, mother!"

"It is as true as I stand here, Master Thomas," said Mrs. Swayne.

"Can you not say Mr. Pepper, mother," said Sylvia.

"No, I can't, and I am not a going to try," said Mrs. Swayne; "and I am sure Master Thomas doesn't wish me to."

"Certainly not," said I; "but you forget that my name is not Thomas, but Tom."

"Well, I can't say Tom, Master Thomas," said Mrs. Swayne, "I am sure I couldn't be so disrespectful as that. But, as I was saying, Sylvia and me have talked about you every day; but we never expected to see you again, and here you have come and found us out. Well, it was very good in you, and we are very glad to see you. I am sure Sylvia is, and I know I am."

"I am very glad that I stumbled upon you," I replied. "for my coming was purely accidental; and I did not know that you lived here until I saw you at the door."

"Well, there never was anythink like it!" again exclaimed Mrs. Swayne, stopping to express her astonishment as she was spreading her table; "there never was, I am sure. And where did you find poor Mr. Gossitt, the schoolmaster? Poor creature! You don't know how he has tormented Sylvia, poor child."

"He has never tormented me, mother," said Sylvia.

"No, I dare say the torment has been all with the other side," said I.

Sylvia blushed and said she hoped not, for Mr. Gossitt was a very excellent person, and she should be sorry to torment him. But she feared the poor man was not altogether right in his mind. Mrs. Swayne made an attempt to wink at me, which was not successful, and then she broke out again with an exclamation of, "Well, there never was anythink like it!" And then the good old creature informed me that "Swine," her husband, having gone to sea on a long cruise, and left her half-pay to subsist upon in his absence, she had moved into the country for economy's sake, and that she and Sylvia had been living very happily and very obscurely by themselves, in the little wooden cottage where I stumbled upon them. Sylvia had learned all the mysteries of poultry hatching, and had become an adept at kitchen gardening; but in practicing her out-door callings, she had so prudently sheltered herself from the sun and the wind, by covering up her head with a large muslin hood, that she looked as fair as though she had never walked out of doors except under the shade of an awning. But there was a healthy glow in her cheek, and a ruddiness of the lips, not often seen in those ladies who only take the air on the sidewalk; and her hands, although beautifully formed, showed that they had been accustomed to handle a heavier implement than a needle or a pen. If Sylvia did not know that she was beautiful, her mother did, and was very careful that no exposure should mar the ripening charms of her daughter, and had never suffered her to engage in any occupation not consistent with her delicate frame.

Mothers have an admirable instinct in such things, and know the value of personal beauty too well to permit their daughters to spoil the advantages which indulgent nature confers upon them. Sylvia's mother doubtless had indulged in visions of the future position in the world of her daughter, and looked upon her bright eyes, brilliant complexion, pearly teeth, luxuriant hair, her graceful form and lovely smile, as her capital stock, and, I fear, overlooked the greater charms of her gentle disposition and generous nature. I was not so cool and calculating as to make any of these reflections while conversing with Sylvia, but unresistingly yielded myself up to the fascinations of her presence. These thoughts all came afterwards.

As Mrs. Swayne appeared determined to construe my chance visit into one of design, I was forced to tell her the particulars of the accident which had led me to her cottage; and I was careful to let Sylvia know the nature of my engagement with Pauline, lest she should suspect that I had some design upon her affections. She expressed a good deal of compassion for Pauline, but her mother was content to say that she had never before knew anythink like it.

"Do tell me, Master Thomas, I mean Mr. Pepper," said Mrs. Swayne, "if your father, the Captain, knew you were going to run away with that young lady."

"My father!" said I. "Alas! I do not know where my father is, Mrs. Swayne, I fear that I shall never see him again."

"Well, now, Sylvia, did you ever hear anythink like that?" exclaimed Mrs. Swayne; "why, when did you see him last, Master Thomas? How long is it Sylvia since he was here?"

"Since he was here!" I said, starting from my seat; "since he was here, Mrs. Swayne! Do you mean Captain St. Hugh?"

"Well, now, was there ever anythink like it! Of course it was Captain St. Hugh," said Mrs. Swayne, "and of course I meant him."

"And he has actually been here!" I said.

"It is now more than a year," said Sylvia, "since he came the last time—is it not mother?"

"Yes, and more than two years since he came the first time," said Mrs. Swayne.

"Pray tell me, if you know, where he is now," said I.

But Mrs. Swayne did not know, or, at least, she pretended she did not.

"And for what object did Captain St. Hugh come here?" I asked.

"Why, Master Thomas, I do believe he came for nothink in the world but to talk about you—for he did nothink else all the time he was here, and would hear of nothink else."

"To talk about me, Mrs. Swayne! and did he come here to talk about ne, when he might have talked with me and to me. It is very strange."

"Well, it is true, Master Thomas; isn't it, Sylvia?" said she.

"Mr. Pepper does not doubt you, mother," said Sylvia.

"No, no, I do not doubt you," I replied; "but yet it is so strange that I cannot believe it. Did he come to look for me here?"

"Indeed, he said nothink about looking for you, Master Thomas, because he told me where you were; and Sylvia and me were so glad to hear from you. Where we not Sylvia?"

Sylvia merely blushed in reply, while Mrs. Swayne continued to expatiate on the pleasure which Captain St. Hugh had taken in talking about me; and added that he had made her a handsome present on parting from her the last time.

I was not more delighted to hear of Captain St. Hugh once more, than I was puzzled to account for his visit to Mrs. Swayne, and his avoidance of me in New York, for he must have known where to find me. All that I could learn from Mrs. Swayne in respect to the visit of Captain St. Hugh was that he visited her for the purpose of drawing from her every fact in relation to my conduct during the short time that I resided with her in Hague street. It was very certain, therefore, that he had not lost his interest in me, and still took pleasure in talking about me, but I could find no comfort in this reflection, for it was quite as certain that he saw nothing in my past conduct to cause him to seek me again, and acknowledge me as his son, or he would have done so before. His conversation with Mrs. Swayne, however, had not left on her mind the impression that he intended to desert me, and the utmost of my hopes was that he still retained an affection for me, which his stern integrity of character could not wholly overcome. And I might console myself with the thought that he loved me but was too proud to acknowledge me as his son, because I had by my former heedlessness and disregard of truth, brought a disgrace upon my name. Instead of feeling overjoyed to hear once more from him, and to know that he was actually living, I was depressed in spirit and humiliated in feeling, and could not refrain from tears.

Mrs. Swayne redoubled her exertions to enliven me, and Sylvia even, who had before been nearly silent, not knowing exactly what to do, tried to divert my thoughts by calling my attention to her flower garden. While listening to Mrs. Swayne's account of my father's visit the time had unconsciously flown away, and it was now too late to return to New York on that day by the steamboat, so that I was compelled to remain and listen still further to the prattle of the old lady, who kept recurring to Captain St. Hugh in spite of Sylvia's attempts to prevent her. The thought occurred to me that my father had been smitten by the innocent charms of Sylvia, and had only made a pretense of his interest in me to have an opportunity of being near her. But that could not be possible, as he would have paid more frequent visits to the cottage. Sylvia herself certainly had no such thought, nor had her mother, and they would have been quick enough to catch at such a thing if his conduct had afforded them an excuse. I was therefore completely at a loss to account for the conduct of Captain St. Hugh, and as it was more than a year since he was at the cottage, he might have returned to England with a determination to abandon me forever.

"If that is his determination," I said to myself, "I will strive harder than ever to make him reject it, by my future conduct."

Unfortunately for me, the termination of my attempt to elope with Pauline would not be likely to remove any of the prejudices created against me by my early conduct; and even Pauline, herself, would be likely to suspect me.

Having spent the day with Sylvia and her mother, when night came I thought it prudent to leave the cottage, and seek for a lodging in the town, that I might be prepared to return by the steamboat the next day. It was quite dark when I left the cottage, and as I walked through the long lane which led to the steamboat landing, I perceived that somebody was following me, and turning suddenly, I saw a man at a short distance behind me, with his arm raised as though about to hurl something at me which he held in his hand. I stopped, and the person dropped something heavy, and ran; I ran after him, and should probably have failed to reach him, but he stumbled and fell; and as I came up to him, I discovered it was the schoolmaster, who was about to execute vengeance upon me for the warm reception I had received from the Lost Pleiad.

"It is well for you," said he, as I seized him by the collar, "that you turned as you did, or you would not now have had a whole head upon your shoulders."

"What, are you such a madman," said I, "that you would murder an innocent man who had never injured you, because he was more fortunate than yourself in being kindly entertained by the young lady you have fallen in love with?"

"I would do any thing. I care not what becomes of me. I wish I could die. I am a poor wretch. Fortune has turned her back upon me, and the sooner I am done for, and disposed of, the better it will be for me!" exclaimed the schoolmaster.

There was something pitiful and melancholy in the distresses of the poor wretch, notwithstanding the extravagance of his language and his ludicrous manner, which excited my compassion, or I would have had him arrested for his attempt upon my life. "Make yourself easy," said I, "and do not fear me; go back to your school and, in time, who knows but you may overcome the aversion of the young lady who has inflamed your passions.

"No, no," said he, in a dolorous tone, "that can never be—she will never love me, I know."

"But, if she should not love you, perhaps in time you may cease to love her, and that would amount to the same thing," I said.

"Never, never, never!" exclaimed the schoolmaster; "I shall never cease to love her and worship her as I do now. She is my Heaven, and I can never be happy without her. Go where I will she will haunt me; and I can never give my mind to any occupation while I am separated from her; so I have made up my mind to die this night. I am desperate and indifferent to my fate here and hereafter. If I had murdered you it would give me pleasure to have been hung for her sake."

Notwithstanding the incoherent wildness of his manner, and his evident recklessness, I had no fear of him, for there did not appear to be any malice in his disposition; and as to his committing suicide or murder, his will seemed to grow weak just at the point when the execution of his designs should be carried out. He promised too much to be feared, so I told him that he was only wasting his breath in telling me what he was resolved to do, and again advised him to return to his employment, and bear up under his crosses like a man.

"Ah! I have borne up with my crosses until I can do so no longer. My time has come, and I am now resolved to make an end of my worthless existence; but," he continued in a milder manner, and reaching out his hand, "as you appear to be a gentleman in feeling, I would like to confide to you the particulars of my life, so that when I shall be no more, there may be somebody able to justify my memory. Will you listen to me while I recount the incidents of my life?"

As it was yet early in the evening, and the weather was mild, I consented to listen to the schoolmaster's history, having first stipulated with him to listen to him no longer than he proved interesting. The schoolmaster grasped my hand and thanked me, and sitting down upon a rock near the road-side, he began as follows:—

I WAS born in a small town in one of the New England States, the name of which I will not mention, for you will discover in the course of my narrative that I have good reasons for wishing to keep my parentage a secret; for although I am willing exhibit my own frailties, my mind revolts at the thought of exposing the foibles and crimes of those who are connected to me by the nearest ties of nature. Let me observe now, while the thought occurs to me, that nobody can really be unhappy in mature life who can look back upon a happy childhood, and that those whose early years are overshadowed by misfortune can never be truly happy in after life, let their circumstances be as prosperous as they may. The shadows and the sunshine of childhood will never entirely depart from you; therefore, if you have children, study to make their tender years joyous, and to keep their minds free from the pollutions of evil thoughts."

I assured the schoolmaster that I had been deeply impressed by the truth of his observations from my own experience, and that I felt a degree of interest in him I should not have anticipated merely from hearing that his childhood had been unhappy.

"It was not merely unhappy," said the schoolmaster; "it was dismal, cheerless, black, wretched and desolate. I suffer vicariously for the sins of my parents, and am cursed by their transgressions. As I now begin to recall the miseries of my younger days, I forget the despair which has been caused by the Lost Pleiad. There are some things which, after all, I cannot tell you respecting my childhood, for I will not criminate those who have a right to look to me for protection, but you shall know enough to gratify me for any act of violence I may commit, and convince you that it would be less surprising if I were to live with such a black shadow resting upon my memory and chilling my heart, than if I should put an end at once to my miserable existence. My parents bred all my misfortunes for me even before my birth; their marriage was the result of a reckless and guilty passion, and my birth happened in the first half year of their union. Thus there was a foundation laid for me to build up a life of mortifications."

It was fortunate for me that it was so dark, as the schoolmaster would have seen from my burning cheeks how deeply I sympathized with him. Remembering the manner in which I had first learned the story of my own mother's shame, I asked him how he learned a fact which his parents would naturally have striven to keep from him.

"Children learn everything," said he; "they are curious, inquisitive, and searching, and in affairs which concern their parents, have an instinctive cunning in ferreting out secrets. I will tell you how it happened with me, and how I first learned a fact which has since been a source of wretchedness to me. In visiting some of the neighbors, I had seen a family record hanging upon the walls of a parlor, in a gilt frame. It was a poor thing, no doubt, and coarsely executed, but as I had an early fondness for works of art, this family picture caught my attention and gave me a good deal of pleasure; it was a representation of two large red hearts bound together with a pretty blue ribbon, and out of the centre of the hearts grew two branches, having in them heart-shaped green leaves, on which were inscribed the names and ages of the children of the family; while on the red hearts were inscribed the names of the parents and the date of their marriage. In another house I had seen something like this in the large Bible, and as I had seen nothing of the kind in the house of my own parents, I asked repeatedly the reason of it, for I felt mortified that we should not have as much as our neighbors. My mother evaded my questions in such a manner as to awaken my suspicions that she was ashamed to tell me the true cause, and when I asked my father, he struck me so severe a blow on the head that it nearly felled me, and told me not to ask any more impertinent questions.

"One of the servants in the house who had heard me ask my father, had the maliciousness to give me the information which I desired. I was then not quite ten years of age, and although I could not comprehend the story that the servant told me, nor understand why it should be the cause of my parents not having a family record, I could feel the shame of their guilt, and looked upon them with less reverence than I had ever done before. It gave me a painful feeling to know that my parents had been guilty of misconduct, and that I was myself in some way connected with it. It also caused me to feel jealous of my other brothers, and to think that I was treated with greater harshness by my father, and as I grew older, I thought that my mother regarded me with aversion, as being a living evidence of her indiscretion and guilt. But my matured judgment could have found a thousand excuses for my parents, and I might in time have forgotten their shame, if I had not, like Falconbridge, have gloried in it; had there never occurred anything to destroy my veneration for them, and to cause me to despise their vices even while I could not but love them. My mother was a woman of a quick temper, and of a jealous disposition, while my father was a trifler in his disposition, and at the same time rough and unfeeling in his manners. I do not believe that they had ever loved each other, and, as I have heard, their marriage was compulsory, there was little probability of such a beginning having a happy ending. My mother had inherited a considerable fortune from her father which had been nearly all squandered before I had passed my twelfth year, and then the miseries of my life commenced with all their bitterness, for in addition to the bickerings and quarrels, which I had constantly to witness between my parents, I had to endure the hardships of a biting poverty. The immediate cause, however, of my father's ruin was very curious.

"It happened that my mother's brother, who had quarreled with my father, and never missed an opportunity to vex him, returned to his native village after an absence of a few years, and built himself a house directly opposite to the one in which we lived. My father's house was one of the largest and handsomest in the town, but my uncle, as if to annoy him, built his house a little larger and a little handsomer. My father watched the building with an uneasy eye, until it was completed, and then swore that he would excel it if it ruined him; and directly began to enlarge his own house by adding a new story, a wing nearly the size of the main body of the building, and by painting and ornamenting quite threw my uncle's fine house in the shade.

"Such a warfare as this, of course, stirred up a good deal of feeling in the town, and there were not wanting men who advised my uncle not to be outdone by his brother-in-law, and instigated him to a still more lavish outlay of money upon his house. It happened, unluckily for both parties, that my uncle's wife was an ambitious woman, who joined her husband's pretended friends in advising him to make another effort to out-do my father; and we soon saw the masons and carpenters at work, adding a Grecian portico to my uncle's dwelling, and converting his coach-house into a Greek temple. Two parties were formed in the town, one of which espoused the cause of my father, and the other of my uncle; my uncle's house being of brick, he had the greatest number of masons on his side, while my father's party numbered nearly all the carpenters.

"Probably you are aware," continued the schoolmaster, "that there is no method of getting rid of money more rapidly than by altering old houses into new ones, or indulging in the caprices of building. If you do not, you may readily conceive such a thing."

"As to that," said I, "I have never had any experience in the business, except in building castles in the air, which sometimes proves expensive and ruinous enough."

"Ah! I have done my full share of that, too," said the schoolmaster, "and know how ruinous it is, but my father's speculations had nothing airy about them; his unfortunate architectural attempts were all embodied in solid materials, which are still standing as an evidence of his folly; in fact, his house is still known in the neighborhood as 'Gossitt's Folly,' and my uncle's might have been called with equal justice 'Gossitt's Ruin.' My father soon began to find that he was indulging in a costly kind of revenge in his attempts to out-build his brother-in-law, who was in the end the victor, and sufficiently gratified by witnessing the utter prostration of our fortunes. It would hardly amuse you, or interest you, if I were to tell you all the details of the singular warfare carried on by my father and my uncle; how on one side was put up a summer-house in the shape of a Chinese pagoda, which was directly counterbalanced on the opposite side of the street by a little temple in the style of the monument of Lysicrates, for my uncle was more consistent than my father and stuck to the classic taste with which he had begun; how a Gothic hen-roost was stared out of countenance by a little temple of Minerva, with a fighting cock perched on the pediment as if crowing a defiance to the whole world; how an Elizabethan green-house, which never had a plant in it, was sternly rebuked by an Ionic conservatory filled full of orange trees—and a thousand more wicked absurdities of the kind, which furnished subjects for the village gossips to talk about, and gave employment to all the masons, carpenters, glaziers, and painters; the worst of it was, that, as my father commenced the foolish rivalry, he could not give it up, and was, of necessity, always in advance of my uncle, who had the advantage of his rival's errors to improve upon.

