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IN the little vagabond whom we left asleep in Mr. Tremlett's
back parlour, you behold the hero of our narrative. Look
at him again. It is not every day that you can look upon a
hero in his youthful slumbers. How sweetly he sleeps; like
a flower in its bud; there are no signs of care or grief upon
his fair brow; these are to come; neither idleness nor luxury
have decayed his perfect system and made life itself, which
should be always joyous, a burden to him; he breathes as
gently and as freely as the wind blows; his pulsations are regular,
and a beautiful tinge of healthful red streaks his plump
cheeks and colours his pouting lips; his golden locks cling
to his neck as if they were enamored of his lovely skin. You
have never seen any thing so fine in the antique, although you
may have been to the Vatican, for the antique hath neither
colour, nor warmth, nor motion. You who have watched over
your own little ones in their slumber, know how sweetly he appeared,
and that even his quiet breathing was eloquent of
joyousness and hope. But be not deceived by this bright
vision; the little sleeper is nothing more than what he seems;
he is not the son of anybody of whom the reader will ever
hear again, neither will it turn up in the end that he is in the
slighest manner related to any of the personages hereinafter to
be mentioned in this history, for the truth is, his mother was
an Irish chambermaid, who came to an untimely end in

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consequence of a fall, when returning from a little party held in
honour of Saint Patrick, in Orange Street, when her little
darlint was only a twelvemonth old; and he was taken from
her cold breast and removed to an Orphan Asylum, where
he had been kept until a few days before the time at which
our history begins. He had contrived to make his escape into
the world, where he had become so enamored of its various
shows, that he had felt no desire to return to the only home
that he had ever known; and he had contrived to earn his
food by selling penny papers at half profits, for an older dealer
who furnished the capital with which they were purchased.

This much we can afford to disclose in regard to our hero,
but we will not in cruel kindness give any hints as to
the final winding up of his pilgrimage, but will let the catastrophe
of his history develope itself, according to the established
rules of both nature and art. Whether he would have
ended his days at Sing-sing or on the gallows, had he not been
arrested by the senior partner of the firm of Tremlett & Tuck,
cannot be satisfactorily determined, since it is a difficult matter
to guess at the complexion of events which never took
place. Historians do sometimes indulge in long-winded speculations
as to the probable results of improbable events, but
as the materials of our history are abundant to furnish a narrative
of reasonable length, we shall leave to the reader the
privilege of making such surmises as may seem proper to him,
and confine our own labour to the simple task of recording
facts.

When Mr. Tremlett reached his counting room, he dispatched
his business in a few minutes, and instead of remaining
at his desk to discuss the question of a national currency
with his partner and his book-keeper, for an hour or two, as
had been his habit for some years, he hastily shut up his portfolio
and hurried back to his house, to the great astonishment
of Mr. Tuck, and Mr. Bates the head book-keeper, who
was so much puzzled to account for the circumstance, that he

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made two or three mistakes in posting, and was at last obliged
to shut up his ledger and go home, and ask his wife what she
thought of it.

The thought of there being some one at home who required
his attention, gave the old merchant an excitement that he
had not known since he was first elected a bank director.
When he reached his house, he found his prisoner still asleep
upon the hearth-rug, and notwithstanding that he had fully determined
to send the boy to the house of correction, when he
looked upon the cherub-like face before him, his heart softened
and his determination faltered. He almost blushed at the
thoughts which obtruded themselves upon him. He sighed
as he gazed upon the sleeping child; an invisible influence
seemed to radiate from the half covered limbs of the youngster,
which held the kind old gentleman in a charmed spell. Perhaps
he was thinking of the time when he himself was as
young, as innocent and as beautiful; or he might have been
casting up in his mind what portion of his property he would
be willing to give if he could call the boy his own. He looked
around the room to see if he was observed and then sunk
upon his knees by the urchin's side, but whether to put up a
prayer in his behalf or to kiss his ruddy cheek, we do not
know. A tear glistened in the old man's eyes, a fountain of
his heart had been unsealed and was running over; a drop
fell upon the boy's face and awoke him, and as he fixed his
blue eyes upon the figure beside him, he appeared suddenly
struck with awe, for his hitherto smiling features assumed a
grave and serious aspect. Mr. Tremlett jumped upon his
feet very hastily, and after walking across the room two or
three times, sat down in his arm chair, and putting on an air
as much like a session's judge as he could, he called the boy to
him. The little fellow approached his chair with as much
confidence as a child would have gone to a parent.

“What is your name?” said the merchant.

“John, replied the boy.”

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“Ah! very well, John what?” continued Mr. Tremlett.

