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Fay, Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick), 1807-1898 [1839], Sydney Clifton, or, Vicissitudes in both hemispheres: a tale of the nineteenth century, volume 1 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf097v1].
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Main text SYDNEY CLIFTON. CHAPTER I.

A DESPERATE CHARACTER.—SCENE IN A NEW-YORK
AUBERGE.—SECRETS WORTH KNOWING.



“He, born, perchance, for better things, had set
His life upon a cast which lingered yet:
But now the die was to be thrown, and all
The chances were in favour of his fall.”
* * * * *
“Silent, and sad, and savage—with the trace
Of passion reeking from his clouded face.”
The Island,
by Lord Byron

It was near the close of a gloomy and cheerless
day in November, anno domini 18—, that two illclad
men were seen to enter one of those minor
houses of entertainment which abound in certain
localities in the city of New-York.

The individual who first entered appeared little
past the prime of life, and possessed a frame that
seemed equally endowed with strength and activity.
In height he was somewhat beyond that usually designated
as the middle size; and although his black
bushy hair was slightly sprinkled with gray, yet his
firm and elastic step and erect carriage denoted the

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possession of unimpaired bodily energies. His
dress had little to distinguish him from the mechanic
or labourer, being composed of a drab peacoat
and trousers; but the hat, which was placed
somewhat jauntily on the side of his head, retained
some faded evidences of former fashion and elegance,
leaving the beholder in doubt whether to
class its wearer among the numerous race of brokendown
gentlemen, or as one who chose to deck a
portion of his outward man in their discarded habiliments.
As his face was momentarily turned to
the light, it presented a bold and regular profile; but
a dark and chilling scowl from time to time flitted
across his features, and the frank bearing he assumed
was belied by involuntary glances of suspicion
and distrust. His companion was short in stature
and less muscular in frame; and although his
years were less in number than those of his associate,
yet the effects of recent disease impaired the elasticity
of his movements. His dress was that usually
worn by seamen, a short blue jacket, drab trousers,
whose lack of width at the hip was abundantly
compensated by extra dimensions below the knee,
a glazed hat, and sealskin pumps. In his face there
was little to attract observation, if we except a combined,
or, rather, varied expression of low cunning
and reckless gayety, which were so equally blended
that it was impossible to judge which habitually
maintained the ascendant.

A single glance at the furniture of the room into
which these personages found entrace, indicated
the shrine at which its votaries offered incense.

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The rude bar, the soiled decanters, filled with
those adulterated liquids so aptly termed by the
American aborigines “fire water,” the stained table,
on which lay scattered a pack of playing cards, and
the rickety and dismembered chairs, were unerring
testimonials of the character of the tavern, its keeper,
and its frequenters. Behind the apology for a bar
stood an individual in the prime of life, but whose
inflamed eye, swollen cheek, and premature wrinkles
imparted a tale of vicious indulgence which
had already sapped the foundation of a naturally
vigorous constitution.

By the side of the deal table sat a youth, apparently
on the verge of manhood, whose lack-lustre
eyes were momentarily attracted by the entrance of
the two visiters; but, after a careless glance, his head
again drooped over the table in real or affected unconsciousness.

As the visiters entered, they directed the bar-keeper
to furnish them with refreshments, and retired
to an apartment in the rear of that to which the
attention of the reader has been directed.

“Well, Maddox,” said the one first described, as
they seated themselves, “of all the cronies that have
played hide and seek in my affections since we met,
none have retained their first station like you. Indeed,
my good fellow, if I was only to tell the scurvy
tricks that not less than half a score of our very good
friends
have played me within the time that our fortunes
have separated us, I should only mar the present
hour with gloom. But never fear, I'll pretend for

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the next half hour that there are clever fellows in
the world besides ourselves, and that is long enough
to deceive one's self or one's friend, in all conscience.”

“Why, Glenthorne,” replied his companion, “I'm
glad to see you in good spirits. 'Faith, old Squaretoes
himself could scarcely look blacker than you
did the last time I met you in Boston. I thought
you were watching me for fear I'd blow you; but,
as long as you play fair, all's right, my old boy.”

Whatever might have been the nature of the
allusion uttered by Maddox, its effect on his auditor
was of the most exciting description, and the
complacent smile that welcomed his quondam associate
was instantly changed to a look of unmitigated
ferocity.

“What do you mean?” he shouted, with great
violence; and, at the same time springing forward,
he caught his victim by the throat with so vicelike
a gripe, that his tongue was thrust out and his
whole face became livid. “By heavens! a word
more to the same purpose, and I'll leave you a
corpse at my feet.”

The struggle brought forth the landlord and the
youth from the barroom; but, on their appearance,
the assailant relaxed his grasp, and, apologizing to
the parties for his violence, he, with much apparent
contrition, solicited pardon from his prostrate foe,
who was unable, from exhaustion, to return an intelligible
reply.

After this equivocal exhibition of affection on
the part of Glenthorne, the conversation was

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evidently constrained; and although the assailant endeavoured,
by every means in his power, to sooth
the irritated feelings of Maddox, it was apparent
that his progress was in an inverse ratio to his
exertions, until, abandoning the effort, he swallowed
the remains of his potation, and with a hasty
“good-evening” left the house.

No sooner had his footsteps ceased to echo from
the threshold, than Maddox beckoned the youth
from his meditations in the barroom, and, after a
hasty conference, the latter issued forth in the direction
taken by Glenthorne.

Meanwhile that individual, with rapid strides,
threaded the narrow and filthy streets that intersected
the quarter of the city in which the tavern
was situated, until he reached a broader and more
commodious thoroughfare, when, sliding into the
porch of a fruiterer's shop at one of the corners, he
gave a long and piercing survey of the route he
had traversed, scanning the lineaments of each individual
within the scope of his vision, till, apparently
satisfied with the scrutiny, he more leisurely
joined the throng that poured along one of the most
busy streets of the metropolis. Directing his course
to a distant part of the city, he entered a low and
weather-beaten dwelling, and hastily ascended the
stairway to a room in the rear of the second story.

The sharp, shrill bark of a stunted terrier saluted
his entrance; but, as the door swung open
sufficiently to discover his person, the savage growl
of the animal was changed to a friendly whine of

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recognition, which was answered by a kick that
sent the poor brute howling to the opposite corner
of the room.

If the outward appearance of the dwelling indicated
the abode of indigence, nothing presented
itself within the apartment to weaken or efface the
impression. A few broken and unmatched chairs,
a narrow cott at one side of the room and a bed at
the other, the covering of both much frayed and
worn, a decayed bureau, a dilapidated travelling-trunk,
and a few rude cooking utensils, constituted
the principal articles of ornament or use in the room,
which appeared to serve the purposes of parlour,
bedroom, and kitchen. By the side of the hearth,
where a few expiring embers were struggling to
retain a feeble existence, sat a female, apparently
of some twenty-five years of age, in whose sunken
eye and faded cheek might be discovered the remains
of much beauty and intelligence; and although
her attenuated frame had lost the voluptuous
fulness of its early prime, there was that in the
symmetrical curve of her neck and shoulder, the
delicate tapering of the fingers and the chiselled
lip, that would arrest the attention of the most indifferent
observer.

The exclamation, in the silvery tones of her
voice, “Down, Trimmer, down,” was heard simultaneously
with the howl of the terrified animal,
which sought shelter from farther injury behind the
chair of his indulgent mistress.

“Curse the dog, I wish I had dashed out his

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brains,” grimly exclaimed Glenthorne; “curse
him; he is something like the mistresses and wives
of the present day, who only wait till misfortunes
have buffeted their paramours or husbands to join
the world of curs in yelping at their heels.

“By the gods! I don't know what women and
terriers were made for, except as a penance to fit
us for the heaven that fools and bigots prate about.”

With this affectionate salute the speaker threw
himself on a chair.

The barking of the dog and the loud tones of
Glenthorne's voice awoke a child of some three
years of age, who occupied the cott; but, on raising
his little head and perceiving the form of the speaker,
he suddenly drew himself under the clothing, and
his deep short breathing was all that thereafter indicated
his presence.

To these taunts of her associate the female retorted
with warmth, until, evidently overcome by her
emotions, her head drooped on the back of the chair,
and she sobbed in very bitterness of spirit.

Before this silent rebuke the sternness of the reviler
relaxed, and after some inaudible mutterings
rather to himself than to his weeping auditor, he
suddenly started up, exclaiming,

“But why do I remain here to be caged like a
wild beast; already the bloodhounds of the law are
probably on my track, lapping their hungry jaws for
the repast. By heavens! if they do come they shall
not gain a bloodless victory. I can die but once,
and I'll leave behind me gory evidences of the

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prowess of one against whom society has warred with
unrelenting fury.

“Why, again I say, let them come; there is that
in these trusty friends (the only true ones I ever
possessed) that shall make a pair of them at least
bite the dust.”

While closing this fierce soliloquy he opened
one of the drawers of the bureau, in which were deposited
a pair of silver-mounted pistols; and examining
the priming with some care, and ascertaining
that they were in a condition for action, he deposited
them on the top of the bureau, and carefully secured
the fastenings of the only door through which
intruders could find entrance. Apparently satisfied
with these preparations, he resumed his seat, but
the fall of his companion from her chair in a swoon
suddenly arrested his attention.

Springing from his seat in great agitation, he drew
a bottle of spirits from a closet, and applying it to
the forehead and temples of the sufferer, at length
succeeded in restoring her to animation, but it was
a considerable time ere her palsied faculties appeared
to resume their functions. Slowly gazing around
the apartment, her eyes no sooner rested on the pistols,
than, uttering a faint shriek, she relapsed into
unconsciousness, which was, however, of brief duration.

“What dreadful words were those you uttered?”
was her first exclamation on her revival; “did you
not say that they were seeking your life? Speak,
do speak, or my heart will break; for the love of

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Heaven keep me not in suspense, but let me know
the worst. Although you did speak harshly a moment
since, I know that you are aware of my fidelity
and affection, and that, if they lead you to death,
they shall bury me in the same grave with you.
But no! no! it cannot be! Say that it was a dream,
or say that you did but mock me, and I will fall
down and worship you.”

In the sternest and most obdurate natures there
are sympathetic influences that lie concealed until
aroused by a master spell, and the heart of Glenthorne
was not proof against the earnest and passionate
appeal of the lovely and confiding being at
his side. Summoning, therefore, a blandness of
manner that to her was as rare as it was delightful,
he briefly detailed the events already recorded; and
while he admitted the probability of Maddox's ignorance
of his retreat, he yet expressed a firm determination
of removing to some other quarter of the
globe.

Where I fly,” said he, musingly, “is but of little
consequence; while I herd with human beings, I
must expect treachery to poison the very air I breathe;
and whether it lurks beneath the turban of the Turk,
the mustache of the Spaniard, or the hypocritical
leer of the puritanical Yankee, is a matter of indifference.
Suffice it for me to know that I am at war
with all my race; and were not my pride enlisted to
defeat the schemes of that reptile Maddox, who
seems to be thrown by some devil across my track,
the present is as propitious a moment as will arrive

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to select the manner of my exit from this den of vipers.”

It is the curse of guilt to be compelled to select its
instruments and auxiliaries from the very hotbeds
of treachery, thus converting the elements of success
into implements of detection and punishment;
and the anxious and careworn countenance of Glenthorne
attested the fact, that, whatever might have
been the nature of his misdeeds, the enjoyment that
had marked their inception, progress, and execution
was now ingulfed in the apprehended consequences
of Maddox's anticipated disclosure.

The reader must not infer, from the seeming confidence
which he reposed in his companion, that he
had imparted to her the true cause of his disquietude.
Being fully aware of the impracticability of entirely
concealing the hazard that he daily incurred of detection,
his ingenuity was taxed in manufacturing a
statement in which misrepresentations were so artfully
interwoven with immaterial facts, that a less
favourable auditor than he possessed would have
failed to detect the semblance of improbability in
the story. Most true it is, that there were moments
in which an unwonted display of brutality on his
part would arouse unwelcome suspicions; but the
slightest appearance of kindness and regard would
banish intruders so alien to her bosom.

It is justly remarked, that in the breast of none
does superstition hold so absolute a supremacy as in
those over whom the sword of destiny or justice is
suspended, like that of Damocles, by a hair, and

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Glenthorne's apprehensions were much aggravated
by the recollection of an ominous dream that had
disturbed his slumbers on the previous night. He
thought he was sailing in a pleasure barge, on the
bosom of a placid lake, when suddenly a squall
struck the boat and precipitated him and his companions
into the waves; and while he was struggling
to gain the shore, a serpent coiled itself around
him, and as its slimy folds were encircling his throat,
its head suddenly assumed the features of Maddox,
grinning with delight at his expiring struggles.
Long in imagination did he wrestle with the reptile,
until his agitation awoke his companion, who relieved
him from the dominion of the horrid nightmare.

The casual meeting with Maddox, and the events
connected therewith, appeared to his excited mind
as a partial fulfilment of the omen; and it was not
until he had braced his nerves with artificial stimulus
that he could coolly reflect on the proper means
to elude the vigilance of his adversary. Long, anxious,
and absorbing was the conversation that ensued
between Glenthorne and his chere amie (for,
alas! wedlock had not sanctioned their union); and
when, at its close, he pressed her to his bosom with
a tender kiss, tears of joy, such as had long remained
sealed in their fountains, flowed in streams down
her cheek; and it is doubtful whether, in the first
flush of gratified passion, her heart bounded with
such perfect felicity as on the reception of this long-withheld
evidence of her companion's regard. As

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the evening was far spent, the guilty man and his
unhappy victim retired to rest; and reposing on the
bosom of him for whom she had relinquished reputation
and innocence, she sunk into a slumber so
calm that it is difficult to believe, whatever were her
frailties, that they had not found a successful advocate
at the mercy-seat of Heaven.

CHAPTER II.

NATURE'S ECCENTRICITIES.—A CONTRAST.—THE BEGINNING
OF THE END.—ONE CRIME BEGETS ITS
FELLOW.—SCENE IN THE CITY WATCHHOUSE.

“First on the head of him who did this deed
My curse shall light.”

The Curse of Minerva.

The observer of nature in all her phases cannot
fail to have remarked the tendency of mind and matter
to form alliances with their opposites. The delicate
tendrils of the vine embrace the trunk of the
sturdy oak with sympathetic tenacity; by the side
of the mountain torrent, and on the verge of the dizzy
precipice, flowers, the beauty of whose tints shame
the colours of the rainbow, scatter their richest perfumes;
and around the riven arch, the prostrate column,
and the mouldering fane, vegetation arrays her
most gorgeous trophies.

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Although, in the animal world, the beautiful prediction
in the inspired volume, that the “lion shall
lie down with the lamb,” has not yet been fulfilled,
still instances of attachment between natures not
less incongruous are not wanting, to puzzle the wits
of the seeker after analogies and affinities. In
the great collection of wild beasts in the royal
menagerie of London, the lordly lion formed an attachment
of the most endearing character with a
whiffet that was thrown into his cage to be devoured;
and an array of well-authenticated facts of the like
description could be produced, if necessary, to establish
the prevalence of this characteristic in the
brute creation.

But if the material and animal world abound with
proofs of the verity of the hypothesis, in man the phenomenon
has achieved its most wonderful triumph.
At every step of our journey along the highway
of life, we meet gentleness and modesty hand in
hand with blustering arrogance, high-souled integrity
paired with smooth-faced deceit, and unbridled licentiousness
sustaining the form of unsullied purity.
The attachment of ladies below the ordinary size
to gentlemen of the grenadier standard is proverbial;
while genius, with its sublime aspirations, its
delicate perception of the beautiful and the grand,
and its longings for ideal excellence, is not unfrequently
content to wed with folly and deformity.
Whether the ancient practice of placing an individual
near the person of the monarch who was

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professionally known as the “king's fool,” originated
in this eccentricity of nature, or whether the beams
that emanated from the wisdom of royalty were
too intense to be gazed on by the multitude without
summoning the shadows of folly to mitigate
their force, is not for transatlantic republicans to
determine.

Well are we aware that there have not been wanting
rebellious and perverse democrats, who have
insinuated that the “king's fool” was selected for
the sole purpose of diverting public attention from
the imbecility of the “Lord's anointed;” and some
have not scrupled to aver that the fool often possessed
the wiser head of the two; but slanders
so gross carry with them their own refutation, and
happily relieve us veritable historians from the
necessity of chastising their authors.

But in whatever form this attraction in apparent
opposites has displayed itself in others, certain it
is that Glenthorne and the female with whom he
consorted afforded a most striking illustration of
its existence and its power.

In her, nature had combined the beauty of form
and purity of mind that give so powerful a charm
to the female character. Educated under the supervision
of tender and affectionate parents, her
budding charms, as they developed themselves in
early womanhood, were only equalled by the fascinations
of her mind; and at the age of nineteen
she might have been pronounced one of the most
beautiful and accomplished ladies of whom the

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continent of America could boast. If she possessed
any constitutional defect, it was that of exaggerated
susceptibility to all the influences of passion
and feeling, lending a tinge of romance to a mind
that would otherwise have possessed the perfection
of judgment and discrimination.

Glenthorne, on the contrary, without originally
possessing all the faults that marked his subsequent
career, was stern, licentious, vindictive, and overbearing.
Long previous to his acquaintance with
his unfortunate victim, his passions had attained a
complete mastery over his judgment; and, as has
been seen in his interview with Maddox, even the
most powerful considerations of personal safety
failed to restrain his unruly temper within prudent
limits.

At the time of their first acquaintance he had
numbered nearly twice her years; and although his
education was such as entitled him to a respectable
station in mixed society, yet the cultivation of his
mental powers had failed to remove a certain air
of vulgar assurance that did not pass without remark
from impartial observers. To the lady, however,
he proved irresistible; and the first intimation
that her relatives had of her attachment was
conveyed in a brief letter written by herself on
eloping with her lover. With their subsequent
career, up to the period in which they were introduced
to the reader, this portion of our history has
no connexion, and we therefore return to the

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humble dwelling in which they temporarily resided.

To the exhausted female, the repose that followed
scenes of so exciting and agitating a tendency
was calm and overpowering; but to her guilty
companion no such boon was vouchsafed. Goaded
by the demon of remorse, and shuddering at the
dark precipice that yawned in fearful distinctness
before him, his fancy continually conjured up images
of detection and punishment which no efforts
of judgment could dissipate. Wearied at length
with vain attempts to silence the voice of the monitor
within, he gently glided from the side of his
mistress, and, after hastily arranging his dress,
lighted a taper, and continued to pace the floor in
a state of feeling that was in itself a heavy punishment
of his offences. This occupation had been
pursued but for a brief space, when several voices
heard in the street directly opposite the house
were quickly succeeded by a gentle tap at the
outer door, which was from time to time repeated,
until a cartman, who occupied lower apartments
in the dwelling, demanded the cause of so unseasonable
an intrusion. The reply was couched
in terms sufficiently ambiguous; but, after a brief
colloquy, the door was opened, and the heavy tread
of several persons was heard passing through the
narrow hall and ascending the flight of steps that
led to the apartment of the sleepless Glenthorne.

While these events were taking place below, he
again had resort to the bottle; and, after a

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lengthened draught, he summoned those energies which
had on all former occasions developed powers
equal to the emergency, but which appeared on
the present to fail in directing him to any feasible
plan of escape.

Resorting, therefore, to the desperate resolution
of selling his life as dearly as possible, he grasped
his pistols, and awaited in silence the appearance
of his captors.

After a brief conversation in an under tone, in
which the quickened ear of Glenthorne detected
the voice of Maddox, a powerful assault was made
on the door, the fastenings of which proved treacherous,
and the assailants rushed in a body into the
room. The report of two pistols followed in rapid
succession, and the heavy fall of one of the intruders
attested the fatal skill that had been exhibited
in their discharge.

A shrill and almost childlike shriek succeeded;
and, casting his eyes on the prostrate form of the
wounded individual, Glenthorne recognised the
youth whose presence at the tavern was noticed
in the previous chapter.

“Confound the foolish boy,” he muttered through
his teeth; “why did he thrust his womanish face
between me and the scoundrel Maddox? I'd barter
my hopes of heaven for another shot at that
villain's heart.”

The strong grasp of the minions of the law interrupted
his vindictive speech; and appearing convinced
of the futility of farther attempts at

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resistance, he passively submitted to the manacles that
were placed on his arms. As may be inferred,
these eventful occurrences did not fail to arouse
the sleeping inmates of the apartment.

So sudden was the onset, and so rapidly passed
the events that succeeded, that the bewildered female
was incapable of comprehending the nature of
the uproar, until the fall of the youth and the seizure
of Glenthorne developed the catastrophe in all its
horrors. Springing from the bed in her night clothes,
and insensible to everything but the safety of him
she loved, she rushed to his side in an agony of
terror.

By this time Maddox, who, on the discharge of
Glenthorne's pistols, had prudently retired to the rear
of the party, now that he was secured, valiantly
placed himself forward and confronted his enemy.

“Aha!” said he, “my jockey, you're caged at
last. So you thought to wing me, did you? You
ought to know that I'm too old to be upset in that
way. You always go off half cocked; but, as the
Kentuckians say, you're not a priming to me. I'll
have the satisfaction of seeing you dance upon nothing
any how. Well, well, I'm of a forgiving temper,
and after your neck is well stretched I'll cry
quits.”

With this harangue the speaker placed his arms
akimbo, and with an insulting leer at the prisoner,
grinned in evident triumph.

As the last words fell from his lips, Glenthorne's
eyes flashed and his face reddened; and raising his

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arms, he made a rush at Maddox, designing to fell
him with the manacles with which his wrists were
confined; but the wary eye of that worthy detected
the movement in time to escape the blow. Justly
supposing that there might still be danger in too
close proximity to such a desperate prisoner, he
again took up his position in the rear.

Meanwhile the wounded youth was stripped of his
coat and vest, when it was found that the bullet had
passed through his breast near the region of the
heart; and from the fact that but little blood flowed
outwardly, it was judged that the internal hemorrhage
was proportionably great. As they applied the
light to his naked breast, the prisoner rushed forward
with the most violent symptoms of agitation;
and gazing as if his eyeballs would leap from their
sockets at the semblance of an eagle that was imprinted
in India ink in the upper part of the shoulder
of the sufferer, he exclaimed, in tones of heartrending
agony, “My child, my child,” and fell prostrate
across his victim. There are periods when the
miseries of years appear to concentrate in a single
moment of horror; and as the prostrate Glenthorne
raised his head from the position it had occupied on
the form of the wounded youth, the change that had
taken place in his features was absolutely fearful.

His ruddy and flushed cheek had assumed an unearthly
ghastliness; his eyeballs appeared to have
retreated to the very depths of their cavities; his
nostrils were compressed like those of one on whom
the angel of death had set his seal; and his livid

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lip and the distorted muscles of his face were terrible
witnesses of the giant shock that had shattered
every fibre of his frame. If Salvator Rosa could
have viewed the group that now presented itself,
his master genius would not have been unworthily
employed in its delineation.

The athletic and muscular frame of the prisoner,
his limbs still quivering with the intensity of his
agony; the elegant but attenuated form of his female
companion, whose sunken eyes were gazing in his
face with eager and inquiring solicitude; the wounded
youth, whose compressed lips and frequent moans
indicated his sufferings; the group of officials, their
strongly-marked features partially cast in shadow;
the shrinking Maddox, with subdued apprehension
still resting on his repulsive countenance; the shivering
child, that had quietly crept near the female;
and the astonished terrier protruding his head from
beneath the bed, where he had retreated on the entrance
of the assailants, were the prominent objects
that would have glowed upon the canvass.

It is unnecessary to detail the events that occurred
before the removal of the prisoner. Suffice
it to say that the wounded youth was placed on the
bed, and that a messenger was despatched for a surgeon
to minister to his relief. The female hastily
arranged her dress, and with a countenance on
which the traces of violent emotions were still visible,
prepared to follow her protector to the cells of
the watchhouse, whither he was about to be conducted.
To this determination both the prisoner

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and the officers urged many objections, but no persuasion
could induce her to abandon her purpose.
As the party issued from the house, they found that
a chilly and drenching rain had succeeded the close
of a gloomy day, while the wind, which blew in
fitful gusts, rendered the storm peculiarly severe on
those who, like the female and child, were clad in
light summer dresses. Little, however, did the unfortunate
victim of unlicensed passion heed the rude
encounter of the elements. The master grief that
held possession of her mind permitted no rival, and
she therefore moved on in that hopeless misery
which admits of neither consolation nor forgetfulness.
As they passed through the silent and deserted
streets, the thoughts of Glenthorne involuntarily
reverted to the period when a youth, with heart
bounding with rapture, he first threaded their windings.
Rapidly did the prominent events that had
marked his career, from that happy state of innocence
to the present cheerless moment, pass in review
before him, and startling was the groan that
issued from the depths of his bosom at the survey.

At length the dark outline of a large building,
whose subterraneous recesses were occupied for the
purposes of a watch-house, was imperfectly defined
by the lamplight, and soon the prisoner and his attendants
were confronted with the burley form of
that autocrat in his own dominions, the captain of
the watch. The individual to whom was intrusted
this important duty on the present occasion was
some fifty years of age, and his corpulent figure, and

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florid and self-satisfied countenance, attested the perfection
to which he had arrived in practically attaining
the philosophy of good living. As he occupied
the judgment-seat, which was considerably elevated
above the floor of the apartment, he threw himself
back in his elbow-chair, and, placing his arms akimbo,
cast on the prisoner a look which, if it failed to
intimidate that individual, was evidently intended by
the consequential dignitary as a floorer.

“What is this ugly-looking rascal brought in for?”
was his first inquiry of the officers.

Briefly they informed his worship of the manifold
crimes that were laid at the door of the prisoner, and
most indignant was that respectable functionary at
their enormity.

“I knowed the fellow was a scoundrel when I
first laid eyes on him,” resumed the captain. “I
say, Mr. Jimmerson,” he continued, addressing an
individual who was occupied in recording the name
and alleged crime of the delinquent, “didn't you
hear me call him a villanous-looking rascal when he
first comed up? It takes me to know these here
chaps. If I get my eyes on 'em, they can't come
over me with their nonsense.”

To this eulogy on his superior judgment of physiognomy,
Mr. Jimmerson responded most fully;
but some of the “Charlies” in the background
turned up the white of their eyes, twisted their
mouths in outlandish shapes, and by other unseem-ly
gestures testified their dissent from the verdict
in favour of their captain's sagacity.

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“Tim,” whispered one in the ear of his companion,
“the captain twigged the handcuffs; that's
what made him so hard on that fellow.”

“Ay, ay,” muttered the listener; “between
ourselves, he's a devilish old fool. If I couldn't
make a better captain out of the maple in our shop,
I wish I may be shot.”

But why record these mutinous evidences of the
perversity of our species? Does not the experience
of every day attest the fact that aldermen
and assistants, yea, mayors and governors, and
even presidents, cannot escape similar aspersions?
Nay, did not a wicked editor, but a few days since,
publicly state in his columns, that a certain judge
therein named should be tried, convicted, and sentenced
for murdering the king's English? But, as
these reflections are powerless to correct this evil
in the body politic, we will return to our history.
On proceeding to place Glenthorne in a solitary
cell, it was found necessary to remove the female
from his neck, to which she clung with convulsive
tenacity.

After inquiring on what charge she was detained,
and learning that she was not implicated,
the captain bade her retire; but on her earnest
solicitations to be permitted to remain, backed by
those of the officers, her request was granted, and
she therefore joined the motley ranks of houseless
vagrants or benighted wanderers that were scattered
on the benches of this reservoir of crime,
poverty, and dissipation. As she placed the

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wearied child on her lap, her fancy depicted scenes of
misery in the vista to which those of the past were
happiness, and sighs, such as issue alone from the
depths of a broken heart, continued audibly to interrupt
the silence of her prison-house.

CHAPTER III.

A SUNNY MORNING IN NOVEMBER.—THE ARCANA OF
A POLICE COURT.—A CRISIS APPROACHES.

“Let us meet,
And question this most bloody piece of work,
To know it further.”

Shakspeare

The morning that succeeded the tempestuous
night described in our last chapter, was one of uncommon
beauty and brilliancy. Not only had all
traces of the storm disappeared, but there was a
buoyancy in the atmosphere whose exhilarating influence
was apparent in all the varied forms of life
that thronged the pavé of the great metropolis.
Most true is it that the early dawn saluted not with
its balmy kiss the cheek of fashion's votary, for over
the lids of these favoured children of opulence and
gayety the sceptre of Morpheus still waved in triumph.
But if to such the volume of Nature, which
unfolded the secrets of her loveliest hour, was a

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“sealed book,” there were a sufficient number astir
to feast the eye of one unaccustomed to the oppressive
crowds that almost gorge the leading avenues
of New-York during the hours devoted to
fashionable promenading. To the sons and daughters
of industry, therefore, in default of more dignified
worshippers, did Aurora dispense her choicest
gifts.

The spruce and dapper clerk, with head erect,
acknowledged the influence of the hour by a smirk
of added assurance and satisfaction; to the merry
laugh of the careless apprentice it appended a
snatch of some half-remembered ditty; the mechanic,
wending his way to his daily employment,
paced the street with unwonted vigour; the housemaid,
as she brushed the dust from the sidewalk,
smiled, and ogled the younger male passengers with
eyes sparkling with glee; the milkman aroused the
attention of his customers with a more cheerful
milk ho! than was his wont; and long, loud, and
sonorous did the song of the sweep come wafted on
the breeze.

The beams of the morning sun had not yet penetrated
the streets of the gay city, but the vanes
that crowned her lofty spires glittered like golden
arrows, and the topmasts of the floating palaces that
thronged her quays were gilded with its radiance.
From every lane and avenue the pleasant hum of
human voices ascended like an anthem to the heavens,
to which the heavy and continuous roll of innumerable
carriage-wheels formed a not unmeet

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accompaniment. Although the balmy breath of spring is
redolent of pleasure, and comes freighted with the
perfume of unnumbered flowers, yet to the hectic
cheek of the consumptive hers is the fickle and
treacherous smile that fascinates to betray.

There lingers in our heart of hearts the memory
of one dearer than the lifeblood that courses through
the veins, to whose peerless form the embraces of
the siren brought the mildew and the worm! But
the advent of autumn, with health and contentment
beaming in her smile, is ever welcomed with unalloyed
delight. Again our footsteps bound over
those hills that gave back their echo in boyhood;
the many-coloured leaves, that render an American
forest in autumn so brilliant, flash and sparkle anew
in the sunbeam; the chirp of the squirrel is heard
among the branches; the jay, with throat unmusical,
cries loudly from her perch; the robin whistles in the
hedge, while the harsh scream of the peacock, and
the varied cadence of the feathered brood in the
barnyard, swell the chorus of nature's melody.

Far different were the sensations of the prisoner
when the door of his cell opened, and a grim voice
bade him follow to the police court. It is the peculiar
province of this tribunal to investigate the preliminary
proofs that tend to criminate the real or
supposed offender against the majesty of the laws,
although the benefit of exculpating testimony is not
denied the accused.

