Ingraham, J. H. (Joseph Holt), 1809-1860 [1845], Harry Harefoot, or, The three temptations: a story of city senses (H. L. Williams, Boston) [word count] [eaf182].
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Front matter
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HARRY HAREFOOT. BY J. H. INGRAHAM. CHAPTER 1.
A Fog-bank in August—the `Trader'—the Shipper
and his Crew—`Parson Peart—Billy Biddle
and his shipmate Seth Pinkham—Porpoises—
a Kennebec Merchant—sketch of Passengers—
a probable Heroing and two possible Heroe—Peril
and Escape—the Light-house—the Scenery of
the Mist—the Fog-Lifts—the scene around the
Voyagers—arrival at T. Wharf—entrance into
the City—arrival at the N. E. Coffee House.
Our story opens on one of those singularly beautiful
mornings which the coast of New-England
presents in the month of August, when the fogs,
having for some time resisted the unclouded splendor
of the sun's rays, begin to lift and break, and
roll seaward in majestic volumes, ascending as
they move, until they rest in the calm blue bosom
of heaven.
It was on such a morning in August, 182—, before
steamboats had taken the place of packetsloops,
that a `Kennebec trader' lay off the harbor
of Boston, completely enveloped in a fogbank.
She was a pretty-painted sloop, and carried,
in addition to her huge mainsail and wide
jib, a flying topsail, while at her mast-head hung
a green flag, which, when, at intervals, it was
spread out by the light east wind, showed the
name `Aurora' displayed conspicuously in red
letters on a yellow ground. The fog was so dense,
that no object could have been seen twice the
sloop's length. A slight wind just rippled the
surface of the slow-heaving ground-swell, on
which the sloop rocked with a flapping mainsail
and rattling blocks. On her deek was a cargo of
staves and new barrels, piled to the fifth rattling
of her shrouds. On the top of this load was perched
a little black caboose, at which an old negro was
cooking breakfast, and from which the fumes of
fried pork and potatoes floated astern with the
abundant smoke, affording to the skipper at the
helm a grateful precursor of what was to come.—
A space on the quarter deck round the companion
way had been left clear for the better accommodation,
when on deck, of sundry passengers which
the skipper had taken in at Bath and Augusta,
towns on the Kennebec river, whence, three
days before, he had taken his daparture, bound
for Boston. As yet, none of them had made their
appearance from the cabin. The skipper in his
narrow-brimmed chip hat, fastened by a lanyard
to the button-hole of a tarry roundabout, his horny
sunbrowned hand, grasping the carved knob of
the crooked necked tiller, stood with one eye
shut and the other half-a-peep, peering through
the fog, his hand hollowed back of his left ear,
listening for surge shore ward, or the noise of any
vessel that might chance to be in his vicinity.—
Forward were gathered his crew, consisting of
Parson Pearl the cook, who had in his better days
`held forth' at camp-meetings—an old, grey-headed,
good-natured, rum-loving negro, who
like all old blacks, had been a servant of `massa
Washington.' A blue greasy cotton cap, which
served him in divers capacities in his office of
cook, was stuck on to the top of his grizzly locks,
save when he took it off to rub the coat of a potatoe,
wipe a knife, clean out a cup, or fan his coals
into a flame. A long-tailed blue, marvellously
torn and patched, and of a fashion ten years gone,
graced his back, while a pair of breeches that had
belonged to an antiquated medical gentleman,
whom he had once lived with in the village from
whence the sloop sailed, encased his legs; for the
calves of which, nature herself furnished a pair
of shining black hose.
With a grave and solemn visage, such as became
the important business in which he was engaged,
that of cutting potatoes into thin slices
for frying, Parson Pearl sat in the midst of his cloud
of smoke, feeling all the responsibility of his position.
Lolling over the windlass, listlessly watching
him, were a man about twenty-eight years
old and a half-grown boy—the sloop's crew. The
elder was a slop-sided, lank-looking Kennebecker,
with long straight hair pulled down over his eyes,
a quid of tobacco in his cheek, a rusty belt top
stuck upon the back of his head, and who rejoiced
in the name of Seth Pinkham 3d, The other was
a thick, short, white headed varlet, with a fat face
and round belly, and a twinkling blue eye full of
mischief. He was dressed in full canvass trowsers,
blue shirt, and black scarf loosely knotted
about his neck, wore white socks, and pumps;
and sported a ring on his little finger. The hair
on each temple was twisted with a long corkscrew
curl, which he was fond of playing with, and
always admiring with great self complaceney.—
He was a regular lad-seaman in his appearance
and dress, and a foul anchor imprinted with India
ink into his wrist, and the initials of some lass
ashore done upon his fair white neck, rendered
visible by the gaping of his shirt bosom, showed
that he was a true `salt' in embryo. Billy Biddle—
for such was his name—had been at sea two
voyages to Europe, and was now working his
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passage up to Boston, after a short visit to his mother
at Hallowell, to ship again on a foreign voyage.
Slowly the sloop glided through the mist in
which she was enveloped. At intervals, the blue
sky could be seen overhead, but the fog lay
upon the water impenetrable. The skipper, old
captain Ansel Nye, in vain looked and listened,
while cautiously and auxiously he let his little
sloop move steadily onward. His compass told
him that he was going westward, and he knew by
his running that he must be up with the `Graves,'
or very near them. So he stood on, depending
more upon his ear than upon his eye.
`Don't you hear breakers, Mr. Pinkham?' he
suddenly asked with anxiety.
`It's the Parson's pertaters a-sizzlin,' sir, said
Bill, before Seth could uncoil his tongue.
`Now dem's a nation slander o' Bill's, massa
skipper,' responded Pearl from his caboose—taking
off his blue cotton cap and wiping the perspiration
from his forehead; `I'se nebber fry pataty
vot sizzle so leetle. Real kennebecker wegetable,
and no water in em. You lie, white boy, you
tell skipper nigger's fryin pan sizzle like de
breaker! It am de breaker, mas' skipper, I hear
`um!' and old Pearl stuck a tin pot against his ear
to catch the sound. `He break dar' or nigger nebber
know what breaker am.'
`I guess there's sumthin or nuther, captain,'
said Seth; `there's a mighty noise away here;
and Mr. Pinkham stretched forth his arm and
pointed in a direction two points off the starboard
bow.
`That's where I thought I heard it. Hark! it
is a plain surging of the sea! we are coming near
breakers!'
`It's a porpoise blowing,' said Bill; `hear him
now!'
All listened; and the noise coming nearer and
clearer, the skipper was satisfied that it was a
shoal of porpoises; the next moment they were
heard close at hand, blowing and floundering,
and all at once they made their appearance, coming
out of the fog within a few fathoms of the
sloop, and making directly across her bows! As
they floundered past with loud blowing, and a
tumultuous dashing of the waves, the passengers
rushed on deck with great alarm visible on their
countenances, only in time to discover the black
dorsal fin and round shining back of the last one
of the train disappearing in the mist to leeward.
`Bless us! what was that, captain?' cried a
portly country gentleman in his shirt sleeves, his
coat on his arm, one boot on his foot and the other
in his hand.
`Old Neptune, sir,' said Billy pertly, `come to
tell old Pearl he should call for him this time next
year.'
`Debill cotch you, youngster, `fore massa Nep'
come for trouble ole nigger,' said Pearl, retorting;
`it be a scool ob sea-hog, massa Harefoot,'
he added, replying in a respectful tone to the
alarmed gentleman with a coat on his arm.
`A sea-hog!' repeated the country merchant;
`I have heard of sea-lawyers, but never that I remember
of sea-hogs.'
`The Parson means porpoises,' said the skipper,
his weather-beaten visage slightly relaxing
with a smile.
`Oh, ah! porpoises. I thought we might have
encountered a whale. It was a terrible noise, captain,
hey? You seamen have a perilous profession.
For my part, I shall be glad when I get to
the end of this voyage. Nothing, but to see my
son safely in a store in Boston would have brought
me up in a vessel; but the route by stage for two
is so expensive. Dear me! well, I am glad it is
no worse! Why, what a fog! How can you see
to steer? Where are we?' inquired the inquisitive
and very much perplexed Mr. Harefoot.
`Near the Graves,' answered the skipper.
`Near our graves! Good heavens, Captain
Nye!' exclaimed the portly gentleman, hastily
drawing on his other boot; `how can you talk so
coolly? Is there no way of escape?'
The skipper then briefly explained that the graves
he meant were a reef of rocks, so called from Admiral
Graves, who there lost one of his ships.
This explanation greatly relieved the apprehensions
of the portly gentleman, who, learning that
they were in no imminent danger, began to inspect
the operations of Parson Pearl, and to inhale
with peculiar gratification the savoury odor that
floated aft.
In a few minutes the rest of the passengers were
dressed and on deck, and Pearl went below to clear
up and set the table for breakfast. Besides Mr.
Harefoot, who was a respectable merchant in the
town of Augusta, there were four other passengers.
One of these was his son, a good-looking,
if not handsome youth of seventeen, dressed for
shore, in a new olive coat, cut exceeding short in
the waist, with a high cotton-velvet collar; a garment
made by the Kennebec tailor with an eye to
its being sported in Washington street, and therefore
was in the best fashion known to him; blue
silk vest with gilt buttons, a blue cravat, and pantaloons
off the same piece with his coat, with a
narrow, high crowned, long furred hat, completed
his costume; which for the region from whence
he came was a very dandish one, and therefore
had not been mounted until this morning, with
the prospect of soon being in Boston, where its
merits could be appreciated. His father had kept
him at the `Hook' Academy with Preceptor
Green till he though; him fitted to place in a
store, for which end he was now conducting him
up to Boston; his greatest ambition being to see
his son one day a great Boston merchant. Henry
Harefoot was a youth of good habits, and, save a
fondness for dress and judging of others too much
by what they had on, he had as few faults as could
be expected in a boy just from school. His father
was a worldly-minded man, and only looked to
his boy's getting rich; but his mother had a high
sense of parental responsibility, and therefore,
educated her son religiously, and impressed upon
his expanding mind moral and religious truth.
Henry, therefore, grew up a conscientious boy;
and at this time an oath, a lie, a vulgar and indecent
word, were strangers to his tongue. He had
naturally a good mind, which he had cultivated
by reading, of which he was extravagantly fond;
his sensibilities were quick, his heart generous,
and his disposition social: in fine, he possessed
at the time we introduce him to the reader on his
passage to Boston, all the elements of a good and
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useful if not eminent man. He looked forward
to his visit to Boston and his residence there as
apprentice (or `clerk,' as it is termed in courtesy,)
to some merchant, with emotions of pleasure
and hopes that gilded all the future.
Another of the passengers was a plain, respectable-looking
man, with his son and daughter;
the former a youth about the age of Henry Harefoot,
and the sister about a year and a half younger.
Mr. Wentworth, the father, was a hatter, and
had quite a large establishment, which brought
him in a comfortable income; but as he had a
large family of children, he was under the necessity,
to do justice to all, to place them, as they became
old enough, in some employment. He had
already three sons bound out to different trades,
and a daughter keeping school. He was now
taking the two with him to find situations for
them; for Pierce with some respectable master
carpenter, and for Isabel with a lady-like milliner
who had formerly lived in Augusta, and whom he
knew very well. Pierce was an intelligent looking
youth, with a pleasing expression when he
spoke, and an air of frankness that was prepossessing
and invited confidence. He was dressed
in a plain suit of blue cassimere, coarse but neat,
and perfectly fitting his fine form. His sister was
a pretty, laughing-eyed brunette, of that soft,
olive tint rarely found in New England and supposed
peculiar to Louisiana. Her form was just
developing, and already foretold the ripe loveliness
mature womanhood would unfold. She was
a beautiful child of nature, all too guileless to be
trusted from beneath a guardian father's eye or
far removed from a protecting mother's arm.
The remaining passenger was Mr. George
Washington St. John Leighton, a young man
just from Bowdoin College, returning to his father,
who was a distiller in Boston, his diplomaed
head filled with Latin and fluxions, his fingers
loaded with rings, a silver watch in his fob, and
a proud opinion of his own importance prevading
his soul. During the passage, scarcely had he
deigned to unbend himself save to Isabel Wentworth,
whom he annoyed by his gaze and disgusted
by his barefaced flattery.
Such were the passengers and crew of the sloop
`Aurora' as she lay off Boston Harbor waiting
for the fog to lift; and as some of them may make
their appearance hereafter in our story, we have
been thus particular in naming them.
`Does the mist lift any, Captain?' asked Mr.
Wentworth, as they stood on deck, looking ahead
into the fog.
`Not that I perceive,' answered the skipper,
looking above and around him.
Silently they glided on for a few minutes, when
they were startled by the sharp rattling of blocks
at a short distance from them in the fog to windward,
the creaking and chafing of yards, and a
low rippling sound, as if a vessel was passing
through the water. Quicker than thought the
skipper put the helm hard up, sprung to the main
sheet and let it go, and at the top of his lungs,
shouted,
`Luff, luff, or you'll be aboard. Cast off that
jib sheet, Mr. Pinkham,' and then with his eyes
fixed to windward with anxious apprehension,
the skipper put his vessel off free.
`Luff it is,' had instantly and startingly been
returned through the fog; and the swaying of
yards and the drawing of cordage was heard; and
the next instant, moving like a speetre ship
through the mist, a stately brig glided astern to
leeward, and vanished scarcely ere she was seen
Every eye was turned upon the spirit-like structure—
every heart ceased beating with suspense,
till the imminent danger disappeared with her.
`That was a narrow escape, captain,' said the
portly passenger, drawing in a long breath and
emitting it again with great relief; `if he had
struck us we should have gone to the bottom.'
The skipper made no reply—his ear was intent
on catching some sound ahead. Suddenly old
Pearl, who was conveying the breakfast from his
caboose to the cabin, uttered an exclamation of
surprise, dropped a plate of fried onions upon the
barrels over which he was walking, and pointing
upward, cried,
`Got a' massy, mas' Skipper, look dar.'
The skipper's eye followed the upward direction
of the astounded African's, and to his astonishment
he beheld, almost over the mast head,
towering high in air, the black cap of the light-house,
like the giant of the mist.
`Ready about,' he shouted; and the sloop,
obeying her helm, turned her bowsprit aside from
the cliff, which now appeared close ahead lifting
its rocky battlements, black and fearful, high in
the air, and just in time to save herself. With
glad emotions, the passengers as well as the skipper
watched the light-house, which had shot
itself high above the fog, once more received into
its bosom.
This imminent danger had not been without its
advantage, by giving the skipper accurate knowledge
of his situation; and he now felt that he
could lay his course into port without having any
thing to apprehend but the danger of falling foul
of other vessels.
As the sun got more power the mist became
lighter, and removed at a farther distance from
the sloop, which, having cleared the light-house
point, was gliding easily along before a gentle
wind, steered by compass and ear. After they
had breakfasted and come on deck, the passengers
were surprised to see that the sun-rays penetrating
through a clear space above, had created
two brilliant rainbows in the mist off either bow
While Isabel Wentworth was admiring their evervarying
beauty, the fog as if by magic fell down
upon the sea, reaching only the tops of numerous
islands, and the upper masts and sails of many
vessels all around them. Never had she seen a
sight so strange and beautiful. The thick silvery
fog lay upon the top of the water about ten feet
in height from its surface, which was but a little
below her eye, appearing like that of a superincumbent
ocean, gently undulating as the real
ocean heaved underneath. The sun shining upon
it gave it life and beauty, and the vessels, every
where seen sailing through it, seemed half-foundered
yet still moving, all presenting a most singular
appearance. Here was a sail boat so low
buried that its little red penant was visible skipping
along the top of the mist like some living
creature inhabiting this new element; there a
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ship, visible only to her hull appeared like three
stately masts walking the sea. The islands
seemed to float, and all presented new and strange
forms to the mariner's eye, and forms of grace
and beauty to all.
This beautiful picture lasted but a few minutes.
The wind came in from seaward and soon
this misty ocean heaved and oplifted itself, parted
in vast mssses, opening between vistas to the
land and the sea, and gradually retiring unveiled
islands, fleets, and fortresses, with the far off city
and its hundred towers! Soon the last lingering
cloud-wreath had left the top of the loftiest island,
and what was a short time before reposing
on the sea, the ocean's veil which the fiery sun
had so long striven to lift, was now sailing the
mid sky in troops of fleecy clouds or suspended
in majestic drapery along the horizon.
The scene that the lifting of the misty curtain
presented to the eyes of the voyagers was beautiful
beyond imagination. Green islands adorned
with villas, or crowned with fortresses or smooth
and verdant like a well kept lawn, rose on every
side softening as they receded in the distance and
blended with the blue sky or bluer sea. Before
them a league distant towered the city of Boston,
the stately queen of the fair empire of isle and
ocean, a dome for her coronet, her sceptre a hundred
glittering spires, a sparkling belt of waters
her girdle and her seat a tri-pillard throne.
As our young voyagers approached the metropolis
of New England they seemed to want a hundred
eyes to view the thousand ever changing
objects that continually presented themselves.
The neat snow white castle Independence with
its green glacis and black cannon mounted in the
gaping embrasures; the frowning fortress on the
opposite island; the heights of Dorehester associated
with such stirring revolutionary incidents
on one hand and Bunker Hill with its thrilling
story of deadly struggle on the other, were objects
of deep interest. All that they had read of
Boston and its environs in the history of their native
land now rushed upon their faithful memories,
and to their warm and fresh vision every
scene was living and glowing with the life of the
past. Henry gazed in silence and deep joyful
emotion that at intervals found its vent in an exclamation.
Pierce Wentworth, while he enjoyed
the view, explained to his listening sister every
scene as one after the other they were pointed
out to him by his father. Mr. Harefoot was too
busy shaving and sprucing up, to make a good appearance
in the city before the Boston merchants,
of whom he four times a year bought his goods, to
come on deck to look at the magnificent panorama
through which they were moving, and Henry had
to get his information from the skipper or old
Pearl who very cheerfully and with great pride
pointed out to him the several objects of interest.
Harry might have learned from Mr. Wentworth
if he had chosen; but, let it be mentioned here
that in Augusta there were two castes of society;
regulated by the merchants, lawyers, doctors,
elergymen and idle rich people, of which they
constituted themselves in the first; and mechanies,
captains of vessels and poor useful men in the
second. In the first caste Mr. Harefoot and wife
included themselves, and in the second they placed
Mr. Wentworth because he was a hatter;
though Mr. Wentworth placed himself no where
but in the class of useful citizens and honest men.
In these errors of society children early imitate
their parents; and thus, although the sons of both
gentlemen had for many years been school-mates
they had never been intimate play-mates. When
thrown together they were always civil to each
other, for Pierce had no feeling like that instilled
into Harry's bosom, and Harry was too good-natured
and social to treat any one with rudeness.
On the present passage they had been much
thrown together and dependent on each other for
amusements to pass the time; and this dependence
on Harry's side had thawed much of his
pride of caste. He could not, however, altogether
forget that while he was to be a merchant's
clerk in Boston, Pierce was to learn a trade. The
reflection did not influence his conduct materially
until this morning when their near approach to
their port of destination began to throw Harry
back upon his pride of caste, for he began very
weakly to reflect that it would not become him
to keep up the acquaintance of a mechanic's apprentice
in Boston, and that if he did not wish
to be mortified by such a companion he ought to
begin to show Pierce that he did not intend their
intimacy should last longer than the circumatances
which brought them together. He, therefore,
after dressing himself up in his short waisted olive
with the velvet collar and pantaloons to match,
his sky blue vest, and azure cravat, began to look
juvenile dignity, to love his own society or covet
that of the smart collegian. Pierce discovered
and well understood the cause of his school-fellow's
change of manuer, and while he smiled inwardly
he felt his own moral superiority. Therefore
it was, that, when they approached the city,
Harry preferred asking information from Pason
Pearl to deriving it from a source which might
invade his personal dignity, or give encouragement
to Pierce for further intimacy. This feeling
was the result of erroneous education and belonged
rather to his head than his heart, which
was kindly disposed to all around him; he was
rather the victim than the subject of contempt
which it naturally might create in the minds of
others. While he withdrew from Pierce's companionship
he would have leaped into the water
to save his life or have done him any tree and generous
service of what he stood in need. But to
take his arm and walk in the streets of Boston
with him, he had not moral courage to do it.
As the sloop came up towards the town, the
vast tiers of shipping lining the wharves; the extensive
massive blocks that stretched along them;
the height and extent of the ranges of stores; the
crowded and bustling piers; the huge ships of
war at anchor in the stieam, and the water peopled
with boats clustering in all directions, filled
their minds with wonder and novel pleasure;
while, as they came nearer, the cries and mingled
voices of men, the roar of wheels upon the
paved streets, and the confused noises of a great
sea-port, struck them with awe. It seemed a
new world upon which they had just entered—a
new planet at which they had arrived; and,
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certainly, the contrast between the quiet, pleasant
river-town they had left three days before, and
the scene around them, could scarce be greater
if they had landed in the moon instead of in Boston
Bay.
Now drew near the scenes and moments of greatest
excitement. The sloop wound her way with lessening
sail to the end of Long wharf and passing
its head steered under her jib, only, between the
constantly moving craft, up the dock and came
close in to an angle of a jutting pier, which, from
its shape is called the T. When within a few
yards of the wharf the jib was hauled down, a
line was thrown ashore by the long arm of Seth
Pinkham and fastened to a ring by an idler on the
pier, and in a few minutes the sloop Aurora was
warped up to her station among the Kennebec
packets. So impatient had Henry been to get
ashore that it was with difficulty he could restrain
himself from leaping on board more than one vessel
lying at the wharves which the sloop grazed
ere she reached her pier. The preparations for
going on shore had all been previously made, and
there was now but little delay as the most impatient
could wish..
`I suppose you will stop a few days in the city,
Mr. Wentworth, and so we shall meet, I dare say,'
said Mr. Harefoot, with a certain high air he always
puts on with his best coat, and wore especially
when in Boston; and the portly merchant
buttoned another button of his coat, settled his
hat and put his foot cautiously on the plank to
leave the vessel.
`Yes I daresay,' said the hatter, dryly.
`Well, good day, sir,' added the merchant,
`good morning, Captain! I will see you to-morrow
at Dana's store, and tell you what freight I
shall want you to take. Let Pearl take Henry's
trunk and mine up to Merriam a Coffee House.
Come Henry.'
Harry needed no urging. He lingered a moment
to shake hands with the skipper, nod at
Pearl, and give him ninepence, smile and how at
Pierce and his sister, and the next moment he
was by his father's side, his head perfectly bewildered
and overrun with the novelty of all he saw;
and the idea that he was to make Boston his residence
filled his bosom with a sortof wild ecstacy,
under the impulse of which he went almost
leaping and bounding up the broken plank side-walk
that was then placed in front of the stores
on Long wharf. To the wharf itself he thought
there would never be an end. Atlength they got
to its termination, rather its beginning at the foot
of State street. Here the beauty and imposing
character of the edifices filled our hero with
amazement. Turning into Kilby street, they at
last reached the Coffee House on the corner of
Milk street, a hotel I in that day much resorted to
by merchants from `Down East.'
Mr. Harefoot, who with parental solicitude had
in vain insisted that Harry should take hold of
his hand in coming through the streets, lest he
should get lost, entered the hotel leading him by
the arm. Seeing the host in the hall he cleared
his throat and putting on his best Boston air, said
in his usually pompous and now hillarious tone,
`Ah, Merriam, how do you do? how do-do?'
and going up to the portly landlord, the convexities
of their respective abdomens just came in contact
as they shook hands, like two huge demijohns
placed together. `Here's my son, sir! My
second son! Speak to him, Henry! This is Mr.
Merriam the landlord! I have brought him up
to put him in a store in Washington street! Do
you know of any vacancies.
`Plenty, plenty,' answered Boniface, with a
good natured look; `well I'm glad to see you.
Come in! Here Mr. Laugley give Major Harefoot
a room with two beds in it.'
`No—no—Henry can sleep with me,' said the
economical merchant, hoping the charge would
thereby be less; when the landlord guessing his
object, said,
`Beds plenty—charge no more! Give 'em No.
forty three. Any baggage, Mr. Harefoot?'
`It will be here soon, a valise and Harry's
trunk,' answered the portly merchant wining the
sweat of his long walk from his face and calling
for a glass of cider.
Before dinner, Pearl had safely delivered his
baggage and received a four-pence ha penny
therefore from Mr. Harefoot who had searched
in vain for a five cent piece to give him and so
save the one and a quarter cents. Harry blushed
at his father's poor remuneration and gave him a
nine-peace out of his three dollars and a quarter,
the only pocket money he had; for this extravagance
his father gave him a serious lecture, which
was broken off only by the dinner bell; and as
Mr. Harefoot loved to eat as well as to give his
children advice, he bade Henry follow him down
to the dining room. In the hall they met a Boston
merchant, an extensive apple speculator who
lodged in bachelor rooms at the `Exchange
Coffee House.' He called to see Mr. Harefoot,
who exported a great many apples from Kennebec
every year, to enter upon the preliminaries for a
cargo, and insisted on himself and his son dining
with him at two o'clock at his hotel.
Mr. Wentworth entworth and his son and daughter went
to a private boarding house in Brattle street,
Pierce carrying his own trunk and Isabel and her
father walking before arm in arm. Now having
placed our characters on the theatre of action we
will leave them for another chapter.
CHAPTER II.
Harry dines at the Exchange—Evinces his fondness
for soup—A new mode of carving pigeons
or a waiter not a waiter—Our hero despairs of
knowing how to dine—Watches his neighbors—
Finds out the use of his Champaigne glass and
proves himself a judge of good cider—A fraternal
lecture—A walk about Boston—The Wentworth's
and a father's advice to a son—The milliner
and her apprentice—The housewright and
his shop—Pierce's master—Harry takes tea out—
His father's mode of getting him a place,
which they prepare to put into execution.
The size of the hall, at the Exchange which
was then the `Tremont of the city; the great
length of the table; the numerous dishes with
which it was filled; the number of the guests and
the noise and confusion caused by the removing
of plates, the rattling of knives, and running to
and fro of the attendants, filled Harry Harefoot's
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mind with surprise. He took a seat beside his
father, who from the lowness of his birth and of
his condition had been unused to the usages of
good society, until he had made money himself,
and forced himself into it, and was proportionable
solicitous of being thought perfectly well-bred
and au fait in all matters appertaining to the table.
Conscious of the meagre style of his own living
at home he knew that Harry had had few opportunities
of learning from experience how to behave;
and as he would have been extremely mortified
at any blunder he might make as reflecting
upon himself he undertook to watch him and give
him an occasional hint much to the annoyance of
the youth, who ignorant of the ordeal he had to
pass through, felt that his common sense would
be a sufficient guide to keep him from exposing
himself.
`Stop Henry,' said the anxious merchant as
our hero handed his plate a second time for soup,
innocently supposing he was to make his dinner
of it, being unaccustomed to more than one dish
at home; `stop my son,' whispered the astounded
parent, with a crimsoned forehead and pinching
him in the side, `never ask twice for soup.
It is vulgar and folks will think you have never
had any bringing up.'
Harry put down his soup-plate in consternation,
for he was keenly sensitive. Seeing opposite
to him a potted pigeon, he mustered courage
to stick his fork into it, and was about to
transfer it to his emptied soup-plate, from the
habit of never being allowed to change his plate
at his father's table, when the confused parent
caught his hand and gently disengaged it leaving
the fork stuck in the pigeon.
`Here, waiter,' said the mortified Mr. Harefoot
looking both red and blue, `take this soup-plate
away! There's your clean plate turned upside
down under it,' he growled. `Now if you want
a piece of pigeon don't take a whole one, but call
a waiter to carve it.'
`Yes sir,' said Harry, blushing at the idea of
having done any thing to render himself ridiculous,
and in so new a position, perfectly at a loss
how to act. He was resolved however to have a
piece of the potted pigeon, and his father being
at this moment asked by his neighbor the speculator,
the price of winter apples per barrel, he
obediently followed his directions, and seeing
standing near him the same respectable looking
man who had taken away his soup-plate he caught
his eye and said,
`Sir, if you please, will you bring me a waiter.'
`I am one, sir,' answered the attendant bowing
civilly.
Harry stared. His father kept no waiters—he
had never been waited upon at table in his life.
He had no idea of any waiter but a japanned one.
He knew that rich persons were waited on, but he
thought they who did the service were called
`helps,' or `hired' men. He therefore looked a
moment in the face of the servant before replying
and then repeated his request.
`Oh, ah! yes,' replied the man and flying off
returned with a little japanned salver. Harry received
it with becoming thanks for his politeness,
and placing it beside him removed the potted
pidgeon from the dish to the little waiter and deliberately
began to carve it upon it. While performing
this process with great carnestness his
father, having ended his conversation with his
neighbor the apple speculater, turned to look after
his son. When he was fully assured, after a moment's
astonished inspection of his labors of what
he was so deliberately engaged in, he felt as if in
his confusion he should sink beneath the table,
where he felt like pitching Harry. Looking
round and seeing others were too busy with their
own food to remark what he was doing be became
very greatly relieved. Without speaking a word
for he was too horror-struck to articulate, but
looking daggers at poor Harry, who innocently
thought he was following the Boston fashion of
carving birds, he caught up the waiter, which
bore numerous marks of the knife's edge, upset
from it the unfortunate pigeon into Harry's plate
and tossed the unoffending japan under the table.
`You have lost your wits,' he said sharply.
`Coming to Boston has made you a born fool.'
`If I'm a born fool it was before I saw Boston,
father,' said Harry with shame and vexation,
`you told me to call a waiter to carve the pigeon,
and I did so.'
`What do you call that standing behind the
gentleman's chair?' indignantly asked the offended
merchant.
`A man, sir—an Irishman.'
`Heaven save your brains! I wish I had put
you to old Yellowly the smith at Hallowell hook,
for you have no more brains than would shoe a
horse. He is a waiter, sir. I meant a man net a
varnished tray. Now see if you can eat your
dinner without making another blunder. You
make me ashamed of you. They will think we
are all ignoramuses down in Kennebec, and that
your family is not genteel.'
The solicitous merchant having seen that his
perplexed, embarrassed and very much mortified
son was helped to vegetables, again turned his attention
to his neighbor who had listened, without
seeming to hear, with a half smile to this little
by-scene between father and son.
Harry finished his pigeon in silence without
lifting his eyes from the table-cloth. When he
laid down his knife and fork a waiter snatched
his plate away, replaced it by another and inquited
his wants.
`I will take some fish, if you please,' he said,
his eye resting upon a well buttered halibut not
far off. `Never take fish after meat, Henry, if
you wish to be genteel,' said the merchant aside.
`Will you never learn?'
Puzzled and mortified he knew not how to act
and though the pigeon had not satisfied his appetite
he resolved to have nothing else, but sit and
see how others did. Next to him sat a young
gentleman very fashionably attired, wearing long
whiskers and having his hair perfumed, who had
been all the while so closely engaged with his
dinner that he paid no attention to our hero.
Harry resolved to watch him and take him for
his pattern. But here his ambition led him into
still deeper difficulties. It so happened that this
young gentleman at the close of the dinner had
placed before him a small bottle of Champaigne,
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part of which he poured out and drank in a very
tall oddly shaped glass; one precisely like which
was turned upside down by his own plate, and
the use of which until now had completely puzzled
Harry. A new light broke in upon him; nervous
and anxious from his previous sins against
etiquette, and fearing he should be wanting in
some important duty of the table with these glasses,
the use of which he had now discovered,
pointed out, he turned up his glass, reached forth
his hand and imitating the air nonchalant of his
neighbor in doing the same thing, quietly took
up the bottle and filled it with the sparkling wine.
He then held it to the light a moment to watch
its ascending fleet of bubblets and drank it off,
complacently remarking to the confounded young
gentleman, as he put down the glass,
`This is very fine cider, sir.'
`Yes, very,' dryly answered the young gentleman
his frown of surprise exchanged for a smile
of such peculiar significance that Harry, who was
not a fool, though ignorant enough of life, immediately
felt conscious of having been guilty of
come impropriety. The very idea made him perspire
and his knees tremble. His father happened
to turn round just as, after emptying his glass,
he had set it down upon the cloth. He stared
wildly with his great round blue eyes, cast a
glance at the young gentleman with the whiskers,
and his mind misgave him.
`Harry,' he whispered, `did that gentleman ask
you to take a glass of wine with him?'
`No, sir.'
`Do you know him?'
`No, sir.'
`Do you know what you have been guilty of,
you, you—I don't know what to call you?' demanded
the merchant strenly.
Harry did not know; and looked to his incensed
parent for information, his soul appalled in anticipation
of some fearful developement, `No
sir, I do not,' he at length faintly answered.
`Then I will tell you, sir. That bottle of wine
belongs to that gentleman—his private property—
is individual possession—and not as you have ignorantly
supposed common to the whole table.—
You have been guilty of a great breach of ill
manners, and I am half a mind to take you back
to Kennebec and put you to the plough. Sir, my
son has not been used to a public table, I hope
you will excuse him. He has been accustomed
to take wine only at our table, where, as you
know, the wine is in common and not as at hotels.
I really hope you will excuse him.'
`Certainly, sir,' said the young gentleman bowing
at the father and son, the former feeling his
cheek burn at the consciousness of having lied
about Harry's drinking wine at home; but Mr.
Harefoot was one of those weak men who to save
their pride from being wounded will stain their
soul with falsehood. The rest of the dinner passed
off with but one or two more trifling gaucheries
on the part of our hero, who mistook the finger
glasses with the slice of lemon floating in them
for lemonade and being thirsty began to drink to
the perfect consternation of his father and the infinite
amusement of the young gentleman with
the half bottle of Champaigne; and was also
caught by his watchful sire in the commission of
a still greater offence, that of eating his custard
pudding with a knife, on the plea that he could
not eat it with the split spoon, as he very happily
denominated the silver fork which the waiter laid
by his plate.
Dinner over, the mortified and angry Mr. Harefoot
sternly bade Henry follow him to the hotel
and to his chamber, where seating himself on the
edge of the bed, and making Harry stand before
him, he delivered him a half hour's lecture upon
his gross misdemeanors, and having thoroughly
emptied himself of his indignation, he kept him
another half hour giving him advice how to conduct
himself in future. Henry was extremely sensitive
and he endured not a little mental torture
at the ignorance which he betrayed; but he felt
on reflection that it had been no fault of his own;
that everything at the table d'hote was opposed to
all his former experience; and consoling himself
with the reflection that such mistakes might happen
to any one older than himself on first arriving
in a city from the country, he took up his hat to
follow his father out to see the city. With the
digestion of his dinner and the discharge of his
displeasure in the advice he had bestowed, the
merchant was again in good humor, and proposed
to show his son `the lions,' postponing till the
next day the business of seeking a situation in a
store for him.
`Come, Harry, I hope you will recollect my
advice, for everything in Boston depends on appearing
well. Now we will visit the State House
and Museum, for I want you to see these things
now, before you get a place, so you wont care to
be running after em when you should be minding
your business. When you get into a store
you must forget that you are a boy and let work
take place of play. There's some lint on your collar
and a spec o' dirt on your trowsers! Keep
neat, my son, for appearance is everything in such
a place as Boston. Brush your hair a little!—
There you look nice, now. Do you see any dirt
on my back?'
Harry looked over the capacious dorsal of his
tidy father but seeing nothing that looked like dirt
he signified as much to him; whereupon the portly
merchant putting on his hat after smoothing it
it by one or two turns across his cuff, left No. 43,
followed by our hero, who, after the smarting recollection
of his awkward mistakes, felt vexed
with himself, with Boston, with his father, and
impatient to get at once into a store to be freed
from his annoying supervision at the next meal.
Before going to the Museum, Mr. Harefoot had
some business in Broad street with a wholesale
grocer of whom he purchased his articles in that
line for retailing down east. Absolutely refusing
to take his careful parent's hand which he insisted
with great warmth lest he should get hurt or
stray, Harry kept by his side as well as he could
for falling back every few rods to gaze at some
new object. He wondered at the long shears-like
drays with three horses extended a tandem; an ingenious
device peculiar to Boston dray men for
detaining passengers at street crossings, which
they are very successful in doing especially when
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[figure description] Page 008.[end figure description]
four or five followed each other in succession as is
their custom, not leaving space for a pig to cross
between the tail of one and the leading horse of
the other; he marvelled at the crowded sidewalks
which also for some distance were covered compectly
with hogsheads doubtless to preserve the
bricks, and tiers of hogsheads Bostonians all well
know who have been about the wharve streets,
make very airy promenades, and keep passengers
out of the mud. At length they reached the
counting room to which they were destined and
our hero was formally introduced to the Boston
merchant, who, with a pen stuck behind his ear,
was looking over an invoice of West India rums
when they entered.
`So you are going to put your son in a store,'
said Mr. Osborne, blandly, after the two merchants
had talked together on business; `How
do you think you shall like Boston, Henry?' he
asked smiling pleasantly; and without waiting
for an answer he added, `You must come and take
tea with me, Mr. Harefoot, and bring your son,
and let him get acquainted with my boys.
Mr. Harefoot promised, and our hero felt delighted
at the idea of knowing a Boston boy. His
father having inquired of Mr. Osborne if he knew
of any person in want of a `clerk,' and being told
in the negative, asked and obtained permission to
refer to him if a stranger should wish to take
Henry. From this counting room and with a very
favorable impression of Mr. Osborne, whom he
felt he should like to keep with, our hero took
his way up State street with his father, who
pointed out to him the uses of the principal edifices
there.
`Here, my son,' he said, after they had got
past the corner of Kilby street, throwing open the
wings of his coat, thrusting his left thumb into
the arm hole of his buff Valencia vest and looking
very patriotic, while his right arm made a
sweep around him, here, my son, we stand on a
spot ever memorable to an American citizen and I
as a soldier (Mr. Harefoot was a major in the
Kennebee militia) cannot pass it by in justice to
myself or my country without speaking! Here
the British troops first fired upon the Boston citizens,
and in that gutter, there at our feet, flowed
the crimsoned blood of the glorious martyrs to
eternal liberty, while these very pavin stones
cried out, and General Washington himself armed
with the sword of justice answered their cry
and avenged their blood!'
`Was it the paving stones that bled, sir?' asked
Harry mischievously, but with a look of innocence.
`No, my son—no,' answered Mr. Harefoot
blushing, conscious of his blunder; `I meant the
blood of the citizens you foolish boy. That building
standing directly at the top of the street, spliting
the end of it like a fork, is the old State House—
the cradle of liberty.'
