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THE immediate consequences of the recovery of Mr.
Tuck's pocket-book, and the discovery of the thief, were,
the disgrace of the two brothers, and their high-spirited mother,
in the estimation of their uncle, who swore he would
neither spend another copper for their benefit while living,
nor leave them a dollar at his death; and the determination,
on the part of Mr. Tremlett, to abandon his adopted son
to his fate, and never see him again.

As it may appear somewhat unaccountable to the reader
that Julia Tuck should have got possession of the pocket-book
we will explain that circumstance. When the two brothers
were taken home to their mother, after they had been picked
up in the river, she found the pocket-book in Tom's cap; and
on being accused of stealing it, his brother Fred made a full
confession, while the other justified himself on the ground
that she had herself taught them to look upon their uncle's
property as their own. Upon which the lady read them a
lecture upon the enormity of their guilt, and endeavored to
explain to them the difference between taking possession of
their uncle's money before and after his death; a distinction
which Tom Tuck still persisted in saying he could not
clearly comprehend. His mother, in examining the pocket-book,
found that it contained but little money, and that the
other papers, which she supposed to be valuable, were but

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little injured by the water. She intended to inclose it in a
wrapper, and drop it into the post office, directed to her brother-in-law,
as soon as it should be dry; but the unexpected
summons to appear at the house of Mr. Tremlett, had prevented
her from doing so. Little Julia heard all the conversation
between her mother and her brothers; and when she
heard her favorite accused of the crime that she knew they
were guilty of, she ran home and took the pocket-book from
her mother's bureau, and returned it to her uncle, as has been
already related. And in doing this, the young lady was not
influenced solely by a love of justice; she had conceived a
great fondness for young Tremlett which she evinced on all
occasions, without much reserve; and her brothers not having
always treated her with becoming kindness, she was glad
of an opportunity to do them an injury, at the same time that
she gave her favorite a proof of her regard for him. The
mortification and anger of her mother was intense. They almost
converted her maternal love into hatred to her own off-spring;
and she returned to her home with her heart full of
revengeful feelings, which she burned for an opportunity to
gratify.

Although Mr. Tremlett determined, in the first excitement
of his feelings, to turn his adopted son into the street, and to
steel his heart forevermore against all kindly feelings toward
the human race, and particularly orphan boys, yet when he
reviewed the whole affair in his mind, and considered the
youth of the boy, his temptations, the examples that bad been
set him in his earlier years, and his own culpability in not
teaching him more pointedly than he had done, to do no evil,
the guilt of the youngster did not appear so enormous, nor his
nature so depraved as at first. And then the gratitude of the
lad in refusing to pawn his watch, because it had been given
to him by his father, was a proof that he was not destitute of
generous qualities. In truth, Mr. Tremlett did not reason
with himself long, before he was astonished that he should

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ever have thought of parting with his son; and on visiting
the boy in his chamber, as he lay asleep, all his fond feelings
were revived, and he felt that he loved him more tenderly
than ever. “If the good and pious only were entitled to our
love,” thought Mr. Tremlett, “how many would go through
the world unfriended and desolate!”

On consulting with Dr. Hodges the boy's teacher, that discreet
gentleman, against his own interest, advised Mr. Tremlett
to send the boy to a private school in the country, where
he would be free from the influence of such companions as
the Tucks, and not exposed to the thousand temptations that
surround him in the city. This advice Mr. Tremlett could
not but acknowledge was very just and proper; and although
he would gladly have kept the boy with him at home, yet
professing to have the child's permanent good at heart, he
agreed to be governed by it; and Mr. Hodges having recommended
a school kept by a clergyman of his acquaintance in
one of the pleasant towns in the interior of Massachusetts, it
was resolved that the boy should be sent there without delay.
As he was too young to travel alone, and his father's engagements
being such that he could not accompany him, Jeremiah
Jernegan was selected, as being the most suitable person in
the employment of Tremlett & Tuck, to take charge of the
young gentleman, and deliver him at his place of destination;
and it was on this important business that Mr. Tremlett
wanted to speak with Jeremiah, when he called him into his
private office. The poor clerk was overjoyed at this proof of
his employer's confidence, as well as delighted at the thought
of travelling in company with the boy, although this pleasure
was not without its draw-back; as he would be deprived, on
his return, of the gratification of seeing the lad for a very long
period, if not for ever.

The next day young Tremlett left his happy home, in company
with Jeremiah. They were accompanied to the steamboat
by Mr. Tremlett, who had reserved some very solemn

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advice to be imparted to his son just before they parted, thinking
it might make a more lasting impression upon his mind,
if delivered at such an impressive moment. But when the
time arrived, the old gentleman was so full of grief, that he
found it impossible to utter a word; so he pressed the boy's
hand, and silently invoking the blessing of heaven upon his
head, he turned from the boat and left him.