The presence of the magistrates, who, like the
Venetian council of three, at the period alluded to

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composed a full bench in the police court; the gravity
and solemnity of manner, and the subdued whispers
of the crowd that assembled without the bar,
attested the magnitude of the charge on which Glenthorne
was arrested, being that of deliberate assassination,
to which heinous crime was added the
supposed murder of the poor youth who accompanied
the officers that apprehended him. Like great
men of towns and villages, who experience the
nothingness of power when in the presence of the
great man of the city or capitol, so the parti-coloured
group of offenders who surrounded the prisoner
were on this occasion completely merged in the absorbing
interest attached to the more important culprit.

“My eyes!” whispered an unwashed loafer, who
was charged with violating the eighth commandment,
to his fellow, “what a devil of a looking sodger
he is. If he ain't a rum un, there's no mossbunkers
in the Bear Market. I'll swear that the
halter's bought what'll hang him.”

“Hush! hush!” said the party addressed, “you
don't know what you may come to yourself.”

The magistrate who took the lead in the examination
was somewhat beyond the middle age; his sinewy
frame was cast in a mould of peculiar strength
and activity, and the piercing survey to which the
prisoner was subjected from the penetrating glance
of his dark full eye, afforded slender hope of escape
from the proofs that were to be arrayed against
him.

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Having for years occupied a judicial seat at the
same tribunal, he had become familiar with all the
deceptions and subterfuges to which a wily criminal
resorts, in the hope of eluding the vigilance of his
judges; and if, in long exploring the darker recesses
of the human heart, he had lost somewhat of the
sublime attribute that presumes innocence until
guilt is established, there was beneath the stern exterior
an active benevolence, that ever afforded the
panoply of his protection and support to the victim of
malicious accusation.

The magistrate on his right had probably passed
his fiftieth year, and to a tall and commanding person
he united a suavity of manner and kindness of
heart that went far to temper the more stern justice
of his associate.

True it is that the oft-convicted offender, who
was familiar with the secrets of the police court,
rejoiced when, on entering its precincts, he only
encountered the calm countenance of the merciful
judge; for conclusive indeed must have been the
testimony that doomed him to suffer the penalty of
his crime.

Disposed at all times to tender good advice to
the delinquents brought before him, his more prompt
associate frequently protested against his occupying
the precious moments in lecturing those whose
obtuse moral perceptions, he insisted, could only be
reached through the medium of bolts and bars.

The third dignitary, although considerably younger
than either of his associates, appeared more ad

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[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

vanced in life than was really the case, from the
silvery hue that his hair had prematurely assumed.
His form was symmetrical, but rather inclining to
corpulence, and his countenance grave and dignified.

On the minor details of the testimony arrayed
against the prisoner, it is needless to dwell.

The witness Maddox testified to the murder of
a young woman in humble circumstances many
months previous, in a distant part of the Union;
and although a skilful member of the bar, who volunteered
to defend the prisoner, entered into a rigid
and searching cross-examination, yet no material
discrepance was elicited in the testimony. This
witness being dismissed, the surgeon who attended
the wounded youth was produced on the stand.
The learned gentleman stated that the ball had
passed through the breast, and lodged in the back
near the spine; and although he had succeeded in
its extraction, he yet a pprehended a fatal issue, expressing
his conviction that the patient could not
survive the day.

During all these proceedings the prisoner stood
erect, with arms folded, and the occasional convulsive
movement of the muscles of his face was the
only external evidence that indicated the struggle
within.

The testimony being closed, Glenthorne was requested
to make such statement of the circumstances
connected with the charge on which he
was arraigned as he might deem important, being

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[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

first advised by his counsel that he was not required
to answer any questions except such as he
should think proper. To all queries, however, he
refused any reply, stating that he had firmly determined
to make no effort to prolong an existence
which had long since become burdensome. The
only request he made was to be indulged in a few
moments' conversation in private with his disconsolate
mistress, and the officers were directed to
grant them an interview in an apartment adjoining
the court-room.

After a brief conference, the exclamation “Remember!
was heard in the powerful tones of the
prisoner's voice, when the parties re-entered the
hall of justice. The magistrates again offered the
accused an opportunity of exculpation, which he
declined, and impatiently solicited a removal to his
prison.

“Mr. Haydon,” said the magistrate to a veteran
officer, whose prowess and skill in arresting criminals
were proverbial, “have the prisoner removed
to his cell, and see that he is properly secured. I
shall look to you, sir, to ensure his safety.”

“I'll answer for his forthcoming with my life,”
was the sententious response of the faithful official;
when, raising his staff of office and motioning the
crowd to give way, this terror of evil doers and
his assistants escorted the culprit to his dungeon in
the Bridewell prison.

The individuals comprising the dense crowd
that had collected now slowly departed to their

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[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

several avocations; and so ephemeral is the influence
of the most interesting or absorbing event that
occurs in a populous city, that it is doubtful whether
this impressive scene occupied the thoughts of one
among the thousands that had assembled to behold
it, for an hour after its close, if we except the lonely
female whose fortunes were so fatally linked with
those of the prisoner.

To her the world, with all its cares, duties, and
pleasures, was hereafter to be a blank; and as she
returned to her dwelling, which but yesterday
teemed with the endearing associations that cluster
round even the most cheerless home, she felt, in all
its force, the extent of her destitution and her
misery.

CHAPTER IV.

THE DÉNOUEMENT OF A TRAGEDY IN REAL LIFE.

“A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
Come bitter conduct, come unsavoury guide!”
“Now boast thee, death! in thy possession lies
A lass unparallel'd.”

Shakspeare.

The favoured individual whose talents are exercised
in developing the movements that sway the destinies
of states and empires, not only assigns to each
actor his appropriate station, and arranges his

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[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

temporary exits and entrances, but, in the progress of
events, a goodly number of his characters are constrained
to wave their final adieu to the audience,
having been summoned by a mightier power to play
their parts on the great theatre of eternity.

If such results naturally flow in the current of
historical events, it follows that those who imbody
the ideal representatives of the matter-of-fact personages
that strut and fret their hour on the world's
wide stage, may safely continue the parallel; and
when the performer has evidently fulfilled his destiny,
wrap him in becoming habiliments, and bid him,
like immortal Cæsar, “die with decency.”

Having now nearly arrived at the first stage of
our journey, it behooves us to ponder on the future
destiny of those whose advent and progress we have
chronicled, meting out to them poetic justice, nor
dismissing them from the scene until the immutable
laws of nature have enforced their departure.

True it is, that while we gaze on the lineaments
of some of the children of our own creation with unalloyed
pleasure, there are others with whom we
are nothing loath to part company; so that the lovely
images still flitting in the Eden of our imagination
may have “ample room and verge enough” in
the future pages of our history.

Those who compute time by the events that, like
mile-stones, are scattered along its track, will attest
that, to the unhappy Glenthorne, the few hours whose
flight we have recorded had assumed the importance,
and were magnified into the dimensions of

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[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

years; and will, therefore, not partake of the surprise
(however their moral feelings may be shocked)
that was pictured in the countenances of the
vast population of the city when the following paragraph
appeared in a newspaper published in the
afternoon of the day succeeding that on which the
criminal was committed.

Appalling Suicides!—Our readers will scarcely
have recovered from the astonishment and horror
which pervaded every class of our vast population
on the recital of the scenes which led to the
apprehension of an individual named Glenthorne,
charged with the crime of murder, before their
sensibilities are aroused at the fatal dénouement
of this tragedy in real life. In addition to the details
published in our yesterday's edition, it appears
that the youth whose life is in imminent danger from
the ball of the assassin was his own child, the fruit
of a liaison with a female in this city at a very early
period of the prisoner's career. From information
which has just reached us, we learn that this miserable
criminal has consummated his guilt by the commission
of suicide; and that a wretched female with
whom he resided has also rushed unbidden into the
presence of her Maker.

“Early in the afternoon of yesterday, this unhappy
fair one, who is described as far superior to
her vile associate in every respect, applied to the
keeper of the Bridewell prison for permission to
convey some provisions to the cell of the criminal;
and after instituting a proper search, to prevent the

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[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

introduction of implements calculated to further his
escape, the request was granted.

“Nothing farther occurred during the day; and
when the keeper of the prison went his nightly
rounds, he glanced into the cell of the prisoner, who
was reclining on his straw bed.

“At the usual hour this morning the keeper
again visited the dungeon of the miscreant, and
found him stretched on the floor in the agonies of
death; and although a physician was immediately
summoned, the vital spark had fled before his arrival.
By the side of the deceased lay a vial,
which had evidently contained laudanum; and a
loaf of bread, brought him the previous afternoon,
displayed a cavity in which it had undoubtedly
been secreted.

“But a short time had elapsed after this discovery,
when information was conveyed to the police
magistrates that the dead body of the female already
alluded to was found at her lodgings in the
upper part of the city; and by the proceedings of
a coroner's inquest, subsequently held on the bodies
of both, it appears that the act was premeditated;
that they selected the same moment for its execution;
and that both consummated their purpose
through the agency of laudanum.

“The following document, in the handwriting of
the female, was found lying on the table in her
apartment; and it exhibits not only the unswerving
devotion of woman through all the vicissitudes
of guilt, penury, and wretchedness, but develops

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[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

the inevitable fate of the hapless fair one who lavishes
the treasure of her love on him in whose
breast guilty passions have attained the mastery.

“The following is the document referred to:

“ `Thursday night.

“ `Alas! alas! I tremble at the precipice that
yawns before me, and almost shrink from my dread
purpose. But why recede? Has not my oath
been registered in heaven? Fool that I am to insult
the Almighty by reverting to a vow conceived
in guilt and uttered in despair! Oh! how vivid
the retrospect that pierces the shadows of the past!
Strange! that in this awful hour, in which my soul
hangs suspended by a hair over the dismal gulf of
eternity, the green fields over which I gambolled in
the buoyancy of innocence, and the pure embrace
of my sainted mother, and the luckless, though too
happy hour in which Glenthorne first pressed me
to his bosom, should rise up before me to mock me
with their departed glories! Gone! gone! gone
for ever! Tears! precious tears! Though you
scald my eyelids with your bitterness, yet do you
show that guilt has not placed an eternal barrier
between me and penitence. But away, deceptive
cheat! Shall I plunge into the dark abyss with
the accents of false hope lingering on my lips?
Rather let my thoughts return to thee, Glenthorne.
For thee I die content; and though all
the world condemn thee, yet doth my heart cling
to thee with greater fondness.

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“ ` “I know not, I care not what guilt's in thy heart,
But I know that I love thee, whatever thou art.”

“ `How often have I sung thee this ditty, but how
little did I anticipate the aptness of the allusion.

“ `But see! the index points to the hour of
twelve! and dear, dear Glenthorne, I come! I
come! The vial is in my hand as it is in thine.

“ `Poor, poor child, who will guard thee? Come
what will, thou canst not be more miserable than
thou wouldst have been with thy wretched protectors—

* * * * * * * *

“ `The deed is done! Oh mercy! mercy!
mercy!'

“Thus closed this record of the last throbs of a
broken heart, in which conflicting passions struggled
so fearfully. Let us draw a veil over her errors,
and leave them both in the hands of their
Creator.

“We learn that the deceased had resided in this
city but a few weeks, and that an individual
named Maddox, on whose information the murderer
was arrested, was the only person who could
have shed light on their former history; but,
strange to say, he no sooner was apprized of their
melancholy end, than he removed his baggage from
the house in which he boarded, and, after the most
diligent search, we have been unable to ascertain
his retreat, or to what circumstance to attribute
his sudden disappearance.

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“The child thus left an orphan among strangers
is a beautiful and interesting boy of about three
years of age, and we are pleased to learn that an
industrious cartman named Clifton, and his wife,
who occupied apartments under the same roof
with Glenthorne, have humanely determined to
take charge of the little surviver.

“From some trinkets found in a bundle by the
side of the child, it is conjectured that either the
female or her companion, or both, are of a wealthy
family, as there are two or three ornaments of
great value, which would scarcely have been purchased
to decorate an infant, unless the parents
were at some period in the possession of abundant
worldly means.”

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[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

CHAPTER V.

TRANSFORMATION EXTRAORDINARY.

“Thus change the forms of being; thus arise
Races of living things, glorious in strength,
And perish, as the quickening breath of God
Fills them or is withdrawn.”

Bryant.

Years, that stamp their impress on individuals
and communities, had swept along since the events
narrated in the preceding chapters, causing in their
flight more than the ordinary changes incidental to
the monuments of human enterprise in the city
and its environs.

Commodious warehouses, whose dimensions were
considered sufficiently ample for the most extensive
mercantile transactions, had given place to erections
of increased magnitude and elegance; and
mansions which the favourites of fortune had exhibited
as the ne plus ultra of fashion and splendour,
were eclipsed by ranges of princely edifices, in
which amplitude and magnificence struggled for
mastery.

The dense population, whose numbers were a
fruitful theme of astonishment to visitants from
more circumscribed neighbouring cities and villages,
had become swallowed up in the vortex of a
mightier crowd, while the vicissitudes attendant on

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[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

commercial pursuits had stricken the opulent merchant
into poverty and obscurity, and elevated the
indigent to the apex of wealth and luxury.

In that portion of the island known as the remote
suburbs, cultivated fields to the extent of thousands
of acres, that paid the husbandman a rich harvest
for their tillage, now served for the foundation of
squares of costly dwellings, and the tillers of the
soil were fain to settle down into the character of
citizens, or secure the enjoyment of their favourite
occupation in more distant localities. The rapid
strides that fashion and luxury had made among
the wealthier class of citizens were also eminently
conspicuous in the splendour and richness of their
equipages.

In the beautiful street known as Broadway, on a
pleasant morning, an immense number of dashing
vehicles of all descriptions rattled over the pavement,
their exquisitely-polished exteriors flashing
back the sunbeams, or with mirror-like fidelity reflecting
the forms of the passers-by; the high-mettled
steeds curvetting and prancing, with arched
necks and flowing manes; the postillions and outriders
decorated with gay liveries; and if no
coronet crested the armorial bearings that blazoned
from their panels, the sigh that agitated the bosom
of some fair occupant might serve to attest at least
her regret at the absence of the courtly emblem.

Over every avenue of literature and science the
chariot-wheels of improvement had rolled with irresistible
velocity, overturning ancient landmarks

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[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

in their career, and scattering on either hand new
guide-posts to immortality.

The antiquated process of fathoming the depths
of human character by a long experience of its
practical effects on the life and morals, was superseded
by an inspection of the inequalities that appeared
on the surface of the cranium; while arts,
whose labyrinths the student had heretofore occupied
years in exploring, through the agency of newlight
instructors were rendered obvious even to
common intellects in the space of as many hours.
But among all the wonders of the day, the perfection
that had been attained in the healing art was
the most astounding. Practitioners had arisen and
were established in every street, whose prescriptions
triumphed over the covert or open assaults of
disease, in whatever form it exhibited itself; and
if death thereafter displayed his sanguinary banner
over any portion of the gay multitude, to the
incredulity and obstinacy of the victims in not
swallowing the pills and boluses was to be attributed
the fatal issue of their distemper.

If such transformations were visible in the city
itself, it is difficult to mark the change that had
been wrought in the environs, without subjecting
ourselves to the charge of employing the language
of hyperbole.

Overlooking the twin rivers that, with their islands,
encircle the queen of American cities like a
girdle of silver studded with emeralds, arose villas
and cottages, in which the varied tastes of the

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[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

proprietors were exhibited in all the combinations of
architectural display; and as their ornamented
pillars and green verandahs, surrounded with gardens
and terraces, in which flowers of every hue
rioted in their own fragrance, were first espied in
the distance, they perhaps presented a more lively
image of the progress of wealth, refinement, and
luxury, than even the interior of the vast city, with
its masses of humanity scattered over a surface so
extended.

Opposite the metropolis, on the margin of the
East River, stood the city of Brooklyn, almost rivalling
its giant neighbour, at the period first alluded
to, in population and extent, while on the western
shore the city of Jersey exhibited all the characteristics
of a bustling and active community.

Over the whole surface of the noble bay, from
its union with the ocean until its waves rippled
along the quays of the great emporium, swarmed
the white-winged messengers of commerce, of
every form and size, from the majestic merchantship
of a thousand tons burden, to the light pleasure-barge
that careered over the waters with the
speed and buoyancy of a seagull.

While the city in its general features was thus
rapidly exhibiting the effects of time and change,
the lighthearted boy whom we left in the care of
the worthy cartman and his helpmate at the conclusion
of the previous chapter, had not failed to
experience the changes wrought in the lapse of
years.

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Left an orphan among strangers, under circumstances
so well calculated to afford but little hope
of attaining a respectable station in life, it was
peculiarly fortunate that his loneliness and beauty
so far enlisted the sympathies of his protectors as
to call forth every care and attention that could
have been elicited had he been their own.

This worthy couple, in early life, had formed a
deep and ardent attachment in opposition to the
wishes of the parents of the wife, whose station in
life was far superior to that of her lover; and, on
their marriage becoming public, she was compelled
instantly to abandon the home of her childhood,
and launch on the wide world with the companion
of her choice.

Endowed with a mind of much more elevated
character than that of her husband, she had insensibly
acquired that influence over his actions which
is naturally the result of mental superiority; but
the kindness of her heart and her mature judgment
prevented her from jeoparding her ascendancy by
a display of either triumph or assumption.

On the contrary, before deciding on any course
she invariably consulted the wishes of her partner;
and if, at the conclusion of the conference, her views
maintained the ascendant, they were so placed as
to appear the emanations of his will, and to give
her the appearance of the acquiescing party.

In this way the affection that had displayed itself
in youth increased rather than waned as they
proceeded together along the journey of life,

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excepting when the lack of offspring sometimes gave
a melancholy hue to their reflections. Their residence,
at the time of their union, was remote from
the metropolis; but after struggling some years
against the power and influence of the wife's family
and connexions, which were ever exerted in opposition
to their interests, they decided upon a removal
to the commercial emporium, where they
had resided but a few months at the commencement
of our history.

Having been bred to agricultural pursuits, Clifton
was prevented from embarking in any mechanical
employment; and after due consultation with his
helpmate, he purchased a horse and dray, and soon
experienced the results that flow from industry, perseverance,
and integrity, in the notice and patronage
of a wealthy merchant, under whose auspices
he not only procured the means of a comfortable
livelihood, but commenced the accumulation of a
surplus fund that might serve to repel the approach
of want in the event of sudden illness, or on the
coming of any other unforeseen calamity.

During the brief period that elapsed between the
entrance of Glenthorne under the same roof and his
violent exit, they had noticed with pleasure the interesting
appearance of their future protegé, and
had not unfrequently amused themselves with his
half intelligible prattle; and he had, therefore, entwined
himself around their affections before they
were themselves aware of the interest he had excited.
When the little Sydney (for such was his

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name) had become the child of their adoption, Mrs.
Clifton suggested the propriety of abandoning the
patronymic of Glenthorne, and substituting their
own in its stead; and as the future happiness of
the orphan appeared to be consulted in thus severing
the fatal link that united him with a suicide and
murderer, the course was no sooner suggested than
adopted.

Those at all cognizant of the state of society in
populous cities need not be informed that the resident
in one dwelling is frequently ignorant of the
name and occupation of his next-door neighbour;
and it will therefore be no subject of surprise, that,
in the space of a few years, the interesting little
boy was almost universally considered the offspring
of Clifton and his amiable consort. Not only had
the catastrophe which closed the earthly career of
Glenthorne and his mistress long since faded from
the recollection of the inhabitants of the gay city,
but many crimes of even a darker hue had been
perpetrated and forgotten in the more absorbing
interest attached to individual enterprise, pleasure,
or ambition.

As the boy grew in years, his beauty and intelligence
made him a general favourite; and the a ptness
with which he received instruction, and the
modesty with which he exhibited his varied and
precocious acquirements, were the daily subject of
eulogium by his teachers and their pupils.

It is not unusual for schoolboys to form attachments
that exercise an important influence on their

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future prospects in life, and Master Sydney reckoned
among his intimates two, the dissimilarity of
whose characters would have seemed to preclude
the possibility of harmonizing, were we not furnished
with daily evidences of the little power exerted
by incongruities of mind and temper in preventing
alliances of friendship and affection. Edward
de Lyle, the eldest of these, was the son of
the merchant with whom Clifton found employment
on his arrival in the city, and who, notwithstanding
the dissimilarity of their stations, had
conceived for the worthy cartman a warm and
abiding friendship. Those who are aware of the
facility with which fortunes are frequently realized
in the Western hemisphere, and in no portion of its
widely-extended surface to a greater extent than
in the city of New-York, will readily credit the
fact that Mr. de Lyle had commenced business
with only the capital saved from the earnings of a
clerkship; and when Clifton was first introduced
to his notice, he had but reached the threshold of
those extensive operations which in a few years
swelled his fortune to an amount more than equal
to his most sanguine anticipations. On calling, in
the course of business, at the dwelling of the cartman,
he had been struck with the grace and intelligence
of his better half; and although the modesty
of the excellent couple induced them to decline the
repeated invitations of Mr. de Lyle to visit his
family, yet he was their frequent guest, and did not
fail to consult them on more than one important

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occasion. On the unhappy death of Glenthorne
and his associate, Mr. de Lyle was made the confidant
of their determination to adopt the child;
and it was probably by his recommendation that
the same teachers who instructed his only son were
selected to perform the like service for Sydney;
and perhaps a large portion of the friendship that
the latter entertained for his playmate, had its origin
in the respect and esteem with which he regarded
his father.

This lad, we regret to say, possessed characteristics
widely at variance with those exhibited in the
actions of his high-minded parent. During the
first flush of worldly success, Mr. de Lyle, whose
person was tall and imposing, was introduced to
the family of a wealthy and fashionable individual,
for whose only daughter, a lively but capricious
and spoiled beauty of seventeen, he formed a violent
attachment, which was reciprocated with all
the ardour that might be expected from the romantic
notions of a young girl who had recently
emerged from the hotbed of a fashionable boarding-school.
As her parents interposed no obstacle
to her wishes, she was united to Mr. de Lyle after
a three weeks' courtship; and we regret to say
that the honeymoon was the only period during
which Mr. de Lyle perfectly enjoyed the sweets of
connubial felicity.

The prominent traits of Mrs. de Lyle's character
were imaged in that of her son, who had so far
improved on his model as to add great skill in

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[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

deception to the more frivolous qualities that were
imbibed from his maternal parent.

The second playmate who enjoyed Sydney's
friendship in an unbounded degree, was named
Henry Melbourne, and in every important particular
was the antipodes of Edward de Lyle. Grave
and sedate in his manners, and possessed of a temper
whose unruffled surface rarely exhibited the
traces of violent emotions, he yet cherished an innate
enthusiasm whose flame could alone be kindled
by the Promethean spark struck from the same
bright source that was its own. Of his mind, perhaps
critical acumen might be said to be the leading
characteristic; for, with a judgment peculiarly
correct and vigorous for a boy, he appeared intuitively
to grasp the strong points of a composition,
and with a capacity beyond his years would detect
the faults displayed either in its general outline or
its more minute details. The art of painting, in
particular, appeared to possess for him a powerful
charm; and it was a study to observe his large
blue eye gradually lose its habitual calm expression,
until it dilated and flashed with delight before
those productions which had graced the easels of
the master spirits of antiquity. Regarding truth
and honour as the brightest jewels that adorn the
human character, his actions corresponded with
his professions, and his assertions were ever considered
authority, not only by his juvenile companions,
but by his more mature acquaintances. He
was the only child of a widowed mother, whose

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[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

husband, a gallant officer of the United States'
navy, had died in the service of his country, leaving
his widow with a sum barely sufficient for a
maintenance and the education of her promising
boy.

Such were the two schoolmates with whom Sydney
passed most of his leisure hours, and in whose
joys and sorrows he deeply sympathized. Other
lads of nearly his own age, it is true, attracted a
portion of his regard, among whom Rembrandt Sinclair,
from his talent for dry humour and the piquancy
with which he caricatured the little foibles of
his companions, was somewhat conspicuous, while
for the gay, volatile, and thoughtless Baillie Shafton,
who rattled all kinds of nonsense into the ears of
the schoolboys, it was at times difficult for him to
assign a fitting station in his gallery of intimates.

The worthy Clifton and his wife watched with intense
anxiety the progress of Sydney in his studies;
but the acute perception of Mrs. Clifton detected
in his character an impetuosity and enthusiasm
which, while they spurned every species of meanness
and hypocrisy, made him liable to imbibe crude
and imperfect views of the graver moral duties, as
well as hasty, and, at times, incorrect estimates of
individual character. When, after due reflection,
his judgment was required on any subject, it exhibited
the highest evidence of force and maturity; but
a more cursory review often developed the power
that his feelings assumed over its proper exercise.
Frank, fearless, and modest, he never permitted

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[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

himself to swerve from the truth; and while he
rarely differed from his associates on any subject
which involved his personal interests, he was always
prepared to defend the weak against the strong, and
to succour those who invoked his aid without pausing
to calculate results. In perfecting the mental
exercises which were required from the schoolboys
at each half-yearly examination of the academy, he
frequently displayed a reach of thought unusual in
a lad of his years; and as he entered on that interesting
period in which the thoughtlessness of the
boy is partially merged in the reflections that are
the inevitable concomitants of maturer years, his
genius shone forth in the composition of exquisite
specimens of poetry, which exhibited the germes
of a lofty intellect and brilliant fancy. To his foster
mother were fully revealed the lights and shadows
of his character, but so adroitly did she temper affection
with reproof, and so tenderly approach the most
sensitive feelings implanted in his breast, that under
her guidance he imperceptibly acquired a mastery
over his passions, and rendered them what they
should ever be, the auxiliaries, not the sovereigns, of
the will.

Thus Time the Comforter shed over this little circle
his brightest smiles, and while to many he came
as the minister of sorrow, to them his progress was
thus far fraught with unmingled sources of enjoyment.

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CHAPTER VI.

THE MYSTERY UNVEILED.—CHANCES AND CHANGES.



“Do I not owe thee all that's worth a name:
Treasures of intellect, the wealth of mind?
What had I been this moment but for thee?
Oh cold will be my heart ere I forget
My endless debt of gratitude and love!”
N. P. Willis.

Although youth has ever been heralded as the
season of enjoyment, yet few have attempted to
record the items which constitute the full measure
of its felicity, and a still less number would peruse
such detail with any degree of satisfaction.
So rapid are the transformations in the kaleidoscope
of youth, that it is a hopeless task to attempt to
sketch, with any degree of fidelity, their changeful
forms and hues; for, ere the varied tints of one combination
are transferred to the canvass, lo! the vision
has departed, to be succeeded by other views as
beauteous and as evanescent. But while this assertion
holds good in relation to the fleeting pleasures
of juvenility, the measure of its application is materially
changed when we proceed to the investigation
of those passions and feelings which, while they
are identified with individual enjoyment, exercise a
permanent influence over the destiny and after happiness
of their possessor. The attempt, indeed, to

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[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

explore the hidden recesses of human character, and
assign to each action its appropriate motive, must
be ever ineffectual, unless we can trace the visible
effect to its latent cause through all the sinuosities
of childhood, youth, and manhood.

With our hero the sunny period of youth was
rapidly receding; but, as the glittering pageant swept
along, it developed the springs that gave activity to
his feelings, at times imparting to them an unhealthy
impetus, and again retarding their progress by improper
obstructions. As we have before remarked,
the prominent defects of his mental structure were
remedied by the well-directed exertions of Mrs.
Clifton; but as perfection is not attainable in this
mundane sphere, there were periods when his natural
temperament would exhibit its constitutional failings
to a limited extent, thus operating as a partial
foil to the brightness of his general character.

During the earlier portion of his childhood, the
anomalous position he held in society was neither
understood nor appreciated; but as he advanced
in years he began slowly to comprehend that there
was something in his history that his foster parents
endeavoured to veil in obscurity; nor can it be
considered surprising that the desire to unravel
the mystery strengthened with his strength. Certain
it is that he had frequently alluded to the
subject in conversation with his protectors; but
Mrs. Clifton did not fail to perceive how destructive
would be the sad revelation to his peace of
mind, if made before his judgment was sufficiently

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[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

perfected to operate as a check upon the impetuosity
of his feelings. To every inquiry, therefore,
she replied evasively, assuring him that there were
good reasons to delay the recital, but that he might
expect to be made fully acquainted with the facts
whenever it was proper for her to detail them.
Ardently attached to his more than mother, he was
ashamed to continue importunities when he felt
satisfied that her resolution was not formed without
adequate cause, and he therefore determined
not again to introduce the subject until it should be
adverted to by Mrs. Clifton.

Meanwhile, his progress in his studies was such
as to excite the approbation of all who felt an interest
in his welfare. In the Latin and French
languages he had made great proficiency; but as
it was not the intention of Clifton and his wife to
give him a strictly classical education, he devoted
a large portion of his time to advancement in those
studies that were calculated to be beneficial to his
future interests. In arithmetic, bookkeeping, and
the elements of commercial law, he had become a
proficient; nor was he wanting in the more elegant,
but less practical, acquirements connected
with rhetoric and belles lettres.

As his education was rapidly approaching its
assigned limit, Clifton solicited Mr. de Lyle to exercise
his influence in procuring him a suitable
situation in a respectable mercantile establishment;
and as Sydney was a great favourite with the distinguished
merchant, he at once proposed to assign

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[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

him a station in his own counting-room. This
proposition was gratefully acceded to by all parties,
and but a few days were to elapse before it
would become necessary for the high-minded boy
to sever those youthful associations which had
been productive of so much unalloyed happiness.

How do we all fondly revert to the same period
in our individual history, and how vividly is the
parting scene imprinted on the tablet of memory!
Arrived, as it were, at the half-way point that divides
youth from manhood, we pause in doubt on
the threshold, scarcely knowing whether to direct
our eyes to the fascinations of the past, or to revel
in the hopes that illumine the vista of the future.

With such ardent feelings as were possessed by
Sydney, the friendships he had formed could not be
severed without many a bitter pang; and on the
night preceding the day that was to close his connexion
with the academy, its teachers, and pupils,
he endeavoured in vain to summon oblivion to his
aid, and arose in the morning unrefreshed by his
customary rest.

This was the day appointed for the usual half-yearly
examination; and as Sydney was impressed
with the importance of closing his academic career
with éclat, the composition he delivered succeeded
in eliciting the admiration of a numerous auditory,
who spontaneously awarded the palm of superiority
to the handsome, dark-eyed boy. As may be
inferred, his protectors found little interest in the
display of youthful rhetoric when their protegé had

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[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

delivered his essay, and they therefore retired to
their dwellings with feelings of honest pride swelling
in their breasts at the success of the child of
their affection. Not more than two hours had
elapsed after their return, when Sydney burst into
the room, pale and haggard, and exhibiting the
most violent symptoms of mental agony.