“John,” again repeated the boy.

“Well, and what beside John?”

“John,” again replied the culprit, looking up into the merchant's
face and laughing merrily.

“Do you laugh at me, you rogue?” said Mr. Tremlett.

“I can't help it,” replied the boy, you “talk so funny.”

“What an impudent little wretch!” exclaimed Mrs. Swazey,
who had just opened the door; “do you know to
whom you are talking?” “No,” was the reply.

“Well, if I ever heard such astonishing impudence!” exlaimed
the housekeeper.

“Do you not know what your name is?” said Mr. Tremlett.

“John,” again replied the boy; upon which Mrs. Swazey
held up her hands as though she were endeavouring with all
her might to personify amazement.

“What then is your father's name?” continued Mr. Tremlett,
smiling at his housekeeper's consternation.

“I don't know what you mean,” answered the boy.

“What, have you got no father?”

“I don't know.”

“Have you got no mother?”

The boy shook his head and looked grave.

“Who took care of you?”

“The old devil,” replied the boy.

“What an awful wretch!” exclaimed the housekeeper.

“Who was the old devil?” enquired the merchant.

“The old woman who used to feed us with mush and molasses,”
replied the boy.

“Oh! a greater villain I never saw!” again exclaimed the
astonished housekeeper.

“And where did she live?” asked Mr. Tremlett.

“Out to the Asylum,” replied the child.

“At the Asylum!” shrieked Mrs. Swazey, “well, if he hasn't

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called the matron, Mrs. Ellkins, which is my most intimate
acquaintance, and the widow of captain Timothy Ellkins an
India ship captain, by these awful names. Take that for
your impudence,” and with these words she gave him a cuff
on the side of his head which sent him reeling against Mr.
Tremlett's chair.

But the youngster soon recovered himself, and without the
slightest hesitation caught hold of her apron and administered
two or three such smart kicks about her shins that she fairly
screamed with the pain. Mr. Tremlett covered his face with
his pocket handkerchief, and came near strangling in trying
to suppress a fit of laughter; and the housekeeper hobbled
out of the room filled with indignation and mortified vanity.
But the boy preserved a wonderful composure of countenance.

This spirited feat did more towards establishing him in
the affections of Mr. Tremlett than a whole year of servile
obedience would have done. The truth was, the housekeeper
had held her situation so long that she exercised an authority
over her employer which annoyed him not a little, and yet
he did not know how to mend it, he had so gradually yielded
to it; and he was glad to see her so summarily punished for
her impertinent interference.

“Do you know” said Mr. Tremlett to the boy, as soon as
he had recovered his gravity of countenance, “that I could
send you to prison for stealing my pocket hankerchief?”

“Could you?” said the little culprit looking up good humouredly
into the old man's face.

“Yes, I could, and I must;” he replied, “for you are a very
bad fellow I see.”

“But a man told me to take it,” replied the boy, “and promised
me a sixpence if I would.”

“Ah! he was a vile rascal,” said Mr. Tremlett, “but you
are a rogue yourself, and I shall be obliged to have you punished
and kept in a place where you will be instructed to do
justly.”

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“I can say my prayers and the commandments now,” replied
the boy.

“I percieve that you have been taught the names of good
and evil things,” replied the merchant, “but you must be taught
to distinguish them in your actions. I will keep you here
to night, but in the morning I must send you back to the
asylum where you came from.”

“O, no, no,” said the boy, “I like you. I would rather
live in this asylum with you, than with the old devil out
there.”

“What do you like me for?” said Mr. Tremlett, while a
a keen thrill of delight made his heart beat quick in his bosom.

“I don't know, but I do like you;” replied the boy looking
up fondly into his face.

At that moment a loud knock was heard at the door, and
the servant admitted two strangers who had called upon Mr.
Tremlett with letters of introduction; so he delivered the
boy into the hands of Mrs. Swazey with instructions to have
him well taken care of for the night. It was an unnecessary
charge to the housekeeper, for although she heaped upon his
head an undue amount of wordy severity as soon as she got
him under her exclusive jurisdiction, and declared that she
could hardly keep her hands from beating him, yet she manifested
all a woman's tenderness in providing for his comfort;
and before she retired at night she stole quietly into the room
where he was sleeping and gently drew the coverlid over him
lest he should take cold. She stood for a moment to look
upon his beautiful face, and she would have kissed his rosy
lips, but for fear of waking him. And he slept on, unconscious
that a gentle being was watching over him, and regarding
him with looks of tenderness and pity. And thus we
move through the world, all unawares that the good angels
of God are watching over us, and shielding us from the thousand
evils which continually threaten us.

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