"By and by my father's means began to give out, his credit of course grew bad, the mechanics who encouraged him in his madness found they were likely to be the heaviest losers, and a stupendous out-house in the form of a baronial castle was left half finished. My father's temper was not much sweetened by being compelled to acknowledge himself beaten, you may be sure, and our domestic infelicities were more than ever distressing. My mother reproached my father for his extravagance, and he, in return, upbraided her for her brother's conduct. Ah! many a night did I lie in those unhappy times with my heart beating with fear when I overheard the angry disputes of my parents, and trembled in the morning lest I should learn that some act of violence had been committed. In those days the laws for imprisoning poor debtors were in full force, and poor devils who contracted debts which they were unable to pay were treated worse than the vilest criminals, for every criminal offence had its limited term of imprisonment, but debt subjected the poor man to imprisonment for life. Society has been a little improved in some things, since I was a boy, and poverty is not regarded as so vile an offence as it was then; if you are frowned upon for your poverty you are not imprisoned like a felon, and the time may come when to be poor will not be regarded in the light of a disgrace."

"I fear not," said I.

"I will not discuss the matter with you," said the schoolmaster, "but go on with my story, which you will find long enough, I fear, before I get to the end. Well, as I was saying, in those days, men who could not pay their debts were generally shut up in prison——"

"To prevent them from ever doing so," I added, "as if to pay, were as odious to the Law as not to pay."

"Exactly," said the schoolmaster, "such is the inconsistency of the Law. Well, the moment it was rumored that my father had failed, there were writs issued against him without number, everything in the house was seized upon by the sheriff's officers, the parlors were stripped of their fine furniture, which was all locked up in our Gothic barn, and the abomination of desolation seemed to have fallen upon us; but the worst was to come. The night after our furniture had been removed, and even the little bed in which our baby slept had been taken, we sat huddled together round a small fire our back parlor, which looked cheerless enough without carpets, or mirrors, and with but half a dozen chairs, which was all the law allowed, when a loud rap at the door startled my father, who went out and returned again directly looking very pale, accompanied by a strange man who shook the snow from his rough coat as he entered, and told my father he could not wait long for him.

" 'Who are you,' said my mother, rising and looking angrily at him, 'and what business have you to intrude yourself in this manner into a gentleman's house?'

" 'Who am I,' answered the men gruffly; 'don't you know?'

" 'Pardon me,' said she, 'I do now know you, and I suppose I can guess your business. You have come to take my husband to jail—am I right?'

" 'I am sorry to say you are,' said the man, who was a deputy sheriff.

" 'You are sorry to say you are,' said she, 'then why do you come here?'

" 'I must do my duty,' replied the officer.

" 'Your duty!' said my mother, proudly. 'Your duty! Is it your duty to deprive my children of their protector and a heart-broken wife of her husband? Who made it your duty? Is it not enough for you to deprive me of all my property, to leave me and my children shivering from want in this cold weather, but you must come and deprive me of my husband?'

" 'The fault is not mine, madam,' said the officer; 'you must not blame me, but the law, and your husband's creditors.'

" 'Then let the law and my husband's creditors do their own inhuman work,' said she; 'go back and, if you have any feeling in your breast, do not aid in making us more miserable than you have done already. Don't delude yourself with the thought that you will be pardoned for doing an inhuman act, on the plea of doing your duty; it is not your duty to inflict misery upon us who have never injured you.'

"There was a frightful wildness in my mother's manner which terrified me, and caused my young brothers and sisters to set up a dismal howling, in which I joined with all my might. But the deputy sheriff was probably used to such scenes, for he did not appear to be much moved by the distress he had caused. On the contrary, he turned coolly to my father, whose proud and haughty nature seemed to have been suddenly changed, and requested him to hurry and make his preparations, for he had other business to attend to.

" 'It is of no use to remonstrate, my love,' said my father; 'I must go, and leave you in God's care.'

"The Sheriff's officer said that he had his wagon at the door, and if my father wished to take anything with him he might bundle it in; he remarked that there were no beds in the jail and as the weather was cold, my father had better have one. The Law in its mercy had left us but two beds, and one of them was brought down, and with a few old clothes, was carried out and put into the Sheriff's wagon. My father kissed us all, and for the first time I saw him embrace my mother in a tender manner; he wrapped himself in his cloak, and we followed him to the door, and watched the wagon which bore him away until he was lost in the distance. The night was cold and stormy, the wind howled dismally through the deserted street, and the snow beat against the windows, and drifted through the cracks, and under the doors, into our cheerless house. I had never known any of those tender feelings towards my father which I have heard other children express, but I loved my father, and even though it had given me no pain to see him dragged away like a culprit under such dismaying circumstances, the distress of my mother would have rendered me unhappy. Let her have felt towards him as she might, or have experienced harsh treatment from him, she showed herself a true woman and a tender wife in his calamity. She shut the door after he had been taken away, and drawing us into the only room which had any furniture remaining in it, clasped us in her arms and wept in silence. Good God! sir, what a world this is, that men should inflict such miseries on each other! I cannot help weeping now when I remember the agonizing feelings that lacerated my young and tender heart that night."

After pausing a few minutes the schoolmaster, for whom I began to feel a strong liking, proceeded in his story as follows:

"At last my mother spoke and said, 'My darling children, your father has been torn away from us, and we are left alone in the world with nobody to help us; but do not cry, nor distress me with your complaints. God will take care of you, even if your poor mother should be taken from you. You must never speak ill of your father, nor think ill of him, for if he has brought ruin upon us by his conduct he did not mean to do it, and he loves you all, and will be kind to you if he ever should be set at liberty again.' After this we all laid down together on the only bed remaining to us, and, for my own part, I spent the night in thinking of my father and imagining the dreadful sufferings which he must endure in his imprisonment. The next morning my uncle called to see us, to offer assistance to my mother, but she would receive nothing from him, but upbraided him with being the cause of our misfortunes. In process of time our house and furniture, and even my pony that I loved almost as well as my mother, were all sold to satisfy my father's creditors, and we were compelled to remove into a by-street and occupy a very small house; my father was liberated from confinement by some of the processes of the law, but as his debts hung over him like the sword of Damocles, he was prevented from engaging in any business, and having never learned a trade he soon sunk into the despised condition of a broken-down gentleman, and scarcely subsisted by contracting small debts, under false pretenses of one kind and another, until an event happened which raised him above such small and shabby expedients, but plunged us into the lowest depths of degradation.

"It was about a twelve month after the night I have described on which my father was carried to jail, when, on a similar evening, as I sat with my mother reading Mrs. Chapone's Letters, for it was the only book in our house excepting the Bible, and I had read it through two or three times for the want of something better, when the door suddenly flew open and my father entered, looking wild, pale, and with blood upon his face. He was so agitated that he could not speak until he had drank some liquor which my mother reached him. 'Ask me no questions,' he then said, 'take these things and put them away, and give me some water.' She brought him some water in a basin, with which he washed his face and hands, and then threw the water into the fire and burned the napkin which he had used in wiping his face. 'Now let me go to bed,' said he, 'and be sure, if anybody calls for me, to say that I have been in bed since dark, sick. He had not, apparently, noticed my presence in the room until he was about to leave it, when he said, 'what shall we do with this boy?' And seizing me by the arm he shook me violently, and commanded me, on the peril of my life, not to disclose a word that I had heard nor to say what I had seen, and if I should ever be questioned on any occasion, to say that he had been in bed, sick, at dark.

"I looked imploringly to my mother, but she told me that I must do as my father ordered, and followed him upstairs, carrying with her the things which he had just brought in. What they were I could not plainly see, but I thought that there was a pocket-book among them. It happened that my little brothers and sisters were all abed, and as we kept no servant then, I was the sole witness to the evidences of what I suspected to be my father's guilt."

"I hope," said I, "that you had the courage to resolve to tell the truth, let what would happen."

"Indeed, I had not," replied the schoolmaster. "I wish that I had; but I was too much terrified to reflect, and only thought of alleviating the troubles of my parents. Besides, I had never been educated in a love of truth, and had been too long accustomed to the prevarications and dissimulations of my father and mother, to feel any repugnance to uttering a deliberate falsehood.

"My mother had not been long absent when she returned to me, and although I could see that she was alarmed at something, and troubled in her mind, she tried to appear composed and unconcerned, and made me sit down and go on with my reading of Mrs. Chapone, whose dry moralities now seemed to me dryer than ever. When the wind rattled the door, she started and trembled violently, and as she leaned upon me for support I was frightened to feel the cold and clammy touch of her hand. She sat but a few minutes, when going to the cupboard she poured out a glass of the liquor which she had given my father and gulped it down, and soon after I began to discover its effects; for she cried and laughed, and acted so strangely that I was alarmed at her appearance, and begged her to let me light her up to bed.

"I was too old in the wickedness of the world not to know the cause of my mother's actions, and to feel keenly the disgrace of her conduct; but it was the first time I had ever witnessed anything of the kind, and I attributed it to the pain and anxiety she felt on account of my father.

"Now have I not told you enough already to justify me for being mad, melancholy and misanthropic? Ought I not, with the recollection of events like these blackening every hour of my life by their cursed shadows, to have committed suicide, and put on end to my wretched existence? But I have something worse than this lingering in my memory, and gnawing into my thoughts every hour of my life."

"If committing suicide would cleanse the character of your parents, and give them a good standing in the world," said I, "there might be some excuse in such an act; but as it would only be adding to the disgraces of your family, it appears to me that it would be better to live and redeem your character. If there can be any excuse for suicide it must be when the self-murderer has brought disgrace upon himself, which he has too much honor to bear. But men of honorable feelings do not disgrace themselves by their own acts, and, upon the whole, I do not see that the suicide has any other excuse than that of madness. However, I do not think that you will commit suicide, because you talk about it."

"Ah! you do not know me yet," continued the schoolmaster; "it is not fear that holds, me back. However, let me go on with my story, or I shall detain you until it is too late to find a lodging in the village.

"I retired to my bed on that dismal night, but not to rest, for my mind had been so disturbed by the strange conduct of my father, and the still more grievous conduct of my mother, that I could not sleep, and when the cold grey light of morning began to lighten up my dismal little chamber, which was scantily furnished with conveniences, I crept shivering from my bed and looked out upon the cheerless street which was filled with snow. The wind moaned dismally through the naked trees, and the snow beat heavily against the window of my room, but it was a relief to me to look out into the day-light, I had been so long shut up with my dark thoughts and undefined fears. But I was not allowed to remain long even in that state of dismal suspense, for I shortly heard a loud knocking at the street door, and soon after I heard my mother's voice shrieking as if in agony. I hurried on my clothes, and running down into the entry, soon learned the cause of her distress. The sheriff had again come to arrest my father, but this time it was not for debt, but for a terrible crime. God! how my head reeled with pain as I heard the charge against him, and remembered the occurrences of the night before. My uncle had been found in the street, badly wounded in the head, insensible, and robbed of the valuables he was known to have about him when he left his house. There were tracks in the snow, which, notwithstanding the snow that had fallen, were traced from the place where he was found to the door of my father's house, and they had come to arrest him on suspicion of his having committed the horrid deed. My mother behaved as a wife always should under similar circumstances; she shrieked with all her might, both at the calamity that had befallen her brother and the charge laid to her husband. She fell upon her knees and vowed that he was innocent, and called upon me to sustain her in the assertion that my father was in his bed at the time the robbery was committed."

"And you did?" said I.

"I did. I could not help it," he replied.

"You will never commit suicide," said I; "but never mind, go on with your story."

"Yes, I perjured myself," continued the schoolmaster, "and, following the example of my mother, fell upon my knees and swore that my father was in his bed at dark. The officers were somewhat staggered, but they had no choice in the matter, and begged my father not to think ill of them as they could not do otherwise than arrest him. As for my father, although he was naturally of a violent temper, and easily excited, he was now perfectly cool under the appalling accusation, and submitted without any show of resistance to his arrest, merely remarking that he was perfectly innocent and should have no difficulty in proving an alibi. But I saw very plainly that he was very far from feeling at ease, he was very pale and seemed to labor hard to appear unconcerned; turning to my mother he embraced her, told her not to be distressed on his account as he would soon be at liberty again; and he even took me in his arms and kissed me, and while doing so, whispered in my ear to remember what he had told me. The officers were overcome by these tender demonstrations and wiped their eyes, and as for myself, I was so unused to anything like even an appearance of affection between my parents that I could not help weeping. The subdued manner of my parents towards each other was like a gleam of sunshine to me."

"And you felt no repugnance at the falsehood you swore to?" said I.

"Truly, I did not; I had more serious thoughts in my mind, and too many griefs in my heart to hesitate about telling a lie when it was likely to relieve my unfortunate parents," said the schoolmaster; "and I cannot say that I regret it now, for it was the means of saving my father from the fate of a felon. My uncle was badly injured, but he fortunately recovered, and either could not or would not give any very clear information as to the person who had attacked him, and as both my mother and myself swore on the trial that my father was in his bed at the time the robbery was committed, he was found not guilty and returned to his family worse in his feelings and more violent in his temper, than ever. Instead of manifesting any dread lest I should be driven by his harshness to disclose my knowledge of his guilt, he seemed to entertain a greater degree of hatred towards me than ever, because he felt himself in my power. I was now in my fourteenth year, a wretched boy, with no companions but my younger brothers and sisters to whom I was a kind of dry nurse, being compelled to wait upon them when my mother was in a condition, caused by her habit of resorting to the bottle for comfort in her difficulties, which precluded her from attending to their wants. I had a thirst for learning, but was denied the privilege which all New England boys enjoy of going to school; I was growing up ignorance, and daily becoming familiarized to immoralities by witnessing my father's habitual disregard of truth and every moral obligation, when a change was produced in our affairs by the death of my unfortunate mother who, having drunk freely of her favorite liquor, one night in her attempt to go into the cellar, fell down a trap door and was killed. Ah! there are some who can look back with melancholy satisfaction to the death-beds of their parents, but I can never think of my mother's death without, at the same time, thinking of the cause of her death. Thus you see I have nothing in the past upon which I can look with pleasure, in the future nothing that promises me happiness, and even for the present you see that I am miserable enough."

"But are you going to stop them," said I; "pray what happened to you after the death of your mother?"

"After that unfortunate event," continued the schoolmaster, "my condition was bettered to a certain degree, for my father left the village on the pretense of going in search of business, and myself and my little brothers and sisters were placed in the charge of a distant relation of my mother. As I was old enough to work I was told to look out for a place in which I could earn my own living, and you will hardly believe me when I tell you the various kinds of employment which I engaged in before I fell upon that which I now earn my bread by, and which all Yankees, at some period of their lives, I believe, have engaged in. At first I was put to a farmer, or rather I put myself to one, who worked me as he did his oxen, and appeared to entertain about the same degree of tenderness towards me, except that he tried to fatten his oxen, and seemed to have quite an opposite design upon me, for he was always complaining that I ate more than I was worth. His wife was of a similar way of thinking, and as I was continually scolded, occasionally cuffed, often stinted in my food and always overworked, I concluded after a few months' trial to abandon agricultural pursuits and try my fortune in one of the liberal professions. Finding that the apothecary of the village was in want of an assistant, I applied for the place, and felt myself, if not the happiest of mortals, at least a very lucky one, when I found myself stationed behind a counter with the rays of two large goblets of green and purple liquid falling like a glory about my head.

"It was purely delightful for a while to be placed in such comfortable quarters, with an unlimited amount of liquorice root at my command, and the privilege of tasting and smelling of all manner of scents and extracts. But delightful as this was at first, I soon found that there were bitters as well as sweets even in the liberal profession of drug-selling; after a while I lost all relish for liquorice, the globes of green and purple water no longer looked so beautiful as they did when seen at a distance, and as I lived in my employer's family I discovered that, however pleasant the apothecary might be, the apothecary's wife was capable of administering doses which my pride would not permit me to swallow. She looked upon the shop as an appendage to the house, and upon me in an especial manner as a convenience designed expressly for her use by nature and circumstances.—While my duties were confined to the galley pots and pestle and mortar, I cared not how hard I worked, but the apothecary's wife required me to attend to another description of pots, which I would not submit to, and as she ruled her husband, I was obliged to quit my pleasant situation, and give up all hopes of a liberal profession before I had half learned the inscriptions on the bottles and boxes on the shelves, or could tell the difference between elixir pro. and borax. Giving up all hopes of ever hearing myself called a doctor, I left the apothecary's shop with my little bundle of clothes, and with a dismal foreboding of misfortunes to come, went the rounds of the village without finding a place where I could obtain employment, when just as night was coming on, I met the tavern-keeper, who asked me if wanted a place, and engaged me for his bar-keeper. Here I remained nearly a year, and I might have fallen into such habits that I could not in after life have broken away from them, had not a clock pedler one night stopped at the tavern and offered to learn me his trade if I would bind myself to him until I was twenty-one.