“Who am I? What am I? Am I, indeed, the
child of a murderer? Speak at once, or I shall
drop dead at your feet!” exclaimed the agitated
boy, as he rushed to the side of Mrs. Clifton and
buried his face in her bosom.

“Be calm, my son,” said that excellent woman,
“and you shall know all.”

As the crisis had evidently arrived when longer
concealment would be attended with the most calamitous
effects, his foster mother informed him of
all the circumstances with which the reader is already
acquainted. Most conclusively did she demonstrate
that, under the operation of our just and
equal code of laws, neither rank, fortune, nor character
is hereditary; that intelligence and virtue
are sure to gain for their possessor the esteem and
confidence of the community; and that, with a conscience
void of offence, he might pass by the taunts
of the malicious and the sneers of the envious as
he would the ravings of the idle wind.

Thus, mingling the consolations of religion and
an elevated philosophy with the exciting details of
the narrative, did Mrs. Clifton sooth the irritated
feelings of her protegé; and, at the conclusion of the

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[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

development, he exhibited much less agitation than
could have been expected from its gloomy character.

From Sydney they learned that the composition
of Edward de Lyle was so imperfect, both in
structure and language, that the teacher could not
refrain from expressing his disappointment and dissatisfaction;
and, as he contrasted the faults of
Edward's style with the beauties of Sydney's, his
reproof excited, in the bosom of the delinquent, the
most intense feeling of hatred for his innocent fellow
in the unlucky comparison. Burning with
rage, therefore, he no sooner left the academy than
he commenced abuse of Sydney, whom he stigmatized
as a low, base-born wretch, and the son of a
foul murderer and assassin, who cheated the gallows
by putting an end to his own life. Our hero
was almost overwhelmed by the shock of this
abrupt development; but, on his bullying assailant
repeating the indignity, to which he added the
epithet of coward, and contemptuously assaulted
him with a kick, the floodgates of his impetuous
feelings were thrown down, and, with the fury of
a lion, he attacked his insulting vilifier, whom he
left stretched on the pavement with but feeble
signs of vitality. As Edward was older and much
more athletic than his conqueror, the schoolboys
universally uttered a shout of triumph at the success
of Sydney, who was a general favourite.

The well-balanced mind of Mrs. Clifton perceived
the necessity of instantly acquainting Mr.

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[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

de Lyle with the facts, before he should receive
them through the distorted medium of Edward's
narrative; and Clifton, therefore, at once visited
that gentleman, and communicated the details we
have furnished to the reader; and on the following
morning the worthy protectors of the orphan had
the satisfaction of learning that the whole matter
was concluded by Edward's penitence for the insult,
who was directed by his father to apologize
to the injured party. To this Sydney would not
consent, but volunteered a reconciliation, and, to
all outward appearances, the affray was amicably
and finally disposed of.

As it is no part of our purpose to anticipate the
future progress of our history, we shall refrain from
penetrating the secrets of Edward's bosom to ascertain
whether his reconciliation with his playmate
was the result of his moral convictions, or whether
he still harboured sentiments of revenge towards
the author of his double discomfiture.

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CHAPTER VII.

AN INTRODUCTION TO PARTIES WITH WHOM THE
READER WILL HEREAFTER BECOME BETTER ACQUAINTED.—
AN INCIDENT.



“Oh bless'd retirement, friend to life's docline,
Retreats from cares that never must be mine,
How bless'd is he who crowns, in shades like these,
A youth of labour with an age of ease.”
Goldsmith.


“The uncurb'd steeds, their lordly master's pride,
Hurl from the bit the foam on either side;
With parted nostrils still they scour the plain,
Their precious burden summoning aid in vain.”
Anonymous.

We pass over without comment the lapse of
several years, in which no event of moment occurred
to ripple the calm surface of our hero's life.

The tender regard of his adopted parents increased
with the development of his intellectual
capacities, which were of a high order; while his
aptitude for the mercantile profession, and the
strict attention which he gave to the discharge of
his duties, rendered him a valuable auxiliary in the
counting-room of Mr. de Lyle.

Having premised thus much, it becomes necessary
to change the scene to the interior of one of

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those spacious and comfortable, although somewhat
antiquated, mansions which were erected by our
forefathers in an early period of our country's
history. The dwelling referred to was situated in
the State of Massachusetts, near the city of Boston,
so justly celebrated for the gallantry and patriotism
with which its inhabitants resisted the encroachments
of arbitrary power on the first dawning of
the revolution, and no less renowned for the intelligence
and public spirit which have raised it to so
commanding a station in the annals of American
literature.

It was in the afternoon of one of those beautiful
winter days in which the usual frown of the ice
king is changed to a sunny smile, the more captivating
from its rarity, that an elderly lady and
gentleman, on whose features the remains of former
beauty still lingered, sat by the side of a brisk
coal fire, that blazed cheerfully in the well-furnished
and brass-mounted grate.

The gentleman had not more than reached his
fiftieth year, and the lady was somewhat his junior;
but the traces of care and anxiety had anticipated
the ravages of time, so that a casual observer would
have undoubtedly assigned them a more advanced
period in life. To a tall and commanding person
Mr. Borrowdale (the gentleman now introduced)
united bland and courteous manners; but the sudden
flash of his dark eye and the haughty curl of his
lip evinced an ardent and unconquerable spirit,

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[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

whose lofty soarings might be curbed, but whose
indomitable energies could never be subdued.

The lady, on the contrary, displayed a meekness
and resignation of the most winning character; but
the calm lustre of her full blue eye attested that to
the purity of her soul, and not to its stolidity, was
her amiable and unresisting deportment to be attributed.

The dwelling thus occupied had been erected by
a wealthy Boston merchant, while that city was
yet in the incipient stage of its commercial history,
and was purchased by its present proprietor and
occupant many years previous to the period now
alluded to.

Mr. Borrowdale was a native of an adjoining
state, in which he had resided until his removal to
his present domicil, where he passed his days in
retirement on the income of a large estate. Descended
from a noble and aristocratic family in
Great Britain, the father of Mr. Borrowdale, who
was a younger brother, had early in life become
deeply imbued with the principles of democracy;
and, in consequence of a rupture that occurred between
himself and his relatives, originating in the
difference of their political views, he emigrated to
America, where he married an amiable and accomplished
lady, by whom he had two sons, of whom
the gentleman just introduced to the reader was
the younger.

When the wheels of the revolution first received
their impulse, the elder Mr. Borrowdale entered

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[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

zealously into the views of the colonists, and soon
attained the rank of brigadier-general in the continental
army, in which he distinguished himself as
an intrepid and able officer. At the close of the
war he purchased a large tract of land, which increased
in value with such rapidity that he found
himself in the possession of an ample fortune, and
retired to the bosom of his family, where he reposed
in quiet until death closed his career of usefulness.
Thus his son became possessed in early life of a
perfect independence; and all that was known of
his subsequent history in the neighbourhood where
he resided was limited to the fact, that he came to
their vicinity with an amiable and accomplished lady
and an interesting little daughter, then an infant,
who so far occupied his attention that he seldom
made visits to the surrounding gentry. This reserve
was at first regarded as the result of pride or
misanthropy; but a farther knowledge of the amiable
couple removed the impression, and to some unknown
source of unhappiness was at length universally
ascribed their desire to enjoy the consolations
of retirement. Although Mr. Borrowdale and his
lady visited only the indigent and afflicted in their
neighbourhood, for the purpose of ministering to
their necessities, yet, when their kind-hearted neighbours
called at their dwelling, they were ever received
with melancholy courtesy, and, while they
failed to return such visits, they cheerfully permitted
their lively and affectionate daughter to

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cultivate the intimacy and respond to the calls of her
youthful associates.

Thus calmly flowed on the current of their lives,
until their daughter had attained her sixteenth year,
at which epoch we have introduced them to the
notice of the reader.

“Pomp,” said Mr. Borrowdale to a sable son of
Africa, who was brushing the dust from the grate,
“run to the door and see if Julia is yet coming.
The afternoon is far spent, and I think it time for
her to return.”

“Yes, massa,” said the well-fed and petted servant;
“I go durrecly.”

Again wielding the duster, he leisurely arranged
the fire-irons to his liking, and stretching himself
up to his full height, viz., five feet four, he surveyed
the tout ensemble of the fireplace and its appertenances,
and appearing to be satisfied with the
effect, slowly prepared to do the bidding of his indulgent
master.

The mansion of Mr. Borrowdale was situated on
the brow of an eminence, which overlooked the suburbs
of Boston, and the piazza commanded the avenue
which led to the city for the distance of nearly
two miles. No sooner had the negro reached the
piazza, than, uttering a dismal shriek, he rushed into
the parlour where Mr. and Mrs. Borrowdale were
sitting, and shouted at the top of his voice,

“Oh! massa, massa! young missus be kill!
oh golly, for why de foolish niggur no go wid young
missus; oh golly, golly.”

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[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

Leaping from their seats in an agony of apprehension,
the agitated parents rushed to the piazza,
and beheld a scene that might appal the stoutest
heart. Climbing the ascent that lay between their
position and the city came their span of high-mettled
steeds, lashed to their utmost swiftness, and
dragging the sleigh, in which sat their daughter, unchecked
by rein or driver, their nostrils distended,
their eyeballs starting from their sockets, their
manes streaming in the wind, their well-defined
sinews lacing their symmetrical limbs, and their
whole action developing mingled fear and phrensy.

Her distracted parents had not reached the piazza
when the uncurbed coursers rushed by with the
speed of the whirlwind, followed by the dark form
of Pomp, whose attempts to arrest them with shouts
of “Who! who!” so far from accomplishing the
intended purpose, only accelerated their speed, while
the sharp ring of their hoofs echoed from their contact
with the frozen earth.

In the sleigh sat the lovely Miss Borrowdale,
pale as a marble statue, her fingers clasping either
side of the light vehicle with convulsive tenacity,
her chiselled and colourless lips parted by the intensity
of her emotions; but over her pallid features
shone a calm, holy resignation, which rendered the
peril of her situation, if possible, the more vivid and
appalling.

At the harrowing sight Mrs. Borrowdale swooned,
and if her husband had not caught her falling form,
she would have been precipitated from the steps of

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[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

the elevated piazza. Scarcely had the fainting lady
been removed to the parlour, before the loud voice
of Pomp was heard exclaiming,

“Oh massa, massa, young missus safe; she no
kill.” And so intent was the affectionate black on
communicating the welcome tidings, that he came
near overturning his master, who was proceeding for
a tumbler of water with which to restore his lady's
suspended vitality.

The slight concussion caused by Pomp's contact
with Mr. Borrowdale was but past, when the sleigh
and horses, that had rushed by with such speed,
and their fair burden, were driven up to the door by
a young gentleman, a stranger to the parties, who
had caught the terrified animals at the risk of his
life; and, just as Mrs. Borrowdale had recovered
from her insensibility, her agitated daughter rushed
into her arms. To scenes such as immediately
succeeded her entrance, no pen can render justice,
and we therefore leave our readers to judge of the
rapture of all parties at the unhoped-for rescue of
the young lady, without injury, from her perilous
situation.

After the first burst of joy was past, Mr. Borrowdale
turned to the young gentleman to whose
gallantry he was indebted for the preservation of his
daughter from an awful death, and, grasping both
his hands, he could only exclaim, “God bless you,
my young friend,” when he was compelled to avert
his face to conceal the tears which found their way
down his manly cheek. To relieve the agitated

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family from the embarrassment consequent on the
presence of a stranger at such a moment, the young
gentleman framed an excuse for leaving the room
to attend to the condition of the foaming horses,
when the happy family gave full vent to those tender
emotions which the events that had just transpired
were so well calculated to excite.

On the stranger's return to the drawing-room
Mr. Borrowdale requested to know the name of his
daughter's deliverer, and was informed that it was
Sydney Clifton (for it was no other than our hero);
but, on being overwhelmed with compliments for
his spirit and gallantry, he insisted that the service
he had rendered was much overrated, and that,
to one possessing ordinary presence of mind, the attempt
to arrest the career of runaway horses was
unattended with any especial danger. This modest
estimate of his activity and courage tended to increase
the favourable impression with which Mr. Borrowdale
regarded Clifton, who he determined should
be his guest at least for the night. This was acceded
to by the invited party, but he was obliged first
to visit a merchant residing near Mr. Borrowdale,
with whom he had a business engagement, and
whose dwelling he had but reached when the danger
of Miss Borrowdale caused his successful attempt
at her rescue.

On leaving the house he found his right ankle,
which had been sprained in the effort, becoming so
painful, that he would be unable to walk for even
the limited distance that intervened between the

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dwellings of Mr. Borrowdale and the Boston merchant.
Pomp, however, settled the difficulty by
conveying him in the sleigh that still stood at the
door.

While Sydney was absent, Miss Borrowdale informed
her parents that, on her return from the
city, the driver was accidentally thrown from his
seat at the distance of about two miles from their
residence, so that the negro had probably discovered
the accident almost at the moment of its occurrence.

As Clifton had considerable business to transact
with the merchant whom he visited, and who was
a correspondent of Mr. de Lyle's, the evening was
far spent before his return; and on entering the
parlour of Mr. Borrowdale he could no longer
conceal the pain caused by his injured limb, which
was much swollen and inflamed. Fortunately, Mrs.
Borrowdale was sufficiently skilled in the treatment
of even more formidable injuries of the like character;
and under her directions he retired to a chamber
prepared for his reception, and after applying
the remedies recommended by his worthy hostess,
he retired to his couch, but for a considerable time
was unable to rest, not so much in consequence of
the sprained limb as from the action of certain novel
and undefined sensations in his bosom, with which
the bright eyes of Julia Borrowdale were most
strangely blended. Tossing from side to side, he
endeavoured to woo the influence of the drowsy
god, in which he at length succeeded; but even in

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the shadowy land of dreams the image of the fair
girl appeared again in the foreground of the vision,
endowed with a host of attractions in addition to
those which so thickly clustered around her corporeal
presence.

CHAPTER VIII.

“A being of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon,
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air,
'Tis less of earth than heaven.”
A health,
by Pinckney.

Julia Borrowdale was one of those glorious
beings whose image, once imprinted on the memory,
continues to brighten and gather lustre amid
the wrecks and fragments of a thousand succeeding
impressions. It was not that her form or
features, either in their graceful outline or their fair
proportions, exhibited the perfect symmetry of a
faultless model, but it was the living, breathing loveliness
that shed its glow over all, etherealizing that
which was earthly, and illumining the immortal
mind with the radiance of heavenly purity. The
beauty of her face was not of that commanding order
which exacts homage as its legitimate right, but

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rather partook of the winning softness which invades
the citadel of the heart through its most hidden portals,
leading captive the affections ere their silken
fetters are perceived. In height she was rather
above than below the middle size, with a slight form,
whose delicate contour could be fully appreciated
only when exhibiting the “poetry of motion.” Her
complexion was passing fair; and when her fine blue
eyes glowed with the burning thoughts, the full gush
of whose thrilling eloquence could alone find utterance
through their liquid channels, she appeared
rather a truant wanderer from a higher sphere than
an erring daughter of frail humanity. Although her
mind, like a harmonious lute, gave tone to all the
varied emotions of passion and feeling, yet affection
and tenderness were the master chords, whose vibrations
ever awoke at the slightest touch of sympathy.
She possessed in an eminent degree that
archness and vivacity which impart so pleasing a
zest to the female character, blended at times with
a gentle gravity, which, like the transient shadow of
a summer cloud, but flitted across the horizon and
was lost in the sunshine. Naturally of a yielding
and plastic temperament, which bowed to the slightest
wish of her respected parents, she yet possessed
a fortitude and firmness of purpose which never
failed to resist the encroachments of arbitrary power.

The cheerful beams of a January sun had penetrated
the chamber of this lovely girl ere the spell
was dissipated that had locked her senses in oblivion.
Like Clifton, she had been unable to compose

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herself to rest until the night was far spent, but we may
attribute this circumstance to the agitating scenes
through which she had passed, although anxiety for
her deliverer's recovery from the injury he had received
in accomplishing her rescue was undoubtedly
mingled with more personal considerations.

If the duties of her toilet occupied on this occasion
more than the time usually assigned them, there
was sufficient cause for delay in the exciting nature
of the emotions which still lingered and obstructed
the calm current of her thoughts. At length the reflection
of her faithful mirror was deemed satisfactory,
and she descended to the parlour, where Mr.
Clifton and her parents were seated, the former with
his injured limb reclining on the sofa, which position
Mrs. Borrowdale had compelled him to assume,
on pain of losing her services as physician in
chief
.

“You see, my dear, that you have our young
friend entirely at your mercy,” said Mrs. Borrowdale
to her daughter, as she entered the room;
“fortunately for his recovery and our enjoyment,
I have peremptorily assumed the station of commander-in-chief,
and, like all self-constituted despots,
I intend to wield the sceptre with a firmness
commensurate with the brief period it will remain
in my grasp.”

“I fear Mr. Clifton will imbibe unfavourable impressions
of the depth of our attachment to the
doctrine of equal rights,” answered Julia, with vivacity;
“one would think that our guest had

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reached a much more Eastern latitude than geography
assigns us, from the Asiatic character of
our domestic government. The only difference I
can perceive in the parallel will be found in the
sex of the despot. In the hemisphere alluded to,
the gentlemen alone, I believe, exercise supreme
authority.”

“If I might be permitted to question any opinion
advanced by Miss Borrowdale,” followed Clifton,
smilingly, “I should assert that the simile holds
good even in the particular which she ranks as an
exception. In all climes, I believe, the real power
is vested in the persons of the ladies. In the East,
the fair sovereign executes invisibly what your
lady mother has the grace and talent to perform
so much more attractively without the necessity of
disguise.”

“Since Mr. Clifton exhibits so commendable a
resignation to the decrees of fate,” replied Mr.
Borrowdale, “it is but fair to render his captivity
tolerable. So sturdy a rebel against even legitimate
authority is the appetite, that I question
whether your ranks would not be sensibly diminished
by desertion, if, while fasting, the bracing air
of a January morning should much longer be permitted
to undermine the citadel of your command.
But here comes Pomp to announce breakfast, so
we will adjourn farther discussion.”

The meal despatched, all parties resumed their
position in the parlour, and the conversational talent
of the members of this amiable family had not

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for years assumed so lively and pleasing a character
as was elicited by the presence of one whose
important service they so justly held in grateful
appreciation. Mr. Borrowdale, in particular, unlocked
the stores of a rich and cultivated intellect,
endeavouring, by the introduction of a variety of
subjects, to fathom the depths of Clifton's mind, or
to bring on the discussion of such themes as would
awake a response in the bosom of his guest. While
Clifton touched sufficiently on the topics introduced
to convince his host that he possessed a rich fund
of valuable literary, scientific, and political information,
he yet exhibited the pleasing tact of a
graceful listener; and the instances were passing
rare when an auditor could have drawn forth so
complete a development of the varied powers which
had so long remained dormant in the breast of Mr.
Borrowdale, as the attractive young guest whose
atténtion was completely absorbed in the interest
excited by his discourse. Those, indeed, who had
only known Mr. Borrowdale through the usual intercourse
afforded by every-day acquaintance, would
have remarked with astonishment the enthusiasm
and fervour he displayed while in the company of
Clifton; nor would his neighbours have credited the
fact, had they been informed of the lofty, and even
chivalric, character of his mind.

After many subjects had been introduced and
their interest exhausted, Mr. Borrowdale alluded
to the genius and writings of the authors of America.

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“I am sure,” he said, “that several of our accomplished
writers have attained so enviable a
celebrity, that they may safely defy the efforts of
envy or rivalry to shake the foundation of their
well-earned popularity. Of modern authors, Washington
Irving is my model for the perfection of
style. Equally free from redundance and obscurity,
he combines simplicity with mental power,
and possesses the rare merit of presenting a vivid
picture to the mind, without distracting the attention
from the subject by the introduction of farfetched
metaphors or forced illustrations. His
narrative flows on like the placid course of a calm
but majestic stream, whose current, although broad
and deep, exhibits none of the turbid impetuosity
of more shallow rivulets.

“The associations connected with the sunny
period of youth unquestionably impart a glow to
the writings which then constituted the staple of my
reading,” continued Mr. Borrowdale; “but while
I admit a decided partiality, I should do injustice to
the manly and vigorous writers who laid the foundations
of our national literature, were I to omit a
passing tribute to their talents and worth.

“Belknap, the historian of New-Hampshire, deserves
commendation, no less for the truth and
fidelity of his details, and the industry and research
exhibited in their collection, than by the easy flow
of his narrative, and his unostentatious, yet clear
and comprehensive style.

“If he excelled in any one particular, it was in

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impartiality. You cannot peruse his history without
entertaining the conviction that he disdains the
practice indulged by many modern authors, of
swaying their narratives to suit the prevailing taste
of their readers, or to minister to their own prejudices.

“Fisher Ames, so justly celebrated for his political
essays, has attained a well-earned celebrity in
the peculiar path which his genius illuminated.
Although ardent and energetic in enforcing his
opinions, while his political dissertations abound
with impassioned appeals to the judgment and feelings
of his readers, his writings exhibit none of
that coarseness and virulence which marred the
essays of too many of his contemporaries. He
possessed, in an eminent degree, an intuitive perception
of the impregnable fastnesses which surrounded
his own position, while his mental vision
was equally keen in detecting the assailable points
of his antagonist's defences. Fortified by this
prescience, he poured forth a torrent of eloquence,
argument, and satire against what he considered
errors of principle, while history, reason, and philosophy
were marshalled as his chosen allies in the
contest.”

“Although my knowledge of our early literature,”
said Clifton, “is necessarily less perfect than
I could desire, yet the little information I possess
convinces me of the truth and justice of your general
remarks. I would name the journal of Governor
John Winthrop, of Massachusetts, written

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and published in the early period of the seventeenth
century, as a case in point. Although quaint and
homely in style, and the narrative at times burdened
with uninteresting details, it presents a
graphic picture of the state of society, and reveals
the moral and political history of that early period,
with its lights and shadows exhibited in bold relief.
What can be more unique than his story of the
battle between the mouse and the snake, with its
moral application? Yet, like those of the immortal
bard of Avon, his most minute descriptions tend
to `hold the mirror up to nature,' and `show the
very age and body of the time, his form and pressure.
' Through the light imparted by Governor
Winthrop's narrative we view the unbending firmness,
high moral principle, sturdy independence,
and unwavering piety of our emigrant fathers, nor
will their bright example be lost on their descendants.”

“I rejoice, my young friend,” replied Mr. Borrowdale,
“to learn that one so young as yourself
has already devoted a portion of his leisure hours
to the study of his country's early history. Unfortunately,
too many of our young countrymen devote
what little attention they bestow on literary
pursuits to the perusal of the ephemeral European
productions which the American press brings forth
in such profusion. The result is, that, if they visit
foreign shores, their utter incapacity to impart valuable
information connected with their country's
literature, history, and institutions, renders them

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contemptible in the estimation of enlightened foreigners,
while the national character suffers in consequence
of the superficial specimens of our population
thus thrust on their notice.

“Doctor Timothy Dwight, of Yale College, is
my model for pulpit eloquence,” continued Mr.
Borrowdale. “There may be those whose minds
have soared on more discursive wing along the
firmament of the ideal than Doctor Dwight; but in
presenting the true philosophy of religion; in illustrating
the beauty of holiness; in spanning, as far
as a finite being is capable, the attributes of Deity;
in moulding his subject in such fashion that the
most illiterate can comprehend, while the profound
thinker admires, its beauty and symmetry; in energetic
and forcible appeals to the reason and judgement,
and in concentrating the essence of his discourse,
at its close, in a climax of irresistible
strength and clearness, his superiority is manifest.
As a lecturer no less than as a divine, Dr. Dwight's
claims to distinction are neither few nor equivocal.
Possessing a mind of great comprehensiveness and
power, he is peculiarly well qualified to unfold the
hidden secrets appertaining to the various branches
of mental philosophy, and his students and hearers
are enlightened by his illustrations, while their
hearts are softened and their affections purified by
his application of the subject to all the duties and
relations of life. It is only in such hands that the
science of metaphysics can be beneficially expounded.
He whose genius and talents qualify

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him to analyze the subtile elements which compose
our mental structure, but the perversity of whose
intellect impels him to wield the weapons of sophistry
against the faith of the Christian and the consolations
of his religion, is the minister of evil, and
fearful must be his reward.”

“Is it not surprising,” said Clifton, “that among
the many gifted authors of which we can boast, so
few have exercised their powers in illustrating the
more abstruse sciences?”

“Nothing, to my mind, is more natural than such
a result,” said Mr. Borrowdale. “The genius of
our people is essentially utilitarian. The same
talent which in Germany would expend its force in
threading the mazes of metaphysical discussion,
here displays itself in the invention of labour-saving
machinery; or, with far-seeing eye, watches the
movements of states and empires, gathering in the
scrutiny the experience necessary to the successful
prosecution of commercial enterprise. The poet
and the novelist, indeed, flourish in our soil, but the
reason is sufficiently obvious. A period of repose
is needful to the most assiduous; and, while our
vast population press forward with alacrity in the
race of interest or ambition, they take by the hand
him who can charm their leisure hours by the exciting
narrativesof poesy or romance.”

Thus passed the day, enlivened by the cheerfulness
and vivacity of this interesting family. Julia,
while listening with much pleasure to the animated
conversation of her father and his guest, could not

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disguise from herself the increasing interest that the
tall and handsome young stranger excited in her
bosom.

While Mr. Borrowdale continued to converse,
Sydney was too deeply interested to direct his attention
to the ladies; but when that gentleman retired
for a time during the afternoon, he made ample
amends for his previous abstraction, in dwelling
with delight on the beauty and loveliness of Miss
Borrowdale.

On seeking his chamber, he commenced the analyzation
of the emotions that agitated his bosom,
and was not a little surprised to find his future happiness
so completely identified with the image of
the lovely girl. “But why,” he asked himself, “do
I foster this passion, whose flame but illumines to
destroy? Alas! what am I but a poor wanderer
and outcast—the offspring of misfortune and crime—
while Julia Borrowdale is the accomplished heiress
of a princely fortune. Fool that I am, like a moth
to hover around the light that lures me to destruction.
But let me fly ere it is too late. Too late did
I say? Already the poison pervades every artery
of my mental system, and impotent will be my efforts
to arrest the progress of the subtle element. If
even I could induce the charming girl to listen to
my vows, how impossible to secure the assent of
her father. The scion of an aristocratic and noble
house, it is easy to perceive that ambition is his
master passion. Even in his conversation this
morning he evinced his sense of superiority; and

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thinks, by unbending from his dignity and reserve
for a day, to requite the obligation his daughter owes
me. Having now ascertained the sentiments that
burn in my bosom, I will no longer subject myself
to the danger that lurks in the presence of the enchantress.
To-morrow I will continue to enjoy the
sweet delusion, and on the following morning bid a
final adieu to happiness and Julia.”

With this resolution, based, we must admit, on
most unphilosophical and unjust data, Clifton resigned
himself to the quiet of his couch.

As the day declined, the atmosphere had become
thick and gloomy; and when the shadows of evening
began to darken the horizon, a severe storm of hail
and rain succeeded, which continued to increase
until it almost reached the intensity of a hurricane.
As the gale swept around the exposed wing of the
mansion in which the sleeping apartment of Julia
was situated, now expending its wrath in the deep,
shrill tones of vengeance, and again displaying its
exhausted energies in the faint moanings of despair,
her heart first experienced that undefined sadness
which ever flings it shadow across the pathway of
young Love. On retiring to rest, she but exchanged
the theatre of her reflections, without possessing the
power to control their wanderings; and long after
the midnight chimes of the city bell had mingled
with the murmurings of the storm, her solitary lamp
shot its ray athwart the gloom, like humble piety
amid the moral darkness of a benighted world!

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CHAPTER IX.

AN INVOCATION TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH.—AN AMERICAN
WINTER'S DAY.—OPPORTUNITIES NEGLECTED.



“The crystal drops
That trickle down the branches, fast congeal'd,
Shoot into pillars of pellucid length,
And prop the pile they but adorn'd before.”
Cowper.


“No—vain, alas! th'endeavour
From bonds so sweet to sever;
Poor wisdom's chance
Against a glance
Is now as weak as ever!”
Moore.

Could we wield thy pen, oh! Christopher North
(alas! on whom shall the mantle of thy genius fall
when thy earthly casket is despoiled of its jewel?),
how would we revel in the splendours that encircled
the whereabout of our hero! Verily, our love for
thee, Christopher, is passing the love of woman,
whether in the evening of thy days thou pourest
forth warblings such as were untuned until a nearer
glimpse of the bright sphere to which thou art journeying
awakened their echoes, or whether, amid the
wrecks and fragments of History, thou conjurest up
the forms of the mighty dead from the coffin and the
shroud, until the aching eyeballs refuse longer to
gaze on the glittering array!

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But hark! to the rushing sound of many waters,
and the howlings of the storm spirit, and the creakings
of the swayed mast, and the moanings of the
parting cordage, and the shouts of distress, and the
shrieks of agony, and the death-groan of the shipwrecked:
when at the touch of thy wand (goosequill
though it be) the sun bursts from behind the serried
clouds, the fisherman pours forth his rude melody,
the lulled ocean images headland, cliff, and sky,
the herd browse upon the hill, and the low murmur of
human voices comes soothingly on the ear. How often
have we essayed to track thy meteor-like wanderings,
now skirting the horizon, anon hovering in
mid air, again shooting upward into the transparent
element, until thy unearthly form was lost in the
empyrean, and while we were mourning for thee

“As one
Long loved and for a season gone,”

lo! thou wert by our side, lavishing on our stolidity
the rich treasures of thy varied lore.

On the morning of the day that succeeded the
evening last described, the clouds that canopied
the heavens with their sable drapery soon broke
and scattered, like the routed squadrons of a retreating
army, when, gathering like a dark scroll in
the zenith, they slowly floated towards the eastern
horizon, until their shadowy outline was lost in the
cerulean.

The rain that deluged the country near the residence
of Mr. Borrowdale was succeeded by a

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severe frost, and the liquid element, congealing
around every object on which it fell, presented a
most gorgeous and imposing spectacle when the
sun burst forth from the clouds that had obscured
his lustre. Cutting their crystal shafts upon the
sky, the spires and cupolas of the city of Bóston
appeared like giant stalactites, that had been hurled
from their sparry prisons by some mighty convulsion
of nature, while in the opposite direction
every hedge, building, tree, and eminence glittered
in the panoply of its burnished armour. One sturdy
representative of the giant race that formerly peopled
the boundless forest, which had successfully
resisted the warring elements for centuries, now
stretched forth its mailed arms in solitude and
majesty from the brow of an adjacent mountain, reminding
one of the relic of those puissant warriors,
who, arrayed in a like glittering armour, went forth
in ancient days to do battle for the Lord of Hosts,
and to rescue the holy sepulchre from the sacrilegious
grasp of the infidel!