Now, although Jeremiah was a very suitable person, in one
respect, for the charge entrusted to him, yet he was in another
quite the opposite, seeing that he had never been but a short
distance from home, and that he was totally unacquainted
with the ways of the world, as well as the ways of stage-drivers
and steam-boat agents. It was almost night when the steamboat
left the dock, and as it soon grew dark, our travellers
went up on the promenade-deck to look at the stars, and to
enjoy the novelty of being afloat in the night. While they
were leaning over the railing, making their remarks on every
thing that struck them as novel, a stranger approached them
with a segar in his mouth, and after listening to their conversation
a few moments, he ventured to address them.

“Charming evening, gentlemen,” said the stranger.

“Yes, Sir, it is, very lovely,” replied Jeremiah; “I was just
remarking to my young friend here, that the solemn grandeur
of the scene was very impressive.”

“Upon my soul,” said the stranger, “I was just thinking
that very thing myself; what a liquid appearance the water
has!”

“Very,” replied Jeremiah; “It is a pleasant thing to travel;
there is such a constant succession of new and surprising
scenes, that one has hardly time to dwell upon his own sad
feelings.”

“Yes,” replied the stranger; “but d—n it! I have got
sick of it, and I am now going home to settle down quietly
on my own farm, where I can eat my own eggs, and drink
my own cider.”

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“Ah! there's a pleasure in that, too,” said Jeremiah.
“Pray have you travelled much?”

“Not much,” said the stranger; “I have been as fur as
Rome, and once, I was as fur from hum as Batavia. I have
got a sister married in Vienna, which I go to see once a year;
and once in a great while, I go to see my uncle, in Pekin.”

“You must have been a very great traveller,” said Jeremiah.

“I don't call that nothing at all,” said the stranger; “I
mean to go to Niagara next fall.”

“How long since you were in Batavia?” asked Jeremiah.

“Only last spring,” replied the stranger.

“Our house has some correspondents in Batavia,” said
Jeremiah; “we received a large consignment from them last
week. I suppose you know the firm of Gluttstiver & Gruntwitchel?”

“No, I can't say I do,” said the stranger. “I thought I
knowd all the merchants in that place, too. Have they been
long in business?”

“Oh, it is a very old house,” replied Jeremiah; “our firm
have been in correspondence with them for a great many
years. And pray what is the quality of the coffee there?”
asked Jeremiah.

“The d—st stuff I ever swallowed in my life!—nothing
like as good as you get at the Eagle, in Palmyra. I would
as soon drink the water out of the Grand Canawl,” replied
the stranger, with some warmth.

“Your account does not agree with my impressions at all,”
said Jeremiah; “I thought the coffee was very fine.”

“All humbug!” said the stranger snapping his fingers;
“it was not worth that!”

“Palmyra must be a very interesting spot,” said Jeremiah.

“So-so,” said the stranger; “the fact is it was built up too
suddenly. Folks said 't was a very flourishing place, and so
't was; but 't was all flourish; and now it's going down hill
fast enough.

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“Perhaps its rise was too sudden,” replied Jeremiah; “but
it was always a matter of wonder to me, how such a city ever
sprung up in such a place.”

“It is no wonder at all to me,” said the stranger; “it was
all done by speculators.”

“Not unlikely,” replied Jeremiah; “human nature has
doubtless been the same in all ages; and I suppose there were
speculators even among the Palmyrenes.”

The stranger now perceived that his segar had gone out
while he had been talking to our travellers, and he left them
to get a light.

“That is a very remarkable man!” said Jeremiah. “Only
think of it, John; he says his sister lives in Vienna, and his
uncle in Pekin; and that he has been in Batavia, and Palmyra
and Rome! Perhaps he has kissed the Pope's toe.”

The bell now rang for supper, and our travellers went
down into the cabin, where they sat opposite to the communicative
stranger; but as they were all very hungry, Jeremiah
asked no farther questions about Palmyra, neither did the
great traveller appear at all disposed to communicate any
farther intelligence respecting the famous places where his
aunts and uncles resided. But when they landed the next
morning, another agreeable gentleman addressed Jeremiah, and
asked him if he had much luggage.

“Not much,” replied Jeremiah, “but what I have, is of
some consequence; and I am very anxious about it, because
the most of it belongs to this young gentleman, who is placed
in my charge.”

“I suppose there is nothing of much value in it?” said the
stranger.

“Yes, it is rather valuable,” said Jeremiah; “and for the
greater safety, I have put my purse into my valise, as I have
heard of a good many robberies on board of steam-boats.”

“You did right,” said the stranger; I always keep a bright
look-out myself; which is your luggage?”

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“Those two trunks,” said Jeremiah pointing to them.

“Where did you say you were going to?” inquired the
stranger.

“We are going to Willow-mead Academy,” said Jeremiah,
“in Berkshire Massachusetts.”

“Ah! it's the very place I am going to myself!” said the
stranger; “my youngest brother is there at school. But I
forget the name of the principal?”

“The Reverend Doctor Whippy,” said Jeremiah.

“Yes, that is it,” said the stranger; “and a most appropriate
name, too, for my brother writes me he is a devil of a fellow
for whipping.”