`I thought Fanueil Hall was the cradle of liberty,
sir,' Harry ventured to suggest.
`Oh, ah, yes, so you are right my son. I am
glad to see you have profited by the thirteen
year's constant education you have enjoyed.—
Fannel Hall is the cradle of liberty and this old
State House is where it was hatched when the
British soldiers fired here before it on the town's
people. This is Washington street, Harry, the
greatest street, people say, in any city in America,
though it is rather narrow and not very strait;
but this it makes up in length. Here are all the
English good-stores, the jewellers, the fancy
shops and almost every thing you can think of
We'll walk up and down it to-morrow as I intend
to get you a place in some English good-store in
it, as you would rather keep such a store than in
a grocery like Mr Oshorne's. This is Court
street and in these buildings all the lawyers, and
lots of `em there are in Boston, keep their offices.'
At length our hero reached the Museum where
he remained two hours very much entertained
with his visit. Thence he went to the State House
and ascended to the lantern, the view from which
repaid him for the toil of the ascent. After adding
his own name to the thousands carved on the
wainscoating and let his glance linger once more
over the unparalleled landscape, of city, village,
island, sea and illimitable extent of champaign
country inland, he descended with a larger heart
and wider scope of mental power, and in the possession
of new avenues of thought and intellectual
enjoyment. Like one of those `invisible
pictures' which present no other outline or coloring
to the eye until exposed a while to the full
beams of the light, when a rich and bold landscape
appears in all its fair tints and proportions, is the
heart of youth, which is painted by the hand of
its Creator with pictures of all that is bright and
beautiful in his varied empire; and to be brought
out it must be brought to the light of nature and
feel its warm and glowing influence! Henry felt
a thousand pictures of beauty had been brought
out upon his heart by the reflection of scenes
which seemed to him to embrace all the varieties
of earth's wide domain; ocean, isle, vale and
mountain, lakelet and woodland.
The day was spent in rambling over the city,
and as our hero was very observing of every thing
he once saw, and possessed largely developed the
organ of `locality,' he became so familiar in this
walk with the intricacies of the city as to feel a
confidence in himself that he could traverse it
again in all directions without losing himself. In
the course of their walk they had met with Mr.
Wentworth and Pierce and his sister, who accouted
them with cordiality but, were recognized only
by a dignified bow by Major Harefoot and a hur
ried, half-nod by Harry; for he was afraid somebody
might see him speak and he did not wish
any one toknow he was acquainted with a mechanic's
family. We are sorry to have to record
such a weakness of so sensible a young man as
our hero, but as our object is, like that of the physician,
to heal, we must probe and expose the disease.
Harry's blunders at table were light matters,
and are not mentioned to his disparagement,
as they were by no means very important after
all; but a moral error, one that had its origin in
the head and extends its roots down towards the
heart, this is indeed an evil that is not lightly to
be held.
`I fear, Mr. Harefoot's son will be spoiled by
living in Boston,' said Mr. Wentworth to Pierce
after they had passed so coldly; `he already
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assumes conduct that I should be very sorry to see
you imitate. But I trust to your good sense and
healthy moral education to keep you from error of
heart or conduct; regard, my son, reputation above
every thing else. Think not of your appearance
as I tear Henry Harefoot too much does, but think
how you shall gain the esteem of those around
you. Cultivate kindness of heart, forbearance
and gentleness of demeanor. Keep your conscience
unsoiled, for it is the golden pendulum of
the heart. Bear in mind, my dear son, as you are
to make this your home and here cast your fortunes,
perhaps for life, that in a large city where
men only meet each other occasionally and then
but for a few moments on business; that confidence
depends on the known integrity, reputation
and general character which each knows the other
to possess; and all intercourse has this knowledge
for its basis. Dress in a city is nothing
looked to, for there are as many fashions and
modes as there are professions and pursuits. But
untarnished chcracter is every thing. In a village
men know each other intimately, the good
and bad sides of each other's characters and
while virtue on one hand condemns, charity on
the other pleads. But in a place like Boston,
where such intimacy cannot exist, men have opportunity
of knowing only one side of a man's
character, it is either the good or the bad and so
they judge him. In a village one wrong act in a
man may be covered by a hundred well known
good qualities; in a c ty that one act is the man!
men judge him by what he is to them at the moment,
not by what, if they had time to know him
better, he is in his known intercourse with his
neighbors. Therefore be careful from this day to
do nothing here while a boy that you are not
willing when you come to do business with men
should be the test of your character; for men may
have heard only of that one folly and not seeing
you for years naturally judge of your whole life
by it. The freedom of the long intercourse of a
village would give opportunity to correct impressions—
but the distance preserved between men in
a city, never.'
While Mr. Wentworth was giving this sensible
advice to Pierce, who listened with great attention,
he came to a shop near the corner of
Summer street, over the door of which was a
sign, on which was printed in gilt letters—`Mrs.
Prescott, Milliner and Mantua-Maker.'
`This is the place, Isabel,' he said to the little
Kennebec maiden, whose heart fluttered like a
bird's at the anticipation of so soon being in the
presence of her mistress.
Mr. Wentworth was received with great kindness
by the lady, a good looking person of forty
in a black silk and muslin cap, with a pair of
scissors hanging to her apron strings. She shook
hands with Pierce and her new apprentice, and
complimented the father upon such fine children.
It was soon decided that Isabel's trunk should be
sent there the same evening, and that she should
now remain and enter to-morrow upon her new
duties. Isabel bade her father and brother good
bye with tearful eyes, the former of whom promised
to come and see her in the morning, and
Pierce that he would call by every day. Mrs.
Prescott was a kind, good person, and asking Isabel
into a back parlor, entered into a conversation
with her about Kennebeck, and what she had seen
in Boston, so that she soon became reconciled to
her situation. There were in the room three apprentices;
one of them, who was a very plain
girl, on seeing her, put up her lip at her and secretly
turned her head against the pretty stranger;
another, a fine looking creature about her
own age, with a spirited head, cast at the rustic
beauty a scornful glance from a pair of very fine
dark eyes; while the other, a mild, fair-haired,
blue-eyed girl, smiled kindly upon her and offerce
her the rocking-chair in which she was seated.
Isabel had quickly detected all these several impressions
her appearance made upon them, and
her heart was drawn and repelled just as each had
given the original impulse.
After leaving the milliner's, Mr. Wentworth
walked up Washington street with Peirce by his
side, both silent and sad; the former at the reflection
that he had left his child to struggle from that
hour with the rude current of the world; the latter
partly with the separation from his sister, and
partly at the prospect of soon parting also with
his father. To Mr. Wentworth, himself, it was
a painful trial to remove his two children from
the shelter of his paternal arms, alone in a strange
city, in danger from innumerable temptations,
and at an age when most they needed the guiding
hand and warning voice of a parent. But
custom made him willing, and necessity rendered
it expedient that this separation should take place.
It was the law of large families in New England,
and he had to obey it. The habit of contemplating
such a separation when his children should
be of sufficient age, and daily preparing for it,
had rendered both parents and children less sensible
to the pain of such a parting; besides there
was a prospect of an annual meeting, which should
knot closer the ties which stern necessity had for
a time loosened.
After a few minutes walk they turned down
Essex street, and came to an alley, at the entrance
of which, projecting from a two-story, unpainted
wooden building, was a sign showing the passer-by
that `Benjamin Libby, Housewright and Carpenter,
' kept his shop in the rear, to which a hand
with an open finger on the sign pointed.
`This is the place,' said Mr. Wentworth; and
going down the narrow alley, which was lumbered
with boards and strewn with fresh shavings,
they came to an extensive carpenter's shop, in
which several journeymen and apprentices were
at work. At a high, narrow pine desk, by a window
near the wide door, stood a large-framed man
with an intelligent benevolent countenance, with
silver spectacles on his nose, adding up a row of
figures on a slate. Peirce eyed him as he stood
there in his shirt sleeyes, with a shaving ringlet
lodged over his right ear and a rag wound about
a wounded thumb, to see what he had to expect
from his new master, for such he instinctively
knew him to be. The observation of a youth at
such a time is usually very shrewd and accurate,
and the impression after a jealous serutiny of the
whole man was decidedly favorable; and with
less tumultuous throbbing of the heart, he
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approached him a step or two behind his father.—
The meeting between the two gentlemen was
cordial and friendly.
`So this is your son Peirce?' said the old housewright,
shoving his glasses to the top of his high
massive forehead, and looking at him with a sort
of inspecting glance. `Well, he is a large, well
built youth for seventeen, and if he makes as
honest a man a good a citizen as his father, I shall
hope no more for him. Have you a fancy for
house-building? though I dare say you have made
houses out of chips many a time. Has he genius
for handling carpenter's tools, Mr. Wentworth?'
`Yes; and to be a carpenter is his own choice.
He made a set of baby house furniture last year
for a little daughter of Judge Boardman that
was as beautifully finished as that in the Judge's
parlor.'
`Ah! then he has the right sort of talent. Do
you wish to indent him till he is of age?'
`Yes; for this will convey to you what I wish
to transfer, the authority of a parent over him.
The habit, now becoming so common, of not indenting
boys is the cause of so much profligacy
in the class of apprentices. It is true, that our
laws do not, like the English laws, ordain that a
youth shall serve seven years by indenture before
he can himself follow the trade he has learned;
yet it is necessary for apprentices, as well as for
their better sequaintance of a trade, that they
should be indented, though four or five years is
long enough for an intelligent boy to acquire any
trade. I do not like the plan of taking boys away
from school at the tender age at which many parents
remove them, often from a sinful economy
in board and schooling. Let boys be kept at
school till sixteen, and they will be better educated;
let them be kept till that age beneath the
paternal eye, and they will be better behaved, than
if so early turned upon the world, moulds of wax,
as some wise man has termed the young heart,
ready to receive every evil impression from the
example of others.'
To these remarks the housewright assented, and
some further conversation followed, during which
Peirce was walking through the shop, observing
the countenances of the men and boys he was for
the future to associate with, and watching at their
several occupations. It was decided that the indentures
should be drawn up and signed the next
day, and that the new apprentice was to come
to the shop in the morning and enter upon his
career.
After leaving the shop with his new master,
Peirce expressed himself much pleased. It being
now near the close of the afternoon, they returned
to their boarding-house to tea, at which,
as well as at dinner, he fell into no mortifying
blunders; because the unostentatious habits and
good sense of the father had led him to select a
house in the humble style of his own home.
Harry and his father returned to their `coffeehouse'—
the fashionable designation then of first
class hotels, but now applied only to ordinary eating-houses—
and having rested themselves, went
to Mr. Osborne's house, in Milk street, to tea.—
Harry's ideas of the respectability of the family
were increased, from the size of the house and
the rich long curtains he saw at the drawing-room
windows. Tea passed off very well, and Harry
recovered his self-respect; though he felt a little
annoyed at discovering that the young Osbornes
were dressed in much better taste than himself,
and evidently, he thought, felt themselves superior
to himself coming from a down east town.—
There was, too, an air of case and a certain selfpossessed
address about them to which he felt he
was a stranger, and which he resolved to make
the effort to acquire. His father talked about
liquors and groceries, serewed hay and corn, with
Mr. Osborne, leaving him to their care, though
occasionally watching his conduct with nervous
solicitude. After passing the evening very pleasantly,
Harry went home with his father impressed
with the superiority of education, of address, of
conversational powers, and in pronunciation and
accuracy of language of the two sons of Mr. Osborne;
and he was a little mortified to find that
although in Augusta he was called clever and intelligent,
had written verses in albums and had
been in love, and considered himself quite a bean
in dress and manners, that, compared with his
newly-made Boston friends, he was quite rustic.
Harry had ambition, but it was ill-directed. It
was the ambition to appear, and not to be. He
was annoyed more at the superior cut of Frederic
Osborne's coat and pants, and at the fashion and
beauty of his hair, than at his superior intelligence;
envied his address and polite exterior
rather than the grace and kindness of his heart.
And his mind at this time received the seeds of
vanity and expense, nourished by a weak ambition,
which promised to bring forth bitter fruits.
The next morning Pierce went cheerfully to
Mr. Libby's, calling on his way upon Isabel,
whom he found seated industriously at work by
a window that opened upon a little green yard,
Mr. Libby commended him for his prompt appearance,
and placing him under his head journeymen,
left him to begin the first rudiments of
his trade—take the first step upwards tewards
usefulness, wealth and respectability, or descend,
through idleness, dissipation and infamy to an
ignominious end. The same day Mr. Wentworth
signed the indentures of his son, and taking
leave of him and Isabel, returned the next
day in a Hallowell sloop for his home.
The ensuing morning the aristocratic Kennebec
merchant, having breakfasted, went into the
reading room to look over the papers for an advertisement
for a clerk in a dry goods' store; he
set Harry at the same work, and after a thorough
scanning of the columns in vain, the merchant
resolved to take a course that would insure success,
if there was a dry goods' clerk wanted in
Boston. Aware that all the stores of this kind
were in Washington and Hanover streets, he determined
to begin at Cornhill, (omitting Hanover
street, in which were the less stylish shops,)
and go up one side and and return by the other
inquiring at each store that had `a respectable
look,' Harry insisting that he would keep only
in such an one; and the higher the store in his
estimation the more genteel. An expedient so
sensible as this was worthy the head of the sagacious
major. This proposal giving Harry an
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opportunity of selection was, after a slight struggle
with his sensitiveness at being taken round in
this way by his father, like a bale of merchandize
or a sale-pig, assented to by him; and with this
intent the father and son sallied forth from the
coffee-house, and took their way towards No. 1,
Cornhill.
CHAPTER III.
A tour among the dry goods stores—the polite dealer—
the shop-keeper in spectacles—mistake father
for son—Harry's resolution—Our Hero
gets a place—Paternal advice—Our hero enters
upon his duties—Mr. Jeremiah Martin the first
clerk—The bundle—Harry receives a chapter of
advice from his master—His discovery that
clerking is not so “genteel” as he thought—
His emotion—His boarding house—Scene the
next morning—Our hero shows his spirit and
does great credit to Kennebec
The first store to which our hero and his father
came was a dashing establishment, the outside
coming quite up to their ideas of what was genteel.
Mr. Harefoot therefore resolved to make
application there, and after hemming and clearing
his throat and buttoning his coat a button
higher, he walked in followed by Harry. One
of the brisk clerk's after eyeing him a moment
and taking especial notice of his short waisted
olive, winked at his fellow, and putting his
thumb against his nose made sundry mysterious
signs with his four digitals and Harry distinctly
heard him whisper “verdant.” He well knew
what this meant, and resolved in his heart to
pay him for his insolence at some future day.—
Always thinking about appearances, he saw to
his mortification that his clothes were not so
fashionable as those of the young clerks; and
that if, which was his ambition, he wished to be
thought a city youth, he must soon have others
made.
Mr. Harefoot having been shown the proprietor,
approached him where he stood at a desk
writing.
“Are you in want of a boy here, sir?” asked
Mr. Harefoot in a respectiful tone.
The dapper shopkeeper put down his pen,
stared at the speaker a minute with an abstracted
air, and then glanced over his shoulder at the
boy, whose cheek was burning with shame and
anger at being designated “a boy.” He looked
therefore very sulky and his sensitiveness shrinking
from a scrutiny like that the shopkeeper intended
he turned his face away.
“ 'As he ivir bein in a storr?” asked the dealer
in dry goods, passing his jewelled fingers through
his perfumed looks.
“No, I have just taken him from school. My
name is Harefoot from Augusta. I am a merchant
there, sir, and have dealings in Boston.—
I can refer you to Dana & Co., Osborne, Berriam
and Wrigham, and almost any body,” added
the Kennebec merchant with a nonchalant air of
importance.
“I 'ave no doubt wativir your recommendashions
ar' vera good, saar,” drawled out the
shop keeper, “but I am very sorry to say, saar,
that I shall be under the painful necessity of declining
your very flattering preference with re
ference to your son. He seems a very likely
young youth and I 'ope you will find others liss
provided for than I appear to be jist at this moment.”
Thus speaking the dealer bowed very
politely to Mr. Harefoot, who returned the bow
with becoming dignity, and followed by our hero
left the store.
“Father,” said Harry as soon as he got on the
outside, “I wish you would not call me a boy
again. I am ashamed of this way of hunting a
place, and I mean soundly to thrash that chap
with the curly hair the first time I meet him.”
On Mr. Harefoot's promising not to term him
a boy again Harry consented to proceed, but resolved
to stand outside the doors while his father
put the question. In this manner they called at
nearly twenty places without success.
“Seems to me, Harry,” said the merchant as
he came out of one, “that nobody wants clerks.
This man says he could get twenty a day if he
wanted them and took his last one out of pity.—
If Boston is so overrun with clerks wanting places,
you have come to a bad market I fear.—
Why don't their parents make mechanics of
them,” applying to others a rule which he would
not himself follow; “I saw several in these
stores that looked as if they would make better
farmers and blacksmiths than clerks I fear I
shall hardly get you a place in one of the first
rate stores; let us try in here; this looks respectable
though not so dashy as some, and a respectable
looking man with spectacles is behind
the counter.”
“This is too low, father. See they sell no
fine goods and the man who keeps it is not a
gentleman by his dress. It's a third rate store,”
interposed Harry.
“Nevertheless I may as well try, for you
would be ashamed as well as I to go back home
after coming up to Boston to get a place in a
store Try an inferior place first and meanwhile
look out for a better.”
Thus speaking Mr. Harefoot entered a low,
dark domestic goods' store, followed by Harry in
no pleasant mood.
“Sir,” said the well dressed Kennebec merchant
bowing formally to the elderly man who
was behind the counter folding up a piece of
sheeting, “I have called to see if you are in want
of a clerk?”
The dealer finished folding up the piece of
goods, and put it in its place on the shelf before
he paid any attention to the question. Then
turning round he brought his iron-rim'd spectacles
to bear upon the corpulent person of the militia
Major, who felt not a little touched at his
first manifestation of indifference. After surveying
him for full a minute from top to toe, he
gave his head a negative shake, while he answered
in a squeaking small voice and a simpering
smile.
“He, he, I guess you are a leetle too old, hey?”
The Merchant was thunder struck! he was
speechless with indignant astonishment! A
Major in the Kennebec Militia to be taken for a
clerk seeking a place!—a Merchant—a respectable
Merchant like him—a man so well dressed—
to be supposed in a situation seeking
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employment? The thought was cutting to his vanity
and pride.
“No sir,” answered Mr. Harefoot proudly
drawing himself up; “I came in to ask for my
son here.”
“Oh, ah! this lad is your son then. Well my
man can you cypher?”
“Sir, my son is well educated that is sufficient,”
answered Mr. Harefoot with dignity.—
“Do you want a clerk?”
“Yes, I do, that is if you call a shop-boy a
clerk which I do not, he, he! He is strong looking
and could carry large bundles I see; and I
sell a good deal by the piece.”
At the idea of carrying bundles Henry's spirit
rose and turning to his father he said aloud,
“I will not keep in this store, sir?” and walked
out.
Mr. Harefoot was under the necessity of abruptly
breaking off the negotiation with the terms
of which he was as little pleased as Harry; and
they passed on to another store ef a more “respectable”
exterior Here the proprietor, who
was a tall gentlemanly looking man with a high
bold forehead, a pleasant face and dressed in an
olive brown frock replied in the affirmative to
Mr. Harefoot's stereotyped inquiry, much to his
own and Harry's gratification; for everything in
and about the store wore an air indicative of the
“respectability” of the proprietor's standing;
while a long counter thronged with genteel customers
and strewn deep with tumbled goods
wore proofs of a thriving business. Harry was
formally presented to Mr. Cushing, the proprietor,
who taking him kindly by the hand welcomed
him to Boston, addressing him several questions
calculated to fathom his capacity, and then
said he should be very happy to receive him on
trial, being satisfied with the reference Mr
Harefoot offered of his own respectability.
It was decided that Harry should come the
next morning, be boarded at the expense of his
employer and receive the first year two suits of
clothes. The two gentlemen then formally
shook hands and separated; our hero leaving the
store with its half dozen staring clerks in company
with his father.
“Now my son,” said he as they walked along
the street, “you ought to be very thankful that
you have got a situation and one in so respectable
a store. I have heard of Mr. Cushing and
know him to be in good society here. The conditions
he proposes are better than I expected—
it will make you nearly independent of me.—
Two suits of clothes, one for summer and one for
winter, will be sufficient for you with proper
care.”
“But I shall have no money, sir.”
“Money? You will want no money! Haven't
I taken you to the Museum, and you wont wish to
go there again; and as for other uses for money
you will have none. Now as I shall be very
busy the rest of the day on the wharf, I will give
you a little advice, Henry. In the first place do all
in your power to please Mr Cushing, for you
will be dependent on him; be obliging and civil
to the other clerks, but let none of them impose
on you becaase you are from a country town; for
your father let them know, my son, is a Merchant,
a Major, and might have been a candidate for the
legislature! Keep always well dressed, for that
is a mark of respectability. The first wants of
man in a state of nature are food, shelter and
clothing, and so far as he is deficient in these be
approaches the savage state. He who lives in
the handsomest house, keeps the best table and
dresses the best is the farthest removed from this
rude condition—is civililized, or, in other words
has attained to be a true and perfect gentleman.
Dress, in a place like Boston, is the touchstone!
Do you suppose Mr. Cushing would have treated
me so politely and engaged you if I had gone to
him in my old clothes? not that I am not as much
a gentleman in them as in these,' he added, instantly
retrieving his words. `Next to dress is
behaviour. Study politeness. A bow costs nothing,
and a smile is full as cheap. Flatter men
if you wish to use them, and learn to keep your
own secrets while you get at those of others. As
every thing in a large city depends on outside
appearances for people haven't time to study the
inside, you must appear every thing you find you
cannot be. This, I have found by my own experience
answers very well for the world. By all
means preserve, my son, a good moral character
for as your mother and I have always taught yon,
you are accountable to God for the way you keep
your heart; but with regard to men, it is not of
so much importance if you look to be rich; for
there is little morality in a business way. An
untruth told in the way of trade is no falsehood
and is often necessary. Do not therefore, if Mr.
Cushing desires it, hesitate at this; but never,
my son, tell a lie when there is nothing to be gained
by it; for this is both folly and sin. Always
at end church and never be out of nights nor go
to the theatre, unless some one makes you a present
of a ticket for it is expensive. I wont forbid
your going altogether, for theatres are fashionable,
and it is genteel to attend them, and I want to
see you a gentleman. Never be tempted to borrow
money from the till, not a copper, nor appropriate
any thing in the store to your own use
without leave. Write home once a month by private
hand, out never send a letter or newspaper
by mail, for this costs postage. It is better to
trouble people if they do grumble if you can save
a shilling or a quarter of a dollar. I never had a
letter yet unless there was money in it that was
worth a quarter of a dollar. So dont write unless
you can send. Be careful to save every penny,
and by and by I hope to see you a rich and prosperous
man keeping your own store, hiring your
own clerks, and living in as good style as any
body in Boston.'
Such was the character of the advice given by
the worldly Mr. Harefoot to his son; being a singular
mixture of craft and truth, of good and evil;
the moral picture of his own life, conduct and
principles. There is many a man of like principles
and motives of action, doubtless, but few who
have exhibited such candor in betraying their parti-colored
morality.
The ensuing morning our hero rose and dressed
with a fluttering heart. This was the first day of
his entrance into life, and of the surrender of that
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[figure description] Page 013.[end figure description]
liberty and leisure, in which he had been indulged
at home, to the will of another. To-day, too, he
was to begin to be industrious—to endure confinement—
to be engaged in an occupation from
morning till night. Employment was new to
him; and to speak the truth of our hero, he was
not very partial to work. The intervals in his
school hours had never found him employed save
in active games, or, which he loved as well, in
reading novels. Up to the time he had reached
his sixteenth year he had read every novel in the
village library, and was compelled to resort to
history from necessity, or not read at all. The
last year voyages, travels, history, poetry and biography
had been his food, and at the time he is
now introduced to the reader few youths possessed
a wider stock of information. His memory
was good and he could always use his ideas well
in conversation. He was therefore, at home,
held by all the town as quite a prodigy; and being
rather handsome and very susceptible of female
loveliness, he was quite a favorite with all
the pretty misses, who used to have petty quarrels
about our hero, who had half a dozen little
sweethearts at a time. One of these made quite
an impression on his heart, and when he parted
with her just before going on board the sloop
there were uttered on both sides the usual protestations
of eternal love, which we have all made in
our teens. Harry loved dress as a natural consequence
of being a favorite of the school-girls. He
therefore got to be quite a beau—for a Kennebec
youth—and having got a new suit—the distinguished
short-waisted olive with the velvet collar—
made at `the Hook' by a little tippling tailor
with a queue, named Sammy, Manny who took it
out in grog and groceries at his father's store, he
anticipated that his appearance in Boston would
create quite a sensation. His mortification was
in proportion to his expectations when he discovered
that Sammy was, by the full length of his
greasy queue, behind the age. This gave him
more annoyance than he would have been willing
to confess to his father, or to himself. United
to this love for outward appearance was a love for
money—not for itself—but to spend in trifles; a
desire to look as well as others; to seem as genteel
as others; to be thought by strangers to be
some person of importance; to think himself admired
by every pretty girl; and to affect the society
of those above him, and despise the companionship
of those beneath him; united to which,
was a weak sensitiveness not touching his character
but his vanity as to what people would say—
a living to other people's eyes rather than to the
approval of those of his own conscience! These
are errors common to a large portion of our New
England youths, and also to many of their parents
from whom they usually, we are sorry to
say, first get them. Harry was not more deeply
imbued with them than many others; his chief
fault was, to give it in a few words, that he took
more care of his person than of his heart; thought
more of seeming than being.
Attired in his new suit by which the knight of
the queue looked to immortalize himself in Boston.
Henry sadly took leave of his father, who
was to return home that day, and hastened to
Mr. Cushing's, in Washington street. The hour
hand of the Old South clock pointed to eight as
he entered the store with a heightened color and
a feeling of trepidation. The store presented a
very neat and quite a different appearance from
the day before; the goods were all folded and
nicely placed on the shelves; the floor was swept
and coolly sprinkled; the long polished counter
was without a customer. Behind it were three
clerks, each with a yard-stick held in his hand,
talking and laughing over a morning paper; at
the extremity of the store, mounted on a high
stool, sat the head clerk, also reading a paper. A
window behind him opened into a pleasant yard
and the breeze blew refreshingly in. Harry looked
round for Mr. Cushing who had not yet made
his appearance, his residence being in a neat cottage,
nearly two miles out on the Roxbury road.
Instinctively shunning intercourse with the three
clerks he hastily passed by them, receiving from
them an inquiring stare, and approached the head
clerk, whom he had seen the day before posting
books. On hearing a footstep, Mr. Jeremiah Martin
raised his eyelids, and fixing his light blue
eyes upon Harry seemed to inspect him while he
silently waited for him to make known his business.
`Sir,' said Harry, taking off his hat and speaking
with natural embarrassment, `Mr. Cushing
engaged me as a clerk yesterday, to enter upon
my duties this morning.
`Oh, yes; I heard him say something about it,'
answered Mr. Martin, laying aside the paper and
drawing himself up to his full height, which was
five feet half an inch, and putting on a very pompous
look. `You are from Maine, I reckon.'
`From Augusta.'
`A pretty little village—I have been there!
Do to pass through when one is in a hurry!
Maine is a nice State—too rocky, and the people
not quite up to the genteel mark! Boston is the
place for gentlemen, and to see good society, and
to know what's what! You did well to leave
home. Maine will do to be born in, but—but—'
`Sir, I will thank you to remember that I am
from Maine,' said Harry, with spirit.
`Oh, ah—no offence,' said Mr. Jeremiah Martin,
in a low tone; `I am from Maine myself; I
should not talk so if I wasn't you know. So you
have come to live in Boston. Well, I hope you'll
like it. Have you ever been in a store?'
`No, sir.'
`Then you will have a good deal to learn; but
you look as if you might be pretty apt. Here
Frank, come and take charge of—eh—what did
you say your name was?'
`Henry Harefoot.'
`Very well. Take charge of Henry, and let
him sell near you, and teach him what you can.'
The person who answered to the name of Frank
was a handsome young man about nineteen years
of age, very neatly dressed, and had the look of
an intelligent youth; and yet his face wore an
expression of great-good-nature, and his manner
was prepossessing. Harry took a fancy to him at
once, and although his eyes lingered a moment
over the country cut of Harry's coat, he shook
him by the hand with cordiality, and said he was
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glad to have him added to their number. His
words and manner put Henry at once at his case;
and bowing to Mr. Jeremiah Martin, who resumed
the paper, something piqued at being so properly
rebuked, he followed Frank Stanwood to the
spot where he had left his fellow-clerks, and was
by him introduced to them. One of them was
younger, the other older than Frank; and
the junior, who was not quite Harry's age, immediately
on learning he was a new clerk, began to
caper with such manifestations of delight as greatly
to excite our hero's wonder, especially as he
had never before seen the freckled-face urchin.
While wondering at the happiness his presence
occasioned, and congratulating himself upon his
good fortune in getting into such agreeable companionship,
a woman came in, and asked in rather
an angry tone, why the piece of linen she had
purchased there the previous afternoon had not
been sent to her house as she had requested.
`How is this?' called out Mr Martin, sternly,
`is'nt that bundle gone yet? Why didn't you
take it last night after you shut up, as I told you
to do Ben?'
`I—I forgot it,' answered the youngster, coloring:
well knowing he was too much in a hurry to
get off to the circus to do it.
`Go with it at once!' said the first clerk.
`I'm not the last comer now,' he answered,
doggedly; `let this chap take it—he's got to do
my errands now.'
Mr. Jeremiah Martin frowned a moment on
the lad for his rude reply; but admitting its correctness,
he said to Harry, whose heart was already
sinking.
“Here, Harry, take this bundle and follow
this lady to her house, and return immediately.
You must learn to be quick on errands, as you
will have a great many to do in the course of the
day.”
Our hero's first impulse was to reply that he
did not come there to be an errand boy, but to be
a clerk; but recollecting that such an answer
would lose him his place and bring his father's
anger upon him, he concluded to put his pride
in his pocket and obey. He therefore took the
piece of linen from Frank Stanwood with what
grace he could, and putting on his shining new
beaver, followed the impatient lady out of the
store; his eye catching the triumphant look on
Ben Burnham's face and the secret smile of the
other clerks, from whom he could not conceal
his mortification.
What a beginning was this for our village
young gentleman! for the genteel, well-dressed
youth who at home would not carry from his father's
store a pound of tea without folding it
daintily in his pocket handkerchief to make it
appear what it was not! All the pride in the
bosom of Henry was stirred and atop as he got
into the street, and he walked along with a
burning cheek and a feeling of shame and degredation
that a different education would have
kept him from experiencing; for there is no feeling
so contemptible, and so indicative of erroneous
bringing up under the parental roof, as this
fear of being seen carrying a bundle, or anything
for which we have a use, or which our duty
or the nature of our business calls upon us to
convey.
Among other feelings that troubled Harry, was
the consciousness of being too finely dressed to
be carrying a bundle and so large and heavy a
one, through the streets. His sense of the harmony
of things showed him that he would appear
better in a less shining suit; while his love of
dress forbade him thinking of wearing in Boston,
any other than he now wore.
“If I am to go errands and carry bundles this
way,” thought Harry as he walked along, avoiding
every eye, and fearing he should encounter
some one who knew him from Kennebec, or,
what he most feared Pierce Wentworth and his
sister; “if I am to be put to this low work, I
had better have stayed at home and gone into father's
grocery store, which I refused to do because
I did not think it genteel enough! This
is gentility with a vengeance! How heavy linen
is! Gracious I never expected to do this! I
wish the confounded little woman who trots on
so trippingly, looking back every rod to see if I
am coming, had it all on her back. Well, I am
resolved—”
What was our hero's resolve we cannot tell,
as he was interrupted in his cogitations at this
juncture by the arrival of the lady at the door of
her house. Harry gave the bundle into her
hands, rejoiced to get clear of so disgraceful an
incumbrance, and the lady thanking him, entered
her house. It was with a feeling both of physical
and mental relief that he turned away from
the house and slowly retraced his steps through
Court street towards his store. A new light had
broken in upon his notions of a dry goods clerk's
gentility, especially the gentility of the out door
part of his occupation. He had never imagined
there was rotation in place, a system of promotion,
in the stores to which his ambitious hopes
have tended ever since his father had decided in
order to lessen the expense of supporting him to
put him into some employment. Now in a moment
all his pleasing visions of standing, handsomely
dressed, behind a mahogany counter,
selling calicoes and silks to ladies, smiling, bowing,
and making polite speeches, were blown to
the winds. As he walked along he half-determined
not to return to the store, but seek his father
and beg him to permit him to go home and
keep with him. But the thought of how he
should be received by his town's-people, of the
jeers of other youths of less aspiring minds, of
the contempt of the pretty maidens, withheld
him from this step. He therefore, after some reflection,
concluded to put up with his disappointment
as well as he could, and see if, by making
an appeal to Mr. Cushing, he could not be released
from being the errand-boy; for he would not
now conceal the truth that he was “the boy” of
the establishment. He re-entered the store with
an assumed cheerful air, not wishing to give
the others occasion to laugh at him in so stooping
from his dignity. Mr. Cushing was in, and accosting
him kindly, called him one side, and thus
briefly addressed him:
“Your duties, Henry, are first to rise at six in
the morning, and open and sweep out, dust the
goods, clean and fill the lamps, and get everything
in order for the business of the day. As
you are the youngest, or rather youngest in time,
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you will carry purchases home, go to your meals
last, and shut up the store. I hope to find you
active, attentive, and faithful. Your trunk you
will have sent to the boarding-house, where the
other clerks board, and where you will take your
meals and sleep. At noon you can go home
with them to learn the way. I allow no reading
of newspapers, no lounging on the counter or in
the door—no idleness whatever. If there is
nothing to do you must make something to do.—
There is a tier of broadcloths that are not well
rolled up, and need fixing. Take them down
one by one, and dust and replace them Stop—
you want our private marks to know the price of
goods. Here it is. f, you see stands for 1, z for
2, r for 3, t for 4, and so on. When you see, as
on the mark to this piece of cassimeres, fxr together,
and f,la beneath it, you are to understand
that it cost $1,23 cents a yard, and sells for $196.
This is our private mark, and you must on
no account divulge it, as it is a part of a clerk's
honor to keep it secret. Now you may go to the
broadcloths, but leave them instantly any cusiomer
wants anything; and if you can't find it,
ask some one. You had best, perhaps, before
you touch the broadcloths, walk along from shelf
to shelf and learn what goods are on them, so
that you may more easily find them when they
are wanted.”
Thus speaking, Mr. Cushing left him to
speak with his clerk, and our poor hero began to
walk along the shelves, his eyes too full of tears
for him to distinguish calicoes from cottons.—
Alas! Harry had brought his pride to a sad
market. He had stood pale and almost overcome
at the announcement of his series of duties.—
Rise at six! he who had been permitted at home
to lie till nine and then get a “pet breakfast”
from his indulgent mother! Sweep out the
store! a broom to degrade his hands, which he
kept with such care! But more appalling than
all, to have to clean and fill the lamps! His
heart swelled within him; and, partly in anger,
he pulled out his handkerchief, and stooping beneath
the counter, secretly wiping his eyes. His
manliness, however soon came to his aid, and,
suppressing these feelings as well as he could,
he pursued his first lesson—that of ascertaining
the places of goods.
The day passed off, but brought with it in its
progress many petty mortifications in our hero's
pride. The house at which he boarded did not
suit his ideas either externally or internally. It
was situated in a narrow court out of the lower
part of Tremont street below the Mall; his room
was with Ben Burnham in the attic; the table
was meagre; the family a poor one, with a plenty
of dirty children. He, however, got through
the day and went to bed with a heavy heart, and
his pride greatly fellen.
In the morning he was roused at sunrise by
the watchful Ben, who heretofore had opened the
store and who now resolved to enjoy a luxury
he had long been a stranger to—a half hour extra
lounging in bed.
“Come, Down East, its six o'clock?” he cried
giving Harry a poke in the ribs for the third time,
“if you don't have the store open by a quarter
past old Cushing will give you a jaw. Come
out of that.”
Harry was sleepy with fatigue and sorrow, and
was difficult to wake at such an unusual hour of
rising. He at length opened his eyes, and seemed
to get some idea of where he was and what
was wanted of him. The events of the preceding
day rushed upon him with all their painful
reality, and sighing heavily, he got out of bed
and begun to dress while Ben lay on his back,
nicely rolled up in the coverlid, watching the process
with no little satisfaction at the idea that
it was not himself
“I say, Down East, who made your coat?” he
asked very gravely, “Why didn't you have them
two gilt buttons put half a foot higher up on the
back? it would ha made the skirts longer, and a
prettier dovetail.”
“My name is Henry Harefoot!” said Harry,
angrily, in the act of thrusting his arms into the
short-waisted olive, “and I will thank you not to
call me by any other, nor make any more remarks
about my dress.”
“Hallo, Down East is up, I see!” said the
mischievous Ben; but scarcely were the words
out of his mouth, ere off came the olive, and
Harry approached him, rolling up his sleeves and
said,
“I will not strike you down, Burnham—but
get out of bed, and I will give you as sound a
licking for that word as ever you got in your
life.”
Ben was not quite so tall but much heavier
than Harry. His tongue however was always
readier than his fist, and this sudden demonstration
on the part of one who from the cut of his
coat and his having come from the country he
thought he could bully not a little surprised him.
He felt no disposition to be “licked” and he
well knew he should be if he accepted the new
clerk's challenge.
“Oh, you are angry are you,” he said in an
appeasing tone; “I don't mean anything.”
“Then be careful how you use your tongue,”
replied Harry with decision.
“That's right Harry; I like your spirit,” said
Frank Stanwood and the other clerk running in
from the next chamber in their shirts. “Up and
fight him, Ben. Shame!”
`I'd rather he here,' said Ben quietly wrapping
himself in the quilt as if he meant to enjoy his
leisure, yet half frightened at the scrape he had
got into. “This is the first morning that I have
had to lie in bed and I am not going to get up to
be flogged.”
“Make him get up, Kennebec,” said the other
clerk. He was a stout, awkward young man,
with a pug nose and yellow hair, and against
whom Harry had taken an antipathy; and he
now took quick offence at the impertinent appeallation
he bestowed on him.