During the morning Mr. Borrowdale found it
necessary to visit Boston, when Clifton informed
him of his intention to leave on the following day
for New-York. To this determination both Mr.
Borrowdale and his lady made strenuous opposition;
but, having stated his resolution, he felt a
reluctance to exhibit vacillation of purpose by
renouncing it, although, when dwelling on the
charms of Julia, he secretly wished that he had
been less precipitate in the declaration of his

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intended departure. Soon after, Mrs. Borrowdale
desired to be excused while she gave attention to
her household duties, and the enraptured Clifton
was thus afforded an opportunity to breathe into
the ear of his mistress the love that burned in his
bosom. His cogitations during the previous night
had indeed determined him to adopt this course, if
opportunity offered, and now the important moment
which would decide his fate was accidentally
vouchsafed to him.

Perhaps the most mysterious, as well as mischievous
deity that ever swayed the destinies of
mortals, is the winged god of love. Not content
with placing two persons of opposite sexes in juxtaposition
for the purpose of causing their mutual
embarrassment, he not unfrequently deprives them
of the power of uttering the sentiments that, of all
others, they most desire to communicate; while,
in many instances, he compels them to avow opinions
in direct opposition to those they really entertain.

Our hero was unfortunately subject to the subtle
influence of this tantalizing deity, and his first
movement exhibited the desperate condition both
of his heart and of his wits. The sofa on which
he reclined was opposite the front window of the
mansion, and commanded a view of the distant
hills, irradiated by their silvery drapery. Near
him, on a rich ottoman, sat Miss Borrowdale; and
as the silence which ensued after her mother's

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absence was becoming mutually embarrassing, he
essayed to commence the conversation.

“I have often thought,” he remarked, “how
charming would be a country residence if we could
enjoy the smiles of—that is to say, the friends of
our youth—that is to say, those to whom we are—”
here he paused, and, we must admit, looked particularly
silly; but at length concluded by inquiring
of Julia if she did not think it was a very fine
morning.

The quiet smile of his fair auditor was unobserved,
for, indeed, he could not assume sufficient
courage to look her in the face; but she, although a
crimson flush suffused her cheek, was much less
disconcerted than her admirer, and soon managed
to turn the discourse into a less sentimental channel
than that in which Clifton had unsuccessfully attempted
to direct it.

Although the moments flew with the speed of
thought, yet sand after sand dropped successively
from the hourglass, and still Sydney was apparently
as far from the declaration of his passion as
when he first entered the house; and although he
watched every turn of the conversation to find an
opportunity of introducing the subject, and although
hundreds of such had passed, still would his tongue
falter in its allegiance until the favoured moment
was lost.

A friendly piano, which occupied the recess
formed by the chimney and angle of the room, was
at length espied by Clifton; and conceiving that it

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might be used as an instrument to attune his heart
to a less exciting solo than had been played on it
during the morning, he solicited Julia to favour
him with a song. As the lovely girl had not learned
the fashionable trick of refusing in order to be farther
urged, she readily consented, and warbled the
following ditty in a voice whose sweetness amply
compensated for its limited compass.



“They say that ne'er by fortune's gale
My hero's brow was fann'd,
That round his tall and graceful form
No powder'd menials stand:
What care I for the glittering dross
That lures but to betray?
Love claims affection's holier gems
To cheer his lonely way!
“They tell me that my charmer owns
No proud ancestral line,
That, sparkling on his manly breast,
No courtly emblems shine:
Alas, o'er many a courtier's brow
Dark falsehood's ensigns wave,
And jewels oft have flash'd around
Foul passion's palsied slave.
“Then cease, the fruitless theme forego,
Nor mock my pure desire;
Not mine the transient, flickering flame
That kindles to expire!
Fortune I spurn, her gifts despise;
Be mine the blissful lot
With him life's ills and joys to share
In palace or in cot.”

When the song was finished, Clifton complimented
Julia in a manner more suited to the lover than
he could have previously assumed.

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“I like the melody passing well,” said he; “it
is natural and artless. The sentiments are those
of an unsophisticated and virtuous mind, untrammelled
by the fetters with which fashion and interest
enthral the youthful heart. But I fear they
are unsuited to the refined notions of the present
enlightened generation. The glare of wealth and
the allurements of luxury are too powerful in their
attractions to permit such sentiments to bud, blossom,
and bear fruit.”

“I regret,” replied Julia, gravely, “that one of
whose judgment I had formed so exalted an estimate
has imbibed impressions so unfavourable to
the character of the world around him. Suspicion
and distrust of our species, I have been taught to
believe, should not be cherished unless the faults
imputed are established by the most conclusive testimony.
I trust that Mr. Clifton has not formed
his opinion by the lights of personal experience.”

“Indeed, Miss Borrowdale,” said Clifton, “my
decision is not based on any deception the world
has practised on myself. Fortunately, my position
is too obscure to attract the notice of any but a few
devoted friends, so that my personal inexperience,
I think, forms no argument against the soundness
of my position. My views are rather the result of
a scrutiny which, as a `waif on the world's wide
common,' I have been enabled to institute into the
movements of those by whom I was surrounded.
This observation has unhappily led me to adopt the
opinion I have expressed.”

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“That many of the idle votaries of pleasure in
large cities should sport with the purest and holiest
affections of the heart,” remarked Julia, “and ridicule
that which they have not sufficient soul to
comprehend, is not astonishing; but I must insist
on your giving the rustics of the country a fair trial
before they are included in your sweeping condemnation.
When you have ruralized for a year
or two among the less polished inhabitants of the remote
suburbs, I shall be prepared to be an unwilling
convert to your doctrine, if it is still entertained.”

“Would that I could adopt your theory in its
most extended sense,” returned Clifton. “There
is, however, one instance in which the solution of
the enigma is most deeply interesting to myself
personally. Could I be assured that—” Here the
entrance of Mr. Borrowdale unfortunately clipped
the thread of his discourse, and compelled him to
select a less agitating theme. “How mal-a-propos,”
thought he; “a moment more, and the mystery
would have been disclosed. It is my destiny;
an omen of my final discomfiture.”

To add to poor Clifton's melancholy, Mr. Borrowdale's
countenance had lost the pleasing expression
it had assumed on the previous day; and although
he endeavoured to amuse his guest, yet it was evident
that his thoughts were far removed from the
subjects which he endeavoured to discuss. Mrs.
Borrowdale also partook of her husband's sadness,
while Julia, silent and pensive, appeared to be lost
in revery; but whether her sensations were

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pleasing or otherwise was a question to which she herself
could afford no satisfactory reply.

On Clifton's retiring for the night, he pondered
deeply on the subject of Mr. Borrowdale's altered
demeanour; and, as his natural temperament led
him to adopt hasty conclusions, he at once decided
that his passion for Julia was discovered, and that
her parents' uneasiness was caused by their opposition
to so unequal an alliance as would result from
her attachment to so humble a suiter.

When he arose in the morning he found Julia
and her parents in the parlour as he entered, and
could with difficulty determine whether to be grieved
or gratified at the pallor which overspread her beautiful
countenance.

“If,” thought he, “I could flatter myself that I
caused her lonely vigils, I should for ever bless the
hour that brought me to her rescue.”

On rising to depart, he was most urgently solicited
to revisit the mansion during the summer months,
and promised to enjoy that happiness if consistent
with his varied engagements.

“Unfortunately,” he remarked, with no little sadness
in his tone, “my movements are rarely subject
to my own volition. If they were, you might live
to repent the carte blanche you have given me to
quarter on your bounty.”

This the host and hostess assured him was impossible;
when, with a heart bending beneath the
weight of its emotions, he commenced his return to
the great commercial city.

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CHAPTER X.

A CHARCOAL SKETCH OF SUNDRY INTERESTING COMPAGNONS
DU VOYAGE, WHOM IT IS DESIRABLE TO
KNOW.



“Oh Hero, what a hero thou hadst been,
If half thy outward graces had been placed
About thy thoughts, and counsels of thy heart.”
Much Ado about Nothing.


“This fellow picks up wit as pigeons pease;
And utters it again when God doth please;
He is wit's pedler.”
Love's Labour's Lost.

If we have for a long period been silent in relation
to the movements of Edward de Lyle, our apparent
neglect does not arise from any indifference to the
fortunes of so important and imposing a personage.
As he grew up to manhood, his features displayed
a regularity of outline and fitness of proportion
which, at the first glance, conveyed the idea of positive
beauty; but a more careful survey developed a
sinister expression, which the forced smile that he
could command at will was little calculated to remove.
We know not what sensation is produced
in others by the exhibition of a deceptive and hollow-hearted
smile, but to us it never fails to conjure up
associations connected with Judas the betrayer!

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A deep view into the arcana of female degradation
had produced its usual demoralizing effect, by causing
in him a distrust of the virtue and purity of the
sex; the character of his mind thus rapidly assimilating
itself to that of the polluted individuals whom
congeniality of disposition and pursuits had classed
among his intimates.

As may be supposed, years had deepened the
lines of his character insensibly, ripening the errors
of boyhood into faults of a less venial description,
and transferring youthful vices to the darker catalogue
of crimes. During the earlier portion of his
dissipated career, his indulgent mother supplied him
with sufficient funds to gratify all his desires; but, as
the sphere of his operations extended, he found no
little difficulty in devising ways and means to liquidate
the demands created by his extravagance.

After various expedients had been resorted to
in the hope of extricating himself from debt and
embarrassment, but which continued to plunge him
still deeper in their meshes, his introduction to the
firm of which his father was the senior partner, at
length afforded him a mercantile standing, which
enabled him to borrow, at an extravagant rate of
interest, sums to cover his immediate necessities.

Unhappily for our hero, this pampered child of a
weak mother's love had continued from boyhood to
cherish against him an antipathy of no common
virulence. From the day when Clifton humbled his
pride and chastised his insolence, he had continued
to devise schemes of revenge, but the even tenour of

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Sydney's way had hitherto furnished him with no
opportunity to execute his malicious purpose.

Among the disreputable companions with whom
he consorted, Julius Ellingbourne was conspicuous.
This individual possessed the most bland and insinuating
manners; and as his originally strong mind
had received the polish of education and travel,
he was an interesting and agreeable companion,
and obtained admittance into the society of those
who would have spurned the association had they
known the dishonourable practices by which his
purse was replenished. All that was known of his
history, in the circle in which he moved, was that
he had but a very few years previous arrived in the
city, and that he appeared possessed of ample means
to sustain rank in the fashionable world; but of any
particulars in relation to his previous career all were
equally ignorant. When the subject was alluded
to, he would sportively call himself a citizen of the
world, and, with mock gravity, argue how totally unimportant
it was, whether he was dropped from the
clouds in a thunder shower, or some more quiet
but no less remarkable freak of nature had caused
his advent into this lower world. From thence
he would gracefully digress to some other topic,
not altogether unconnected with the subject of his
remarks, diverging still as he proceeded, until the
listener found his attention absorbed in matters entirely
foreign to the history of Mr. Ellingbourne. A
sternness of demeanour, and a significant allusion
to the usual method of settling disputes among

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gentlemen, served to silence the curiosity of those who
pressed such inquiries beyond the rules of courtesy;
and, indeed, whatever were his moral defects, cowardice
formed no part of his character. The exercise
of his talent for keen satire was the sole drawback
to his friendly reception at every fireside; for
while a large portion of the fashionable world were
delighted at his graphic delineation of the foibles or
peculiarities of their neighbours, their satisfaction
was much less apparent when they learned that
their own portraits had been limned with equal fidelity
at the opposite side of the town.

Another associate who was in the confidence of
De Lyle was Piercie Matthison, an original in his
way, whose attention to the main chance did not
prevent the pursuit of a favourite theory, which he
introduced on all occasions, and frequently to the
no little annoyance of the coterie of which he was
a member. In his opinion, every phenomenon in
mind, morals, or ethics was immediately connected
with the operations of the stomach; and if the
brilliant achievements of the most renowned hero of
the age were recounted and appropriately eulogized,
Matthison would coolly deduce from them unquestionable
evidence of the healthy state of the general's
digestive organs; “but,” said he, placing his
finger by the side of his prominent nasal organ,
“where would his army have been if he had been
severely afflicted with the dyspepsy?” As it was
impossible to furnish a satisfactory answer to so profound
a query, the propounder triumphed by silencing
his antagonists.

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Baillie Shafton, to whom slight allusion has heretofore
been made, still retained a portion of his early
peculiarities, on which were grafted many novel
eccentricities. With sufficient talent to secure for
himself, without effort, a respectable rank among the
commonplace multitude by whom he was surrounded,
he had the egregious folly to affect the man of
wit; and although it may not be denied that he
occasionally made a decided hit, still the general
character of his witticisms was little calculated to
increase his reputation among the clever persons of
the day. Among the many monstrosities of which
he was hourly delivered, the rece of puns constituted
the most numerous progeny; and although they
were generally of the poorest description, yet the
affections of Shafton, like those of other fond parents,
gathered intensity in proportion to the helplessness
of his mental offspring. The shrewd observer of
human character, who was long honoured with
Shafton's society, could not fail to recognise in the
pun of to-day a marked resemblance to the pun of
the preceding day or week; but such coincidences
have not unfrequently occurred in the productions of
some of the renowned authors of the present time,
and cannot, therefore, be safely sneered at. His
vices, like his virtues, were rather of a negative
character, and he could abandon them with the same
facility with which he would cut an old friend
whenever more attractive metal was discovered.
By a certain description of fashionable ladies he
was voted irresistible; for his stock of ideas, like

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the wares of a retail merchant, were readily accessible,
and he certainly was no niggard in their display.

If the reader desires a more intimate knowledge
of the person of this interesting exclusive, let him
or her but seek Broadway on any fine day in spring
or autumn, when our favourite will be met on the
west side of that attractive thoroughfare, dressed
in the quintessence of the mode, equipped with an
eyeglass in one hand and a gold-tipped ebony
cane in the other; his toes pointed outward; his
gray eye, with the aid of the aforesaid glass, peering
into the face of every lady he meets; and if a voice
should be heard, in tones as soft as those of Caradori
Allan, gently murmuring, “Oh! Miss Rose,
you look divinely to-day. Pray, how is your angelic
sister? Would I could pluck one of those
fragrant roses from the parent stem. I'd be in a
paradise of sweets. I would, on my honour.” And
if this Rosebud should answer, “Oh! fy, how can
you be so full of your compliments?” be then satisfied,
dear reader, that thou art acquainted with
the outward man of Baillie Shafton.

As the individuals to whom we here introduce
our readers will frequently cross their path during
the future progress of this history, we deem it
proper to afford a slight description of their most
striking peculiarities.

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CHAPTER XI.

REVERIES AND AMUSEMENTS OF A NEW-YORK BACHELOR. —
A PLOT. — FAILURE AT TIMES BETTER
THAN SUCCESS.

“His manner was, perhaps, the more seductive,
Because he ne'er seem'd anxious to seduce;
Nothing affected, studied, or constructive
Of coxcombry or conquest.”
“In play there are two pleasures for your choosing,
The one is winning, and the other losing.”

Byron.

In an apartment in the third story of the fashionable
hotel in Broadway, known as the Astor House,
reclined on a sofa of the most costly description the
form of Julius Ellingbourne. It was late in the
afternoon of a beautiful day in early autumn, and
as the rich light of two splendid astral lamps mingled
with the dying beams of the departing day,
they produced that mellow radiance which lends
heightened charms to beauty, and steeps the everyday
objects of common life in all the witcheries of
poetry and romance.

The arrangement of the furniture, no less than
its elegance, attested the fine taste of the owner;
while over the tout ensemble there reigned that

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apparent absence of all effort at display which forms
the ne plus ultra of household adornment.

In the centre of the room stood a circular table
of superb workmanship and material, on which
were negligently scattered a number of choice engravings
from the burins of celebrated artists, together
with a few richly-bound volumes, comprising
the more recent productions of the popular
authors of the day.

On a mahogany side-table lay a flute, in harmonious
proximity to a pair of small swords, which,
together with two setts of boxing-gloves, were perhaps
the only objects that appeared rather out of
place in the otherwise well-ordered apartment.

If to the above-mentioned articles we add a
bookcase, a pier-glass extending from floor to ceiling,
window-curtains of the most beautiful texture
and finish, Brussels carpet, and a set of mahogany
chairs with ottomans to match, we shall have conveyed
a sufficient idea of the appearance of the
room.

A bachelor, young, spirited, and accomplished,
Ellingbourne's talents would, if properly directed,
have ensured for their possessor the attainment of
an enviable rank among the magnates of the land.
That reflections of this character would at times obtrude
themselves upon him, is not to be denied; but
the energy of will for which he was distinguished
enabled him to banish unwelcome thoughts; and
haughtily drawing up his form to its full height, he
would shield his deviation from the path of honour

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and rectitude behind that last refuge of the unworthy,
the decision that all mankind were innately
equally criminal with himself.

“In what particular,” would he ask himself,
“am I different from the multitude who push their
fortunes around me? If, the better to fleece my
victims at the gaming-table, I play the hypocrite
sufficiently to decoy them into my meshes, I but
pursue the like methods with the merchant, the
lawyer, or the physician. Nay, for that matter,
the ministers of religion, the high-priests of science,
and the pretenders to exclusive patriotism, all travel
the turnpike of popularity and success by the
same description of conveyance that I employ;
and if I choose to mount my private vehicle and
travel by an obscure by-path instead of thrusting
myself in their company, it only exhibits the originality
of my views, and should not subject me to
the censure of my amiable contemporaries.”

Musing somewhat after this sort on the present
occasion, he was resting his head on his hand, when
a tap at the door served to suspend his reflections.

Bidding the visiter enter, the door was opened,
and Edward de Lyle appeared, apologizing for the
early hour he had selected, by stating that he desired
a private conference, and feared that a later period
would have found Mr. Ellingbourne otherwise engaged.

“My dear fellow, make no apologies,” said the
latter, in the tone of superiority with which he

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[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

usually addressed De Lyle; “you know you are
always welcome.”

The truth is, that Ellingbourne only tolerated
De Lyle from motives of policy, as he could occasionally
replenish his exhausted treasury from the
funds raised by the latter in his dealings with usurers;
while a full knowledge of his meanness and
petty duplicity engendered sentiments of contempt,
which Ellingbourne would at times exhibit, notwithstanding
his desire to keep on fair terms with
so convenient an attaché.

A little embarrassed at introducing so awkward
a subject, De Lyle at length found words to convey
his wish that Ellingbourne should form an acquaintance
with Sydney Clifton, for the laudable purpose,
not only of fleecing him of his hard earnings, but of
accomplishing his final ruin by blasting his character,
and thus blighting his fair prospects for life.

De Lyle could not disguise to himself the probability
that, if some scheme was not devised to prevent
it, Clifton would soon be offered an interest in
the firm of which he was a partner; which would
not only thwart his longing for revenge, but, in consequence
of Clifton's shrewdness and attention to
the minutia of business, would be attended with the
more serious consequence of bringing to light the
large sums he had clandestinely borrowed to support
his extravagance. Placing before Ellingbourne
the disastrous results that would follow Clifton's
success, and sketching the outline of his character
in no attractive colours, he added the promise of a

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large sum of money if the scheme succeeded to the
extent of his wishes.

Like a skilful angler did Ellingbourne manage
his associate; now assuming an air of nonchalance,
and again appearing to feel a growing interest in his
proposal, until, having wrought De Lyle up to the
proper state of alarm and excitement, he demanded
a most exorbitant reward for his services, which
was acceded to, and the matter thus satisfactorily
arranged. A theatrical entertainment possessing
unusual attraction having been announced for representation
within a few nights following that on
which this compact was formed, it was selected as
an appropriate opportunity to introduce Clifton to
the acquaintance of Ellingbourne. Within a few
moments after the conclusion of an alliance between
these virtuous citizens, Shafton and Matthison were
announced, when a game of whist was proposed,
and a side-table cleared for action. On drawing for
partners, Shafton became associated with Ellingbourne,
while De Lyle and Matthison were necessarily
their antagonists. When the rubber was nearly
concluded, Ellingbourne broke the silence by inquiring
languidly,

“Pray, Shafton, what are trumps? I'm really
too stupid to play to-night. I've somewhat of a
headache, and can't, for the soul of me, keep the
run of the cards.”

“A proof of my theory,” remarked Matthison.
“Your stomach is disordered; the head sympathizes,
the brain works erratically, and,” throwing

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down the leading card, which commanded the trick
and thereby won the game, “you are minus the
rhino. The fact is evident, and the conclusion irresistible.”

“Well,” said De Lyle, laughingly, “for once I'm
a convert to Matthison's theory. Nothing can be
more satisfactory.”

The cards temporarily abandoned, two other visiters
were introduced by Ellingbourne as Mr. Sipkin
and Mr. Thompson, two gentlemen from the
country, for whom he entertained the most unbounded
regard. The trio were, of course, most happy to
be acquainted with Mr. Ellingbourne's particular
friends
, and made unusual exertions to entertain them.

Ellingbourne especially appeared perfectly au fait
in every department of agriculture, and not only delighted,
but astonished his country visiters by the
skill with which he unfolded the mysteries of planting,
sowing, and reaping; the most approved method
of cultivating turnips, cabbages, and parsnips;
to which he added a practical dissertation on the
comparative nutritious qualities of the various descriptions
of food usually furnished horses, cows,
hogs, and other quadrupeds.

“My conscience,” whispered Shafton, apart to
Matthison, “who'd have thought the fellow had it in
him? He is giving those calves the teat to some
purpose. They'll bleed beautifully under his regimen;
but I'm mistaken if, in the end, they do not find
that fair words butter no parsnips.”

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“His stomach has recovered its tone,” answered
Matthison, with the same caution, “and his tongue,
unlike his cards, follows suit.”

To this Shafton offered a sportive reply, when the
by-play came to a pause.

Shafton, unlike De Lyle, was not possessed by
the Demon of Gaming. Having a handsome income,
which he expended solely in the pursuit
of pleasure, he occasionally permitted Ellingbourne
and Matthison to relieve him of a moderate portion
of his spare funds, but rarely hazarded any wager
on the result of a game. Perfectly aware of the
disreputable means by which this adroit couple
gained their living, his moral feelings presented no
obstacle to an intimacy so long as they continued to
be countenanced by the members of “good society;”
but a withdrawal of that passport to his regard would
at once have ensured their exclusion from his list
of associates.

As the perfection of Ellingbourne's policy consisted
in supporting the character of a gentleman of
easy fortune, it formed no part of his system to rifle
the pockets of his victims at his own rooms. Indeed,
he rarely took more than the initiatory steps
in their undoing, assigning the final measures to
other and less skilful hands; and if, as was frequently
the case, the plundered party sought redress,
no one was apparently more active in effecting the
object than Ellingbourne; so that, while originating
the scheme by which the victim was fleeced, he
still maintained the character of a faithful friend.

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During the evening, therefore, after the arrival
of two additional guests—one of whom, named
Dr. Crabbe, was a permanent boarder, and the second,
a Mr. Tilford, a transient visiter to the same
hotel in which the parties met—cards were indeed
introduced at Matthison's especial request; but
that worthy and Ellingbourne were so unfortunate
as to lose a considerable sum, and the latter sportively
remarked, that, since he was a loser, it was
no small gratification to have his money won by
two such particular friends as Mr. Sipkin and Mr.
Thompson.

The pair of green horns were delighted at their
good luck and their host's liberality, and felicitated
themselves not a little on making so valuable an
acquaintance. The cards relinquished, supper was
introduced, and the whole party proceeded to enjoy
the pleasures of the table.

Toasts and sentiments being called for, Ellingbourne
arose with great gravity, and stated his
desire to propose a sentiment, to which he did not
doubt all the company would most cordially respond.
“I intend,” said he, “to propose the health
of a gentleman who has risen by his own merits
to an honourable and dignified station in the
wealthy and patriotic town in which he resides.
Gentlemen, I allude to our worthy guest, Tobias
Sipkin, Esq., of Sipkinville, in the County of
Connestagona. The confidence reposed in him by
the friends of his youth—those who are best acquainted
with his merits—attests his talents, virtue,

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and integrity. Although yet a young man, he possesses
the judgment and political acumen of more
mature years, with that enthusiastic attachment to
the great principles of civil and religious liberty
which distinguishes the American people from all
others. I will give, gentlemen, the health of To-bias
Sipkin, Esquire.”

The toast was drank in a bumper, followed by
three hearty cheers.

The tall, robust, but awkward form of Mr. Sipkin
was seen slowly arising at the conclusion of
the cheering; and, when finally on his legs, he displayed
as grotesque a figure as the most humorous
caricaturist could have desired to illustrate. The
appearance of his face, in particular, was to the last
degree unique. His cheeks were puffed out; his
eyes, whose diminutive size contrasted strangely
with the stupendous nasal organ over which they
peered, were dancing under the influence of the
wine he had so liberally swallowed; and his bushy
hair, which had long since cut the acquaintance of
the scissors, fell like a mop about his ears, the whole
forming a combination of features such as it rarely
falls to the lot of mortal to possess.

As he rose he spread his huge hands on the table,
not a little resembling a pair of turtles stripped of
their shells; while the uneasy and shuffling movement
with which his body swayed to and fro reminded
one of an overgrown schoolboy awkwardly
delivering a recitation before a large audience.

“Mr. President,” he began, “for you're the

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president of the party, I take it—I rise to answer—”
Here he poured out a glass of Champagne and
swallowed it hastily. “I say, Mr. President, that
I'm much obliged—Mr. President, for your good
wishes. I, sir, have a considerable quantity of a
sort of kind of popperlaritee in Simp-kin-wille—”
Here he filled and emptied another bumper. “Mr.
Pres—President, I reckon I beat old Pee—Peter—
Pee—e—ter—son — hiccough—sev—seven votes
for supe—super—super—wise—ur—hiccough. If
that ain't pop—pop—popper—lar—ee—tee, then I
don't know what pop—pop—popper—lar—ee—
tee is—hiccough. Mr. Elsinscorn, I'll drink your
go—good health—hiccough.”

“If the booby is up a tree,” said Shafton, “it's a
pop'lar tree, any how.”

The toast of the country dignitary was, as may
be supposed, enthusiastically received, and was followed
by one in honour of Mr. Thompson, who
wisely returned the compliment by offering “the
health of the company.” Doctor Crabbe was then
called on for a toast, and, as in duty bound, soon
assumed a perpendicular position.

“Mr. President,” said the doctor, a fussy little
personage of some fifty or sixty years of age,
as he contracted his wrinkled brow and drew up
his nether lip, which formed two deep canals at
the corners of his mouth, “in the present unhappy
state of the country, when national and individual
ruin stares us in the face, and when the crash that
I have for the last thirty years predicted is at our

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doors, the voice of mirth, I must say, under such
circumstances, is most unseemly. Sir, soon, alas!
too soon, the wheels of commerce will pause on
their axes; the mercantile community and the moneyed
institutions will become bankrupt; those of
us who do not enter the almshouse will be miserable
beggars; and our children—I mean those of us
who have children—I, thank Providence, have not
yet had the folly to commit matrimony—our children,
I say, will starve before our eyes. In view,
sir, of the coming calamity, I give as a toast, `Our
wretched land: the curses that fell on ancient
Egypt are not a tithe of those we are doomed to
suffer.' ”

“A bumper, a bumper,” said Ellingbourne, “to
the doctor's toast, which, I may be permitted to
say, is deeply imbued with the spirit of prophecy.”

“Doctor,” said Matthison, in a whisper, “are
you troubled with the dyspepsy or a sour stomach?
I feel interested in knowing.”

“Not I; nothing troubles me but the asthma,
which clipped the better half of my remarks.”

“The Lord be praised!” ejaculated Shafton, in
Matthison's ear.

“Amen!” said the theorist.

De Lyle was now called on for a song, but attempted
to excuse himself, when the company
shouted unanimously for “a song from Mr. de
Lyle.”

“Well,” said De Lyle, “afford me time to remember
something appropriate, and I will sing. I

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can't at this moment recall anything but sentimental
ditties, which would be as out of place as a dance
in a churchyard.”

“While De Lyle is rummaging over the store-house
of his memory, Shafton, do you relieve the
tedium by a pun. Let it be a home thrust,” said
Ellingbourne.

“If I did as you desire,” replied the punster, “I
should transport your better half, which is your
body, to that bourne from whence there is no retrograde
trav-elling. But the De'il oil me, and put a
lighted match to my toes, if I pun any more.”

A loud laugh succeeded, and a bumper was
swallowed in honour of Shafton's witticism.

“Mr. de Lyle,” gruffly remarked Dr. Crabbe,
“I trust you will not give us any of the modern
songs, which (with all due deference) remind me
of the catterwaulings of some forlorn grimalkin.
Something rough and homespun is to my taste.”

De Lyle replied that he would give them a pair
of bacchanalian stanzas, and accordingly sang the
following



HEALTH.
“A health! a health! a fig for wealth
While purple wine is flowing:
Great Bacchus! we thy glories see
Through goblets brightly glowing.
What though the rules of monkish fools
Forbid our mirth and pleasure;
We'll seize the prize, while avarice flies
To guard his hoarded treasure.

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SYDNEY CLIFTON.
“A health! a health! although by stealth
We snatch the bliss before us,
Yet still on high joy's banners fly
In gilded foldings o'er us.
Then fill the cup with rapture up
To eyes than planets brighter:
If dark distress our hearts oppress,
Wine makes the burden lighter.”

The song was duly cheered, and was succeeded
by toasts, songs, and jests until past midnight, when
Thompson trundled Sipkin into a coach and conveyed
him to his lodgings.

After all the company except Shafton, Matthison,
and himself had left, De Lyle insisted on indulging
in one rubber of whist, which was assented
to, and Shafton was selected as his partner.

The game was for a trifling sum, but De Lyle
hazarded a wager of a hundred dollars each with
Ellingbourne and Matthison on the result. The
latter parties were successful, and De Lyle, who
was considerably heated with wine, charged the
winners with foul play. Ellingbourne instantly,
with the greatest coolness, stepped to the door,
locked it, and placed the key in his pocket.

“Sir,” he said, addressing De Lyle, “you have
grossly insulted me in my own person, as well as
that of my friend Mr. Matthison, and, by the Heaven
above me, you do not leave this room until I have
redress. In yonder closet are a pair of duelling-pistols
now loaded, and on the side-table are two
small-swords. Select your weapon, if the charge

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you have made is intended for me: if for Matthison,
I presume he is capable of defending his own honour.”

“If,” said Matthison, sternly, “De Lyle has drank
too much wine, and thereby deranged the organs of
the stomach, the first act was voluntary, and he is
liable for the consequences. If he insinuates that I
played foul, either he or myself will be left in this
room until taken forth—a corpse.”

De Lyle, alarmed into sobriety, declared that he
only spoke in jest, and, apologizing satisfactorily,
the difficulty ended without bloodshed, and the company
withdrew.

CHAPTER XII.

NEW-YORK THEATRICALS.—THE PLOT THICKENS.

“Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly
on the tongue; but if you mouth it as many of our players
do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw
the air too much with your hand, thus; but use all gently.”

Hamlet's
Advice to the Players
.

On an evening subsequent to that of the supper-party,
Clifton was reclining on a sofa in the sitting-room
of his boarding-house, musing on his visit to
Boston, and reverting, with mingled sensations of

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hope and fear, to the image of the fair girl who, to
him, in comparison with all other earthly objects,
was “Hyperion to a Satyr.”

Since his eyes had rejoiced in the light of that
lovely countenance, he had passed his leisure hours
in dreamy abstraction, now revelling in the delights
of hope, and again sinking to the depths of despair.

His reflections were interrupted by the entrance
of a servant, who handed him a note, which he
opened, and, to his surprise, read the following:

“Mr. Edward de Lyle intending to visit the theatre
on Tuesday evening next, the 10th instant, on
the occasion of Mr. D—'s complimentary benefit,
respectfully solicits Mr. Clifton's company. Mr. D.
L. will call at Mr. C.'s room at 7 o'clock on that
evening, if convenient for him to attend.

“No. — St. Mark's Place, Saturday, Oct. 7.”

Of the hatred that De Lyle nourished for our hero
he was indeed unaware; but their habits, pursuits,
and inclinations were natural barriers to an intimacy
which it appeared heretofore to have been the
policy of both to shun; and this apparently voluntary
good-will offering from the son of his friend and
patron was to Clifton's mind in the highest degree
grateful. Harbouring in his own breast no sinister
designs, he was the less inclined to suspect them in
another, and therefore, in the morning, despatched
a reply, declaring his gratification at the reception
of Mr. de Lyle's note, and the pleasure he enjoyed
in accepting his invitation.

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“Fool,” said De Lyle, as he eagerly opened the
billet, “he swallows the naked hook. By Heaven,
the happy scheme is already half accomplished.”

Punctual to the hour, the splendid carriage of Mr.
de Lyle was drawn up at the door of Mr. Clifton's
boarding-house, and the two young gentlemen were
soon on their way to enjoy the evening's amusement.
As they approached the theatre, a large number of
hacks and private coaches, crowded with gay and
joyous beings, thronged the street for a great distance;
and as the published regulations rendered it
incumbent on the driver of each carriage to deliver
his company in turn, nearly half an hour had elapsed
from their falling in line before their entrance to
Mr. de Lyle's private box. Shortly after they were
seated Mr. Ellingbourne entered, and was introduced
to Mr. Clifton. In pursuance of their previously arranged
scheme, the introduction of our hero to the
gambler was by no means marked, for it was deemed
most advisable to depend on Ellingbourne's skill
and tact, rather than trust to any impression his victim
might form through the apparent partiality of
De Lyle.

An entrance had on this occasion been opened
through the centre of the dress circle to the Pit;
and that arena, on which critical gladiators had so
often blighted the high hopes of dramatic aspirants,
was converted into a field on which was marshalled
the flashing artillery of ladies' glances.

A more select audience had never before graced
the interior of an American theatre: and as the

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fashionable travelling season was drawing to a
close, the dark-eyed daughter of the sunny South,
the fair-haired sylph whose home was among the
snow-wreathed mountains of the North, and the
light-hearted beauty from the flower-clad banks of
the “Father of Rivers,” were mingled with the
lovely forms that permanently threw their witchery
around metropolitan society.

“By-the-by, Mr. de Lyle,” said Ellingbourne,
“who are those tall and graceful girls occupying
the front seat of the opposite box? The one on
the right, who appears to be the younger, has a
splendid dark eye. See with what eager solicitude
she watches the development of the plot. Her
whole soul appears absorbed in the interest attached
to the performance; and I question if she is conscious
of the existence of the brilliant circle of
which she forms a part. Oh! what would I not
give to divine her thoughts! Innocent and pure
they are, I'll be sworn, and, as yet, unclouded by
the shadows which even successful love casts over
the heart of its victims.”

“They are the daughters of Colonel B—, and
certainly very fine girls,” replied De Lyle, who excused
himself for a brief period, saying that he saw a gentleman in another part of the house with
whom he desired a few moments' conversation.

“I don't know, Mr. Clifton,” resumed Ellingbourne,
“what your sentiments may be, but to me
there appears nothing on earth so charming as a
young and virtuous female, in whose breast neither

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guilty passion, nor envy, nor malice, nor uncharitableness,
has found entrance. If idolatry were
not forbidden, I feel as if I could fall down and
worship her.”

“That such an object of adoration is more dignified
than those of the ancient heathens, is most
certain,” replied Clifton. “The image of the deity
is at least impressed on the brow of the former.”

“You are right, you are undoubtedly right, Mr.
Clifton,” said Ellingbourne, with a look of deep
abstraction, which, for the time, was unfeigned;
for his spirit, that once glowed with aspirations as
pure as those which now kindled in the bosom of
his auditor, winged its flight to the hour when a
mother's love, a sister's kiss, a fair girl's virgin
heart, were treasures of his own possession; and
a deep sigh attested that “such things were, and
were most dear!” The fowler was momentarily
ensnared in his own net. The purity of Clifton's
feelings had mingled with the turbid current of his;
and it was not without an effort that he resumed
his confidence and composure.

For him, indeed, who debases the unclouded intellect,
the eagle spirit, the lofty soul, there is little
rest; for the ghosts of his early virtues will for ever
haunt him with their spectral images, like that of
Banquo, arousing him from the gayety of the banquet,
and dashing the jest and the wine-cup together
from his lips!

The performances of the evening consisted of a
mélange of great variety and attraction, being a

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choice selection from sterling plays, in which the
powers of nearly all the most distinguished actors
of the day were exhibited to the utmost advantage.
Now Melpomene, with stately form and moistened
lids, reigned queen of the hour; anon Thalia, with
wreathed smiles, usurped the throne, until Momus,
a broad grin for his sceptre, supplanted the rival
sovereigns in the affections of the audience.

As Forrest was displaying his admirable delineation
of the jealous Moor, one of the principal actors
was at fault, and obliged to resort to the prompter.

“How provoking,” said Ellingbourne, “while
one is dwelling in mute rapture on the honeyed
words of Shakspeare, to have the illusion dissipated
in the midst of the most absorbing scene, because
some lazy varlet has omitted to study his part. If
I were manager, such fellows should be put in Coventry.”

“'Tis indeed vexatious,” replied Clifton; “the
golden thread that links in sweet communion the
thoughts of such a mind as Shakspeare's should not
be rudely severed. I frequently repose on my
couch after attending the representation of his
dramas, and wonder whether, if his equal were to
arise in our day, his genius would be appreciated.
How often has the lot of those, whose works from
age to age have stood like beacons on the watch-towers
of literature, illumining the horizon of intellect
with their steady effulgence, been cast in poverty
and obscurity.”

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“'Tis too often the fate of genius,” replied Ellingbourne.

The first part of the performances being closed,
Ellingbourne and Clifton adjourned to the saloon
to partake of refreshments. The former, indeed,
felt the necessity of some stimulant to relieve his
mind from the melancholy which had for the moment
enshrouded it. In the saloon they met De
Lyle, who introduced Clifton to Dr. Crabbe, Matthison,
and Mr. Melville, an English gentleman of
fortune who had but recently visited the country.

After indulging in due libations to the rosy god,
the whole party adjourned to De Lyle's box, where
they enjoyed the performance of a lively farce called
“Paris and London,” in which Placide enacted
the character of Jean Jaques François, giving the
portraiture of the volatile Frenchman to the life.

“In my opinion,” said Clifton, “Henry Placide
is the most natural and impressive performer that the
American public have ever known. In quiet, genuine
humour, he is unrivalled, and I shall continue
to believe that no living actor of any land can, in
his line of characters, surpass him.”

“Having been in Europe but a few years since,
and seen the principal comic performers in London
and Paris, I most decidedly concur with you in
opinion,” said Ellingbourne.

“If,” replied Mr. Melville, “he should visit
London, I think I can assure him a most flattering
reception. The theatrical audiences of the great
metropolis are generally candid critics, and national

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prejudices will not interfere to prevent a proper appreciation
of your able countryman's merits.”

“Perceiving,” said Matthison, addressing Mr. Melville,
“that you are a gentleman of intelligence, I
will take the liberty of handing you my card. My
room, sir, is No. — Astor House. I am now procuring
information of the peculiar habits, diseases, and
pursuits of the men of genius of the present age, and
intend, by the result, to test a theory which embraces
principles that, sir, I take the liberty of asserting,
will at no distant day work a mighty revolution
in the Philosophy of Mind and Metaphysics.
Sir, here, here,” striking his fore-finger against the
pit of his stomach, “is the seat of the emotions, the
mainspring of human action, the key that winds up
the mental clock, the pendulum, the wheels, the pulleys,
the axis; nay, for that matter, even the bell and
the hammer. Sir, if you're all right here, go to sleep
contented, sir; you're a made man.”

Mr. Melville, evidently in doubt of the theorist's
sanity, made some unmeaning reply, when Doctor
Crabbe observed, “Stuff, stuff, Matthison; take my
advice; go home, soak your feet, put a blister on
the back of your neck, deplete powerfully, take ten
grains of calomel, and in the morning a Seidlitz
powder, and I'll warrant a cure of your unhappy
monomania, which is very annnoying to your
friends.”

Mr. Matthison, in great irritation, flew into the
lobby, when the company indulged in a hearty
laugh.

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“Doctor,” said De Lyle, “you have offended
Matthison highly.”

“Why, then, does he continue to bore me with
his confounded theory?”

At this moment a brilliant burst of patriotism was
heard from the lips of one of the actors, when Ellingbourne
observed, “In what glowing colours
does that master of the human heart depict the true
patriot. By heavens, it makes the blood tingle in
the veins to listen to the soul-stirring appeal.”

“'Tis noble,” replied Doctor Crabbe, “but should
have been recited in the days of the Revolution.
The audience would then have been worthy of the
theme. But to hear it wasted on the degenerate
sons of patriotic sires is mockery. Sir, I tell you
patriotism is extinct; corruption is at work in the
very vitals of the community: we have, sir, a weak
and imbecile government, a venal press, a dissipated
populace; while in high life there is nothing but
deception, and in low nothing but vulgarity.”

“Doctor,” said Mr. Melville, who saw at a
glance the speaker's true character, “may we not
attribute this universal depravity to the operation
of your system of government?”

“Umph,” replied the doctor, “I don't know that
I said we were universally depraved.”

“National corruption, individual venality, and
the absence of all patriotism conveyed that impression
to my mind.”

“Damn it, sir,” cried the doctor, in great indignation,
“bad as we are, England is the last

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country to which I would go for improvement. Sir,
you place an imbecile old ignoramus on a gilded
chair, which you dignify with the name of a throne,
and dub him a king, and all of your great men—
yes, sir, your most distinguished noblemen, fall
down on your knees before him. I'd rather starve, sir, in America, than fare sumptuously in Great
Britain, or, sir, in any kingdom of Europe. Sir,
kings, lords, commons, princes, and beggars are all
going to the devil together.”

A quiet smile passed over the countenance of
Mr. Melville, who would cheerfully have drawn
out a little more of the doctor's extravagance if he
had not observed that it interfered with the company's
attention to the performance.

“But,” said the doctor, who by this time had
become mollified, “yonder is my revolutionary
friend, General M—n. Although fifteen years
my senior, he continues to enjoy high health.”

“He deserves every blessing,” replied Clifton;
“there is, I believe, not one individual in the city
who would not mourn his loss as a public calamity.”

“Always excepting,” said Ellingbourne, sneeringly,
“the officers of his division, who are praying
day and night for his removal from their path
to promotion.”

“Mr. Ellingbourne,” replied Clifton, gravely,
“I regret to hear such words from your lips. Although
aware that they are in jest, yet surely

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patriotism and purity should be exempted from the
shafts of satire.”

The gambler, who saw he had made a false
move
, replied with a frankness of bearing that none
could more naturally assume.

“I stand corrected, Mr. Clifton. The remark
was indeed made in badinage; but the subject is
of too elevated a character for jest. When you
know me better, I fear many as grave an error of
omission or commission will claim the exercise of
your lenity.”

At the close of the entertainment, as Clifton was
leaving the theatre in company with Ellingbourne,
the name of Miss Borrowdale was pronounced near
him, which for a moment fixed him to the spot
on which he stood. Recovering himself, he eagerly
pushed his way through the crowd, when his
eye caught the form of his beloved Julia as she was
escorted to her coach in company with a young
gentleman and a second lady. The carriage was
entered, the door closed, and the fair object of his
thoughts rapidly whirled away, before he could
succeed in extricating himself from the crowd of
beaux and belles that thronged the passages to the
theatre. Hastily bidding his party “good-night,”
he returned to his boarding-house, and for hours
contined to dwell on the charms of Julia; jealousy
now suggesting that the male companion was
a rival suiter, and hope anon whispering words of
comfort and consolation.

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CHAPTER XIII.

THE FETE.—AN ECCLAIRCISSEMENT.



There was a round of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell.”
Childe Harold.

The Soirée to be given on Wednesday evening,—,
of October, 18—, by the wealthy and fashionable
Mrs. Rainsford, was the great topic of conversation
in all the higher circles of the gay city. All
the world—which, in the vocabulary of good society,
means all the exclusives; for in fashionable life
there

“Is No world beyond Verona's walls”—

were on the qui vive; for as it was the first of the
season, so it was expected to eclipse its successors in
all the requisites of a brilliant, recherche, and exclusive
evening party. Milliners, dress-makers, and artificial
florists, were in requisition in every

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fashionable street, and the beautiful assistants of Mrs. Thompson's
emporium in Broadway, declared that their delicate
fingers were nearly transformed to the consistency
of the marble whose whiteness they emulated,
by plying the needle so unremittingly; while their
sparkling eyes, that made such fearful havoc among
the beaux, were now fairly veiled by weariness in
tracing the exquisite proportions of their own tasteful
creations.

The more respectable hacks were entirely monopolized
for the happy occasion; and the unlucky wight
who failed to receive Mrs. Rainsford's invitation card,
found the circle of his fashionable acquaintances
marvellously curtailed of its fair proportions on the
following day.

The elements of fashionable society are in all
countries and at all times essentially the same; modified,
indeed, by taste and circumstances, but exhibiting,
in all their varied lights and shadows, certain
leading characteristics that cannot be mistaken.

The talisman at whose touch the gilded portals
of its sanctuary are unbarred, has, on the contrary,
experienced the ordinary mutations incident to the
idols of human ambition. During the age of chivalry,
military prowess was the dagon of fashionable
idolatry; at a later period, rank and title were invested
with the attributes of sovereignty, and were succeeded
by the dazzling reign of intellectual eminence,
until, at our own day, wealth with golden key has
snatched the sceptre from all rivals!

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Master spirits have indeed arisen at various epochs
whose resistless genius has burst the conventional
barriers that encircle the empire of fashion, but they
must be considered brilliant exceptions to the general
rule.

We are not among those who believe that the
votaries of fashion in the main follow more fleeting
or unsubstantial meteors than their fellows; for if
we extend our observation to the pursuits which absorb
the attention of the majority of all ranks in society,
we shall be led to exclaim, “What shadows
we are! what shadows we pursue!” Analyze
wealth, fame, glory, and decide whether the frivolities
of the beau monde are in their essence less
legitimate objects of ambition than those beneath
the juggernaut wheels of which the mass of mankind
prostrate their health, happiness, and energies?

Among the favoured individuals whose good fortune
had procured them an invitation our hero was
numbered. While occupied in the transaction of
some business of his employer's at a distance from the
city, he accidentally became the travelling companion
of Mr. Rainsford, the husband of the fair hostess,
who was distinguished for his intelligence and
love of literary pursuits, and who conceived so warm
an attachment for Clifton, that he desired him thereafter
to visit his house at all times, and to consider
him as his firm friend.

At length the happy evening arrived, and the
fashionable precincts of Carroll Place resounded to

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the clang of horses' hoofs and the deep roll of carriage-wheels.
As Clifton entered, he found a brilliant
and fashionable assemblage already congregated,
while two magnificent pier and the like
number of mantel mirrors, flashed back the dazzling
light of costly chandeliers, and reproduced the
gay pageant with all its array of fair forms, wreathed
head-dresses, jewelled zones, waving plumes,
and speaking countenances.

After tendering his respects to the fair entertainer,
a lively and agreeable lady of about thirty years of
age, Clifton met De Lyle who was not a little surprised
at his procuring an invitation to so exclusive a party.

While they were conversing Ellingbourne joined
them; and as Clifton's back was momentarily turned
towards the door, the former hastily inquired:
“De Lyle, who is that beautiful girl now entering?
I mean the one with auburn ringlets, who is reclining
on the left arm of the small gentleman in blue.
I do not recollect of ever having seen her face before,
but now I am sure I shall never forget it.”

As the words fell from his lips the lady and her
company passed; and on turning after saluting Mrs.
Rainsford, Clifton recognized his beloved Julia.
Their eyes instantly met; and although both were
mutually embarrassed, yet in a moment he was at
her side, and was introduced by Miss Borrowdale to
Miss Elwell, her cousin, and to Mr. Morse.

“May I have the pleasure of dancing with Miss
Borrowdale if not engaged?” said Clifton.

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“If you dare venture the loss of caste in fashionable
life by selecting a partner so little qualified to
compete with the city belles, I certainly may not
refuse,” replied Julia with a smile.

As she accepted the arm of Clifton in exchange
for that of Mr. Morse, he espied two vacant seats in
a corner of the room rather behind the crowd, and
escorted Julia thither. As they seated themselves
he said, “Miss Borrowdale, do you know that I
recognized you on Monday evening at the theatre;
and pardon me, I was so near to you that I almost
imagined you had forgotton the countenance of so
obscure a person as myself.” Here, in despite of
himself, a tear started in his eye, which was not
unperceived by his auditor.

“Mr. Clifton,” she replied, with an emotion little
less visible than his own, “how could you for a moment
suppose that I would ever forget one to whom
I owe so much? Oh, did you but know how often,
very often”—here she paused, and a crimson flush
suffused every feature, until it spread over her alabaster
neck—“how often,” she continued, recovering
her self-possession, “you have been the subject
of conversation at our country fire-side, you would
not have judged so harshly.”

The blush, the pause, the agitation, were not unperceived
by Clifton, who trembled with delight.
“She loves me; she certainly loves me;” were his
thoughts; “and what care I for all the world
beside?”

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As may be imagined, so favourable an opportunity
of divulging his passion did not pass unimproved;
but although scenes of this description are so
thrilling in their effects as to leave their impress on
the mind while other emotions have faded in oblivion,
yet to a third party the detail would be of
questionable interest. Suffice it to state, that before
the cotillion was concluded, he had poured into her
ear those honeyed words—love's glowing messengers—
that, dear and beautiful lady reader, you presume
the handsome cavalier at your side will
address to you on some delightful evening, with no
witnesses but those radiant luminaries which at creation's
jubilee sang together for joy: and although
the lady blushed and hesitated; declared the hour
most untimely for such a revelation; spoke of parents'
wishes and filial duty; now chiding and again smiling,
yet did the enraptured lover from this interview,
feed the torch of hope, which, like a beacon,
shed its beams over his solitary way through many
an after scene of trial, peril, and despondency.

The cotillion was over, the music ceased, and yet,
in accents inaudible to any but the fair listener, he
continued to reiterate sentiments of affection already
a hundred times repeated, until Julia, with woman's
delicate instinct, perceived that a longer tête-
à-tête
would not fail to be remarked; and rising,
she said, sportively, “Mr. Clifton, if I do not mistake,
a gentleman much resembling yourself, solicited
my hand for a cotillion; but now I perceive

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that one has already passed, and if I do not sue
where, as a lady I should command, we shall not
be in time for the next.”

“Forgive me, Miss Borrowdale,” was the reply;
“if in your presence, this goodly company, dance,
music, all were forgotten; but I trust, under your
sweet guidance, to make amends for my delinquency;”
and this apology delivered, he led her to
a place in the cotillion.

It will be recollected that Ellingbourne pointed out
Julia to the notice of De Lyle on her entrance; and
from the time that she reclined on Clifton's arm
until the close of the evening's amusement, his
eyes continued to follow their motions: and perceiving
him conducting her to a seat in a secluded corner,
he placed himself sufficiently near to observe
the blushes which indicated the nature of Clifton's
avowal, and the pleasure with which it was received.

Deeply enamoured of the grace and beauty of
the lovely stranger, the fire of jealousy now mingled
with the hate that rankled in his bosom.

“Reptile,” he muttered to himself, “your destruction
shall hereafter be the object of my thoughts by
day, and my dreams by night; for this, every energy
I possess shall be taxed to its utmost limit; and
if money can compass your ruin, it shall flow like
water.” Thus soliloquizing, he observed Clifton
and Julia join the dance, and sought his own neglected
associates in another part of the room.

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As he approached a group of ladies, and gentlemen,
who were at the moment “lookers on in Vienna,”
he heard an acquaintance named Mrs. Tibbs
inquiring, “Who can be that young lady in white
satin dancing with the tall, dark-eyed young
man in black?—though I ought to know all the
fashionables, I do not recognize her features.”

De Lyle replied, “The lady I have not the pleasure
of knowing, but the gentleman is an old
acquaintance. He happens to be a clerk whom
my father took into our mercantile establishment
from motives of charity.”

“Did you ever!” said Mrs. Tibbs, tossing her
head till the tall plumes with which it was crowned
trembled as if a gale had swept over them. “I
can't see how poor, vulgar people can put on such
airs. How did the upstart get admitted, I wonder?”

The lady who thus spoke was the better half of
a dealer in pins and needles, who had, by industry
and good fortune, become possessed of great wealth;
and his help-mate, who was born and brought up
in the lowest station of life, could not resist the desire
of belonging to good society; and Mr. Rainsford,
who respected Mr. Tibbs for the integrity and modesty
of his character, had induced his lady to
furnish Mrs. and Mr. Tibbs with an invitation,
which was accepted most cheerfully by the lady,
but declined by the gentleman.

Priding herself on her wealth and exclusiveness,

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she was not a little chagrined at her awkward mistake,
and from that moment Clifton was with her a
marked man. In height this fair original was precisely
five feet three; but her lack of altitude was
abundantly compensated by what seamen term
breadth of beam;” and when laced to the extreme
of the mode, and elevated in her high heeled shoes,
she appeared not unlike a stuffed Lilliputian mounted
on stilts. Such rolling of eyeballs and elevating
of nasal organs; such rustling of silks and crumpling
of satins as followed De Lyle's exposure of the
low caste of our hero, were never surpassed; but
when the highborn and fashionable Mrs. Melton,
the lady of a distinguished senator from a neighbouring
state, who was reputed to be the leader of the
ton at the seat of government, remarked that she
saw no impropriety in associating with any person,
however humble his station, whose conduct was reputable,
and character above reproach, the shock to
Mrs. Tibbs and her coterie was tremendous.

“La me,” whispered Mrs. T. to her neighbour,
“I do wonder how great folks can so belower themselves.”

“But,” resumed Mrs. Melton, “if my eyes do not
deceive me, the lady just alluded to is my lovely
and accomplished friend, Julia Borrowdale of Boston.”

“Oh,” said Shafton, pushing himself forward,
“there's no mistake, the name is Borrowdale; I saw
the girl was pretty, made my way up to Clifton,—

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gave him one of my most fascinating bows, and
stuck to his side till he gave me an introduction.—
Borrowdale is the name, upon my honour.”

“What,” said a tall, gaunt, single lady of unmentionable
age, “is that the great Boston heiress?
Now I see her more distinctly, she is certainly better
looking than I first thought, although her face is
somewhat childish. But she will improve as she
grows older; few ladies have a distingué air until
they are advanced beyond girlhood.”

At twelve o'clock supper was announced, and the
more substantial pleasures of the table temporarily
took precedence of the “poetry of motion.”

De Lyle had so far matured his plan of operations
as to determine on seeking an introduction to Miss
Borrowdale during the evening; and while Clifton
was escorting her to the sumptuous table prepared in
spacious apartments on the second floor of the mansion,
he joined them, and was introduced by our
hero as the son of his friend and patron.

On reaching the table he selected a situation sufficiently
near that of the lovers to observe their motions,
and occasionally share in a portion of their
conversation. Shafton and Ellingbourne procured
seats near De Lyle, but still further removed from
Clifton.

The well-ordered supper was destined to exhibit
a further illustration of the mutability of terrestrial
objects; the luscious wines travelled with marked celerity
to the place appointed for all fermented juices;

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the wit of the company sparkled in emulation of the
champaigne, while the pauses in the conversation,
were enlivened by the soft, low melody with which
the skilful musicians relieved the tedium of their solitude
in the lower apartments.

With all the incentives to enjoyment, while at the
table, and confronted with the full gaze of hundreds
of fashionable roués, neither Julia nor Clifton experienced
that flow of spirits which had lent wings to
the passing moments in the saloon below. Indeed
the most successful suitor will acknowledge that
“the course of true love never did run smooth;” and
if no realities intervene to mar the happiness of
lovers, imagination will summon her shadowy
train of obstacles, and however unsubstantial may
be the array, they will serve to annoy at least during
the silent watches of the night, when deep sleep falls
on all—but love struck personages of either sex.

As the hour was late, after Julia had informed
Clifton that she would be found during her brief stay
in the city at the residence of her uncle, Mr. Elwell,
she left the party in company with Mr. Morse and
her cousin,—and Clifton, who felt no inclination to
remain, bowed his adieu to the hostess, and wended
his way to his residence.

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CHAPTER XIV.

A RIVAL.—A FEMALE TACTICIAN FOILDED.



“Notwithstanding all her sudden griefs,
The least whereof would quell a lover's hope,
Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love
The more it grows and fawneth on her still.”
“I am so far from granting thy request,
That I despise thee for this wrongful suit,
And by and by intend to chide myself,
Even for the time I spend in talking to thee.”
Two Gentlemen of Verona.

On the morning following Mrs. Rainsford's soirée,
at about 12 o'clock a splendid carriage, with liveried
footman and charioteer, drew up at the door of Mr.
Elwell's mansion, and Edward de Lyle ascended
the door steps and was admitted.

“Is Miss Borrowdale at home?” he inquired of the
curly-headed waiter, who, after inviting him to a
seat in the parlour, took his card, and proceeded to
ascertain whether the lady was visible.

Soon after her femme de chambre entered the
room, and informed Mr. De Lyle, that Miss Borrowdale
would do herself the pleasure of waiting on him
in a few moments. No sooner had he fixed his
bold gaze on the waiting-maid than the thought occurred
that she might be made a convenient

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instrument to further his designs. There was a roguish
and wicked leer in her sparkling black eye, which,
with its over shrewdness of expression, indicated
less purity than cunning, and a decided aptitude for
intrigue.

“My pretty young lady,” he said, “you are Miss
Borrowdale's travelling companion, I presume?”

“Yes, sir, I took the place of a young woman
who was left sick at the springs,” she replied, with
a simper.

“Do me the favour to step this way,” resumed De
Lyle, taking her by the hand and proceeding towards
the front window of the parlour; “time is short.
Your lady is in danger from the addresses of a person
who is totally unworthy of her. But at present
you must not whisper a syllable of this to her, as she
would not believe it. In a very few days, however,
she shall have such evidence as will convince the
most sceptical. But, in the mean time, you must be
my confidante, my adviser, my charming partner in
a few tête-à-têtes.” Here he caught her plump
little hand, kissed it, and carelessly placed on the
palm a fifty dollar note, saying, “On your life,
not a word of this. The safety of Miss Borrowdale
alone makes me so bold.”

“Sir,” said the girl, “her eyes cast down with affected
modesty, “I'm sure if I thought you meant
any thing wrong, I would n't touch your present for
the world. But come, now, can't you tell me all
about it? I should so like to know.”

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“Meet me at six this afternoon on the walk in
front of the Park, and you shall know all. But
Miss Borrowdale, will, I fear, surprise us; so, you
dear, bewitching little soul, I must bow you out of
the room.” Here he ventured to kiss her cheek.
“Not a word, but be punctual at six, and I'll do
more for you than you dream of.”

As she left the room, Miss Borrowdale entered,
dressed with great simplicity in a fawn-colored silk
gown, a plain diamond broach being the only ornament
on her person, if we except a pair of gold earrings;
and was saluted by De Lyle with that grace
and courtesy for which he was distinguished in
“good society.”

“I have taken the liberty of calling to inquire if
Miss Borrowdale suffered no inconvenience from the
evening's exercise,” he said. “For my own part,
I ever feel somewhat languid, after a night of pleasure.
'Tis the penalty we all pay for enjoyment.”

“My own experience in such matters is so limited,”
replied Julia, “that I am not an adequate judge
of the effect of fashionable dissipation on the system.
Fortunately my seclusion in the country prevents
the necessity of reversing the order of nature, by converting
night into day. In cities I am aware it is
otherwise.”

“If I might venture to express an opinion, formed,
indeed, somewhat hastily, but which every passing
moment confirms, I should decide that any circumstance
which prevents Miss Borrowdale from

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throwing around fashionable society the charm of her
presence is most untoward.”

Without noticing the intended compliment, Julia
at once diverted the subject into another channel,
and the quick eye of De Lyle perceived that direct
flattery was little calculated to further his wishes.
He therefore gracefully introduced various subjects,
on which he touched with the superficial fluency and
ease of a master of that small talk which forms the
current coin of fashionable conversation; and after
soliciting permission to again pay his respects, withdrew.

“How unlike Clifton,” thought Julia, with a
sigh, as he closed the door. In truth, despite his
handsome face, and courteous address, neither the
countenance nor manner of De Lyle had on the
previous evening, left a favourable impression on
her mind.

Her situation at the supper table at Mrs. Rainsford's
had enabled her to hear a considerable portion
of his conversation with Ellingbourne and
Shafton, which was not only frivolous and unmanly,
but in several instances liable to more grave objections;
and if she had not supposed the feelings of
Clifton would be wounded by any slight towards
one whom she considered his friend, the interview
on the present occasion would have been most undoubtedly
declined.

The entrance of Miss Elwell suspended her reflections,
whom she addressed: “Cousin Helen, if you

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are not more attentive to the cavaliers who call to pay
their devoirs, I shall certainly eclipse you in their
affections. Here have I been this halfhour, doing
the amiable to a modern Paris, who intended to
throw himself at your feet, but who, in default of the
real Helen, was compelled to accept “her counterfeit
presentment,” in my poor person. To say
truth, the gallant behaved admirably under the circumstances,
and most emphatically avowed, as in
duty bound, that I was the loadstone which attracted
him hither. So, fair coz, be wary, or I shall
prove a formidable rival.”

“May I be permitted to learn which of the score
of swains who are dying at my feet, you have entertained
this morning?” inquired Helen.

“As the gentleman has been for a good half hour
in my company, and is, of course, too deeply enthralled
to escape me, I will for once be generous,
and relieve your anxiety. He goes by the euphonious
cognomen of De Lyle. Confess now that it
is as attractive an appellation as one could desire.”

