p348-098 CHAPTER V. A VOICE FROM THE SPIRIT LAND.

“For Death his sacred seal has set
On bright and by-gone hours;
And they we mourn are with us yet,
Are more than ever ours.”

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Harry Davis took his homeward way with a
light heart, and entered his mother's door with
a joyous spring. The tea-table was neatly prepared
for that pleasantest of New England rustic meals,
“the tea.”

There were few industrious and sober people in
the county poorer than the Davises. But poverty, in
its received sense, is not a word applicable to any
such American family. What would a starving house-wife
in an Irish shanty, or one of the poor peasant
women of the continent of Europe, say to Mrs. Davis's
tea-table, with its white cloth, its whole and fitting

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

earthen ware, its bright knives, its tea, sugar, and
cream, its white bread, blackberry pie, and fried fish?

“This looks comfortable,” said Davis, obeying the
pleasant announcement, “Tea is ready!” and turning
his chair around from his desk and his inventions.
“I have done a good job at head-work to-day,” he
added, “and have had nothing to eat but a slice of
bread and some knick-knacks the neighbors sent in for
Lucy. Mother is so notional, she won't let the poor
child touch them.”

“Ah! but, father,” interposed Annie, “the doctor
said, if there were more people would do as mother
does, and give to the well the custards, and cake,
and sweetmeats, the neighbors send in for the sick,
they would save a great many patients from his
hands.”

“Tut! nonsense, Annie — as if sickness did not
come of itself, or when the Lord chooses to send it.
How came Lucy sick? I should like to know that.
Your mother keeps her on bread and milk, and potatoes
and meat not above once a day. How came she
brought up with a fever?”

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“The doctor says, sir, it was brought on by the
unripe plums you gave her at Deacon Carr's. When
fevers are about, doctor says they will set in upon
any bad derangement of the stomach.”

“O, that's nothing but a new-fangled notion.
Children eat every thing. I have eaten just what I
fancied, and all the tasty things I could get all my
life, and I never had a fever.” Davis's lank, sallow
cheeks were not the best evidence of his wise mode
of living; and, — poor man! — as little Lucy became
worse from day to day, he silently resolved never
again to give his children unripe fruit. Alas! the
wisdom only learned by failure comes too late. We
have seldom the same experience twice.

Mrs. Davis did not reproach her husband. She
was not of those who find relief in imputing blame.
She hoped, from day to day, that little Lucy would be
better. She took the whole care of the child, with the
aid of Harry and Annie. She would not follow the
common rural custom of letting in upon the patient
all the kind neighbors who call to express sympathy and
offer aid. She had often observed sick children either

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shrinking from the touch of strangers, or too much
excited by them. Contrary to all usage in our country
parts, she declined watchers; and, when urged by her
kind friends to accept their services, she said, “No;
I could not sleep soundly while my child is so ill, if
she had the best watcher in Salisbury. I sleep beside
her, and wake at her least movement. It is a small
tax upon me, but it is a hard strain upon another. I
have always been against having watchers when you
can help it, and I wish to be consistent.”

“Consistent” good Mrs. Davis was in making all the
detail of her life a manifestation of her theory of her duty.
Davis never watched. “He was a remarkable heavy
sleeper,” he said; “watching never agreed with him!”

There was one visitor only excepted from the general
prohibition — the poor, outcast Clapham. He was
expected daily, watched for by Lucy, and welcomed
with her sweetest smile and out-stretched hand. The
doctor prescribed feverbush tea, and Clapham, of
course, brought the feverbush from the mountain.
The next day, winter-greens were recommended, and
each day some rural febrifuge, which Clapham's

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woodcraft enabled him to supply. With the herbs, Clapham
brought strings of bright berries, which Annie
strung, and Lucy amused herself, at her best intervals,
with wreathing around her white arms. The flowers
were few and faded on the hill side and by the brook,
but the lovely fringed gentian was still in perfection,
and Clapham had always a handful of these, which he
called “Lucy's flowers.”

“I do wish, Clapham,” said Lucy, “that you and
Harry would carry me along the brook, and lay me
down on the soft grass, where the cool wind blows,
and where I could drink all the time. Here it's so
hot! Feel, how my hand burns! You will carry me
there when I am a little better, won't you, boys?”
Both boys eagerly promised; but alas! the cruel disease
was making rapid progress.

The next day, when, as usual, Clapham came in late
in the afternoon, the family, with the exception of
Davis, who had gone of an errand to the village, were
in the little bed-room. A change had taken place.
Lucy was dying. Her distress was over. Nature had
given up the struggle, and her young life was ebbing

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away. Mrs. Davis heard Clapham lift the latch of the
outer door, and beckoned to him to come softly in.
He did so, and knelt at the foot of the trundle-bed.
Lucy was supported by pillows. The hue of life was
paled on her cheek. Her mother's, lying beside it,
was of the deepest crimson. Her mother was on her
knees, and so were Harry and Lucy, each holding one
of those little hands that seemed to grasp every fibre
of their hearts. “My children, pray with me,” said
the mother; and in a low, but perfectly distinct voice,
she said, “Our Father, who art in heaven. Hallowed
be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be
done —” She stopped. There needed no more.
These all-comprehending words expressed the unbounded
prayer of her heart; her faith that God
was her Father, the Father of her children; her desire
to utter his name with awe and love; her complete
resignation of her own hopes and purposes for
her child; and the present indulgence of her affections.
As she concluded, Harry said to her, in a low, trembling
voice, “Mother, it never before seemed to me
hard to pray that prayer!”

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

“Is it hard, now, my son?”

“Hard? Yes, mother.”

“It should not be, my children. We give up
little Lucy to wiser, greater love than ours. The
kingdom of heaven is coming to her. No more pain
for her —”

Lucy at this moment opened her eyes, and consciousness,
without pain, revived. There was even a
slight movement of her lips to kiss her mother, and, as
her mother pressed hers to her, she faintly, but perceptibly
smiled, and with her finger made a beckoning
motion to Clapham to come nearer. He rose and
knelt by Annie. Lucy spread out her little hand so
as to embrace both theirs. At this moment, the setting
sun shone out from a cloud, and its rays fell,
like a halo, around little Lucy's fair hair.

“Pretty moon!” she said. The mists of death
were gathering over her sight, and the sun was no
longer bright to her eye.

They all felt as if they were near the visible
presence of God. The curtain that hides the other
world was slowly rising, and they felt the beautiful

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

reality of the goodness and love to which the precious
child was going. It was not death. It was life —
immortal life. A solemn but not painful feeling pervaded
them. No one stirred or moved, till Lucy
looked from one to the other, and then rested her eye
on Harry, and he seemed unconsciously to answer to
the glance in saying, “How I love you, darling!” She
replied, slowly, feebly, but with perfect distinctness, so
that each heard her, “We—all—love—one another!”
These were the last words she spoke — words that
bound them in a sacred band, to be cruelly assailed,
but never broken.

From this time, her breathing became fainter and
fainter. There was no struggle, and when the twilight
had faded away, and the stars began to appear,
she sank to her rest as quietly as if it had been to
her night's sleep.

The spell of solemn silence was first broken by
the sweet voice of the mother.

“She is gone! my children,” she said — “gone
to Him who said, `Suffer little children to come
unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the

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kingdom of heaven — gone from our sight, but not
from us.”

“Not from us, mother?” asked Annie, in a perplexed
tone of voice.

“No, my children, I hope not. I believe not.
Little Lucy is an angel now, and I think she will
love to be near us; and nothing but our evil-doing
can separate us.”

This was a new thought to the children. It
seemed to them to take away the sting of separation,
and, at the same time, to give them an acute sense of
responsibility, an intense desire to be pure, so that that
purified and loved spirit might dwell with them. Mrs.
Davis's calmness, her faith, and her gentle submission,
had converted this chamber of death into the vestibule
of heaven. Death did not appear to these children the
king of terrors, but a messenger of love who had come
to take their dear little companion to happiness and
immortality, and to inspire them with a faith and hope
that taught them how to value and how to use life.

To Clapham it seemed a vision; a revelation; and
after all the necessary offices had been performed,

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after the kind neighbors had come and gone, after
the good village minister had made his prayer with
the family, and after he had seen the form of little
Lucy laid out in its white robes, her head encircled
with a wreath of the fringed gentians he had brought
that afternoon for her, and on her bosom sweet, halfopen
rose-buds old Mrs. Allen had sent in from her
monthly rose, — after this, he took his way homeward.
Slowly, thoughtfully he went. Suddenly a loathing
revulsion from his own most loathsome dwelling came
over him; he turned back, retraced his way, and lay
down on the ground on the outside of that little bed-room
window. There he waked and slept alternately,
and had visions of his little friend now by the brook
on Rhigi, and now an angel amidst beauty and glory
that never before had dawned on his mind. Thoughts
of his real condition, of his dreadful home, came
like demons among these angel visitations. The poor
boy was struggling in the mysteries of life. Still
there was something that whispered hope and peace—
something that breathed into his soul the feeling
expressed in the following beautiful stanza:—

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p348-109 CHAPTER VI. A GATHERING STORM.

“'Twas past the dead of night, when every sound
That nature mingles might be heard around;
But none from man.”

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Clapham did not return to his mountain-home till
late in the afternoon of the next day. His
mind was full of the holy scenes he had witnessed.
He had seen death for the first time; and had seen
it, most happily for himself, in the home of the Christian,
where death was received as God's messenger,
sent to take the most loved being in the household
to a happier home, to a higher school, to the instruction
and guidance of Him whose love and wisdom
are infinite. He had seen little Lucy, the sweet
nestler in every heart, given up with calm submission.
The world seemed changed to Clapham; but O,
with what weight it fell back upon him as his own

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home came in view! His father was sitting on the
door-step smoking his pipe. He saw, through the
open door, that his mother was dozing on the bed.

