[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

[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

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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

[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

[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.