“What, the rich, and accomplished, and elegant,
and fascinating Edward De Lyle? Why,
Julia, your fortune's made. Here have I been these
twelve months, trimming my canvass to catch the
slightest breeze of his affection without success,
when you at first sight sail beautifully before the
wind. Coz., I am absolutely jealous, and must dispose
of you at once, if I expect to make another
conquest this season. You shall marry De Lyle,
and be removed from my path.”

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“But now I think of it, liberty is too attractive,
especially as, like other devotees at the shrine of the
same goddess, I can, with her signet in my possession,
exercise despotic power; and you need not
therefore say a word more. I'll not wed,” replied
Julia.

“But, cousin, without jesting, this would be an
excellent match; and, depend on it, De Lyle is not
the man to call on you, so pointedly, without a definite
purpose. Let me advise you to favour his addresses.
His wealth and standing render him a
most eligible partner.”

“For that very reason, if for no other, I should
seriously refuse him. You must know, that I am
one of those romantic country girls, who are enamoured
with `love in a cottage;' and if a high-born lover
should win my affections in the guise of humble
mediocrity, and before the knot was tied, the mystery
should be unveiled, I would in all probability,
consign his suit to the receptacle appointed for `rejected
addresses.”

“Come, come now, I think I see where the
shoe pinches. Has not the tall form of a certain
gentleman, who monopolized your attentions last
evening, some slight influence on your decision?”

At this homethrust, Julia blushingly replied,
“Cousin, if you had lived in Connecticut, they certainly
would have sacrificed you to their belief in
witchcraft. How could you guess so cleverly without
the aid of the black art?”

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“Well, well, cousin,” said Helen, “we'll drop
badinage and take an airing. I perceive the coach
is at the door, so allons, ma chere ami.”

No two things could be more different than the
character and feelings of Julia and her cousin.
The mind of Helen Elwell was of that shrewd and
calculating cast which measures every event by the
standard of personal interest; and while she dismissed
the conversation relative to the attachment of
Julia to Clifton, with a passing remark, yet the real
interest she felt in the subject was any thing but
slight. Her strong natural sense rendered her indifferent
to the attentions of an individual of De Lyle's
limited mental capacity, but for our hero she entertained
far other sentiments. A young male relative
had some months previous, presented her with a
few exquisite specimens of Clifton's poetical composition,
with which she was particularly pleased, and
the same individual had pointed out his person while
passing the residence of her father; but her first introduction
was furnished by Julia, at Mrs. Rainsford's
party. On her return from the soirée she continued
to revert to the fascinating expression of his
fine intellectual face, and a feeling nearly allied to
jealousy agitated her bosom after she had retired to
rest, when reflecting on his particular attentions to
Julia. That the haughty girl had serious thoughts
of an ultimate union with a clerk in a mercantile
establishment, is improbable; but the pride of victory,
where to conquer, was indeed to triumph, and

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the desire to compel genius, with its lofty attributes,
to lay its homage at her feet, lent an ardour to her
feelings, far different, indeed, in its essence, but little
less intense than that which glowed in the breast of
Julia.

Thus fate, which delights in thwarting the wishes
of true lovers, was most industriously scattering
obstacles in the path of Julia and Clifton; and were
we permitted to pierce the veil that curtains the
view of futurity, we could furnish thee, gentle reader,
an interesting homily on the necessity of patience
under trials and afflictions, by recounting the eventful
scenes through whose fiery ordeal our hero was
destined to pass.

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CHAPTER XV.

THE USURER—A CONTRAST.



“I'm debating of my present store;
And, by the near guess of my memory,
I cannot instantly raise up the gross
Of full three thousand ducats.”
“Three months you told me so.
Well then your bond.”
Merchant of Venice.

The history of the Jew in all ages—whether a
wanderer beneath the burning sun of the tropics, or
performing his pilgrimage in the ice-fettered regions
of the north, is associated with images of melancholy
interest.

Under the despotic governments of the old world,
his political and personal rights have ever been the
football of tyranny and cupidity; and here, where
in the letter and spirit of the constitution he enjoys
those privileges which are dispensed with an equal
hand to all,—yet bowing beneath the weight of that
anathema, which has gone forth against his race,
and still reverberates through the earth with fearful
distinctness, the lofty spirit that of old swept as with
an eagle's wing the realms of literature and science,
and with prophetic gaze pierced the arcana of futurity;
is now powerless to effect total emancipation

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from the dominion of national and individual prejudice.
For ourselves we deem the lonely descendant
of God's chosen people not unworthy the sympathy
and admiration of the Christian and the philanthropist.

Self-isolated from the multitude that surrounds
him—he remains “deaf to the voice of the Christian
charmer, charm he never so wisely”—and constant
to his faith amid the mutations of centuries, he presents
an image of stern and melaneholy grandeur—
towering in its pride of place, unshaken by the
moral convulsions beneath whose mighty throes
the less stable monuments of human will are overthrown.

Well are we aware that the holy zeal which sustained
his ancestors in the wilderness, has long been
quenched—that the genius which poured forth the
language of inspiration now wastes its energies upon
the details of petty traffick,—that the sublime
conceptions of an Isaiah and a Jeremiah no longer
glow in the bosoms of their successors. Still over
all the halo of former glory sheds its undying lustre,
and around the brow of the most insignificant scion
of the once noble race, yet lingers the shadow of that
beauty whose perfections were concentrated in the
features of the Redeemer.

It was about noon of the day last alluded to, that
an elderly member of the tribe of Judah was sitting
with pen in hand, at a low, worm-eaten oaken desk,
in a small apartment on the third floor of an

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antiquated store house, in a portion of the city near
Wall street—and of course contiguous to that Rialto
of New York known as the “Exchange,” where
as of old in Venice the “merchants most do congreate.”

A slight wooden railing—on which the accumulated
dust of years was suffered to repose in undisturbed
quietude—divided the room, serving as a barrier
against the intrusion of impertinent curiosity,
when the occupant was engaged in inspecting his
books and papers—and a rusty lock, the key of
which was ever turned on such occasions, closed the
narrow gate which alone formed the point of ingress
to the sanctum sanctorum of Isaac Samuel.

If the eye wandered around this office or counting
room, it would fail to discover aught but two or three
pine stools, a massive iron chest, and the desk at
which the Jew was seated—while the dingy cobwebs
that entirely veiled the cornice, and hung in
festoons upon the ceiling and along the walls, were
the only drapery that relieved the barren nakedness
of the apartment.

The individual now introduced was a spare, attenuated
being, who had nearly numbered three
score years, and as—on the entrance of a visitor
who was recognized as Edward de Lyle—he arose
from his sitting position, and turned toward the door,
he presented a striking illustration of the fearful inroads
that iron hearted avarice makes upon the
frame and spirit of its worshippers. The dark and

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intelligent but anxious and sunken eye—the dilapidated
frame-work of features, which in their fulness
were marked by beauty and regularity,—the forehead
thickly furrowed with wrinkles, ploughed by
the operation of intense thought and care—the form
bowed with the weight of accumulated years and
anxieties—the tremulous nerves prematurely shattered
by continual apprehension of pecuniary loss—
were evidences strong as proofs of holy writ, that the
inordinate pursuit of gain was forever to prey upon
his spirit like the horse leech at the vein “which
crieth give—give, but never saith, it is enough.”

His dress was composed of a brown frock whose
outré cut and threadbare seams attested its antiquity,
a pair of pantaloons of the same color and equally
venerable for their years—a vest which tradition
affirmed to have been originally silk velvet, but
which time and hard service had despoiled of its
downy surface—a pair of broken lace boots, and a
hat whose nap and color had long since been consigned
to the “tomb of the Capulets.”

As he arose, his thin gray hairs straggling over
his furrowed cheek, his long wasted fingers clasping
a bundle of folded papers, and the tremulous helplessness
of his manner, would have designated him
to a stranger as an object on which wealth might
worthily bestow a portion of its abundance, rather
than the envied possessor of millions in the funds.

If, however, such would have been the impression,
first conveyed on viewing this singular personage, a

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few moments observation on the present occasion
would have completely dispelled the illusion. No
sooner had he recognized by the aid of his spectacles
the person of his visitor, than the contrast between
him and De Lyle—whose pride not unfrequently
bordered on insolence in the presence of his inferiors—
was no less striking than incomprehensible to the
uninitiated. Depositing his papers in the iron chest,
and deliberately unlocking the little gate of his enclosure,
he walked up to De Lyle—who tendered
him a most obsequious and cringing salutation—
and inquired with no little sternness and asperity of
manner, “Mr. De Lyle, have you come prepared to
pay the note that reached maturity yesterday? My
payments this morning are heavy, and I must request
its prompt liquidation, as you are aware I
have already suffered not a little inconvenience from
former delays on your part, and trust that on the
present occasion you will be more tenacious of fulfiling
your engagement.”

“Why, my good friend, I may as well open my
budget at once and rely on your kindness, not only
for extending the time of payment for the note due
yesterday, but also for an additional loan of five thousand
dollars. The compensation I intend to allow
is most liberal, and before you pronounce a negative,
I must beg of you to bear in mind that if I fail to
procure the sum I require, it will put me to the
most serious inconvenience—nay, I may add that it
will subject me to pecuniary loss, and what I value

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infinitely more, will materially impair my mercantile
credit.'

The piercing dark eye of the usurer dilated to
more than its ordinary dimensions as he observed the
eager solicitude of the borrower,—and while his
gaze was rivetted on De Lyle's countenance, it was
several moments before he replied,

“Mr. de Lyle, this delinquency is, permit me to
say, most unfortunate and discreditable. How do
you suppose that my credit would stand in the market,
if I should offer the same excuse for failing to
fulfil my engagements? Sir, let me tell you, that this
renewed request argues either a deficiency of moral
rectitude, or the most dangerous pecuniary embarrassment.
I shall myself be compelled to borrow to-day at
excessive interest to replace the sum I expected from
you. Briefly, sir, you shall have the amount you
require, on the following terms:—the loan must be
made for not less than nine months, at the interest
of five per cent. per month—the note of the firm
given,—and, to insure the partnership liability, you
must purchase from me some article which it is necessary
to convert to the especial use of your house.
On these conditions, and on no other, will I make
the required advance.”

“Why, my worthy and excellent friend, surely
there can be no doubt of the firm's liability, particularly
as no one but ourselves is privy to the transaction.
I have not the least objection to pursue any
course your superior judgment may point out, but

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cannot entirely comprehend the necessity of either
of us being subjected to the trouble your request imposes;
besides in the name of all that is holy, what
have you to dispose of that our firm could find use
for?” said De Lyle.

“Permit me, sir, to judge of the necessity,” said
Mr. Samuel, haughtily, “My advances on your
personal responsibility have already exceeded the
limit which prudence would have dictated. It is,
however, my misfortune to be too liberal in my moneyed
dealings. I have a splendid time piece lying
in my desk, fit for the counting room of any house
in the city. You can purchase it, and have it suspended
in your mercantile office.”

Thus saying, he proceeded to unlock the desk,
and produced a common time piece, worth perhaps
ten dollars.

“This,” he resumed, “is a beautiful article, for
which I shall only charge cost. The price is one
hundred dollars
.”

“Oh,” replied the obsequious borrower, “the time-piece
is undoubtedly cheap;” but as Mr. Samuel
momentarily averted his face, he turned up his eyes
in some little astonishment at this exercise of the
usurer's cupidity, notwithstanding his previous knowledge
of the man.

The compact being completed and the note given,
they separated; the plundered roué proceeding to the
indulgence of his dissipated propensities, and the

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money-lender hugging himself in the prospect of
excessive gain.

After De Lyle had retired, this votary of the yellow
god carefully inspected the fastenings of his
desk and iron chest, and appearing satisfied of their
security, closed the office, and commenced his daily
visit to that emporium of brokers and stock jobbers,
banks and bankers, bulls and bears, called Wall-street.

As he elbowed his way through the bustling
crowd that during bank hours throngs the pave on
either side of the street, his progress was continually
arrested by applications from some greedy member
of the race of borrowers, seeking temporary relief
from the contents of his strong box.

“Mr. Samuel, how do you do?” said one. “Have
you any spare funds to-day? I'll give you the best
security—United States stock at par—one per cent.
per month—say the word quick, as I must be off.”

The individual who thus addressed him was one
of the least needy of the tribe, and having undoubted
security, was certain of the loan at some rate.

“Why, my good friend,” said Samuel—(borrowers
possessing unquestionable securities were always his
particular friends) “I can get two per cent. for all
my spare funds—poor Blynth is now waiting for a
loan at that rate, but as you are my friend, I'll
accommodate you on bank stock at one and a
half.”

“I'll take twenty thousand at one and a quarter.”

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“One and a half is the lowest I can take,” said
the usurer.

“Then I must go farther, Mr. Samuel.”

“It's yours,” he said in reply, and the matter was
thus disposed of.

“My dear sir,” said a miserable and agitated applicant,
who was on the eve of suspending payment,
“I want five thousand to-day, and must have it.
I'll give you three per cent. per month, secured by the
notes of Smetz & Co., and Dallarymple & Brothers.”

“I have no more funds,” replied the money-lender
abruptly, when, whispering in the ear of another
customer, he said, “Mr. Weller you can have the ten
thousand on insurance stocks. I am at my office at
half-past two.”

Thus slowly moving along did the usurer continue
to give audience to the numerous applicants who
beset his path. In truth he was somewhat of a monarch
in his own sphere, holding his daily levées in
Wall street—now cheering the heart of the successful
suppliant, and again consigning the unhappy
possessor of doubtful securities to the lowest depths
of despair.

Far different was the conduct of a noble minded
moneyed operator, whose office was in Wall-street.
Bowing gracefully to his friends on every side, it
was his delight to minister to the necessities of the
agitated individuals whose credit depended on the
procurement of temporary loans; and in every

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circle the praise of the kind and liberal Mr.—
formed the theme of conversation. Long may the
sun of prosperity illumine his path, and in the expressive
figure of the Eastern diplomate “may the
shadow of his happiness never be less.”

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CHAPTER XVI.

A PAIR OF WORTHIES.



“His comrade was a sordid soul,
Such as does murder for a meed;
Who but of fear knows no control
Because his conscience, seared and foul,
Feels not the import of his deed;
One whose brute feeling ne'er aspires
Beyond his own mere brute desires.
Such tools the tempter ever needs
To do the savagest of deeds.”
[Scott.

The early twilight was gently drawing its veil
of gauze over the city on the day before mentioned,
as Edward De Lyle might be seen stealthily entering
the same obscure Café within whose precincts
this history found a commencement. The improvements
which had swept like an avalanche over other
portions of the metropolis, had passed by this disreputable
quarter without a touch; and the only visible
transformation was wrought by the hand of time,
delapidating those erections which were before bordering
on decay, and tinging the more modern
dwellings with the rust of years.

Within the front apartment, still dedicated to the
uses of a tap room, the same individual did not meet

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the view of De Lyle who had so many years previously
ministered to the appetites of Glenthorne and
Maddox—for dissipation and remorse had long since
consigned his earthly tenement to the place appointed
for all living. Another and no less unprepossessing
specimen of humanity, was officiating in the like
capacity, of whom De Lyle inquired if Thomas
Burchard was within.

Raising his crimsoned-fringed eyelids he appeared
to recognize the person of the querist, whom he
directed to the apartment in the rear, where he informed
him was the person he sought.

“Burchard,” said De Lyle, as he entered the sitting
room, “I have a small job for you, and if your
conscience was as tender as a chicken's wing, we
might fail to come to an understanding. But as,
like old soldiers, we have seen some little service
together, and you have had no reason to complain
of my generosity—why there can be little difficulty
in arranging this matter, more particularly as
I've had a windfall to-day and feel as rich as Crœsus—
and you shall be the first object of my
bounty.”

Thus saying, he placed his arm on the shoulder
of Burchard, with that easy familiarity which a long
community of vicious interests had engendered between
these two worthies.

The individual addressed as Burchard had risen
from his seat at De Lyle's entrance; and in the premature
look of age, the sallow and wrinkled brow,

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and the body drawn to the left side by a wound in
the breast, the reader would fail to recognize the
slender youth who sat at the deal table in the tap
room of the same building, when Maddox and Glenthorne
entered it together; and who was afterwards
consigned to the brink of the grave by the pistol ball
of the latter. It was indeed the unfortunate offspring
of Glenthorne, whose moral sensibilities—
never the most acute—had by the associations which
surrounded him, become hardened against the impulses
of honour, integrity and sympathy.

De Lyle then proceeded to inform him that Clifton—
whom he described as a heartless villain, who
had by means of fraud fleeced him of large sums at
the gaming table, and who was bent on his ruin
that he might step in his situation as partner in the
firm of which his father was the head, was engaged
with several of his vicious associates, to plunder
some innocent countrymen, who would on that evening
be inveighed into a gaming house in —
street, and that to prevent such unprincipled robbery,
and at the same time to execute justice on a miscreant
who desired his overthrow, he enjoined Burchard
to give information to the police magistrates,
who would detach a strong posse of the watch and
marshals to secure the delinquents in the exercise of
their vallainous calling.

The hour of ten was suggested, as the proper
time to arrest the offenders, and after so describing
Clifton's person that Burchard would certainly

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recognize him, and enjoining the most perfect secrecy,
(as to his, De Lyle's,) agency in the matter, he appeared
satisfied with his scheme, and gave his accomplice
a hundred dollar bill, informing him that it
was but an earnest of his future bounty, if the plan
succeeded to his wishes.

At the first mention of Clifton's name the dull eye
of Burchard momentarily lighted up as if some glimmering
recollection that the name was familiar to his
ear, crossed his mind, but the impression soon appeared
to be dissipated, and he continued to listen with
his usual stolidity and nonchalance, while the details
of the villany he was to commit, were repeated
by his artful instructor. And here it may be proper
to pause in our narrative, while we give a passing
glance at that mysterious inconsistency in the human
mind, which shrinks from exposing the depths
of its own depravity even to the most reckless and
guilty of its associates—but which never fails to frame
an excuse for its delinquencies, either in the assumed
necessity of the case, or by the employment of
some cunningly devised fable.

Thus while De Lyle from long experience, and
perfectly aware of the avidity with which Burchard
would obey his behests, whatever might be the criminality
involved in their accomplishment, if the
compensation was liberal and the risk to his person
not formidable, he still could not introduce the subject
without attempting to palliate this nefarious conspiracy,
to destroy the character of his victim, by

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imputing to him those crimes which were daily perpetrated
by himself and his accomplices.

As may be supposed, Burchard professed his willingness
to undertake the task assigned to him, and
De Lyle retired from the tavern.

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CHAPTER XVII.

AN UNWELCOME VISITOR—LOVE'S MISERIES.



“Love I him? thus scorned and slighted—
Thrown like worthless weed apart—
Hopes and feelings seared and blighted—
Love him? Yes, with all my heart!
With a passion superhuman,
Constancy, `Thy name is woman.'
“Love nor time, nor mood can fashion—
Love? idolatry's the word
To speak the broadest, deepest passion,
Ever woman's heart hath stirred!
Vain to still the mind's desires,
Which consume like hidden fires!”
Geo. P. Morris.

Among the humble dwellings of the more indigent
portion of the population, who inhabit a narrow
street in an eastern section of the city, one neat, but
plain two story cottage, may be observed occupying
the centre of a lot—the front of which, during the
spring and summer, was formerly decorated with a
bed of clover, and skirted by clusters of variegated
flowers, whose fragrance and beauty rendered the
domicil and its adjuncts not unlike an oasis in the
desert, when compared with the dingy dwellings and
their unclean appurtenances that surrounded it.

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On a sunny morning in October, a scantily dressed
female might be seen slowly passing through the
gravel walk, that led from the street to the front
door of the cottage, which, being opened at her
knock, she inquired in a feeble but musical voice, if
Miss Samuel was at home. The servant answered
in the affirmative, and introduced the visitor to the
front parlour, whose unostentatious furniture was arranged
with that simple and artless propriety which
is more attractive in its effect than the most laboured
attempt at display.

In a few moments a young lady of about eighteen
years of age entered, and informed the stranger that
she was the person inquired for.

The contrast presented by the appearance of the
two females was marked in the extreme. The lady
known as Miss Samuel was tall and dark eyed, with
bold and striking features, cast in the Roman mould
of the finest order; and the voluptuous outline of her
well-turned limbs, the swelling bust and exquisitely
rounded neck and shoulder indicated high health,
while the free and lively expression of her handsome
countenance attested the absence of all care and
anxiety.

The visitor on the contrary was originally of a
slight frame, which disease or wretchedness had reduced
almost to a skeleton;—and her sunken blue
eye strangely contrasted with the bright sable orb of
her auditor.

“Did you desire to speak with me?” said Miss

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Samuel, encouragingly, as she cast a look of pity on
the attenuated being before her.

“My business is with you, Madam,” replied the
party addressed. “I have a communication to
make, which I have never found courage to detail
until this morning. My physician having informed
me that my time on earth is limited, and that recovery
is impossible, I have employed the last few
hours of a wretched existence in cautioning you to
avoid the precipice over which my hopes have been
dashed.”

“I do not understand the purport of your strange
remarks,” said Miss Samuel, with astonishment and
displeasure depicted in her countenance; “but if
they are of the character that your preface purports,
neither my honour nor my dignity will permit their
utterance. What precipice can endanger my happiness
is more than I can divine. If your further
conversation is consistent with that delicacy which
should be the polar star of every virtuous female, I
am willing to listen. If not, the sooner this conference
is closed the better.”

Without replying to these remarks, the stranger,
after a pause, which appeared necessary to give
her strength for a renewal of the conversation,
inquired—

“Are you not acquainted with a young gentleman
calling himself Ernest Stillman? It was of
him I wished to speak.”

On the name of Stillman being pronounced, Miss

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Samuel could not conceal her agitation, and with
eager solicitude replied—“What can you mean?—
What of Mr. Stillman?—inform me at once, I
beseech you?”

Heaving a sigh, which appeared to proceed from
the inmost recesses of her heart, the poor female informed
Miss Samuel that the real name of the person
referred to was De Lyle; and that, under the
same assumed name of Stillman, he had many
months previously accomplished her ruin through
the agency of a counterfeit marriage, after which
he had inhumanly deserted and left her a prey to
penury and despair. Long did she mourn his absence,
which too confiding love whispered was the
result of some cruel necessity, until she accidentally
met him in the street, and heard an associate accost
him by the name of De Lyle.

Overwhelmed with doubt and astonishment, she
addressed him by the name of Stillman, but what
language could depict her agitation and surprise
when he replied with the utmost coolness that she
was certainly mistaken in the person, for he had no
recollection of ever seeing her before!

With great difficulty she tottered to her residence,
from which she was soon ejected, in consequence of
her inability to pay her board,—since which she
had been indebted for subsistence to the charity of a
poor but benevolent female who became interested
in her sad fate.

While performing an errand for her kind-hearted

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benefactress, she had observed De Lyle enter the residence
of Miss Samuel, and repairing to a station at
the same hour on several succeeding days, she had,
unperceived by him, ascertained the fact of his daily
visits.

On inquiry she learned that Miss Samuel was a
resident of the dwelling he visited, and determined
to apprise her of her danger, but felt unequal to the
task until the physician's sad annunciation stimulated
her resolution, by the certainty that if the revelation
was made, it must be attended to without delay.

It is difficult to depict the varied expression of
Miss Samuel's features during this recital: now
doubt appeared the prominent feeling—again apprehension
and anxiety were in the ascendant—mortification
and wounded pride anon assumed the mastery,
and these were succeeded by other but not less
painful emotions.

Pressing her hand to her forehead, for several moments,
after the speaker had ceased, she at length
replied,

“Madam, I do not doubt that you labour under
some strange mistake in relation to the identity of
the person of whom you speak. That you have
been cruelly deceived by an individual calling himself
Stillman I certainly believe, and can readily credit
the assertion that he strongly resembles a gentleman
of that name who visits this house. Indeed
there is little question that the villain to whom you
allude is aware of this resemblance, and that the

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assumption of the name of Mr. Stillman, is the consequence
of that knowledge. However, if you will
furnish me with your address, I will take such measures
to ascertain the facts, as have become necessary
to prevent further misapprehension.”

“Having performed what I considered a solemn
duty, with which no personal considerations are
mingled, I, of course, will not reiterate statements
which have been already correctly given. My
name is Ellen Wilson, and I can be found at No.—
Attorney-street. If you should have farther
occasion for my aid in this unhappy affair, I feel
that the application to be of service must be made
soon, for my time on earth is brief.”

Thus saying, she arose, and with trembling steps
and repressed respiration, left the house.

As she closed the door the tears that Miss Samuel
had with difficulty suppressed during her
stay, burst forth in torrents, and her heart-rending
sighs attested the shock which this development
had given to her whole system.

In the days of youth and innocence, ere we have
become hackneyed in the world's deceptiveness, how
unnatural and improbable seems the charge of
treachery against the object of our love and esteem.
True it is that the mind shudders and repels the
bare imputation—yet it is startling to the sensibility
to think for a moment that he on whom we have
lavished the full measure of our confidence, and
whose example we have proudly followed, can even

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in the jaundiced eye of the malicious, or the diseased
heart of the envious, be associated with crimes at
which the soul recoils!

Such were the first sensations of Rachel Samuel
on listening to the story of Ellen Wilson, and it was
not until the sad, low tones of her voice had long
dwelt with painful minuteness, on the enormities of
De Lyle, that the Jewess could at all realize the
possibility of their truth.

“Is this tale indeed true,” she soliloquized—“can
it be possible that the rich treasure of my love has
been squandered on one who desires but to possess it
and then throw it `like a worthless weed away?'
It cannot be. I will not believe it. The girl must
be labouring under some mental hallucination, or
the resemblance of the person of whom she speaks
to Mr. Stillman explains the mystery. Oh, that he
were here now to dispel my doubts.”

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CHAPTER XVIII.

A SKILFUL DISSEMBLER—FARTHER EVIDENCE
THAT THE CLOVEN-FOOTED GENTLEMAN IS
GOOD TO HIS OWN.



“And in his hand a burning heart he bare,
Full of vain follies, and newfangleness;
For he was false and fraught with fickleness,
And learned had to love with secret looks,
And well could dance and sing with ruefulness,
And fortunes tell, and read in loving books,
And thousand other ways to bait his fleshly hooks.”
Spenser.

Edward de Lyle had from long practice become
a thorough adept in the arts of deception. Permitting
no moral barrier to interpose between the
inception of his guilty desires and their accomplishment,
the means by which he deluded his victims
were selected with a single view to their efficacy,
without pausing to inquire what prospects would be
blighted, what hearts broken, what lives jeoparded
by their success. Selfishness was the ruling impulse
of his nature, to which all other feelings were subservient;
and while implacable revenge and licentious
indulgence exhibited themselves in bold relief

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in his career, they were auxiliaries not rivals, to the
master passion.

His acquaintance with Rachel Samuel, who was
the only child of the wealthy Israelite to whom he
was so largely indebted, commenced by accidentally
observing her while employed in cultivating the
flowers which decorated the pleasant little lawn in
front of her cottage residence. Struck with the
grace and beauty of her person, he affected to have
sprained his ancle while passing the house; and
leaning against the picket fence which divided the
lot from the street, he with a well-counterfeited groan
attracted her attention, and the native benevolence
of her heart, induced the tender of an invitation to
her father's dwelling, where he was desired to recline
for a time on the sofa, until the anguish of the sprain
was somewhat mitigated. To this request he assented,
apologizing for the trouble he was giving
his fair entertainer, who, on his being seated, advised
the application of spirits of camphor; and while
the servant was gone in search of the remedy, he so
well improved the opportunity, that on rising to take
leave, after enjoying the company of Miss Samuel
for half an hour, his request to be permitted to call
on the ensuing day, and report the effect of her prescription
on his injured limb, met with that faint
half-denial which from time immemorial has, in the
language of the heart, been translated into tacit approbation.

The interview—which occurred several weeks

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previous to the period alluded to in the preceding
chapter—was daily repeated, until the affections of
the lovely girl were completely won by the blandishments
of the reckless voluptuary.

On learning she was the daughter of one who
held his destiny, as it were, in the palm of his hand,
De Lyle at first shrunk appalled at the danger
which would follow a discovery of his schemes; but
that desperation which, in the pursuit of guilty enjoyments,
causes the coward to rush into difficulties,
heedless of consequences, goaded him on from day
to day, until he found that to retreat was no less
hazardous than to advance.

The education and retired habits of the lovely
Jewess, increased that fervid enthusiasm which,
born of feeling, is fostered by seclusion, while she
entertained a romantic and fancy-coloured view of
the world around her, that imaged mankind in an
ideal mirror, investing the creatures of her mind
either with the glowing attributes of the Divinity,
or the hideous lineaments of a demon.

Isaac Samuel loved his child with an affection
as ardent as his grasping nature could conceive for
any object; but his cupidity forbade her entertaining
female visitors, and the usurer possessed no
friends except those who clung to his skirts from
stern necessity, and who, of course, never intruded
on his notice except at his counting room.

Prior to her acquaintance with De Lyle, she occupied
a portion of her leisure hours in perusing works

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of fiction, and in cultivating those flowers which
adorned her little enclosure; and although the romance
of her nature would occasionally exhibit itself
in pensive thought, yet cheerfulness was the prominent
feature of her mind; and it was delightful
to hear her merry laugh—embodying the soul of
glee—while amusing herself with the mischievous
pranks of sundry curly-headed juveniles of either
sex, who, during her father's stated absence, were
her daily visitors.

It was during the hours which the usurer devoted
to purposes of gain that De Lyle enjoyed the company
of the beautiful Miss Samuel; and although he
immediately placed in requisition every art that his
skill in deception rendered him master of for her
ruin, he was met with that high-souled purity and
maiden reserve, through whose chaste barrier neither
his sophistries nor his blandishments could
find entrance. Once or twice, indeed, he ventured
to introduce guarded allusions, whose real purport
was veiled by artful verbiage; but the suspicious
glance and half-indignant blush with which they
were received, compelled him to desist from venturing
upon such dangerous ground; and as the purity
of her soul continued to fan the unholy flame
which burned in his bosom, he determined to win
by siege what he despaired of carrying by assault.
For this purpose he affected the most honourable intentions,
at times declaring that he would throw
himself at the feet of her father; plead the intensity

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of his passion, and trust to his magnanimity: and
when she depicted the utter ruin to their hopes,
which such an avowal would effect, he would shed
counterfeit tears, pronounce himself the most wretched
of men, and beg of her to advise him as to the
proper course to be pursued in so distressing a dilemma.

That these agitating scenes disturbed her equanimity
is most true; but the native buoyancy of her
spirits would soon return, and during his absence
she indulged her fancy in depicting the morrow's
enjoyment.