“Ain't you a pretty chap?” said Norman, surlily.
“Where have you been browsing all night, and to
this time of day?”

“At Mr. Davis's,” replied Clapham, quietly.

“That's one lie; now tell another. What have
you been about there?”

“I have been seeing little Lucy die.”

“Do tell?” said Norman, and a human feeling
stirred in his bosom. He knocked the ashes out of
his pipe, and put in fresh tobacco, saying, meanwhile,
“She was the likeliest-looking young one ever born
in Salisbury. Sich as she always die.”

The last words struck on Massy's ear, and waked
her from her dose.

“Who is dead now?” she asked, not more than
half awake.

“Not you, mam; but you might as well be,”
replied her brutal lord, “as lying there, when I told
you I was waiting for a patch on my coat. Up

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with you, or I'll bang you. It's Davis's girl that's
dead, and our Clap is chief mourner.”

“You have not got no feelings, Norman,” said the
gentler helpmeet; “you're 'tween man and brute —
worse than neither. When is the funeral, Clapham?”

“There is to be no funeral here,” replied Clapham.
“Mrs. Davis wished to lay little Lucy with
her people, and she has taken her down to the
Canaan burying-ground.”

“Who went in the procession?” asked Massy,
who, in common with persons of her caste, was curious
about the minutiæ of funerals.

“They had no procession. Mr. Davis wanted to
have the people collect and go with them, but Mrs.
Davis was very much set on having it quiet; and so
Sheriff Parley offered them his wagon and horses, and
they went, at two o'clock, down to her uncle's, which
is near to the burying-ground.”

“Did they take the corpse, and Harry, and Annie,
all in one wagon?”

“No; only little Lucy. Annie had one of her
sick-headaches, and Harry staid at home with her.”

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Norman seemed very attentive, though as yet he
had asked no question. He now, with affected carelessness,
demanded how long they were to be gone.

“Till to-morrow morning,” Clapham replied.

“Good!” muttered Norman; and then, his manner
suddenly changing, he eagerly asked, “Are you
sure of that, Clap?”

“Yes, I am. I went with Harry to get the team;
and his mother bade us tell Sheriff Parley she should
return to-morrow morning; and she never broke her
word in her life.”

“I hope this won't be a first time,” said Norman.
“What time will they be home?”

“I don't know,” replied Clapham, rather impatient
at idle questions, (as he deemed them,) which grated
on his feelings; and he turned to go away, not
caring whither, when his father seized him by the
arm, and jerked him back. “Stand still, can't you?”
said he; “you are as slippery as an eel.” He
hemmed two or three times, then cleared his throat,
and added, “She died in the bed-room, did not
she?”

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“Yes; little Lucy and Annie always slept there
in the trundle-bed.”

“I should not think them young folks would like
sleeping in the room where the corpse was,” said
Norman, looking, not at Clapham, but up at the trees.
He paused for a moment, but eliciting no reply from
Clapham, he added, “I say, Clap, what are you so
dumb for? Where are they going to sleep?”

Clapham was incapable of being irritated, and he
replied, quietly, “I don't think they have any fear to
sleep where little Lucy lay, with flowers all around
her, looking like an angel.”

“Well, then, the gal is going to sleep in the
bed-room, is she?”

Had not Clapham's mind been completely preoccupied,
he might have suspected some sinister
motive in all this questioning; but he did not, and
he replied with the particularity his father wished.
“The bed-room window was open in the morning,
while it rained, and the room got damp, and Harry's
mother told him to move the trundle-bed into the kitchen,
and to bring down his bed and sleep by Annie.”

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“Will he do it?”

“I rather guess so,” replied Clapham, with a
smile; “the time has not come yet that Harry has
disappointed his mother.”

“I wish all young youth were like him,” murmured
Massy.

“And all old mams, like you,” said Norman; “that
would be a nice fit! But, I say, Clap, you are sure
they sleep in the kitchen?”

“I am sure I helped Harry fix the beds there,
before I came away.”

“You're a wise lad, Clap, and no mistake,” said
Norman, with a chuckling laugh in his throat, which
his son well knew was an expression of evil omen;
and he involuntarily fixed his eyes inquiringly on the
bad man. “None of your impudence, you rascal!”
he exclaimed, shaking his fist at Clapham.

“Impudence! I did not speak.”

“Your eyes did, though.”

“And what did they say?” asked Clapham, with
a dim smile.

“You're a fool, boy,” said his father; and then,

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suddenly checking his irascible and irritated temper,
he added, quietly, “I am the wrong side of the fence
this time. I am not mad with you, Clap. Mam has
worn me out, waiting here all day for my coat.
Come, old woman, ain't that hole sewed up yet?”

Massy tossed the coat to him, saying, “You are
the onreasonablest man that ever a poor woman-critter
was slave to; my whole life goes waiting on you.”

“That is what you are made for, my dear. You,
and all the rest of the women-folks, are made to
serve their masters; hey, Clap?”

Clapham thought of his dear friend Harry's mother,
and he thought some women-folks were quite equal
to their masters. Norman put on his coat, re-filled
his pipe, and walked off. After going a few paces,
he turned suddenly around, and said, in a voice of
unwonted kindness, “I say, Clap, I started a sight
of partridges up there by the pond, and if you want
to look after them, you may take my gun and some
powder and shot; you'll find it there under my pillow.
But mind and come home this evening. I
shall be home to supper, and do you be here; and,

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remember, Clap, you must do me a good turn when
I want it. Promise me. You're a boy of your word,
I'll say that for you. I never catched you in a lie
yet. Come, promise.”

“Why, father, I would do a'most any thing in
the world for you, if you would speak as you do
now.”

“That's you, Clap. You promise?”

“Yes.”

“It's a bargain, then; and mind you're home to
supper.”

“What has got into father?” said Clapham, as
Norman, entering the wood-path, disappeared.

“It's no good,” said Massy. “Sunshine or thunder-claps,
it's all the same. He's been clean possessed,
ever since yesterday morning, about a rifle on
sale down to the Furnace. He says he never saw
the like on't. He was talking about it in his sleep
last night, though his tongue was so thick I could
not understand more than one word in ten. He'd
clean drained the jug. He would not give me even
one spoonful, to take the bad taste out of my mouth.

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No, I believe—I do believe, Clap, and if it were
my last, dying word I would say so, — I do believe
he'd sell his soul for rum and a rifle. And now,
Clappy,” she continued, in a whining tone, “if you'll
only take this fourpence, and get me a little something
down below.”

Clapham looked earnestly in his mother's face,
and shook his head. “I cannot, mother — I cannot,”
he said; “my hands have been on that good child,—
God's child now, — and I cannot touch that hateful
jug, or any thing that holds that dreadful stuff. I
have had such thoughts these last two days! I have
been with good folks, and I want to be fit to live
among them. Don't ask me, mother.” There was a
quietness in Clapham's tone, a dignity and deep resolve
in his manner, that gave to the boy the power
of manhood. Massy was, for the moment, awed;
and, without renewing her request, she permitted him
to take the gun, &c., and go up the mountain-path.
Her eye followed him till he was out of sight.
She then sat down, whimpering, on the door-step
“Well,” she said, talking to herself, “if this don't

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beat me! Norman is too bad to live with, and Clappy
is too good. It does give feelings, though, to hear
my child talk that way — Norman Dunn's boy too!
Where did he larn it? He has never been justly
one of us; but now he's clean changed. I felt as
underval'ed as if a judge was talking to me. Well,
well, it did go to the spot. He wants to do right;
he wants to be fit to live with good folks; he must
not stay with us then!” The poor woman began to
cry heartily. She was a mother; and ignorant, abject,
drunken, drabbish, as she was, sunken to the
very lowest depths of sordid wretchedness, there was
yet that in her heart which answered to her boy's
heaven-born desire for something better than his evil
home. God's image is never wholly effaced from the
soul. No man or woman is irreclaimable.

Twilight was breathing its sweet peace over the
earth; the last lingering birds were singing their
good-night notes; and every woodland thing was
giving out its odor, when Clapham, with a string of
game over his shoulder, came down the Rhigi road.
This game was converted into a savory stew, and

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awaiting Norman, when, late in the evening, he
came home from the Furnace. He was silent and
sulky, and had evidently been drinking. There was,
in those days, always more or less drinking going
on among the loungers about the Furnace Tavern.
The supper was such as sportsmen most relish, but
no word of praise did he bestow on it; and, when
Clapham fished up from the mess the quarters of a
large grey squirrel, and told him of the very spot
he found him, and how he treed him, Norman gave
no sign that he heard him. “You don't seem sharp
set,” said his wife; “I guess you've been feeding at
the Furance.”

“Feeding on air, then, for I have not eaten a
mouthful since breakfast.”

“Then dad has had a plenty of something else,
I guess,” said Massy to Clapham, with a wink — “what
takes the wire-edge off from hunger.”

“Guess again, mam. I have not drank the value
of half a pint to-day.”

“Well, then, I guess you had bad luck about the
rifle.”

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

“That's another of your eternal guesses. I've
bargained for it, and am to have possession when
I've paid ten dollars.”

“You pay ten dollars! That will be when the
sky falls, and we catch larks. Hey, Clappy?”

Clapham made no reply. He had a more than
usual dread of a storm, and, having satisfied his
hunger, he lay down on his forlorn little bed, and
was soon in a sleep that many a king would have
envied. Does the hearty boy, or the temperate laboring
man, who lies down to sweet sleep, know
what a blessing is “this chief nourisher at life's
feast”? Surely labor is no evil, plain fare is none,
if they bring with them a good which no money and
no greatness can buy.