The offer of the clock pedler was very gratifying to me, for it not only provided me an ingenious and genteel trade, but would afford me an opportunity of seeing the world, of which I had heard a good deal by listening to the stories told by the frequenters of the bar-room. I was beginning to be dissatisfied, too, with the nature of my employment, and thought that I ought to redeem the character of my family by striving after something better than the post of a tavern-keeper. As I had a little money due me, my employer consented to my leaving him upon the condition of forfeiting my wages, which I gladly consented to, and the next day started with the pedler for the town where he lived, which was in Connecticut, and entered at once upon my new occupation. But clockmaking did not agree with me; I had no genius for mechanics, and my employer happened to be one of those old-fashioned people who believe that knowledge can be beaten into a boy's head. He tried the experiment upon me, and I ventured to show my disapproval of his method by returning his blows, for I had got to be now quite stout, and as the pedler was a rather small man, I had no great difficulty in getting the better of him. In short, I gave him a sound drubbing, and left him to look after a business more congenial to my natural taste, and an employer who had a different method of instructing his pupils. As I broke my contract by leaving him, of course I got no money; but I had been so little accustomed to money that I did not know the want of it, and felt no great uneasiness at being once more thrust upon the world without a dollar in my pocket.

"I was not long in making the discovery, however, that money was a prime requisite, and without it I had better be out of the world than in it. For some cause or other Yankees have a keener perception of the value of money than other people, I believe, and therefore are more acute in discovering the means of obtaining it, and as I take pride in calling myself a genuine Yankee, I am not ashamed to confess that I never felt the least repugnance of following any honest occupation which offered me a reasonable chance of making a penny; therefore, when I quitted the clockmaker, I did not hesitate to accept a situation as a hostler at a tavern, not because I had any peculiar liking for the occupation, but because no other employment offered itself just at that time. This was, in truth, a fortunate change for me, or at least it so seemed at the time, for I had not long been engaged in my new situation when a travelling dentist having put up one night at the tavern, was suddenly called upon to extract a tooth for the wife of the tavern-keeper; the dentist's instrument happened to be out of order, and as I had learned the use of tools while working for the clockmaker, I offered to mend it, and succeeded so well that the dentist looked upon me as a remarkable genius, not knowing but that I had all my life been engaged in the care of horses. The next morning, as I was getting his horse for him, he came privately and told me, that if I would leave my employer and apprentice myself to him that he would make my fortune for me. I was but too happy to accept his offer, for I was now weary of being confined to a stable with no better companions than dumb beasts; but the profession of a dentist was a genteel and money making business, and by learning it I might yet hear myself called a doctor, which was the height of my ambition. As I had not proved myself very expert in the stable the tavern-keeper was willing to let me off before I had served him the time I had agreed for, and the dentist furnished me with money to travel by stage to his place of residence where he had a work-shop for making teeth, when I was immediately set to work on my arrival and quite astonished him by the readiness with which I handled his tools, and, what he considered a display of natural genius, in polishing metals.

"Unfortunately for me, my mechanical genius did not develop itself very rapidly under the tuition of the dentist, who one day expressed his astonishment to me that I should have such an instinctive knowledge of tools, and yet should be so dull at learning, upon which I explained to him that my knowledge of tools and mechanical skill were the results of a very painful and long apprenticeship to a clockmaker. Upon hearing this, the dentist perceived that he had cheated himself, and immediately flew into a furious passion and began to abuse me, and call me a great number of bad names, which I did not deserve, to save himself from self-reproach for his own stupidity in engaging me. He had bound himself to pay me a certain sum, yearly, until I was twenty-one; but I scorned to compel any one to employ me who undervalued my services, so I tore up my indentures, and receiving the amount due me for the time I had been at work for him, started once more in search of a business for which I was designed by nature. So far, I had learned something in each situation I had held, and, if I knew nothing thoroughly, I had at least a smattering of a good many trades. The newspapers and the miscellaneous books which I had lighted upon had given me a little insight into literary matters, and a pocket dictionary and one of Lindley Murray's grammars, which I had purchased, out of my savings, enabled me to extend my knowledge of the rudiments of grammar. I was picking up some of the elements of future success continually, and if it had not been for the recollection of my unhappy childhood, and the fate of my poor parents, I might have been happy; but, with such a gloomy shadow resting upon my memory, I could not feel otherwise than wretched.

"My first move, after leaving the dentist, was into the street, where the stores were, and being unacquainted with anybody in the town, excepting the dentist, I knew not where to go for assistance; but, trusting to luck, I applied in succession to all the stores for employments, and at last had the good luck to apply to a dealer in dry goods and hardware, who happened to be in want of an assistant. He engaged me at a very small salary, and to enable me to save the cost of a lodging, gave me permission to sleep in a trundle-bed beneath the counter. I had no objection to this arrangement, and found myself at once installed in a very comfortable position. I was clerk in a store, and could dress myself respectable and associate with genteel people. I did not, I must confess, make a very good salesman, for my employer complained continually that I was not sharp enough with the customers, and that I was too candid in giving my opinions of the articles which were enquired for; besides these defects, I had unluckily taken two bills of broken banks, and had once given a four-pence-half-penny too much in making change. I also made another blunder, which was trifling in itself, having only taken a smooth ten-cent piece for a nine-pence, which very nearly resulted in the murder of my employer.

"He had a great fear of robbers and therefore furnished me with a pistol, and told me if I ever heard anybody breaking into the store to make good use of it. One night just after I had crept into my trundle-bed, and put out my light, I heard a fumbling at the door accompanied by a noise which, in my alarm, I thought was a summons to surrender. So, without more ado, I caught up my pistol, and aiming at the door fired it off and sent the ball through one of the panels. The supposed robber immediately fled, and I was flattering myself that I should be applauded in the morning for my courage, but when morning came I was horror struck to learn that I had nearly killed my employer, who had come down to the store the night before to ask me of whom I had received the smooth nine-pence, with a cross upon it, which he found among the contents of the till after going home. The pistol ball had slightly wounded him in the arm, and although he was nearly killed by fright he was not seriously injured, and before long returned to business. But this was not the worst misfortune that befell him through my means. I had become possessed of a volume of Shakespeare, which so fascinated me that I read it whenever I could find a leisure moment. It contained the plays of 'As You Like It,' 'Twelfth Night,' 'Much Ado About Nothing,' 'The Taming of the Shrew' and 'The Merry Wives of Windsor.' The perusal of these plays opened a new world to me, and afforded me a degree of delight that I had never dreamed of before. I hugged the precious volume to my heart and kissed it in my transports of pleasure; I placed it under my pillow at night, and read it when I first opened my eyes in the morning. My daily duties grew tediously dry and irksome to me; I longed for a world of romance and poetry, and was only happy in the company of Orlando and Rosalind, and thought all the wits and humorists of the village very stupid fellows when compared with Sir Toby Belch, Touchstone, and Falstaff. My happy moments were after I had put up the shutters, bolted the store door, and crept into my crib, where I used to lie upon my back and read through my volume of enchantment by the dim light of a tallow candle stuck upon the counter above my head.

"As I was indulging myself one night in this manner I fell asleep in the Forest of Arden while musing with the melancholy Jacques, and soon after I was roused from my delightful vision by a suffocating smoke which, at first, I thought was a fire in the woods where I had been wandering in the company of Audrey and Phebe. But I soon discovered, to my consternation, that the store was on fire, and by good luck I made my way to the door, which I forced open and gave the alarm of fire. But, it was too late, the weather was cold, the only fire-engine in the village was frozen up, and before the inhabitants could render the needed assistance the store of my employer was consumed with all its contents.

"A new misfortune now overtook me, for I was suspected of the crime of having set my employer's store on fire, and to escape imprisonment on a charge of arson, I was forced to run off and assume another name."

"This changing of names," I remarked to the schoolmaster, "is an inconvenient way of getting rid of difficulties."

"So I found it, in the end," said the schoolmaster, "but I had no other alternative but to go to prison, or to go off under an alias, and of course I chose the latter course. In escaping from the store I had saved nothing but my clothes and my Shakespeare, and without a cent in my pocket I once more started in pursuit of fortune. Probably you know nothing of the uncomfortable feelings which a man experiences with a sharp appetite and an empty pocket."

I assured the schoolmaster that I knew exactly what they were.

"Ah! then I need not tell you what a harassing journey I had, after I left the town in which my last disaster occurred, as I tramped across the country, and had to stop at the doors of farm houses and solicit the favor of a cup of water and a piece of bread. As night set in on the second day of my flight I was overtaken by a hard shower of rain, and sought a shelter in a blacksmith's shop. The blacksmith told me that his son, upon whom he depended for assistance in blowing the bellows and wielding the sledge, had run off and left him to go to sea, and that he was in great distress, in consequence of the want of help. Here was an opening for me which I at once embraced, and offered my services to the shoer of horses and repairer of cart wheels. I believe that he was more rejoiced to have me than I was to obtain employment that would afford me a sustenance, and immediately bargained with me for a term of two years, at the end of which, he said, I might be master of my business if I attended to it. I do not think that nature ever designed me for a blacksmith, but as she had failed to provide me with the employment best calculated to develop my talents, I was forced to frustrate her intentions, and enter upon a line of business not congenial to my genius. This last engagement, which promised so badly in the beginning, was, in fact, the making of me. In my employer's parlor I found a complete edition of Shakespeare in ten volumes, enriched with the notes of Pope, Malone and Johnson, whose imperfect appreciation of the great poet, led me to conceive the stupendous idea of elucidating him myself. Was it not a ridiculous thought in an untaught village blacksmith to dream of elucidating Shakespeare?"

"Why, since that Shakespeare himself was only an untaught village wool-comber," said I, "it does not appear to me so very ridiculous."

"Well, that is precisely the view of the matter which I took myself," said the schoolmaster, "and so I set about the task. I worked hard all day, and studied hard all night; and while blowing at the bellows, laid out the plan of my lecture. The occupation of my hands did not much interfere with the occupation of my thoughts, and while sweating and hammering at the anvil, I do assure you that I had some of the sweetest visions that ever visited a toiling mortal in this world. The little smithy was peopled with kings, fairies, and warriors, and there was not a hob-nail in the shop that did not appear to me as bright as a diamond. It was well for me that I had to work hard, for, otherwise, the intense abstraction of my thoughts might have proved too much for my body. Having filled myself with the majestic and tender thoughts of Shakespeare, I was impatient to reveal to the world the riches I had gathered. I did not then know what a world of books had been written on my favorite subject, and supposed that the meagre notes of Johnson, Pope, and Malone, were all that had been published. But I soon learned the truth, for it got noised about the country that I was a miracle of learning, and people used to come into the smithy to hear me talk Shakespeare. The clergyman of the neighboring village came to see me, and finding that I had Shakespeare at the end of my tongue, asked me if I had studied Schlegel, and Hazlitt, and Coleridge. But I had never heard of these authors, and the clergyman kindly loaned me their criticisms on my favorite poet. By reading them I added greatly to my ideas on Shakespeare, and was confirmed in the determination I had formed to lecture upon the subject of my studies. I told the clergyman of my determination and he encouraged me in the attempt.

"Having made all my preparations, I announced my first lecture at the Village Athenæum, for every village in New England, you know, has its Athenæum, if it has nothing else, and as I was now called the Shakespearian Blacksmith, and was looked upon as little short of a miracle, I had a good audience, and I may say without vanity that I amused them, if I did nothing else, for as I had never had any experience in speaking in public, and had acquired from using a sledge-hammer, a very emphatic manner of enforcing my remarks, I believe I cut as grotesque and ridiculous a figure as was ever seen in a rostrum. My face was begrimed with soot, my clothes were ungainly and old fashioned, my pronunciation was after a fashion of my own; and altogether I think that my audience had sufficient cause for the twitterings and grinnings which I could not fail to notice among them. I had about made up my mind to confine myself to the anvil for the future, and to give up the plan of enlightening the world with my lectures on Shakespeare, when the clergyman who had at first encouraged me in the undertaking, now met me as I descended from the reading desk, and told me that I had mistaken my vocation, and had better stick to my trade, for he could assure me as a friend that I should never succeed in lecturing. My pride was touched by these remarks. 'So that is your opinion of me, is it?' said I to him.

" 'Yes, my friend,' replied the clergyman, 'that's my candid opinion of you, and I would advise you to think well of it.'

" 'I will advise you,' I replied, for I was very angry and excited by the mortification of my reception by my first audience, 'to go and hang yourself. I shall go on lecturing, and you will be sorry for the advice you gave me, one of these days.'

"My resolution was now taken, and I gave the blacksmith notice that I should quit him at the end of the month, for I had not worked out my two years, and start on a Shakespearian lecture tour. The blacksmith was quite willing to get rid of me, for he had begun to grow jealous of my reputation, and found that I received more attention than himself from the visitors to the smithy, and beyond that, I may say, with candor, that my work did not give universal satisfaction to his customers. Well, to shorten my story, for I observe that the moon has begun to descend towards the horizon, and the air is growing chilly, I started on my lecturing tour, and the things which caused the clergymen to predict my failure proved the cause of my triumph.

"My ungainly manner, uncouth pronunciation, and disregard of the courtesies of polished society, of which I knew nothing, attracted the attention of the public, and I was run after by the learned and polite as a kind of intellectual monster. The singularity of a lecture on Shakespeare by a person of my appearance was so attractive, that I believe I excited as much attention among the literary circles where I appeared, as even the learned pig had done. As I made money by my lectures, and understood the secret of my attractions, of course I took no pains to reform my manner, or to correct my peculiarities of speech; but in spite of myself, I either conformed insensibly to the way of the world in which I now moved, or the world grew weary of my eccentricities, for I found that my audiences began to grow less and less, and I could detect a greater number of yawns among my hearers than I had at first noticed."

"This is always the way with every novelty that is not intrinsically excellent," said I; "if, instead of depending upon your coarseness of manners, you had taken pains to cultivate your mind, and conformed to nature in your speaking, your popularity would not so soon have worn out."

"Of course it would not," replied the schoolmaster, "and feeling the truth of your remarks, I saw the mistake I had made in seeking after a temporary reputation by the arts of the charlatan, and immediately set myself to work to rectify my error. I could no longer lecture on Shakespeare, for, in addition to my other misfortunes, it was discovered that I had borrowed a thought occasionally, from Schlegel and Coleridge, and I was unjustly accused of borrowing from Hazlitt and Lamb, of which I was never guilty. I was also accused of quackery, and fell more rapidly than I had risen.

"Those who had once run after me in the height of my popularity, deserted me just as I was beginning to prove myself entitled to their respect; and, if I had ever allowed myself to be deceived by the adulations of my professed admirers, who attached themselves to me for the purpose of sharing in my reputation, I should have felt bitterly disappointed at the defection. But I never had any faith in my own greatness after I had been able to compare myself with the other laborers in the great Shakespearian field; I knew the secret of the excitement which my appearance before the world had created, and felt neither disappointment nor revenge when the bubble burst upon which I had been so luckily borne up into the regions of popular favor."

"In other words," said I, "like other quacks, you did not believe in the virtues of your prescriptions."

"Not exactly that," replied the schoolmaster, "I never gave currency to opinions which I did not honestly believe, but I knew they were not original ones.

"However, if I lost my reputation, I had prudently kept the money which it brought me while I enjoyed it, and I resolved to lay out my capital so as to promote my future interests, for I had now become convinced that money was essential to my comforts. I must confess that I was embarrassed to choose a profession which was adapted to my genius, and, at the same time, profitable."

"And you chose that of a schoolmaster?" I observed.

"I did no such foolish thing as that," he replied, "but you will learn presently how it happened that I fell into that business. As for trade, I knew my inefficiency at a bargain too well to think of the mercantile profession, and for farming I had an unconquerable aversion; I thought awhile of the bar, but with all my desires to distinguish myself and make a fortune, I could not resolve to sell myself to defend rogues and villains for a fee. I could not descend to the chicanery and low arts of the law. I had no genius for mechanics, and as for physic I had too great an aversion to it to think of making my living by administering it to others. There was but one door open to me, and that was the church."

"The church!" I exclaimed; "surely, you did not think of entering the ministry with any such mercenary motives? The church! Why, what call had you to that sacred profession, which none are suffered to enter who have not a divine intimation that their services are needed."

"I must confess that the church was not exactly to my mind," continued the schoolmaster, "but, as there was nothing else remaining for me, what was I to do? Besides, I had acquired a love of public speaking, while I was delivering my lectures, and there was no other way in which I could so well indulge in it as by going into the pulpit. It is the only profession, too, which covers its members with a shield of superstitious reverence, for in all other callings men must depend upon their own merits for respect; but, in the church they are saved from that necessity, and depend upon their profession. Their cloth is their protection; their vocation is sanctified, and it is, moreover, the only calling in which a man may beg without dishonor."

"Those are all powerful inducements to a lazy man without principle, I confess," I said, "but it appears to me that an honorable man would prefer entering a profession which would require individual exertion to insure the respect of mankind. The dignity which has no deeper foundation than the color of your coat, cannot be very gratifying to the pride of an honest man."

"There is some truth in your remarks, I allow," said the schoolmaster, "but I have great respect for the opinions of the world, and they decide the matter the other way. The Indian, that worships with reverential awe the ugly idol that his own hands have fashioned, is not less sincere in his devotions than the lover of art who worships the ideal beauty which he finds in a Greek statue; therefore, if your object be to gain reverence, you had better be an Indian idol than an Apollo Belvedere. What I wanted was the reverence of the world, and therefore I determined upon the church."