It was during the day following that on which
Mrs. Rainsford's soirée was given, that the scene
occurred between Miss Samuel and Ellen Wilson;
and the unprecedented absence of De Lyle during
whole days, caused by circumstances with which
the reader is acquainted, appeared to the poor Jewess
to give some countenance to the sad revelation to
which she had been an involuntary listener. During
this day and the greater part of the succeeding
night, her mind was harassed by opposing feelings,
alternating between confidence and apprehension,
hope and despair. When she arose in the morning,
so pallid was her usually ruddy cheek, that her father
suggested the propriety of her taking medicine
to relieve her coming illness, adding “A stitch in
time saves nine.” This she declined, saying that
her illness was only a slight headache, which exercise
would cure; and as this was the cheaper

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remedy, of course the suggestion coincided with his
views.

At the hour which De Lyle usually selected for
his daily visits, a rap was heard at the door, and he
came bounding into the room.

“Ha, my charmer!” he exclaimed, in a gay and
joyous tone, “I suppose you are prepared to read me
a good lecture for my yesterday's absence. Begin at
once, then, dearest, and I will make such an
excellent excuse, that you will pardon me, and, as
in duty bound, I shall fall on my knees and kiss
that dear little hand until you are fairly wearied.
But I can't wait, absolutely I can't; I must tell you:
my old curmudgeon of an uncle for once chose to
entrust me with an important mission, and in consequence
of my succeeding to his wishes, he presented
me with a hundred dollar bill; and now what shall
I purchase,—what rare gem of nature or art, to bestow
on my dear, dear Rachel?”

As the blinds were drawn to exclude the rays of
the sun, he did not observe the paleness of her features,
and was not a little startled at the hollow and
sad voice in which she replied:

“Oh, Mr. Stillman, I yesterday was told such a
tale concerning you, that I can hardly find courage
to repeat it. Indeed, indeed, I am a most unhappy
and disconsolate being, and shall never trust mortal
more if you are false. Do you know a young woman,
named Ellen Wilson?”

At this name the colour of De Lyle's cheek came

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and went; but fortunately for him, the same cause
which had prevented him from noticing her agitation,
now performed the like friendly office in his
case; and reflecting for a moment, he said,

“Why, in the name of all the gods at once, what
does this mean? I see how it is; you are still determined
to pay me off for yesterday's delinquency, by
frightening me out of my seven senses. However,
I'll gravely answer your question. I do not know
any female bearing the name you mention. And
now, if this is really no joke, let me have the whole
story at once, verbatim et literatim, et punctuatim,
and I'll listen attentively from alpha to omega.”

“Mr. Stillman, this is certainly a most serious
charge, and one which, if true, involves so desperate
a departure from the paths of virtue, that I must confess
I cannot credit it.”

“There spoke my pure dear girl; blessings on
you for those words. I knew you could not deem
me other than I seem. The only guilt with which
I can charge my conscience, consists in linking so
bright a being as yourself to my hopeless fate.
Alas! what am I but a poor dependant orphan,
without resources or fortune even in prospect, except
on the death of one who may live as long as
myself? But it shall not be; I will at once sever a
tie which must at last make you wretched, and perhaps
it is fortunate that my character has been slandered.
If but a suspicion, even the shadow of a suspicion,
remains on your mind in relation to the

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purity of my intentions, dismiss me now; let me bury
my love and my then worthless frame in the same
grave. But I will not be so cruel as to compel you
to decide my fate. This moment I fly. Farewell,
dearest, loveliest of all earthly objects; forget that
my unhappy image has, for a brief period, thrown
its shadow across your sunny path. One last embrace,
one moment of bliss, and the future to me is
chaos.”

Thus saying, he rushed towards the door, in a
well-feigned transport of despair, while the alarmed
girl sprang to his side, exclaiming,

“What is this I hear? you leave me! it cannot
be. Do I not say that I am convinced there is some
mistake? Dear Mr. Stillman, compose yourself,
while I briefly relate the foul libel on your character,
to which I was an unwilling listener.”

Throwing himself on the sofa, and leaning his
head on his hand, he bade her proceed: and while
she was detailing the particulars of Ellen Wilson's
statement, his thoughts were occupied in forming a
plausible story, whereby to account for the alleged
misapprehension of the girl as to the identity of her
seducer. As she finished the recital De Lyle
said,

“I think I have a slight clew to this mystery.
Not many weeks since, an acquaintance met me in
the street, and asked me where I was going an hour
previous, in company with a young girl of slender
frame, whose appearance was not the most

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respectable. I of course replied that he was labouring under
some mistake; on which he remarked, that if it
was not me, it was my ghost; and if he had not
recollected that the individual had on a coat of a
different colour from any I possessed, I should have
failed to convince him of his error. As, however, I
now know the name of the person to whom the girl
alludes, I presume that I shall be enabled to place
the subject in a correct light.”

After a brief stay, he bade her an affectionate
adieu, and nothing but the dread of the usurer's becoming
acquainted with his villany, prevented him
from at once abandoning all farther pursuit of the
fair Jewess.

On leaving Miss Samuel, he proceeded with no
little haste to the residence of Thomas Burchard,
and on being closeted with that worthy, desired him
instantly to proceed to the dwelling of which Ellen
Wilson was an inmate, procure a private interview,
and endeavour, in the first place, to bribe her to
acknowledge that she was mistaken in his person;
or, in the event of his failure, openly denounce
her to the woman with whom she lodged, as an
impostor, whom he, Burchard, knew to be an abandoned
and worthless wretch, who had changed her
name.

After a brief space had elapsed, Burchard returned
with the welcome intelligence that the poor girl had
expired a few moments before his arrival at the
house. On hearing this, De Lyle with rapid steps

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returned to the dwelling of Isaac Samuel, saying to
Rachel as he entered,

“My dear Rachel, after I left you it occurred to
me, that the most effectual method of unravelling
this mystery will be for you to call on the girl who
has charged me with her ruin, and solicit her to
afford me an interview to-morrow at this place. I,
indeed, regret giving you this trouble, but it appears
to be the only course by which I can successfully
vindicate my character.”

“Oh, Mr. Stillman, how much I thank you for
the suggestion. I'll go immediately.”

Thus saying, she prepared to depart, with a heart
bounding with delight, and De Lyle returned to the
pursuit of other projects no less disreputable than
that in which he had spent the morning.

The death of Ellen Wilson closed every avenue
of disclosure to her seducer's infamy, as the female
with whom she boarded knew nothing of her previous
history, except from her own lips; and all
things proceeded between the Jewess and the voluptuary
as formerly.

The more effectually to remove her suspicions,
De Lyle invested Burchard with a respectable suit
of apparel, and introduced him to Rachel Samuel,
whom he informed, that Mr. Stillman very much
resembled a friend of his, unfortunately a wild fellow,
named De Lyle, and that the absence of the
latter in Europe alone prevented him from

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confirming his statement by producing him for her satisfaction.

Satisfied with this explanation, the deluded girl
again confided in De Lyle's honour and affection,
and the hours, as they flew, continued to scatter enjoyment
in her path.

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CHAPTER XIX.

THE TRIUMPH OF MALICE.



“If thou wert honourable,
Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not
For such an end thou seek'st; as base, as strange.
Thou wrong'st a gentleman, who is as far
From thy report as thou from honour.”
Cymbeline.


“Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow,
Thou shalt not escape calumny.”
Hamlet.

We new return to Clifton, who, on the day succeeding
his tête-à-tête with Julia Borrowdale, was
elevated to the pinnacle of earthly happiness.

During the latter part of the afternoon he had
called at her temporary residence, but was informed
by her maid that she was absent; and being engaged
to spend the evening with Ellingbourne, he
left his card and slowly sauntered to the Astor House.
The following paragraph, which appeared in the
Commercial Advertiser of the next evening, will inform
the reader of the result of his visit, and how
near the scheme of De Lyle for his ruin approached
its successful termination.

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From the Commercial Advertiser of Oct.—,
18—. Police Court.—Capture Extraordinary!
The precincts of the Police Court
were this morning crowded with spectators, assembled
to hear the examination of a number of the gentry
known as black-legs, who were last evening
arrested in the exercise of their base vocation, and we
regret to state that two individuals, heretofore holding
respectable stations in society, were found associated
with the delinquents. One of these, a confidential
clerk in the counting-room of a wealthy and
extensive mercantile firm in this city, has been fully
identified as an accomplice; but the second, a
gentleman of fortune, who occupies an elevated
rank in the fashionable world, appears to have
been decoyed into the gaming house, without being
aware of the purposes to which its interior was
prostituted.

“The principal witness, named Thomas Burchard,
testified that several nights since he had been fleeced at
the same hell of a large sum, and that the clerk before
alluded to (whose name we suppress at the particular
request of the junior partner of the firm, his employers)
was a principal actor in the robbery. The
straight-forward story of this witness, apparently an
industrious artizan of the middle rank in life, created
no little indignation against the well-dressed culprit,
who had so largely contributed to his undoing
When asked if he was acquainted with the

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fashionable individual whom we before mentioned, as being
caught in bad company, he answered promptly in
the affirmative; stating that he was indebted to him
for temporary aid, after being plucked of his last fathing;
and that, from a long knowledge of his moving
in the first society, and the integrity of his
character, he believed him totally incapable of associating
with such villains as the gamblers, had he
known their profession.

“Two other witnesses from the country, named
Simpkin and Thompson, confirmed the testimony
of Burchard as to the respectability of the gentleman
last alluded to, adding that they also had been
stripped of their loose cash by the villany of a portion
of the gang; and although they did not fully
identify the merchant's clerk as one of the guilty
parties, yet they had a faint recollection of observing
a person in the hell whom they believed to be
himself.

“The prisoners, including the latter individual,
were ordered to procure bail in the sum of one thousand
dollars each, to appear and answer the charge,
or, in default, to stand committed; and the gentleman
who was inveigled in their meshes was of
course honourably discharged. These daring and
reckless offenders have been long under the surveillance
of the police, and it is a subject of gratulation
that sufficient evidence is at length produced to bring
them to trial. The only individual having any
pretensions to respectability was, we learn, bailed by

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the junior partner of the firm before alluded to,
who, with great liberality, but with questionable
prudence, was induced to save the delinquent from
the cheerless solitude of a cell in the bridewell
prison.

“Perhaps a more striking illustration of the
infatuation which leads the gambler to sacrifice
everything to his thirst for unlawful gain, was
never exhibited than in the person of this young
man. Possessing the entire confidence of his employers,
allowed a salary more than sufficient to sustain
a respectable rank in society, and having in
anticipation the prospect of soon becoming interested
in the concern as a junior partner, he has, by the
indulgence of this destructive vice, brought ruin to
his hopes, his morals, and his reputation.

“While alluding to this subject, we feel constrained,
as public journalists, to call on the community
to demand of the authorities prompt and energetic
action in relation to these marauders on society.
The vice of gaming is increasing to a fearful extent,
and parents and guardians are especially required to
exercise their united influence in suppressing an
evil from whose fatal web, like the shirt of Neseus,
the victim struggles in vain to extricate
himself.

“If previous respectability of character is to shield
the accused from the punishment due to his offence,
or if the influence of friends interposes to prevent
the impartial administration of justice, the laws are

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proportionably weakened in their efficacy, and the
virtuous portion of society lose the ægis of their protection.
Let justice be done, therefore, in this case,
whoever is the sufferer, and hereafter these blacklegs
will be compelled to select some other theatre
than this city for the exercise of their dark vocation,
or be driven to those secret haunts whose infamous
character will save respectable individuals from being
unwittingly decoyed into their toils.”

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CHAPTER XX.

A THRUST IN THE DARK.—A CHALLENGE.

“Away to heaven, respective lenity,
And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now.”

Romeo and Juliet.

As Clifton left the police court, after being bailed
by De Lyle, he proceeded slowly towards the counting-room
of his employers, while the distressing
events which had prostrated his hopes, and rendered
him bankrupt in love and ambition, created a
feeling in his mind which bordered on desperation.

That he was the victim of some deep-laid conspiracy
was evident from the unblushing perjury of
the witness Burchard; but it was in vain that he
attempted to imagine any probable cause for the
malignant feelings which could alone have dictated
so desperate a measure for his destruction. That
De Lyle's teeming brain gave birth to the foul
scheme never entered his thoughts; and after musing
for a long period on the subject, he became satisfied
that, for some cause unknown to himself, he
had incurred the hatred of Ellingbourne, on whom
his suspicions were fixed by the apparent friendship

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of Burchard for the fashionable roué, and his eager
anxiety to exempt the latter from suspicion, which
seemed to evince the intimate connexion existing
between them and the unity of their designs.

To what circumstance he should ascribe this
malignant hostility, he at first failed to perceive;
but suddenly the recollection of Ellingbourne's expressed
admiration of Julia Borrowdale, when she
appeared at Mrs. Rainsford's soirée, flashed across
his mind; and he was compelled to believe that
jealousy of his marked attentions to the lovely girl
was the foundation of this desperate expedient to
destroy him. What rendered the agency of Ellingbourne
more certain, was the testimony of Simpkin
and Thompson, both of whom had seemed equally
anxious with Burchard to exculpate him from censure,
while the belief they expressed of his (Clifton's)
being in the company of those who rifled their
pockets at the gaming-table, confirmed him in this
assurance. The only circumstance which tended
to exculpate Ellingbourne, was the fact of his being
arrested with the gamblers; but that might have
occurred through misapprehension of the hour at
which the officers were to enter the room, or from
some other casualty. Having fully satisfied his
mind on this subject, his indignation became so far
excited against Ellingbourne that he determined
without delay to denounce him in language sufficiently
severe to provoke a personal encounter.

That he disliked both the principle and practice

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of duelling, is most true; but the natural hastiness
of his temper having in this instance obtained complete
ascendency, he conceived no other method of
avenging so great an injury; and as for his character
that was already lost beyond the hope of recovery.

With these feelings he proceeded to the lodgings
of Ellingbourne, whom he found traversing the
room with marked agitation imprinted on his features.

“Mr. Ellingbourne,” said Clifton, “this visit is
at a rather unseasonable hour; and I have little
doubt that its purport will be considered as inopportune
as the time selected for making it. My message
is brief but comprehensive. Sir, you are a
villain and a coward! The epithets are both applicable
to one who seeks the destruction of his fellow
through the agency of perjured hirelings. Allow
me to repeat the charge, lest your memory should
emulate the treachery of your soul, and fail to remind
you of its tenor. You understand me, sir, to
pronounce you a coward and a villain.”

“Mr. Clifton,” replied Ellingbourne, with mingled
anger and hesitation in his manner, “I fully
comprehend the foul and unjust epithets you have
applied to me. If circumstances had not transpired
to give you seeming cause for this hasty and violent
assault on my character and feelings, no apology or
explanation could prevent me from instantly demanding
personal satisfaction. Briefly, let me

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advise you, sir, to withdraw these offensive charges.
If you do not retract within five minutes, we are
mortal foes. The issue is with you.”

“This, sir, is my only reply,” said Clifton, throwing
his card on the centre table, and immediately
leaving the room.

“Infatuated man,” said Ellingbourne, after his
departure, “if he will rush on destruction, how can
I prevent it? Would that the scoundrel De Lyle
were in his stead. That treacherous villain thinks
he has deceived me, as to his agency in procuring
the arrest of Clifton and myself; but the time will
soon arrive when I shall have fleeced him of his all,
and then he will ascertain his mistake. Unfortunately,
I cannot explain to Clifton, even if my
honour would permit, without implicating myself in
the transaction. Well, well, I suppose it is my unhappy
destiny to be compelled to shoot the man
whom I would rescue from infamy, and give the
fraternal hug to the reptile I despise. If the arrest
had not been made, I should have been enabled to
pocket De Lyle's cash, and exonerate Clifton from
all difficulty. But the stars have decreed it otherwise.”

With these philosophical reflections, Ellingbourne
seated himself and despatched a message by a servant
to the room of Matthison, soliciting an immediate
interview. While the messenger is absent, let
us for a moment examine whether most individuals,
like Ellingbourne, do not endeavour to throw the

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burden of their own follies or delinquencies on fate,
destiny, or the stars. The merchant hazards his
fortune on the issue of a rash venture, which his
better judgment should at once have denounced: it
fails and he is ruined, and lo! the fates are his
sworn foes: the philosopher broaches a favourite
theory, and when practical application exhibits its
defects, it is his unfortunate destiny: the mechanic
expends his substance in building castles in the air,
instead of brick and mortar habitations on earth,
and as a breath resolves them into their original
elements, the gods have interposed for their destruction;
while the politician, whose selfish views are
evident through professions of regard for the dear
people
, charges his defeat to ingratitude and the
stars! Lo! one thing we have observed among
the sons of men, and that is the disposition to deny,
stoutly, that their mishaps ever originate with themselves.

In a few moments Matthison entered Ellingbourne's
apartment, and readily consented to be the
bearer of a hostile message to Clifton.

Meanwhile our hero had proceeded to his boarding-house,
and on reflecting on his interview with
Ellingbourne, he could not disguise from himself
the manifest injustice and imprudence of his course
in refusing him an opportunity for explanation.

While musing on the difficulties by which he was
surrounded, Matthison entered the sitting-room, and

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after a courteous salutation, gave him a note, which
he opened and read as follows:—

Astor House,
Oct. 15, 18—.

“Sir,

“The insult offered me this morning can only be
atoned by affording me the satisfaction due to a
gentleman. My friend Piercie Matthison, Esq. the
bearer of this, will arrange the necessary details on
my part.

“I have the honour to be, &c.,
Julius Ellingbourne

“To Sydney Clifton, Esquire.”

“Sad business, Mr. Clifton,” said Matthison
when the note was perused. “My friend Ellingbourne
desires particularly to have the matter despatched
to-morrow morning, as he is engaged in
the evening for Mrs. Willford's ball. As, however,
you are the challenged party, the time, distance, and
weapons are, of course, subject to your volition. If
your stomach should be deranged, and the nerves
thereby shaken, we must defer it for a day or
two.”

Clifton's first impulse on reading the note was to
withdraw the charge against Ellingbourne, thereby
giving him an opportunity for explanation; but the
allusion of Matthison to the state of his nerves, and
the nonchalance with which his principal expressed

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the desire to attend a ball, prevented him from pursuing
this magnanimous course. He therefore replied
that he was equally anxious with Mr. Ellingbourne,
to bring the unhappy affair to a close, and
concluded by informing Mr. Matthison that he
would instantly procure a friend who would confer
with him without delay. Matthison then withdrew,
and Clifton despatched a note to Shafton, soliciting
his presence on business of importance, that required
immediate attention.

Before Shafton's arrival De Lyle called at Clifton's
room, and was informed of his preparations for
a hostile meeting with Ellingbourne; and while the
former affected to deplore the necessity of such a step,
he yet confessed that he saw no method of honourably
avoiding it, offering, at the same time, to call
on a friend of his, a skilful surgeon, who he was
sure would cheerfully tender his services for such an
emergency.

While they were conversing Shafton entered,
and De Lyle, as he rose to depart, said, “Shafton,
take good care of our friend. Ellingbourne is a dead
shot, and you must see that he has no advantage of
position.”

“Why,” said Shafton, with a look of evident
satisfaction, “I trust I am qualified to discharge
this delicate duty skilfully. My experience in these
matters is greater than falls to the lot of most persons.
In Paris, sir, I was the friend of three principals,
and myself winged my man in a fourth affair.

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If Clifton only keeps cool, he shall send his opponent
to that bourne from whence there is no trav
elling. Pretty Good off-hand pun, is it not, De
Lyle? Entirely on the spur of the moment, on my
honour.”

Thus saying, the punster assumed an air of great
importance, and chuckled not a little at this favourable
opportunity of safely affording the New-York
public a well-authenticated specimen of his gallantry
and skill in matters appertaining to the duello. On
De Lyle's leaving the room, Clifton furnished Shafton
with proper credentials, who instantly proceeded to
the lodgings of Matthison, to perfect the necessary
arrangements. In the evening De Lyle called on
our hero, in company with Doctor Searle, who tendered
his professional aid, which was accepted; and
as the seconds had previously selected the following
morning for the meeting, the surgeon promised to
call on Clifton by the dawn of day.

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CHAPTER XXI.

THE COMBAT.



“Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more.”
Macbeth.


“My heart hath one poor string to stay it by,
Which holds but till this news be uttered.”
King John.

On the western shore of the Hudson, in the state
of New-Jersey, and directly opposite the city of New-York,
sequestered at the base of an elevated range
of hills, which at a little distance assume the dignity
and abruptness of mountains, lies the romantic village
of Hoboken.

To the resident of the metropolis its beautiful
walk, skirting the margin of the majestic stream, is
a favourite afternoon retreat, where the wearied citizen,
while listening to the waves as they break upon
the beach, or reclining beneath the broad shadows
of the willow and the tree of heaven which adorn
its banks, can behold before him, as on a map, the
giant bee-hive within whose chambers but a few

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moments previously he, in common with his fellow-insects,
was industriously toiling to accumulate a
wintry store.

Passing northwardly, the gravelled path approaches
the river so nearly, that the loiterer with a side
step would, at this point, find himself ankle-deep in
the pure element; anon it ascends the bank amid
shrubbery and wild flowers, until, at the distance of
a short mile, the splendid Pavilion, whose ornamented
grounds are known as the Elysian Fields,
bursts on the view, with a prospect sufficiently captivating
to warrant their celestial appellation. In the
same direction, about two miles from Hoboken, over-looking
the river and city, the mountains of Weehawken
point their cliffs toward the sky; and in
an alcove whose area is perhaps two hundred yards
in diameter,—scooped out of their rocky base at creation's
birth, or by some subsequent convulsion of
nature,—is the celebrated duelling-ground where
Burr shot Hamilton, and to whose secluded precincts
all successive city candidates for bullets and
immortality have resorted on like occasions.

At early dawn, the day following Clifton's receipt
of the challenge, a row-boat with two oarsmen and
five passengers might be observed moving over the
placid surface of the noble river, towards this picturesque
and secluded spot; and just as the sunbeams
tipped the summit of the mountains, the party
disembarked; and Clifton, Ellingbourne,

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Matthison, Shafton, and the surgeon proceeded to the execution
of their hostile purpose.

On landing, the eye of Clifton ranged over the
quiet and lonely semi-amphitheatre; and as all
traces of anger had vanished from his bosom, he
thought it little less than sacrilege to desecrate so
lovely a scene with the sanguinary evidences of
man's warring passions. From this reverie he was
aroused by Shafton, who, in an under tone, said,

“Now, Clifton, be cool and collected. If the time
will admit, reserve your fire until you have received
that of your opponent, unless you have the utmost
confidence in your capacity to execute a rapid
movement
successfully. But before I leave you,
let me beseech you to dismiss from your mind the
silly determination you expressed last evening, to
throw away your fire. 'Tis absolute madness; for
I have Matthison's assurance that Ellingbourne
never was more implacable and determined on any
similar occasion; and as he has frequently acted as
his second, of course he is little likely to err. By
strictly following my instructions we shall leave the
ground with a reputation that neither malice nor
envy can dart a Shaft-on. Excusez, mon ami,
the pun would out.”

“Permit me to remark,” said Clifton, “that I by
no means authorize any resort to stratagem to secure
an advantage of position. Having voluntarily entered
the lists, I scorn the attempt to gain by man
œuvre what I lack in skill. Let the ground be

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chosen, therefore, with sole reference to its general
eligibility, and not from a desire to give me an undue
advantage.”

“The age of chivalry is past,” replied Shafton;
“and as etiquette places this whole matter in my
hands, I shall take my own method of executing
the trust. If I should follow your directions, I fear
that you would shortly intrude on my province
by measuring six feet more or less of the ground
selected.”

Thus saying, our volatile friend joined Matthison,
and they proceeded to the selection of the
ground.

On reaching a favourable spot, Shafton paced off
the requisite distance in a line running north and
south, and parallel with the course of the river, leaving
Ellingbourne's position covered by a clump of
bushes, which were of course in the range of Clifton's
fire, thus affording a prominent object whereby
to direct his aim.

While his second was thus employed, Clifton, like
the eastern devotee, turned his gaze towards the
spot where sojourned that bright being who was
the object of his heart's idolatry.

The morning was peculiarly bland and lovely,
and each varied sound of the awakening city came
wafted to his ear mellowed by distance, and freighted
with the charms of memory and association.

“Beautiful and prosperous island city,” thus he
mused, “queen of the western world, within whose

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sea-girt boundaries my buoyant imagination first
spread her pinions towards the bright realms of poetry
and romance! Years in their ceaseless flight will
continue to pour their tribute of wealth and abundance
into thy lap, but perchance the eyes that now
gaze on thee will in a few brief moments be veiled
by the films of death.

“And what, if, before yon rising luminary
quenches his glowing fires in the western ocean,
my summer friends shall have exhausted the shallow
fountain of their sympathies at my sudden exit,
and the busy multitudes within whose circle I have
lived and moved, pass to their ephemeral schemes of
pleasure or ambition, as if no such event had rippled
along the surface of their recollections,—at least, the
bright being with whom my fate is linked, and my
beloved foster-parents, will mourn my unhappy departure.
And Thou, merciful author of my being!
who hast been to me `the cloud by day and the
pillar of fire by night,' if it be consistent with thy
wise decrees, vouchsafe to deliver me from the peril
of this awful hour; but if it is my self-appointed
doom to rush uncalled for into Thy august and holy
Presence, forgive the rash and criminal act, for the
sake of Him who is our Mediator at Thy throne.”

With this mental ejaculation, Clifton braced his
nerves to meet, with becoming calmness and fortitude,
the eventful crisis, which he now viewed with
far different sentiments from those which actuated

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him when he precipitated the hostile meeting by a
voluntary insult to his antagonist.

While occupied in these reflections, Ellingbourne,
who, in the pursuit of his disreputable calling,
had become a perfect adept in detecting the latent
feeling through the index of the countenance, at
once perceived that the heart of his opponent, although
shadowed with melancholy, quailed not at
the danger which he was to encounter.

“I like not,” thought the gambler, “the cool,
dispassionate determination, depicted in Clifton's
features. I have certainly underrated his courage;
and although inexperienced in affairs of honour,
there is no little danger to be apprehended from the
fire of one whose steady nerves are the faithful ministers
of his will. It behooves me to review Matthison's
selection of the ground, lest I be compelled to
take an unfavourable position.”

Just at this moment Matthison had reached the
point at which Shafton proposed to station Ellingbourne,
while the punster occupied the spot assigned
to Clifton.

As yet Matthison had not objected to Shafton's
selection; but the sharp significant cough of his
principal attracted his attention, and perceiving by
his countenance that he was dissatisfied with some
portion of the arrangements, he reviewed the capabilities
of the ground, and soon saw the decided advantage
it afforded Clifton. Passing, therefore, to
the side of Shafton, he said,

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“My dear sir, by the merest accident, you have
placed my principal directly in the range of that
small cluster of shrubbery, which your experienced
eye will at once perceive forms a prominent background
in the line of Mr. Clifton's fire. Surely my
stomach is somewhat deranged, or I should sooner
have observed this difficulty.”

“Oh,” replied Shafton, carelessly, “if there is any
advantage of position, I have no objection to change
the direction of our principals, although, permit me
to say, that by your assent to the proposed arrangement,
I have an undoubted right to insist on its
being adhered to. As I have, however, every confidence
in Mr. Clifton's coolness and gallantry, I
will, from courtesy, reverse the stations in a line
from east to west, placing my friend with his back
to the river; and by glancing your eye over the
ground, you will observe that neither tree, rock, nor
shrub, is in the range of Mr. Ellingbourne.”

“That will do,” said Matthison, placing himself
in a situation to examine the ground; “and with
your permission, we will now station our principals.”

Thus saying, the combatants were assigned to the
places selected, and the seconds proceeded to load
the pistols. While thus occupied, the sunbeams,
which had gradually descended the brow of the
mountain, poured their light in Ellingbourne's face,
and Matthison too late perceived that the change of

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ground had been the reverse of favourable to his
principal.

That his chagrin at being thus over-reached
was fully shared by Ellingbourne, cannot be a matter
of surprise; and the latter, who at first considered
the meeting rather in the light of a morning's
amusement than a dangerous combat, in which his
life might be hazarded, now viewed the subject in a
more serious mood, and mentally determined to
exercise all his acknowledged skill, in revenging
the insult he had received, and foiling Shafton in his
wily manœuvre.

The words “one, two, three,” were the signal, at
whose utterance the leaden heralds were to wing their
dangerous flight; and the first had scarcely been pronounced,
when the sharp ring of Ellingbourne's
weapon echoed from cliff to cliff, and was succeeded
by the report of Clifton's; and the groan that burst
from the gambler, and his sudden spring into the
air, gave instant proof that the shot had taken effect.
Dr. Searle at once ran to the assistance of the
wounded man, and, on removing his clothing, it
was ascertained that he had received the ball in the
left side, between the short ribs; and the grave
looks of the surgeon indicated Ellingbourne's critical
situation.

“Doctor,” said our hero, with the utmost agony
depicted in his countenance, “is the wound dangerous?
Inform me, I beseech you; for, should it

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prove mortal, I have reached the last happy moment
of my existence.”

“Be calm, my friend,” replied the professional
gentleman; “as yet I cannot determine the precise
nature of the injury.”

Then taking Shafton's arm and drawing him
aside, he whispered, “Let Mr. Clifton seek safety in
flight. Life and death are certainly in the keeping
of Providence, but I will not insure Mr. Ellingbourne's
existence for an hour. I perceive that you
have provided a second boat; and if Mr. Clifton is
wise, he will, without a moment's delay, secure a
safe retreat.”

While the surgeon and Shafton were conversing,
Clifton caught the hand of Ellingbourne, who was
supported in a sitting position by Matthison, saying,
“My dear sir, can you forgive me for this rash and
dreadful act? Indeed, indeed, I bore you no malice,
and trust I am pardoned for the injury I have
inflicted. Would to Heaven I could recall this morning's
fearful proceedings.”

Ellingbourne, who, although pale and evidently
apprehensive that his wound would prove fatal, yet
preserved his accustomed calmness of manner, replied:
“Mr. Clifton, most cheerfully do I bear witness
to your courage and gallantry; if you proffer
a reconciliation I surely will not reject it. There is
my hand, and although my strength will not permit
me to press yours with the ardour I would desire,
yet the will is not wanting. If I live and have an

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opportunity to explain matters which to you are still
shrouded in mystery, you will find the error under
which you have laboured in relation to my agency
in certain transactions which have recently occurred.
If otherwise, I must refer you to that hour in which
all secrets will be revealed.”

At this moment Shafton beckoned Clifton, saying,
“Time is short; Ellingbourne's wound is decidedly
mortal; the surgeon has just informed me
that he cannot live an hour. Under these circumstances,
we must take to the boat I have placed in
reserve, and run for life. Fortunately the oarsmen
are two expert Whitehallers, and will land us in
the city in the twinkling of an eye. So allons,
mon ami
.”