Norman did not sleep. He did not close his eyes.
Poverty must have the attending angel, a good conscience;
it cannot alone bring sleep. Clapham was
dreaming now of little Lucy. He saw again the
plaited ruffle of her night dress, around her white
bosom, the rose-buds lying on it, and a smile on
those pretty lips. Then he was with Harry, on

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Rhigi, dashing through the brook, or watching the
game. Suddenly, it seemed to him that Harry grasped
his arm. He awoke. It was not Harry, but his father,
who said, “Hush, Clap; it's me. What are you so
scared for? Get up. Don't wake mam; let her snore
her soul out.”

“Why! what is the matter, father?”

“Nothing. Do as I bid you. Dress you, put your
cap on, and come out with me.”

“It is not yet day.”

“No, nor won't be this three hours; mind me,
and be still about it.”

Clapham augured no good from this movement
of his father. He knew too well the object of his
night-prowlings, and he had resolved never again to be
the companion of them. “I am sleepy, father,” he
said; “I was awake all last night, and I don't want
to get up.”

“Remember our bargain,” replied his father. “Remember
your promise. You're bound. Come, come
along.”

Clapham rose, dressed, and followed Norman.

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After going a little way towards the village, he
made a dead stop, and said, “Now, father, I'll tell
you what it is. I have been thinking a good deal
lately, and I have determined to make an end of
this night-work. I'm tired on it. I hate it.” His
father seized him by the collar; but Clapham, undaunted,
added, “I won't do it.”

Norman stood for a moment, glaring fiercely at
the boy, his hand still grasping his collar. Clapham
did not flinch; he stood as firmly braced as if he were
a match for the tall, strong man; and the spirit of
the boy, even in that slight and powerless frame,
awed, for a moment, the bad man.

The moon was in her second quarter. There
was a strong south wind, and clouds scudding over
the sky. At this moment they rolled off the moon,
and it shone brightly in Clapham's face. It was
deadly pale, but calm and determined.

Norman hesitated; his eye fell. A spirit good and
strong, a spirit of truth, was looking out of the boy's
clear eye.

Norman's tone changed. “Now, Clap,” he said,

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

what for are you making this fuss? I have only told
you to come along with me. One person may lead a
horse to the water, you know, but it takes two to make
him drink. Keep quiet, can't you? till I ask you to
do something more than walk down to the Furnace
with me. I'm after that rifle, and if I ain't down
there by daylight, I lose it. There's one of them
New York sparks that's up here a gunning. He's
out afore the sun is up. Bill Haskins says he told
him about the rifle, and he said he'd go down and see
it this morning early, and I mean to be ahead on him.”

“O, if that's all, father!” said Clapham, cheerfully.
“You've come to your milk, have you? Make
tracks a little faster, then, will you?” On they
went. The path they were in passed Davis's house
at the distance of a few rods. When at the point
nearest to it, another path diverged from it, and led
directly to Davis's door-step. Into this path Norman
turned, and walked on rapidly ahead of Clapham. They
were within a few yards of the house when Clapham's
heart sank. He caught his father by the sleeve,
and, said “Father, what are you coming here for?”

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

“Hush!” said Norman, in a low tone, that went
like a sharp whistle through the boy's head. And
he half carried, half dragged Clapham along, till they
stood at the only window of that consecrated bed-room,
at the very spot where Clapham had lain on the
ground the preceding night. It was a small sliding
window, and not secured by any fastening whatever.
“In there, in a bureau drawer, — you know just where,”
whispered Norman, “is a purse. I must have it, and
you must get it. No holding back now.” He softly
drew the window open. “Come, snake in, and done
with it.”

“I'll die first,” answered Clapham.

“No!” muttered Norman, with a horrid oath.
“You do it, or Harry Davis dies.” He drew a knife
from beneath his coat, and, Clapham still immovable,
he added, “I swear I'll kill him with this knife if
you don't do as I bid you.”

“Father! father!” said Clapham, laying both hands
on his father's arm.

“I swear I will,” repeated Norman. “I will, if
the business is not done as I bid you. If you speak

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

a loud word, or make a breath of noise to wake him, I
will break open the door, and do it for him and
the gal too. I had as lief as stick a pig, and then
burn the house down; and who's the wiser? I have
determined on't aforehand. Will you mind me now?”

Clapham knew his father's savage temper, his iron
will. He fully believed he would do as he threatened;
and the image of Harry and of Annie murdered—
murdered by his father's hand — was before
him. He listened — he heard no human sound. He
looked around on every side; there was no human
creature stirring — no help. “Will you do it? Speak,”
said Norman, pointing his knife to the door.

Clapham, forced to the decision, said, “I will;”
and he mounted to the window. The opening was
but just large enough to admit his body. As he
slid down into the room, his foot touched a footstool
that had been left standing there, and, turning
over on the bare floor, it made a loud noise. Norman's
head was at the open window. “Damnation!”
he muttered in a suppressed voice.

“I did not mean it,” whispered Clapham, who was

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

now fully persuaded that his friends' safety depended
on his executing well his father's purpose. He heard
a movement in the next room. The sleepers were
awakened. He stood stock still, and heard Annie
ask, “What is that noise, Harry?”

“I don't know. Shall I jump up and see?” replied
Harry.

“Shall I give him notice, or what shall I do?”
thought Clapham, when Annie again spoke, saying,
“No, don't get up, Harry. It's no matter. It's only
Tom.”

“Yes. It must be. The window was open when
little Lucy was lying there, and we all forgot to shut
it; so puss has jumped in.”

“You think it certainly is the cat, Harry?”

“Yes, Annie; but, cat or no cat, there's nothing to
hurt us; so go to sleep, Annie.”

“I will; but when I am asleep, don't you get up
and leave me, Harry.” She spoke drowsily; and he
answered, “Never fear. I shall be asleep myself.”

Cold chills were running over Clapham. Those
dear, familiar voices; the danger so near to them;

[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]

the blessed memory of that morning when he had
stood on that very spot, and looked on little Lucy for
the last time, — altogether paralyzed him, till his father,
in a voice, though not above a whisper, expressing
rage and impatience, said, “Do it.” Clapham drew
open the drawer in which he knew all Mrs. Davis's
little store was deposited, took out the purse, threw
it to his father, reclosed the drawer, and withdrew
through the window. Harry was listening. The partition
was so thin that he could scarcely persuade
himself that he did not hear a drawer open and shut.
He thought of his mother's money, and was impulsively
springing up, when Annie, aroused too, caught
him by the arm, saying, “Stop a minute.” Before the
minute passed, all was again quiet, and Norman and
Clapham were out of hearing, and, in a little while,
Harry and Annie were again asleep. Norman silently
strode homeward. Clapham followed, his heart as
heavy as lead. When they were within a few paces
of their own door, Norman stopped, and turning short
round upon Clapham, he said, “I'll tell you the case,
Clap. You've got some new notions into you, and it's

[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]

all nonsense. There's nobody cares for us, and why
should we care for any body? I ask no favors, and
I'll grant none. As we brew, so we must bake.
As we've begun, so we must end. Nobody is friends
to us, and we'll be friends to nobody.”

“I have friends,” said Clapham, “and I'll be true
to them; and if I live another day —”

“Hush up, square!” interrupted his father, “and
hear me out; as sure as you blab, I'll be the death
of you.”

“I don't care a straw,” answered Clapham; “I
wish I were dead, and under ground, now; and, if
killing me is the worst you can do, you are welcome.
Now, hear me. I swear, — not as you do,
but as the folks swear in court, — I swear, and hold
up my hand to it, so help me God, come what come
may, I'll tell the truth.”

“You will, will you?” answered Norman, his voice
trembling with rage; “then we'll see which will be
master. I'll swear — and hold my hand up to it, too—
if you let on, by word or sign, of what we've
done to-night, I'll burn down Davis's house in the

[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]

dead of night, and all the folks in it; I will, so
help me —.” The name he would have impiously
invoked stuck in his throat. “Are you afeard of
me now?” he added.

“I am! I am!” replied Clapham; and the poor
boy threw himself on the ground, and cried with a
sense of utter helplessness and misery. Norman
seized him, raised him to his feet, and dragged him
onward to their hut. “Be still,” he said; “shut up;
go to bed, and go to sleep. If you mind me, all
is right.” Clapham stumbled in, and on to his straw
bed; and, burying his face in it, he sobbed till,
nature overpowered, he fell asleep.

Norman did not sleep. His mind was busy with
plans to evade justice and secure his ill-gotten gains.
After revolving various plans, he determined that he
would be early at the furnace, buy the rifle, “get
over the line,” and go roaming. Bad as he was,
Clapham had made some impression on him; and
he was willing, if he could provide for his own
safety, to bear the imputation of the theft and save
Clapham. As his passion subsided, there rose a

[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]

sense of his boy's courage and fidelity. “I never
feared nothing,” thought Norman; “but, as he stood
there with his hand raised, he made my heart beat.
All the witnesses on earth, swearing agin me in
court, could not do it.”

p348-131 CHAPTER VII. A TOTAL ECLIPSE.

“The sheriff and the watch are at the door. They are come to
search the house. Shall I let them in?”