“I will knock you down if you repeat that
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insult again,” he said quietly.
“You will, hey?” growled the other closing
his fist approaching him a step.
Henry made no reply but resumed his coat and
was about taking up his hat, when Tariton for
such was his name said to Ben.
`Call him `Down East,' Buraham, and I'll back
you.'
`Coward!' cried Frank indignantly; `afraid to
insult him yourself and try to get another to do it
for you!'
`I'm not afraid! Who's afraid of a dandy Kennebecker
like him!'
`You dare n't call him Kennebec,' cried Ben
from the bed clothes.
`I say, Kennebec, how do you sell cider down
East?' instantly demanded Tafton with a sneer.
`I don't deal in cider but I do in claret,' retorted
Harry; and with a well directed blow in Tarfton's
face he sent the blood springing forth like a
fountain from his nose, and pitched him at his
length along the floor.
`Good!' cried out Ben with glee produced by
the operation of two gratifying causes; one was
that Paul Tarfton was his habitual tormentor and
he was rejoiced to see him punished; the other
was the reflection that he himself was not in
Tarfton's place.
`You've served him right,' said Frank delighted.
`You are a good fellow, Harry, and I knew
you was when I first saw you.'
Tarfton got up, and muttering with wrath and
growling with pain hastened into his own chamber
to repair damages, while Henry took the store
key from the nail where it hung, above the three
cornered piece of looking-glass, left the house to
open the store, leaving behind him in the mind of
Ben a great respect for his character; and a general
impression upon his fellow clerks that proved
afterwards very beneficial to him.
It was twenty-five minutes past six, by the old
South, when he placed the store-key in the wards
of the lock. It was a difficult matter for him to
find out how to unfasten the shutters and remove
them, which he finally did without accident. He
now found that he had to go to a pump in the next
yard for the water to sprinkle with; but he went
without a murmur, his victory having given him
quite a willing and cheerful spirit. He found it
hard work to sweep out the long store, and to dust
the goods before the bell rung for seven. His
lamps were yet untouched when Ben came down
and seeing that they were as the last night left
them obligingly offered to trim them, feeling it
was for his interest to make friends with so powerful
an opponent of Paul Tarfton. Harry had a
better appetite for his breakfast than he had experienced
for a long time, and he began to feel
that setting aside carrying bundles and cleaning
the lamps, he would be willing to submit to the
remainder of his duties. He therefore began to
contemplate entering into a compact with Ben,
which should take these more degrading duties
from his hands, when he felt he should get along
very well and without much further humiliation
of his pride.
A comparison between the two Apprentices—Our
hero has a customer whose appearance produces
a sensation—History of Ralph Mosley—Our hero's
vanity, guilt and remorse—Harry makes an
evil acquaintance by loitering—The Theatre—
His principles stand the test of a Temptation—
Frank Stanwood shows his true character—A dialogue,
in which our hero does not come off the
best—Harry is reminded of home—Meets Mosley—
Mosley unfolds more of his character—Harry's
meeting with the Apprentice—Mosley a spy,
and his insolence.
The first three or four weeks of Harry's apprentice
(or clerk) ship passed away without any
material incident or variation from the regular
duties of opening, selling, carrying `small' bundles,
and shutting up. He had effected an arrangement
with Burnham with respect to the
large packages and the lamps. He had got reconciled
to his situation, and his pride had been
very much lessened by the ordeal of little mortifications
it had been subjected to. On the other
hand, our young carpenter, Peirce Wentworth,
had won favor with his master, and the good feeling
towards him of all his fellow-workmen. He
applied himself dilligently to his work, and
evinced the possession of so much taste and skill,
that the second week he was put to work on the
nicer parts of his business, such as shaping mouldings
for panels, carving ornaments for cornices,
and the more delicate warkmanship, which required
taste and neatness; and any one to see
him cheerfully at work in his brown linen jackat
at his tool-strewn bench, would have felt that his
employment was far more dignified than that of
Henry Harefoot, standing behind a counter strewn
with silks, shirting, diaper, hose, searfs and other
like articles, and dressed up in his spruce olive
coat, (which he had had altered by a city tailor,)
paste pin, azure vest, and nicely-combed perfumed
hair, selling a paper of needles, or a corset-lacing
to, perhaps, some slattern-serving girl.—
Hitherto, the schoolmates had met but once, and
this was when Henry was carrying a little package
to a house in Beacon street, and Peirce was
taking a window-sash to a house Mr. Libby was
building; but Henry seeing him first, turned into
a court to avoid him, not only because he did not
like to be seen speaking to a carpenter's boy, but
he dreaded that the apprentice would shake hands
with him. He had met Isabel several times, and
seeing her dressed neatly, had not disdained to
recognize the frank bow and smile with which she
met one whom she had known in her native town
from childhood. At length one day she had come
into the store to purchase some article, when her
surprise at seeing Harry there caused her to blush
and be confused for an instant, and to forget for
a moment or two what she wished to purchase.
Harry on his part not wishing to acknowledge
the acquaintance in the presence of his fellow-apprentices,
turned away scarcely noticing her as
she asked him `how he did, and when he had
heard from home.'
`That was a fine young girl, Harry,' said Frank
Stanwood with a glow of admiration as she left
the store: `she seems to know you. Who is it?
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[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]
She is a stranger in the city.'
`Yes,' said a young man about nineteen years
of age, who was leaning on the counter, and had
stared her rudely out of countenance as Frank
was selling her the ribbon she came for,—`yes, a
perfect little beauty! Where in the deuce did
you know her, Harefoot? Ah, you sly Lothario!
Did you see her color up when she saw him,
Frank? I should like to be introduced, Harry.'
Harry's first impulse was to deny any knowledge
of her; for familiarity with her sweet face
from childhood had rendered him insensible to its
extreme beauty, and he regarded her not as a
lovely girl, but simply as the daughter of a hatter.
But the warm admiration of his friend Frank
Stanwood, and the enthusiasm of his new acquaintance
Ralph Mosley, led him to confess with
a meaning smile, which was intended to convey
what interpretation they chose to give, that `he
had known her in Augusta.'
`What is she?' inquired Mosely; `a milliner,
I'll be sworn!'
`Yes, she is;' answered Henry with surprise.
`Her name, Henry?'
`Isabel Wentworth.'
`So you are a lucky dog, Harefoot! You must
introduce me,' said Mosely.
`Are her parents respectable?' asked Stanwood
with interest.
`Yes—that is—her father. I knew her only
from seeing her occasionally, and coming up in
the same vessel. Of course I did not visit her
family.'
`I suspect you know more of her than you will
acknowledge, hey?' said Mosley with a laugh.
Harry, to whom this conversation had conveyed
the information that it is not in Boston degrading
to know pretty little girls, whatever be their
station, but rather a credit to be thought an acquaintance
of them, had, we are sorry to say, too
much vanity to silence such an intimation as Mosley's
words conveyed, and so, by his silence and
a mysterious look he confirmed it. His conscience
for a moment troubled him; but the idea of being
thought a `gay youth,' which he had been now
long enough associating with clerks to understand
the true signification of, silenced its reproaches
for thus laying open to suspicion the
character of a pure young girl, merely because
she was the daughter of a mechanic. Several
other questions were put to Harry by Mosley,
who, be it here said, had been a clerk with a dry
goods firm that had recently failed, and was now
doing nothing. He was very dissipated and by
no means a suitable companion for a young man
like Henry Harefoot, who up to this time had
been a youth of unexceptionable moral habits;
his vices being those of vanity, pride, and love of
approbation, rather those of the head than the
heart.
He was annoyed by the boldness and licence
of Mosley's questions in relation to Miss Wentworth,
and regretted that he had given him the
idea upon which he had taken the liberty he now
assumed. He felt that he had by his vanity and
imprudence conveyed to the dissolute youth the
impression that he himself was as corrupt as he.
This reflection excessively annoyed and pained
him; for although in a moment of weak vanity he
had intimated his having been a friend of the
young milliner in such a way as to let him as
well as Frank put their own construction upon
it, he felt he was not prepared to place his character,
as he feared he had irrevocably done, in the
hands of one who had so little regard for his reputation.
With these distressing convictions foreing
themselves upon him, he abruptly turned away
from them both, to change whose opinion of
him he felt he would cheerfully have given his
right hand. Tears came to his eyes; and the injury
he had done to himself and to Isabel Wentworth
impressed him so vividly, that his pride
and fear of Mosley's sneers alone prevented him
from at once confessing the wrong he had done
her as well as the injustice he had put upon his
own character, which was yet pure. The moral
courage to have taken this noble step would perhaps
have saved him many a day of woe into
which the want of it at that crisis of his life, afterward
plunged him.
Mosley left the store with the impression that
Harry Harefoot was as bad as himself; that he
had found in him a congenial spirit; and rejoicing
with the anticipation of being through him
made acquainted with Isabel Wentworth. The
character of Ralph Mosley is soon drawn.
His father was a lawyer in Salem, with a large
family, a great deal of that foolish pride which
looks upon a mechanical pursuit as degrading,
and with a very little money. Unable to send his
sons to college he put them into stores—those
hot-beds of gentility, in which the young plant is
so forced that it too often perishes ere it come to
flower. Ralph had been taken from school at the
age of fifteen and placed in a dry goods store in
Salem; but he was too inattentive to please his
employer, had a bad habit of swearing because he
thought it genteel, and always was ready to lie
when it suited his convenience. From Salem his
father brought him to Boston, and placed him in
an importing house. Here he dissatisfied his master,
and left under the suspicion of having appropriated
sundry pieces of goods which had been
missed. He remained idle a few weeks, not notifying
his father of his being in no employment,
during which time he had plenty of money and
dressed well. He at length got a place with a dry
goods dealer in Market street, where he remained
until his employer failed a few days before he is
now made known to the reader. During his residence
in the city and his intervals of idleness, he
had managed to get thoroughly initiated into all
the evil habits of the town; was familiar with
every haunt of vice and dissipation, and lived only
for the purpose of indulging in the gross and unrestrained
indulgence of his passions. The darker
shades of his character were not known, however,
so openly as we have found it necessary to
unfold them; for he was careful to conceal from
the public eye as much of his true character as
was necessary to preserve his intercourse with
society. Harry had been introduced to him by
Ben one evening, when after they had shut up,
instead of going home, they walked round, at
Burnham's suggestion, past the Federal street
theatre, to see the lights and the crowd, and ladies
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[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]
in their splendid dresses, descending from carriages
and entering, a favorite amusement of Ben.
Ralph was standing on the steps, and recognizing
Burnham, who also came from Salem, he asked
him if he was going to the play. Ben replied that
he had no money—when Ralph offered him a pit
ticket.
`I can't go without this chap,' said Ben in a
low voice.
`Who is he?'
`Our new clerk from Kennebec.'
`Has he got any money?'
`Yes.'
`Introduce me.'
The young men shook hands, and Ralph suggested
to him to go in and see the play. Henry
had never been in a theatre in his life, and had
great curiosity to attend; but he did not like to
go without Mr. Cushing's permission, and declined,
giving his reason. Ralph laughed loudly at
this, and Ben said that `old Cushing would never
know it, and if he did he would not care a snap.'
Henry, however, had made up his mind when he
saw how kind Mr. Cushing was, and that he made
his situation pleasant to him in spite of its servile
(as he considered it) character, to strive to please
him; he was therefore firm till quite assured both
by Ben and Mosley that it was quite a common
thing for all clerks to go to the theatre, and that
their employers had nothing to do with their
movements out of the store. Still he did not wish
to go without leave, and replied, `But I have no
money with me.'
`O, I'll lend you, pay me to-morrow,' said Mosley,
displaying a handful of silver.
`I don't like to borrow of a stranger.'
`Ha, ha! a stranger,' repeated Ralph; `why,
man, how formal you are! There's no ceremony
between clerks. We shall be the best friends in
the world.'
Mosley finding he could not prevail upon his
new acquaintance, left him, taking Ben with him,
saying he hoped they should see each other again.
The next time they met was the morning of Isabel
Wentworth's call to the store, the results of
which are already given. Thus led by curiosity
out of his way to visit a place of dissipation, our
hero fell in with an acquaintance whom else he
might never have seen, and whose companionship
was the cause of much of the sufferings and
guilt of his after life. But for this, the healthy
action of constant employment in the store, the
daily beneficial lessons his pride was receiving,
and the daily improvement his character underwent
beneath the eye of Mr. Cushing might have
produced out of the mixed materials which composed
it, one virtuous, wise and noble.
Mosley had left the store but a few minutes
when Frank Stanwood approached him, and said
in a serious tone of voice, and with earnestness,
`By Heaven, Harefoot, I did not believe till now
you were such a character as you have acknowled
yourself to be,—and reading in your Bible
every day, and praying, too, as Burnham tells!
can it be possible that beneath all that quick sensibility,
reserve of manner, and show of piety, lies
the dissolute character of a rake. I would not
have believed it of you otherwise than from your
own lips—nor can I hardly credit now that the
beautiful girl with the soft eyes who spoke to you
so blushingly, and whom I sold that ribbon to, is
other than virtuous. If you have seduced her,
you deserve the contempt of every honorable
mind.'
`I did not say so,' replied Henry, confounded
by this address, and ready to sink with shame beneath
the clear hazel eye and ringing speech of
the generous spirited youth; he was relieved
also, that even at the expense of deep shame he
should have this opportunity of doing justice both
to her and to his own reputation; for he now was
thoroughly convinced that the reputation he had
wished to establish was not one which was at all
admired by Frank Stanwood. `I said I had known
her at Augusta.'
`You gave me and that unprincipled young
man Mosely, whom I caanot endure, to understand
that you knew her intimately, and in a way
that would admit of but one interpretation.'
`I did not mean to have such a construction
placed upon my reply to Mosley,' answered
Henry, compelled to resort to a falsehood, for
which he felt still more degraded in his own eyes.
`Do you mean to say that I have put a wrong
interpretation on your words?'
`Yes, she is above suspicion; and I regret,
Frank, you should have suspected me of conduct
of which I certainly would not be guilty. You
have done me injustice.'
`I have certainly done her injustice,' he said
warmly; `and I am pained that for a moment I
should have associated her pure and spiritual face
with shame. You did mean to convey, Harefoot,
something gratifying to your vanity,' added
Stanwood, fearlessly; `and I am glad you have
been so frank as to destroy the impression. When
you see Mosley correct it with him; for he will
be sure to insult her if he dare. It is also due to
your own reputation. I am glad for your sake
that you are free from the stain; and I hope, as
a friend, Harry, you will never let any weak and
wicked vanity tempt you a second time to convey
suspicions of your own character, and blast that
of an innocent person. I regret you have already
imbibed the infamous vanity so common with
young clerks in the city, to be thought to be intimate
with females. No vice can be more contemptible.
Harry was both angry and humbled at these
words of his fellow-clerk; for he felt that he had
failed in screening himself from his clear-sighted
perception of the truth even behind the curtain of
deception he had drawn before his guilt. The
result of this was in a degree a loss of confidence
in Harry on the part of Stanwood, who entertained
a real friendship for him, and a feeling of
dislike and suspicion on Henry's side—the natural
consequence of shame and exposure. It did
not, however, affect their open intercourse, which
continued through the day as before.
It was not so easy, however, for Henry to disabuse
Ralph Mosley of the wicked impression his
spotted mind had received. He believed virtue
merely a name among the industrious and useful
class of young women to which Isabel Wentworth
belonged, and that the greatest achievement of a
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[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]
young clerk like himself would be to lure one
from the paths of honor, or plunge into deeper
infamy any one that bucks of his stamp had succeeded
in ruining. He also found it as hard to
believe that any young man was purer than himself,
or if the temptation offered would not go as
far in guilt. He laughed at virtue in young men,
and termed it methodism and cant; and in his
heart believed those who seemed the most correct
in their habits only wore a disguise which fear
has adopted to hide excesses from the eye of the
world. Such was the character of the young man
into whose keeping Harry had weakly and irretrievably
placed his own character and the unsullied
reputation of a poor girl.
Ill at ease with himself all day, it was with no
little relief when he heard the clock strike eight,
and the order to shut up given by Mr. Martin,
who, after remaining to see the last light extinguished,
and turning the key in the door himself,
as was his custom, gave it to him. Harry stood a
moment by the door to look at the moon, which
called to mind his native village and the verdant
banks on which he loved to stray by its clear
light, and brought up all the associations of home.
He thought of the two or three village girls he had
liked best, and of the one he most prized of all!
of his mother, who with true piety had given his
young mind its bent, and with motherly care and
anxiety had striven to eradi cate the seeds of vice,
and implant those of virtue; who in parting had
prayed with him in her closet, and given him a
Bible with his name written in it in her own hand,
with the affectionate request that he would read it
daily and never forget his duties to God.
How painful were the reflections of conscience
that forced themselves upon his mind as he
thought of these injunctions, and then upon the
guilt he had heaped upon his soul that day—
glorying in imaginary crime, defaming the mnocent,
and darkening the sacred light in the precious
gem of his own reputation.
`I have indeed been foolish and wicked, and
deserve not only the contempt of Stanwood, who
has shown a noble character to-day, but the anger
of Heaven. I wish I could see Mosley, to do
away the evil I have done. Ah, here he comes.'
At this moment the person he named came from
the opposite side of the street with a quick step
and not at first seeing Harry who stood in the
shadow of the street lamp, he went to the door of
the store, tried it with his hand and then said in
a tone of disappointment,
`Confound it! I am too late—he is off.'
`Mosley!' called out Harry approaching him.
`Oh, you have not left yet, Harefoot! I feared
I was too late and you had gone home,' he said,
familiarly putting his arm through Henry's.
`Did you want to see me?'
`Yes. About that pretty girl you know. You
must tell me where she lives and introduce me.'
`Oh, I was only joking this morning,' answered
Henry with embarrassment and feeling his cheeks
were red with the crimson of shame.
`What! don't you know her then? I am sure
she spoke to you and you both colored. Now
don't think to come off so, Harefoot?'
`I meant that I knew nothing derogatory to her
character. She is from the same town I am and
I have known her only as young people know
each other that are brought up together.'
`Then you have not seduced her!'
`By heaven, no!' answered Harry, startled by
the bold language which his own conduct had
given license to. `If I gave you any such idea
from my words or manner this morning I wish to
take this opportunity to correct it. Her reputation
is without a stain so far as I know and believe.
'
`Well, let it be so—though I don't believe you.'
`Don't believe me,' retorted Harry quickly.—
`Do you mean to say you doubt my word?'
`No—but that you fear I shall see her and cut
you out, and so you wish to make me think you
don't visit her.'
`Upon my honor, I never spoke to her but in
the street and in open day, in my life, until she
came passenger with her father and brother in the
same vessel up to the city.'
`She has a brother, then. Is he here?' asked
Mosley eagerly.
`Yes. An apprentice with a Mr. Benjamin
Libby a housewright.'
`What kind of a chap is he?'
`A steady, good-hearted and very clever young
man, I think, though I have never of course associated
with him before we came from home, and
much less here.'
`And yet you know his sister! Ah, Harry,
I believe you are deeper than you wish to fathom.
'
`You will make me angry, Ralph Mosley it you
allude to this again when I have so solemnly assured
you your construction of my thoughtless
manner this morning is erroneous—that your interpretation
is wholly gratuitous.' Thus Harry
was by no means wanting in his endeavors to remove
the evil his idle vantity had created; but he
found that the shadow of guilt if it falls across purity
sullies it; and that it was not so easy to remove
the idea from his mind as it had been to convey
it.
`But I can't see how you can know a pretty
girl at all in her class without having some little
flirtation with her. Well, so much the better!
I will have a fair field.'
`For what?'
`For making her acquaintance. You will introduce
me of course.'
`No.'
`Blunt enough! Afraid of your bird! Well I
shall find a way.'
`I repeat, she is no bird of mine; and if you
form an acquaintance with her from what I have
said this morning, you make me your enemy.'
`Well let it drop! I see you don't care to be
thought rakish! Where are you going to-night?'
`Home, to finish a book of travels I got out of
the Merchant's library? Mr. Cushing was so
kind as to give me a ticket for the quarter.'
`Pooh! who would be so silly to stay stuck up
in the house these fine evenings, when there
is so much life and amusement going on all over
town.'
`I prefer reading to going out nights.'
`Your pretend to be very green and innocent.
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[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]
Haven't you been out an evening since you came
to Boston?'
`No.'
`Then I have a good deal to show you! Come
you must go to the theatre! There is to be a capital
play and I know you will enjoy yourself.'
`I have'nt permission.'
`Can't. Are you not your own master, evenings?
You don't board with Mr. Cushing?'
`No—but I had rather be at home. My head
is aching violently, and I am not well. Here is
where I turn up to my boarding house.'
While conversing they had been walking up
Washington street until they came to Boylston,
where Mosley stopped.
`I don't know what to make of you, Harefoot,'
he said, after a moment's silence, `and I see you
mistrust me. But we shall understand each other
better by and by. If you will go home, good
night.'
Henry laid his aching head on his pillow that
night with reflections of a most painful character.
With all his weaknesses, vanity, love of dress and
personal admiration, he had never been guilty of
so great an error of the heart as he had suffered
himself to fall into that day. He felt mortified
with himself and pained that he should have been
instrumental in giving a shadow of suspicion to
the name of Isabel Wentworth. He rose in the
morning with a resolution to guard against a failing
which had brought him such anguish and
might be productive of such painful consequences
to the innocent victim of it.
On his way to open the store in the morning,
as he traversed the streets in which were few persons,
save the milkmen, and early laborers, sewing
girls and apprentices, each wending to their
places of daily toil, he was almost overpowered at
seeing beneath the cottage hat of a young and
finely shaped girl who was removing the shutters
of a milliner's shop the pretty bright face of Isabel
Wentworth. His first emotion was, with the
rushing recollection of the injury he had done her,
a sense of shame with a desire to pass unseen.—
The next impulse was a generous feeling of kindness.
Seeing her here was the first intimation
he had of her keeping in the same street with himself.
She had not discovered him her face being
turned upwards in disengaging one of the leaves
of the shutters which seemed to catch at the top.
A violent effort suddenly disengaged it and unused
to manage the weight it heeled over upon her,
and would have borne her with it to the pavement
or injured her in its fall but for the interposition
of Henry's arm, who under the impulse of his
penitent feelings was the moment before struggling
with his pride whether to offer his assistance
in removing the shutters or pass by. This incident
decided the mental controversy and he held
up the shutter clear of her head till she crept out
beneath his arm unhurt.
`It is you, Henry,' she said, blushing. `You
were very kind.'
`I am happy, Miss Isabel, to have been so fortunate
as to serve you at this juncture. The shutter
is too heavy for a young girl like you! They
are much heavier than my own;' he added placing
it down on the side walk beneath the bow-win
do. Allow me to remove the remainder! You
must be with an unfeeling person to put this task
upon you.
`No—Mrs. Prescott is not aware how heavy
the shutters are; and besides I don't usually open
the shop; but the other apprentice has not been
well for the last two mornings. You have a
nice store. I did not know where you kept till
yesterday.'
Her allusion to this source of all his shame and
vexation of the previous day suggested to him an
idea that he thought would prevent any evil whatever
resulting from his indiscretion. And after
gazing a moment upon her fine open ingenuous
countenance where all was purity and innocence,
while his heart smote him, he said,
`Did you notice that young man standing in the
store, Miss Isabel?'
`Yes,' she answered with readiness, blushing
and dropping her eves; for she had been thinking
of Frank Stanwood who had waited on her and
whose fine eyes had more than once met her's during
the little purchases she had made, a dozen
times since; and so she thought Harry must mean
him and no one else.
`Well, I think it my duty, Miss Wentworth to
warn you against forming an aquaintance with
him or even permitting him to speak to you. He
is a profligate young man, in the atmosphere of
whose reputation your own would wither like a
blight!'
Isabel fixed her large earnest eyes upon him as
he earnestly addressed her while her young bosom
heaved, and her cheek became pale; for hope,
sweet hope, was all at once blasted in the first day
of its budding. How Frank managed, unconscious
to himself, to produce such an impression upon a
young girl's heart, who, for the first time, interchanged
words with him, and then about the price
of a ribbon, is known only to Cupid and his myrmidons
whose random shots do so much mischievous
execution.
`I—I—thought he looked like a very nice young
gentleman. He is certainly handsome. Can he
be so wicked?' she asked with innocent surprise.
`Yes, he is handsome and dresses well, I admit,
and is very fascinating when he chooses, but he
is, nevertheless, a person I feel it my duty to
warn you against. He saw you in the store today
and says he means to make your acquaintance
The acquaintance of such a person, Isabel, will
bring with it lasting regret.
`I am sure you are very kind, Henry Harefoot.
I don't know how to thank you. I have been told
you were proud and felt yourself above others;
but your kindness this morning has shewn me
that you have had injustice done you. I am sure
I shall never forget you.'
This was spoken in so sweet a tone and with so
much warmth of manner that Harry let his gaze
rest upon her face wondering he had not before
discovered how very beautiful she was His
earnest look abashed her and feeling its rudeness
he bade her good morning while she entered the
shop.
The first object that met his eye on moving forward
was Ralph Mosley standing on the opposite
corner from whence he had been watching the
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brief interview between Harry and Isabel Wentworth.
On discovering him there the blood in
spite of himself mounted to his face as if he had
been guilty of some wrong. He saw that he bore
traces of his last night's dissipation on his pale
countenance and detected a sinister and evil look
as he encountered him.
`So, my pious Joseph,' he said, laying his hand
on Harry's shoulder and placing his fore-finger
significantly against the side of his nose; `that
was the end of your `travels' over the way, hey!
and there, I dare say they cure the head-ache
very nicely.'
His manner, not to speak of the base insinuation
his words conveyed, was in the highest degree
offensive to Harry. If he had obeyed the
impulse of his spirit he would have struck him
down; but he could not conceal from his own
conscience that he had placed himself in some
degree in his power by his admission of the day
before, the impressions from which his false assertions
to the contrary removed neither from the
mind of Mosley or of Stanwood. He was therefore
compelled to restrain his angry feelings, suffer
him to take his arm and walk on with him and
endure his disgusting remarks upon what he had
discovered. It was in vain that Harry asserted
the truth. The profligate mind of Mosley could
not comprehend or receive it. Truth from Henry's
mouth had lost its talismanic charm with
him; for he had taken Henry's silence, smile and
significant admissions the yesterday morning for
precisely what Henry in his foolish vanity intended;
and by no subsequent retraction had he got
any credit other than for duplicity. Isabel was
not so deeply enamored that the warning of Harry
made her miserable.—She sighen as he left her,
wondered that so handsome a young man should
be so profligate; and she resolved, while a tear
started to her lid that from that moment she would
think no more of him; and twenty times that day
when he came into her thoughts she made the
same resolution.
CHAPTER V.
Which begins with some remarks upon Mosley's
character—The Soda Shop—The bill rendered—
Mosley in difficulties—Threatened with Jail—
A struggle, and his departure—A sleeping room
and its inmate—Mosley shows the object of his
visit—Disappointed—Ellen Emery and her history—
Mosley and Ellen decide on a separation—
A plan proposed by Ralph—Our hero manifestly
in peril—Ellen enters into the plan—They separate,
each prepared to play their part.
When a young man has been so unhappy as to
yield to all the wayward impulses of passion, until
he has lost his self respect, the pillars of which
are integrity and virtue, he gradually imbibes,
like the insensible impulse of deadly poison, a hatred
towards those whom he finds are yet upright;
and is tortured with a wicked and restless
desire to bring them down to his own level;
for, so long as they stand upon the noble elevation
of an upright character, they serve to show
more prominently from what height he himself
has fallen, and more clearly to mark the depth of
his own degradation.
Such were the feelings of Ralph Mosley with
reference to Harry Harefoot, when, after reflecting
on the conversation that passed between them,
he arrived, at length, to a just estimate of his
character; acquiting him of all suspicion of guilt
with reference to Isabel Wentworth, and attributing
the manner and words with which he had
given him a wrong impression, alone to a vanity,
too common among young men, which led him to
wish to be thought in favor with a person whom
his fellow-clerk thought so worthy of notice.
Having satisfied his own mind that Harry was
sincere in all he had said, and that he was quite
free from all vice and possessed a remarkably ingenuous
and open character; and having learned
from Burnham and Tarfton, as well as he discerned
in his conversation with him, the weak points
of his character, which led him to wish to conceal
the fact of his being from the country; to
feel above his place; to be ambitious to be considered
`a young gentleman' in the eyes of the
ladies; and to imitate the manners and air of the
gay young men about town; (all of which, we
are sorry to have to say of our hero, was true) he
resolved to give variety to his idle life, as well as
for the pleasing gratification of the pursuit, to
endeavor to lead Harry into the temptations by
which he himself had fallen, as well as to avenge
himself for his firm and virtuous refusal to give
him an introduction to the pretty milliner's apprentice—
his acquaintance with whom he envied
him. He also hoped to replenish his purse, by
his means, if he could tempt him once to stray.
He could not forgive him either because he had
never been `out of nights'; because when he
himself was seeking pleasure through the haunts
of vice, Harry was peacefully reading, and improving
his mind in his chamber at home! he
could not forgive him because he had refused to
attend the theatre without permission; because
he had once refused to drink with him; because
he was yet free from the gross and licentious indulgences
which degraded his own mind, and
shattered his own fair fame!
As Mosley made these resolutions in his heart;
he was seated in a box at a drinking room, near
the head of Franklin street, where he had gone
after quitting Harry, who felt not a little relieved
at his departure; for he did not like to be seen
walking in the street with him. He was leaning
upon a table. Upon a finger of his thin, delicate
hand, blazed with a deep rich light, a massive
ruby, its hue strikingly contrasting with the paleness
of his cheek, which the hand supported.—
His long, waving brown hair, was dry and disordered;
his fine broadcloth coat was covered with
bed-lint, as if he had slept without undressing;
the ruffle of his shirt was soiled and untidy; his
vest unbuttoned; his boots without polish; and
his whole appearance and air that of a dissipated
young man, the morning after a revel.
With a good education; a generous temper;
an intelligent mind; and uncommon talent and
address, this young man had been launched on
the voyage of life without compass or chart, and
was now stranded on the very shores of his departure.
The error and shame of this surely must
lie at some door. Justice and truth will place it
at the paternal threshold, from which, mercenary
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motives, false pride, which would see a son clerking,
rather than learning a useful trade, a slavish
submission to a false system of society which has
slain its thousands, drove him at that tender age,
when, if ever, he needed, and solemnly required
the guiding, protecting, defending, sacred care of
a parent.
`I say, O'Bruce!' he at length muttered, slowly
lifting his heavy eye-lids; for coming into the
apartment after his walk in the morning air, had
relaxed his nerves and sickened him.
`Well, Ralph,' civilly answered a short, fullfaced,
and dark-complexioned man, with a pleasant
expression of his features.
`I—I say, O'Bruce!' he muled with a whining
cry.
`Well.'
`O'Bruce, I say!' he repeated, as if he had forgotten
that he had bofore spoken.
`You want some soda, I guess, Mosley.'
`Yes—you know—you un'stand! so—so—da'
That last glass of bitters I took in at the Washington
Garden was vile stuff. It made me sick.—
Pah!'
While the soda was being drawn, he left the
box, staggered weakly up to the counter, received
it in his shaking grasp, and drank it down
with the eagerness of a thirsty man.
`That's reviving! I'll stop taking wine at
night, Bruce! I drank at that infernal third row
bar, and they sell such wretched stuff there that
I was sick all night. Give me another glass of
soda, with a little dash of raw brandy! That's
enough! Ah, that is a feeler, and braces me up!
I won't be caught again drinking to be sick after
it, as I have been this morning! That brandy
has made me feel nice! I'll go out to the barber's!
Just put them glasses down to me, Bruce!'
`I have made cut your hill, Mr. Mosley,' gravely
said the keeper of the shop, for `Soda and Rochelle
waters,'—as this place of youthful dissipation
was innocently designated upon the sign
above the door.
`Oh, let it stand, Bruce!' I'll pay up Saturday,
' said Mosley, coloring, and feeling in vain in
his pockets for what he well knew, and the other
had reason to suspect, was not there.
`I have trusted you now four weeks beyond my
time, and you have promised to pay every Saturday,
' answered the keeper of the bar-room, sullenly.
`If I got a place, I said.'
`I heard no such if. I want my money,' repeated
the soda man, firmly.
`Well, let me look at the hill,' said Mosley,
turning back and taking from him with a colorless
cheek, the very long piece of paper; which,
as it was a correct minute of the events of the
few weeks past, we will make a tranuscript of one
day's record, while Mosley, to gain time to frame
an excuse, is reading it over with a sinking sipirit.
SEPT. 9th, morning, two bitters, two sodas, two
brandies with Bob Silsby.
SEPT. 9th, 11 A. M. 3 pieces of pie and two brandy
toddies.
SEPT. 9th, 1 P. M. bitters for self and Ned Lynch.
SEPT. 9th, 4 P. M. 12 gin cock tails, 4 cream
cakes, 2 dishes blackberries, and 2
Port wine sangrees, for self and Bob
Silsby.
SEPT. 9th, 5 P. M. loaned half a dollar.
SEPT. 9th, 6 1-2 P. M. paid for breaking Gragg's
chaise, $3,60, riding in from Fresh
Pond, Sunday, loaned 2s 6d.
SEPT. 9th, 11 1-2 P. M. to bottle champangne with
Bob Silsby, and to breaking two
tumblers and three wine glasses and
smashing a chair.
SEPT. 9th, 12 1-2 A. M. to breaking door pannel to
get in after shutting up, and to treating
two watchmen to let you off.
The entire amount of this precious bill was
twenty-seven dollars and a half.
Our ex-clerk read over a few items with a sort
of cool desperation, and then finding the task too
much for him, he laid the account on the bar, and
looked at his creditors unmoved, yet money expecting
countenance, with a feeling of despair.
He could call up no energy of mind to meet the
exigency, for there is nothing which so weakens
the resources of the mind, and so paralyzes them
when called upon, as intemperance.
`It's a larger bill than I thought for, Bruce,'
he gasped, faintly; `can't you give me a little
time?'
`No—my chance of getting paid is becoming
less every day. You are in no business. You
must settle it, or I will make you.'
`But you don't mean to sue me, Bruce?' he inquired,
with alarm.
`If I cannot get it any other way! I have lost
money enough by such swells as you are, and I
am not going to lose any more,' he answered,
with an oath.
`Don't get angry I—I can't pay it, Bruce—
don't throw me into jail! It would disgrace me!
I know you wouldn't take advantage of me. I
have always been a good customer,' he pleaded,
pitifully.
`Such customers would soon send me to jail.'
`I brought Silsby here, and he has spent a good
deal of money, and pays well.'
`If Silsby is your friend, he'll lend you the
money.'
`No, he won't, for I owe him already,' he answered,
faintly.
`Well, you must get it some how, or go to jail,'
said the bar-keeper resolutely, quietly burnishing
the brass ornaments on his soda fountain.
Mosely glanced at the face of his customer, and
then at the long piece of paper that gave such an
eloquent history of his dissipations, and hung his
head in painful reflection, not upon his follies, for
he was not penitent, but to invent some way of
getting out of the difficulty. At length he spoke
with animation and confidence.
`Give me till to-morrow morning, and I positively
promise to settle it, O'Bruce.'
`This is only a plea to leave the city.'
`No, upon my honor. I know where I can get
it. I will leave you my rings and brooch as security
for my return.'
`They are not worth a quarter of the bill.'
`Upon my honor I will come back with the
money,' said Mosley, going towards the door.
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[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
`You don't leave this house until I am paid, or
you give me security,' said O'Bruce, jumping to
the door, closing it, and turning the key. `Pay
me, sir, or go to jail.'
The dread of imprisonment overcame in the bosom
of Mosley every other feeling, and the natural
energy and decision of his character momentarily
recovered from the depression caused by
habitual intemperance. He suddenly seized the
astonished man by the throat, and threw him
across a bench, and there held him with the grasp
of desperation.
`Say you will let me go without troubling me,'
he said, speaking menacingly through his closed
teeth, `and I will let you off. Otherwise I swear
by Heaven I will take your life. I pledge you
on my word that I will pay your infernal bill tomorrow
morning. Will you let me go without
molestation?'
`Yes,' gasped the man with difficulty articulating
the word.
`Will you swear not to molest me, either, for
this assault?'
`Yes, if I am paid to-morrow.'
`Then get up. It is your own fault, all this,
Bruce! You might have let me gone! I will
pay you, I repeat tomorrow! I did not mean to
hurt you, and I hope I havn't; but I would take
any man's life that would put me in jail.'
Thus speaking Mosley turned the key in the
door, opened it, and went out into the street,
leaving the proprietor too much confounded to
offer any obstacle to his departure, which he did
not, on reflection, wish to do, as he had suffered
no personal injury, and hoped yet to get paid;
his love of money being paramount to his desire
of avenging himself; and so, with the wise resolution
to await the issue of another day, he adjusted
his damaged collar, and busied himself
with affairs behind the bar.
After stopping a few moment's in a barber's
shop to arrange his hair and attire, and get his
boots polished, greatly to the improvement of his
exterior, for he was studious of making a good
appearance in the street, Ralph Mosley took his
way along Washington street, passing the Old
South as the bell was ringing for seven. He
glanced in at Mr. Cushing's store, where he saw
Harry dusting the goods, but did not linger, and
turning up School street, he walked rapidly into
Beacon street, and there turning from it by the
west side of the State House, crossed Mount Vernon,
and passed from that well built and respectable
part of the city into one of the narrow lanes
of a quarter, which, at that period, was thronged
with the abodes of vice, wretchedness and crime.
Descending a steep street containing a better order
of houses than the others, he came to a narrow
court, shaded with sickly looking trees, at the extremity
of which stood a three story brick dwelling,
of a more decent appearance than its neighbors.
After casting his glance quickly up and
down the street, to see if he was watched by any
one whose observation he would avoid he turned
into the alley, and approached the house. The
shutters were all closed, but the front door was
ajar, and yielded to his hand. Softly he entered
and carefully closed it behind him. The entry
was still, and a lamp half expiring was flickering
on the lower stair. At his left hand was a door,
partly open.
`Yes,' he said within himself, `all is as I hoped!
Not one has stirred since I got up at five
and went out, that vile wine not letting me sleep.
I wish I had staid in before I had seen and had
that scrape with O'Bruce; but that was well paid
for by discovering where Harefoot's little rustic
beauty kept. Now, if Ellen is not awake, I shall
get what I came after. If she discovers me, I can
easily frame an excuse for returning.'