"You were right, then, in doing so," said I, "but, for my own part, I would not give a fig for the reverence of the world if I could not first reverence myself."

"For that matter, neither would I," said the schoolmaster, "but I can always continue to keep on good terms with myself; or, at least, I have never yet had any difficulty that way. Well, having made up my mind to enter the church, the next question with me was, what church shall I enter?"

"I can well conceive your embarrassment," said I.

"It was the most puzzling choice of my life," said the schoolmaster; "however, I had only to look at the different churches soon to determine where I should most surely find the objects which I desired, and I resolved upon the Episcopal church, with the thoughts of a bishop's gown in my mind, and as there happened then to be two parties in the church, I had another difficulty in deciding on the party with which I would take sides.—Here again, by keeping the great end in view of my own individual advancement, I had only to look after the wealth and power of the church to determine where the path lay which led to preferment, and I chose the side of conservatism and the traditional usages of Episcopacy, for it was there that the power of the church had been derived."

"You are making a precious confession to me," said I, "and, perhaps, you had better understand that you are causing me to entertain a very contemptible opinion of your character.—Although I am not a member of the church, yet I hold in detestation the man who can be guilty of the baseness of entering the sacred office of the preacher from such base motives as those you acknowledge."

"You are very candid, sir, and I respect you for it; but I have undertaken to tell you the cause of my misfortunes and miseries, and therefore I have honestly stated to you my motives in entering the church, and before I am done you will see what a miserable wretch I am, and how excusable it would be in me, if I were to carry my design into execution and throw myself into the river with my pockets full of stones.

"Well," he continued, "I resolved to enter the ministry of the Episcopalian church, and to take sides with the extreme conservatives, and made known my wishes to a well-known Puseyite preacher by whom I was well received and encouraged to persevere. As I had sufficient money to defray the expenses of my education by living prudently, I entered at once upon my studies, and adopted the priestly dress which was worn at that time by the students in the high church party. By studying hard I was enabled to present myself for admission to deacon's orders at a much earlier period than I had at first anticipated, and passed my examination with credit. In the course of my studies I had some misgivings as to the wisdom of my choice of a profession; in making it, I had looked only at the fortunate members who preached in fine churches, enjoyed large salaries, and were honored for their talents; but I discovered that these were only the high prizes of the lottery in which I had invested my fortune, there was a melancholy army of priests who had to struggle hard for a precarious living, many of them were often without churches to preach in, some had to go off on missions to unhealthy places to labor among the poor and ignorant, and many more had to resort to the painful occupation of school keeping, being debarred, by their ordination vows, from engaging in any more worldly pursuits."

"Very sad, indeed," said I, "must it be for them, if their hard lot is not sweetened by the consciousness of obeying a divine command in their ill-paid employments."

"Ah!" sighed the schoolmaster, "I have felt that bitterness, and know what it is. On preaching my very first sermon, I had made a mistake in putting on a black gown. I found that lecturing on a subject in which I was at full liberty to give vent to all my thoughts and convictions was a very different thing from preaching a prescribed set of doctrinal rules. I felt myself that my heart was not in my work, and I heard some of the people complain of a want of reaction in my manner. The formalities of the service I could discharge well enough, but when it came to the preaching I was found wanting; the people were not satisfied with an elegant essay on religious matters, read in a becoming manner, they wanted to be warmed up in their feelings and I had no warmth to impart to them.

"I preached from church to church, but I received no invitation to settle, and at last I was forced to confess to myself that I had been self-defrauded of three years' valuable time, which I had spent in acquiring information that would yield me nothing in return. As my money was all spent, I was obliged to look after some means of support besides preaching, which, as yet, had not produced me a dollar. The vision of a new Gothic church, with a comfortable parsonage attached, which had floated before my eyes during the whole term of my preparatory studies, now vanished, and left nothing better behind than a country school house—the last resort of poor devils like myself, who, after being at great pains to prepare themselves for the post of an instructor of men, have to descend to that of an instructor of children. Although it was not disgraceful in a clergyman to beg, I found that it was not considered necessary, always, for laymen to give; and in the end, I had to accept the best place I could find as an humble country schoolmaster. Yes, I, who entered the church thinking of a bishop's gown, was driven by sheer poverty to become a schoolmaster in this small village.—But, even here, where I have well nigh grown crazy by thinking of my disappointments, and the unhappiness of my boyhood, I have experienced a new affliction from the scorn and contempt with which that darling creature has treated me since she discovered my love for her."

WHILE listening to the long story of the schoolmaster's misfortunes, I had been sitting on the ground, and did not perceive that the night dews were falling heavily, and nearly saturating my clothes. The grass had become very damp, and as I attempted to shift my position, a pain shot through my limbs, so acute and sudden, that I could not help crying out from the agony it caused. The moon had sunk to the horizon, and the air had become chilly, so that I trembled with the cold. On attempting to rise, for the purpose of exercising myself to set my blood in motion and gain some heat, I found that I was unable to stand, and another acute pain darted through my limbs, and nearly deprived me of breath.

The schoolmaster was terrified at first, but I told him that he must give up his projected suicide until he had taken me upon his back and carried me to a tavern where I could be put into a warm bed.

By this time the moon had disappeared beneath the horizon, clouds had been gathering overhead, and the night was very cold; to add to my distress a cold north wind had sprung up which swept heavily across the fields and seemed to be laden with icicles, it sent such a chill through me as it whistled past.—My pains increased to such a degree of intensity that I could not help roaring with the agony I suffered. The village, or rather the tavern in it, was but a short distance off, the schoolmaster assured me, but there were no lights to be seen, and I could not have found my way to it alone. The schoolmaster offered to leave me and go in search of a physician, but, I caught hold of his legs and told him that he must not desert me, for I was fearful of lockjaw, and thought I should die before any assistance could be procured if I were left alone; and then the thought occurred to me that he had conceived the idea of walking off and leaving me to die there, so that he should be rid of a rival in the affections of the Lost Pleiad. But I believe now that I did him a wrong, for he evinced no disposition to leave me; but, on the contrary, I fancied that my agonized cries gave him a kind of pleasure. I told him that he must take me upon his shoulders and carry me to the tavern, for it was impossible for me to walk, and any delay, I felt, would be fatal to me. I was heavier than the schoolmaster, but he courageously took me in his arms, and occasionally dropping me to rest, at last succeeded in reaching the tavern; and placing me upon a bench on the piazza, he rapped upon the door, and after a long while, which to me seemed a thousand years, he was answered by the landlord in person, who shoved up a window in the second story, and poking his head partly out, demanded who was there, and what we wanted.

"It is I," replied the schoolmaster.

"Who the devil is I;" growled the landlord, "and what do you want at this time of night?"

"Don't you know me? I am Mr. Gossitt," replied the schoolmaster, "and I have got a sick man here who was taken ill on the road."

"What! is it you, schoolmaster?" cried the landlord, "ain't you ashamed of yourself to be cutting up your pranks at this time of night? Go home and go to bed, or I will throw a bucket full of cold water over you." And, with these words, the window was shut down, and the surly landlord disappeared.

"What shall I do now?" exclaimed the schoolmaster; "he is one of the most disobliging men in the vicinity; moreover, he hates me because I once delivered a temperance lecture here, which caused some of his customers to give up the habit of drinking.

"Make him open the window again," said I, "and I will persuade him to take me in for I shall die if I am left here in this cold air."

"I know it's of no use," said the schoolmaster, "but I will try, to please you."

So he began again to thump upon the door, and while he was rattling away by shaking the handle, the window above his head was softly raised, and the landlord suddenly thrusting himself half out, exclaimed, "if you are so fond of cold water as you pretend to be, take that and make the most of it," and at the same moment emptied a tub of water upon the schoolmaster, which completely drenched him. The poor wretch gasped for breath, and it was several minutes before he could sufficiently recover himself to give vent to a round of imprecations which bestowed upon the landlord's head, forgetting his priestly character in his anger. He was now in reality in as bad a condition as myself, and violently trembled with the cold.

"What shall be done now?" he exclaimed; "we cannot get in here, and there is not another public house. If we remain here exposed to this penetrating air, we shall both be dead before morning."

"That would not be of so much consequence to you," said I, "as you have been contemplating suicide; but for me it would never do; I cannot think of submitting to such a fate. There is but one thing left for us, you must carry me immediately to the cottage of the Lost Pleiad, and there we shall be sure of shelter and a kind reception."

"You would be sure of a kind reception, but they would not receive me," said the schoolmaster.

"Do but get me there, and I will insure you a welcome," said I. And the assurance had the desired effect upon him, for, although he trembled so that he could hardly stand upon his feet, he at once consented to my proposition, and taking me upon his back he staggered off towards the cottage of the Lost Pleiad, and before he reached there, he had got himself into so profuse a sweat, that it was probably the means of saving him from a fit of chills and fever, to which the people in that neighborhood were then much given. He did not carry me at one stretch, but sat down to rest, and, as my pains passed off now and then I was able to hobble along by only resting upon his shoulders. But he had a hard load to carry, and was nearly exhausted before he reached the cottage of Mrs. Swayne; and for my own part, my pains had increased to that degree, and I felt so weak and weary that I could scarcely articulate a word.

In truth, from experiencing a chilliness that nearly benumbed my faculties and caused my jaws to chatter so that I could with difficulty make the schoolmaster comprehend what I said, I had suddenly passed into an opposite condition, and when he placed me on the sill of the cottage door I was in a burning fever, and my brain seemed to be on fire. I was dying for a drop of cold water and motioned to the schoolmaster to hasten and wake up the family, that I might obtain relief.

The poor devil was almost as incapable of moving himself as I was, but he exerted himself to the utmost, and having first rapped with his knuckles on the door, he began to throw pebbles up against the window of the room where he supposed that Mrs. Swayne and Sylvia slept. But it was a long time before any response was given to the schoolmaster's shouts and knocks. At last the upper window was raised a little, and a trembling voice, which I recognized as Mrs. Swayne's, called out, "Who's there?"

"It's I," said the schoolmaster; "come down quick, and let your Master Thomas and me in, for he is sick and in distress."

"For shame of you, Mr. Gossitt," now exclaimed Mrs. Swayne, as she put her head out of the window; "for shame of you, to come here and disturb two lone and unprotected women, in the middle of the night. I never heard anythink so wicked before. Go home, and let us alone, Mr. Gossitt; do now, that's a good soul, for poor Sylvia is frightened out of her wits with your wicked doings."

"My good woman; my dear madam; I beg——" but it was no use for Mr. Gossitt to beg anything of the good woman, for she shut down the window and left him to shout in vain.

"What shall I do, now?" said the schoolmaster, coming to me and taking my hand; "she won't let us in, and if you lie there you will die before morning."

I could only say, "Try again. Tell her it is I who need assistance, and she will come down and open the door."

The schoolmaster again began to throw up pebbles against the window, and to shout for Mrs. Swayne to come and open the door, and again the window was raised, and Mrs. Swayne thrust out her head, and in an angry voice told Mr. Gossitt if he knew what was good for himself he had better be quiet.

"O! you unfeeling and most barbarous woman!" exclaimed the schoolmaster; "will you have one of your dearest friends expire at your own door for the want of a drop of water? If you will not let him in, at least open your door and give him some drink."

"O! if it's water that you want," said Mrs. Swayne, "you shall have a plenty of that, Mr. Gossitt; come a little closer under the window, if you please."

The schoolmaster unsuspectingly did as Mrs. Swayne requested, and stepped close under the window, thinking that she intended to lower something down to him, but the old lady suddenly caught up a pitcher of water and dashed its contents upon his head.

"There, Mr. Gossitt, take that and go home," said the exasperated Mrs. Swayne, "and don't come here to disturb me and Sylvia again."

Wretchedly as I felt, and unable to move myself, I could not help laughing to hear the groans and denunciations of the poor wretch, who was now in nearly as bad a condition as myself.—Mrs. Swayne laughed loudly herself, at first, and kept telling him to go home, and go to bed; but at last she seemed to understand something about his allusions to me, and she said, "Pray, Mr. Gossitt, what do you mean by talking about Master Thomas? He is not here; he has gone to the tavern to sleep."

"Ah! you unfeeling woman," he exclaimed; "have I not been telling you all the time that he is here, and suffering, too?"

"I say he is not—is he, Sylvia?" said Mrs. Swayne, turning her head to appeal to the Lost Pleiad.

"No, no; truly, he is not here," exclaimed the soft, sweet voice of Sylvia, but, without putting her head out of the window.

"Dear, dear me! did ever anybody hear of stupidity like that!" exclaimed the schoolmaster.

"It's you that's stupid," said Mrs. Swayne, "so go home and take somethink to keep you from getting cold."

Mrs. Swayne was about to shut the window, when, mustering all my strength I groaned, in the hope of attracting her attention.

"Good gracious 'evans!" said she, "what was that I heard, Mr. Gossitt?"

"That was your Master Thomas, who is lying at your door, dying for the want of assistance," said the schoolmaster, "and you have been barbarously denying that he was here."

"Master Thomas here?" exclaimed the good woman; "O! 'evans! I will be there in a minute."

The window was suddenly shut down, and presently a light was discovered moving about; the prospect of relief had the effect to cheer me, and I felt better.

"I do believe that the cackling old hen has come to her senses at last," said the schoolmaster, "and she means to take us in.—Yes, she is coming, and I believe that the Lost Pleiad is coming with her too, for I hear two pair of feet on the stairs. Ah! they would have seen me lie here and perish first; see how they rush to your assistance."

"The door was now thrown open, and Mrs. Swayne, accompanied by Sylvia, made her appearance with a light in her hand.—They were both dressed without much regard to appearance, the mother being carefully wrapped up with a shawl over her head, while the daughter, in her haste had drawn something over her shoulders, the appearance of a flannel gown.

"Why Master Thomas!" exclaimed the old lady, as she held the light in my face, "what is the matter with you?"

"I am very ill, Mrs. Swayne," I gasped out, "but give me some water, I beg of you. I am burning up with an inward fever."

"Why didn't you tell me who it was with you, Mr. Gossitt?" said the old lady, turning to the schoolmaster, who stood shivering with cold. But, without waiting for a reply, she ran off to bring me some water, while, by the aid of Sylvia and the schoolmaster, I made out to get inside the house and fell helpless upon the floor. A glass of cool water was refreshing to me for a moment or two, but I was soon seized with another fit of freezing ague, and called for blankets as earnestly as I had before done for cold water.

They got me to bed after a while, and the schoolmaster was sent for a physician, who did not arrive until day light, when he bled me until I fainted, and then left some medicines, which were administered to me as soon as I revived. What became of the schoolmaster, or what happened afterwards during the following week I know not, for, either owing to the improper treatment of my disorder by the physician, or from some other cause, I sank into a state of delirium, from which I did not recover in all that time. My mind was not inert during these weary nights and days, but was busy with horrible visions which even now make me shudder when I think of them; sleeping or waking the monstrous distortions of my fevered fancy filled my brain and gave me no rest from my wretchedness. I was either burning in a lake of smolten lead, or lying in some damp, cold dungeon, with shapeless monsters crawling over me with their slimy limbs, and glaring into my very soul with their hideous green eyes.

It is a terrible thing to be sick; to lie all day upon a fevered bed, and to hear the sounds of life and merriment without; to see the shadows of birds, as they flit past your window; to hear the joyous shouts of children, and the harsher voices of sturdy laborers as they pass to their appointed work; to know that while you lie weak and helpless, the victim of a wasting disease, the world is as full of sweetness and beauty as ever, but that you are debarred from tasting or enjoying any of its pleasures; to know that flowers are blooming, that the water sparkles in the sun, that the clouds float in the blue ether as they did when you too were free from pain; and that everything is happy and free from wretchedness but yourself. But the night is more wearisome than the day, for then all nature is still, and the drowsy world is hushed in sleep, while you toss upon your bed, listening to the dull sounds of droning flies, or the thick breath of the heavy sleepers around you. The night-lamp placed in a corner emits a sickly light, and casts long and dull shadows upon the walls of your room; the chairs and tables become fearful objects, and by gazing steadily at the furniture of your apartment it becomes imbued with a dull life which seems to be a part of your own; the atmosphere grows oppressive, and your mind wanders back to the days of hilarious health, when you were free from pain and suffering, and breathed the pure sweet air, and ran at will over the fields, or wandered by the sea-shore; the ticking of your watch becomes fearfully distinct, and seems to be measuring out to you the weary moments you have to live and suffer. You turn, and turn, and turn again, trying to find some spot on your heated bed which will afford you but a moment's ease, but you turn in vain; the night hours drag slowly along, and you think that morning with its cold light will never come. But worse than all, the evil that you have done comes back in frightful distinctness to oppress you; all your follies revisit you, and the good that you might have done, the opportunities for improvement which you have lost, the friends you have offended, the wealth you have wasted and the health you have set lightly by—all rush into your thoughts, and you wonder how things that you had forgotten for years should again come back to you as though they had been the occurrences of yesterday; if you doze, it is but to have exaggerated dreams of your distresses, and you wake to the realities of your pain, and fear to sleep again, and dread to remain awake; you envy the droning fly that buzzes about your ears, and wonder why he does not make his way through the crack in the window to the free air instead of bumping his head against the wall above your bed; and the mouse that creeps into the room, encouraged by the stillness and deadness of everything around you, to pick up the crumbs which you have dropped from your bedside, appears to you a happy creature, and to be envied.