[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]

Mrs. Davis and her husband returned earlier
than they were expected on the following
morning. Deputy Sheriff Parley, from whom she had
hired her conveyance, had told her that he was
obliged to take some debtors to the county jail on
that day, and he should be glad to have his wagon
as early as she could return. Mrs. Davis was glad
to have this plea with her husband, who was habitually
a late sleeper. “It was natural to the Davises,”
he said. She was saddened by her recent
loss, and desired to relieve her mind by plunging
into her usual occupations. She roused Davis before
the day dawned; and, just as the sun arose, she
stopped at the sheriff's gate to inform him of her
return. He was a bustling, prompt man; and, being

[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]

ready to proceed to Canaan, whence he was to take
his prisoners, he jumped into the wagon, intending to
take possession of it at Davis's door. When they
arrived there, Mrs. Davis asked the sheriff to wait
till she could bring the money from the house to
pay him for the “team.” The children were still
asleep. She sighed heavily as she passed them,
thinking that she should never again see little Lucy
lying by them, and proceeded into the bed-room.
“I am sure I did not leave that window wide open,”
thought the careful mother, as the damp, morning
breeze blew on her. She opened the drawer, and was
struck with its confusion. The things were upturned,
and the purse not in its place. She uttered
an exclamation, and involuntarily called to Harry.
He sprang out of bed, wrapped a sheet round him,
and saying, “Dear, dear mother, are you here?” he
was in a moment at her side. Annie followed.
The loss was communicated, and Harry at once recurred
to what had happened in the night, and
related it. “There had been a thief in the house:
who could it be?” Mrs. Davis called in the sheriff,

[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]

and he, with official coolness, began an investigation.
He looked outside the window for tracks. The ground
was hard trodden there, and showed none. “The
window,” he remarked, “would scarcely admit a
man;” but, on measuring it, he concluded that one
narrow in the shoulders might get in. But who
could it be? No depredation of the sort had ever
been committed in Salisbury; and, though there was
scarcely a house in the place with a fastening on
its doors, none had been entered. There had been
pilfering of meat, hung in outer sheds and henroosts,
but they had all been traced to Norman Dunn,
and he could not get half his breadth into that window.
“To be sure,” added the sheriff, “there's his
boy, Clapham.”

“Clapham!” interrupted Harry, “it is not he!”

“No, no! indeed it is not!” echoed Mrs. Davis
and Annie.

“I do not believe it is,” said Sheriff Parley;
“the boy is a changed boy, regular and quiet.”

While he spoke, the sheriff was shuffling his foot
backward and forward: in doing so, he hit it against

[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]

the overset footstool, and removed it. Harry naturally
cast his eye down, and just peeping from beneath
it, he saw a pocket-handkerchief. He knew it instantly.
It was the one Annie had given to Clapham. The
blood rushed up to the very roots of his hair. His
first impulse was to snatch and conceal it; but, before
he could make a movement, or think another thought,
the sheriff, who had seen his change of color, and
followed the direction of his eye, caught it up, and
shook it out, saying, “What is this? Here's a clew,
may be. `C. D.' — Clapham Dunn! The secret is
out!”

Mrs. Davis sat down, trembling. Annie turned
pale, and Davis said, “Yes; out, fully!”

“O, no, father!” said Harry; “you don't know
Clapham. You mistake, sir,” addressing the sheriff.
“Mother, Clapham was here all those two last days:
could he not have dropped it then?”

Mrs. Davis made no reply. A conviction that
Clapham was the guilty one, was stealing over her,
and her heart sank within her. She recalled his
standing by her when she took out the money to

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

send for little Lucy's medicine. She said nothing till
the sheriff asked, “What was the situation of the room
when you left it, Mrs. Davis? Was it cleared up?”

“Yes.”

“Did you put it to rights yourself? Don't be
scared. You are not on oath.”

“That makes no difference. I must speak the
truth, though the poor boy should seem condemned by
it. I did put the room in order before I went away.”

“Might not the footstool have been turned over,
and you not seen it?”

“Yes, mother, I know it might!” exclaimed Harry.
Mrs. Davis shook her head. “Do you remember any
thing distinctly about the footstool?” pursued the
sheriff.

“Yes. It's little Lucy's. She always sat on it;
and for fear something might happen to it, I came
back after I went out to get into the wagon, and brought
it in from the kitchen, and placed it under the window,
where the table had stood with the coffin on it.”

“There is no need of further investigation, sheriff,”
interposed Davis. “I don't wish my family to shield

[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]

that bad boy any more. I always mistrusted him.
You know, mother, I never approved of Harry keeping
company with him. What's the next step, sheriff?”
The sheriff, after a moment's consideration, said that
he thought they had best jump into the wagon at once,
and proceed to Norman's; and Davis suggested that,
as they must call at Squire Baner's on their way, for
a search warrant, it would be best to get his boys
to go up with them, as Norman was an ugly customer
when he was mad. The prudent sheriff assented
to the propriety of this reënforcement, and they were
proceeding, when Harry said, “You can take but one
of the Baners, for I must go. I must hear the truth
from Clapham.”

“The truth from Clapham!” echoed Davis; “that's
a good one!—the truth from the thief.”

“I must go, sir,” replied Harry, with a calm decision,
that rather staggered his father; and he said,
winking at the same time slyly at Sheriff Parley,
“Well, it's the sheriff's wagon. What say you, Mr.
Sheriff?”

“I say that I can't take a supernumerary. I shall

[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]

take but one of the Baners. We must drive full
speed, or the bird will have flown. Don't put your
finger in the pie, Harry Davis. It's a bad mess,—
depend on't.”

Harry begged, he entreated; but the sheriff was
resolute, and drove away at full speed. He was much
edified on the way by sundry remarks of Davis on the
impossibility of women taking care of money after
they had earned it, and on the obvious advantage of
their at once paying it over to their husbands!

We return to Norman's hut. He had awakened
from a short sleep, had watched in the day, and was
awaiting its advance impatiently. He feared to excite
suspicion if he should appear at the Furnace at an
unusually early hour, and he counted the minutes till
he could go, secure the rifle, and be off. Then he
cared not how much he was suspected or accused;
but, above all things, he dreaded confinement in a jail,
It was as intolerable to him as to a Pawnee.

Clapham was sleeping profoundly. It will be remembered
that the night preceding the theft he had lain
outside little Lucy's window. It had been one long

[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]

vigil, filled with new thoughts, pure affections, and
right purposes. How different had been the last night!
Sad, but not to the poor boy guilty. He had resolved
that as soon as morning came, and his father had gone,
he would go to the Davises, and make a full disclosure,
come what come would; and, feeling relieved by this
determination, he sank into a deep sleep.

The sheriff was obliged to leave the wagon a quarter
of a mile from Norman Dunn's, and ascend the mountain
with his companions by a foot-path. Norman
heard their footsteps, and was instantly aware of the
threatened danger. He had but one moment to consider,
and he obeyed the first suggestion of his evil
mind. He took the purse from under his pillow, and
thrust it through a hole of Clapham's ticking, amidst
the straw, and returned to his bed, where he affected
to be awakened from sound sleep. Clapham was
awakened too. He recognized the sheriff. He started
at the sight of Davis. He well knew the quest they
must be on, and he drew the ragged coverlet over
his head, and lay still.

Norman, having demanded, with the air of lord of

[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]

the castle, their errand, and told them, with an uncon
cerned tone, to “proceed,” kept up an under-current
of muttering. He thought people that did not meddle
nor make in the village might be left in quiet on
the mountain. Davis's money! Davis's was the last
house in the county he should go to to look for money.
Where did Tom Davis get it? Selling Self-churning
Churns! or Independent Washing Machines! He had
not been to Tom Davis's this ten years.

“But your boy has,” said Davis, “and we'll trouble
him to get up;” hoping to quiet the slurs which he felt
diverted his companions.

“Come, my lad,” he said, shaking Clapham; “up
with you. You are smart enough when you are
crawling into people's windows, at the dead of night.
Clapham uncovered his pale face, rose, and put on his
clothes. He looked miserable, but any thing but
guilty; and every one instinctively felt what a contrast
he was to the loathsome scene about him, and above
all to his father, whose eyes were blood-shot, his face
bloated, and black with a beard of a month's growth, and
his nose, like Bardolph's, “an everlasting bonfire light.”

[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]

“We must make a thorough search here,” said the
sheriff, “for here, as the children say, we are getting
hot.” He shook out the bed-clothes, and, saying it
would not hurt the musty straw to give it an airing,
he took the bed to the door, tore it open, and shook
it out. The purse rung, as it fell heavily on the
door-step. “Pretty well done, for a beginner!” he
said, picking up the purse, and then holding it up.
“There's one witness against you, my lad;” and then,
drawing out from his pocket Clapham's handkerchief,
“And here's another!” he added. “Truly, you are a
chip of the old block; though he don't look like it,
does he?” he added, in a lowered voice, appealing to
the standers-by. There was compassion in his voice,—
a compassion it was impossible not to feel. Clapham's
cheeks and lips were bloodless, but his eye
looked steadily up. “Give me that handkerchief,” he
said, faintly. It was given to him. It had been
steeped with tears of sympathy and love — tears for
little Lucy. Bitter tears now drenched it as he covered
his face, staggered against the wall, and said, in
a voice but just audible, “Ruined, ruined!”

[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]

Massy now crawled out of her lair, and began
crying aloud. “Why, Clapham! Clapham!” she said,
“I never would have thought it of you. Why, sheriff,
though he does belong to us, there never was an
honester boy. Clappy never stole in his life, but
when he made him. 'Twas only two days ago he refused
to spend a shilling for me, just 'cause I took it
out of his pocket.” This declaration made no impression
at the time, but it was afterwards remembered in
Clapham's favor. “Don't,” she continued, “don't, Mr.
Sheriff, snap him up. You've got the money; what
more do you want? He's young to shut up in a jail.
Them that's put there always comes out worse than
they go in. Norman always did.”