Thus reflecting, Mosley softly pushed open the
door to the front room, on the first floor and noiselessly
entered. All was as he had left it when he
rose, feverish and sleepless three hours before,
save that a broad sunbeam shone in through a
broken shutter, and fell upon the bed. Upon it,
with her cheek pillowed in her hand, lay an extremely
young and lovely girl, sleeping as sweetly
as if the dove of innocence had not taken his
flight from her bosom. Mosley approached and
bent over her. The quiet repose of the limbs, and
her regular breathing, assured him of her slumber.
With a stealthy step and a look of inward gratification,
he left the bedside, and advanced, with
cautious glances towards her, in the direction of a
bureau on the opposite side of the chamber. Upon
it was a small esretoire, which, from the
eager grasp he laid upon it, was plainly the object
of his wishes. He carefully tried it, and found it
was locked.
`Curse it!' he muttered; `the girl mistrusts
me! She needn't lock from me what I have myself
given her. But I must not be foiled.'
After a short search he found a ring of keys,
one of which fitted the desk. Withdrawing with
it out of sight, where he could be screened by the
curtain, he opened it; but the deeply disappointed
look his countenance instantly expressed, showed
that what he sought was missing.
`Could she have suspected I should ever want
the watch, and so has hidden it from me! Confound
the girl! I saw her place it here last night.
By heaven! I am in a mind to wake her and demand
it of her! But then I know her firmness,
and she would refuse to give it up! No, I see I
have no chance of paying O'Bruce here! But
perhaps it is in the bureau, or under her pillow!
With the threat of a jail before me I must risk
something!'
Locking and replacing the little rose-wood box,
he searched the beaurea-drawers, and every place,
but beneath her pillow. There, he was at length
convinced, must be the valuable watch which he
had bought with a portion of the money he had
obtained by fraudulently selling goods from his
employer's store on his own account, and had
some weeks before presented to her, or rather out
of which she had coaxed him. It was the prospect
of getting possession of this upon which he
had based his confident promise to pay Bruce; as
he knew, by pawning it, he could get forty or fifty
dollars upon it. His disappointment, and its anticipated
consequences, filled him with despair,
and prompted him to take a bold step to recover
his gift, and so possess the means of saving himself
from being put in prison, as well for the debt
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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
as for the assault; for he was well aware that if
he did not pay O'Bruce, he should be not only imprisoned
for the former, but also indicted for the
latter.
In this guilty dilemma, the young man, for an
instant, let the idea of murder enter and linger in
his mind; but only for an instant, for he banished
the temptation with a shudder! Yet he felt he
must save himself! `Would it not,' it occurred
to him, `be best to wake her, and demand it of
her.' But this course he rejected, knowing her
character, and that when she knew he was so
wholly without resources, she would treat him
with contempt. His situation required action of
some kind, and he resolved to search the pillow.'
She did not wake; and he even ventured to raise
her head, and lift its abundant cloud of fair hair
from her arm. But he turned away disappointed,
with a deep curse upon his lips, and then stood a
few moments deliberating. Suddenly his features
brightened up! The light of hope returned to
his sullen eye, and his form became firmly erect
again!
`I have it! Silsby will do it. I shall find him
at the Exchange! Confound the little suspicious
vixen, with her, watch! Let her keep it. It is the
last jewelry I can lavish on her, She has been my
ruin, and I will get rid of her as soon as I can.—
But I cannot speak against her,' he said aloud.—
`She is a noble, generous creature, and it is a pity
she can never be other than her love for me has
made her. But it is as much her fault as mine.
Yet we must part. She expects it, and I have determined
on it.'
`Who are you speaking about, Ralph? Why I
thought you had gone out,' said the sleeper waking
and fixing upon him a pair of fine hazel eyes
the beauty of which was marred by the slight inflammation
of dissipation and late hours.
`I was speaking of you, Ellen,' he said, approaching
her and coloring.
`What o'clock is it?'
`Look at your watch,' he said quickly.
`I believe it has run down,' she replied, placing
her hand in her bosom and drawing forth,
with a peculiar smile, a beautiful gold lever, the
hour-hand of which pointed to III.
Mosley bit his lip with vexation; but he had
already calculated for relief from another source,
and to this now determined to look for the funds
he wanted. But her smile moved his suspicions.
`What does that knowing look mean?' he asked,
half guessing the truth.
`That I have not been asleep and very well
know what you have been searching for,' she said,
smiling and significantly tapping the watch with
her finger.
`Did you hide your watch from me?' he asked,
angrily.
`Yes, Don't you know you desired me yesterday
to let you take it to the watchmaker's, when
I knew there was nothing the matter with it. I
have not seen my brooch nor ear-rings you took
there, last week.'
`But I gave them to you, Ellen,' he said
sharply.
`And now you would take them away again. I
want twenty dollars, Ralph.'
`Twenty devils!'
`Why, what is the matter?'
`I have no money.'
`And so you wanted to rob me of my watch.—
The rent is due next week.'
`I can't pay it.'
`I am sure I cannot,' she said warmly.
`The truth is, I can't support you any longer,
Ellen?' he said, walking to the opposite side of
the room, as if to avoid her look.
`No!' she exclaimed raising herself up with
alarm quick in her paling countenance.
`No. I am run out! worse and worse every
day. I have this morning been threatened with
jail.'
`What shall I do if you desert me?'
`Find some one else fool enough to keep you.'
`How can you talk so cruelly! I have been true
to you. This degraded condition—an unmarried
wife—is not my fault. I loved you and when you
brought me to Boston you shamefully deceived
me. I was taken in a web of lies.'
`And your own silly vanity furnished the warp,'
he retorted. `But that is past. I am sorry, Ellen;
but I cannot support this way of living. You
must find some other friend. I may have to leave
the city yet. I would see you taken care of—
Silsby or Lynch, or some of the fellows who have
supped here with me, would be glad to take you
off my hands.'
`Oh, God, I have been expecting this,' said the
young girl, with tears gushing from her eyes; and
burying her face in the pillow, she wept like an infant.
Ellen Emery was now in her eighteenth year.
She was a native of Salem and had known Mosley
from a child; but her mother, the widow of a seacaptain,
being poor, Ellen did not move in the
same society. After he had been in Boston long
enough to learn its vices, on one of his visits to
Salem he was struck with the beauty of Ellen
Emery who was assisting her mother in keeping
a mantuamaker's shop. Ellen was susceptible;
had been a great deal flattered, was vain of her
personal attractions and therefore felt not a little
gratified when she saw the gay and handsome
Ralph Mosley, `from Boston,' added to her admirers.
Ralph was artful in the art of pleasing,
and his engaging manners and superior address as
well as the respectability of his family soon made
their impress on upon her. When he discovered
this preference for his society and that she was
flattered by his attentions he resolved to make her
his victim. He brought her presents from the
city; told her how greatly her charms eclipsed
those of the Boston belle, and that she ought to
go to Boston just to create a sensation in Washington
street.
Such language with a show of warm attachment,
and an increasing perseverance soon won
her regard, while he returned her no love, but
merely amused her with its false outside. At
length by making use of her beauty as the talisman
of his power he so far ingratiated himself
into her confidence as to dare to propose to her an
elopement to Boston, there to be married; and he
so far overcame her faint objections by overwhelming
her with vows and protestations as to get her
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consent to this rash step. On the pretence of
going to church in the afternoon of a Sabbath,
the imprudent girl met him at the foot of the
street that led to her mother's house, where he
waited for her in a stylish gig he had hired the
evening before in Boston for this purpose, so confident
was he of her weakness. The unprincipled
young man lifted her into the chaise with
guilty triumph, and drove rapidly off; the deluded
girl, leaving behind her scenes of childhood
that she was never to behold in innocence again.
He took care to amuse her during the two hours
ride to the city, so that she should not have time
to reflect and repent of the step, as she might
have done, her imagination having been more
touched than her heart. But she had listened to
his flattery, been vain of his attention, aspired to
associate with those in a condition the aristocracy
of society had placed above her, and ruin was the
consequence. Mosley had in fact won her, as
many a foolish girl is won, almost wholly through
compliments to her beauty. During the drive to
town she was in fine spirits, for all before her was
bright with the sunshine of hope. `She was soon
to be a bride, live in a fine house in Boston, and
be admired for her beauty! and wouldn't she
triumph over all her young acquaintances in
Salem!' were the gilded thoughts that filled her
mind.
Such were her meditations as they rolled across
Charlestown bridge and rattled along the pavements
of the city streets. After riding some distance
into the midst of the city, Mosley suddenly
turned into a neatly built court out of Elliott street
and stopped the gig before a genteel looking twostory
house painted pea-green. It was a pleasant
place with a flower yard in front and vines creeping
above the door.
`Here is the house we are to live in, dear Ellen,
' said Mosley assisting the joyful, trembling
girl to alight.
He knocked at the door, which was at the same
instant opened by an agreeable looking woman to
whom he introduced Ellen as his bride. The woman
gazed with admiration upon her youth and
beauty, welcomed her with respect and ushered
them into a hadsomely furnished parlor. Ellen
blushed at the term `bride,' he had prematurely
used, but it excited no suspicion in her mind.
`Now are not these fine rooms, Ellen! This is
your parlor and that door leads into as handsome
a sleeping room. Now remain here while I go
for the clergyman. I shall soon be back; and
lest you should repent and run away,' he said
playfully, `I shall lock your cage door, pretty
bird!'
His motive in introducing her already as his
wife and for locking the door was that he had also
deceived the woman, who had rented the lodgings,
as she supposed to a `newly-married pair'—
for so he gave her to understand when he engaged
them. He did not therefore wish Ellen to
have any communication with her while he went
to take his gig to the stable. As he went out he,
in a low tone, desired the landlady not to disturb
`his wife' as she had laid down.
In half an hour he returned, and having been
lonely and sad in his absence, no sooner did Ellen
hear his step than she flew, yet half shrinking
back, to meet him.
`Where is the clergyman?' she timidly and
blushingly inquired, seeing he came alone.
`He was out to attend a funeral,' he said with
a well assumed look of regret. `I left word for
him and he will be here soon. We will take tea,
Ellen, and by the time we are through he will
certainly be here.' We will not prolong this narrative
of a painful story of real occurrence. With
one pretence or other he excused the absence of
the clergyman, till the hour for preserving her
honor after the imprudent step she had taken, had
fled forever; and, a victim to her own imprudence,
love of flattery and ambition to mate above
her degree, the unhappy girl found herself in the
power of one who had artfully spread a snare for
her ruin.
For the first few weeks, by a succession of
amusements Mosley succeeded in making her reconciled
to her degradation. She, however, at
length grew reckless; her modesty of manner departed;
while her associates were alone with
those of her own condition whom Mosley introduced
to his rooms where he held card parties;
and in a few months the beautiful and pure Ellen
Emery had lost all of her former self but her incomparable
beauty. Notwithstanding his base
deceptions she blamed her own imprudence, as
much as she did Mosley, and had hitherto been
indeed as a wife to him, resisting for his sake,
tempting proposals of style and equipage from
many wealthy young men. Lately there had
grown an indifference between them. Mosley
became addicted to hard drinking and often treated
her rudely. His money too had been expended
and he had had to remove her from place to
place to the single room he now occupied. Her
late demands for money had been met with illhumor
and as he had taught her expensive habits,
she felt disappointed and vexed if he did not indulge
her. More than once before this morning
he had hinted that they had best separate; and
her hopes of being made his wife or of changing
her fate being long since dissipated, and as her
more intimate knowledge of him showed her
qualities both of his head and heart which disgusted
her, the frail tie which had hound her affections
to him, was ready to be loosened so soon
as circumstances should call for its severance.
She was a girl of a good mind, pleasing and fascinating
in conversation and possessed a large
share of judgment and observation of character.
Mosley respected her, and her influence over him
was very great. To supply her with money and
load her with presents he had repeatedly been
guilty of abstracting funds and goods from his employers;
and the failure of the last one with whom
he kept was owing to the large amount of goods
sent to the auction room through his secret peculations.
But now all his means and resources
were dried up. He felt that the time had come
for him to leave her, as hundreds in her situation
had been left, to the current of fortune.
While she lay with her face buried in the pillow
she, also, felt that the time had indeed come
for their separation. She saw that he could no
longer supply the wants he had created; while the
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rent of their room was soon due; and winter was
approaching to find neither without money to
meet it. Yet to come to this decision was painful
and trying. She was attached to Mosley but she
had long since discovered that she never had
loved him. The separation would be painful, but
she resolved that it must be borne. No moral
objections intruded upon her thoughts; for though
hitherto faithful to him, her mind had been sufficiently
corrupted by associating with others of
her sex, and by a thorough knowledge of the resources
of persons in her situation, to leave her
long to hesitate. Nothing is more surprising in
the phenomena of character than the sudden and
thorough abandonment of the mind of a young
girl, however pure it hitherto may have been,
when she has once departed from virtue. So
profound and innate is the poison of vice that
scarcely ever does a woman reform! with her it
is all downward till her star of life, which rose in
beauty and glory, sets forever in a night of infamy
and unrepented guilt! If the pure and guileless
girl in humble life, whose beauty promises, like
Ellen Emery's, to become a snare to her, could
behold the career of a woman lost in her sad
course through a life of alternate hollow pleasure
and horrid woe, and follow her down to the
chambers of death, she would shudder at its contemplation,
and turn a deaf ear to the tongue of
the flatterer, and shun carefully the companionship
of those fine young men whose station in life
is above her own—whose notice is infamy.
Ellen lay with her face hid till she had decided
to leave him and had quite dried up her tears.
`Well, Ralph, I think it is best we do separate,'
she said with spirit; for she was both grieved and
angry at this issue, but yet not sorry that it had
occurred.
`You seem to be quite willing,' he said, sneeringly.
`I suppose you have already settled the
matter with some one of your own choice.'
`Indeed I have not,' she said with a toss of her
pretty head. `I mean to remain here till I decide
what to do. My watch will pay my rent.'
`I have a plan that I think will please you, Ellen.
Now, if you will agree to it, it will be for
your good and place you in funds, at the same
time, perhaps, give you a good protector.'
`What is it?' she asked eagerly.
`It is a plan I have been thinking about since
day before yesterday. There is quite a handsome
young fellow in town, who is clerk in one of the
richest dry goods stores in Washington street.
He has recently come to the city, is quite unsophisticated,
but is ambitious to polish his rusticity.
He is too fond of dress, I think, to dress well long
upon nothing and I am told his father, though
well off gives him no money; he is also, I have
discovered, vain of the admiration of young ladies;
and though he affects virtue and may, possibly be
well enough that way, he is very susceptible and I
am greatly mistaken if he will not easily fall into
temptation. Now, as I know you will like him,
what I propose is that you call at his store, try
and get waited on by him, and with such beauty
as you possess for bait, I am mistaken, if you play
your card well, if you do not have him at your
feet, and as much of his employer's money in your
purse as you want. He is one of those enthusias
tic characters that will go any lengths for the object
of his attachment. You will then have a protector
and as many fine things as you want. You
can too avenge yourself on my sex in teaching to
stray an innocent youth, Ellen,' he said laughing.
Ellen seemed to reflect a few moments very
deeply upon his plan and then said,
“He might suspect my — yes, I will out
with it, my true character and that would be a
bar to future progress at the first step.”
“No—you are not known! Your appearance
and air, as well as that simplicity of dress you
know so well how to assume, are all in your favor.
If you, herein, will stand by me fairly, I
will not only do you a service but do myself one.
I am not in favor with him now, but I will soon
be, if you will agree to this. I want money as
well as you!”
“Has he money?” she asked with a quiet air.
“If you can make him bite, I will answer for
that. He shan't want for all my own experience
in knowing how to replenish his finances—though
I am low enough now.”
“Well, I agree to it, if after I have seen him I
like him,” said the girl, who felt she was now
fairly turned upon the tide of her own fortunes,
by the desertion and poverty of Mosley; and that
unless she wished to sink to the degredation of
the most wretched and abject of her class, she
must attempt and achieve something for her
safety. She therefore entered into the compact
with her quondam lover, without compunction,
to tempt and plot the ruin of an unsuspecting
young man, her plea being to save herself from
otherwise destitution. The artful motive and
depth of purpose which actuated Mosley will be
more fully developed in the progress of the
story.
Considering himself by this compact now clear
from the incubus of a mistress' which to one in
his narrow condition was no light burden, he
shook Ellen by the hand very cordially and feeling
great relief at getting so well rid of an affair
the thoughts of which had vexed and perplexed
him for several days past. They parted, therefore,
after he had given her the name and the
place of business of this young victim without
much sorrow on either side, but without any feelings
of animosity.
CHAPTER VI.
A review of the character of our hero—Wentworth
and Henry meet—The former apprentice's noble
ambition—Its effects upon our hero—The
carpenter's rule—Our hero resorts to a weak
subterfuge—The beautiful glove purchaser—
Our hero captivated by a pair of eyes—His
embarrassment—The old lady in spees—A
morning scene in the lodgings of a fashionable
young man—Mosley and his proposition—
Isabel Wentworth meets Stanwood—Her treatment
of him—Her two dissolute visitors—Stanwood
discovers himself to be half in love—Isabel
receives a mysterious note.
In delineating the character of Harry Harefoot,
we have not been withheld from a desire to make
him appear to the reader better and more free
from errors than he is, from unfolding all the
parts of his character—the good as well as the
evil, the weak as well as the noble. We have
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given it as he brought it with him from beneath
his father's hand to enter with its moral capital
upon the scenes of life. He is therefore a natural
character, and its counterpart may be found
varying more or less, as education has variously
modified the natural heart in many a city store.
We have said that he was in his eighteenth
year, tall for his age, handsome in person, with a
finely expressive countenance; that he possessed
good sense, had genius that promised much,
and was uncommonly intelligent, with the possession
of conversational powers of a high order;
he was warm-hearted; had much of the overflowings
of that social sympathy that makes mankind
love each other, which is denominated free-heartedness,
or `whole-souledness;' that in spite of
his fathers characteristic advice for the regulation
of his conduct he was strictly honest, had
conscientious views of accountability, and still
preserved the lovely habit formed by his mother's
holy teaching and example of offering up a prayer
when he went to bed, and when he rose. We
have also said that he had been early spoiled by
the smiles of the little village belles, whose admiration
had first inspired him with a love for dress,
and given him mischievous ideas of the advantages
of a fine face and figure; that he was something
vain of his person; and a little aristocratic
in his notions, having been brought up under the
false system which shipwrecked Edward Bentham,
and embittered half the life of Charles
Blackford; that he aspired in Boston to be a
`fine gentleman,' and, to be thought there as
handsome and interesting by the ladies as he had
been in his native village on the romantic Kennebec.
To this analysis we now add that he was
romantic, was a great admirer of female beauty;
and that his education, the rural character of his
former life, as well as an innate delicacy of sentiment,
had kept him free from sensuality; although,
as we have once painfully shown, he had
betrayed the presence of weakness in his character
which menaced the bulwarks of virtue.
The afternoon of the day in which Ralph Mosley
had parted from Ellen Emery, Henry was in
his store selling a piece of linen to a customer,
when he was surprised to see Pierce Wentworth
come in. His first thought, on seeing him, was
the suggestion of a guilty conscience; for he believed
that he had heard through Mosley or Stanwood,
what he had hinted with reference to his
sister. He colored with shame and apprehension
of a quarrel, and was so disturbed as to lose
for a moment his self-possession in replying to a
question put by the purchaser of the lace.—
Wentworth after discovering him, approached
him in a frank, friendly manner, that instantly
dispelled his fears; and for once Harry, so relieved
was he, shook hands with a mechanic's
apprentice more cordially than he ever had done
in his life before. The two aprentices had not
met but two or three times, and without recognition.
If Pierce was surprised to have such a
welcome, Harry was delighted to find that he
was willing to receive it. He nevertheless felt
mortified to look him in the face after what he
had said of Isabel.
`I have brought into you, Henry,' said Pierce,
`a letter from your father, which came with one
of mine, and which Parson Pearl brought to the
shop. I am glad to hear that all our friends are
well. How do you like your new place?'
`Very well,' said Henry, taking the letter and
thanking him for it. `You I suppose get along
well.'
`Yes, I am very much pleased. My work is
not very hard, though I am kept employed. I
have my evenings to myself, and, as I have subscribed
to the apprentice's library, I get as many
books as I wish. I attend a mathematical school
two evenings in the week and a French school
every night.'
`French!' repeated Harry with surprise, and
looking at his townsman's coarse jacket with a
slight expression of contempt: `what do you
want of French, Wentworth?'
`Mr Libby tells me, and I have heard it before
that the French language contains many
books on architecture that it is important builders
should read, and that its best books of mathematics
are not translated. So if I master this language
it will be of great service to me.'
`I suppose you will learn Latin and Greek
next,' said Henry scornfully, his customer having
left him and given him leisure to converse.
`I should like to, I confess,' answered Peirce,
not noticing the manner in which he said this:
`but I shall at present give my evenings to
French and mathematics. Greek I should like
very much to study, as in that ancient tongue is
locked all the treasures of architecture.'
`You look high for a mechanic—a mere apprentice,
' said Harry in a tone of contempt with
which he meant to rebuke his pretension. `You
had best go to college and turn gentleman at
once.'
`It is not necessary, Harry, to go to college
either to become a gentleman or to master the
languages and mathematics, if an apprentice has
a will and improves his evenings,' answered
Peirce mildly. `My present situation is my
choice, and yours I think is your choice. My
trade calls for great industry to learn its details,
and study to master its scientific principles;
yours, seem to me, is learned in a day! and you
have no occasion to study principles. In choosing
a trade I have made up my mind to become
not only master of it, but a master in it. I mean
to be whatever it holds out to any one to be.—
Builders have risen to great men, and I can
name, besides many Europeans, our own countrymen,
Strickland, Haviland, Davis, and others,
who are men of the highest respectability, and
their names do honor to the genius of their
country.'
Harry stared with surprise while he spoke with
such warmth and spirit, and could not help feeling
respect for the despised apprentices worthy
ambition. Nevertheless, he jeeringly said, `I
think I have made a mistake, Peirce—and if I
wanted to be respectable should have bound myself
out to a cobbler instead of being a clerk in a
genteel store in Washington street. How much
our fathers missed it! You, the hatter's son,
should have been here, according to your
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[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
reasoning, and I, the merchant's son, should be with
your master—Libby, I believe, is his name.'
`I see we differ, Henry,' said Peirce without
betraying any anger; `and all I hope is, that
you nor I will either of us be disappointed and
fall behind our hopes of being respected in the
world. Good morning.'
Henry bade him good morning coldly, for he
could not help feeling that there was a firmness
in the foundation of Wentworth's character his
own wanted; and he felt vexed that he should
aspire to be `respectable.' It was a presumption
in a mechanic's apprentice, and in the son of a
mechanic, too glaring to be overlooked or readily
forgiven.'
`Who was that cove, Harry?' asked Burnham,
as Peirce disappeared.
`A very respectable young man from Kennebec,
who brought me this letter,' answered Henry
not wishing to confess that he had an acquaintance
that was not `respectable.'
`Humph!' ejaculated Ben! `do all you gentry
down east carry carpenter's rules stuck in a
long pocket adown the thigh?'
`You didn't see me?' exclaimed Henry coloring.
`I did; a yellow carpenter's hinge-rule, sticking
three inches out. He was a carpenter's apprentice,
for that was the mark of the beast!'
added he, laughing. `I did not know you associated
before you came here with such low fellows,
Harefoot.'
`I guess he was but little higher in his own
town,' said Tarfton with a slur; for though he
had not forgotten the blow Harry had given him,
he was too implacably bitter against him not to
dare to show his hatred when opportunity offered.
Harry's weakness again betrayed him into folly.
To clear himself from the suspicion of not
being in `good society' at home, and of associating
with mechanics, he preferred to excuse the
acquaintance by the most guilty motive for keeping
it up; and therefore he said, blushing with
self-condemnation while he answered in a light,
significant tone, and giving a knowing look—`O,
he has a pretty sister, fellows!'
This reply, as he well knew, would with them
both be considered a good reason for having a low
associate; youths of their free way of thinking
deeming sensual motives the only plea that could
hold good for consorting with persons below their
caste. Harry was therefore readily excused; his
defence was admitted without a demurrer at the
tribunal before which he degraded himself. He
felt that the pang he suffered pierced deeper than
the mortification of being suspected of not being
`respectable' at home. And such is always the
result of wrong doing! The evil we resort to, to
shun the evil that we fear, proves in the end to
have the most poisonous sting. A lie was never
uttered by the lips to conceal a lie of the heart or
of the heap, that the utterer of it did not in the
ultimate issue suffer infinitely more than if the
truth had not been hidden. This is the punishment
which a wise Providence has appended to
every deed of evil. As in the natural world all
objects in sunshine cast a shade, so in the moral,
all evils, in the light of truth, project their retributive
shadow.
Vexed with himself at his own weakness, and
annoyed that he should, to remove the suspicion
of not being respectable, have conveyed to their
minds a suspicion of libertinism which he was innocent
of, he walked to the richly hung window
and looked out through the drapery of silks and
lawns, upon the side-walk to divert his mind from
himself, for he took no pleasure in his cutting
thoughts. He had hardly taken his place there,
when his attention was drawn to a young lady
richly yet tastefully dressed, who in passing the
window stopped to glance at a costly scarf that
hung in it. He saw that she was strikingly beautiful,
and, while his admiring eyes wandered with
the irresistable attraction beauty presents to youth
upon her lovely features, as she bent down to get
a closer view of the scarf, she lifted her eyes and
threw an inquisitive glance through the window.
Her fine eyes, soft yet animated, surveyed the interior
an instant, and then, ere they were withdrawn,
met his. He blushed, his pulse leaped,
and a thrill run over the cords of his deepest emotions.
She slightly smiled, the slightest in the
world, and ere he could recover from the sensation
of her beauty, from the fascinating spell of
her eyes, and dispel from his soul the witchery of
her smile, she had entered the store. As he was
nighest to the door, she addressed herself to him,
while he dropped his eyes beneath her glance.
`Have you gloves, sir?' she inquired, in a voice
naturally sweet, but to which an indescribable
modulation gave additional charm.
`We have, Miss,' he answered, abashed by the
bright glances of her eyes, which he felt were examining
his face; and without lifting his own,
he handed her down the several boxes of French
gloves.
`These are all too large, I am afraid,' she said,
after displaying a white soft hand in contrast
with the colors of the gloves she measured by it;
`I will, however, take two pairs. Mr. Cushing
formerly kept a great variety. But that was before
you came, sir, I presume; for I do not recollect
seeing you here before.'
`I have been here not quite two months,' answered
Harry, diffidently.
`Mr. Harefoot, is it not?' she asked, smiling,
and fixing upon him one of those thrilling glances
beneath which his eyes had before sunk.
`Yes,' replied Henry, with a look of surprise.
`I was not aware I had the happiness of being
known to—to' he was going to say to so very
beautiful a girl.
`O,' she said, laughing, `I have a friend whom
I have heard mention you, who has been in here.'
Henry would have asked her who she was, but
his politenes withheld him, for he felt it would
be the same thing as asking who she was herself.
Yet he would have given worlds to know. Her
beauty had impressed him, susceptible as he was,
more than that of any other female he had ever
seen.
There was a wild spirit combined with a modest
demeanor, a frankness of speech, tempered
by a downeast look, and a nameless fascination
in her air and manner that captivated him. He
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betrayed too, the effect of her voice and presence
by taking the gloves, and putting them into the
money drawer, for the two one dollar bills she
gave him, and wrapping the bills in a shop-card,
and returning them to her with a bow and a blush.
She so good-humoredly pointed out the mistake
that he could not but feel grateful while he was
angry at himself for this betrayal of the effect of
her beauty upon him.
`Pardon me! You shall keep both gloves and
the bills,' he said, forcing back the rolled up notes
and placing the gloves in another shop-bill; `for
I ought to lose the amount for so ridiculous a
blunder!'
`O no!' she said, unrolling and placing them in
his hand, while he instantly saw the impropriety
of presenting, even at his own expense, goods to
a stranger, who if a well bred lady, or wished to
seem such, would never accept them. Annoyed,
therefore, by his own politeness, by which he had
meant to atone for his awkwardness, he placed
the money in the drawer and gave her the change.
She made one or two more purchases with it,
and then, a crowd of ladies coming in, she smiled,
bowed, and casting upon him an expressive
glance of admiration, she left the store.
`What do you say, Miss?'
`I say,' bawled an old woman, in a black scoopbonnet
and iron spectacles, `that I have axed ye
these here three times if you want to barter some
o' your goods, you got so many on 'em, for some
hanks o' nice yarn o' my own and Deb's spinnin'?
but you've been so tuck up a looking arter
that young gal that ye ha'nt paid me no 'tention.'
No; for Harry had seen his fellow-passenger,
Mr. George Washington St. John Leighton, pass
by as she went out, stop, take this glass and eye
her, and then turn and walk the same way she
went.
`O, marm, I beg your pardon, marm, he said,
with a conscious crimsoning of the temples, and
wondering if he knew her, and hoping he did
not; `what is it you want to get, marm?'
`I've got here, I tell ye,' repeated the old lady,
impatiently, `four hanks o' blue yarn, I want to
barter with ye for some goods. Its gall dyed,
and won't smut.'
Henry knew that in his own town half the
trading was done by barter with the farmers, and
he had not been long enough in a fashionable
Boston dry goods' store to learn that such a mode
of business was not frequently carried on there.
So he innocently walked back and asked Mr.
Martin if he wanted to barter goods for blue yarn.
`Barter goods for blue yarn?' repeated Mr. Jeremiah
Martin, opening wide his pop-blue eyes,
and putting on an expression of lofty contempt;
`where mout you ha' been raised?' Mr. Martin,
then, without deigning another word or look,
turned away from our mortified and angry hero,
with the step and air of Napoleon when retreat
from the bridge of Lodi was proposed to him by
one of his marshals.
Harry went back to the old lady with his pride
not a little wounded at having exposed his rusticity,
and not a little offended at the first clerk's
manner. He dismissed the old lady in the iron
spectacles and black scoop with a cross reply,
and then bent his yard stick with vexation till it
suddenly snapped in his nervous grasp. This restored
him to himself, and the rest of the day he
was as quiet as thinking about the beautiful glove
purchaser would let him be.
It was about nine o'clock on the morning of
this same day, that a young gentleman in his
morning wrapper and slippers was seated at his
breakfast in an upper bedchamber of the Exchange
Coffee House. The room was large, the
bed a handsome French Couch, the windows tall
and draped with crimson curtains, bordered with
a fringe of gold thread; the furniture rich and
piled with books, shell boxes, ivory desks, vases,
curious articles of virtu, and all the various melange
of a wealthy young man's apartment, confusedly
heaped on tables, sofa and chairs. His
breakfast was in a large server which was placed
on a marble centre table. He was a good looking
young man, about twenty-two years of age, inclined
to be fleshy, and with a decided air of fashionable
dissipation. His cheek was pale, his nose
red, his eyes heavy, and his hand as he held his
tea cup, nervously shook. He had the preceding
year, from comparative indigence and obscurity
came into a fortune of a hundred thousand dollars
by the death of a relative, and was now spending
it in gambling, high living and debanchery.
He drove the only horses that ever paced a mile
in three minutes over the milldam, and his `turnouts,
' whether tandem, span, in single harness, or
under the saddle were the talk of the town. He
drank deep yet not as a gentleman should, if he
drinks at all, at the table, but in every `soda
shop,' as bar-rooms were then termed, in town.
Never properly educated, his tastes were low,
his habits loaferish; his ideas sensual. He was
free with his money for the gratification of his
own lusts and vanity; and we are sorry to say
that many a hitherto moral young man who had
come to Boston, to enter upon its scene of industrious
application, led astray by foolish deference
to money and a weak ambition to associate with
a fashionable young man of great fortune, were
too willing to become panders to the one, and
sycophants to the others; and without sufficient
firmness to resist the temptations of the society
his companionship led them into, they became as
low as he without his notoriety, as sensual without
his money. Among those thus that hung
upon him was, as may be anticipated, Ralph
Mosley.
`Well, I wonder what I shall do with myself
to-day,' said this fashionable young man, listlessly
breaking the large end of a soft boiled egg; `I
am getting sick of Boston, and think I must put
off to sport awhile in New York. This infernal
sober sided city with its narrow streets, I am getting
tired of! A fellow can't drive tandem without
having his leader always out of sight 'round
some twist or other in 'em. Confound my head!
how it aches! that's for drinking champagne before
I went to bed, with Bob Robertson, and not
topping off with brandy, as I always do! Bob
has a fine turn-out in his two bay mares and London
chair, but don't begin to come to my black
Jersies! Give me a Jersey horse for wind and
bottom, on a clean turnpike.' Here the rich
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young man of fashion having dissolved a small
lump of butter in his egg, began with a spoon to
eat it from the shell as from an egg-cup.
At this momont Ralph Mosley was announced
as at the bar and desiring to see him.
`Ask him up,' he said to the waiter. `There
is that bore, Mosley! Come to borrow money I'll
swear, and I wouldn't see him if I didn't have the
blues so and want company. I can refuse him
tho' if I choose. Confound such fellows, they
come round a gentleman because he is rich like a
parcel of leeches. I verily believe half the fellows
about town owe me money I've lent 'em.—
They invite me to ride, to a supper, to go to the
theatre, and I always have to foot the bill at last.
Well there is some gratification in being thought
so much of and having so many to admire and
look up to one. Well Ralph, my boy, good morning!
Glad to see you. Sit down. You see I am
just at breakfast. We men of leisure breakfast
late you know. I am told some rich fellows in
New York don't rise till `leven! Well, how are
you? Any news?'
`No, not much, Silsby,' answered Mosley; who
having stopped on his way from his interview
with Ellen Emery, to breakfast at a low restaurant
where he still had credit, had just reached
Silsby's lodgings.
`You look as if you knew something.'
`What has become of that pretty Miss——
that you used to board out to Roxbury?' asked
Mosley as if not noticing his remark. I saw her
riding with Ned Lynch.'
`She and I had a little quarrel. She was too
extravagant, and last week stole a hundred dollar
bill from my waistcoat pocket.'
`Who have you now?'
`Nobody.'
`Who has your handsome rooms in Cambridge
street?'
`I keep 'em.'
`An empty cage is of no use if it is gilded,
Silsby.'
`I know that! But there is no trusting these
persons. I have spent thousands to please them,
and they are only the worse for it. I have half a
mind to get married, to revenge myself on them
all. If I could come across a young beauty,
modest and agreeable, I would like to have her.
I would give fifty dollars for such a one. I want
a fine creature to dash out with on the turnpike.'
`Do you mean a wife?' asked Ralph with surprise.
`A wife—no!' answered Silsby staring at him.
`Then I think I know of one who would just
suit you. The fact is you are disgusted with facility
and want something to give incentive to
perseverance and which shall be enhanced in
value in the same proportion that difficulties
have been encountered and overcome in the pursuit.
'
`You have hit me exactly, Mosley!' said the
roue with animation. `Who have you in your
eye? For that look of yours means something.
Come, I am all curiosity.'
`I know a young girl just from the country,
Boh,' said Mosley, in a quiet tone, `who is very
beautiful, is innocent as a lamb, and unsophisti
cated as a nun. She has been in town two
months.'
`Who is she—where is she?' demanded Silsby
laying down his spoon. `Do you know her? If
you do I wouldn't trust her.'
`No. But I can get you an introduction to her.'
`Do it, Mosley, and I will give you five dollars.'
`You said just now fifty.'
`If I won her. Besides you owe me forty dollars
now.'
`This pretty milliner is worth a hundred. She
can easily be won by your address, equipage,
presents and wealth. You will dazzle and blind
her. Give me a quittance for the forty dollars
and give me a cool fifty, Bob, and I will do the
thing.'
`Bless me! do you think I am made of money.
I have spent twenty thousand dollars already of
my fortune. When I get it down to fifty I mean
to stop, marry and settle down. Well, I'll do it,
provided you show her to me and I like her looks.'
`Done, replied Mosley rising. Come with me.'
Silsby delayed sometime to dress, much to the
vexation of Mosley who was impatient to get
the money to be earned by becoming pandor to his
vices.
Isabel Wentworth was seated in the little recess
curtained off from the shop, part of Mrs.
Prescott's millinary establishment, trimming with
great taste a straw hat. She had that morning
got a letter from home which old Parson Pearl
had brought to her. The news was pleasant, and
with the consciousness that she was doing her
duty where her father had placed her, she felt
happy and was singing, for Mrs. Prescott had
gone down into Kilby street to purchase some
bonnet silks and the apprentices were in the back
sitting room at work. Isabel, therefore was shop-keeper.
At intervals she would lift her eyes
from the bonnet and glance out into the street at
the hurrying passers-by; but they did not fix her
attention long, for by this time she had become
quite accustomed to the noise and bustle of the
city. In taking one of these glances, she was
surprised to see Frank Stanwood pass with a very
respectable middle aged lady leaning on his arm,
while he seemed to escort her with great tenderness
and respect. A glow came roseate to her
cheeks while a pang at the recollection of what
Harry had said and which she had referred to
Stanwood instead of Mosley, shot to her heart.
To add to her confusion and the tremor of her
heart, they had scarcely passed by before they
came back and entered the shop.
Laying down the half-trimmed hat she rose up,
and with a cheek in which the carnation struggled
with the lilly, approached them behind the
counter. Stanwood's return to this shop after
passing it by was plainly accident, if an opinion
might be formed from his start of surprise and
mantling glow of pleasure on seeing her make
her appearance to wait on them. He half-bowed,
but instantly recovering herself, reflecting that
his thinking of her ever since he first saw her had
not made him acquainted, and that he was to her
a perfect stranger! She looked too, like wishing
to avoid his glance and her manner was reserved.
`Mother,' he said, glancing around, yet
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observing her, `you can cortainly find sister Mary a
bonnet here. They are numerous and all appear
in such good taste! Did you make this, Miss?'
he inquired, wishing to hear her speak and prepared
to catch the tones that he had once thought
so touching.
`No, sir,' she answered reservedly.
`It is very pretty.'