All these experiences I realized in a more distressing manner than I can describe, while I lay sick in the best room of Mrs. Swayne's cottage, my sole visitors being the good old lady herself, the Lost Pleiad, the doctor, and the schoolmaster. The schoolmaster would have remained with me all the time if he had been permitted, merely for the sake of being near the object of his adoration, and now and then having the pleasure of being spoken to by her. Whether or not I received any benefits from the visits of the doctor, I could not exactly tell, but I suspect that I got well in spite of him, rather than in consequence of his prescriptions. The schoolmaster, I have no doubt, put up prayers hourly for my release from all earthly suffering, but I was perfectly safe from all harm from him, otherwise; for he knew that his only way to gain the affection of the Lost Pleiad was to treat me with tender care, and that any lack of attention to my wants would gain her instant displeasure, and an expulsion from the cottage. But the ministering angel of my sick bed was the Lost Pleiad herself, who watched over me with the tenderest care, anticipated all my wishes, and soothed me by her gentle attentions. One of the things which I remember with the greatest pleasure was her bathing my head in cool rose water, when my brain seemed on fire and my skull ready to crack from the bursting pressure within. Dipping her hand in the basin of cool and fragrant water, she would pass it gently over my forehead, softly and soothingly, until gradually the pain would diminish, the fiery pressure would cease, and I would sink into a refreshing slumber, always productive of pleasant dreams, and wake to find her still carefully watching by my side.

I had been lying ill three weeks, and had just begun to gain a little strength so that I could sit up and look out of the window for a few minutes to refresh myself by a sight of the beautiful and unchanged view from the cottage, which embraced a good many objects of tranquillizing aspect, when it occurred to me that Mrs. Swayne must have been put to great straits to provide the necessaries for me out of her slender income.

"Sylvia," said I—for the Lost Pleiad was sitting by my side, and pointing out to me the particular points in the landscape which she thought would interest me—"has not your mother been put to great inconvenience by my unlooked for presence here?"

"Oh, no; she would have spent her time in some useless work, if you had not come," said Sylvia, "and I am sure she takes pleasure in waiting on you, for she loves you very much."

"I do not doubt her love, Sylvia, nor yours"—Sylvia blushed and turned her head—"I mean your good will, Sylvia, and your readiness to serve me as you would anybody in distress, but what I mean is, has she not been compelled to spend more than was convenient for her?"

"Oh, no! no! no!" exclaimed Sylvia; "there has been no lack of money; there has been plenty of it. I never heard my mother complain that she had not a plenty. She has had more then she wanted."

"That is a relief to me," I replied, "for I have feared that her small income would not be enough to meet the new demands upon her purse, which my sickness has created. But when I get well enough to write, Sylvia, I can send to New York, and get money enough to repay both her and you for your goodness."

Sylvia looked me full in the face with a look which seemed to say, "What, do you mean to offer me money for my services."

"I do not mean to pay you, Sylvia, because that I could not do with money; I only meant that your mother should be amply compensated for all the expense she may have incurred on my account, and that if money can be any recompense, even to you, that it shall, at least, be a proof of my gratitude."

"If you have any money in New York," replied Sylvia, turning her head away, "you had better keep it there; and as for my mother, she has been well repaid already. She will never accept anything from you, be assured. But let us not talk about pay and money, but look out of the window and enjoy the prospect you were admiring. Does not the river look beautifully blue through those elms?"

"I will look at the river by-and-by, Sylvia; but tell me first, by whom has your mother been repaid, or do you mean that she has been repaid by her own good heart?"

"Oh, do not ask me any more questions, if you please," replied Sylvia; "such talk will only do you harm, and, perhaps, bring on a fresh attack of your disease."

"No, no, Sylvia," said I, taking her hand, and involuntarily pressing it; "you must not keep anything secret from me; you and I must not be guilty of double dealing; we are too old and too good friends for that. You must be sincere and candid, and tell me what you meant when you said that your mother had been repaid. I must know."

"I cannot tell you more, now; I am under a pledge; so do not ask me again. You know I would not deceive you."

I was determined to know more, for the manner of Sylvia, rather than her words, had excited my curiosity; for I saw that there was something in her thoughts which she had unconsciously let slip. But, unfortunately, just at that moment the schoolmaster tapped at the door, and Sylvia seized upon the occasion to leave me alone with him. I was provoked at the interruption, but was too feeble to be angry.

"You will soon be well," said the schoolmaster, as he threw himself upon my bed, for Mr. Gossitt had a way of making himself at home anywhere, not appearing to have any idea of individuality in property, except in regard to that which he possessed himself,—and, by the way, as I have got into a digression, I may as well observe that this feeling of partnership in other people's goods, according to his own confession, manifested itself pretty strongly in his Shakespearian lectures, wherein he appropriated to his own use whatever he had the good luck to find to his liking in Schlegel, Coleridge, and Hazlitt.

—"You will soon be well again," said the schoolmaster, as he doubled up one of the pillows of my bed to enable him to talk with the greater ease, as he lay stretched upon my mattress; "and then I suppose I shall no longer have the privilege of paying a daily visit here?"

"I hope so," I replied.

"Which do you hope?" said he.

"That I shall soon be well," I replied, "for you may be sure that I have no objections to your daily visits here."

"Ah! you haven't," said he; "well, perhaps the reason is, that when you go you mean to take the Lost Pleiad with you?"

"I mean to do nothing of the kind," said I, "for Sylvia would not go with me if I were disposed to take her; and I have already told you that I am positively engaged to be married to another. I could not violate my word."

"Lovers' oaths," said the schoolmaster, "are made to be broken."

"But I am a man as well as a lover," I replied to him, "and I cannot break my word."

"But suppose your word had not been passed, how then would it be with you and the Lost Pleiad?" said he.

"To save yourself from a worse reply, Mr. Gossitt," said I, "don't take offence if I tell you, now, that your question is impertinent."

"Oh! You think it is? Well, I wanted to know how it would be, for private reasons of my own, or I would not have asked," said the schoolmaster; "however, if you are particular about it, I will not press the matter, of course; but I could tell you something about the Lost Pleiad and her mother, which might interest you."

"I have no wish to know anything," I replied, "which they are not willing to tell me themselves. However, as you have hinted at something that exists which I should know, you had better tell it; for, in my weak state, I cannot afford to be annoyed by suspicions. Out with it, if you please."

"You would think it impertinent in me, I dare say, if you knew; and so I rather think it will be the better way for me to shut up, and say nothing."

It occurred to me that the schoolmaster might know something about the money hinted at by Sylvia, which her mother had received. "Pray, tell me, Mr. Gossitt," said I, "if I have been visited by any one except yourself and the doctor, since I have been sick?"

"Well, the clergyman has been here and prayed with you about a dozen times, and I am not sure but his prayers have done you more good than the doctor's pills."

"You are a buffoon," said I angrily, "to make light of so serious a matter as my illness. I knew that the clergyman had been here; he made me a long prayer that morning, or rather, I should say, he made a long prayer for me. But are you sure there has been no one else here?"

"I cannot say I am sure there has not been anybody else here," said the schoolmaster, with a most provokingly meaning emphasis.

"Can't you say, then, that there has been somebody else here?" I asked.

"Well, perhaps I could; but it might be considered in impertinent in me to do so,—and, upon the whole, I think I shall throw myself upon my reserved rights, and refuse to answer any impertinent questions whatever."

I was by this time completely wearied out, and so vexed at the provoking replies of the schoolmaster, that I had to request him to rise from my bed so that I could lie upon it myself. The schoolmaster assisted me to lie down but refused to tell me anything more satisfactory than what I had already been able to sift out of him. But I was quite sure, from what he and Sylvia said, that something had happened respecting me which, for some reason that I could not guess at, they had resolved that I should not know.

Had Mr. Bassett been informed of my situation, and paid me a stealthy visit? Nothing was more likely; yet, if he had come at all why should his arrival have been kept secret from me? It could not have been he. Could it have been old Gil? would he have been at the trouble in come and see me?—clearly not. Who then could it have been? A sudden thought occurred to me, which should have suggested itself at first. Who was there so likely to visit me as Pauline herself. It must have been she, and I could readily understand why she would desire that her visit should be unknown to me. It was so like her to come, but it was not so very much like her to leave without my seeing her. My heart warmed towards her anew at the thought of her tender regard for me.

"Tell me one thing, Mr. Gossitt," said I; "was it a woman who visited me while I was so very sick and insensible?"

"You have been visited daily by women," said he, "and I should not mind being sick myself to have such nurses as you have had since you have been lying there."

"I know that I have been visited by Sylvia and her mother," said I, "but has there not been a young lady here to look upon me while I lay insensible?"

"There may have been dozens of them for aught that I could swear to the contrary; you know that my own visits have been short; for the Lost Pleiad seems always to regard me as an intruder when I come into your room. I believe in my soul that she looks upon you as a piece of her own private property, and that nobody has any right, even to save your life, but herself."

These perplexing replies of the schoolmaster made me feel quite confident that Pauline had actually been to see me, and the thought revived in my heart all the tender feelings which I had before entertained towards her, and which had been almost obliterated by the constant, modest, and sincere attentions of Sylvia, who was as unlike Pauline as it was possible for a young lady of the same age to be.

"I am right, am I not, Mr. Gossitt," said I, once more appealing to the schoolmaster, "in believing that a young lady has visited me from New York? To be candid with you, I suspect that the lady to whom I have already told you I am engaged to be married has been here?"

"You have a great idea of your personal attractions, Mr. Pepper. You will pardon me for saying so, but really, I think that such an object as you have been for the past ten days, is not exactly what I should think powerful enough to attract a young lady all the way from New York. I don't wish to hurt your self-esteem, Mr. Pepper, but really, as you are fond of candor, I might as well tell you what I think about the matter."

It was very clear that the schoolmaster had made up his mind to foil my curiosity, and that he took pleasure in seeing me annoyed; so, shutting my eyes, and pointing to the door, I requested him to leave me.

"Well, I will go if you wish," said he, "but before I do go I will merely mention to you that somebody has been here to see you, who seemed to feel a tolerable degree of interest in you; but whether it was man, woman, or child, I cannot exactly say just now, as you are in a hurry for me to go."

The schoolmaster put his hand upon the latch as though he was willing to be recalled, but I would not gratify him, although I was in a high fever already from thinking over his words, and trying to determine who it was that had visited me since I had been sick.

"Well, I am going," said the schoolmaster; "have you nothing more to say?"

"Nothing," I replied, "but that I can wait to learn from some one else the secret which you might have disclosed to me."

"Perhaps I may tell you yet," said he.

"I will not hear it from you," I said; "so go and leave me. I prefer not to know from you. I shall know all in good time, if it be right that I should. So leave me to myself."

The schoolmaster, finding that he could no longer tantalize me, reluctantly withdrew, and left me to ruminate on the puzzling information which he had given me. I was soon in a high fever from the mere effect of curiosity, and if Mrs. Swayne had not very soon after come in to ask if I needed any thing, I might have fallen into a relapse.

"Why, Master Thomas!" exclaimed the good old soul as she entered my room, "what can be the matter with you? Somethink has happened, I know; your cheeks are so flushed."

"Nothing has happened to me, Mrs. Swayne," I replied, "but I am excited by something that I have heard."

"Goodness! Master Thomas; I hope it wasn't a death-watch, nor nothink of that sort?" exclaimed the old lady, lifting up her hands.

"No, Mrs. Swayne, it was nothing of that sort that has disturbed me; I should not be frightened by Death himself, much less by any ticking of death watches. I am not superstitious."

"O, don't talk in that awful manner about death, Master Thomas; I am sure I never before heard anythink like it in my life. Poor boy, I am afraid your head is affected; let me bathe it in this cool rose water."

"No, no, Mrs. Swayne; that could do my head no good," I said; "but, if you wish to help me, and relieve me from the fever which I now feel, tell me who has been here to see me since I have been ill, and while I was insensible to everything around me."

"O, my!" exclaimed Mrs. Swayne, changing color; "why, you know, of course, who has been here. There has been the doctor"——

"Fie! fie! I know that," I cried.

"Well, there has been the minister"——

"The minister!" I exclaimed, pettishly; "the devil take him, Mrs. Swayne. Do not tell me what I know already. Tell me who has been here to see me whom I have not seen."

"Now, Master Thomas, you must not say such wicked things about the minister; after his praying with you so many times in such a beautiful manner."

"I am sorry for it, Mrs. Swayne. But you vex me by these evasive replies. You deceive me. I can see it in your looks. You are not candid with me. You are dishonest. You, and Sylvia, and the schoolmaster, are all leagued together to deceive me. I must quit here and go where there is more honesty."

"O, Master Thomas! you will break my heart by such talk!" cried the old lady throwing herself upon my neck, and bursting into tears. "How can you say such things to me after I have loved you so well?"

I was touched to the heart by the old soul's appeal, but I could not help seeing that her grief was more than half of it a pretext to turn my thoughts in another direction, and get rid of answering my questions. But I was determined not to be foiled, for the more anxiety they had all manifested to avoid my questions, the more intense was my curiosity to know what it was that so nearly concerned me, and yet was so studiously kept from me.

"It is no use, mother," said I, wiping the old creature's eyes, "to attempt to evade my questions. I am now certain that somebody has been here, and I must know who it was, and for what purpose I was visited. Come, tell me at once, and save me from any further anxiety."

"O! Master Thomas, do you think I would keep anythink from you that would do you good to know? You know I wouldn't do any such think as that, Master Thomas. Would I, darlink?"

"Who has been giving you money, for my sake: tell me that?" I said sternly, and suddenly changing the drift of my conversation; "come, that I have a right to know, and I must know."

"Why, Master Thomas!" exclaimed the old lady, "what has put such a think as that into your head. Bless your heart, you are getting wild; you must have some sleep."

"Ah! Mrs. Swayne," I replied; "this is not the way to be honest, and frank, and truthful. You are all expecting that I shall be pure and sincere, and yet you are all deceiving me and playing me false."

"O! Master Thomas! I have never deceived you, I am sure. I have told you nothing that is not true," said she.

"Ah! but you have not told me the whole truth," said I; "you hide things from me which I should know. And, if you do not tell me an untruth, you do me as great a wrong by suppressing the truth, which I have a right to know."

"You know I love you too well, Master Thomas, to do anythink in the world to distress you; and as for doing you a wrong, O, 'evans! Master Thomas, do you suppose I could ever do such a think as that?"

"Of course I do not think that you could intentionally injure me, Mrs. Swayne," I replied; "you and Sylvia have both given me too many proofs of your regard for me to think of such a thing; but I see from what you, and she, and the schoolmaster say, that some person has been here to visit me, and given you money for me, and that for some reason you desire to keep it a secret from me. But I must know. I shall go mad again if you do not tell me."

"Wait until morning, Master Thomas," said Mrs. Swayne, "and then, perhaps, you shall know all about it. Be quiet until then, and you shall know, dear soul, who it was; for, since you have found out so much, I will tell you, Master Thomas, that somebody has been here, who loves you better than I do, but I cannot tell you now who it is. Sleep quietly until morning, and then I may tell you all about it."

"Thank you, thank you," I replied; "I know enough.—And now leave me to my dreams, Mrs. Swayne. I shall sleep better."

The good old soul having first put the room in order, and readjusted my pillow, went out and left me to my own thoughts, which were tranquillizing and pleasant.

I had no doubt now that it was Pauline who had come to see me, and that it was her generous devotion to me which had caused her to pay Mrs. Swayne for the expenses incurred by sickness. I could well understand the delicacy of feeling which had imposed secrecy upon Mrs. Swayne in respect to my affectionate visitor, although it was not strictly in accordance with her impulsive nature to keep herself out of sight. That it was she, I had no doubt, and I reproached myself for having forgotten her while I was waited upon by the tender and modest Sylvia. I will confess, now, that I had at times doubted the constancy of Pauline's love, for there seemed to be something selfish in it, not withstanding its boisterous intensity, so unlike the tender and modest affection of Sylvia. It was flattering to my pride that Pauline should so readily and without remorse desert her father and mother to follow me; but there was a want of principle in the act which made me suspect that one who could so easily forget her duty and love to her parents, might by-and-by be equally wanting in duty to me, when her love should cool towards me, and the novelty of her situation wear off. And then her suspicious liaison with my old enemy, Mr. Barton, had given me a good deal of uneasiness, and her strange conduct in consenting to marry him and then running away from him with me, had perplexed me not a little. It was very clear that Pauline was a mere creature of impulse, and that when I was out of her sight her love for me was not powerful enough to resist a new temptation. Since I had been lying sick at the house of Mrs. Swayne, and had watched the constant assiduity of Sylvia, who seemed to take pleasure in enduring fatigue for my sake, and who was wholly devoid of all appearance of selfishness in her affection, I had insensibly fallen into a habit of saying to myself, "how differently Pauline would have acted under such circumstances!" And then, as to the beauty of the two: the modest simplicity and retiring manner of Sylvia gave to her lovely face a charm which I had never found in Pauline. In fact, I had almost fallen in love with Sylvia, and forgotten Pauline, when the thought that she had visited me by stealth in my helplessness, revived afresh my love for that fascinating young lady, who exercised an influence over me which I found it impossible to resist.