“Keep your breath to cool your porridge, old
woman,” said Norman. “Did you ever see a cat let a
mouse go? When you see that, you'll see a sheriff
open his clutch. Come, clear out; I don't want any
more powwowing here.”

The sheriff ordered Massy to tie up all the boy's
clothes, as it was not likely he would return very soon.
Clapham inquired whither he was to be conveyed.

[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]

The sheriff condescended to inform him that he was
going to transport some debtors from Canaan to the
prison at L—, and he should take him there for commitment.
“Can't I see Harry Davis before I go?”
asked Clapham, beseechingly.

“I will take upon me to answer that question,”
answered Davis, with an air of great authority. “You
cannot. You have had a little too much of seeing
Harry Davis.”

“Does Harry believe I stole the purse?”

“To be sure he does.”

“How can he? He does not know the purse is
found.”

“But he heard you in the night; he found the
window open; he saw the handkerchief; and he knows
you.”

Clapham said not another word. It was to him as
if there were no more light in the world.

p348-143 CHAPTER VIII A CHANGE OF SCENE.

“Man proposes. God disposes.”

[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]

The events we have related occurred in the month
of September. They had given considerable notoriety
to the Davises, and brought them into the eye
of the little public of Salisbury. Mrs. Davis was too
well known, and too much respected there, to be condemned
for having permitted an intercourse between
her children and Clapham Dunn. The common remarks
were, that “her goodness was imposed on;” that
“she never would believe evil of any body;” that “it
was well for her that her son Harry was such an uncommon
boy;” that “he was one of the few in the world
who could touch pitch and not be defiled.” Poor Clapham!
No thought of pity or charity wandered towards
him, except (an honorable exception for him) from the

[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]

bosoms of that little family who best knew him. Many a
prayer arose from Mrs. Davis's secret chamber that “the
lost might be found;” and Harry and Annie had many
a talk together of a hundred instances of Clapham's honesty,
and a thousand of his good-heartedness, and they
generally concluded with expressing a hope that there
was some unfathomable secret that would some day explain
away the proofs, they could not openly controvert,
of Clapham's guilt, and a conviction that he was not, at
any rate, so guilty as he seemed. If only Mr. Lyman
had been in town, he might have done something; he
was always a good friend to Clapham; he would at least
have given him an opportunity to speak to a friend.
That this was due to him, Harry so vehemently insisted,
that he persuaded his father, who was going through
L—, on his way to Washington, to take a letter
from him to Clapham. In this letter he expressed,
most affectionately, his grief for what had happened;
his mother's, and Annie's. He said they were not
willing to believe any thing against him, and that what
other people called proofs, they only called mysterious,
unexplained circumstances. “I have believed in you,

[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]

Clapham,” he said. “I yet hope. Write the truth to
me. You cannot write yourself. If there is no one
in the jail who will write for you, send for the minister
of L—. I dare say he is a good man, — ministers
almost always are, — and he will write for you.”

Had poor Clapham received this letter, what a
healing balm it would have been to his wounded spirit!
What a motive it would have given for effort and perseverance!
But he was destined never to see it.
Davis, whose improvidence and carelessness were the
bane of all dependence on him, put Harry's letter where
he usually carried his business papers, — in the crown of
his hat, — and lost it. Day after day, Harry hoped and
sighed for an answer, but no answer came; and, when
Davis returned from Washington, not liking to confess
he had lost the letter, he asked Harry, carelessly, if
he had received an answer from Clapham; and, on
Harry replying, “No,” he merely said, “I thought not!”
His morality was as slipshod as his other qualities.

The country “season” was now closing, and Mrs.
Dawson and the New York party who had delayed
their return to the city to enjoy October in the country,

[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]

were packing for their departure. Mrs. Dawson had
taken a great liking to Harry Davis. She had been
struck with his intelligence, his good manners, and his
manliness. She found he had profited by a very good
common school education; that he had taken advantage
of the opportunities of reading, afforded by
the diffusion of cheap publications; that he had wisely
taken advice of his cultivated friend, Mr. Lyman,
and, rejecting trash, read only books that are books.

One of the greatest men of letters England has
produced — Gibbon — declares that his love of reading
was more to him than all the rest of his education.
Harry Davis did not expect to be a man of letters.
He was not an ambitious boy; but he was early
taught that, in whatever condition he might find himself,
a well-stored mind would be imperishable riches,
contributing to his respectability and happiness.

Mrs. Dawson kindly called on Mrs. Davis soon
after little Lucy's burial; and, introducing what she
rightly thought a most consolatory topic, she said,
“Your son Harry is a remarkable boy, Mrs. Davis.”

“He is a good child, ma'am.”

[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]

“That he is. I have been much struck with seeing
him so cheerfully fetch and carry our clothes to your
wash. Some boys would have let their mothers do it;
but your son seems to know that the true honor lies
in performing the service for his mother.”

“He has always taken pleasure in serving me,” said
Mrs. Davis, with a smile of sweet satisfaction.

“Well, he will be rewarded, Mrs. Davis. He may
be president of the United States, yet.”

“I hope not.”

“Hope not?”

“I mean, Mrs. Dawson, that I don't wish my son
to be ambitious; that I think it is the fault and folly
of our people to be all striving for something beyond
them. There is so much said now-a-days about people
`going ahead,' that they are all pushing forward — looking
beyond — grasping at something they cannot quite
reach, instead of being contented with what they have—
building castles in the air, instead of raising a comfortable
dwelling on solid ground. No, Mrs. Dawson,
I am sincere when I say that my highest ambition is
to see my son an intelligent farmer or mechanic, a

[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]

good member of society, but not a doctor or lawyer,
and, above all things, not by trade a politician.”

“I admire your moderation, Mrs. Davis, but I confess
I look for something a little better for Harry.”

Mrs. Dawson had conceived certain plans for
Harry. She was a woman of unbounded sympathy,
and the most diffusive kindness; but, we must confess,
with rather more zeal than judgment.

“Your ideas are excellent, Mrs. Davis,” she resumed;
“but Harry is such an uncommon boy that
we may expect something a little out of the common
way for him. Why, Mr. Lyman says he draws very
nearly as well as he does. Who knows but he might
make a great painter?”

“O Mrs. Dawson, that's not to be thought of. He
draws well because he has taken a deal of pains.
Even Mr. Lyman, though he is so fond of him, says
he has no genius.”

“How would you like to have him a merchant?”

“A merchant! He would have small capital to
begin on.”

“That is nothing. Most of our rich men have

[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]

begun with no other capital than enterprise, industry,
and good character. Have you any plan for Harry?”

Mrs. Davis had. She was at that moment awaiting
an answer from a respectable carpenter, a friend of
hers settled in L—. The answer came, and was unfavorable.
The carpenter had no vacant place. Mrs.
Dawson renewed the proposition for a mercantile
career. She proposed that Harry should enter a retail
shop in New York. At first, Mrs. Davis shrank from
the temptations of city life, and uncertainties of trade.
But Mrs. Dawson urged so earnestly, entered into all
Harry's future with such friendly and flattering zeal,
that both mother and son were persuaded to think of
the project. Two or three other failures to obtain
places for which Mrs. Davis had applied, occurred at
this time; and finally it was agreed, when Mrs. Dawson
left Salisbury, that she should make application
and report her success.

Soon after her departure, a summons came. Harry
had as neat an outfit as could be procured by twenty
dollars, eked out by his mother's judgment and skill in
buying this and “making that do” — twenty dollars

[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]

left her of her earnings, after they had been recovered
at Dunn's. Davis took credit to himself for leaving
her so much. “The rest,” he said, “would barely
take him to Washington and back; but he should get
his patent, and then he should show his wife that a
man could earn a hundred dollars where a woman
could ten. But,” he concluded, “that is not their
fault, poor creatures! There's a difference by nature
in men and women, that's a fact!”

p348-151 CHAPTER IX. HARRY'S FIRST LETTER FROM NEW YORK.

“He carried in his face the open sesame to door and heart.”

[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]

“My dear Mother:—

“Firstly, I enclose the two dollars
you gave me for travelling expenses. I met
Mr. Lyman on board the steamboat, and he gave me
five dollars, which he said he owed me for my aid in
the drawings he made for the New York architect.
Fine! After the wet time of parting was over, I was
in luck. Mr. Porter would not take any thing for
bringing me to the boat, — thirty good miles, — because
I helped him pick up apples one day after Jesse Porter
broke his arm. I was pretty hungry; but hearing they
charged half a dollar for supper, I bought some
crackers and cheese before I went on board. So I
came to the city for fifty cents. Such bustle and

[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]

confusion as there was on the wharf where we landed!
I made my way through it as well as I could, and
inquired the way to Chambers Street, not far, No. —,
where Mrs. Dawson lives. I saw the windows were
all closed, and so I sat my box of clothes down, and
sat on it. I began to feel both lonesome and hungry;
nothing seemed like morning — the fresh, beautiful
morning of the country. The sun shining on
chimneys and brick walls, instead of hill-tops and
sparkling waters; not a solitary bird singing; not
even a cock crowing. After a while, milkmen began
to appear. There was a different one for almost every
house, and each made a horrid outcry; and, after
a while, a woman came out of a cellar, and took a
measure of milk. Though they live in great houses,
this seems poverty to me. By and by, there came a
lively little driver with baskets full of bread. I remembered
Dr. Franklin's account of his buying a loaf
of bread and eating it as he walked through the
streets of Philadelphia, when first he went there;
and, though I do not expect to eat bread in kings'
houses, as he afterwards did, I thought there would