Isabel made no answer; fearing to encourage
any conversation after the character she believed
he possessed. Poor Isabel her heart was open
to all gentle influences from the source to which
she so firmly closed its avenues; and while she
could not hide from herself the interest she felt
in him, she resolutely made up her mind not to
have any thing to do with him. Stanwood was
not long in finding out that she was unnaturally
constrained in his presence, and sought in vain in
himself for the cause. She was free, frank and
interesting as he had first seen her, when she conversed
with him about the bonnets; but a word
from him caused an expression to pass across her
sunny face like a cloud. Hurt and surprised at
this, he turned and stood by the door till the purchase
was made by his mother, when coldly bowing
he left the shop. On the side-walk he parted
with his mother to go to his store. He had gone
but a few paces and was crossing the flag-stones
at the head of Summer street when he was turned
back to the walk by a dashing buggy rapidly
driven by a young blood in whom he recognized
as he whirled by, Bob Silsby and seated by his
side Ralph Mosley. He turned round to look after
them when he saw them the next moment
draw up along the curb-stone before the shop in
which the beautiful apprentice kept. He saw
Mosley alight and enter. His heart throbbed like
a trip-hammer with the rush of painful sensations
this sight caused him. He did not know till then,
how deep was the interest he took in that fair
girl. He smiled mentally at his own romantic
enthusiasm, and turned and walked back, resolving,
if peril threatened her as he believed, from
such a source, to caution, and if need were, to
protect and defend her. In a steady and by no
means visionary young gentleman, like Francis
Stanwood, this was a novel determination. But
his heart was interested in her, and his feelings
were his heart's warm and generous impulses.—
The interest she awakened was by no means selfish
or dishonorable to the pure object of it.—
Dishonor was known to this high-minded youth
only by name. He was the model of integrity
and moral uprightness. His life had been without
a stain. The son of an episcopal clergyman,
of an adjacent town, he had been educated for
the world to come, as well as rightly to perform
the duties of the world present. Religious principle,
love of truth, disgust of vice, and emulation
after purity of heart and life had been early
instilled into his mind by both of his judicious
Christian parents; and under their fostering
charge he grew up to his eighteenth year a fine,
noble, worthy and universally beloved young
man. Too poor to be educated at College, Mr.
Cushing, who was a relative of his mother, proposed
taking him into his store, where at the
time of our story he had been little more than
a year, possessing the entire confidence of his
employer.
It was with anxious solicitude that he walked
back towards the shop to observe their conduct.
Mosley remained in but a moment when coming
out, Silsby alighted and both went in together.
`Here is villainy, and I must defeat it,' said
Frank, resolutely. `That Mosley was in the
store and saw her the day I did, and has by some
means sought her out. Possibly it may be accident
as my seeing her was, and fortunate I am in
making the happy discovery! I would have asked
Harry Harefoot but that, from what insight I
have got into his character, he might be inclined
to misinterpret my motives. Of their motives
there can be no question. To what dangers is innocence
exposed in a large city. I will enter and
frame a question about the bonnet my mother
purchased! No they will then, I fear, (for he
who is evil evil thinks) think I visit her for the
object they can alone have in view; and lest I be
a means of casting the least reflection upon the
rectitude of her character, I will stand here
within the door of this apothecary's and observe
them.
Isabel had just resumed her seat and taken up
her bonnet to complete the trimming, when Mosley
came in. Not having noticed him in Mr.
Cushing's store, she did not now recognize him.
She rose to attend to his wishes approaching with
a quiet, charming dignity that became her. Mosley
gazed upon her sweet face and whatever he
meant to say he could not utter, but stood abashed
and silent in the presence of her innocent
beauty.
`Did you wish any thing, sir?' she modestly
asked.
`Eh, no! That is, my friend does, I believe—
I will ask him,' and thus awkwardly replying he
left the shop and approached the buggy.
`She is there behind the counter! Go in and
ask for a ribbon, or price a Tuscan,' he said hurriedly;
`that boy will hold the horse.'
Silsby entered with him, and after staring at
her broadly, with his eye-glass, he approached
her, and said in an insinuating tone,
`Foin day, Miss,'
`Yes,' said Isabel, so respectfully that it chilled
him.
`Have you any gentlemen's Leghorns, my
dear?' he asked, more boldly.
`No, sir,' was the brief reply of the maiden.
`Don't pout, my pretty one,' said Silsby, smiling,
and playfully tapping her waist across the
counter with the top of his riding whip.
`You have seen her—let us go!' said Mosley,
who saw the impatient Stanwood at the moment
pass the door and look steadfastly in.
Mosley drew him out to his buggy, the roue
kissing his hand to her as he left the shop, and
afterwards when he got into his carriage.
`What do you think of her?' asked Mosley, as
they turned up Winter street, both nodding to
Stanwood as they passed.
`She is a hebe—a perfect gipsey!'
`Then you like her,' said Mosley, with a smile.
`Yes! She is spirited though, and took offence
at my calling her dear! But her part
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became her! What a fine eye and pencilled brows!
See how my mare carries her head!'
`And did you ever see such a mouth and lips!
Your mare is hard on the bit this morning, Silsby!
'
`Never! Her shoulders have such a graceful
fall, and her voice is the sweetest I ever heard!
Wo! that confounded terrier's barking has startled
her. I will soon break her in!'
`Yes, she is a little shy now! but your gig and
style will captivate her.
`Oh, the milliner? Yes! I will see what I
can do there. You did'nt introduce me! I must
be introduced she is so shy.'
`Give me the fifty and I'll not only do that
but insure you success in getting her to ride out
with you. Once drive her out of town and you
are safe.'
`Well, there's fifty!' said Silsby, taking a bank
bill from his wallet and giving it to him. `If I
do not fail I never will ask you for the forty I
have loaned you. Where shall we drive! Suppose
we take the Neck out to Fresh Pond, and
come in by the Dam.'
For Silsby to wish was for Mosley to acquiesce.
The drive was taken, and they returned in time
for Mosley to pay O'Bruce halfof his bill, with
which he was for the present content, and to get
to Ellen's room a few minutes after she had returned
from Mr. Cushing's store. She expressed
herself highly pleased with her victim, was
charmed with his rustic diffidence, and triumphed
in having made such a deep impression as she
felt she had done. She declared herself not only
delighted at the prospect of the adventure, but
sanguine of success, of which Mosley, now that
she had entered for the prize, began to express
his doubts.
Isabel had been reseated but a few minutes at
her work, her cheek burning with offence at the
insolent freedom of her visitor, when a lad came
in, and asking her if her name was Miss Wentworth,
handed her an unsealed note and left. She
opened it and read, written in pencil as follows:
`If Miss Wentworth is desirous of preserving
her reputation spotless she is cautioned by one,
who, though unknown, to her feels the deepest
interest in her welfare, to beware of two fashionable
young men who have but a few moments
since quit her shop.'
Isabel read the billet with surprise, and alarmed
at she knew not what danger, she burst into
tears, and sighed for the peace and protection of
her mother's home. Mrs. Prescott at that moment
coming in, she restrained her emotion, and
thrusting the note into her bosom, resumed her
employment.
CHAPTER VII.
The Mall at twilight—City scenes and suburban
scenery—A new character introduced—Washington
Gardens—The poet and his audience—Lynch
quits Mosley—Stanwood and his visiter—Tribute
to a Boston Merchant—Harry's letter from
his mother—Maternal advice—Lynch introduced
to our hero—Harry is pleased with him—They
walk homewards in company—Harry's first temptation.
About sunset on the day of the occurrence of
the events narrated in the preceding chapter, two
young men fashionably attired were promenading
the mall. Hundreds of citizens, from the grayheaded
old man who remembered the majestic
elms that over-shadow his path, when they were
saplings, to the bounding school-girl with her
hoop, and the urchin with his bat and ball, were
thronging the magnificent park to enjoy the beauty
of the twilight hour. Some were slowly walking
up and down the gravelled walks engaged in
earnest conversation; others were seated on the
benches watching the groups of passers-by; others,
who seemed strangers were admiring as they
walked, the majestic height and forest-like grandeur
of the noble avenues, the gothic-like arching
over head of the lofty arms of the expanding
trees, the undulatory surface of changing green
the Common presented to the eye, intersected by
natural paths filled with passengers moving in
every direction; others were looking with awe
and admiration at the majestic monarch-elm, in
its midst, beneath which the children of Boston
of the fifth and sixth generations have played, upon
the distant suburban scenery of hill and dale,
village, church and villa, with the blue outline of
pleasant hills beyond, below which the sun was
sinking upon a couch of gold and purple clouds.
Others loving art rather than nature, or sated
with her treasures so freely poured into the lap of
taste, were gazing upon the long and graceful
range forming `colonade row,' with its balconies
graced with vases of flowers and groups of beautiful
ladies; upon the columnar spire of the Park
street church; the gothic elegance of the Temple;
upon that grand and imposing series of palaces
which form so noble a termination to the mall on
Beacon street; and upon the imperial pile of column,
terrace and crowning dome, towering with
majesty and power over all—the throne of art ruling
the empire at her feet which she has won
from nature.
In the midst of this fair scene, throbbed many a
human bosom, incapable from too much anxious
care about the world's goods, or from sorrow,
or from evil passions and a wicked and corrupt
heart, to enjoy what benevolent nature and the
perfection of man's taste and the opulence of art
had heaped around them—an inexhaustible store
of riches both for the heart and mind. The heart
of the bad man, is, to such gifts, of all hearts the
most insensible! The soft hues of the evening
cloud, the pleasing green of the fields, the singing
of birds, the voices of children, the whole harmony
of moral and physical nature are painful to
his contemplation. Vice has put sadly out of
tune the chords which should sound in sweet
unison with every touch of nature. All is moral
discord in his bosom, all is intellectual deformity
in his mind. The perfection of nature is hateful
to him as it is a light that exposes to him the imperfection
within. He feels no sympathy with
the bright, the gentle, the beautiful and the happy,
for they are witnesses against him. To have
the heart open to the sweet influences of nature,
to feel her voice, her beauty and at all times to
be alive to her teachings, to have the harp of the
soul ever responsive to her touch, are proofs of a
heart yet uncontaminated by vice, yet in unison
with the good, the beautiful and the happy.
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The minds of the two young men introduced
in the opening of this chapter were dimmed by
vice and no longer reflected the fair forms of nature.
They walked along insensible to the beauty
of the hour, indifferent to the loveliness of the
scene spread around them. Their conversation
was like their propensities, `worldly, sensual,
devilish.' They were there to gaze upon the
face of modesty with a stare of licentious admiration,
to meet others of either sex with spirits of
kindred with their own; to plan the ruin of the
upright and rejoice in the contemplated fall of
the victim. Yet neither of these young men had
reached the age of maturity. Both had been
morally educated, and lessons of religion had
been inculcated upon them from childhood. The
secret of their moral ship-wreck lies in the false
pride of their friends who despising trades for
them, in which condition their habits would be
less likely to be corrupted by aping fashion, dress
and high life, and when their time would be
wholly employed and their conduct under the
supervision of watchful masters, had placed
them, to make them `respectable' in the most
dangerous place for a young man, in a store in a
large city, where they were under no moral or
other control, where they had their earnings to
themselves, where they were tempted to indulge
in every folly and amusement as necessary and
belonging to their `condition,' and where the
road to ruin is broad as vice and as downward as
indulgence can make it! They were Ralph
Mosley and his friend Ned Lynch; a clerk in an
importing store in Kilby street, and a purloiner
of goods to convert into money to support his extravagancies,
Lynch was a native of Portland
and the son of a respectable Jeweller. But being
educated above his father's profession, he
came to Boston to enter as a clerk. His habits
when he first came had been good; but first tempted
to go out evenings, he was insensibly led to
drink, to the theatre, and ultimately to more disreputable
haunts till losing his self-respect, he
gave himself up to a free course of dissipation.
He, like Mosley, was quite out of funds, and as
he feared his employer suspected him and that he
was watched, he had some weeks feared to abstract
any thing. Consequently his finances
needed replenishing. To him Mosley was now
communicating his designs respecting Henry
Harefoot, whom he represented as likely to yield
to the temptation set for him; in which case he
would have to draw money; that once induced
him to purloin, his situation in one of the most
extensive dry goods stores in the city would give
him opportunity, if he was wary, of embezzling
large sums by which they could both profit so
long as he was undiscovered.
`Now, what I propose is this,' said Mosley, as
arm in arm they approached the opening from
the mall, opposite Winter street, `that you who
know Frank Stanwood very well, go down now
and see him and manage to get him to introduce
you to Harefoot. He and Stanwood are cronies,
and he will readily give his confidence to any one
he introduces. You will then—(There goes a
pretty girl! what a pretty step!) you will leave
and linger about the store till he shuts up and pro
pose to walk. Bring him to the Washington
Gardens where I will meet you as if by accident.
(Did you see that smile! What eyes! But she's
respectable!) If we can get him there and once
get him to drink he's our's, for he will then fear
to cut me as he now does. There go two fine
women, but they are not game!'
Thus with villany in his heart and lust in his
wandering glances did this depraved young man
walk discoursing—the seren heavens above him;
lovely scenes spread around him, and the holy
twilight influence wooing his soul to tenderness.
They then crossed the street to a high board
fence, half overhung with foliage, having a gateway
in it, over which was placed an arched sign
with the words, `Washington Gardens' painted
thereon. A man was just lighting a lamp above
the gate as they entered. Within the attendants
were lighting numerous colored lamps arranged
in fanciful forms in different parts of the garden,
through which run several walks terminating in
alcoves. Without heeding the garden portion of
the enclosure, the two young men entered a large
room on the left, adorned with paintings of hunts,
nymphs bathing, race horses and hounds, game
and engravings of less pure description. On
one side of this apartment which was already
well lighted was a bar, with its dazzling display
of ruby-hued decanters, its tiers of glittering
glass, and its polished soda fountain. The floor
was sanded and contained many chairs, three sofas
and half a dozen tables, on some of which
were newspapers, on others recently emptied
glasses, and around others young men were
drinking and conversing, while the incence of tobacco
smoke ascended in clouds to the god
Bacchus, who was there worshipped.
`What'll you take take, Lynch?' asked Mosley
taking out his pocket book and ostentatiously
displaying a roll of money—the wages of his
guilty subserviency to the passions of Silsby
`A soda-brandy! I haven't had any tea, and
this is as good for me. Do you know I don't
have any appetite for eating—I don't know how
it is—but one or two glasses does me as much
good as a dinner;'
`It is so with me,' answered Mosley. I don't
like any thing but an oyster fry and then I have
to prime for it with a three quarter brandy or gin
bitters. I'll take a gin-bitter now, Jim,' he added
to the bar-keeper.
The young men then drank; Mosley offered a
ten dollar bill in pay, and as he suspected, rather
than change it they trusted him. It is true he
had silver in his pocket but that was his own secret.
Lynch then left him and Mosley joined a
group of young men at the end of the room who
were making themselves very merry and showing
their own wit by teasing a poor crazy poet,
whom they had got half tipsy, and who at such
times imagined himself to be Byron. Like him
he wore a wide shirt collar—but Byron's was
clean and was linen—turned broadly over his
collar, and had a red bandanna handkerchief
knotted in front, and the ends hanging down to
his waist. He was dressed in a gray roundabout
with a patch in each elbow and other places
that equally required patches. His pantaloons
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were thin linen and had once been white and
tightly fitted his thin legs, which were terminated
by feet cased in black short hose, and faded
green slippers. He was familiarly called `Lord
Byron,' though his real name was Everett C—.
He had been a student at Cambridge and evinced
while there, poetic genius of a very elevated
rank. But he became dissipated in his Junior
year, and excess destroyed the fine fabric of his
brain, and he fell forever from the high intellectual
seat he had aimed for, and became the wreck
of mind he now was.
`Recite the verses on Quincy Pond,' asked one
of the crowd of young men.
`Yes, Byron,' repeated the rest, with animation.
`Give us the verses.'
`Let me have a place to stand on, gentlemen,'
said the poet in a loud tone:
`I must be above the groveling herd
Nor sink my dignity to the level with the mass.
Genius is god-like and as gods do sit on thrones,
So I must stand upon this barrel, this
Bottle which erst did nectar hold, my sceptre
And — but I'll begin.'
Here the poet threw out one arm and holding
a piece of dirty looking paper before him, thus begun,
his high bold intellectual forehead, his noble
and finely cut features, commanding respect
while his actions and words excited mirth and
ridicule.
`Know, all present, that the Mayor is my patron.
For creating beauty out of deformity, he
has been blackguarded by the press for spending
the city's money. But the time will come
when that pond, which they do call contemptuously
`Quincy Lake,' shall be the ornament to the
Common, as dear to the boys of Boston as the old
Elm our forefathers planted there.'
`We don't want a speech but a poem,' cried
the audience, each one of whom either had a cigar
in his mouth or a glass of liquor in his hand, and
were crowded round him uproariously; a fitting
scene for fathers to intrude upon—a scene over
which humanity might sigh with shame!
We will not add to the degredation of mind by
giving the verses which he recited; which once
burned with the fire of pure genius, were now a
chaos of mad ideas. The drunkard may find
amusement in such exhibitions of a fallen intelligence
for such is allied to his own voluntary
degredation; but a man will never express other
than emotions of pity and painful sympathy for
the misfortunes of those whom God has so fearfully
smitten. The light of mind is kindled at
the altar of the eternal intellect, and the mind
that can find pleasure in seeing it extinguished
in another must itself be dark indeed.
When he had ended his extravagant production,
and the shouts of applause had subsided,
Mosley handed him a glass of brandy and called
upon him for a song; but before he could begin,
another made him swallow a glass of whiskey
in which he had humorously sprinkled Cayenne
pepper; to destroy the painful effects of this
another persuaded him to quaff off a gin cocktail
The poor poet notwithstanding all this tried
to sing, and thus began:
`It chanced one lovely day in June,'
But with the last word in the line his head
sank upon his breast and he tumbled off the barrel
upon the floor amid the laughter of all round,
who no doubt thought it a clever joke to get a
crazy man drunk, and then see him fall and endanger
his neck. Fearful indeed was the punishment
of Everett C—for his youthful intemperance.
In his fate was foreshadowed that of
those who now made sport of him for their end
has been either insanity or that more fearful
madness mania potu. But these scenes took
place in years past, when Intemperance was our
fire-side companion; when the Circean cup was
at the lip of the young and the old, of the noble
and the gifled! Ere the mask was torn from her
hideous visage and like the unveiled prophet
Mokanna, her visage of death exposed in all its
horrid truth! Such a scene of a dozen or twenty
young clerks, congregated within a public
garden in the heart of the city, openly drinking,
revelling, and baiting a maniac, could not in this
day of moral improvement occur, though Boston
has nearly doubled her population. Intemperance
is now banished to the dens and holes of infamy,
and it is now shame for a young man or an old
man or any man who would not be the suicide of
his own character in the eyes of his fellow men,
to be seen or to be known drinking, and why?
Intemperance is now a crime! The congress of
human opinion has enacted a great moral law
which solemnly declares it such! The extraordinary
progress of temperance which has produced
such wonderful results, is one of those great
moral eras of our race, for its amelioration,
which occur at their seasons. The invention
of the compass was one; that of printing another;
then followed the reformation; the American
Revolution; the invention of steam; then
blazed the spirit of evangelizing the heathen;
and others of later date have followed. The
wheels of temperance roll on and men guide it,
but there is an unseen power that has set its
wheels in motion. Father Matthew was but an
instrument in the same Almighty hand which is
now plainly working out for mankind a higher
and nobler destiny than the world has yet conceived
of.
The dissipated frequenters of `the Gardens,'
after having with indifference seen the pitiable
object of their late amusement carried out as if
he had been a dog, to be cast into the street,
separated in knots, each seeking some rendezvous
of pleasure. Mosley did not join them,
though the money which he displayed made his
company very much coveted. He lounged into
the garden, and with a cigar in his mouth took
a seat on a bench to wait for Lynch. This
young man took his way to Mr. Cushing's store
which he entered as Harry just finished lighting
up, in which he had been assisted by a younger
clerk who had that afternoon came in place of
Burnham, who had been dismissed for taking a
quarter of a dollar from the draw to buy a circus
ticket the night before, and for denying both the
theft and also having been to the circus, on beiag
accused of it by Mr. Cushing. Henry was
not a little gratified to have one below him, although
he was but a lad, being not quite fifteen.
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Stanwood was reading at the farther end of the
store when Edward Lynch entered. Harry
glanced up from a letter which he took out from
his pocket to read on fin shing lighting the store,
and seeing a slender young man in a dandyish
green coat, buff vest, and white bell-top beaver
hat, swinging a cane round by its silken tassel,
he gave his attention again to the letter, there being
no customers in to be attended to.
`Ah, Frank, how are ye?' said Lynch, going
up to him and clapping his hand on his shoulder!
`Always reading! What you got there?—
`Athenaeum Library' stamped on it, too! Do
you get books there? I went there once with
Bob Silsby to see some naked figures of goddesses,
but was disappointed in 'em! `Marshall's
Life of Washington!' How can you read such
big bores? The day I left school under old master
Cushman, I gave books the go-by? Well,
how are you? I hav'nt seen you for an age!'
`O, quite well, Ned,' said Stanwood, laughing
at him; `but you look pale? I hope I don't
hear true stories about you Ned,' added Frank in
a kind friendly tone.
`What stories?' asked Lynch, who much
wished to share the esteem and confidence of
Stanwood, whose firmness and integrity of character
he admired, though he could not have the
moral strength to imitate it.
`I heard Burnham say, in excuse for going,
that he saw you at the circus last night, and that
you were flushed with wine, and had a female
on your arm, whom he said he knew to be a girl
of the town.'
`Where is the fellow?'
`Mr. Cushing has dismissed him.'
`The little lying rouge! by blacking my character,
he hoped te whitewash his own,' said
Lynch, angrily. `I have not been in the circus,
Stanwood, since it opened, nor have I spoken to
a woman for a week, except my washerwoman.'
`Well, I am glad to hear it! If Mr. Rice
should hear of such things he would dismiss you,
and then, as your reference would have to be to
him as the last place you kept in, I fear you
would not get employment again.'
`I should be sorry to have him. He is a noble
and generous man, and treats all his clerks
kindly, yet with dignity, so that we feel that we
are not only in the employ of a gentleman, but
are treated by him ourselves as such. He is not
stern, like many other merchants, to those under
him, but so conciliates them as to command their
respect and win their attachment. I have never
heard of one, and there are many merchants in
this city that have been educated to business under
him, who does not speak of him in the highest
terms of affectionate respect.'
`I am glad to hear you say this of him, as he
has recently given me an invitation to take
Freeman's place, who is going into business for
himself.'
`What, the second clerk?' repeated Lynch,
with incredulous surprise.
`Yes,' answered Stanwood, smiling; `he first
asked Mr. Cushing, who referred him to me.'
`And of course you take the berth. It is three
moves above me. But you are worthy, of it,
though Henry Rice's store is the first in Boston.
You are a lucky fellow.'
Lynch might have said, instead of `lucky fellow,
' a `deserving, trust-worthy, and intelligent
young man of business,' and he would have
spoken the truth.
`Who takes your place? I should like it.'
`It will be offered to Henry Harefoot, a clerk
we have had but a couple of months, but who is
very well qualified to fill it. Mr. Cushing has
the utmost confidence in him.'
`He should have, for you are the one that attends
to the bank business, are you not, Stanwood?
' asked or rather remarked Lynch, while
his pulse beat quicker and his eyes sparkled.
`Yes. But I am not certain I shall accept Mr.
Rice's offer, though it is liberal; and I am told
it's pleasanter keeping in an importing house
than in a retail store.'
`Yes, and much more respectable. We consider
retail clerks as beneath us! though there
are good fellows among them. By the by, I
should like to know this Harefoot; will you introduce
me?'
`Certainly,' answered Frank, walking immediately
to the front of the store, where Harry sat
upon the window-sill, reading the letter he had
before taken from his pocket. It was from his
mother, and the same Pierce Wentworth had
brought to him that day. He had read it twice
already, and was now with visible emotion perusing
it for the third time. It was as follows:
Augusta, Kennebec County, State
of Maine,
October 28, 182-
My Dear Son Harry,—Your last letter gave
us all at home a great deal of joy. I was gratified
at your affectionate remembrance of me in
sending the pretty cap, and I gave your love to
little Emma Cutter, as you desired. She is knitting
for you a purse she wants me to send you
with our first package. I am happy to find you
are so well pleased with your place, my son, and
that Mr. Cushing is so well satisfied with you.
You have only now, my dear boy, to do your duty
to be respected. Never consider any thing beneath
you which you are required by Mr. Cushing
or the upper clerks to perform. Pride has
ruined many young men who set out in life as
prosperously as you have. Try and cultivate a
kind demeanor, pleasing manners, and a frank and
unsuspicious bearing; but as true politeness proceeds
from grace in the heart, you must first cultivate
that. Do not omit reading in the little
Bible I wrote your name in, once a day, nor never
neglect committing yourself in prayer to your
heavenly Father when you go to bed nor thanking
Him in grateful adoration when you rise up.
Seek humbly his guidance through the day, and
you will have it. There is no real good or true
happiness that does not first originate in duty to
our Maker. Avoid profane speech, impure language,
and telling impure anecdotes, for they
corrupt the heart. Spend your evenings at home
in reading or writing, and your Sabbaths in the
fear of God, going twice to church. Never
break the Sabbath on any pretence! Let it be a
holy day to you through life. Avoid the society
of all young men whose character you do not
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[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
know to be good; but it is best to have few companions
and but one or two friends. Have no
desire to go to the play, to parties, to frolies, and
other scenes of temptation, and never without
permission from Mr. Cushing, who is now to be
in our place to you. Above all, my son, never
touch a drop of wine. O that I could impress,
as with a seal, this caution upon your heart—engraft
it upon your mind. The sword has slain
its thousands, but wine its tens of thousands.
You must bear with me, Henry, for giving you
such a grave letter of advice, but I have your
welfare closely united to my heart, and I know
that you are surrounded with temptations, and
that you need not only a mother's love, but God's
arm to guard and detend you. One thing more,
Henry. You have, I know, a fondness for the society
and admiration of young ladies. This at
home in our quiet village was, perhaps well
enough, as it improves the manners of youths to
associate early in life with respectable young females.
But in Boston there are, I blush to say,
classes of females here unknown, who, with lovely
countenances, and wearing alluring smiles, are
dangerous for young men to know. `Their
house,' saith the seventh of Proverbs. where she
is described, `is the way to hell, going down to
the chamber of death. Let not thine heart incline
to her ways, go not astray in her paths. For
she hath cast down many wounded; yea, many
strong men have been slain by her.'
Never, therefore, Henry, form any acquaintance
with any young woman whose family or
friends you do not know; no matter if she rustles
in silks and glitters in laces, has the smile of Hebe
and the beauty of a Helen.
This is the last of the advice, dear Henry, I have
to give you. I hope you will never have to repent
the not keeping it. If a mother's prayers can be
a shield and buckler to your head, you will not be
left exposed, ungarded, my dear child, to the snares
of this wicked world.
If you want your shirts mended, or any thing
of yours fixed nicely, send the things home in a
bundle by Mr. Pearl, when he comes down in the
sloop. The good old black made my heart glad
yesterday when he told me he saw you in Washington
street only last week, and said you were
looking so handsome, and so well, and `like a
born gemman, ebery inch o' him, mistress,' were
Pearl's words. Your father and brothers and sisters
send their love. Now good bye, my son, and
write as often as you can. I have only left room
to write—`Your affectionate mother, Anna.
Henry had finished the letter, and was looking
at it with moistened eyes when he saw Stanwood
approaching. Hastily putting it up and forcing
back the tears to their ungated fountains he met
him with a smile.
`A love-letter, eh?' said Frank, playfully.—
`Henry, let me make you acquainted with Mr.
Lynch, whom his friends call Ned Lynch; a very
nice young gentleman, I believe, though a little
wild, hey, Ned?'
Lynch laughed, shook Henry cordially by the
hand, and entered into conversation with him
while Stanwood went back and resumed his
book. Harry was insensibly pleased with his ease
of manner, prepossessing address and graceful
facility in conversation, which was humorous,
and calculated to please where the effort to please
was made.
Lynch remained until eight o'clock struck, and
they begun to shut up, by which time the two
young gentlemen had got upon quite a social and
familiar footing. The introduction and the friendly
manner of it, forestalled all question in Henry's
mind as to the correctness of character of his
new acquaintance whom he thought the most interesting
and entertaining young man he had ever
seen.
As the youngest lad, whose name was Walter
Berry, was too small to shut up alone, Henry
waited to assist him in closing the windows, and
also to take the key after Stanwood locked the
door, it being Mr. Cushing's rule that the first or
the second clerk should himself see the store locked
up and the key given by him to the one who
was to open it. In Martin's absence, Stanwood
now took the responsibility, and handed the key
to Harry, who was still to open, though he had
now bidden adieu to `lamps and bundles.' Stanwood
parted from them at the door, and with the
small store trunk of bank notes (safes being little
known then) in his hand, took the way to a bank
which kept a private door open till nine, for such
deposits of merchants, while Henry walked towards
his own lodgings, which he usually reached
by first turning up Bromfield lane, and then
through the mall, a walk always delightful to him.
`Where do you spend the evening after taking
the key home, Harefoot?' asked Lynch, familiarly
putting his arm through his, and catching pace
with him.
`I shall stay at home and read.'
`What a literary set you are at Mr. Cushings!
Stanwood is always poring over some dull book
written by men long since dead, and so are not
worth reading.'
`I was not aware that the fact of an author's
being dead had an effect upon his books,' said
Henry laughing.
`Why, I'd just as soon think of reading last
year's newspaper. But all books are bores, and
reading is dull business. It is hard for me to get
through a letter. Baker makes me read invoices
sometimes, and that is as dull as book-reading.
`I should think it might be,' remarked Henry,
with a smile at the half-earnest, half-jesting tone
of his companion. `But here is Bromfield's lane,
where I turn up.'
`So do I,' said Lynch, readily, for it was just
the way he wished to go.
Reaching Tremont street, Henry turned down,
and, when opposite Park street church, was about
to cross to the head of the mall to enter the avenue,
when Lynch slightly detained him by the
arm, saying carelessly—
`Come, let us take this side; it is lighted,
and is pleasanter than the dark shade of the trees.
On that side, a block below, were the Washington
Gardens.' As they approached the entrance
they saw a brilliant light above it, a crowd gathered
round, and ladies and gentlemen going in and
out, while from within came floating the stirring
notes of instrumental music.
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[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
`Were you ever in the `Washington Gardens?'
inquired Lynch, stopping him as they came under
the lamp; `it is a pleasant place and all strangers
visit it.'
`No; but I am told it is not very respectable,'
answered Harry.
`That is a mistake. It is frequented by the best
people. See through the door the ladies and gentlemen
promenading the walks? Let me take
you in.'
`I would rather not; especially as I have the
store-key with me, and might lose it.'
`Stand it up in your vest pocket and button
your coat, if you fear that. But there is no danger.
I will then walk home with you. I want
to see a friend who probably is in here.'
`I will wait here, said Henry, with a hesitating
manner.
`How precise you are! Do you think I would
ask you to go where it was improper. Frank
Stanwood has been here with me a hundred times,
to take an ice-cream or a glass of soda,' said the
young man, resorting to what he knew to be false.
`Come, let us go in for a moment. I want you to
see what a fine place it is.
`Ashamed to be thought too precise, and afraid
his new friend would think he had no manner of
confidence in him, he consented, and entered,
Lynch paying the door keeper a quarter of a dollar
for two tickets, which were to be taken in exchange
within for refreshments.
This was the first time Harry had ever been in
a public garden. The novel display struck him
for a few moments with admiration. The main
avenue before him was terminated by a vast mirror,
which reflected its length, creating a delusive
avenue, extending to the deceived eye far in the
distance, Walks penetrated the garden in all directions,
adorned with columns of variegated
lamps, transparent paintings in fresco, and vases
of flowering plants. Ladies and gentlemen were
wandering in all directions, a band in an elevated
orchestra was playing a lively air, and all was
gaiety, life and novelty. To the eye and imagination
of Harry it was a fairy scene; he had never
seen a public garden by daylight, nor a stage behind
the scenes, or he might have tempered his
imagination by the memory of such things'—
Lynch saw the effect produced upon his mind,
and said—
`Now, Harefoot, is not this a fine place? Are
you not glad you came with me?'
`I confess I am,' answered Henry, with enthusiasm.
`I had no idea it was such a place.'
`Come with me; I will show you about.'
Guided by him, he traversed the walks, admired
the paintings and lamps, glanced into the boxes
where in soft shadow many a couple was seated
tcte-a-tcte, eating ices or confectionary. They
then came back to the head of the garden, Harry
observing in his walk that the `ladies' were mostly
young girls, and the `gentlemen' clerks and
other young fellows; and that, save a stranger, or
country gentleman or two with wife and daughters,
there were present no very refined people.—
At the head of the garden stood the dwelling, its
front open to the promenades, with an awning
projecting over a spacious floor. Here was the
bar, and hither Lynch, seeing Mosley there, now
led Harefoot. The crowd of young men, smoking,
drinking, and talking loud, the bustle of
waiting boys, numbered with labels on their
shoulders, running to and fro with little salvers
of ices and other refreshments for those in the
garden boxes, the calls for various liquors, and
the eternal cloud of tobacco smoke, in which vice,
it would seem, fain would hide itself, were bewildering
and new to him. Before he could have
time to reflect, Lynch had drawn him up to the
bar, Mosley and he having exchanged glances.
`Here, barkeeper—Jim—why don't you wait on
us?' called Lynch, peremptorily, and holding up
his ticket.
`What'll you have, gentlemen?' inquired Jim,
catching up two tumblers, and balancing them
in his open palm, while he waited their decision.
`What will you take, Harefoot?'
`Nothing, I thank you,' replied Henry, shrinking
back.
`Poh, poh! Don't be so squeamish! Take something!
' said Ned, in off-hand way. `We shall dub
you Parson Primitive.'
`I never drink,' replied Henry, coloring.
`Then it's time. All young men of any spirit
drink wine, man. These tickets must not be
thrown away. They pass for money here Stanwood
didn't tell me you were a Methodist.'
The idea of being thought singular, and of
being so upright as to be suspected of being a
Christian of an humble and zealous persuasion,
caused him to blush as if he had been accused of
being a thief. It was fear that sent the conscious
blood from his heart to his cheek, and made him
ashamed of his own temperance in the face of the
wicked. Lynch saw the advantage he had gained,
and pressed his entreaty.
`Well, Lynch,' said Harry, laughing to hide
his compunction at consenting to what he ought
not to do, and wishing to remove from his new
friend the impression he had formed of the primitiveness
of his character; `I will take a little Annis
cordial.'
`And won't you take a sugar-plum in it?' asked
Lynch, laughing. `Well, cordial it is. Jim
give us some Annis-cordial, and I will take—take—
yes—I believe a port wine sangeree.'
`What's a sangaree?' asked Harefoot.
`A capital drink, and healthy. Try one!—
Cordial is fit only for girls.'
`Well, I don't care if I do, if it is not very
strong.'
`That's you, Harefoot! I knew you were a
man of spirit. You are coming out. Not to have
been in the Gardens, and in Boston two months.
I wish I had known you before. Two sangarces,
Jim. By the by, do you know Ralph Mosley?—
There he is!'
`Yes, slightly,' answered Henry coldly. `I am
told he is dissipated.'
`That's a slander! He is a little wild or so, as
all young chaps are, but he is as good-hearted a
fellow as ever lived, and belongs to one of the
first families.'
`I have conversed with him, and find him
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[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
dissolute,' said Harry, firmly; `yet I have nothing
against him.'
`Shall we ask him to drink with us?' said Lynch,
as they took up their tumblers. `He is my particular
friend, and I would like to have you know
him better. Mosley!'
The ex clerk's quick ear, as watchful as his
eye had been in this direction, caught his name,
and he came up to the place where they stood.—
He expressed no surprise at seeing Harefoot at
the bar with a glass of port wine in his hand, but
addressed him cordially, while Lynch remarked,
`Ah, you're already acquainted with my friend
Harefoot, Ralph. So we are three friends together!
Come, what'll you take?
`I seldom touch any thing, and never stronger
than wine; but as I see you are drinking, you
may give me, Jim, a little of the ruby;' while he
winked at the barkeeper who in reply handed him
the decanter of brandy.
`Is ruby a sweet wine?' asked Harefoot; `it
strikes me I have heard of ruby wine.'
`Yes, quite sweet,' gravely said Mosley, putting
two teaspoonsful of pulverized sugar into his
brandy toddy. `Well, here's luck!'
The three young gentlemen then nodded to
each other, and put the glasses to their lips.—
Mosley took his `sweet wine' off at a pull; Lynch,
who loved brandy better than port, but who feared
to alarm his uninitiated acquaintance by calling
for it, drank his off with less relish; while our
hero with a burning cheek and a stinging conscience,
drank a few swallows and sat it down.—
But the charm of his integrity was broken, the
silver cord that bound him to temperance was
loosed, and he had yielded to his first temptation.
The two friends exchanged looks of triumph,
while Lynch said to his victim—
`Oh, come, Harefoot, drink it up! It is nothing
but wine, and won't hurt you.'
`I have had enough,' he answered with indecision.
`It is the rule among friends to empty glasses.'
`O, very well,' said Henry, laughing with forced
indifference; and with that sort of feeling
which one departure from rectitude arouses in
the mind, he caught up his tumbler and emptied
it.
`That's good,' said Mosley; `I like to see any
thing whole-souled! Jim, let us have half a dozen
Spanish cigars. Here, Harefoot, take one!—
Here, Ned! They are delicious! Feel how
elastic yet firm they yield to the pressure like the
ball of the thumb when the rich blood is forced
into it.'
`I don't smoke, Mosley,' said Harry, declining
the cigar. `I believe I must bid you good night.'
`It is not half past eight,' said Lynch earnestly.
`Come, let us take our cigars, and go down in
one of the boxes and smoke and talk.'
Persuaded in spite of his wish, to depart before
he should be tempted further, Harefoot was led
by them into the garden, each having an arm;
and having seated themselves in a box, they prevailed
upon him to light his cigar and smoke with
them. The combined effects of the wine and the
tobacco soon made him feel unpleasantly; and being
for the present satisfied with their unexpect
ed success, they escorted him to the outside of
the garden, bade him a cordial good night, promised
to call and see him the next day, and then,
seeing him cross over the mall, returned into the
scene of dissipation and vice where the irresolute
Harefoot had met with his first fall.
CHAPTER VIII.