Under the pleasing reflections that I had been thus visited, and comforting myself with the thought of there being so many good and loveable people constantly watching over me, and striving to promote my happiness, I had nearly fallen asleep, when it occurred to me that if it were Pauline who came to visit me, the schoolmaster would have had no fears of my taking the Lost Pleiad with me when I should leave the cottage. This was a new cause of perplexity to me, and after wearying myself with conjectures a long while, and getting more feverish than ever, I at last sunk into sleep, and was lost to Pauline and Sylvia and all the rest of the world in whom I felt an interest.

HOW long I had slept, I know not, but I was awakened from my slumber by a whispering near my bed side. I did not open my eyes, and discovering immediately that there was a stranger in the room, I feigned to be asleep in the hope of discovering who it was; but the whispering was so low that I could not distinguish the natural voices of the speakers, excepting that of Mrs. Swayne's, whose peculiarities of pronunciation betrayed her.

It did not occur to me at the time, that I was departing from my rule of strict honesty, by feigning to be asleep, and thus imposing upon others;—such is the difficulty in this world of deceits and false appearances, where falsehood begets falsehood, of being perfectly true and sincere, let you try ever so hard to be honest. But the trial is worth making, and, from my own experience, I can assure my readers, that the habit of sincerity will so grow upon one by practice, that in time telling the truth will get to be as "easy as lying," which is so easy as to have become proverbial. I wish I could impress upon some of my young readers, and old ones too, the importance to themselves, of being candid, sincere, and perfectly truthful, even in the smallest matters. I am persuaded that no one who once tries the experiment, will ever regret it, and the probability is that the advantages and pleasures of such a course will be so apparent, that, truthfulness of conduct will be cultivated as a mere matter of worldly policy. Cunning may sometimes gain a point which Truth could not, but Truth in the end must come out the gainer. As the whole history of mankind does not contain one single instance of prosperous falsehood, whether in public, or private life, there is nothing more surprising than that every kind of deceit and duplicity should not be banished at once from the world. We make a terrible outcry because we have discovered the power of steam and electricity, but, until the world discovers so palpable a thing as the power of Truth, it had better not boast too much about its patent discoveries. The phenomenon of a perfectly truthful man, would, no doubt, attract the attention of mankind, and it is a matter of surprise that none of the multitude who are striving to become famous do not adopt this very simple method of attaining to notoriety. All that we know about Diogenes is his candor, and yet he is as well known as Alexander. A cheaper way of becoming immortal could not be hit upon, than to be truthful. But I am digressing from my narrative, although not from my plan, which has been to show the value of sincerity as exemplified in my own experience.

To go on with my narrative. Such was my anxiety to know who my visitor was, and the object of visiting me, that I forgot all my previous resolutions, and continued with my eyes shut, and breathing low as if I were still in a profound sleep.

There was a slight pause in the conversation as I heard them approach nearer by bedside, and it was with great difficulty that I continued to keep up the appearance of being asleep. I felt the light shine in my face as Mrs. Swayne held the lamp above my head.

"He is sound as a roach," whispered the old lady; "he sleeps better than he did."

"The fever has left him, and he is so feeble that he will sleep soundly through the night;" replied another voice, in a low whisper, which I recognized as that of the doctor who had attended me.

There was another long pause which was at last broken by a sigh. I had a great desire to open my eyes and see who it was that had sighed, but I wished to hear what further might be said.

"Is he past all danger, Doctor?" whispered the stranger, feelingly.

"If he should be kept perfectly quiet, he will recover," replied the doctor; "but it is all important that his mind be kept free from excitement."

Had I, then, been so ill, as to be considered even now in danger? The thought of my unconscious peril gave me a start which betrayed itself in my face.

"Hush! hush!" said Mrs. Swayne. "He is waking. Go out, for 'evan's sake, quick."

I opened my eyes to catch a glimpse of my unknown visitor but only saw the retreating forms of two men. I raised myself in bed, but the motion alarmed them and the light was instantly extinguished. I was wide awake at once, and, from a sudden impulse leaped from the bed and rushed towards the door, determined to know who it was that had visited me.

"Good 'evans!" shrieked Mrs. Swayne. "He is running after you. He will take his death."

The two men had ran as far as the door, and, in another moment would have been beyond my reach; for Mrs. Swayne had taken hold of me to prevent me from proceeding further.

"Help! help!" she cried.

The Doctor stopped. The stranger's hand was upon the door which was partly open; he turned his head to look back, and all the light in the entry streamed in upon his countenance, I recognized the face and form of Captain St. Hugh!

My bed-room was not so large but that I could easily gain the door without assistance, although only a moment before I hardly felt strong enough to stand on my feet alone; I should, probably, have succeeded in catching hold of my unknown visitors, had not Mrs. Swayne seized hold of my arms and checked me for a moment.

"Let me go, woman!" I said, fiercely; which so startled her that she released me, and I pursued my unknown visitors into the street; but, they had got entirely beyond my reach, and I fell exhausted upon the wet grass, for it had been raining during the day, and the air was still damp and chilly. There I lay, completely exhausted and unable to rise, until Mrs. Swayne and Sylvia came running to my assistance and helped me back to my chamber.

The two women were greatly alarmed at my imprudent exposure of myself, and, without paying any attention to my expostulations, fairly forced me upon the bed again, and covered me over with blankets. In truth, I was nearly as helpless as an infant, and felt myself incapable of making any resistance. I had been very sick, and my physician had done his best to second the disease which had attacked me, by drawing out of my veins all the blood that he could. He was one of the regular bleeders; and it was not his fault that I was not made a ghost of. The good soul who waited on me so patiently and faithfully during my illness, has often frightened me since, by telling me how frequently the doctor tapped my veins, and what monstrous doses of medicines he administered to me. "And only to think of it," would she say: "so hobstinate was your disease that all the bleeding and physic couldn't break it."

It was, indeed, a miracle that he didn't kill the disease and the patient with it; but, happily, I had a strong constitution which resisted everything short of poison, and I recovered; but not until I had been again reduced so low that even the doctor gave up all hopes of my recovery, and all who felt any interest in my welfare looked upon me as lost. My second illness was brought on by my rash exposure, and during many dreary weeks I lay scarcely conscious of existence, except from suffering. I was not neglected in my helplessness; but I had no recollection on recovering my health of seeing any one near me but Sylvia and her mother, who were constant in their attentions, and untiring in their efforts to gratify all my wishes. It is not to be wondered at that men fall in love with their nurses, and marry them when they get well, for surely a woman never appears so much like an angel as when attending upon your bedside. It is then her hour of triumph; she feels her power and wins your love by her tenderness and assiduity. As for myself, I experienced each day a stronger and tenderer attachment for Sylvia, and a more grateful feeling for her mother; for what motive could have induced them to sacrifice so many of their own comforts to increase mine, but the most disinterested affection. As the chances had been altogether against my recovery, they had no reason to anticipate any recompense for their trouble, and, even if I should recover, they knew that I could never know how much they had suffered for my sake, for I was insensible of their efforts in my behalf when they were doing the most. I felt ashamed and humbled within myself, to reflect that I owed so much to these kind hearted women, for whom I had never done the least thing to entitle me to their gratitude; and when I asked myself if I would have done as much for them, I was forced to confess to myself that I would not. I should have been undeserving the name of a man if I had not felt the strongest gratitude towards them, and swore to myself that I would sacrifice even my life for their sakes. I was satisfied that Pauline had not visited me; for she surely would not have allowed me to remain ignorant of the fact; if she had, it was not like her. I began to regret that I had ever promised to marry her, for I was forced to confess that Sylvia was not only as beautiful in person, but infinitely more lovely in mind, and more loveable in temper. It would be but a mere matter of justice, even though my desires did not prompt me to the act, to offer her the life she had preserved, if she would condescend to accept it in payment of the debt I owed her. But my word was passed to Pauline, and I would not break it; I must marry her, and I felt impatient to go out that I might redeem my pledge to her; but, in conformity with my resolution not to be guilty of any duplicity, I was resolved to tell her the exact state of my feelings. Sylvia, too, should know how I felt towards her, for I would not have that angelic creature remain ignorant of my gratitude for her services. I was amusing myself with such thoughts as these as I lay upon my bed one morning soon after I began to get well, when Sylvia entered my room, looking, as I thought, more charming and innocent than I had ever seen her before. She had been out in the garden, which must have suffered sadly by her neglect during my illness, and had brought me in a bouquet of pinks and geranium blossoms. She put them upon my pillow, but instead of taking them up I caught hold of her hand and pressed it to my lips, for it seemed to me infinitely more beautiful than the flowers. In truth, Sylvia had the loveliest hand in the world, and if the world thinks that it was only my fondness for her that made it appear so in my eyes, it will be enough, to refute such an opinion, to mention the circumstance well known to many of her friends, that some years after the event just named, the celebrated amateur Sculptor, Mr. Stoutleigh, begged the privilege of modelling it for his famous statue of Pocahontas. No doubt many of my readers will remember the fact, and also that the hand of that statue, which is at present in the lyceum of the Sculptor's native town, has always been considered, by connoisseurs, its finest feature.

Sylvia did not appear the least angry at the liberty I took with her hand, but she immediately drew it beyond my reach, and looked into my face as if to discover whether it were a mere act of gallantry or affection, that prompted me to do such a thing. She must have been satisfied that it was something a more than gallantry, for she blushed very red, and said—"I did not offer you my hand, Tom, but the flowers."

"But, I would rather have your hand, darling," said I; "and as I know you wanted to please me, I took it. But you are not offended?"

"If I am, I shall get over it," she replied, and sat down, and pulled out a newspaper from her little work-basket. "Are you strong enough this morning, Tom, to hear a piece of bad news?"

"Is my father dead?" I cried.

"No, no," she said, with an alarmed look; for her question threw me into such an excitement that I leaped up involuntarily, forgetful of her presence, and but for her reply, would have jumped from the bed. I sank back, and she said—"it is the death of some person you little think to hear of."

"It is Pauline?" she shook her head.

"Ah! then!" I exclaimed, "it is my first and best friend; my almost father, whom I loved so well, Mr. Bassett. Is he then dead?"

"No, 'tis not Mr. Bassett," she replied.

"Well, I care not who it is, then, for I have no other friends whose loss I should mourn," I replied.

"It is somebody you care more for, and love better, than either of them;" she said, smiling.

"Are you a ghost?" I cried, half frightened, lest she should prove one, and that it should be herself of whom she spoke. She smiled and blushed again, by which I knew she was no ghost, and the death she alluded to was not one that I should be likely to weep over. But I was perplexed to know who it was for whom she thought I cared so much; and she, seeing my curiosity awakened, tried to excite me still more by her enigmatical talk. I named over all my old acquaintances—Sophia Ruby, Mrs. Bassett, Desire Goodwill, and even Mr. Ferocious, for whom I had never been aware of experiencing any very great admiration or tender sympathy. But it was none of these.

"Poor Tom," she said at last; I will not tantalize you any longer. Do you know that you have been very sick?"

"Too well," I replied, "for your sake, and mine."

"Not for mine," she said. "But you did not know that your sickness was fatal, and that you died more than ten days ago? Yes, Tom," she continued, as she opened the newspaper she had taken from her basket; "if there be any truth in newspapers you are a dead man; and here is the melancholy intelligence in the Amboy Times, from which it was copied into all the city papers."

"Let me see," I said; and taking the paper from her hands, I read under the obituary head the following notice:

"Died, in this town, on Sunday the 13th inst., at the house of —— Swayne, Esq., Mr. Tom Pepper, in the 20th year of his age. Mr. Pepper was a native of Massachusetts, but was a descendant of a noble English family; and, if he had lived, we understand, he would have been Lord St. Hugh. The writer of this knew him well, and loved him for his virtues and his learning, and deeply sympathizes with his afflicted friends and relations.

"None knew him but to love him, nor named him but to praise."

"Whose work was this?" said I, blushing at the ironical praise bestowed upon me.

"It was the schoolmaster's," said Sylvia.

"The villain!" I exclaimed; "what could be his motive for perpetrating such a piece of stupidity?"

"Don't blame him for speaking well of you," said Sylvia; "they all do so after a man is dead. And as for spreading the news of your death before it happened, the fault must rest with my mother, who, you know, would never do you any harm."

"And he never named me but to praise," said I; "I dare say he never praised me for anything but dying, if he thought I was dead. The rogue wished me dead fifty times, and for your sake, too, Sylvia."

"The poor man is crazy, I believe," said Sylvia.

"But tell me all about the advertisement of my death," said I, "and why your mother should have done such a thing?"

"It was when you lay just hovering between life and death," said Sylvia, "and we were expecting your breath, which was so low and faint that it could scarce be perceived, would cease altogether; the doctor said that you would go off at the turn of the tide. The schoolmaster, who used to call every day to enquire if you were still alive, stopped at the door and found my mother weeping. 'What, is he dead?' asked the schoolmaster. 'No,' said my mother, 'he is not dead yet, but he will not live until morning. The doctor has given him up, when the tide turns he will be no more!' So the schoolmaster, who loves to tell fresh news, hurried off to the printing office and wrote the notice of your death, which you have just read, and it was printed the next morning. The schoolmaster called to offer his services at your funeral——"

"And was very much disappointed, I dare say," added I, "to hear they were not needed—was he not, Sylvia?"

"O! I would be very sorry to think so ill of poor Mr. Gossitt," said Sylvia; "but he did not show quite so much joy on hearing the good news, as my mother did in telling it, I must say. But poor Mr. Gossitt must not be blamed for what he does; the poor man is not right in his mind."

"And did nobody else come to assist at my funeral?" I asked.

"O! yes!" said Sylvia, "the minister came, and so did the sexton."

"Were they all?"

"O, no, not quite all. Some of the neighbors also came in; and everybody was very good; so that my mother said, there was no knowing who our friends were until we died and had no need of their services."

"Yet, none of these were my friends, Sylvia. Did not the publication of my death bring some of those who had been my friends? Or did they stay away because I no longer had need of their services."

"You have talked too long, already," replied Sylvia, "so ask me no more questions. When you get better I will tell you more."

"I will ask you but one more question, Sylvia, if you will answer that truly. Did Pauline come when the news of my death was published, to see me buried.?"

Sylvia cast down her eyes, blushed and answered, "no."

"No! But she has been here, Sylvia, if not then?" I said.

"You promised to ask but one question more, and now you have asked another. If I answer that, you will want to know more, and more, and the doctor will scold me for talking to you; and my mother will be angry with me; and you will be sick again, Tom. So, promise me that this shall be the last question you put to me, before I answer it."

"I promise."

"Well, then, Tom, the young lady you named has never been here;" said Sylvia. And as she said it, she raised her eyes and looked me full in the face, as if she would watch the effect of her answer upon my feelings.

"Then she deserts me in my sickness," said I; "I thought she had been here and you would not tell me. And yet she professed to love me, Sylvia."

"And you loved her," said Sylvia.

"Yes, we are betrothed. I am pledged to her, and must marry her."

"Must!" said Sylvia. "Surely the young lady would not have you upon compulsion. Must is not the right word for lovers; I should think if it were I, I must not have anybody who must have me."

"I must not have you, Sylvia, then," said I, "not because I must have you; but because I must not. But this is musty talk for us. You know, Sylvia, that I have made a vow to be truthful and frank, and to speak my real thoughts; so I cannot be guilty of duplicity towards you, and keep from you the thoughts I have had about you."

I WAS prevented from making a confession to Sylvia of the state of my feelings towards her, by the entrance of her mother and the doctor, who motioned her to withdraw when they came in, and I saw her no more until the next morning. The doctor, who was one of those men that try to look wise, but, like most men who try to seem better than they are, only appeared very foolish, was, on this occasion, unusually important and solemn in his actions. He looked at my tongue, and lifted up his eye-brows; he placed his hand upon my forehead, and pursed up his mouth; he looked at his watch, and shook his head; and, upon being asked by Mrs. Swayne what he thought of it, he took out his pocket handkerchief and blew his nose before he replied, that he thought my symptoms were favorable, rather than otherwise.

"He is very much as my husband was once," said Mrs. Swayne; "only Swine was more, what do-you-call-it, in the face, and sweated like everythink."

"Very likely," replied the doctor, as he knitted his brows closely together as if to contract some great thought which was growing too expansive for his head. "Very likely, madam."

"Do you think he can come in now?" said Mrs. Swayne.

This question of Mrs. Swayne's started the blood in my veins, and my heart began to throb violently. "O! yes," I cried; "let him come in—let him come in, by all means. It will relieve me to see him. I shall feel better after I have seen him!" for I had no doubt that it was my mysterious visitor who was the person alluded to.

"Don't get excited, my young friend," said the doctor, taking hold of my hand; "we must always be prepared for unexpected events in this world; it is a world of changes, and a man of my time of life, who was seen so much of human nature, of course, expects these things."

"What things?" said I.

"Why, the vicissitudes and changes of life," remarked the doctor, "as well as of death."

"I am prepared for anything," I replied; "and if I am not as old as you are, doctor, perhaps I have seen as much of human nature, and experienced as many vicissitudes."

The doctor smiled incredulously, and was going to say something, or at least was making his customary preparations, when I told him that if anybody was waiting to see me, I was perfectly prepared to meet him, and that the delay to introduce him would cause me more harm, from my excited feelings, than could possibly result from any surprise which his appearance might occasion.

"I think Master Thomas is right," said Mrs. Swayne.