[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]

be no harm in following his example; so I bought a
sixpenny loaf of bread, and, with a draught of milk
from a milkman, I made a good breakfast. You see,
mother, I am determined to make my money last, if
possible, till I can earn more, and not call on you or
trouble our kind friend Mrs. Dawson. As soon as
her blinds were opened, I rung. The man who opened
the door smiled when I asked for Mrs. Dawson, and
said she would rise in about two hours. How long
those two hours were! But when they were over,
and I was summoned to her, she was as kind as ever.
She told me she had procured for me an excellent
place in a retail shop in Broadway, where, if I did as
well as my employer expected from her account of
me, I should receive enough, even the first year, to
pay my board. Before going there, she advised me to
secure a boarding-place; she had made inquiries for
this, and gave me references, and off I set. I went
from one to another. At one there was a multitude
of clerks, and a coarse, slatternly housekeeper; at
another there was a set of low traders. I went in
while they were at dinner, and a very slight

[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]

observation of their vulgar manners and conversation convinced
me they were not associates that I should
relish or you would approve. The next was full,
and the last was too filthy for any thing. As I
came off the steps quite discouraged, there was a
little fat lady walking before me in a gray silk
gown, and a white shawl, looking as neat as a new
pin. Two dirty shavers of boys had filled a squirt-gun
in the gutter, and had taken aim at the lady's
nice gown. I sprang upon them just in time,
wrenched the squirt-gun from their hands, and sent
it off out of sight. They began kicking and bawling;
and she, turning round, learned the mischief
they had intended. She was very thankful to me,
very good natured, and talkative. She told me the
gown was new, just come home, and she had put it
on for a wedding-visit, — a visit to her niece's husband's
first cousin; it was her best gown, too; she
had heard of the boys playing such tricks; boys
would be boys, &c., &c. O, mother dear! her
tongue goes by machinery. (Not father's!) She had
such a friendly way, and did not seem a very great

[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]

lady, and asked me so many questions, — my name,
where I came from, &c., — that I thought I would tell
her what I was in search of. This silenced her
for a moment; then she said, “Come home with me,
and we'll see what can be done. I'll talk to Plenty,—
Plenty is my sister, — and perhaps — but I won't
raise expectations yet. We live in Mercer Street,
retired and central too.”

“We were soon at her house, — a small, twostory
wooden building, that looks like a mere crack
between the two tall brick houses on each side of
it. I followed her into a little front room. There
was sitting an oldish lady, taking care of a little
blind child. The child uttered a cry of delight at
hearing the sound of my new friend's voice, returned
her half a dozen hasty kisses, and called her `aunty
Peace;' and the old lady, into whose hands she put
a piece of wedding-cake, said, `O, thank'ee; tell us all
about the wedding.' `Directly, directly,' replied my
new friend; and, bidding me sit down, and giving me
a generous bit of the wedding-cake, she bustled out
of the room, saying she would return in a few

[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]

minutes. She did, and brought her sister with her, —
her twin sister, — and Peace and Plenty stood before
me, looking almost precisely alike, fat and full, smiling
and abounding — two cornucopias. They could have
been called nothing but Peace and Plenty, or Milk
and Honey. The only difference I could see between
them was, that Peace had a dimple in one cheek only,
and Plenty in both; that Peace wore a `front,' and
Plenty her own gray hair. However, I suspect the
`front' was put on for high dress. They are droll
looking, but such pleasant faces! Nice, complete sets
of white teeth; and well they are so, for their mouths
are never both shut. Their eyes are rather small,
but bright and warm as sunshine in June, and their
cheeks are rather fat, — but there is not a wrinkle
near them, but a bright color on them. I did not
expect to find such people in a city, so kind, so plain,
so as if they were content to be themselves, and did
not aim to be like any body else.

“Well, dear mother, we had a great deal of talk,
which I would write, but have not time or paper.
The amount of it was that (suppose me to be

[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]

blushing) Miss Peace was pleased with my appearance;
that she felt moved towards me by my saving her
new gown and shawl; that, as soon as she knew my
wants, it occurred to her that, if Plenty felt as she
did, they could board me. Their house was pretty
full, to be sure; the old lady and her grandchild,
Nannie, occupied the back room, Peace and Plenty
the front chamber, her three nieces the back one,
and there was nothing left but a little place over the
entry, that they used for a clothes-press; but they
might take the clothes out, and put me in; I should
have to stand on my bed to dress, but I could keep
my clothes in boxes under it, and there was room to
put my arm between the wall and bed to get them,
and I could hang some things up, and it would be
handy reaching. I did make one suggestion, mother—
Where should I put a wash-basin?

“`I like that,' said Peace, and Plenty nodded her
approbation; indeed, I find it's always a voice and an
echo, no matter which speaks first.

“`There's a nice little closet for washing, in the
area,' she said; `it has a window, and room for a

[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]

wash-stand and a small tub; and there's a lock on the
door, and you shall have it all to yourself.'

“Now, but two points remained to be settled.
Miss Peace would make suitable inquiries about me
of Mrs. Dawson, because it was customary. It was
enough for her to look in my face; (blushing again,
dear mother.) The other point was the price of my
board. `The cost,' she thought, `would be about two
dollars; and her profits,' she said, with a smile, `she
would get out of little services I could render. It
would be handy having one mankind in the house.'

“Two dollars I can pay, as Holson has promised
me a salary of a hundred dollars a year, with two
weeks' vacation. So, mother, I felt very happy. Miss
Peace went with me to Mrs. Dawson's, without any
delay; and, after a short private interview, they were
both perfectly satisfied. Mrs. Dawson had heard of
the twin sisters, and was rejoiced that Providence had
directed me to so good a home; and my new friend's
face sparkled all over, at the good account our kind
benefactress had given of us. In addition to the low
board, — for I find it is very low here, — the sisters

[figure description] Page 150.[end figure description]

have my washing done in the house. They have one
servant, and they say, that on washing-days they will
do a little more for her, and it will not come hard to
any one. It is all `live and let live' here. Their
nieces are three orphan girls; one but two years older
than little Lucy, whom I am to carry to school and
fetch home, when the days are stormy; one eight,
and one fourteen, thinner, more city looking than
Annie, — I mean in point of health, — but as unaffected
and frank as Annie herself; and, being just about
Annie's age, she seems very natural to me, and I
think we shall be quite friends. Her name is Mary
Hale.

“After getting all things settled in my press-room,
I went to Mrs. Dawson, who wished to introduce me
to Mr. Holson. He was very civil to our friend; but,
I must confess, I did not like his looks; and his manner
seemed to me both sly and fawning. He spoke
of the very uncommon terms on which I was coming;
of my rare good fortune — being a raw hand — in
obtaining a salary; said I must thank Mrs. Dawson
for it; Mrs. Dawson was one of his best customers —

[figure description] Page 151.[end figure description]

hoped she would continue so; said he should expect
extra service for such extra salary; mentioned some
shops where no salary was paid, and others where
clerks paid for their places; and said, in rather a
lower voice, — still I heard him, — that dress was very
important to the impression of the shop; that clerks
should have a fashionable air; that my clothes were
country-made; that it was a disadvantage; but, for
Mrs. Dawson's sake, he would put up with a great deal.

“I was a little provoked, mother, but I tried to
remember that you had told me, again and again, not
always to expect smooth sailing; that life was a sort
of checker-work, and that I must be grateful for the
good, and make the best of the evil, and that what
seems evil to us often turns out, in the end, to be
good, &c., &c. I have far more good than evil in my
fortune. Nothing can exceed Mrs. Dawson's kindness;
and then my luck in my boarding-house! Mother, it
will be a home to me. Mr. Holson told me to come
to his shop in the evening, and he would give me his
instructions. The clerks surveyed me superciliously.
I heard the words `shabby,' and `down east,' and one

[figure description] Page 152.[end figure description]

of them was ill-bred enough to touch his own neckcloth
and point to mine, and, at the same time, wink
to his companion. Mother, I felt mortified, plagued;
I am ashamed to confess it, but I did. I know
there was a want of manliness and independence in
this, and I am ashamed of it; but things look so
different in New York and in Salisbury! When I
left home, I felt as if you had provided every thing
I could want, — as if I were a little too smart, if any
thing, — and now! — But I am determined not to
give up to it. I will not sacrifice a principle to an
appearance. I will not make myself one of the
`clothes people!'

“While I was at tea, Mrs. Dawson's servant
brought me a note enclosing fifteen dollars — a present
from her to enable me, she says, to present myself
more acceptably in Mr. Holson's shop.

“This is very, very kind, very generous. But,
mother, I shall not accept it. In the first place, it
would be going right in the face of your instructions—
`I must depend on my own exertions.

[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]

Charities are for the helpless. A dependence on
gifts, if it does not make us mean and cringing,
does make us helpless.' This I learned from you;
and, from my own reflection, I am sure I shall respect
myself more a month hence, if I go before those
impertinent young men in my plain, rather coarsish
country clothes. So I'll face it out like a man.

“I spent the afternoon in walking round the city,
and in looking at the beautiful fountains. There
are three large ones, and are to be many more.
The water is thrown sixty feet into the air, and then
falls back in showers of jewels, as it seems when
the sun shines. I sat down in Union Park, and
looked and listened, till I fancied I felt the cool
breath of Rhigi by the brook-side. These fountains
in the city seem to me like a bit of lovely poetry
in a book of tiresome prose. They are a voice from
another land, a breath from home. I remained, sitting
near the fountain, refreshed and thoughtful. I
do not know whether it was dream or reverie, but I
was coming down Rhigi with Clapham; and then

[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]

we were all kneeling around dear little Lucy's bed,
and Clapham was with us. Suddenly I started up,
and saw the stars shining, and felt my cheeks wet
with the spray, or with tears, dear mother.”

p348-164 CHAPTER X. JAIL COMRADES.