Remorse of Harefoot—Lynch proposes to introduce
him to a rich youth—Village aristocracy—The
lace-purchaser—Our hero in more danger from
true passion than feigned—Our hero is introduced
to Bob Silsby—The recognition—Whist and
whiskey-punches—Champagne and poker—Midnight—
The proposed oyster supper—Bruce's Address—
A Watchman with no car for music—
Harry shows his wine—A retreat, and safe lodgment.
The fresh air of the Mall removed his illness,
and there, alone, in the solemn shadows of the
walk, Harry had leisure to reflect upon his fall.—
His reflections were intensely acute; and he
strove to banish thought. His soul was heavy!
He felt guilty and degraded before the tribunal of
his own self respect. The stars in their pure
homes seemed to reprove him, as he saw them
looking down between the tree tops; the silence
of the grove, the coolness of the breeze, the
whole influence of nature, which is ever in discord
with moral evil, in harmony only with the
good, reproached him. `Had he indeed yielded
to intemperance? Had he indeed visited a place
of dissipation, been a companion of the disreputable
Mosley, drank and smoked with him? Had
he indeed surrendered his senses to the influence
of the wine-cup! parted in a weak and vaccillating
moment with the key to the golden casket of
his character?'
The thought was painfully humiliating to his
sensitive mind. But more than all, he felt that
he had unguardedly placed in Mostey's hands, in
Lynch's also (over whom Stanwood's name threw
a charm that withheld any suspicion of his real
character,) the power over his reputation; and
that if he yielded no farther, the consequences of
his folly might still effect his reputation.
He reached home, and sought his chamber.—
As he laid aside his coat his mother's letter fell
from the pocket, upon the floor. He caught it
up with a cry of bitter reproach, pressed it to his
lips, and sunk into a chair, overwhelmed with
grief.
`Yes, with this sacred letter in my pocket.' he
said at length, `I have yielded to the very temptations
it so affectionately warns me against.
Three hours ago, when I read it, I made mental
resolutions to obey it in every syllable. How
weak my resolutions are, the last hour has bitterly
shown me! I feel humbled to the ground!
From this moment I resolve never to touch another
drop of wine! I would I could as easily say
that I would never speak to Mosley again, but I
would not offend him. Lynch, though Stanwood's
friend, seems to regard drinking a light thing. I
would avoid both if it were not for offending them.
How low I feel in my own estimation.'
Without prayer, without opening his bible, for
he was constrained by a sense of shame, which,
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[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
properly directed, should, have led him to do both,
he went to bed, and passed a sleepless night.
The following day, at noon, when Mr. Cushing,
Martin, and Stanwood were at dinner, and
while he was engaged at the counter marking
some goods which had just been purchased, Mosley
and Lynch entered, arm in arm, and saluted
him with great warmth of fridndship. He colored
at the recollection of his last evening's folly,
but they did not allude to it farther than to ask
how he did.
`I am not a very good wine-drinker,' he said
smiling; `and I think I shall never gain much
celebrity as a cigar smoker.'
`You will soon get used to it,' said Lynch,
lifting one leg upon the counter, and taking a
yard-stick to play with.
`No I shall not, I assure you,' he said, with
some firmness; `I am resolved not to go into the
Washington Gardens again, nor drink anything
more. I am quite vexed that I should have consented.
'
`Folly,' said Lynch quickly; `don't think
yourself, Harry, so much better than other people;
nor believe it is such a great affair for a fellow
to take a glass of wine now and then. There
is'nt scarcely a gentleman but what takes his wine,
or brandy and water. But we won't mention it
to you, Harefoot, if you don't like it.'
`I told you Harefoot was a puritan,' remarked
Mosley, with a wink and a laugh, to conceal the
scorn in his words, `but he can't deceive you and
I. Lynch, with any of his shams. A young fellow
like him, who knows a pretty milliner's apprentice
well enough to help her open her shop,
and who takes sangarees and smokes in the Gardens,
might as well come to the point at once,
and not fight shy.'
`I am not fighting shy;' answered Henry,
angry, yet condemned by his own conscience.
`I have no desire to indulge in any dissipation.'
`I believe you, Harefoot,' said Lynch, speaking
in a generous tone. `We don't suspect you
of playing Janus. You were tempted last night
to break a rule, but there's no harm done. By
the way, do you know Silsby?'
`The rich young man?'
`Yes; he who drives such splendid turnouts.
He was in the gardens last evening when we
were there, and this morning asked me what d—d
fine looking young fellow (his very words) that
was with us. And when I told him, he said he
should like to know you.'
`This is a great thing for Bob to say,' chimed
Mosley; `he is very select in his acquaintances,
and has few intimate friends. I should feel flattered
by the voluntary notice of such a rich young
fellow.'
`I will introduce you, Harefoot, any time,' added
Ned.
The vanity of our hero was flattered; his aristocratic
aspiration were instantly awakened; and
as he had repeatedly seen and admired Silsby's
stylish equipage, he felt not a little elated at the
prospect of an introduction to him. The expression
of his countenance showed Lynch that, in
resorting to this invention, when he saw that it
would be difficult to get him to go again to the
gardens, he had not mistaken his man.
`I should like to know him,' said Harry, his
imagination placing him beside him in his phæton,
his father admiring and approving his sudden
rise, his townsmen seeing him, and Pierce Wentworth
and Isabel gazing after him with envy.
We are sorry Harry was so weak as to let such
ideas enter his brain: but they did and influenced
his reply.
`I will come for you this evening when you
shut up, and call on him at the Exchange.'
`Does he board there?' asked Harry, with confused
looks, as he recollected his first unluckydinner
there.
`Yes—stylish fellow! You will like him.—
Will you be ready? Send your key home by
your new boy.'
`Well, I will go with you,' answered Harry;
`You be here by eight o'clock, as I shall begin to
shut up five minutes before.'
Five minutes taken from his employer's time,
five minutes departure from the rule of the store,
for the sake of being introduced to one of the
richest young men in Boston, who drove his own
carriage, and had a servant in hvery, seemed no
harm in the eyes of our hero; though in principle
it was as fraudulent an appropriation as an
hour! But this was Harry's error, to which his
pride in anticipating the acquaintance of Mr.
Robert Silsby, blinded him. If evils were single,
they were less evil; but they procreate from one
stem a marvellous quantity and variety of branches,
till a broad Upas tree stands where a staff
was dropped.
The thought of an introduction to Silsby quite
filled Harefoot's mind for some time after his
previous night's associates left the store. Let us
see where this error lay! To be on intimate
terms with a few first families in Augusta, whom
wealth, political, or judicial station, or legal eminence
had given a high social position, was one
of the weaknesses of our hero's father, the Augusta
grocer. He was restless, anxious, and envious
at the thought that there should be one family in
town above his—that fashionable parties should
be given by such, and himself and wife left out.
Hearing his father talk so much of the Voses, the
Bridges, the Williams', the Conys, and the Westons,
early instilled into Harry's mind an exaggerated
idea of the importance of such acquaintances;
and he had, in his father's spirit, used
every exertion to be intimate with the sons of
these families, but only to have his sensibility
wounded by their haughty feelings of superiority.
This reaching after associates who thought themthemselves
better than he, was a feeling he carried
with him to Boston. This false view of
things, thus imbibed at home, was the secret of
the satisfaction he experienced at the contemplation
of knowing one, whom any of those Judges,
Generals, and Colonels son's, who had given him
the cold shoulder, would be proud to associate
with; for with him style and wealth (so he had
been taught,) were respectability, and, in themselves,
contained all the principles of good society.
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While he was thus occupying his mind with
this subject, his hands the while folding up a
piece of silk goods, he looked up at a footstep,
when all the blood in his heart rushed to his temples;
while a sensation of surprise and pleasure
made his pulse bound! It was the beautiful glove-purchaser!
Many times had he conjurod up that
face and wondered who she was, while the lingering
pleasure he took in dwelling upon it in
memory, told him how deeply it had impressed
him. Yet he might soon have forgotten her, had
she not again appeared; but now that he beheld
her once more, all the teelings of the day previous
came back with new intensity. He in vain made
efforts to suppress the emotion of pleasure that
glowed on his cheek, and sparkled in his eyes, as
he beheld her. But tempering his pulse as well
as he could, be approached her with his eyes
dropped to the floor.
Ellen Emery smiled, and was conscious of her
triumph. She seemed to enjoy for a moment his
embarrassment, so rare in a young man, at least
of such young men as she had known, as Ralph
Mosley, for instance, and she gazed on his face
with a deeper interest than her object could create,
which was indicated by a thoughtful, tender
expression in her eyes, and a deeper tone of feeling
in her voice.
`I wish to purchase—really, I forget what I do
want! Oh, have you beautiful laces?'
The boxes of laces were handed down by Harry,
who could not keep his eyes from her face
though they fell every time she would look up.
`This is pretty for cuffs,' she said, laying a
piece upon her truly lovely wrist, and scanning
its effect, while Harry was admiring the hand.
`What is the price of this?' she asked, flashing
her brilliant eyes up into his face an instant, and
then dropping the lids over them like the shadow
of a dark cloud.
`Two dollars,' he said examining the mark,
and at the same time stealing a look at her mouth.
Alas, poor Harry! the poison is creeping slowly
into thy heart.
`That is not high, it is so richly wrought. Do
you go into society much, Mr. Harefoot?'
`Very little,' he said, marvelling at her social
manner.
`You should do so! A young man with your
face and figure—but what am I saying to a perfect
stranger,' she said, looking down with well played
confusion. `But you don't seem like a stranger
to me, Mr. Harefoot.'
`Henry,' asked Walter Berry, from the farther
end of the store; `will you please tell me what
af stands for on the goods?'
`Wait a moment, and I will give you an alphabet
key.
`Henry! what a pretty name! Then your
name is Henry?' she asked, with a most attractive
frankness of manner.
`Yes,' he replied blushing.
`Well, Henry,—for so I will call you, if you
won't be angry with me,' she said, with a captivating
naivete that was irresistible, `you ought to
go into company.'
`I have little time,' he said, his voice subdued
to the first low note approaching confidence.
`You have your evenings, certainly. This lace
is very pretty.'
At the word `evenings' he thought of his mother's
injunctions to keep at home; then flashed
upon him her caution about forming acquaintances
with females who were strangers to him, `no
matter if they glittered in laces and rustled in
silks.' He became embarrassed, glanced at her,
and asked himself if such a beautiful, modest,
pleasant young lady could be one whom his mother
had warned him to flee. But she rustled in no
silks, nor, though looking at laces, did she glitter
in them; for her attire was a plain straw cottage,
and a snow white dress, perfectly fitting her perfect
shape.
The idea had no sooner come into his mind than
he banished it; for he was so much impressed
with her beauty, and pleased with her manner,
that had she `glittered in silks and laces,' he
would have blinded himself to this interdicted
costume, reluctant to be compelled to avoid one
he believed all that her sex might envy, his own
adore.
`I will take three yards of this lace, Henry,'
she said, playfully winding it about her finger.—
`Where do you go this evening?'
`I have an engagement at the Exchange,' he
said, with a slight emphasis on the name of the
fashionable Coffee House.
`I hope it is no dissipation—no champagne supper,
' she replied. `Ah, you gay young gentlemen
are apt to be very wild!'
`I assure you, Miss—(what would be not
have given to know Miss who?) that I am only
going there to see a gentleman. Besides, I have
never entered into any of the dissipations of the
town, and beg you will do me the justice to think
so,' answered Henry with animation, desirous to
have the good opinion of so beautiful a girl, who
seemed to like him so well, and for whom he could
not conceal his own deep admiration.
`I did not think otherwise, Henry,' she answered
earnestly. `But where have I left my
purse!' she exclaimed, looking in her reticule as
he handed to her the three yards of lace he had
measured off, and put up in a shop bill. `I must
have left it—yes, I remember, I called at Mrs.
Otley's house in Colonnade Row, and gave it to
her dear babe to play with, and must have left it
in the cradle. I am so mortified! I am too tired
to go back there.'
`I will send Walter for it,' said Harry eagerly.
`No, don't trouble him, and you will be alone
in the store. I will take the lace another time,
though I wanted it very much this afternoon.'
`You can take it, and pay another day,' said
Harry with imprudent haste. `I should regret
you should be disappointed.'
But to purchase the lace was not her intention.
She only wished to strengthen the acquaintance,
and to try the temper of his character. She found
it what she had suspected—open and unsuspecting;
one which would lead its possessor astray,
if beauty allured, and passion impelled. She did
not wish to involve him in difficulty at the outset,
by his indiscretion, and was therefore firm in
declining to take it. This refusal confirmed Harry's
opinion that she was as worthy as she was
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
beautiful; and when, with a smile and a bow, she
left the store, as Stanwood entered, he resolved if
he ever saw her again, not to leave her till he had
ascertained all about her. Harry's heart was not
interested! his vanity was gratified; he was flattered
by her notice, and bewitched by her beauty.
On her part, this second interview had given her
the knowledge of her own heart, and betrayed to
her that he whom she came deliberately to ruin,
had become the master of her heart, the deep
fountains of which the sensual Mosley had never
unlocked. She felt that henceforth she required
no resort to art for weapons, which love would
now more readily furnish.
At a few minutes past eight o'clock, the same
evening, Lynch reached the store which he found
closed, and Harry waiting for him. He took his
arm, and they went together to the Exchange.—
Silsby was in a handsome, lighted parlor opposite
to his chamber, awaiting him with Mosley, who
had planned that Silsby should become acquainted
with the milliner's pretty apprentice, through
Harefoot's introduction; for he well knew his
own would not pass current. It was for this end
that Silsby was awaiting Harry's arrival.
`Is is already quarter past,' he said, looking at
a richly chased gold watch. `Are you sure Lynch
will fetch him?'
`Yes. He is too anxious to know you, Bob, to
let any thing prevent his coming. I told him you
were desirons of knowing him! He bit at once.
You must get his confidence by treating him civily,
and he will be of use to you.
`I'll invite him to drive out in my stanhope
with me to Fresh Pond, day after to-morrow.
`That is Sunday, and he is puritanic.'
`I will manage that. Ah, there he comes.'
`Sir, there is Mr. Lynch and his friend below,'
said a servant, entering.
`Show them up. Now for the little milliner!
I passed there to day, and I never saw such a
lovely little gypsy. But I must break ground
carefully, I see by her eye!'
`Yes, you can do nothing without being presented
to her by some one she knows. Harefoot
is the very man, if you can get him to serve
you.'
`Leave that to me. Ah, Ned, how are ye?—
Glad to see you.'
`How are ye, Silsby. Let me make you acquainted
with my particular friend, Henry Hareoot.
'
`Mr. Harefoot I am glad to see you,' said Silsby,
rising and shaking him heartily by the hand,
and leading him to a seat. `I have solicited the
pleasure of knowing you, and feel happy that you
have done me the honor to call.'
The ease and cordiality of his reception, the
brilliancy of the apartment, the richness of the
furniture, and elegant opulence pervading everything
that he beheld, not a little dazzled him; but
what embarrased him most of all was, that he recognised
in Silsby, the gentleman whom he had
sat next to at his memorable dinner, and whose
wine he had helped himself to with such nonchalence.
A second glance at his countenance,
however, told him he was not recognized in return,
and he became re-assured, though at the mo
ment he felt like retreating, or hiding himself.—
The hurried views he had had of Silsby with his
hat on when he had seen him riding were not sufficient
for him to identify him; but now that he
saw him with his hat off, he did not fail to make
the appalling recognition. Although Silsby betrayed
no sign of having met him before, he distinctly
recollected the features of his neighbor of
the `cider.'
A few minutes were passed in general conversation,
when Silsby proposed a game at cards.
Harry knew one suit of cards from another,
but had never played. He blushed while he confessed.
`Never mind, we will soon teach you,' said
Lynch; and he drew his chair to a round table,
in the middle of which a servant had laid a pack
of cards. Harry felt he was doing wrong in yielding,
but he had not the resolution to refuse, and
he did not like to give offence to such a `rich
young man' as Robert Silsby. Thus his want
of moral courage, and his respect for money,
combined, led him into acting against his sense of
right.
The cutting for `deal,' the `dealing,' the `trump'
and the `lead,' were all a mystery to Harry, but
Mosley kindly explained them to him, so that he
soon understood them. After a little showing he
was enabled to lead off with confidence, and play
his cards with some freedom. The game was
`whist.' He soon became interested in it; and
although he made rather awkward work at dealing,
vainly trying in the feat to imitate the rapid
and graceful manner in which Lynch threw off
the cards, he proved much better than a `dummy'
to Silsby, who was his partner; and so they played
half an hour, when Silsby desired Mosley to
pull the bell, though he himself was nearest to it.
But rich young men have privileges.
`Charles,' he said to the colored attendant, as
he stood bowing respectfully in the door, `tell the
bar-keeper to send up four nectars—hot.'
`Yes, saar,' answered Charles, disappearing.
`Who deals? Your turn, Ned,' said Silsby.—
`Well, Harefoot, how do you like the game?'
`I must confess it is exciting, though it requires
practice to understand its principles. It is a game
of calculation. I thought before that cards were
never played without gambling, and I felt alarmed
for my rustic propriety when I heard you propose
them, he said, laughing; for the society in which
he found himself had adapted itself, for various
reasons, to his humor, and so he was pleased with
himself, with them, and was altogether in a fine
flow of spirits. Much of his reserve of manner
had worn off, and his companions were surprised
to discover, that though he knew little of cards,
he was witty, social—in cant phrase, `a capital
fellow.'
The `nectar' appeared in four goblets, in the
shape of whiskey punches, hot, and alluring both
to the eye and smell. A little plate of crackers
was also on the waiter.
`Hand them round, Charley!' said Silsby.—
Harefoot, take one. You will find it delicious.—
Ned—Ralph, help yourselves.'
Harry, with the remembrance of last night, and
recollection of his remorse and resolutions, had
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[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
hesitated when the servant held the waiter to him;
but not wishing to appear so singular as to decline,
he took the glass, and set it beside his cards. The
odor, as it ascended to his nostrils, was truly
tempting. He had never conceived any thing
more delightful! Yet he firmly resolved in his
mind to withstand more than a simple taste for
courtesy's sake.
`What is this nectar, Mr. Silsby?' he asked,
with such simplicity that the others believed, till
they reflected an instant upon his ignorance
of such matters, that he was quizzing.
`It is a compound of delectables, ambient as liquid
topaz, fragrant as jasmine, and inspiring as
the waters of—of—of—what is that Greek spring
we used to know at school, Mosley?'
`Maranthon?'
`No.'
`Helicon,' said Harry.
`That's it. Now you know what a whiskey—
I mean a nectar is, Harefoot, eh?'
Harry knew he was quizzed, but said nothing,
resolving to drink no more, whatever it was; for
his mother's warning lay close in his heart, where
he had treasured up all her advice. The game
advanced, and grew more intensely exciting, and
discovered to Harry that he had a natural propensity
for card playing, the occasion having been
hitherto wanting to call it out. In the intervals
of dealing, each had sipped his `nectar,' and Harry,
ere he was sensible of it, found he had been
sipping also, till he had drank half in the goblet.
The effect of it was also more apparent to the
others than himself. His eye was brighter, his
manner bolder, his voice more earnest, and his
whole demeanor elevated several degrees above
the usual temperature. He laid his cards down
on the board with an emphasis, and even disputed
about the priority of a deal. A second series of
whiskey-punches was ordered, and four empty
glasses replaced upon the salver. Ten o'clock
struck, and Haray had drank two whiskey-punches,
and had by this time become somewhat noisy
with the exhileration of his ideas!
`Suppose we play `poker,” said Mosley.
`Agreed,' responded Harry, who was innocent
of the knowledge of any poker but the firepoker.
`Suppose we bet a half,' said Lynch.
`Done,' cried Harry, thumping his fist down
on the table till the glasses rung again.
`Let's have some of my old brand champagne
first,' said Silsby. `Lynch pull that bell.'
The champagne was brought, glasses were given
to each, the wire was cut, the cork flew, and
sparkling like a fountain of light, the tall glasses
were filled to the bubbling brim.
`Here,s to beauty,' said Silsby, lifting his
glass.
`Especially milliner's apprentices,' said Mosley
who was a little excited.
`Beauty it is, repeated Lynch, drinking off
his champagne, and setting down his glass with
a sigh.
`Beauty and miller's apprentices, cried Harry,
quaffing the delicate pink-hued wine.
`Miller's be —,' said Mosley; `Milliner's
it is.
`I say, Mosley, I consider that personal—I'll
allow no man to correct me! Don't you think I
know a milliner from a miller!' retorted Harry,
with drunken spirit.
`Peace, gentlemen! Silence, Ralph!' cried
Silsby, thumping on the table with a champagne
glass, and knocking the bottom off. `How do you
like that cider, eh, Harefoot? Don't you think it
better than that you drank in the dining room a
few months ago.
Harry stared at the speaker with consternation.
Mortification and shame sobered him instantly.
He dropped his eyes in confusion, and sat silent
and gloomy.
`Pshaw, man,' said Silsby, laughing; `it was
nothing to cry about; but a capital joke. By
George, it is too good to be lost.'
`Tell it, tell it!' cried Mosley and Lynch in the
same breath.
Silsby then related the incident as it occurred,
but with such perfect good humor, and it was
laughed at with such cheerful merriment by the
others, that Harry not only took no offence, but
joined in the laugh, and explained, in a lively
manner, his elation at the discovery of the use of
the long glasses set beside his plate.
`And that was really wine, then?' he added,
with a smile.
`Yes, champagne! The same we have been
drinking.
`And is this wine, also?'
`You didn't think it was cider?'
`Upon my soul I did till this moment.'
Loud and long was the laugh that followed
this ingenuous confession. After the hilarious
uproar had a little subsided, Silsby opened another
bottle, and said, turning to him.
`Now, Harefoot, as you took wine with me
without asking, do me the honor to drink with
me now by special invitation. Hold here, and let
me fill your glass.'
Harry, who was now quite sober, would have
declined, but the circumstances under which the
request was made, did not admit of a refusal.—
He therefore let him fill his glass, and drank with
him.
`A bead!' cried Silsby, inverting his glass and
catching the last drop on his thumb nail.
`A bead,' repeated Harefoot, who had never
heard the term before, yet instantly comprehended
it; and finishing the wine, he turned up his
glass in a like manner.
They now began to play again with a better understanding
of our hero's character, and he of
theirs. The little incident that had passed had
placed them on a better footing of social equality.
Each was in good humor with his fellow. Poker,
a notorious gambling game was now introduced,
and Harry's last glass of champagne having made
him supremely indifferent to any moral dictation
from the wounded monitor within, he entered into
the play with spirit, so soon as its principle was
explained to him, and laid down his half dollar
(nearly all the money he had in the world) with
the full consciousness of wrong doing, but recklessly
stifling the reproaches of his conscience.
He seemed to be impressed with, and led by, that
reckless feeling which suggests that, having
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[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
given line so far to temptation, it were the same
to let indulgence run the full length of her tether.
The hours flew swiftly, and unheeded, till the
end of their playing, when Silslby, looking at his
watch, announced to the appalled ears of Harry
that it was twelve o'clock. The deep tongue of
the Old South at the same instant, bore testimony
to its truth.
`You owe me seventeen dollars and a half,
Harefoot, remember,' said Silsby. `And Mosley,
here is your five.'
`And you owe me six, Harry,' added Mosley,
pocketing his winnings.
`And two dollars to me,' continued Ned.
`And you, Ned, are indebted to me eight—no
nine,' cried Silsby, examining the scores.
Harry listened with consternation. The excitement
of play—the elevation of the wine had
gone, and left him the cool, sad contemplation of
the fruits of the evening's enjoyment—happiness
dearly bought. His mind was stunned at the
idea of having incurred a debt of twenty-five
dollars—and that a gambling debt. He stood silent
and sad with the bitterness of that moment's
reflection. To this was added a scarcely less
painful evil—the late hour he was abroad! It was
the first time he had ever been out after nine.
How should he get in—how should he conceal his
late hours, or excuse himself to the inmates! how
to Mr. Cushing, if he should be informed of it!
`But how,' he groaned inwardly, `how shall I
ever be reconciled to myself—how forgive myself
for this folly.'
`Why, man, you look as melancholly as Death
in the Primmer,' said Lynch, slapping him on the
shoulder. `Come, take a glass of brandy and
water. It will make you a new man.'
`Never mind the money, Harefoot,' said Silsby,
`if it is not convenient. Pay me when it is;
or, perhaps, some other time you may turn the
scales. Come, fellows, let us charge once round
before we separate.'
The decanter of brandy went round, and Harry
suffered the tumbler Silsby had placed in his
hand to be filled without speaking. They touched
their glasses, and each drank off his parting
cup, Harry quaffings his down with a sort of a
desperate hope of finding in it relief from his painful
reflections.
It was now proposed by Lynch that they should
all go together to O'Bruce's and get a supper of
oysters, and then see Harefoot home. Harry
consented to go with them, for he felt now too
heart-wretched to regard, for that night, any farther
consequences that might ensue.
They navigated down stairs to the court door,
with no little noise of stumbling boots and clattering
sticks, to the consternation, or wrath of
sundry sleepers, whose doors they passed on their
way. The night was exceedingly brilliant, with
a clear saphire vault, in which the star sparkled
with unusual splendor. For a moment the beauty
and stillness of the hour awed them. But
their brains were too much under the influence
of the brandy they had just drank, for the sweet
and holy influences of night and heaven to affect
them long. Four abreast, arm locked in arm,
each with a lighted cigar in his mouth, a stick
under his arm, and keeping tramp-pace, they
took their way into State street, and along the
shadows of the ancient State House into Washington
street, up which they turned. As they
reeled on, each a support to the other, Silsby
broke out singing `Bruce's Address,' when all
struck in with such a medley of horrid discords,
by way of choral accompaniment, that a watchman
who was quietly dozing on the corner by
Cummings & Hilliard's book store, was waked
out of his sleep by the noise, and crossed the street
to them.
`You must walk quietly, gentleman,' he said
respectfully.
`I have a right to sing. There's no law against
a man's singing when he is in a mood for it,
Charlie,' responded Silsby—
`Scotts' wha'ha' wi' Wallace—'
`I say you must not sing and disturb the
streets,' said Charlie, peremptorily.
`Sing away, Silsby,' said Harry, who, with
wine and brandy, and novel excitement, was
quite as ripe for any thing, as a young man would
wish to be; and in a loud tone of defiance Harry
continued,
`Scotts' whom Bruce has often led,'
`Go it, Harefoot, that's your sort,' cried hiscompanions.
`We'll whip Charlie, if he is'nt
d—d civil.'
`Yes—we are not to be stopped in walking the
streets by an infernal watchman,' said Silsby.
`We are gentlemen,—
`Scotts' wa'ha' wi—'
Here the watchman laid his hand upon his collar,
when Harry, adding in a loud tone,
`Welcome to your gory bed,'
deliberately knocked the watchman over into the
gutter, and releasing Silsby from his hold.
`Now, fellows, we must fight or run,' said
Lynch, as the watchman clambered to his feet,
and sprung his rattle.'
`Run it,' said Silsby, `for the Exchange!'
At a rate of speed, no one who had seen them
reeling along four abreast but a few minutes before,
would have believed of them, they fled down
the lane from Washington street, through a dark
alley, into Exchange place, pursued by three
watchmen, springing their rattles, he who had
been knocked down, foremast. By fortunate
chance the Coffee House door was yet un-barred
and Silsby, throwing it open, got them in, and
barred it, just as the watchman touched the curb-stone
before it.
`We are safe now, but have lost our oystersupper,
' said Lynch. `Harry, you gave him a
scientific flooring.'
`Come to my room, boys,' said Silsby. `It
will not be safe for you to go home to night.—
Harry, you shall share my bed! By George, you
are a brave fellow in a spree?'
`Harefoot's good stuff, and no mistake,' responded
Mosley, as they ascended to his room.
Harry was not sorry to remain all night, knowing
he could not get in at his boarding-house; and,
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[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
after being assured that he should be waked by
Silsby's servant at six, he retired, though not till
they had taken another `brandy and water' all
round to `make them sleep.'
But sleep visited not Henry's senses till cockcrowing,
when he sunk into an uneasy slumber,
from which he was called at six o'clock by the
black servant stealing into the darkened chamber,
and softly rousing him.
He rose with a sensation in his head as if it
were hooped with an iron band; with a parched
tongue that loathed and sickened at its own taste;
with fevered hands, and painful eyes; with a
conscience ringing its loud censures; and a soul
weighed down with a sense of guilt, upon which
horror, remorse, and despair, sat like a moral Cerberus
guarding forever the passage back to hope,
happiness, and peace.
CHAPTER IX.
Pierce Wentworth developes his character—His
chamber—Gains his master's confidence—The
Drawings—Mr. Cunningham—A mansion in
Summer street—How Pierce passes the evening—
The little beggar—The Watchman's widow—
The sailing party—Pierce shows his fearless
sense of right—Clerks and apprentices compared—
Temptations of each—Pierce meets a fellow
passenger—Mr St. John Leighton's character—
Mr Libbey's liberality—Pierce forms an opulent
acquaintance—He takes tea with Isabel—They
walk out.
The whole of the day was passed by Henry in a
state of mental torture from a lively conscience,
from a nervous fear of being questioned by Mr.
Cushing, from constant apprehension that his
wandering from the path of rectitude would be
momently discovered, to his shame and disgrace.
But Stanwood had been that night absent in the
country with his parents, for the purpose of discussing
cussing with them his contemplated change from
Mr Cushing's store into the importing house at
the corner of Kilby and State streets; and as Henry
ry had occupied his chamber alone since Burnham
ham had been dismissed, his absence proved not
to have been known. He, nevertheless, passed a
very unhappy day. The sense of debt degraded
him, and again and again he condemned his folly!
But he could not endure to think upon the events
of the past night, and crushed all reflection under
a sullen and morose countenance. The change
in him was noticed by all in the store; but he having
ing attributed his looks to illness, it passed by
with the kind remark from Mr Cushing, that, if
he did not become better, he had best go to his
lodging, and remain.
The day, however, was passed in a more cheerful
ful spirit by another character in our story of re
—Pierce Wentworth. Mr Libby was engaged
ed in erecting a handsome private edifice in Winthrop
throp Place, and had given the charge of completing
pleting the architectural ornaments of the saloon
to Pierce, whose genuis, taste, and skill he had
early discovered, and availed himself of. Four
doors, two in the Roman, and two in the Grecian
style, opened from this hall, and were to be fin
finished with pilasters, mouldings, entablatures, and
carved work, for which skilful journeymen are us
ually only employed. But Mr Libby had discovered
in his apprentice not only a desire to learn
his trade well, but a capacity to comprehend its
principles with the most careless explanation.—
He had given him many nice bits of work to do
in the shop, to try his abilities, and he was surprised
at the perfect neatness and finish with
which they came from his hands. But what led
him to place entire confidence in him, and place
work in his hands he himself was accustomed to
do, was, that one evening he went into his little
sleeping room (for he boarded at his house,) to
look for a volume of the Encyclopedia which was
missing, and to which he wished to refer for the
purpose of comparing some plates in a new work
on architecture, with those in the article headed
`Architecture;' with which he believed it to
differ.
Pierce had just gone out to convey a little package
to his sister that had come that day in a parcel
of his own, from home. Mr Libby was so
struck at the appearance of things there, that he
paused to survey them. Beside a little window
was Pierce's table, on which burned a shade-lamp.
A great number of books upon construction lay
upon it, with drawing sheets covered with diagrams,
outlines of the different orders of architecture,
drafts of entablatures, doors, stair-ways,
and plans of buildings, all neatly executed. A
beautiful model of a Grecian temple in rose-wood,
all its parts distinct, so that it could be taken to
pieces and put together like a dissected map, stood
on a chair. But what surprised him most, and
laid the foundation for respect and confidence,
was his astonishment at seeing on a table before
his chair the volume of the Encyclopedia he
sought, spread open at the index ARC, with a
pair of compasses and a Gunter's scale laid on it,
as if they had just been in use, and the very Plate
he wished to refer to exposed to view! But his
surprise was increased to find, on turning up a
large book that lay face down beside it, that it
was a library copy of the very new work he held
in hir hand, open at the Plate he wished to compare
with that in the Encyclopedia. A piece of
paper lay under it, on discerning diagrams upon
which, he took it up and examined them, when he
found, to complete his astonishment and pleasure,
that the sedentary apprentice had not only discovered
the inaccuracies in the new work, but he
had demonstrated them by diagrams and comparisous
of drawings.
From that time he afforded him every aid and
opportunity in his power for the development of
his talents. Instead of envy, his fellow apprentices,
as well as the journeymen, acknowledged
his superiority; while his kind manner and cheerful
temper made them friends. A few days before
that which the erring Harry passed so wretchedly,
wishing for night that he might forget his
guilt and anguish in sleep, Pierce was engaged in
the beautiful creation, from Greek models, of the
details of the architectural ornaments of the saloon.
In one of the finished apartments, adjoining,
was a table, on which lay his drawings
and instruments, while in the hall, with a
coarse apron on, and in a brown linen jacket, he
was at work embodying to the eye of taste in
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wood, the forms of which the drawings gave the
outlines.
A gentleman with urbane manners and courteous
appearance, entered and examined the drawings
for some time, with the eye of one who understood
them. Pierce, who saw him while working
in the saloon, watched his countenance with
deep interest, and was delighted to see from its
expression that he was pleased. After a little
while, he took a sheet in his hand, and, coming
into the hall, began to compare what was done
with what had been projected. While doing so,
Mr. Libby came in and addressed him as Mr.
Cunningham, who informed him he had called
at the suggestion of the owner to look at the
house.
`I am very much pleased with your plans, and
the style of this saloon, Mr. Libby,' he said; `and
will have my own house constructed on the same
plan. These drawings, aside from the taste and
knowledge of architecture, look like copper plate,
and are the most beautiful I have ever seen.—
They alone are sufficient testimonials of your skill
as an architect.'
`They are not mine, sir,' said Mr. Libby, looking
proudly across the apartment at the blushing
Pierce, who very closely busied himself with the
cornice he was finishing; `I should be glad to be
able to draught so well.'
`Who then is the architect?'
`There he stands at work upon the frieze.'
`You are inclined to be pleasant upon me, Mr.
Libby,' said the gentleman smiling.
`I beg your pardon, sir; but that young man
is the executor of the drawings, as well as the
author of the combined and beautiful styles which
you so much admire in the saloon.'
`He is scarcely nineteen! Can it be possible?'
said Mr. Cunningham, looking at Pierce as he
stood at work in his apron and jacket, and then at
the drawings he held in his hand, while Pierce,
who, as well as his fellow-workmen, had heard
the conversation, felt emotions of pride and pleasure.
He only wished Isabel and his father had
been present to have heard.
After gazing upon the young architect a moment,
with a look of interest and admiration, Mr.
Cunningham asked to be introduced to him.
`Young man,' he said, shaking him warmly by
the hand, `you have done, not only yourself, but
your profession great credit. But I will not spoil
you by praise, lest you think you have already attained
when there is much yet to reach after.—
You must come and visit me some evening and
see my library, in which I have a large collection
of works on architecture, the study of which is a
passion with me. Mr. Libby let him come to my
house some evening this week. I should like to
know you better, young sir.'
Pierce gratefully and modestly thanked him,
marvelling that drawings such as he had thought
nothing of making, when at school, should be
thought worthy of such praise in Boston. But
he found that the school-boy's genius as a draftsman
and modeller, was likely to be made available
beyond building nursery houses for pretty
little girls like Mary Boardman, and drawing pictures
to adorn it.
The third day afterward, Mr. Libby asked his
apprentice if he had yet been to Mr. Cunningham's
house. Pierce replied in the negative, saying
he presumed a gentleman like him would
scarcely be likely to think of him a second time;
and might be surprised at his accepting his invitation.
`No, no, my boy,' said Mr. Libby. `Mr. Cunningham
is s gentleman of fortune and taste, and
great benevolence of character; he takes great
interest in rising talent, and none will so quickly
command his notice as genius in architecture.—
Go this evening, if you are not otherwise engaged,
for he will expect you.'
At eight o'clock the same evening, (and at the
very same hour Harry Harefoot went with Lynch
to call on Silsby,) Pierce, attired in his Sabbath
suit, ascended the handsome Ionic Portico of Mr.
Cunningham's elegant mansion on Summer
street. For a few moments he paused to gather
courage before ringing. A well-dressed black
servant answered the bell. With a palpitating
heart he entered the lofty hall, and the servant,
throwing open a polished mahogany door in the
right, ushered him into a magnificent double
drawing-room, and receiving his name went out,
saying he would inform Mr. Cunningham of his
being there.
With astonishment and awe, not unmixed with
that pure delight which combinations of wealth
and taste always produce on intelligent minds,
the apprentice surveyed the noble apartments.—
Two bronzed candelabra, supported by lions rampant
in the front room filled it with brilliant
light, while the inner room was shaded in pleasing
twilight. The number, richness, and great
size of the pictures suspended by silken cords
upon the walls; the gorgeous drapery of the windows
descending from gilded spears crossed
above, quite down to the floor; the beauty of the
furniture which consisted of costly chairs, ottomans
and couches, covered with velvets, the
colors being different in the different rooms; the
splendor of the mantel ornaments, and the numberous
articles of show and furniture, unknown to
him by name filled him with surprise and pleased
wonder. The luxurious carpets gave back
no sound to his footsteps, and the gorgeous stillness
that pervaded the rooms was painful to
him. The servant had requested him to be seated,
but the chairs looked too rich to be sat in, and
not seeing any that looked like the family chairs,
he remained standing.
The door of the inner room turned, without a
sound, upon its hinges, and Mr. Cunningham entering
the drawing-room unheard, approached
Pierce, whose eye at that moment was caught
and fixed by a magnificent engraving of the Parthenon.
`I am glad you have remembered me, my
young friend,' said Mr. Cunningham, as he took
him kindly by the hand. `I expected you before,
and had my books taken down from the shelves
for you.'
Pierce ingenuously replied that he had feared
he should intrude himself upon his courtesy, and
so had delayed coming until Mr. Libby assured
him he would expect him.
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[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
`Yes, I did, and am pleased that you have
come. Now be so kind as to accompany me into
my library.'