The doctor looked at his watch again, and said, "Perhaps, madam, you are right, or, at least, not far wrong. I will withdraw, and request him to step in."

The doctor did withdraw himself, but not in so abrupt a manner as I wished; for he felt of my pulse again, and again looked as wise and as important as he could by such facial manœuvrings as he was in the habit of making his features undergo. He withdrew at last, but Mrs. Swayne remained, and presently another person softly insinuated himself into the room and stood mournfully by my bed side. I looked up at my visitor, and saw at a glance that he was not the one who had visited me before, and of whose person I had caught but a glimpse. That was a short person, but this was a slender and shadowy man, with his head hanging on one side as if there were nothing to support it. As the gentleman did not seem inclined to speak, but stood looking at me in a dreadfully gloomy and desponding manner, I observed that he wore a very scant and threadbare black cloak, with a little cape that scarcely covered his shoulders, narrow as they were; the cloak was scant in width only, for it was long enough to drag upon the ground, and the bottom of it had a very rusty look from the clots of red clay which it had caught up in the course of its travels. The rest of his garments were of corresponding quality and fashion, and he wore, as a matter of course, a limpsey and yellowish white cravat. His face was thin and sallow, his hair lank and light colored, and his hands long, thin, and white.

"This is not the gentleman who has been to see me before in my sickness?" said I to Mrs. Swayne.

"No, my friend," said the gentleman, in a sad and droning voice, "I, ah, am not, ah, that person you, ah, allude to. I, ah, am another person. Perhaps, I, ah, may say I, ah, am quite another person."

"Yes, Master Thomas," said Mrs. Swayne, "he is, I assure you, quite another person; but, I believe, Master Thomas, a very good person, in which you may have confidence."

"I think, ah, my friend, you had better go out, and leave me alone, ah, with the young man," said my visitor, turning to Mrs. Swayne.

"If you please, I will," replied Mrs. Swayne; "but don't be alarmed at anythink, Master Thomas," said the good soul, as she went out.

What was there to be alarmed at, and what in the world had that dismal apparition appeared to me for!

"Perhaps you, ah, know who I am?" queried the gentleman, as he carefully placed his hat under my bed, and sat down by me.

"No, I do not," I replied. "I have never seen you before, I am certain. Who are you?"

"I am, ah, professor Willbore," snuffled, rather than said, my visitor; "I am, ah, a preacher of the gospel, and, ah, professor of dentistry."

"And pray, tell me, professor, in which character you visit me now?" said I; "for I am as little in need of your services in one as the other."

"I have, ah, no doubt you think so;" replied the professor, in the same dismal whine; "but, I ah, have often seen men whose souls, ah, needed cleaning, ah, as much as, ah, their teeth, who ah, did not know it."

"Pardon me, professor," said I; "my molars are perfectly sound, I know; but, as to my morals, it does not become me to say much about them. But I try to be honest and true; and, therefore, I must speak plainly to you, and tell you that if I am ever so bad, I do not believe that you can improve me by preaching to me."

"I shall, ah, not preach to you," replied the professor, "for I have not got, ah, my notes with me, ah, and I have not, ah, meditated any subject for the occasion. I never preach, ah, without ah, preparing myself beforehand, and, ah, having my notes, ah, with me."

"O, very well, I am glad to hear it," I replied; "and do, professor, make your visit as brief as possible, for really, I do not like you."

"I have generally, ah, been acceptable to the congregations I have preached to, ah, and to my patients, ah," he replied.

"That may be," said I; "you will pardon my plainness of speech, for I must tell the truth."

"Well, and so must I, ah, and I am going, ah, to do it before I go," said the professor, without altering his voice or manifesting any displeasure at my remarks.

"Perhaps, ah, you think because I am, ah, a preacher of the gospel," whined the professor, "and am, ah, not so, ah, fashionably dressed in my, ah, outward apparel, that I am ah, not so well off in the world as, ah, some others. But I, ah, have made a sufficiency as a professor of, ah, dentistry and I own houses, ah, in, ah, New York; and I, ah, am not, ah, dependent upon, ah, anybody else for, ah, my bread."

"Then you are a happy man," I said.

"Well I, ah, have felt myself so, ah, ever since, ah, I made my, ah, peace with, ah, my maker," said the professor.

This turn in the conversation was rather unlucky for me, as it caused the professor to fall into what he called a praying frame of mind, and falling on his knees, he clasped his hands together, and said—

"Brother, ah, let us, ah, try to pray."

The professor did not seem to try very hard, for he prayed a very long prayer, and in such set terms, and with such volubility, that it seemed infinitely more natural and easy for him to address the Throne of Grace than to address even so humble and unworthy a person as myself. In truth, so easily and fluently did he pray, and so soothing was the flow of his devout supplications, that I was directly lulled asleep, and was only awoke by the sudden and startling manner in which he pronounced Amen.

"Brother," said the professor, as he again seated himself by my bed side, "do you feel better?"

"I think I do," I replied. "But I wish you would gratify me by stating the object of your visit, and so relieve my mind from the suspicion that I am to learn some bad news."

"I, ah, will not deny, ah, that something will, ah, be told to you by and by, perhaps that, ah, may be unpleasant for you to ah, hear. But you know all the, ah, troubles of, ah, this world are, ah, sent upon us for our good."

"I do not know, nor do I believe any such thing, professor," I replied. "Such a belief would at once be destructive of all happiness in the world, and instead of striving to avoid evils and misfortunes, everybody would be running into danger. It was well enough in the old monkish times for men to believe that their happiness hereafter would be in proportion to their unhappiness here, and to glory in self-inflicted flagellations, starvations, and all manner of asceticisms; but you, professor, who have read the Bible, know very well that such a doctrine is contrary to the whole philosophy and teaching of the holy book."

"You, ah, forget, my friend, ah, that Christ, ah, wore a crown of thorns, ah, on his head, ah, and this his, ah, precious back was scourged with thongs and whips."

"No, I do not," I replied; "but I remember what you forget, that they were not self-inflicted. He bore them patiently, but he did not seek them."

"I, ah, am sorry to see, ah, my friend," said the professor, "that you are still in the, ah, bonds of wickedness and ignorance. It is, ah, not worth while to argue with you, ah, on such matters. I, ah, am regularly ordained as, ah, preacher of the, ah, gospel. I, ah, am willing to, ah, instruct you and, ah, to comfort you, ah, spiritually, or in the line of my profession; but I, ah, have not time to, ah, argue with you, because, ah, you have not yet, ah, been regenerated, nor, ah, got a hope."

"My hopes, Professor, I must admit," said I, "are at a very low ebb; and they have not much improved since you honored me with this visit. If you have any secrets to divulge to me, any ill news to tell me, or any advice to give me, let me know the extent of it at once, for I am harassed and wearied by what I see and hear. I am strong enough to bear up under any affliction, or at least I shall never be better able than now; so let me know at once what it is that you have visited me for, and why you pray over and talk to me in the manner you have been doing. I am no longer a child, and I can bear my fate let it be what it may!"

"I have, ah, got nothing to tell you of myself," said the professor, "but, ah, some of your friends, ah, have, and as your mind has been, ah, very weak, and your body has, ah, been almost in the grave, for you, ah, know your death was, ah, in the, ah, newspaper, the doctor, ah, thought it was best to prepare you for the interview which you are about to have with, ah, certain person, and the, ah, intelligence which is, ah, to be conveyed to you be, ah, that individual."

"What individual?" said I.

"Perhaps I, ah, should apologize," said the professor, "for ah, applying the term individual to him, for I know it is a coarse word to use; and I, ah, generally, ah, avoid it in, ah, my pulpit discourses. The term individual has, ah, often been applied to me by other people, but,——"

"The word is a good word, professor," I replied, interrupting him. "I have no objection to its being applied to me, or to anybody else. Let it be an individual, but only tell me who the individual is, that I may individualize him and know for what purpose he visits me."

"It is, ah, no business of mine," said the professor, "but the, ah, doctor said it must be broke to you gradually, and ah, he sent for me, ah, to prepare you, ah, for it. I ah, have property in the neighborhood, and I, ah, am, in fact, the owner of this house; but I keep my, ah, office in New York, and I will, ah, give you my card. I don't preach there statedly because my, ah, health will not permit me to do it."

I was afraid to interrupt him lest I should say something to turn his discourse in a new direction, so I patiently closed my mouth while he went on in the soothing process, preparing my mind for his final disclosure by telling me that his family lived near by because it was cheaper than living in the city; that he had a brother in the ministry; that his wife was poorly, and that his patients in dentistry were chiefly pious people of his own persuasion, whose teeth were generally out of order; and that but for his regard for them he would abandon his profession and devote himself wholly and exclusively to taking care of his property and preaching the gospel.

"But, as I was, ah, saying," said the professor, reverting once more to the motive of his visit, "I, ah, should not have called that person, ah, individual if I had not a meditation on the subject before, ah, speaking on it to you. But, ah, he is, ah, now, waiting to be, ah, introduced to you, and ah, I think his name is, ah, Captain, ah,——"

"Captain!" I exclaimed, as the truth now flashed upon me, "Captain St. Hugh! Is it he?"

"I believe, ah, that is what they, ah, call him," said the professor, "and I heard the doctor say he, ah, thought you, ah, were his son."

"I am his son," I said—"they know I am his son; and is this what they call bad news. If he is here, why do they not let him come in?"

"They, ah, thought it necessary, ah, first to prepare you for it," said the professor, "lest it should, ah, cause a relapse of your disease, ah, I believe."

"Fools that they are!" I exclaimed, "to think it necessary to prepare me for such an announcement as this. And they have deprived me of seeing him, lest my mind could not bear anything so agreeable!"

"You had, ah, better not grow too excited," said the professor; "it, ah, may go to your head. The captain, I believe, is very quiet about it, and will, ah, not like to see you, ah, too much disturbed."

"I am perfectly calm and self possessed," I said. "But I shall not be if you remain here to distract me by your advice. Be so good as to go out and assure my father, or Captain St. Hugh, that I am perfectly quiet, and hope he will not delay any longer to allow me the happiness of seeing him."

The professor then withdrew, and the intervening moments between his exit and the entrance of Mrs. Swayne, accompanied by the doctor and Captain St. Hugh, seemed to me almost an endless period.

I hope my readers will be blessed with imaginative capacities sufficiently powerful to enable them to form some idea of the pleasing tumult caused in my feelings by the entrance of Captain St. Hugh; for I shall not attempt to give any description of the amazement and delight which I felt at the unlooked for apparition. In truth, I had never dreamed of the possibility of my father coming there to see me, and, in all my surmises and imaginings as to the mysterious person who had been watching at my bed, I did not once think of him. I had made up my mind that he had deserted me for good, that my conduct had so grieved him he would never consent to see me again; and, being possessed with such an idea, the thought of his following me about in my wanderings, and watching over me in my sickness, when I supposed that all the world, but the two faithful women who had given me shelter, had abandoned me, had never occurred to me.

But I now saw him standing at my bed side, looking upon me as kindly and affectionately as he had ever done in my younger years, and the joy that I felt on beholding him again, exceeded my power of speech. But, if the power to express out sensations in words is denied us, our countenances are denied the power to hide our feelings, and my grateful looks must have told my father what my tongue could not.

He attempted to speak, but could only ejaculate, "God bless you, my boy! God bless you!" Then taking my hand, he sat down, and laying his head upon my pillow, he wept aloud. The tender heart of Mrs. Swayne could not withstand such an exhibition of feeling, so she commenced weeping, too, and made so much noise, that the doctor thought it better that she should indulge her sympathetic manifestations elsewhere; and he took her by the arm and led her out of the room, and had the good sense to remain out himself; so that my father and I were left alone together.

It was some minutes before Captain St. Hugh had sufficient command over his voice to speak, and, as he sat by my side wiping his eyes, I thought I had never before seen him look so well, nor felt such a strong affection for him. He was but little altered since I had seen him last: his head showed more white hairs, and his whiskers were cut shorter, but he was not quite so stout, and his face had lost somewhat of the flush which it used to wear. He had, in brief, become Americanized in appearance, to a certain degree; although he was still an undeniable Englishman in his looks, and had that peculiar frankness of manner, and neatness of person, which distinguish a naval officer.

"My dear boy," said he, trying to cough down his emotion, "had you quite forgotten me?"

"Forgotten you!" I exclaimed; "had you forgotten me?"

"Pardon me, my lad, I did not mean to reproach you," he said; "if you did forget me, you have not forgotten my advice."

"I have done nothing, I hope," I said, "to dishonor the name of St. Hugh."

"No, my son, you have not; and I am grateful to you for it. You are worthy to bear the name of St. Hugh, and henceforth you shall," said he. "But, my poor boy, you must suffer for the sin of your father, and it is that which grieves me, and caused me to weep when saw you. But I must not disturb your mind to-night. You are too feeble yet to bear what I have to tell you. The physician will not allow me to talk with you to-night, but in the morning you will be refreshed, and then I shall tell you more. God only knows, my poor boy, what I have endured for you, and how truly I have endeavored to serve you."

I begged him to remain with me as long as he could, and assured him that I was much stronger than the doctor supposed. But he said that it would be better that I should be refreshed by sleep, after being so much excited, and insisted on leaving me. I felt too happy to oppose him; and after bidding me an affectionate good night, he withdrew, and soon after I fell into a refreshing sleep from which I did not awake until the next morning's sun was shining brightly in my face.

I FELT so strong and hearty, after eating my bowl of Indian porridge, which was the unsavory diet prescribed for me by my physician, that I was allowed to dress myself, and received my father in the little parlor of Mrs. Swayne's cottage.

Captain St. Hugh looked brighter and more cheerful, as he saluted me in the morning, than he had done the night before. He complimented me upon my improved appearance and, having taken his seat by me, said:

"You have been subjected to a hard trial, my boy, but you have come out of it bravely; and now I shall be proud to own you as my son before the world. But I had resolved never again to hold any intercourse with you, if you had proved unworthy of the name of your ancestors. I have the honest pride of family, my boy, which every honest man feels who has a family to be proud of; and, as you had shown a disposition to tricks which no St. Hugh had ever been guilty of, I determined to sacrifice my own feelings, and never own you for my son, unless you were worthy of the honor.

"But, I could not desert you, and leave you to the temptations with which you were surrounded without supplying you with the means necessary to maintain your respectability in life; therefore I gave orders to your good friend, Mr. Bassett, to give you all the money you might want, but to leave you wholly to yourself, and allow your natural propensities to develop themselves. I kept constant watch of your movements; I tracked you from door to door; I knew all your secrets, and wherever you went there I followed you."

"Then it was you whom I so often met, and imagined I had seen your ghost?"

"Yes, it was I, and many a time have I had to struggle with my feelings which prompted me to stop and embrace you. It was my sole object in life to watch over you, and protect you; my family in England knew nothing of your history, nor even of your existence, and I was too proud, my boy, to introduce you to them as my son, until I myself felt sure of your integrity of character. For, I knew that your conduct would be jealously scrutinized; the unfortunate circumstances connected with your birth would cause you to be slighted, and unless you could found your claim to their respect on your own upright character, you had better never be acknowledged as a member of the family of the St. Hughs. But I am happy to feel assured, that you have conquered the propensity to prevaricate and deceive, which caused me so much unhappiness when I first discovered it, and that I may now confide in you, as a man of honor, and a gentleman."

I felt very much embarrassed to hear myself addressed in this manner by Captain St. Hugh, but my heart swelled with delight to know that my conduct had been approved by him.

"You know, my boy, he continued, whether you have ever done aught that I could not approve, and I have confidence in you to feel sure you will tell me if you have?"

I then assured him that I had never been guilty of a falsehood since I had seen him last, and had resolved, even though it should cost me my life, never to be guilty of a dishonorable action; and that I was not conscious of ever having been guilty of anything, in thought or deed, which I wished to keep secret from him.

"And you have been in love?" said he.

I then related to him all that had passed in relation to Pauline, to which he listened with great attention.

"And you still love her?" he said.

"I mean to marry her," I said; "for my word is passed, and I cannot break it."

"What, my boy!" said he, "would you marry her if you did not love her; for I fear that you do not; and entail upon yourself a life of wretchedness, merely to redeem a pledge that was exacted from you under false pretenses?"

"I must," said I, "for the fault was my own if I suffered myself to be deceived. I must bear up under the consequences of my own folly; and, as soon as I am fully restored to health, I shall keep my promise to Pauline."

"But that is carrying your principle too far," said he; "for suppose that she should prove herself unworthy of you?"

"My promise to her was unconditional," I replied; "if I had dreamed of her proving unworthy, I should never have bound myself to her. The change is not in her, but in me. I have discovered in another the charms and virtues which I imagined, in my blindness, she possessed."

"O, ho!" said he; "and pray, who is this other divinity that you have now fallen in love with?"

"I fear that you will not approve my choice," said I; "but if you knew as much of Sylvia as I have learned, since I have been lying here in her mother's house, you would love her as well as I do, and be as grateful for her kindness."

"So, then," said he, "you are pledged to marry Pauline, but have transferred your affections to Sylvia? Faith, my boy, you are in a very peculiar condition, so far as your matrimonial prospects are concerned; and, as for the honor of the thing, I can't see that there would be much to boast of, in vowing to love one woman, as her husband, while you are really in love with another. You have some of your father's weakness, my poor lad, and I am afraid you will always be getting into difficulty, while you are in danger of becoming acquainted with beautiful women."