This piece of intelligence was rather unpleasant to John,
who seemed to have taken a dislike to the stranger. When
their trunks were taken up to the stage-office, the stranger
very kindly offered to take charge of them, upon which Jeremiah
thanked him for his politeness, and told him, as they
were not much used to travelling, he would be obliged if he
would keep them with his own luggage until they got to Willow-mead;
all of which the stranger very obligingly promised
to do. They rode all day, and about eight o'clock in the evening,
at the place where they stopped to change horses, they
met the returning coach. It was a cloudy night, the wind
blew strong from the east, and it was very dark. When Jeremah
and his fellow travellers got into the stage again, they did
not observe that one of their number was missing, and being
fatigued with riding, they soon fell asleep, and did not wake
again until it was midnight, when they stopped at an out-of
the-way tavern to change horses. The wind had increased
and it rained very hard and our travellers were stiff and cold;
their legs were cramped, and they felt very wretched. It was
a long time before the tavern-keeper opened his door; and
when he did, his bar-room presented a most cheerless and
dreary appearance. There was no fire, and only one small
fallow candle burning in a huge tin candle-stick. The tavern

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keeper himself was very tall and thin; his hair was long, and
so was his face, and in fact every thing else about him, except
his answers, which were very short and crusty. And indeed
his ill-humor was not to be wondered at: to be roused out of
a pleasant sleep, in the middle of a cold, rainy night, to admit
half a dozen temperance customers, could not have been very
soothing to the feelings of a publican.

As it was necessary to pay for the next stage at this house,
Jeremiah put his hand into his pocket to take out his purse,
and to his great horror discovered it was not there. He procured
a lantern from the landlord, and searched the coach,
without finding it; and then he remembered that he had
put it into his valise for safe-keeping. Jeremiah now began
to make inquiries for the obliging stranger and was terrified
beyond expression, when he was told how that kind gentleman
had pretended to have left one of his trunks behind him
and had taken a seat in the returning coach, which they met
at eight o'clock. On inspecting the boot of the stage, it was
farther discovered that he had taken with him the boy's trunk
and Jeremiah's valise.

Our travellers were now in a most uncomfortable situation
for the driver of the coach not only refused to take them a
mile farther, unless their fare was first paid, but the tavernkeeper
refused to give them a bed, although he consented to
their remaining in the bar room until it was day-light. Jeremiah
begged hard for a little fire, as the night was cold, and
their clothes were damp; but this the host also refused; and
indeed he would not even allow them the light of the miserable
tallow candle; but, having first locked all the doors, and
taken a five cent piece and two rusty coppers out of the till
he retired to bed, and the left our two travellers in darkness.
They were too cold to sleep, and so they sat close together
on a wooden bench, without any back to it, and tried to divert
their thoughts from their uncomfortable situation, by relating
the many unpleasant dilemmas in which they had both been

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placed before. “Once,” said Jeremiah, “I should have considered
it a great happiness to have obtained such a shelter as
this cheerless bar room affords, on a night like this. Then
why should I repine at what I should once have felt myself
called upon to give thanks for? I will not; but let us rather
John, kneel down, and thank the Giver of all good things,
that we are not exposed to the piercing wind, and the cold,
driving rain.”

“I have no objection,” said the boy; and so they knelt
down, and Jeremiah prayed thus:

“O, Lord, God! we give thee humble and hearty thanks,
that thou hast created us in such wise that our happiness is
not dependant upon the outward circumstances and conditions
of our bodies; and though we do not exult because that
they who are clothed in soft raiment, and who fare sumptuously
in rich men's houses, are not happier than we, to
whom thou hast wisely denied these things, yet we rejoice, O
Lord! that to the meek and humble, the outcast and the
wretched, thou hast graciously been pleased to manifest thyself,
and hast condescended to pour into their hearts an oil of
gladness, of which those know but little, who look only upon
their outward seeming. And we beseech thee, O Lord! that
thine outstretched wings may be over this house, and that its inmates
may be kept from all harm; and that he who has kindly
given us a shelter beneath his roof, may never be exposed,
himself, to the inclemency of the elements. And we beseech
thee, O Lord! to remember in mercy that misguided wayfarer,
who has unjustly deprived us of our little property—”

“Stop! Jeremiah,” said John; “I am not going to pray for
that scamp who stole our trunks!”

“Certainly we must,” said Jeremiah, “for we are commanded
to pray for our enemies; and we do not yet positively
know whether the gentleman has wronged us or not.”

“O, I know he did it,” said John; “for I saw him wink at
the great traveller two or three times, while he was talking
to you.”

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“I am strongly inclined to believe, myself,” said Jeremiah
“that he is guilty, but still he may not be; and even if he
is, we do not know how sorely he may have been tempted,
nor how much he may have resisted.”

Jeremiah would not hurt the feelings of the youngster by
reminding him of his own temptation and fall; but lifting up
his voice again, he continued his prayer. And when he had
finished, he declared he had never felt more comfortable in
his life. So huddling close together, the two fell into a sound
sleep, from which they did not awake until the entrance of
the landlord in the morning aroused them.

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