Our hero's first impulse was to await the issue of
his antagonist's wound, before securing his own
safety; but the solemn assurance of Shafton and
the surgeon that no time was to be lost if he wished
to avoid arrest and imprisonment, and the reflection
that his presence could be of no avail in averting the
fatal consequences of Ellingbourne's injury, at
length determined him to listen to the advice of his
friend. Before leaving the ground, he again entreated
Ellingbourne's forgiveness, who, with much apparent
feeling, besought him not to suffer his mind
to dwell on a calamity which might have been, by
the merest accident, transferred to himself.

“If I should recover,” said the gambler, feebly,
“it is well: but if not, why the leap into the

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unknown and unexplored futurity is but a few years
in anticipation of that to which I am destined by
the ordinary operation of nature. And why should
I repine? The bright visions of my youth have
already vanished; and it matters little how soon I
am removed from a scene where neither friends nor
kindred shed the sunshine of their affection on my
cheerless way.”

Here a deep groan arrested his utterance; but
whether it was caused by the anguish of his wound,
or by grief of heart, we can only conjecture. Dashing
a tear from his eye, he resumed:

“Curse the wound, it makes me play the woman.
Adieu, Mr. Clifton; God bless you; wherever you
go, remember my assurances of innocence in all that
relates to the injurious imputations on your character.”

“Farewell, my brave antagonist,” was Clifton's
reply, in a voice almost stifled with emotion, when
he slowly proceeded with Shafton to the boat, and
in a few moments the slender skiff with its freight
was leaping on the blue waters, under the powerful
and steady pull of the athletic and skilful oarsmen.

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CHAPTER XXII.

A TALE-BEARER REBUKED.

“Away, away, the tale is false.”

The mental eye, like the corporeal, being limited
in its range, can only embrace a certain number of
objects at one view; and to initiate our readers in
secrets with which they are yet unacquainted, it becomes
necessary to revert to events that transpired
on the evening which saw Clifton and the gamblers
placed in durance.

On De Lyle's retiring to rest after the interview
with Burchard, he calmly reflected on the probable
consequences of the bold step he had taken,
and was forced to admit that there was no little peril
involved in the issue if immediate measures were
not devised to prevent it.

Although the plan of decoying Clifton to the
gambling-house was the joint production of Ellingbourne
and himself, yet the subsequent arrest of the
parties, and the public exposure which would necessarily
result, originated entirely with De Lyle, who
was goaded on by the demon of jealousy, and could
not await the slow process by which the gambler

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and himself had proposed to destroy the reputation
and prospects of his victim.

While pushing forward his measures by the aid of
Burchard, he did not pause to reflect on the difficulties
connected with their accomplishment; but now
that the excitement of the moment had passed
away, he perceived the necessity of instant action.

That Ellingbourne would be indignant at his arrest,
and lay the onus at his door, was self evident; while
the result would be not only to thwart his scheme of
revenge against Clifton, but in all probability, to expose
the whole of his guilty practices, and the ruinous
method by which he procured the means of their
pursuit. Alarmed at the prospect, he arose, dressed
himself in the utmost haste, and gliding silently to
the front door of his father's mansion, proceeded with
rapid steps to the dwelling of Burchard; and after a
long and anxious conference, it was determined that
Ellingbourne should be exonerated at any hazard.
That the pliable instrument of De Lyle faithfully
obeyed his behest, is apparent from the extract in
a previous chapter, from one of the journals of the
day.

After the great object of De Lyle was accomplished,
he proposed to visit Miss Borrowdale, first proceeding
to the office of the Commercial Advertiser,
where, under a hypocritical affectation of regard for
Clifton, he furnished the editor with minute details
of the transaction; and while soliciting the suppression
of our hero's name, took especial care to have

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the curiosity of the public so fully excited that the
story would fly with greater rapidity than if the
name and particulars were at first published. To
add to the effect of his revelations, he visited the extended
circle of his acquaintance, and so introduced
the subject as to have the development seemingly
drawn from him against his will, thus securing for
himself the character of Clifton's friend and apologist,
while he was hurling the poisoned barb that
destroyed his reputation.

When he rang the bell at the residence of Mr.
Elwell, and was admitted, Miss Borrowdale's attendant
was, by previous concert, anxiously awaiting
his appearance; and hastily informing her of
the success of his scheme for our hero's destruction,
he was invited to a seat in the parlour, while the
girl proceeded to inform her mistress of his desire to
pay his respects.

“Mary, say I am engaged, and cannot, this morning,
wait on him,” said Julia to the maid, when
De Lyle's name was announced.

“Why, Miss Borrowdale,” replied the girl, “I told
him you was dressed and jist going out; but he
said he wouldn't keep you a minute, as he only
wanted to make his bow. Forgive me if I did
wrong, for I spoke before I thought; but I suppose
he'll think strange if you don't jist say how do-do
to him.”

“Oh, if you have given him this information, I
will run down in my hat and shawl, and despatch

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my intrusive visitor, while cousin Helen is finishing
her toilette.”

Thus saying, Julia descended to the parlour.

“I fear, Miss Borrowdale,” said De Lyle, “that you
will consider me intrusive; but, independent of my
desire to pay my devoirs to a lady in whom I feel a
deep and fervent interest, a circumstance has unfortunately
transpired this morning, which so fatally
affects the character of a young gentleman whom
I have heretofore considered respectable, and with
whom you are acquainted, that I deemed it my
duty, however painful to my feelings, to apprize you
of it. I aliude to Mr. Clifton, to whom I was indebted
for the pleasure of an introduction to yourself
at Mrs. Rainsford's soirée.”

During the delivery of this imposing preface, which
was intended to be marked by due gravity of demeanor,
De Lyle could not entirely conceal his satisfaction
at the opportunity thus afforded him to stab the reputation
of Clifton in the most vital part; and although
Julia was not a little embarrassed, she yet retained
sufficient fortitude to perceive the triumph that beamed
in the eye of De Lyle; and rising as he paused
in his remarks, and drawing up her figure to its full
height, she said,

“Pardon me, sir, if I cannot perceive either the
necessity, or the propriety, of this interference with
matters which, if they do not concern me solely, I
have not yet entrusted to Mr. De Lyle's guardianship.
As this appears to constitute your principal

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business with me, and as I was prepared to make
calls on your arrival, I must take the liberty of
wishing you good-morning.”

Having given De Lyle this cut direct, Julia,
with a slight courtesy, left the room; and before
the surprised news-vender had time to collect his
scattered thoughts, she had reached her own apartment.

Throwing herself on the sofa, she burst into tears,
and while her face was buried in her hands, Helen
entered the room, and inquired, with the utmost
astonishment, what was the cause of her grief and
agitation.

This was a question somewhat difficult for her to
answer, as she was totally unacquainted with Clifton's
crime, if crime he had committed; and although she
could fully answer to her own conscience for her
treatment of De Lyle, yet it was less easy to explain
it satisfactorily to a third party.

Desiring Helen, therefore, to make her morning-calls
without her, she said she would explain the
nature and cause of her emotions on her return;
and her cousin, after a fruitless effort to induce Julia
to accompany her, proceeded to her carriage. As
she descended the stairs, De Lyle, who had remained
in the parlour for several minutes after Miss
Borrowdale's sudden exit, opened the door which
communicated with the hall, and was accosted by
Helen, who said,

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“Mr. De Lyle, you surely were not going to leave
the house without paying me the courtesy even of a
word, or at all events a silent bow.”

“Understanding that Miss Elwell was about
making her morning calls, I hesitated to inflict my
company on her, and intended to await a more opportune
moment, to pay my respects. In such cases
a gentleman's card is, I believe, more acceptable
than his presence,” replied De Lyle, laughingly.

“While he was delivering his ready reply, Helen
bethought her that his presence, in all probability,
was connected with the agitation of Julia; and
being deeply imbued with that curiosity which has
descended in an especial degree to the daughters of
Eve, she determined to elicit the facts, and therefore
said,

“Mr. De Lyle, my calls are not so urgent that I
cannot spare a few moments for a friend. Besides,
I want you to tell me what is going on in the world.
Positively, I have not mingled with the busy throng
for forty-eight hours, and am, of course, dying with
curiosity to know all the strange and tragical or
comical events that must have happened in that
time. Tell me, now, who is dead, who married; who
has committed suicide,—or who is likely to perform
either of these monstrosities within the next half-a-dozen
hours?”

“Why, Miss Elwell,” said De Lyle, who was
equally desirous to communicate what she wished to
learn, “neither of the unhappy circumstances that

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you speak of has occurred; but one of our unlucky
friends has involved himself in such a scrape. You
know Mr. Clifton, our confidential clerk, whom we
so highly esteemed—would you believe it? He was
last night arrested in a notorious gambling-house,
and proof was elicited which fully inculpated him as
one of the most guilty of the gang.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” said Helen; “some unsuccessful
rival has been decoying the poor fellow into
a hell, and then taken the opportunity to expose
him.” The sudden start of De Lyle at once flashed
conviction on her mind, of a truth that she had
scarcely before imagined, for her remark was the
result of a sudden desire to exculpate Clifton, whom
she admired, rather than of any well-defined idea
of his innocence.

Appearing, therefore, not to observe De Lyle's
agitation, she resumed, “I would at least fain think
that so exemplary and accomplished a young gentleman
as Clifton, was drawn into this difficulty,
originally, through inadvertence; if such is not
the case, why either the rope, laudanum, or a speedy
reformation is desirable.”

The conversation between the roué and his fair
and fashionable companion, lasted but for a few moments
after this development, as the lady ascertained
that she was in possession of all the facts, and De
Lyle had accomplished his purpose in communicating
Clifton's disgrace in a quarter whence it must

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reach the ears of Julia, before he could obtain an interview
and disabuse her mind.

As De Lyle left the house, he dwelt with no little
chagrin on the marked disgust with which his efforts
to inculpate our hero was received by Julia; but this
untoward circumstance increased his desire to ruin
Clifton, and thereby destroy the happiness of the
fair girl, if he could not induce her to favour his addresses.

The thoughts of Helen, also, rested on the
same subject; and when she was seated in the
carriage, her reflections caused a right interpretation
of De Lyle's embarrassment at her accidentally
alluding to the true causes of Clifton's arrest.

Yet to conceal from Julia her convictions on
this subject, she determined to relate all the circumstances
tending to criminate Clifton, without any
allusion to those which might exhibit the baseness
of De Lyle. This course she was induced
to pursue, not only in consequence of her being
piqued at the preference of our hero for her fair
cousin, but from a vague desire to attract him to
herself, and let him know that to her he was indebted
for his restoration to his former rank in
society.

“If he is indifferent to my regard,” she thought,
“let him float down the stream of time with the
brand of disgrace on his brow:—why should I
stretch out my hand to snatch him from ignominy,

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if I cannot thereby ensure his gratitude and devotion?”

While she was absorbed in these selfish reflections,
her carriage rolled along the pavement in
Broadway; and drawing up to the door of Stewart's
fancy store, she alighted among a crowd of
fashionably-dressed ladies, who were about examining
the rich array of silks and satins that was
displayed from every part of the extensive warehouse.

After Helen's departure, Julia pondered deeply on
the proper course to pursue towards her cousin, and
at length resolved ingenuously to inform her of
De Lyle's conduct, and the causes which prevented
her from awaiting the development. Accordingly,
on Helen's return, she related the circumstances
with which the reader is acquainted, adding, that
De Lyle's deportment so distinctly bore the character
of insolence, that she could not brook longer
parley with him. In return, Helen imparted the
particulars of Clifton's disgrace, leaving poor Julia
in the most agonizing state of astonishment and
sorrow.

When left to herself, the mind of the generous
girl at once acquitted Clifton of the crimes imputed
to him, notwithstanding the evident effort of her
cousin to impress her with a conviction of his
guilt.

“Helen neither knows nor appreciates the purity

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and elevation of his soul,” she said to herself, “or
she would not, for a moment, believe him unworthy.
Had she listened, as I have done, to his noble and
exalted sentiments, she would not retain her present
impressions.”

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CHAPTER XXIII.

FURTHER DISAPPOINTMENTS.—PLOTS, AND
THEIR CONSEQUENCES.

“The swains may in manners compare,
But their love is not equal to mine.”

Shenstone.

While Julia was anxiously awaiting Clifton's
appearance to explain the nature of the difficulties
into which he had fallen, he was occupied, as has
been seen, in perfecting the arrangements for a meeting
with Ellingbourne; but after the whole matter
had been placed in the charge of Shafton, his first
impulse led him to visit the residence of Miss Borrowdale,
and inform her of the true circumstances
connected with his unfortunate arrest. The reader
need scarcely be informed that her attendant had
rapidly improved in intrigue and deception under the
guidance of so able a teacher as De Lyle; and when
Clifton presented himself at the door, she boldly informed
him that Miss Borrowdale had been absent
for more than an hour, and that her visit would occupy
the whole of the morning. Profoundly regretting
the untoward circumstance which deprived him of
an early opportunity to vindicate himself with the

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lovely girl, he retired to his lodgings, and occupied
the time before the usual dinner hour in making
such memoranda as would be necessary if the meeting
with his antagonist should prove fatal to himself.
After the performance of this duty, he dwelt
with no little chagrin and mortification on the probability
of Julia's being informed of the circumstances
connected with his disgraceful arrest and public examination
while making her morning calls; and
the reflections attendant upon her apprehension of
such an event effectually overshadowed the feeble
ray of hope that had still gleamed around the prospect
before him.

Dinner disposed of, he again proceeded to the
dwelling of Mr. Elwell, and was certain that he observed
the form of Julia ascending the winding stairs
that communicated with the second story, as he
opened the hall door; but the treacherous attendant
again replied to his inquiries for Miss Borrowdale
that she was absent. Determined, if possible, to obtain
an interview, he gave the girl his card, which
he desired her to present to the lady, if she was in
the house, with his compliments, and say that he
solicited a moment's interview, on a subject of great
importance. This the girl affected to perform, but
returned, with the card, saying that Miss Borrowdale
was not at home.

Distracted with doubt and apprehension, he slowly
wended his way to his room, and, after a few moment's
reflection, determined to address a letter to

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Julia, avowing his innocence of the charges preferred
against him, and to ensure its safe delivery he
resolved to convey it himself to her residence.

In compliance with this resolve, he arranged his
writing materials, and indited the following epistle:

No.—, — street,
Saturday, Oct. —, 18—.

“Dear Miss Borrowdale,

“Why, oh why am I not permitted an interview
on which the whole happiness of my future life depends?
Can it be that the lovely and just being
whose partiality and goodness hesitated to chide my
presumption in tendering vows of love and fidelity,
has joined the censorious and heartless world in imputing
to me crimes at which my soul recoils? No,
no; it cannot be; and yet thrice have I called at
your residence without succeeding in obtaining an
audience; and when I made the last abortive effort
this afternoon, although your matchless form was
seen gliding from my sight, yet your servant stated
that you were not at home. How then am I to
account for this prostration of my dearest hopes?
Surely none of Mr. Elwell's family can bear me illwill,
for with none have I the pleasure of an acquaintance,
unless that might be termed such which was
caused by my introduction to Miss Helen through
yourself at Mrs. Rainsford's soirée. Alas, a sudden
light bursts on my vision, by whose glare I perceive
the unwelcome truth. The rival whose malice has

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wrought the meshes of the fatal web in which my
character is ensnared, has, by some cunningly-devised
fable, forced an unwilling conviction of my
baseness on your mind; or, what is more probable,
has so prejudiced your relatives that they have directed
the servant to deny me the happiness of personally
exculpating myself from the charges preferred
against me.

“But, my dear Miss Borrowdale, whatever may
have been the cause of my inability to pour into your
ear the story of my wrongs, let no tale that slander
may invent for a moment deprive me of your esteem—
I dare not say of your love. If I do not perfectly
convince you of my innocence, nay, if the world is
not wholly disabused of every impression derogatory
to the purity of my character, no selfish views will
ever induce me to solicit your favourable notice.
Think you that I could be sufficiently base to desire
to link so bright and glorious a being as yourself,
to the fortunes of one who carried on his brow
the foul brand of the world's contempt and scorn?
No, dearest of all earthly objects; the love I bear
you draws its inspiration from a source too pure and
holy to excite in my bosom a single impulse unworthy
of yourself.

“That I shall be enabled to meet you this evening,
is, I fear, improbable, although I must renew
the effort, and, if I fail, will leave this communication
with the servant to be given you. Dearest
lady, life is at best uncertain; and if by any

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untoward event we should never again meet in this
world, blessed be our Creator, there is another sphere
where neither jealousy, nor malice, nor envy can
disturb our happiness. Perhaps you may feel inclined
to smile at this melancholy foreboding, but
coming events cast their shadows before me, and it
is needless to deny that I am surrounded by perils,
from which, however, hope persuades me I shall
escape unscathed. If I do, you will soon hear from
me again; if not, accept the devotion of one who
owns no greater frailties than ordinarily fall to the
lot of erring mortals; the most unpardonable of which
is the presumption that induces him to declare himself

“Your devoted and constant lover,
Sydney Clifton.”

“To Miss Julia Borrowdale.”

After finishing and sealing his letter, Clifton again
directed his steps to the residence of Mr. Elwell, and
was met by Julia's maid, who, as usual, stated that
Miss Borrowdale was not at home; and as he gave
her the letter, with a particular request that it should
be delivered to the young lady in person and to none
other, the evident scorn which appeared in the curl
of her lip, and the half sneer with which she extended
her thumb and finger to receive it, were sufficient
evidence to convince Clifton that the busy tongue of
rumor had already wafted his disgrace to the ears of
Mr. Elwell's household.

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That his reflections connected with this subject,
and the hostile meeting with Ellingbourne, were
most unhappy, is true;—but even now hope whispered
that Julia was not aware of his exertions to
procure an interview, while the same smiling goddess
almost convinced him that he should not fall
by the bullet of his antagonist.

Shortly after Clifton's delivery of the letter to the
treacherous girl, an individual called at Mr. Elwell's
mansion and left another epistle, which was couched
in the following language:

New- Yorke,
Oct. 18—.

“Mis borodel,

“the riter of these lines happins to bee an unfortunit
yuth whu wuld hav bin onnist and industrus
if hee hadn't hav bin siddused bi bad cumpennee
and got intu scrapes in that are way. now the reesun
that i rite this is to tel yu as hou mister sidnee
Cliftin has bin usin yur name pruttee cunsidderablee,
up to the blak hoal, as wee cal it, whear wee pla
lew and wist, and rolet, not to say nothin about a
tuch of farrow, and so on. in this hear way, yu
sea, mister Sidnee clifton got us al inter trubble last
nite; for, ses hee, arter hee had drinked plentee of
shampane, slappin his phist on the tabel, ses hee,
dam the man as ses Julee borodel ain't the bootifoolest,
and the hansimest, and the charminist gal in al
york; hear, ses hees, hur helth, and ile cramm the
glas doun annee rascils throte what won't go the

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hoal bumpur. So, yu sea, one uf our larks ses, ses
hee, Mistir cliftin, yu can't stuf yur gals doun mi
throte, no hou yu can ficks it. ime a sutthern chap,
ses hee; so, stranngir, yur barkin up the rong tree.
yu think yuv got a grean horn; but mi iis, ses hee,
ime a rale missisipee roarer, tru grit to the bak boan.
i doan't car a curs for all yur Julees nor Julise. So,
yu sea, the fite wus in, and sum won called wach,
and the wach cum, and wee was al captivated like
innersint lams. nou i thot that yu shuld no hou
yur name was insultid, bein as hou ime told yu are
a nise yung ladee: so notthin moar at prissint, but
rimmains yurs til deth.

“Blak Bil.” Unlike its predecessor, which was retained for
other purposes by the treacherous servant, this classical
epistle reached its destination; but the object of
the writer was signally defeated, for the confiding
girl indignantly committed it to the flames immediately
after its perusal, perfectly assured in her own
mind that De Lyle was in some way connected with
a plot, of which this letter formed a part.
That she was correct in this conjecture, the reader,
no doubt, is prepared to believe; but if called on
for her reasons for her suspicions, they would probably
have appeared far from satisfactory to the uninitiated.

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CHAPTER XXIV.

REPENTANCE WITHOUT ABSOLUTION. AN ADIEU.



“No voice well known through many a day,
To speak the last, the parting word;
Which, when all other sounds decay,
Is still like distant music heard.”
MOORE

The boat which bore our hero and his second
from the scene of combat danced merrily over the
tranquil bosom of the noble Hudson, and to one
whose mind was un-oppressed with present or impending
calamity, the rapid and measured strokes
of the slender oars, which swayed almost to the form
of a semi-circle, under the strong pull of the boatmen;
the yo-heave-ho of the stevedores and riggers,
whose rude melody came blithely over the waters
from the quays of the busy city; the fleet of rivercraft,
of every form and size, that spread their
canvass to the breeze; the clouds of smoke that
ascended in spiral wreaths from the numerous
steam-vessels, whose promenade and quarter-decks
were crowded with passengers, and the clinking of
hammers from the foundries that are situated near

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the wharves, formed a combination well fitted to
awake an absorbing and delightful interest.

But to all these pleasant features of the scene,
Clifton was insensible; nor did the witticisms with
which his mercurial companion interlarded his conversation
serve to divert his thoughts from the agonizing
reflection that, however the world might
palliate the crime of which he was guilty, or custom
throw over it the mantle of false honour, his conscience
must for ever be oppressed with the conviction,
that unmitigated murder rested on his
soul.

“Away,” said he, mentally, “with the sophistries
of pride and hypocrisy:—to myself, at least, let me
acknowledge that I am neither more nor less than
a murderer! the base son of a guilty sire, I have
now but to consummate my guilt by the commission
of suicide, and the parallel between parent and offspring
will be perfect.”

Absorbed in these painful reflections, he scarcely
perceived that the boat had touched the wharf, until
his companion shouted in his ear:—

“Why, Clifton, what the devil ails you? You
certainly do not mean to float down the stream of
time in a craft three feet by fifteen, more or less?
Allons, allons. Let's be off in a whisk, as the
butcher said to the fly.”

On this sally, Clifton, without reply, leaped on the
wharf, and was met by De Lyle, who, having previously
ascertained where the party were to land,

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was in waiting to learn the result of the contest.
That the pleasure with which he received the information
of Ellingbourne's being dangerously
wounded was veiled by an artificial exhibition
of grief, may be readily inferred; but the eye of suspicion
would have detected the latent twinkle of
satisfaction playing on his countenance, as he reflected
that, if indelible ignominy was not now
stamped on his rival, he would, at least, be compelled
to fly the country, while Ellingbourne,
whom he feared, and therefore hated, and whose
services were no longer required, would, he fondly
hoped, be consigned to that grave whose secrets
would never, in this world, rise up in judgment
against him.

“This is indeed disastrous,” said De Lyle, after
Shafton had detailed the result of the contest,
“and will render Mr. Clifton's concealment absolutely
necessary. Although the beau monde good-naturedly
pronounces the death of a principal in an
affair of honour, justifiable, yet judges, and juries
composed of mechanics, and such like canàille, are
not so lenient; and although a halter might not be
the inevitable consequence of a trial and conviction,
still a long and tedious imprisonment would result,
which, I take for granted, our friend is far from
coveting. Under these circumstances, the question
arises, where are we to conceal Clifton until the issue
of this unfortunate business is known?”

Our hero's reflections had, before landing, almost

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determined him to await the result of his antagonist's
wound, and submit, voluntarily, to the ordeal
of a trial, if it proved fatal; but the love of life, and
the still, small voice of hope, which was not entirely
silenced in his breast, joined with the persuasions of
Shafton and De Lyle, induced him to reverse this
impolitic resolution.

“I know of no place of concealment,” he replied,
mournfully, “except in the house of my foster-parents.
Although it will break the hearts of this
kind couple, to whom I am so deeply indebted, yet,
as they must finally become acquainted with the
facts, it will perhaps be better for me to communicate
them in person. I will therefore proceed to their
residence, and await your decision as to my future
course, should Mr. Ellingbourne not survive.”

Thus saying, Clifton slowly directed his steps to
his temporary asylum, while De Lyle and Shafton
repaired to Ellingbourne's lodgings, to which
they presumed he would be conveyed, in any event.

That the excellent and amiable lady to whom
Clifton was indebted for the perfection of those moral
impressions which were early instilled in his mind,
was deeply grieved at the unhappy position in which
he was placed by the indulgence of his constitutional
rashness, will be readily imagined; but as
reproof and regret were alike unavailing, she, with
that firmness, affection, and prudence, which were
so happily blended in her character, at once proceeded
to provide for the necessities of our hero,

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should he be compelled to seek refuge in a foreign
clime. For this purpose, she immediately despatched
a messenger for her husband, who, in compliance
with her request, conveyed the travelling trunk of
Clifton, and such portion of his wardrobe as was requisite,
from his boarding-house to their residence,
and in an hour from that period, the industry of
Mrs. Clifton had provided every necessary and even
luxury that could be required, for a sea-voyage.

During the progress of these preparations, Clifton
continued to pace the floor in a state of mind that
may be conceived but not portrayed: and the echo
of every foot-fall that was heard near the door of
his temporary abode, was listened to with intense
anxiety, in the expectation of receiving the fatal intelligence
of his opponent's death.

It was about the hour of mid-day that De Lyle
entered the room with the sad information, that although
Ellingbourne was still living, it was next to
impossible that he could survive the day. He also
informed him, that Shafton and himself had procured
a passage for him on board a vessel then lying
in the stream, and bound for Liverpool, which would
sail early on the following morning; stating, that
he had imparted to the captain, in confidence, (who
was his particular friend,) the true cause of Clifton's
departure, and that the captain had promised to use
his best exertions to ensure his safety.

De Lyle then left, after advising our hero to be
ready at a moment's warning, as he would, during

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the afternoon, call with a carriage to convey him to
the ship's boat, which would be in waiting at the
wharf to receive him.

On the receipt of this melancholy information,
Clifton immediately addressed the following brief
letter to his adored Julia.

Chapter 24

Saturday, 2 P. M.
“My dear, lost Julia,

“How can I convey the sad intelligence of an
event which has shipwrecked every hope connected
with you and happiness? Briefly, then:—in a
fatal hour I consented to a hostile meeting with Mr.
Julius Ellingbourne this morning, and the result is,
that my antagonist at this moment lies mortally
wounded at his lodgings, in the Astor House. That
I am in the toils of a most foul and deep-laid conspiracy
against my character; that this rash meeting
has, in its consequences, severed every hope I
might otherwise have entertained of exculpating
myself in the opinion of the world; that I have
been goaded on by some fiend or fiends in human
shape, who have too successfully accomplished my
ruin: and that life will, hereafter, be a curse rather
than a blessing, are truths which admit not of denial,
but will never, I fear, be susceptible of satisfactory
explanation. Farewell, then, my life, my love;
a long, a last farewell.

“My intention was to recommend you to forget
that such a wretch as myself ever crossed your path;

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but my hand refuses to trace the sentence, and my
too selfish heart hesitates to resign the fond wish,
that although for ever separated from your presence,
I may still continue to live in your recollection.

“Dearest, dearest lady, receive the last adieu of
your once happy lover,

Sydney Clifton.”

“To Miss Julia Borrowdale.”

Having finished this epistle, Clifton despatched it
by his foster-father, with instructions if possible to deliver
it into the hands of the person to whom it was
addressed.

On arriving at Mr. Elwell's door, Miss Helen was
descending to the hall, and presuming, from the description,
that she was the person he sought, the
elder Clifton placed it in her hands, and after learning
from the lady that it was rightly delivered, he
left the house. Helen, on receiving the letter, repaired
to her room, and locking the door, pondered
deeply on the course she should pursue; and after
quieting her conscience with the hypocritical reflection
that she was securing Julia's happiness by exercising
a supervision over her correspondence with so
dangerous a person as Clifton, she broke the seal
and eagerly perused the contents of the billet.

Ascertaining that it afforded no clew either to the
writer's innocence or De Lyle's agency in defaming
his character, while it evidently favoured the conclusion
that Ellingbourne was his rival and

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slanderer, she re-sealed the letter and handed it to the servant
for Miss Borrowdale. Julia with no little trepidation
devoured its contents; and on realizing its
full import, swooned on the sofa on which she was
reclining, but, fortunately, recovered consciousness
before any person entered the room.

Her first impressions were, on reviving, that her
lover, by his own acknowledgment, was unworthy
of her regard; but, on again perusing the letter, his
solemn asseveration that he was the victim of an
odious conspiracy, satisfied her that the only crime
of which he was guilty was the death of Ellingbourne,
which, although in her estimation a grievous
offence against his fellow-man, yet, by the pernicious
customs of society, the meeting, she was
aware, could not have been declined, except at the
hazard of his being discarded from every respectable
and fashionable circle. The more she reflected on
the subject, the less did she blame her lover for his
rashness, and before the dinner hour arrived her love
had so far warped her judgment that it is questionable
whether, if our hero had stood in her presence,
she would not have pronounced her forgiveness of
all past offences, had the culprit promised reformation.

Near the hour of five o'clock De Lyle and Shafton
called at Clifton's temporary retreat in a carriage,
and the former handed him an evening paper, in
which he read the following paragraph:

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Fatal Encounter.—Our readers will recollect
the article published in our yesterday's edition, headed
`Police Court—Capture extraordinary,' in
which the arrest and examination of a knot of gamblers
were stated, together with the fact that two
citizens, hitherto considered respectable, one a clerk
in an extensive mercantile establishment, and the
other a gentleman of fashion, were implicated. Although,
on that occasion, we were induced to suppress
the names of the parties, from respect to the
feelings of their friends, yet so public has the exposure
become, in consequence of the events which
have this morning transpired, that further concealment
is neither possible nor expedient. It is therefore
our duty, as public journalists, to state that the
person first alluded to is Mr. Sydney Clifton, a confidential
clerk in the counting-room of Messrs. De
Lyle, Howard & Co., and that Julius Ellingbourne,
Esquire, a gentleman so well and favourably known
in the fashionable world, is the latter. It now appears
that circumstances connected with the arrest
of the parties led to a hostile meeting at Hoboken,
early this morning, when Mr. Ellingbourne received
the ball of Clifton in his side, near the region of the
heart. From the extremely dangerous character of
the wound, it is not expected that the life of Mr.
Ellingbourne will be protracted many hours. Thus
the vice of gaming, in which this young man

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indulged, has at length been followed by the commission
of murder! What a warning does this fact
convey to the youth of our city to abstain from the
incipient stages of dissipation, in whose fatal vortex
honour, integrity, and even life, are frequently ingulfed.”

“SECOND POSTCRIPT!—4 P.M.

“We now learn, from the best authority, that the
wealthy and accomplished Mr. Ellingbourne has
this moment breathed his last. `Sic transit gloria
mundi!
' ”

On perusing this fatal intelligence, Clifton, with a
heavy heart bade adieu to his kind foster parents,
and was soon seated in the cabin of the ship that
was to convey him to an asylum on the shores of
Europe.

END OF VOLUME I.

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Fay, Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick), 1807-1898 [1839], Sydney Clifton, or, Vicissitudes in both hemispheres: a tale of the nineteenth century, volume 1 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf097v1].
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