"Of course, said I, "I should not marry Pauline without first telling her, that I had ceased to love her."

"Of course then" said he, "you will not marry her, for she would not consent to take you on such conditions."

"I think she would," I replied.

"And you have resolved to try her, in spite of your love for Sylvia?" said he.

"My determination has been taken," I said, "and I shall not swerve from it."

"Poor lad! and you are very unhappy about it?" said he.

"I should be, if I were not convinced from what has already befallen me, that the only way to be really happy is to be true and honest. It will all come right in the end, if I only act right in the beginning, I am persuaded. I could hardly have hoped to meet you again, and to know that you approved my conduct, but I tried my best to be honest and faithful, and now I have the happiness to know you love me."

"Bravo, my boy! Bravo!" exclaimed my father, as he patted my shoulder, "you are my son, and an honor to the St. Hughs. And now, my lad, you have removed a great load from my heart by your honest confession; for I knew that you had loved the daughter of that old Wall-street usurer, but I did not know the change your feelings had undergone towards her. I had something to tell you about her which I was afraid would upset you again, and throw you upon your back. Your death in the newspaper had an effect upon her that you could not have anticipated."

"Surely," said I, "she is not dead?"

"O, no!" he said; "It did not quite kill her."

"Oh! I can anticipate what you were going to tell me," I said, while a feeling of remorse touched my heart, and I half repented of my want of loyalty to her; "she has gone crazy. Poor Pauline!"

At this my father laughed loud and long.

"Ha! ha! ha! my poor credulous boy!" said he; "she has not been put in a straight jacket, but in a wedding gown. She has been married!"

"Married!" I exclaimed, with a burning blush upon my cheek; "Pauline married! It cannot be!"

"It is true, my boy," replied my father coolly, as he took a paper from his pocket; "and here is the report of it. Yes, my lad, she is married to a man older than I am. But you must give her credit for waiting until she saw your death in the paper. Ha! ha! ha!"

It was as my father stated. On opening the paper I discovered the marriage of Pauline with my old rival, Mr. Barton, and I scarce knew whether to laugh or weep at the discovery. It was some consolation to my pride to know that she had waited until she had reason to believe me dead, before bestowing her hand upon a man, whom she knew I despised. Poor Pauline! She had not half the heart I gave her credit for. If I had entertained any revengeful feelings towards her for her untruth, they would have been amply gratified by knowing she had married Mr. Barton. No doubt, they were heartily tired of each other already.

"Poor Pauline!" I ejaculated, as I thought of her.

"Then you had some remaining affection for her?" said my father.

"She was very beautiful, and, I thought, very fond of me. I hope all women are not like her," I said.

"Of course they are not, my boy," said my father; "you are happily rid of Pauline. Think what your fate would have been with such a woman for a wife! Let her inconstancy teach you caution for the future. You have not yet declared yourself to Sylvia, the young lady who has been so sisterly and kind to you in your sickness?"

"Not yet," I replied.

"Then wait, my boy," he replied, "and be sure that you do not mistake your gratitude to your nurse for the love which a man should feel for his mistress. I am afraid you are liable to make such mistakes."

"But Sylvia is unlike other woman that I have seen," I replied.

"No doubt; but all women are alike, who are young and pretty, to such young fellows as you," said he.

"You will object to Sylvia, perhaps," I said, "on account of her father and mother."

"No, no, my boy. You are unjust to me. I would prefer that you should marry a women in a different sphere of life; but as the chief end of marriage is happiness, I would have you to marry a woman you can love, and, in the end, it will matter little who her connections are. But, there will be time enough to discuss this subject. I have one more thing to tell you, which is proper that you should know."

My father appeared somewhat embarrassed and at a loss how to begin the revelation which he was going to make; but, after hesitating a few minutes and taking two or three turns across the little room, he sat down again, and very gravely said:

"I told you, my boy, that you must suffer for your father's misconduct, and that it was the thought of it which had so painfully grieved me on seeing you.

"I have told you, you doubtless remember, the circumstance connected with your birth; how I met your poor mother, how I imposed upon her innocence, and how keenly I had suffered since in consequence, so that I need not distress you nor myself, by again repeating the story."

Seeing that an allusion to the unhappy subject caused so much distress to my father, I begged him not to repeat to me anything which was not necessary, for I had a very lively recollection of everything he had ever told me respecting my mother.

"It was one of my proudest thoughts, my boy, when I at first found you, and saw, by the sparkle of your eye, the features of your face, and the general carriage of your person, a reflection of those personal qualities which have for ages distinguished my family," said my father, as he warmly pressed my hand; "that you would one day be the owner of Blackmere, and, as the descendant of old Sir Eustace, do credit to the name of St. Hugh. I have dreamed that the wrong done to your innocent mother, would be, in some degree atoned for, by placing her son at the head of such a family as ours; but this must never be, my boy. No—my crime must be atoned for by you; and I must die with the knowledge that my own child will be deprived of the inheritance of his father. Since we parted last, I have received intelligence from my legal agent in London, who informs me that the marriage with your mother cannot be legitimatized, and that, consequently, you cannot inherit the estates and title which by right belong to you; and they must, at my death, descend to a remote relative whom I have never seen."

I cannot truly say that this piece of information did not unpleasantly affect me, for I had indulged in many a dream of Blackmere, and in my darkest days had been buoyed up with the ambitious thought of one day being the master of that noble estate; and I frankly told my father how I felt. But, then, it did not make me unhappy, to know that I should never realize the proud dream in which I had so often indulged. And, in truth, I was too sincerely rejoiced at being restored to my father once more, and to know that he still loved me, and that my conduct was approved by him, to suffer the loss of Blackmere to depress my spirits. And so I assured him.

"You are a generous lad," said my father, "and I am grateful for your forgiveness. Perhaps, in after years, you may feel less disposed to forgive me than you do now. But, my son, I have a fortune for you, saved from the income of my estate, and every shilling of it shall be yours. Here you may be rich, and an honored citizen of a great nation. You need not repine, my son, at not being an Englishman, while you can boast that you are an American with an English father. I am proud of my own country, God bless it! and you, my boy, have cause to be proud of yours. My affections are in England, but my home shall be with you. It is better that you should never see Blackmere. It would be humiliating to you to visit the home of your ancestors, and feel yourself an alien in it."

I perfectly coincided in my father's opinions, and had no wish to visit the old castle which would have been mine but for the crooked laws and the bar sinister on my escutcheon. I could not feel very kindly the loss of honors which I had never enjoyed; and the mention of the fortune, too, had a consoling effect upon me. I am afraid that the tender affection shown by my father, and his humility in begging my forgiveness, that, owing to his youthful indiscretion, I was deprived of the family honors to which he seemed to consider me as naturally entitled, made me feel a little vain, and less grateful than I should for his kindness. I had never before felt myself of so much importance as I did then, to hear this true hearted gentleman, who was the representative of an old English family, the inheritor of a great estate, and who had been honored for his public services, humbly implore my forgiveness for a wrong which I had never felt, and beg me to accept a fortune which would raise me from beggary to a splendid independence. If I did experience a momentary feeling of pride and self-consequence, I must be just to myself, and say that it soon passed off, and I again felt myself the grateful child of a too generous and indulgent father. I burst into tears as I thought on the change of condition which I had undergone in a few hours, and being still weak from the effects of my disease, probably expressed more sensibility than I actually felt, for my father appeared to be alarmed; and, mistaking the cause of my tears, he attempted in the tenderest manner to soothe me.

"I should have waited, my boy, until you were heartier", he said, "before I told you this unpleasant news. But, now it is out, we must make the best of it. You will not lack for money, my son; you have a good constitution, and, God willing, will soon be up and hearty again; you are young; and know, by actual contact with the world, exactly what it is made of; you must have a clean conscience, and with all these, what is going to prevent you being happy but your own perverseness. Here is life before you, my lad, now make the most of it, and be happy. Honors will come upon you thick enough, and time enough, if you deserve them, and if you should get them without deserving, you could not enjoy them."

With my heart overflowing with grateful feelings, I kissed his hand, and thanked him for his care of me. Just at that moment Sylvia entered the room, thinking that I had called her, from which circumstance it would seem probable that she was near by, listening for a summons; but I must do her the justice to say that she has often denied the fact, and I believe her; although it is one of our little understood differences for me to pretend to think otherwise. She blushed as she entered the chamber, and would have instantly retired on perceiving her mistake, had not Captain St. Hugh detained her. Never before did she seem so lovely in my eyes; and her confusion, on being requested to remain, by my father, gave her always charming face so bewitchingly beautiful an expression, that I could not help looking up to him with a feeling of triumph, in knowing that I was loved by such an angelic creature. The thought occurred to me that, as he had advised me to make the most of life, I could not make a better beginning than by securing such a partner as Sylvia to assist me in my task; and, after she withdrew, I told him that nothing would add so much to my happiness, and enable me to carry out his advice, as an immediate marriage with that excellent young woman.

"You are your father's own son, I see," he replied; "I thought you might trump higher; but you can only love a woman, even if she is a queen; and, as love is the one thing necessary in marriage, you may be as happy with Sylvia as though she were the daughter of an earl. But, my boy, are you certain she will have you?"

I told him that I felt quite convinced she would not refuse me.

"Well then," said he, "you shall be married to-morrow." And, jumping up, he ran out to inform Sylvia's mother, of the proposed scheme for depriving her of her daughter.

WE were not married on the morrow, nor, in some months after; for Sylvia, in the first place, did not yield to me proposal so readily as I had, at first, vainly supposed she would. And, at last, when she did consent to have me, she would not yield to my wish to be married until her father returned from sea, and gave his consent. This act, more than her gentleness and her beauty, endeared her to my father, and made him as solicitous for our union, as he had at first been averse to it.

As an act of justice, and to place me right before the world that I might begin life in my true character, and free from all false assumptions or hurtful imputations, he resolved to honor our nuptials by a public wedding, to which all those who had known me should be invited, and, in their presence, he would acknowledge me as his son, establish my right to the name of St. Hugh, and silence the tongue of slander, by giving the true history of my birth. This scheme was fully carried out, and I had the gratification of seeing at my wedding, nearly the whole of the worthy group of personages whom I have introduced, but under fictitious names, to my readers. We were married in church to gratify my father, and the wedding was celebrated in a fine large wooden house, near the cottage of Sylvia's mother, which he had hired and furnished for the happy occasion. It was a bright day in October, and nothing happened to mar the joyousness and harmony of the proceedings, but a little disturbance caused by my old friend, Ferocious, who was present among the rest, who fancied himself insulted, because he found a newspaper about the premises which had been taken out of a wine basket, that contained a not very complimentary criticism upon one of his works. He rose at the table, and with his face on fire, denounced the whole wedding as a plot got up for the express purpose of injuring his literary reputation; and, after protesting against it, as an outrage upon his feelings, called upon every friend of his present, to leave the scene of festivities. He stalked off as grandly as so small a person could, but he was followed by nobody but Mr. Tibbitts, who seemed loth to go, and yet afraid to stay. I am happy to state that these two gentlemen, finding that nobody went in pursuit, both returned in about an hour afterwards, and appeared to enjoy themselves exceedingly; and I had the satisfaction of being assured by Mr. Tibbitts, who took advantage of the temporary absence of Mr. Ferocious, that he had no ill feelings towards me or my bride, and that he looked upon the wedding as quite a novelty, and, upon the whole, a very pleasant little affair, "quite a fete champetre, in the style of Watteau," as he expressed himself.

It was not among the least of my gratifications on that happy day to meet, once more, Sophia Ruby, a woman of the finest nature and the purest philanthropy, whose little vanities rather tended to set off her excellent qualities, than to obscure their brightness. She came attended by that excellent Quaker gentleman, Friend Goodwill, his simple-hearted wife, his beautiful daughter, and his roguish son; whose roguishness, let me add, was all owing to the exuberance of his animal spirits. Mrs. Ruby had not been false to her aspirations for the beautiful, but had rouged her cheeks as usual, and arrayed her person in as great a variety of strong colors, as she well could. She was not the less welcome at my wedding for bringing with her my old acquaintance, Mr. Ardent, the painter, with whom she was intimate. Mr. Pilfor and Mr. Riquets came together; and appeared greatly improved in their manners. I was happy to learn from them, that they had started a new paper, called the Flageolet, of which they were both editors and proprietors. I requested them to consider me as one of their yearly subscribers, but I afterwards learned that the publication ceased after the first number; and I believe, to this day those who paid their subscriptions in advance, have not received back their money.

My first and best friend, Mr. Bassett, with his wife, honored my nuptials by coming, but did not remain to witness my father's explanations; for Mrs. Bassett grew jealous at the attentions which her husband paid to Sylvia, and compelled him to leave before the festivities commenced. Poor Mr. Bassett! His wife only died last year, and that estimable gentleman pays as much respect to her memory as though she had been one of the best, instead of the worst of wives. None of the family of old Gil came to the wedding, although they were all invited, even Mr. and Mrs. Barton; but some of the literary gentlemen whom I had seen at Lizzy's Soirees honored me with their presence, and all put something in the paper about me afterwards. Mr. Wilton, and his quiet friend with the buff vest, came; neither of them was much changed, but the quiet author had allowed his moustaches to grow, which gave a whimsical expression of mild ferocity to his subdued countenance. That remarkable genius, Professor Sprads, and his lady, were there, and played incessantly upon the piano forte; they quarreled but twice during the whole day; and, if the professor had not got little excited by the wine he drank, they would have made a very favorable impression on the company, and, as he subsequently remarked to me, might have established some splendid connections for himself.

It would hardly be proper for me to give a detailed account of my own wedding, or to lavish any praises upon my beautiful bride, who appeared, as everybody said, to better advantage than ever before in her life; although this is not generally the case with brides. Her good mother and her rough, but honest father, were quite bewildered, and were the only persons present who appeared to regard themselves in the light of intruders. My mother-in-law was considerably alarmed and mystified by a conversation which she was drawn into by Sophia Ruby, on the subject of matrimony, Mrs. R. going into the very depths of the matter and talking, as Mrs. Swayne thought, very wildly about circles, and flowers, and spiritual unions.

My father was the most amused and gratified person of all, and although he was not what is called a wag, he was delighted at the oddities of some of my old friends, and took particular pleasure in drawing out their peculiarities. Professor Sprads and Mr. Ferocious were objects of pleasantry to everybody, and the magnificent airs of Mr. Pilfor, with his white cravat and moustaches, inspired every one with awe. The supper table was spread on the piazza, which was festooned with the flags of England and America, and brilliantly illuminated with colored lamps. At the close of the supper my father rose at the head of the table, and requesting attention to a few remarks he had to make, related all the particulars of my birth, my subsequent career, and closed by stating the amount of money which he had invested for me in good stocks. The last announcement caused a spontaneous burst of applause, and a regular hip, hip, hurrah, from all the gentlemen present, who, being all more or less excited by wine, and off their guard, unconsciously paid this tribute to gold, and showed how they valued it beyond all other considerations.

The congratulations which followed the close of my father's speech were quite overpowering; even friend Goodwill appeared to entertain a better feeling towards me, when he found how independent I was in my worldly circumstances.

After the supper, the speech, and the congratulations, Sylvia and myself stole away from the company, and being very weary, retired to rest, while they went out into the orchard to see the fireworks which my father had prepared, under his own supervision, as a wind-up to the day. I did not see them, but the glare of colored lights which shone into my bed-room windows, and the cheers of the company, kept me awake until past midnight.

A steamboat had been provided to convey the guests back to the city, and as they embarked towards morning, they alarmed the inhabitants of the quiet old town by their boisterous cheers.

I have not alluded to the schoolmaster, as one of the wedding guests; the truth is, that poor Mr. Gossitt suddenly disappeared from the place as soon as he learned that I was to be married to Sylvia, and we all thought that he had jumped into the river and destroyed himself. But, greatly to our delight, a few months after the wedding, I received a package one day, and on opening it, discovered it to be a presentation copy of his lectures on Shakespeare, which had been published to satisfy a growing demand for criticisms on the great poet.

I have now arrived at the stopping place in the history of my life, where I intended to halt when I commenced the narrative. I do not feel now that my readers will be altogether satisfied with the termination of my career; but it will be very unreasonable in them not to be, for it is very satisfactory to myself.

Lord Bacon says, that the great advantage which romancers have over historians, is, that they can shape wants to their own liking, and make a story terminate according to the wishes of the reader. This is undoubtedly true, and if I had been writing a romance instead of giving a true history of a part of my life, it is likely that my story would have ended very differently.

It is due to myself, and to certain persons who, I have been pained to learn, will persist in the belief that I have been drawing portraits of them under fictitious names, to repeat that I have never designed to do such a thing, and that no one can regret the accidental resemblances, which, it is said, have been discovered between certain personages in the course of my trippings.

Some of the people, whose friends have been so keen as to trace out a likeness, I have never seen, and others are intimate acquaintances and friends for whom I entertain too high a personal regard, to dream of caricaturing their follies or peculiarities. In reality, the only person who has been intentionally introduced, and whose weakness and failings have been shown up is the author himself, and no one else has any right to complain. If any person has been amused by the rambling narrative, or had his thoughts awakened to the importance of frank and truthful dealing in his intercourse with his fellow men, the author's ambition will be gratified, and, slight and imperfect as the work is, he will not regret the snatches of time bestowed upon it, although he is aware that they might have been employed to better advantage on more serious matters.