“Is the boy of the wicked?”

[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]

Clapham was committed for trial by the justice at
L—. The sittings of the Court of Common
Pleas began the following week. He was instructed
that he might have counsel allowed him, and might
have the privilege, common to all criminals, of pleading
not guilty; but he was, at the same time, told that
the proofs were too strong against him to admit a
hope of escape, and was advised to plead guilty, and
gain favor by occasioning the least possible trouble.
No boy ever more dreaded being shut up in a jail,
but he was in a state of despair. He had lost, as
he believed, forever, the affection, so well earned, of
his beloved friends; he had lost every thing but his
self-respect. This was not gone, and it was so strongly

[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]

indicated in his upward, straightforward glance, in
the open expression of his face, and his quiet, and
almost dignified demeanor, that his counsel did not find
it difficult to get an abatement of the usual sentence
in like offences, and, instead of being sent to the
State Prison, he was remanded to the County Jail,
to remain there for two years, beginning with one
month's confinement in a dark cell.

It is a punishment almost too heavy to be borne,
to be, at any age, shut up in solitude and darkness;
but to this mountain boy, this free ranger over hill
and valley, who had lived with


“The mountain wind — most spiritual thing of all
“The wide earth knows,” —
to be thus caged in the growing time of youth, when
activity was the law of his nature, was most painful.
His hours dragged heavily. At first, the future was
all a blank to him. He shrank from it. It held out
no hope to him, no prospect of any thing pleasant
or inviting. The past was all. And over the past,
in spite of the evil that had attended it, there was
a golden light from the friendship of that blessed

[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]

little family that had encouraged and stimulated him.
He reviewed, again and again, his past life, and he
had infinite comfort in remembering many temptations
he had resisted, many good resolutions he had formed,
and kept; and, gradually, as his ideas became more
settled, he felt more patient. A great many things
he had heard Mrs. Davis say, and which, at the time,
made little impression, and which he had quite forgotten,
now recurred to his memory, and seemed to
come out in letters of light. “God does not see as
man sees!” “Despair and a good conscience don't
keep company.” “Trust in God, do right, and all
will come right.” These, and many others of her
good, familiar sayings, were on his horizon like the
first faint streaks of dawn, and, after the first throbbing
agony was past, he had many peaceful waking
hours. But, when he was asleep, owing to bad air
and want of exercise, he had horrid dreams. His
mother would seem to be lying dead-drunk upon him,
and he could not remove her. His father was dragging
him over stones, and through sloughs, and then he
would hear smothered cries of “Murder!” and “Fire!”

[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]

and awake in a cold sweat, and shivering with ague.
Once in a great while, he would have a sweet sleep,
and pleasant dream of fishing down Rhigi's sparkling
brook, and Annie would be standing with a basket of
berries beside him, and he would feel little Lucy's warm
kiss on his cheek. O, then how dreary the waking!

It seemed to Clapham, when he had passed one
day in that dark cell, that the month would never
come to an end; but it was soon gone — gone with
its record to Him who awardeth judgment; and most
happy for Clapham, that he had used some of these
hours for meditation, for penitence and prayer, and for
good resolutions against the day of freedom and outward
temptation.

The month was gone, and Clapham was removed
to a large apartment, in which were several persons,
some already sentenced to a term of imprisonment,
and others awaiting their trial. Some were in for
grave offences, others for trivial ones. The proved
guilty and the possibly innocent in close companionship!
Few improvements had then been made in the
jails. They were strictly places of punishment.

[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]

Correction and reformation were worns almost unwritten
in the penal code. The criminal was then considered
a hopeless outcast, not, as now, a weak, neglected,
unfortunate brother, to be pitied and cared for; not, as
now, an infirm child, to be restrained because dangerous,
to suffer because disobedient, and to be restored
to trust as soon as he deserved it.

At the period of Clapham's imprisonment, there were
no employments provided. If a man were industrious
and ingenious, he might, perhaps, obtain materials for
labor, and work on his own account; but, for the most
part, the prison at L—, like others, was a scene of
complete idleness. One man had a dirty pack of
cards, with which he and a comrade played from
morning till night, with interludes of telling fortunes,
and playing tricks with them.

Others pitched coppers all day long. One man,
whose wife supplied him with tobacco, smoked unceasingly;
and all, with the exception of one Frenchman
and a shoemaker, chewed and spit to the right
hand and the left, from morning till night — a fitting
pastime for a jail.

[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]

Clapham had come forth from his solitary cell with
feelings that made this society most odious to him.
The vulgar, profane, and indecent language he heard
shocked him, and, incredible as it may seem, he sometimes
wished for his solitude.

Slocum, the owner of the cards, invited him to
take a hand, and offered to teach him. He saw the
boy was wretched, and probably had a good-natured
desire to make him less so. But, when Clapham declined
his advances, he and his companion laughed at
him, and, as they called it, poked fun at him. One
called him a toad, and advised him to crawl back to
his hole; and the other an owl, who had no use of
his eyes now he had come back to daylight. The
Frenchman, Delean, took his part. He was a kindhearted
man, and ingenious, and diligent, as most
Frenchmen are; for, in the worst circumstances, they
can find something to do. Deleau had been in partnership
with a pedler. It was proved their goods were
stolen. Deleau maintained that he was ignorant of
this; but the pedler escaped, and Deleau was taken,
and, as he could not prove his innocence, he was

[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]

sentenced to fifteen months' imprisonment in the L—
jail. He spoke broken English, and was mimicked
and laughed at by the jail company; but this he did
not mind. He was always good humored, and ready
to do small favors, and, by degrees, he became a general
favorite. Even the worst people feel those little
hourly acts of kindness that are the cement of society,
and spread over its face cheerfulness and smiles.

“What for trouble you this little lad?” said Deleau;
“you should be, for him, father and mother.”

“Come to your ma', my dear,” screamed Slocum,
and he caught Clapham in his arms, and swung him
backward and forward, singing “Rock-a-by, baby bunting.”
Clapham resisted manfully, struggled and kicked,
till Slocum, feeling himself hurt, flew into a passion,
and hit Clapham a blow in the face. He staggered
and fell, bruised and bloody. The noise called up the
jailer, who, on opening the door, and perceiving, as he
said, that the boy had “got into a fight already,”
threatened to send him back to the solitary cell; and
then, as if he had quite done his duty, he relocked the
door.

[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]

“Monsieur Jailer is one very good keeper for de
wild beast,” said Deleau, “but a miserable for de young
man. It signify not. I will do what I can do, in this
very pretty place.” He then filled his basin with
water, (he had procured some comforts for his own
private use,) and called Clapham to his end of the
room, and while he was washing off the blood, he said,
“Listen me, my dear; I will be your good friend;
when you cannot be master, stay quiet.”

“But I'll not be made a baby and a fool of!” said
Clapham, whose temper was thoroughly roused.

“Quite to the contrary, my friend; he is the fool
who makes the wrong, and he the wise little man
who suffers it.”

“I am not so very little either,” replied Clapham,
“and I'll let those fellows know I'll not be imposed on.”

“You have reason, my friend; but if dey kindle a
fire, what for you burn yourself up in it? No, no; keep
clear of bad fellow; do nothing wid 'em; say noting to
'em. 'Tis not one very pretty place here! but we can
make place for ourself. I am not happy man to be
here. I do not merit it; but I could not help it. I

[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]

was stranger in de country. Nobody knew me. I was
de sheep found wid de fox. But what for, my dear,
cry, and lose life—de laugh is more for de health!”

“I, too, was the poor sheep found with the fox,”
thought Clapham; “but I cannot laugh.”

However, the kind philosophy of the Frenchman
had a good effect, and it was followed by substantial
services. Deleau had purchased favors of the jailer
by making rings of horse-hair for his wife and daughters.
They were made of black and white hair, with
names interwoven. These rings were shown, and Deleau
had many applications to make more; so that, for
some time, he drove quite a gaining trade. He told
this to Clapham.

“The trade,” he said, “has now abated; still I
make two, sometime three, four a week, and four make
one dollar. I have one little sum to begin the world
when I leave this place. Now you shall be my partner.
I teach you, and you shall have a share of my
business, and in two month more, all to yourself.”

Clapham's face brightened. He had again found a
friend. He set about learning to weave the rings

[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]

with good heart. At first, he was awkward enough;
but he was patient. Deleau encouraged him, and
when Clapham thanked him, he said, “Very well, my
dear. I like to hear `thank you;' it is good of manner;
and de boy of your country are as fraid of manner
as if dey were small-pox; but what please me
more than words is your face, and your voice, no
no longer miserable. Dere, dat bit is fine! Now
make one all yourself. Put in dat name you like
best.”

Clapham began with fresh zeal. Deleau, who was
singing over his own work, now and then cast a sidelong
glance at Clapham, to assure himself the boy
made no mistake. “It is done!” said Clapham, showing
it to his master, with a smile of satisfaction, “and
all right, I—I believe.”

“Bravo! bravo, my friend! as right as if Monsieur
Deleau had done it himself! `Annie!' dat is de name
you like best?”

“No, no. Harry is the name I like best in the
world; but boys do not wear rings, so I made it for
Harry's sister Annie; but neither Harry nor Annie,”

[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]

he concluded, with a sigh, “will wear a ring of my
making, now.”

“Never despair, my dear friend; good people forgive
and forget. Put up de ring safe; one bright day
you may put it on Mademoiselle Annie finger for a
wedding-ring.”

“O, never! never! never in the world! A wedding-ring!
How foolish, Mr. Deleau!”—“As if I
should ever he married,” thought Clapham; “and if
I were, as if ever Annie Davis would look at such
a thing as I am — a jail-bird.”

