[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

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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

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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

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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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