Pierce, not a little pleased at his reception, followed
him into the hall and up a grand staircase,
from the first landing of which a side flight of half
a dozen broad stairs conducted to a small saloon,
beyond which was the door of a library, which
Mr. Cunningham opened and invited Pierce to
enter. If the drawing room below stairs had astonished
him with the display of paintings furniture
and drapery, this apartment surprised him
with the splendor and vast number of the books
that, placed in handsome mahogany, literally
walled it. It put him in mind of a bookstore, yet
was as different from one as were the drawingrooms
from an upholsterer's shop. A lamp of peculiar
construction shed a soft sunny light
throughout every part of the room, while no portion
of the glary flame was visible. Tables stood
around, covered with large folios; tall frames
supported mammoth volumes; and racks of
drawings and plates, and models of temples, villas,
and public edifices, were ranged around in
perfect order.
At one of the tables, sat a handsome young
man, the expression of whose face impressed
Pierce very favorably, engaged in reading a huge
volume entitled the `Commerce of Nations.'—
Mr. Cunningham introduced him to Pierce as
Mr. Stanwood, saying,
`I am confident you will like each other,
young gentlemen, though your tastes are something
different—Frank here having a passion for
whatever relates to mereantile matters.'
Stanwood shook Pierce very cordially by the
hand, said he had heard Mr. Cunningham speak
of him, and was anxious to know him.
Mr. Cunningham then seating himself at his
writing-desk, said to Pierce,
`Excuse me, young gentleman—I am finishing
a letter that I wish to send off by the post.—
Frank will entertain you; or perhaps you can
amuse yourself. There is a volume which will
engage you till I am at leisure.'
He pointed, as he spoke, to a large folio of fine
engravings of edifices remarkable for their correct
styles, which lay open upon a frame near
him. Pierce was soon so deeply engaged in their
examination that he quite forgot where he was,
till startled by a little table-bell which Mr. Cunningham
rung, and which was answered by a
servant who received his letter with directions to
take it to the Post Office. Mr. Cunningham,
Pierce and Stanwood now entered into an interesting
and instructive conversation, during
which both young men were strnck with the intelligence
of each other.
The evening passed away most agreeably to
Pierce, in examining models and drawings, and
listening to the intelligent and instructive remarks
of Mr. Cunningham, who on his part was
gratified by the deep interest which Pierce took
in what he saw and heard, and was as favorably
impressed with his talents and good sense as he
had been surprised at his genius. When, as the
bell rang nine he was about to take leave, he
loaned him two or three valuable books, and
offered him the use of his library; and desired
him to visit him again the next evening, and
bring with him the drawings he had made for the
saloon, on which he was at work. He went home
greatly pleased with Cunningham, and delighted
with Stanwood, whose mother he learned was a
neice of Mr. Cunningham who invited him to
visit his home as freely as if-he were his son.—
As with proud and happy emotious he felt that
nothing was wanting to his enjoyment but Isabel,
and all he loved at home to share it with him.
He took his way homeward up Summer street,
whose magnificent lining of elms over rearching
from either side, made all deep gloom underneath,
which a street lamp at long intervals scarcely enlivened.
As he walked along with a free, elastic
step, and his coat buttoned to his chin (for the
night was chilly,) and was passing the old church
near the head, he felt some one pull at his skirt,
and at the same time a plaintive voice ask for
`bread.' He looked down, and saw in the gloom
a mere child,—an infant, as it were,—trotting at
his side, holding on to his coat. He stooped
down, and kindly spoke to it.
`I want a cent to buy bread,' said the little
shiverer.
`You need both to be clad and fed,' he said,
touched with pity at seeing a child not six years
old out at such a time of night begging. On
questioning it, he learned that he did not want
bread for himself but his mother, who was sick.
Desiring the child to guide him, he followed it
through Franklin Arch and entered Theatre Alley,
a narrow, dismal passage in the rear of the
theatre, uniting two parallel streets, and then
lined with the dwellings rather of poverty than
vice. A dim lamp burning at each extremity
and one midway, were just sufficient to guide the
foot-passenger.—The child trotted along with familiar
step, and led him a little ways down the
alley and then turned with him into a wretched
yard surrounded by low buildings. He knocked
on the door of one of these and a child little older
than himself opened it. The interior was quite
dark, but Pierce heard a woman's weak voice say,
`Billy, dear, have you come?'
`Yes, mama, and brought a good gentleman
with me.'
`God be thanked,' said the poor woman;
`there is yet some charity left for the poor! Did
you bring bread, sir?'
`No, but I will at once. Have you no way of
making a light?'
`None—we are destitute.'
`I will return in a few minutes,' said Pierce,
quitting the door-way in which he had stood.
In less than five minutes he returned from a
grocer's on the corner of Milk street with candles,
bread, apples, dried fish, and several other
articles, all that the grocery afforded, and all his
little money would buy. He soon made a light
which showed a wretched apartment, destitute
of furniture or bedstead, the bed being upon the
floor.—What a contrast, thought he, with a sigh,
to the gorgeous drawing rooms he had been in
that evening. He learned that she was a widow
with two children, the boy who had been sent out
begging and a girl ten years old, who was dumb.
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She said her husband had been a blacksmith, but
having been kicked by a horse, was compelled to
give up hard work, and take to one employment
and another to support his family, till no class of
working people owned him, and so he had friends
among none of them. To help himself along, he
hired himself as watchman, but the night air and
exposure gave him the consumption, with which,
after a long sickness, he died, leaving her not
only in debt, but destitute.
`We have been driven from shelter to shelter,'
she said, `since he died, which was two years
ago, and I made out to do by taking in washing
till I sprained my wrist. I then had to live off
of what little furniture and things I'd saved by
sellin' `em till I ha'nt any thing but this straw
bed and blanket. I have been too sick for three
weeks to help myself, and my little boy has supported
us along by begging. But he got nothing
all day, and as we had nothing to eat he went
out of his own accoad.'
`You are indeed in wretched circumstances,
madam,' said Pierce, who unused to scenes of
metropolitan wretchedness, had heard her narration
of her sufferings with deep interest, and the
liveliest sympathy. Assuring her that he would
make her case known to some benevolent persons,
he left her and her children as comfortable as he
could make them, and with the consciousness of
having done his duty, he took his way homeward,
with the intention of immediately making the
poor woman's case known to Mrs. Libby, who
he knew would at once take steps to improve her
condition. How much better relieving the indigence
of the watchman's widow, than knocking
poor watchmen down; hard working men, who to
eke out the small wages of the day, stand half
the night in storm and wind, cold and wet, to
preserve order and decorum, that citizens may
sleep in quiet and know their property to be protected.
As Mr. Libby lived in Boylston street, Pierce,
after reaching Washington street, kept along its
western side-walk. In front of the Lamb Tavern,
which stood near where is now erected a handsome
granite building, he saw a group of young
men, one of whom called him by name as he was
passing. He stopped and found a knot of apprentices,
most of whom were known to him.
They were lounging against a lamp-post and talking
about having a sail on Sunday, down the harbor.
Pierce was invited to join them.
`Not on Sunday,' he said, promptly.
`But if we don't go that day we can never go
at all,' said the one who had hailed him, whose
name was Cyrus Foster, and who was apprenticed
to a carpenter.
`I should rather not have any indulgence, if I
purchased it by breaking any one of the Commandments,
' answered Pierce, without any of
that weakness which leads young men to fear to
confess any reverence for God.
`We have as much respect for the Sabbath as
any body, Wentworth,' said another of the young
men, `but we must have some time for recreation;
we work hard all the week, and then to
stick up in a meeting-house all Sunday is `no
play.'
`I don't see any more harm in going a sailing
than in riding to meeting, as the ministers do,'
said Foster.
`I am sorry you differ with me,' said Pierce,
`but if I should consent to go, I should not enjoy
myself, with the consciousness of wrong doing.
'
`You are too strict, Wentworth; but each one
for himself, said Foster, feeling mortified.
Pierce, after a little more conversation, bade
them good night, and passed on his way.
`You might have known he would'nt have
gone,' said John Clifford, a journeyman cabinet
maker, sluringly; `he belongs to our Engine, and
never comes to club meetings because he says he
don't like to drink; and at that last fire in Broad
street, where he behaved so well, and took the
keg of powder out of the blazing counting-room
when the hoops had become hot, he refused, when
we got back to the Engine house, to drink the
the wine the merchant sent up after us; and what
was strange, though he was wet through he took
no cold.'
`He'll never be introduced to any of the girls,
no matter how pretty they are, nor goes to walk
with any in the Mall, Sunday evenings, as other
apprentices do,' said one, who wore a ruffied shirt
and was smoking a long nine.
`I saw him once walking with a right handsome
girl,' said Clifford.
`That is his sister,' answered Foster, `and a
pretty girl she is. But I don't know her. But
he's a clever fellow.'
The conversation now turned upon the projected
pleasure sail, on the next day, and it was decided
that it should take place, on the ground that
if apprentices did not amuse themselves upon the
Sabbath and be happy, they never could. True
happiness alone consists in obedience to divine
laws: and the false pleasure temporarily derived
from infringing them, is not enjoyment. The
plea so often offered by apprentices for breaking
the Sabbath, as, we are sorry to say, they are so
openly in the habit of doing, is as shallows as it is
vain. Thieves might as well argue that if they did
not steal in this world they never could! murderers,
that if they did not kill here they never
could! Sabbath breaking, a wilful shutting their
ears to the weekly instructions of the gospel, is
the great prime cause of the recent demoralization
among apprentices, which has led them in
large cities, to constitute themselves into lawless
bands, that are ready to congregate in seasons of
political excitement, in powerful mobs—powerful
from the combined recklessness and intelligence
of its components—subverting all order, and menacing
the very existence of civil and political
liberty. This forming clubs and adopting certain
styles of hat, of wearing the hair, or of shaping
the coat, for the purpose of appearing rowdy and
independent, is one of the evils of their position,
as censurable as that of fine dressing, vanity and
aping fashion among clerks; but of the two, dandy
and rowdy, the latter is the most to blame for
his folly, as the fact of his having chosen the hammer
instead of the yard-stick, is presumptive evidence
of his superior common sense.
Though we write and have written in defence
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of trades, and contend that the position of apprentices,
in the social system, infinitely superior in
every way to that of clerk, we are not ignorant
that there are peculiar temptations to each condition;
but we contend that of one hundred apprentices
and the same number of clerks entering
into their respective stores and shops together,
twelve years will bring a comfortable independence
to eighty of the former, while not twenty of
the latter live, if they are living at all, or are not
cast away—in the enjoyment of competence. The
life of the mechanic is even, and the tenor of his
course is uninterrupted (save in great national calamities
that overwhelm indiscriminately, all
men alike) by the viscissitudes, precarious outlays,
uncertain ventures and anxious watchfulness
of the merchant. If he derives not so much
income from his labor, it is a certain and increasing
one; and as his notions of style are temperate
and sensible; as he neither aspires to great
houses, nor apes the costly glitter of fashion, it is
enough for his happiness, and for his comfort,
and for his respectability, and for the education
of his children. Mechanics can soon become
owners of the houses they live in, by paying down
three or four hundred dollars, giving a mortgage
on the house, and then from year to year paying
what would otherwise pay for its rent on the
mortgage The retail merchant can seldom become
owner of a house; for his income is uncertain,
and his notions lead him to desire a mansion
that itself would swallow a fortune; consequently
he becomes a tenant of a stylish house along
side of the neat two story dwelling which his
cabinet-maker lives in, and which he owns. Apprentioes
have, also, very little unemployed time,
and are not exposed to that idleness which irresistably
leads to vicious habits; while the boy in
a store is idle half the time, either lounging about
the counter, or perched on a stool playing with a
yard-stick and talking with the neighbor's clerks,
or stuck away in a corner half hidden by a bale
of goods, reading interdicted and demoralizing
books. The apprentice has not the temptation to
steal, which the `clerk' daily has, surrounded as
he is by rich goods of every variety, which are at
any moment convertable into money. The former
handles none of his master's funds, and is not
tempted to appropriate small change, which in
the end leads to bank robbery and the penitentiary;
he is not exposed hourly to female temptation
like the clerk; nor do fashionable places of
amusement and dissipation allure him to their
haunts; his amusements may be boisterous and
unfashionable, perhaps, but they are rarely ruinous
to his character; cards and wine, billiards
and driving, rioting and harlotry, are very seldom
his pursuits.
Pierce sought his home; and after sitting up
till twelve o'clock in his chamber looking over
the books Mr. Cunningham had loaned him, he
reverently read a chapter in his Bible and went to
bed. How differently had Pierce and Harry
passed the hours of that long evening! How
much sweeter was the calm sleep of the upright
apprentice than the restless, feverish slumbers of
the risting clerk. How bright and fresh did
Wentworth wake at sun-rise, and with what cheer
fulness he rose and went to his work! At breakfast
he gave Mr. Libby an account of his agreeable
visit to Mr. Cunningham's, and also laid before
his benevolent wife the case of the poor
watchman's widow; and happy was he to learn
before the forenoon was over, that she had placed
her under the care of a charitable association of
mechanic's ladies, whose Christian, self-imposed
task it was to provide for the destitute families of
mechanics.
Cheerfully he passed that day, for the consciousness
of doing right is in itself happiness —
While at his work in the saloon, in his apron and
brown jacket as before, Mr. Cunningham came
in accompanied by Col. Gardiner, the owner of
the house which Mr. Libby was building, and by
a very fashionable young gentleman in ruffles, in
whom Pierce recognized his fellow passenger,
Mr. George Washington St. John Leighton. The
young exquisite took up his glass and began leisurely
to survey the saloon, when in its range his
eye fell on Pierce, whom he seemed to recognize,
while Wentworth slightly bowed. Mr. St. John
Leighton looked surprized, stared, and with a
contemptuous curl of his lip, turned away on his
heel, muttering,
`Impertinence.'
Pierce understood the feeling of the haughty
young graduate and smiled, but by no means felt
troubled at being cut by him. Mr. Cunningham,
who had lingered with Col. Gardiner in the door
to examine it, now walked forward over the refuse
with which the floor was strewn, and approaching
Pierce, said,
`Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Wentworth, hard at
work again! Let me introduce to you Col. Gardiner,
who till I told him was ignorant that you
were the draftsman of the plan of the ornaments
for the hall.'
Pierce laid down his chisel and blushing,
though not so weak as to speak an apology for
his appearance, he frankly took Col. Gardiner's
offered hand.
Mr. St. John Leighton witnessed this with surprise,
and seeing that they sometime stood in conversation
with him, he became restless, and after
walking in and out of the several rooms, carefully
avoiding contact with any object that might
soil his attire, he returned into the saloon still to
find them engaged with him examining drawings.
`Youah seem to honah that youth, uncle Gardenare,
more than oi conceiveah he is enchitled
toah,' he drawled in a tone of affected nonchalance,
`Oi believe oi will not inchude moi companyah,
as oi seem to be forgotten, and oi will respectfullyah
bidah youah a good dayah!'
`Good day, George,' said Col. Gardiner, not
looking up from the drawings; `we shall expect
you to tea.'
`Perhaps youah friendah with the apronah, will
honah you, uncle, inah my steadah,' replied Mr.
St. John Leighton loftily.
`I shall certainly feel honored in having a
young man of genius like him at my table, and if
you come and Mr. Wentworth will oblige me, I
promise you shall meet him there.'
`Then I beg,' said Leighton, in a tone divested
of its drawling affectation, `to be excused. I have
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
not been in the habit of associating with carpenters'
apprentices.'
Col. Gardiner looked angry and was about to
reply, when seeing Pierce smile with quiet composure,
he said nothing; but Mr. Cunningham
could not withhold some sharp remarks upon the
weakness so common to many young men of family,
of considering beneath their notice and common
civility, persons in mechanical employments.
`When that foolish young man is forgotten by
all but his tailor and haberdasher,' he said with
asperity, `you, Wentworth, will with pride be
remembered by your country, and long live in
the enduring monuments of your genius.'
Mr. George Washington St. John Leighton
took his departure without deigning to notice
these words which he had heard. Stopping in
the portico he drew forth a cambric handkerchief,
the perfume from which as he unfolded it penetrated
the saloon, and having carefully dusted his
boots, he insolently placed his glass to his eye to
give Wentworth what he meant for a parting
glance of contempt, and then swinging his rattan,
walked towards Washington street, to lounge
and stare at the ladies. Mr. St. John was a very
harmless young person. He had no bad habits,
but he then had no very good ones! his sense
was not quite `common,' and approbativeness
and self-esteem were his most prominent phrenological
developments!—He did not smoke—he
perfumed! He did not drink—but he made free
use of Cologne water! He did not play cards,
but he carried a pearl card case! He did not
keep a mistress, but he did a puodle! He was
nephew and ward of Col. Gardiner; but preferred
living at a hotel to living with his uncle, who
preferred having him do so. He would be of age
in four months, when he would come into two
thousand a year, on which he intended to live
the harmless, perfumed, poodling life he had now
entered upon.
The day being Saturday, work closed at four
o'clock, this being a rule of Mr. Libby's, with
which Col. Gardiner, as well as other gentlemen
he had builded for, acquiesced; his motive being
to give his men not only time to transact whatever
family affairs they had not been able to do
through the week, so as not to encroach upon
the Sabbath, but to let them prepare for it with
more leisure. He knew well, by experience, the
value of two hours before sunset to the hardworking
man, and it is to be regretted his example
is not oftener followed by others. Our great
Master, the architect of the Universe, gives us
one day out of seven, all of which are equally
his, in which he not only says we may not, but
we must not work; cannot the Christian master
give his laborers one or two hours of the six days
that are his! Insist not too strongly on having
the `pound' of flesh.
Pierce after returning home and dressing, took
this hour to visit and examine with a little drawing
book in his pocket, the public buildings of
the city, noting their disagreements with the
rules of art as well as studying their correct proportions.
The edifice towards which he this afternoon
directed his steps were the princely and
tasteful mansion of Mr. Sears, on Beacon street.
The proprietor having observed from the window,
an intelligent looking young man stand some time
opposite, apparently taking an outline of his
house, and then observing him walk, to view both
ends and finally stand and commence a drawing
of the portico, the proportions of which he seemed
to have some difficulty in getting from the outside
of the gate, he became interested in his pursuit
and sent a servant to invite him into the
court. Pierce, who had been so absorbed in his
study as to be unconscious of being particularly
observed, hesitated, and then gratefully accepted
the invitation, lifting his hat to the proprietor,
whom he saw looking out from one of the bow
windows.
After the drawing was completed, Mr. Sears
sent for him with the request to be permitted to
see the fruit of his observations. Pierce followed
the servant into a spacious and finely proportioned
hall, and was conducted into a front room which
was a library, where was seated the gentleman
whose taste and wealth had erected such an ornament
to Boston, as his magnificent dwelling. He
was seated at a very large circular table, which
turned upon a pivot, bringing round within reach
of the hand by the slightest movement whatever
book or paper lay on the opposite side of it. When
Mr. Sears discovered that instead of a mere view
of the house that his paper presented in detached
parts, the architectural profile and details alone,
he was surprised, and asked if he had studied
ed architecture. Pierce's reply led to further
conversation, which resulted in the benevolent
and gentlemanly proprietor taking him over his
spacious house and showing him its plan; and,
expressing when he left, the most cordial interest
in him, invited him to come and see him whenever
he should find time.
`Truly,' thought Pierce as he closed behind
him the gate of this abode of opulence and taste,
`I have found, since I have been in Boston, that
the true gentleman—he, whose position by education,
wealth and taste, is established, has none
of that feeling of superiority with reference to
trades' people that is felt by `first classes,' as we
call them in `Augusta' and such towns! It is only
the `little respectabilities,' those who feel their
position not properly defined, and who tremble
for it, that look so far above mechanics, lest if
theybe seen speaking to them they may be thought
to be no higher than they. `What,' he thought
to himself, smiling, `would Harry Harefoot have
said had he seen me last night at Mr. Cunningham's,
or just now in Mr. Sear's library?'
It was now sun-down and hastening to take
his walk with Isabel, which he did every Saturday
evening, he soon arrived at the milliner's
shop of Mrs. Prescott. She met him with a glad
welcome; and Mrs. Prescott inviting him up
stairs to tea, he remained. After tea, Isabel tied
on her hat, wrapped herself warmly in a plaid
blanket shawl, and taking her arm went with him
towards the Common, where they loved most to
walk; its trees and green associating in their
minds the fields and woodlands about their native
town.
-- 050 --
CHAPTER X.
The invitation to ride—Stanwood's advice—Harry
unexpectedly meets the glone-purchaser—
The confectioner's—Stanwood and Isabel Wentworth—
Harry's temptation and his escape from
it—The meeting with Silsby—The visit to Isabel—
Bruce's, and brandy—The theatre—Our hero
shut out—Washington Gardens—Meets Lynch
and Mosley—His deeper degradation.
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
About the time that Pierce and his sister left
Mrs Prescott's shop for their Saturday twilight
walk, Henry saw Silsby drive up in his stanhope
in a dashing style that attracted the attention of
all the customers in the store as well as the gaze
of the passengers on the side-walk. He alighted,
throwing his reins to his colored servant, who sat
beside him, and, after lounging on the walk a
moment to level his quizzing glass at two young
ladies who were passing he entered the store.—
Henry telt embarrassed with he knew not what
feelings; but the apprehension that Silsby had
come to ask him for the money he had lost at
play, was uppermost. His confusion was so
great that, in cutting off a yard of ribbon, he took
up in his scissors a lace cape, in which he made
a huge gap, utterly ruining it. Silsby's manner,
however, at once relieved his fears.
`How are you, Harefoot?' he said in a tone of
condescension, extending to him the tip of his
gloved finger; `I hope you are quite well after
last night's spree.'
The pride he began to feel at being addressed
so familiarly by a rich young man who drove his
own stanhope, was instnntly exchanged for distress
and apprehension at the unlucky termination
of the speech; and glancing round, to see if
Stanhope or Tarfton, both of whom were near,
heard him, he cast a warning, supplicating look
at Silsby, and colored with the shame of conscious
guilt. Poor Henry! He had begun already
to conceal—which resort soon begets falsehood
and duplicity. A single error never stands
by itself. Guilt is a stone with a hundred superfices
reflected in it—one object becomes a
hundred. Innocence is a single mirror, in which
truth is seen in all the loveliness of her aspect!
`I have come to ask you, Harefoot,' said Silsby,
speaking in a low tone, `if you will ride out
to Milton to church with me to-morrow.'
`I should be very happy to go,' said Henry,
so relieved to find that he was not asked for
money, and so proud to be thought on terms of
intimacy with a young man worth a hundred
thousand dollars. He felt, however, the next
moment, a slight touch of his sadly treated conscience
at consenting to ride on the Sabbath; but
as it was to church he silenced it. Besides, he
felt that he was in his power as his debtor, and a
refusal might displease him. He also could not
help feeling honored by the invitation, and his
vanity was gratified as he glanced at the handsome
stanhope, at the idea of riding out of town
in such a fashionable style; and the hope that
Pierce Wentworth might see him coming to his
mind, led him to be desirous, even at the risk of
acting against his sense of right, to go. Silsby
then said he would call for him at his boarding
house; but here Harry again had to resort to du
plicity and concealment, fearing to have it known
that he rode on the sabbath, lest it might be attributed
to a pleasure ride; forgetting the excellent
maxim that one should never do what appears
wrong. He therefore proposed to call at
the Exchange, and start thence. With this arrangement
Silsby took his leave, sprang into his
stanhope, and dashed down Washington street
towards his stable.
Thus, by courting the society of rich and business
young men, because he conceived he should
be thought more genteel for his acquaintance, our
hero had been led first to depart from his usual
custom of going directly home after shutting up;
to engage in cards; to drink intoxicating beverage;
to gamble; to indulge in champaigne; to
incur debts; to spend the hours till midnight in
the worst kind of dissipation; to knock down a
watchman, and pass the night, instead of at home
in his humble bed in peaceful repose, at a hotel,
in sleepless, feverish remorse, the next day to resort
to concealment and duplicity; and morally
to surrender his independence to those whom,
having become under obligations to, he feared to
displease. All these reflections passed through
his mind, and he groaned inwardly, and wished
heartily that he could recall the last three days.—
It is not the one vice that it is so dangerous, but
those that are connected with it. It is not the
link attached to the iron bands of the prisoner,
but the links that are beyond—the lengthening
chain that weighs him to the earth!
`I was not aware you knew that young gentleman,
' said Stanwood gravely.
`I met him by accident! Your friend Edward
Lynch introduced him to me.'
`Lynch is not my particular friend, Henry,'
said Frank quickly; `nor should I advise you to
make him yours. As for this young man who
first went out, he is no associate for a clerk—or
for any young man who values his character.—
Mr. Cushiug would not be pleased to know you
associated with him.'
Harry was vexed. He was conscious of having
been doing wrong, and, feeling he could not defend
himself, was annoyed by his friends open reproof,
and replied angrily—
`It appears to me, Stanwood, you take upon
yourself too much to dictate to me as to my acquaintances.
I don't know that I am any worse
than you. You envy me Silsby's acquaintance.'
`No, I do not,' answered Stanwood calmly;
`he is not a young man I would associate with.
I should feel disgraced to be seen walking the
streets with him.'
`How a young man who is so rich, who drives
in such style, and lives in such splendor, can hurt
any body I don't know! Perhaps you don't like
sour grapes, Frank,' said Henry in a tone and with
a manner more sarcastic than he had ever used
before to any body.
`I am sorry you judge me so, Harefoot,' he said
quietly `I like you; you possess a great many
noble qualities and fine traits; but there is a weakness
in your character, which, unless you guard
against it, I fear will prove a serious evil to you.
I speak in friendship. This you know is my last
day with Mr Cushing, and Monday you are to
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
take my place; and I should be sorry to have you
led into temptation while holding such a position
in Mr. Cushing's confidence.'
`I beg, Stanwood, you will not be alarmed,'
said Henry laughing; `I shall not disgrace your
post.'
`I sincerely hope and believe not; but I felt it
my duty to caution you against cultivating an intimacy
with Silsby.'
Mr. Cushing now coming out, stopped and said
in a tone of singular kindness—
`Well, Francis, so we are to part, and Monday
you go with Mr. Rice. I need not advise you as
to your duty there, for you have always faithfully
performed it here. Come and see us often, and
when you go to Roxbury call and visit my house.
Good evening. So, Harry, you are now promoted,
' he said turning to Harefoot and smiling; `I
hope you will take your friend Francis here for
your model, and prove yourself worthy of the
confidence I place in you. Good evening young
gentlemen.'
Thus speaking, Mr. Cushing left the store and
got into his chaise, which awaited him at the
door, and rode out to his house. Stanwood soon
afterwards left, resigning his duties to Henry, reiterating
his kind advice, and giving him instructions
on the duties of his new situation. Mr.
Cushing did not keep open after seven, Saturday
evenings, for the same reasons which led Mr.
Libby to quit work two hours before sunset, to
give his clerks time to attend to any thing which
they ought not to do on the Sabbath, and so tempt
them to break it. So without lighting up, when
the clock struck, Mr. Martin gave orders to shut
up, and immediately went away followed by Tarfton,
leaving Henry for the first time in charge.—
Shutting the door and giving the keys to Walter,
Henry was proceeding at a listless pace homeward,
yet loth to go, for he felt he should, under
his present feelings, shrink from the loneliness of
his chamber, where, before his last night's temptation,
he had passed so many happy evenings
reading; but now he felt he could not sit down
and read. He was restless with a sense of guilt
that he could not banish, and which seemed to
call for the excitement, bustle and life of the
streets. So he kept along Washington street,
looking into the lighted shops of jewellers, confectioners,
and dry goods merchants. All at once
a hand was laid upon his arm, and a female voice
that made his blood course like lightning through
his veins said softly, while her arm was put confidentially
through his—
`You walk alone, Henry! won't you have company?
'
He needed not to turn round to know that the
beautiful glove-purchaser was by his side. For a
moment he was silent with the pleasure of the
surprise, and insensibly pressed the hand she stole
into his. The emotions of joy were, however,
instantly shadowed by a thought of his mother's
caution—the reflection that he knew nothing of
the lovely shopper. But he was too much pleased
at meeting her, in his present gloomy mood, to
let such reflections remain in his mind, and quickly
banishing them, wilfully crushing them, he resolved
not listen to them; for his former falls had
weakened his resolutions of virtue and blunted
his sense of moral duty. In a word, he was captivated
by her beauty, and reckless of the danger
(the idea of which he drove from his mind) willingly
surrendered himself to its fascinating influence.
He replied in a tone of passionate admiration,
adding,
`Such happiness I did not believe was in store
for me. I was expecting to see you to-day, but
was disappointed.'
`Disappointed,' she replied, looking archly; `I
wonder how you should presume to expect me.'
`Indeed, I cannot say,' he answered, confused
by her question; `but I have thought of you so
frequently, that I somehow imagined—'
`I might think of you. Well, I have. I came
down just now to purchase that lace, (for I have
brought my purse) but saw you just quitting your
store, and so I thought I would take the liberty to
ask you to escort me home as it is evening.'
`With the greatest pleasure,' answered Henry,
from whose mind this explanation removed all
suspicions of her being one of those dangerous
persons his good mother had warned him of;
`where do you reside?'
`I will show you. But do you ever go into
confectioners!' she said, detaining his arm to
glance into Peverilly's.
The question reminded him of a courtesy he
thought de to her, and he invited her in. They
took their seats at a retired table in the father corner
of the apartment, and toes, cakes, and other
refreshments was brought to them. Here they
conversed for a long time, during which she exerted
all her powers of enchantment, and as love
helped her, when at length she proposed departing,
he rose be wildered and prepared for the sacrifice
of all that honor and virtue hold dear in the
heart of youth. Yet he knew not that he was so
near temptation, for he believed her pure as she
was lovely. To his mortification he found he had
not money enough to pay for what he had, and
was searching in his pockets, perspiring with
shame, when she said in the tone of a sister, `I
have change. Henry,' and gave him her purse.
Looking both mortified and grateful, he took
from it the amount he needed to eke out his own.
As he was doing so, Stanwood entered with Isabel
Wentworth leaning on his arm and laughingly
conversing, while Peirce walked on the other
side by her. Conscious of his ignorance of the
true character of his companion, and surprised at
seeing Stanwood in such company and being seen
by him with a stranger on his arm, he felt very
much confused; but seeing Frank glance from
him to the glove-puschaser with an inquisitive and
suspicious look, he felt angry, and haughtily returning
his nod, and without daring to meet the
eyes of the others, he watked out of the shop.—
He proceeded a few minutes in by no means an
enviable condition of mind. He had exposed his
want of money to the fair stranger, and had been
seen by his friends in doubtful company; and if
he was asked who she was, how could he answer!
He also felt—he could not answer to himself
wherefore—annoyed to know that Stanwood was
acquainted with Isabel; and how he should have
become so, as well as with her brother, and then
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
should be walking so publicly with them into the
most genteel confectioner's rooms in the city, was
a matter of surprise and vexation to him; the
reader, however, who knows where Peirce and
Frank first met, will only have to be told, to account
for their second meeting, that Stanwood
encountered them ie the mall on his way home
after leaving the store, and having been introduced
by Peirce to his sister, became so much interested
in her as to join them in their walks; and
that in returning to Mrs. Prescott's, who kept not
far from Peverrilly's on the opposite side, they
had by his invitation gone in to partake of some
of the delicacies that were so temptingly displayed
to allude the passer-by. After they had gone
out Stanwood, who had been struck with something
familiar in the countenance of Harefoot's
beautiful companion, succedded in recollecting
that he had seen her some weeks before riding
with Morley on Sunday in from Roxbury. This
was not proof that she was a female of bad character,
but it was in his mind presumptive evidence;
and sighing at the moral weakness of his
friend, he turned to relieve his sadness on account
of Harry, to bask in the sunshine of Isabel Wentworth's
bright eyes. He escorted her with her
brother to Mrs. Prescott's, and when he bade her
good night, and the door had closed upon her, he
felt that unless he soon saw her again he should
be very unhappy. So thought Isabel of him, and
wondered so excellent a young man should hear
the character Henry had given him. Arm in arm
Wentworth and he continued their walk, talking
as intelligent young men do on first acquaiutance,
about feeling and sensations, and of the bright
hopes and buoyant anticipations of the future.
As Peirce was engaged to call on Mr Cunningham
with his drawing, they first went to Mr Libby's,
where he introduced Stanwood to the retirement
of his little study-chamber; and from
thence they went to Mr Cunningham's, where
Stanwood took his leave, it being then just eight
o'clock.
Harry, when he got out doors, did not fail to
apologise to his fair companion for not having his
purse with him, and thanked her for her aid.
`O, we are quits now,' she said, laughing.—
`Who was that handsome young man who bowed
to you, with the pretty girl on his arm?'
`His name is Stanwood, a fellow-clerk.'
`I hope you don't know her?' she said halfplayfully,
half seriously.
`She is only a milliner's girl,' he answered, not
wishing so respectable a young lady to know that
he had any such acquaintances. `But you have
not told me where you live, that I may know what
street to take.'
`Oh, this way—up Winter street;' she answered,
turning from the crowded thoroughfare.
They entered the Mall, and left it opposite the
State House, and took the way Morley had before
taken, and at length entered the court at the extremity
of which stood her house.
`You see we live retired, but it is my mother's
choice,' she said as they came to the door. The
house looked respectable, so far as he could see in
the night; and he was satisfied that the young lady
was genteel, though he thought she had been
something tenderer in her conversation with him
than became a truly modest girl; but this he referred
to her admiration; for she had confessed
that she was half in love with him—a dangerous
confession for a young man to listen to from the
lips of any pretty female.
`You will come in,' she said winningly; `I cannot
let you go without resting yourself a moment.'
`No I thank you,' he said—the idea of her true
character being suddenly suggested to her mind.
`But you must, Henry,' she said, taking his
hand and pressing it. `Indeed you will not refuse
me.'
`Tell me who you are?' he said earnestly.
`I have told you my name was Ellen—that I
love you—and that if you leave me you will make
me wretched. Do not be so cruel! For one moment
come in.'
Bewildered, blinded, half resisting, half yielding
as temptation struggled with his fears and
suspicions, he suffered her to lead him into the
hall and close the door. Without giving him a
moment for reflection, she led him into the voluptuously
furnished apartment in which Mosley
had first discovered her to us. It was already
brilliantly lighted and arranged, as if decked for
the hour and the victim. Henry would have retreated
with natural embarrassment on discovering
that it was a sleeping apartment, but she drew
him to a seat, laughing at his confusion.
For a moment he stood in the attitude of one
uncertain whether to fly or remain! It was a
moment of suspense. Her arm gently enfolded
him—her lips sought his—when the image of his
mother rose to his memory, and disengaging himself,
he sprang from her and fled—fled from the
room—fled from the hall—from the house—and
stopped not till the wide Common was beneath
his feet, and the broad starry heavens stretched
above him, in that sublime silence which is so
awful to the eye of guilt.
`Thank God, I have escaped! I can breathe!
I am out of the close streets and on the free
ground, and can see heaven, and realize that there
is there a judgment-seat to which I am accountable!
To what verge of ruin have I been led?—
Can such loveliness hide a heart of lust? Could
I have believed it? I more than once suspected
it; yet was so dazzled and entranced that I willingly
suffered myself to be led on. The memory
of my mother's words alone saved me from the
last and most fearful temptation of youth. God
be thanked, I have not yielded to lust. I will go
home and humble myself, and reflect upon my
past follies, and try to repent, and to-morrow I
will lead a new life. Oh, that I should be so weak!
Yet she is beautiful! I will go nigh her no more!
Yet she is so lovely and good tempered, and so—
But no—I will not think of her. Yet I feel I
must. And now, as I walk homeward, my irresolute
heart is turning and lingering, as if it would
go back whence I have escaped. God deliver me
from temptation! I will not ride with Silsby tomorrow.
'
The sound of music from the Washington Gardens
came pleasantly to his ear; and thinking
music might soothe him in his present unhappy
state of mind, he sought the temptation he had
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
just prayed against, and walked slowly in that direction.
He discovered, by the light of the lamp,
Silsby coming out of the Gardens; when remembering
his new resolution, he crossed the street to
him to excuse himself.
`Ah, Harefoot! the very man, I wanted to see!
I have just been in the Gardens looking for you!'
he said, as Henry came near and called him by
name. `I did not expect, when I saw you this
afternoon, that I should be at leisure this evening,
but I am, and want you.'
`I have crossed the street to say to you, Mr.
Silsby, that I should rather be excused to-morrow.
'
`Poh, nonsense! I suppose you think I am not
going to church with you! But you must go, my
boy. I've said so—and what Bob Silsby, says,
must be so, you know.'
`But—'
`But has nothing to do with it—you must go,
and no but about it,' said Silsby, authoritatively.
`Come, it isn't every store clerk I'd ask to ride.'
Henry felt his resentment rising, but he remembered
that he was his debtor, and said quietly,
`Well, I will go.'
`But I'll excuse you if you will introduce me
to that pretty milliner from your town, Mosley
says you know. I was after you to-night for the
very purpose.'
Harry knew he meant Isabel, and for a moment
was uncertain how to act. Of Silsby's motive
in seeking her acquaintance, he had no hesitation
in forming an opinion. He felt he could
not be instrumental in any wrong like that he
meditated, and deliberately and firmly refused.
`Why not?—is she any thing to you, Harefoot?
' he asked, surprised to have his wishes disregarded
by any of his associates.
`No—but I cannot do it. She is an innocent
girl.'
`Look you, Harry—I don't want any boy's play.
You know you are in my debt. I don't like to
remind you of it—but introduce me, and I will
square accounts.'
This was a temptation, as he well knew he had
no honest means of paying him, and the debt annoyed
him. He therefore, we are sorry here to
record, consented. To pay a gambling debt, he
stooped so low as to degrade himself by introducing
a dissolute rake to a young and innocent girl
whose ruin he knew was his object. Coward,
that weakness and guilt had made! he purchased
his own freedom by sacrificing Isabel Wentworth!
Besides, he had a motive for wishing to
see her.
She had taken off her hat and shawl, and thrown
them upon a chair when she went in, and immediately
passed through into the shop. There she
went to work to complete a hat that was to be
done for a lady, who said to Mrs. Prescott that
she must have it that night, no matter if it kept
her apprentice up till Sunday morning. And her
words Mrs. Prescott repeated to Isabel, saying,
`You see, dear, how little feeling many of the
rich and fashionable have for those whom they
employ! I have been surprised, in my experience,
that woman with such unfeeling hearts
should be prospered so. It seems to me the richer
and more stylish people are, the less heart they
have; and I am sorry to say that their being members
of a church don't make much difference.—
This lady who gave this order is not only a member
of the church, but of all the benevelent societies.
Well, my child, I hope you will always
be poor and humble, if riches and gentility are to
make you proud and heartless.
`I can finish this bonnet by nine o'clock, with
ease,' said Isabel cheerfully; and lightly she went
to her task.
She had been at work but a few moments—
thinking of the handsome young gentleman,
Frank Stanwood, who bore so bad a character,
and feeling very sorry—when Harry and Silsby
entered. Her face beamed with a flush of pleasure,
and rising, she met him, and frankly offered
her hand. Ashamed of himself, yet urged forward
by a characteristic weakness which led him
so often astray, he introduced Silsby as his `particular
friend.' Mrs Prescott being present, he
was constrained in his conversation with Isabel,
but talked so much with the old lady, and made
so many purchases of her, paying in gold and
silver, that she was quite taken up with him.
`How did you know that young Stanwood?'
asked Harry, aside of Isabel.
`Brother introduced him to me this evening,
when I was walking out with him.'
`Where did Pierce become acquainted with him?'
he asked earnestly.
`At Mr Cunningham's, in Summer street.'
`That is one of the first families in Boston,'
repeated Henry, with surprise; `how came he
there?'
`By invitation. He is to spend this evening
there also. Mr Cunningham likes his drawings
of buildings, I believe.'
`Humph! he is looking high,' said Harry, with
envious feelings. `I shouldn't wonder if he was
invited to David Sears' next.'
`That is the very gentleman's name who took
him through his house in Beacon street, and
treated him so kindly, and invited him to come
often,' said Isabel in an artless manner.
`Then I had best change my coat for a jacket
and apon,' he said contemptuously, not able to
conceal his chagrin.
`Ah, Harry, Harry,' said Silsby, approaching,
`that won't do! leant have you tete-a-tete with
the pritty girls! You must beware of him, Miss
Isabel—he is a dangerous young man.'
`I have known Mister Harefoot a good many
years,' said Isabel, whose feelings had been
touched by Harry's word and manner, `and never
discovered any thing very dangerous in him.'
The tone in which this was said piqued our
hero, who was too sensitive to take railing kindly;
and bidding her abrubtly a good night, he
left, taking Silsby with him. The intelligence
he had received from Isabel, as well as the spirit
of her retort, was not a little vexations; and this,
added to a painful sense of degradation for what
he had done, made him feel that spirit of singular
recklessness which sometimes comes over the
heart when every thing goes wrong, coupled with
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
a sense of guilt; and he was almost tempted to
give himself up for that evening to a perfect abandon,
and at a blow dash his resolutions of penitence
to the ground. He struggled against it,
yet felt little relief.
`Silsby, I feel badly,' he said; `I wish I had
never seen Boston.'
`What is the matter, boy?'
`I have lost all self-respect! I revolt at myself!
I loathe life!'
You have got the blues! Suppose we step into
Bruce's, and take something.'
`It is that that first ruined me, I feel!' he said
sadly
`Then it will help you! Come, you shall drink.
I can cure you.'
O'Bruce's `soda fountain head' was not far off,
and they soon reached it. Brandy and water was
brought to their table, and though Harry objected
to drinking it, Silsby insisted so strongly that
it would make him feel better, that he yielded.—
He soon did feel better—the heaviness of guilt
was removed, and a gaiety which was not clogged
by one qunce of moral restraint, took its
place. Glass after glass followed, and when Silsby
proposed to go to the Theatre, Harefoot hailed
the proposal with an oath of pleasure, and together
they took their way down through Franklin
Square, and entered the Theatre. Henry was
just intoxicated enough to be bold, reckless, and
indifferent to observation. Under the guidance
of Silsby, he was soon initiated into all parts of
the house. In the third tier he encountered Morley
and Lynch, who almost hugged him on meeting
him there, and called Silsby the cleverest of
follows. Here our unhappy young hero found
himself in society as new to him as it was agreeable
to the present excited state of his brain. Yet
all through the scenes with which he mixed, he
carried a weight at his heart—the leaden weight
of a crushed conscience. This kept him from
plunging deeper into sin, and under its influence
he resisted the gresser temptations that he otherwise
might fallen a prey to! He had refused to
drink after coming into the Theatre, and before
its close he had so far come to himself as to feel
all the horrors of his fall. He withdrew frow his
associates into a dark recess of the gallery lobby,
and tears—tears of bitter remorse of conscience—
flowed like rain from the eyes of this erring young
man. He felt like kneeling and rerolving solemnly
to stop and proceed no furthes in vice.
Under the influence of these feelings, he stole
from the Theatre and got into the street. The
moon was up. The clock had just struck eleven,
and after quitting the noisy, bright-glowing, carriage-thronged
precincts of the Theatre, he found
the streets silent. He walked homeward without
looking at the moon, which he had so often
gazed upon with a pure heart. His guilty bosom
shrunk from the light, for his deeds were evil!
He found his dwelling closed; the bright moon
silvering its front and laying in broad plates upon
the pavement of the yard. No sound was heard—
the neighborhood was still—sleep seemed to
have fallen like a mantle upon the groups of
houses. He was awed. Softly he approached
the door—it was fast! He walked to the back of
the house, and there all was secure. Unwilling
to rouse the family, with a heavy heart and sighing
for the peaceful hours he once knew, he bent
his steps up the street which led in the direction
of the Common.
With a listless walk he traversed the long
avenue of elms, moving half the time in broad
light, half the time in broad shadow, as the moonbeams
were parted and broken by the huge trunks
and arms of the trees. He kept on to the head of
Winter street, when the dim light over the gate
of the Washington Gardens attracted him, and
houseless and wandering, he bent his steps intuitively
thither. The Garden was open, and he
entered. Laugher and noise drew him in the
direction of the bar-room—for the garden part or
the establishment was closed, the drinking room
alone being open. He looked in through a glass
door, and recognized Lynch with a party of young
men. Wishing to flee from his loneliness, he
opened the door and entered. Mosley and Lynch
both met him, and he was introduced all round;
and as they already had glasses in their hands,
drinking, he was compelled to join them. His
companions said they had hunted for him at the
Theatre, and now rallied him for taking the start
of them for the purpose of taking a carriage home
with some one. He laughed, and let it pass as
they surmised, without being angry at the imputation,
as he had before been. So soon does indulgence
in vice deaden the sensibilities to moral
evil!—so soon does virtue become a thing to be
ashamed of, and vice something so desirable as to
be suspected of it, coveted.
`I have found you out at last, Harry, eh?' said
Mosley, taking his arm and walking aside with
him. `Well, I am glad of it, as we shall understand
each other. Only be careful and secret, so
that Cushing shall not find you out, and you will
do bravely. Where are you going from the Gardens?
'
`I find my boarding-house shut up, and thought
of asking Silsby for a lodging.'
`No, come with me,' said Lynch; `I get in at
all hours.'
And this point being settled, Henry felt relieved,
for he believed he should have had to wander
in the streets all night. He remained in the
Gardens till after twelve, and then, in company
with a dozen young clerks all comfortably primed
for a frolic, sallied forth—the party amusing
themselves and the neighbors with rapping their
sticks upon the board fences, yelling at intervals
like an Indian, singing uproariously a stave of an
old song, and upsetting such boxes as lay exposed
on the side walk, into the gutter.
Without disturbing any watchmen, or meeting
any other adventure than having a pail of water
poured on their heads from the upper story of the
Marlborough Hotel—which was too fast secured
for them to enter and punish the offender, as
Harry made some demonstrations of doing—they
arrived each at his destination in safety; and one
hour of the Sabbath had passed ere our hero was
in bed.
-- 055 --
CHAPTER XI.
Pierce meets with Mary Boardman—A pleasant
evening—A miserable morning and the first glass
of bitters—The ride to Fresh Pond—The Sabbath
desecrated by Henry—The box in the Gardens—
The final temptation and fall of our hero—
The consequences—Is dismissed from Mr.
Cushing's—His distress—Ellen Emery's devolion—
Assassination of a Watchman—The bank
robbery—The discovery—The unhappy termination
of our hero's career—The happy result of
Pierce's upright life—Concluding reflection.
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
The evening Henry Harefoot had passed so
erringly was most agreeably spent by Pierce
Wentworth. When he entered the library at
Mr. Cunningham's, with his drawings beneath
his arm, what was his surprise at discovering
seated at a table there, looking at prints, Mary
Boardman. He stood still with the door-knob in
his hand, with surprize and embarrassment;
colored and for a moment was so confused that
he could not reply to Mr. Cunningham's salutation.
On her part the little Kennebec maiden,
who knew that he was coming, rose up, and
blushing like a rose, frankly extended her hand.
`Why, Miss Mary, when did you come to Boston?
' he at length asked with eyes beaming with
pleasure.
`This morning only, and left all well at home.'
`But that I should meet you here!'
`Mary is my niece, Mr. Wentworth,' said Mr.
Cunningham, whose quick penetration had discovered
their partiality for each other; `she
has come to stay with me two years to complete
her education.'
`Then I shall see you often,' spoke Pierce,
warmly; but the next moment confounded at his
open betrayal of his interest in her. Mary dropped
her dark eyes, and said, in a low voice,
`I hope so, Pierce.'
The evening glided away on wings of silver.
The young friends had many opportunities to
converse over the drawings, Mr. Cunningham
having letters to write and too busy to give his
whole attention to them. They talked of home,
of their schoolmates, of the pleasant walks by the
river side; and when Pierce inquired after the baby
house he had built for her, she laughed, and
confessed she had brought it with her to Boston!
Young ladies in their sixteenth year are not apt to
care much for baby-houses; but we suppose Mary
had a very good reason which lay deep in the
bottom of her heart for not wishing to part with
hers.
When Pierce left at half past nine, he felt as
he reflected upon the events of the evening, that
unless he could look forward one day to marry
Mary Boardman, he should be very unhappy.
What Mary's thoughts were, cannot be told; but
she dreamed that night how Pierce came to her
and told her she must come and see a much finer
house than the toy one, which he had been building
for her; and that he led her to a magnificent
mansion of great size, furnished throughout in
a most sumptnous manner; and said to her,
`This, is the house which I have built for you,
Mary, and it is your bridal present!'
The ensuing day was the Sabbath. Henry
awoke heavy and feverish. He found himself in
Lynch's chamber instead of his own, and all the
scenes of the past night rushed upon him. He
groaned audibly. Never had the hallowed Sabbath
morning found him so wretched. The consciousness
that it was the Sabbath, added to his
remorse.
`What is the matter, Harefoot? You look as if,
you would commit suicide,' said Lynch, seeing
his sad countenance upon which was fixed an expression
of mental suffering.
`I am miserable—wretched! I feel like the
veriest wretch that breathes!'
`Come, come, cheer up, I have a cure for such
a sick mind? something that will clear away
your fogs and make all sunshine!'
`Then let me have it in heaven's name,' answered
the unhappy young man.
Lynch went to his closet and returned with a
decanter and a wine glass, which he filled with a
strong decoction of rum and wormwood—a private
store, to which almost every morning, on account
of his nights' excesses in drinking he was
compelled to resort. Henry knew it was spirit;
but that nice moral sense which in his first temptation
had held him back from the cup, was now
in a manner lost! Anxious to find relief from
the horrors his mind endured, he took it and
drank it without a word. Thus he got to seek
relief in the drunkard's morning doom! Poor
Henry! he was fast falling.
He dressed and walked out with Lynch to
breathe the fresh air of the Common. It was one
of those bright sunshiny Sabbath mornings which
seem holy as if nature was hallowed with the day.
All around him was peace and serenity. The
low winds just lifted the golden autumnal leaves—
birds were carrolling amid the branches, and
fleecy clouds like heavenly barks were anchoredin
the azure deep. But all so contrasted the
gloom of his own bosom that he was made still
more miserable; and excusing himself to Lynch
on the plea of illness he left him at the head of
West street and sought his boarding house. He
slept till the church bells awaked him. But he
felt in no mood to go to church! Every thing
good would reprove him; and he was not penitent.
They had ceased tolling and the feet resounding
streets were silent when Silsby drove
up and called for him. He did not panse to reflect.
His coming was a relief to him; and
though he knew Silsby was only going for a ride,
he sprung into his Stanhope and were soon dashing
along the fine avenue across teh neck. The
ride cheered his spirits and he was never gayer.
But it was the gaiety of recklessness. The reflection
that he had been tempted to drink, to
gamble, to take oaths, to attend the theatre, to
associate there with the dissolute of both sexes,
to break the sabbath—these and other offences
against morals and virtue of which he had been
guilty, no longer troubled his mind. He had fully
succeeded in banishing these from his thoughts.
He was hilarious and in excessive spirits. At
the Suffolk House they stopped, and he invited
Silsby to drink. Thence they proceeded, each
with a lighted cigar in his mouth, to Fresh Pond,
where they met a party of kindred spirits with
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
whom they dined. After dinner, they bowled
and otherwise amused themselves. Towards
evening, Silsby and Henry took their Stanhope to
return, and on the way raced with two Boston
gigs, two miles. At sunset they reached the city;
and leaving the Stanhope at the stable, Silsby
pleaded an engagement and they parted.
Slowly did the fallen young man take his way
up School street, after his companion had left
him. The manner in which he had spent that
Sabbath day, now that he was alone, and the excitement
had passed, cut him to the soul. He
had been drinking a good deal, for every time
conscience smote him he would drown it in the
glass. He was angry too, for he had passed Stanwood
in coming into town going out home with
his mother in the family carryall. He was also
well-assured others must have seen him. This
reflection made him feel reckless of any future
consequences. When he reached the corner of
School street and Tremont by the King's Chapel,
he stopped, undetermined where to go—for home
now had lost its charm for him—and he hated to
be alone. He wanted companionship. He thought
of the Washington Gardens and thither bent his
steps. It was already brilliantly lighted up. He
entered and found it througed with visitors, as
was usual, on Sabbath evenings. He walked
round looking for Lynch or Mosley or some one
whom he knew, when he discovered Ralph seated
in a box, in conversation with a female who
was veiled. He instantly approached them.
`Never tear,' said Mosley to her just before they
were discovered; `he will soon come round. I
expected some resistance. To-day he has gone
out of town with Silsby, who has taken a real
liking to him, and who by the by, will also lend
him money if he asks him, which he will yet have
to do—and this we share too!'
`I would not think of him,' said the voice of
Ellen Emery, after he ran away from me so rudely,
if I did not really feel attached to him. The
truth is, Ralph, I love him, which I feel I never
did you.'
`Perhaps he will be fool enough to marry you,'
said Mosley, laughing coarsely.
`I should then be perfectly happy,' she said
earnestly. `I may be unworthy of him—but you
have made me so, and have no right to jest upon
my degradation. If I should marry him he would
never repent it.'
`You girls are always thinking of one day marrying!
I can't conceive how you can all be so
blind to your utter downfall; yet I never talked
with one of you, however dissolute, who had not
some day a hope of marrying and living a virtuous
life! ha, ha!'
`You are totally hard-hearted, Mosley. I will
leave you and return home alone, nor never walk
out again with you. I have feelings, if I am fallen.
'
`You came with the hope of meeting with
Harefoot, you well know, and not for my company.
And there he is.' He has seen me.'
`I don't wish him to know that you know me,'
she said hurriedly, doubling her veil over her
face.
`I am to be your cousin, if be detects us. How
are you, Harry? Come in and take a seat.—
When did you get in town?'
`Half an hour ago. I thought I should meet
some of you here!' said Henry shaking him by
the hand, pleased at finding any one who would
help him to get rid of himself, with which personage
he was on very bad terms. All the while he
was in vain trying to discover who the female
was.
`What shall I order for you, Harefoot? We
are drinking lemonades! Oh, beg your pardon!
This is Miss Jones, Harry.'
Henry bowed to her, but she did not unveil.
`By the by, Harry, I saw you walking with a
pretty cousin of mine last night in Washington
street; I didn't know you knew her.'
`Is Miss Emery your cousin?' asked Henry
with surprise.
`Yes. How do you like her?'
`She is very beautiful—but—'
`But an odd creature! Yes, I dare say you
thought so. Ah, there is a fellow I want to see—
excuse me a moment. Ellen you entertain
him!' and Mosley abruptly rose and left them in
the box together. Harry began to make a very
pretty speech as if to a stranger, about the brilliancy
of the gardens, when he was astonished
by a merry laugh, the veil was raised, and he beheld
Ellen Emery. He started with emotions of
mingled pleasure and surprise, and then looked
confounded.
`Ah, you truant!' she said, playfully.
Henry laughed, and took and pressed the hand
she placed in the way of his. Since the last
evening he had parted with that remnant of moral
sense which had led him to fly. And he had
fled, not then, from the purity of principle, but
from the influence of a mother's warning, which
virtue suddenly brought to her aid. But the
manner in which he had passed the evening and
night after leaving her—the way in which the
Sabbath had been spent—had given the caup de
grace to his morale. A half hour passed, during
which time Henry forgot every thing but her
who was by his side. Mosley did not return.—
Carried away by the wild, turbid current of his
be wildered passions, (for she had regained over
him all her former power) when she proposed that
he should escort her home, he yielded, shutting
his eyes to the danger into which he knew he
should plunge, and willfully consenting in his
heart to break down forever the last barrier between
him and virtue, though he had learned
from her own lips that she was not Mosley's relative,
and he was not so ignorant as not to be capable
of judging her true character! But the die
of his reputation was cast! he felt it was so;
and instead of stopping on the brink, while honor,
virtue and respectability were yet attainable,
he desperately dashed forward to irretrievable
ruin.
The next morning Henry sought his store with
the consciousness of having fallen as low as a
young man could descend in vice. But he did
nor would not reflect. His soul was fascinated
with the thoughts of the syren who had completed
his downfall. He felt himself now in the tide
of dissipation, and he resolved to follow it, and to
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
derive that pleasure from vice which virtue no
longer held out to him. For several days he kept
his dissipation secret from all save Stanwood,
who, now that he had left the employ of Mr.
Cushing, let him proceed without troubling him;
though, had he known the extent of his fall, his
upright sense of duty and love of truth would
have led him to advise and warn him to reform,
and in the alternative acquaint Mr. Cushing with
his departure from the paths of virtue and moral
rectitude. His knowledge, however, was only
partial.
`Henry, I wish you to give me fifty dollars,
said Ellen, the third day after he had gone with
her to her house, where he had spent each night
since.
`I don't know how I can give it to you,' he
said with a troubled look.
`You must take it from the bank book, and replace
it by and by.'
This suggestion did not startle him so much as
it would have done, had it not been preceded by
several minor propositions which he had yielded
to; such as coaxing him to bring home and present
her an elegant shawl, which after a struggle,
in which his infatuation caused guilt to triumph,
he secreted as he shut up, and brought to her, and
such as abstracting gloves, lace, collars and silk!
These requests be had yielded to, for his passion
for her was in his present moral ruin stronger
than any sense of right. But the suggestion to
take money, and so large a sum made him turn
pale. But he felt it was in vain to resist her!—
He had already learned that the service of the
devil is a hard one; and his demands not only
become more and more heavy, but more and more
imperative. He at length consented, and that
night he brought her the money, and laid it in
her lap.
But fifty dollars will not go far, where it has to
be shared with others; and Mosley and Lynch
also participated in this. He had card parties
privately at his rooms, and lost money to these
friends. Ellen again came to him for money for
the rent. He had his gambling debts to pay too.
Two hundred dollars would be required to supply
the requisitions upon his now empty purse. He
told her bitterly that he knew not how to get it,
and was daily in expectation of having the deficiency
in the bank account discovered. Mosley,
who was present, suggested a plan, and he followed
it. That very night a handcart might have
been seen at the door when he closed, which, after
Walter had left, returning Henry the key,
was filled with pieces of silk goods, which he reopened
to take out. Following the handcart to a
private receiver of such goods in Brattle street,
he entered the back room of his shop, and delivering
them, received two hundred and forty dollars
for them, and left to seek the abode which
had now become his home; giving it out that he
had changed his boarding-house.
Thus in the downward and fearful pathway that
leads to destruction did this unhappy young man
proceed, till suspicion led to a discovery of his
habits by Mr. Cushing, who, not wishing to make
public exposure of one who might yet be saved,
dismissed him, and in charity for his parent's
feelings, withholding in his letter to them upon
the subject, the fact of his abstraction of money
and goods, which, as he alone was the injured
party, he kept to himself. We wish that we
could say that this generous conduct of his employer
had affected his heart and led to reformation.
But this vice had sunken deep into his
soul. This was six weeks after his fatal meeting
with Ellen Emery and Mosley in the Washington
Gardens. A month longer passed, and Mosley
and Lynch, who were now also out of place,
became desperate with their circumstances, which
they had no idea of improving through Harefoot,
who was now as low as they were. They, therefore,
resolved to break into one of the banks; and
as they knew the resolute and fearless nature
of Harefoot, and knew that he now was living
in daily fear of the jail, they determined to
make him a party to their design. They found
him with Ellen, living no longer in the handsome
apartment he had first occupied, but occupying a
garret room in Myrtle street, the lowest and vilest
sink of wretchedness in the dissolute quarter
of the city known as the `Hill.' Though he was
destitute of resources and a fugitive from debt,
Ellen Emery, still beautiful and fascinating, clung
to the victim of her ruinous attachment, with a
devotion and sympathy deserving the highest
praise; for woman's love never perishes, though
her soul may perish in its body in early youth.—
She had parted with all her costly dresses and
jewelry to relieve their necessities, and that
morning had herself gone out when he feared to
appear in the streets, and pawned her watch.
When they proposed for him to join them, she
would have persuaded him to refuse.
`I am lost as I am, Ellen,' he said bitterly.—
`Mosley you may depend on my co-operation. I
feel now wholly reckless of results.'
They then talked over with him their plans, and
it was agreed upon that, as it was then Saturday,
it would then be the best time to undertake the
enterprize, as the robbery would not be detected,
before Monday.
In the meanwhile, Peirce Wentworth kept his
humble course, and won friends by his virtues as
well as respect for his genius and industry.
Weekly he visited Mr. Cunningham, and his
acquaintance with Mary assumed gradually a more
direct and partial character. Stanwood had pursued
his acquaintance with Miss Wentworth,
and went so far as to persuade his mother to go
with him and be introduced to her; who was so
much pleased with her, that, greatly to Frank's
delight, she invited her to come and visit her with
Mrs. Bennett's permission; saying she would call
by for her some day, and take out of town to her
house. The visit was made, and Peirce and he
rode out in the afternoon to bring herein. And as
she had asked Frank why Henry had given him
such a bad character, and he had explained to her
that Mosley must have been meant, she had got
quite over the little trouble which had lain so sorely
at her heart. Silsby had visited her repeatedly,
but with all his tact, eloquence, equipage and
money, was unable to make any impression upon
her, and as she was so modest in her looks, and
so discreet in conversation, which she neither
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
foolishly encouraged by laughter and signs of being
flattered by his notice, as too many persons
in her position do, he never could sum up impudence
enough to insult her with any proposition,
as she properly refused to walk, ride, or even cross
to Peverrilly's to get a cream with him. He
therefore abandoned his pursuit, and our heroine
thus saved herself by that modesty and propriety
of manner which to plainness gave a charm unspeakable,
and which to beauty adds additional
attraction.
The attempt to rob the bank was made at midnight,
and was unsuccessful; for a watchman,
by some chance, kept in the vicinity of the side
door, of which they had a false key, till the approach
of day led them with deep curses to abandon
it till the next night.
At a little before twelve the following night
the three left Harry's abode in company, Lynch
with a dark lantern beneath his coat.
`What did you take that butcher's knife and
stick it in your bosom for?' asked Lynch of Ralph
Mosley, as they skulked along through a by-lane
to their destination.
`To kill dogs,' answered the other, sullenly.
Few words were spoken till they emerged from
the lane in sight of the bank.
`That accursed watchman is not there to-night,'
said Harefoot; `let us move on.'
`If he is, leave him to me,' said Mosley, in a
low tone that startled them for its peculiar depth
and significance of meaning.
`You must do no murder, Mosley,' said Harefoot,
placing his hand on his arm.
Mosley threw it off, and the three moved across
the street. They came near the door, and in the
very shadow of the portal they discovered the
watchman, and stopped before being discovered
by him. They each gave vent to an expression
of vindictive disappointment.
`We are again defeated,' said Lynch between
his clenched teeth.
`If it is not done to-night it is never done,' responded
Mosley. `Stand here, and when you
see the way clear, come up.'
Mosley then walked alone along the side-walk,
and as he came near the watchman he began to
whistle an air. The watchman left his place in
the door and stood upon the walk. Mosley made
as if he were going past him, and then stepping
back, was seen by them to strike the man, who
instantly fell with an indescribable cry.
`He has murdered him! Let us fly,' cried
Lynch, aloud.
`No. Let us see! perhaps he has only knocked
him down,' answered Harefoot; and they hurried
towards him. The watchman lay upon his
back across the curb-stone, his head in the gutter.
`You have killed him!' said Harefoot, with
horror.
`I have done for him,' was the assassin's reply.
`I'll teach him to poke about bank doors! Harefoot,
you have the key; let us enter at once and
get our money, and be off. I am not to lose it
now you may be assured.'
Without replying, and led on as it were by an
evil destiny, Harefoot applied the key—the door
yielded, and the three entered, closing the door
behind them. The lantern was sprung, and Mosley
led the way directly to the vaults. A false
key unlocked the iron door, and exposed to their
eyes the treasures within. Numerous packages
of notes were transfered to false pockets they had
provided in their coats for the purpose, and each
filled a short bag with gold and silver. The time
consumed in this transfer was not more than seven
minutes, and re-locking the vault, they returned
rapidly towards the door.
Voices were heard on the outside, and they
found that the body of the man had been discovered.
From the conversation they overheard
they learned that there was no suspicion of the
bank having been entered, but that some one had
struck him down in passing along the street. In
a few minutes they were relieved by finding that
they were carrying off the body; and in a few moments
after, Harefoot, softly opening the door,
saw the way was free. They instantly availed
themselves of the liberty thus given them to quit
the bank, and escape with their booty, which
they did without detection.
Elated with their success, they quite forgot the
blood by which they had obtained it, and their
congratulations of one another were enthusiastic,
they poured out upon Harefoot's wretched
bed the glittering coin. From Ellen they wished
to keep secret the assassination, but Harry's indiscretion
exposed it.
`Boston is no place for us now,' said Mosley
after they had divided their booty, each having
for his share, Ellen making a fourth, eight thousand
dollars, or thirty two thousand dollars in
all.
`We must leave for New York,' said Lynch,
`in the stage to-morrow.'
`Our absence will lead to suspicion,' said
Harefoot; `I wish to God, Mosley, you had not
killed that man.'
`Killed?' shrieked Ellen. `Who has been
murdered?'
`Hush, will you, woman?' said Mosley, menacingly.
Ellen sat trembling, and silent; while Harefoot
observed that she dropped a roll of the notes
that had been given her, with a look of horror.
`If we stay here, we cannot live in the style
we ought to, with our money; and the least show
out will lead us to be suspected. Let us go to
New York.'
This step was decided on; and Lynch and
Mosley, lying down upon their ill-gotten money
in an adjoining closet, sought sleep; while Harefoot,
too agitated to lay down, sat up with Ellen,
who was bitterly regretting the blood that had
been shed, but happy that it had not been by the
hand of Henry.
`Let us not cast our lot with these wretches,'
she said, `but let them go to New York alone.—
We will go into the country and purchase a farm
and live there undisturbed.'
`Save by conscience and remorse without hope,'
he said, sarcastically. `Well, be it so. I will do
whatever you say, Ellen,' he said, in a tone of
helpless regret.
As it was day, they waked the sleepers, who did
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not attempt to conceal their gratification at the
proposal to seperate, as Mosley had no love for
either of his victims, and Lynch feared that they
might be discovered, in some way, through Ellen's
means, if she was with them. So, after
solemnly pledging to keep the secret of each others
participation in the last night's work, they
parted. That day Henry was married to Ellen,
and they privately left the city the same evening.
The career run by these depraved young men
in New York was short, as it was distinguished
for its extravagance. The murder of the watchman
united with the robbery of the bank, created
the greatest excitement throughout the city the
morning after, and every means was taken to detect
the perpetrators, both by the allurement of a
large reward, and the diligence of the police.
The simultaneous absence of Mosley, Lynch, and
Harefoot, whom Stanwood had now long known
to be quite depraved, with the commission of the
robbery, led him to suspect their participation in
it. He did not, however, mention his suspicions
to any one but Pierce Wentworth, who with great
reluctance and pain, was forced to acquiesce in
his opinion. At length they learned through
some one who knew them, that the two former
were living in New York in dashing style. Frank
felt it his duty to make known his suspicions,
and this corroborative fact, to Mr. Cunningham,
who was one of the directors of the bank which
had been robbed. The gentleman immediately
called on the Mayor, who instantly despatched
police officers for that city; they arrested the
young men in the third row of the Park Theatre,
and brought them on to Boston.
Lynch turned states' evidence, confessed the
robbery and the assassination by the hand of
Mosley, who was tried for his life, and condemned
to be hung. Before his execution could take
place he put an end to his own existence by
strangling himself with the sleeve of his jacket;
being found dead with it close knotted about his
throat.
Lynch left the community whose injustice he
had so outraged, and went back to New York,
where after living a year in the most degrading
intemperance, he perished miserably by falling
from the dock; and the only memento of his
wretched end was contained in this account,
taken from the Evening Post of June 7th, 1829:
`The body of a young man, miserably clad,
the features much bloated by intemperance, and
without any thing about him to designate his
name, was found floating in Peck slip this morning.
He has been taken to the dead-house in
the Park.'
Those who visited the dead-house that day, recognized
him only as a poor loafer they had seen
about the wharfs; but no friend claimed the body
and at night the last that remained of the fashionable,
dissolute young cierk, was borne in the hospital
hearse to the potter's field, and thrown by
the hireling sexton into an unhonored grave.
Thus miserably ended these young men there
foolishly and wickedly spent lives, victims of
false pride, of false notions of what is true respectability,
and of indulgence beyond the outposts
of duty and rectitude. How pitifully were they
rewarded in the end for their nights of revel at
the theatre and Washington Gardens, and other
places of dissipation in which they conceived
there was so much enjoyment, but whose end is
death, moral and eternal.
The evidence of Lynch which convicted Mosley,
also implicated Harefoot, and dilligent search
was made for him not only throughout the city
but New York. Police officers in disguise even
visited his father's house not only to discover
their ignorance of his retreat but their anguish
and remorse on account of his guilt. His excellent
mother bore the shock with the fortitude of
a Christian, and strove to live for the rest of her
children; but death kindly took her from her
woes in less than a year after Henry's disappearance
from Boston. Mr. Harefoot felt deeply his
son's degradation; but so long as he was not detected
and imprisoned he felt great relief; and
in the rush and whirl of business tried to forget
he had ever had such a son.
But what became of Henry Harefoot. Guided
by the advice of Ellen, whom he voluntarily
made his wife, for he felt he had now no one else
to cling to in life, he that evening left the city in
a chaise, which he hired and sent back from Salem,
where he arrived at nine in the evening, and
privately put up at a tavern. Here he learned a
vessel was to sail the next day for Baltimore, on
board of which he took passage. After six days
they reached that city. They went on shore and
put up at a second-rate tavern, in which Harefoot
heard the subject of the Boston bank robbery and
murder talked about and producing much excitement.
The next morning he took the stage for
Wheeling, and thence descended the Ohio to
Cincinnati. Here he remained a few days in
great privacy, and at length hearing of a farm at
sale a few miles out of town, he went to see it,
and at length purchased it, and moved upon it.
It was a pleasant place, on the banks of the Ohio,
and a neat dwelling, with every convenience attached
to it. Here they settled down, he assuming
the name of Foot, omitting the first syllable
of his patronymic.
But Henry soon found he had not fled from
himself. There was hours in which he could not
but reflect, and such hours were maddening to
him. He had no hope. All was guilt and fear,
and mental anxiety. His wife strove to remove
the gloom that week after week seemed to be
gathering over the soul; but in vain. He had no
hope! Else he would have sought repentance—
flown to the bible—flung himself upon that merciful
Being who has said,
`If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just
to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all
unrighteousness.'
But he was too proud of heart—and loved to
hug his own self-wrought misery, as if it were atonement.
Sleepless nights came, and then followed
feverish days in which he wandered in the
woods and in the house sat so still and voiceless,
that Ellen began to fear his mind was giving way.
One day he was abroad in a fearful tempest. Alarmed
for him; in his present state of mind, she
was going out to meet him when he came in with
a countenance as pale as the face of the dead.
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[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
`Ellen,' he said, `I can endure this no longer!
I am going back to Boston to surrender myself
for the robbery and murder.'
`But you did not murder him, dear Henry,'
she said soothingly.
`I struck not the blow, but I was a partner in
the deed. I suffered it! I profited by it! This
house, this farm, all I have is bought with blood!
Ha, ha! see! Look at the blood on that table!
The chairs are turning to the hue of blood! The
walls are streaming blood! See! it rains blood!
`Oh, horrible! this is a fearful state of mind
my Henry! You fancy this all! Banish such
dreadful thoughts.'
`See! Look!' he cried catching her finger and
pointing it to the miaror before which he stood,
`Do you not see that grim visaged man peered
ouer my shoulder! It is the watchman I slew.'
`Nay, you killed him not.'
`I did in my heart, and God is cursing me! I
knew Mosley would kill him! I knew he had
the knife for the purpose, and yet I se much loved
the money I did not interfere! I murdered him!
see Ellen, he points to his gashed bosom! Yes,
I did it! See, he bids me follow him! no, no,
no! hsld me, Ellen. Let me not go!' he cried
with the most heart-rending enpression of childish
terror his whole form shaking so with her
slight person she could barely support him; yet
but for her support he would have fallen to the
floor.
But it is painful to dwell upon the first delineations
of the insanity of remorse! The wretched
young man was conveyed raving to his bed, and
for weeks lay in a fever of delirium, during which
he divulged the crime of which he had oeen guilty.
The neighbors who watch with him, already
looking with surprise upon his singular conduct
before his attack, and being unconnected with either
of them by any ties, were not backward in
speaking of what he had divulged, and at length
the intelligence of the robbery and murder being
wide spread, it came to the ears of justice. But
Henry was summoned to another and higher tribunal!
Ellen had just seen him breathe his last, and was
embracing his corpse, her lips glued in hopeless
despair to his, as if she would hold him by her
own life to life, when the officers of justice came
in.
They surveyed the dead in silent disappointment
and then left the house, as they had no instructions
to arrest his wife, though the justice
knew from Lynch's published confession which
he had procured, of her share in the bootp obtained.
Finding the principal beyond his power, he
issued a warrant for her arrest. But the wretched
girl in the death of her husband, had severed
the only tie that bound her to the world, which
to her had been one of deception, guilt, and errors.
No sooner had the officers quitted the house, then
she rose and poured out into a glass an ounce of
laudanum, and then kneeling a moment in silent
anguish and woe unutterable, the expression of
which distorted her pale and beautiful features,
she laid dowe by his sids, and with one hand in
his, another laid on his stilled heart, she soon
sunk into that deep and pulseless sleep that knows
no waking!
Turn we to a more cheerful aspect of our tale,
dear reader! Pierce Wentworth in his twentieth
year, at which age Henry Harefoot so miserably
perished, was given his freedom, and Mr. Cunningham
sent him to Italy and Greece to study
architecture in its own birth-land. After two
years absence he returned, and the following year
was united to Mary Boardman. They are now
living in England, he one of the most distinguished
architects of the age, she the most charming
woman in the noble circle which includes princeses
within its periphery.
Mr. Francis Stanwood at the age of twentyone,
entered into business for himself in Milk
street as an importer, and soon after married the
beautiful Isabel Wentworth, who, after having remained
one year with good Mrs. Prescott, and
learned her trade, returned home, and went three
years to the Cony Academy, where she became as
accomplished in mind as she was amiable in heart
and lovely in person. They are living now upon
Mount Vernon street, and Frank is already worth
seventy thousand dollars. Mr. Pierce Wentworth
built the house he lives in for Mary as a `bridal
gift;' and they lived there until he was invited to
Europe, to plan and superintend the erection of a
royal residence, now in progress. Mr. Stanwood
had purchased the house of him on his departure,
and now dwells there; his widowed mother living
with him, a pensioner on filial love and duty,
in ease, competence, and serene domestic enjoyment
Mr. Cunningham still lives, a fine specimen
of the Boston gentleman of the old school.
Mr George Washington St John Leighton, who
has once or twice done us the honor to appear in
our pages, has for some years dwelt in Paris,
America being `too parvenu forah gentelmanah of
fashionah, demme-ah!' Mr. Libby has purchased
a handsome farm not many miles out of town,
on which he has erected a very elegant and tasteful
dwelling house, where after a useful and laborious
life, he is passing his green old age alternately
in healthful industry and calm repose.
We have now ended our story. Its incidents
and scenes have mostly been taken from actual
life. The moral we wish to convey, we trust
will not fail to hit the mark at which we level it,
which marks every young man in situations of
employment like those held respectively by Henry
Harefoot and Pierce Wentworth has set up in
his own bosom. We write this story for the improvement—
if we may aim so high—of the youth
of New England, who enter life either over the
mechanics bench or the counter. It is for them
it is written, and to them it is most affectionately
dedicated by the author, who, if he is hereby instrumental
by holding up the mirror to vice, and
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exposing her deformity to those she could tempt
from her seductive paths, will feel that he is well
repaid for the time he has devoted to a subject so
deeply interesting to every parent and son, as that
of the temptation of a city. Its three temptations
are wine, the play, and the grosser pleasures
of sense; and these are so dependant and
connected, that for a young man to yield to one,
is almost always to yield to all three, with all
their ramifications, as illustrated by the career
through a successive series of temptations and
falls of Harry Harefoot. To the youth, then,
who seeks to enter life through the untried paths
of a city, let him bear in mind and bind to his
heart the words of one who well knew both the
weakness of the youthful heart and the strength
of its temptations. `Let thine eyes look right on
and let thine eyelids look straight before thee.'—
`Ponder the paths of thy feet, and let all thy
ways be established.'
THE END.
Back matter
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Ingraham, J. H. (Joseph Holt), 1809-1860 [1845], Harry Harefoot, or, The three temptations: a story of city senses (H. L. Williams, Boston) [word count] [eaf182].
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