Not many days after this, fortunately for Deleau,
unfortunately for Clapham, Deleau received a permit
to leave the prison. The pedler, his former partner,
had been taken. He had confessed his guilt, and
averred Deleau's innocence. This came to the knowledge
of a young lawyer, who had defended Deleau at
the time of his commitment, and who had then become
interested in the poor Frenchman. He had
voluntarily taken the pains to procure Deleau's release.
“I am as sorry to leave you,” he said to
Clapham, at parting, “as if you were my own poor

[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]

little boy. I had once one little boy.” For the first
time, Clapham saw his eyes fill with tears; he wiped
them away, and proceeded, “He is gone to de good
God. De sweetest flowers are always taken for de
Paradise.”

“So they are!” exclaimed Clapham. He thought
of little Lucy.

“Ah, we must all finish!” resumed Deleau;
“perhaps de sooner de better.”

“I think so, Mr. Deleau.”

“Ah, you must not tink so. You are too young
to tink so. A cloudy morning may turn out very
bright day — first rate! So, I expect, will Clapham.
Courage, my good boy! When you come out of dis
pretty place, write to Paul Delean, New York.
While you stay here, make de ring; or do someting,
always do someting. Above all, keep away from de
bad fellow wid de cards and de pitch-penny.”

They parted, and poor Clapham felt desolate
enough. The ring trade had become very dull.
The jailer took no pains to dispose of them. Clapham,
however, went on making them as long as his

[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]

materials lasted. Then the jailer was surly, and
would procure him no more. So Clapham fell back
into inevitable idleness. His days dragged heavily
on. He very civilly asked the jailer to bring him a
spelling-book, at the same time telling him he had
plenty of money to pay him for it. The jailer, at
first, made a sort of half promise he would attend
to it; but, when Clapham again and again reminded
him of it, he became vexed, and said he had something
else to do than to be bothered with buying
spelling-books for chaps. Slocum had been for some
days watching Clapham, and had become wonderfully
civil to him. Slocum's wife had brought him a
basket of apples and gingerbread. He offered Clapham
a share. Clapham took it, and thanked him.

“Now, that's friendly,” he said; “I knew you was
not a boy to bear malice. I told Dick Hunt, when
that outlandish Frenchman went away, you would find
out we were full as good friends to you as he.
Come, don't be sucking your thumbs all day. Sit
down here, and look over the cards. You will soon
know how to play as well as we.” Clapham drew up

[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]

to them and became interested. Slocum winked to
his companion. “To-morrow you shall take a hand,”
he said; “there's no harm in life in playing when
there's nothing else to do.” It soon became too
dark to discern the spots on the cards; and, no
lights being allowed in the prison, the cards were
put aside.

Clapham had no sooner lain down on his bed
for the night, than the thought came to him like a
blow, “How could I forget Mr. Deleau's advice to
keep clear of Slocum? I am sorry! sorry! But
what shall I do with these everlasting long days?
If I had any kind of a book, perhaps I might spell
out the words. Perhaps Plum will let me wax his
threads for him. I'll try him.” It was a good
consequence of Clapham's solitary confinement, that
he had acquired the habit, so soon as he laid himself
down, of considering his past conduct and future
duties.

When the jailer presented himself the next morning,
Clapham begged him to lend him any old book.
“But you can't read,” said the man, gruffly. “

[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]

Perhaps I can learn,” urged Clapham. “And what use
will you make of it? No, no; the less such as you
know the better.” And thus this ignorant man disappointed
Clapham, and himself lost one golden opportunity
of doing good and kindness.

Thus rebuffed, Clapham turned to his last hope;
and a forlorn hope was that forbidding-faced man,
Plum. Poor Clapham timidly approached him. “I say,
Mr. Plum,” he began, in a low voice, for he dreaded
Slocum and Hunt's laugh; “don't you want a 'prentice?”
No answer; and he repeated the question.
Plum shook his head. “I'll not plague you,” continued
Clapham; “I'll begin with waxing the threads.”

“You'll break and waste.”

“Only try me, Mr. Plum.” Again Plum shook his
head. “I can at least hammer the soles for you.”
Again a decisive shake of the head. “Do let me
try, Mr. Plum, I am so tired doing nothing. I soon
learned to make rings of Mr. Delean; why can't I
learn to make shoes?”

“And then sell them on your own account, as
you did the rings, hey? I can make myself all that

[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]

will sell. If you don't learn it will be bother, and
if you do learn it will be loss.” Still Clapham
urged. He had felt the good and happiness of occupation—
that it could even make the hours glide
lightly on in that loathsome jail. “I will try my
best, Mr. Plum,” he said; “as long as I stay in
this place, I will work for you. I promise you.”

“Promise! hum! What is the promise of the
like of you worth?”

“I am not a liar!” said Clapham, coloring up to
the very roots of his hair.

“That's more than I know or believe. Boys is no
use; I hate them — I always did.”

“And they will hate you,” replied Clapham, his
too quick temper rising beyond his control; “you
are a hateful and hard-hearted man!”

Clapham had unconsciously raised his voice. Slocum
and Hunt cried out, “Hurrah! that's it, my boy!
go it, Clap! you're coming on; pay it on to the old
carrion!”

Clapham did not answer them. He slunk away
by himself, ashamed of having said any thing these

[figure description] Page 171.[end figure description]

bad men applauded. Slocum and Hunt thought
this too good an occasion to renew their attack on
Clapham to be lost. They knew he had two or three
dollars which he had earned in the ring trade; this
money — this precious means of procuring rum and
tobacco, for which they were always hankering — they
were pretty sure of getting possession of, if they
could once cajole him into playing. But all their
solicitations were, as yet, in vain. The poor, tempted
boy was, as yet, steadfast in his firm resolutions.
The memory of his friends was, as yet, a guardian
angel to him.

We may as well conclude this chapter with a
brief notice of Plum, who was a very strong illustration
of a passion that, in a greater or less degree,
wofully prevails in our land, — a strong but a singular
illustration of it, — for, if our people are avaricious,
they are often very generous, sometimes profuse. If
Clapham had not been urged on by the keenest desire
of employment, Plum's aspect must have repelled
him. He was short and spare, with a little head
bent forward; his face was shrunken, and his skin

[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]

shrivelled like an overbaked pear; his sunken eye
glowed like a coal of fire in a dark place; his
thin lips, sharply closed, seemed scarcely to have
smiled, even when he was a baby in his mother's
arms; he did not appear as if there had ever in
his life been a period of youth and freshness. One
passion — a greed of gain — had ruled him from childhood;
he was now past fifty. He had no wife, no
children, no one to provide for, and certainly he never
allowed himself an indulgence from the fruit of his
labor. Still, for fifty years, he had toiled from daylight
to dark, as if to save himself from starvation.
His shoe-shop was in a small town near L—. He
was a man of few words, quiet and inoffensive;
doing, as was believed, neither good nor harm. It is
true that he had been several times suspected of
making false charges; but they were so petty, and
the man so industrious, and so free from temptation
to fraud, that the persons wronged concluded there
was some mistake, and let it pass.

There was a tannery in Plum's neighborhood,
from which its proprietor had missed leather; never,

[figure description] Page 173.[end figure description]

however, more than one hide at a time; so he made
no fuss about it, though he was much troubled by
being forced to suspect one person after another.
He was detained in the tanyard, one day, much beyond
his usual time; it was starlight. He perceived
a man crouched, burdened, and stealing along by the
fence. He followed him till the person entered
Plum's house; and he saw that it was Plum himself.
One may imagine Plum's dismay, when, two
hours after, the tanner entered his dwelling with a
sheriff and search-warrant. What a dwelling for an
industrious man! One apartment was a work-shop,
and the other — not much larger than a coffin —
served him for kitchen and bed-room. The tanner
and sheriff proceeded to a loft and cellar, and both
were filled with stolen property, for the most part
of little value; and, except the few hides he had
stolen from the tanner, of no worth to Plum. It
was almost laughable that, among other lumber, there
was a bat and ball, and a sled that a little boy,
through all the pleasant coasting days of winter, had
missed and mourned. Plum seemed to have stolen them

[figure description] Page 174.[end figure description]

from the mere passion of acquisition, or, perhaps, as
he said to Clapham, he truly hated boys, and had a
dreary pleasure in spoiling their sport. At last,
buried in the cellar, under every thing else, the
searchers discovered bags of specie, assorted; dollars
in one, half dollars in another, and so on, down to a
bag of cents. While they were counting the money,—
which amounted to fourteen hundred and forty
dollars and thirty-two cents, — Plum, who, till then,
had been silent, only becoming more and more livid,
began to cry and wring his hands, and offer to pay
double the price of the hides if they would go away
and leave him. The tanner told him the matter had
gone too far; he was in the sheriff's hands; but he
would befriend him if he would tell him how he
had come to the pass of prowling about nights like
a hungry fox, and preying upon others' property, when
he had plenty of his own.

The amount of his confession was, that he had
been a working, saving lad from the beginning;
that he was honest at first, but he loved money (the
poor wretch called it gain) so well that he sold his

[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]

school-books, and whatever little presents were given
him, and laid up the money. Even in those early
days, nothing pleased him like making “a good
bargain.”

His first theft was during his apprenticeship, —
small bits of leather, with which he cobbled shoes
at an under price when the shop was shut, and his
master believed he was in bed. Then he took
leather enough for a pair of shoes, of which he
made private sale; and so he had gone on, from
year to year, increasing his burden of guilt and
fear, and gaining — what? some round bits of silver
and copper to bury in his cellar, when stones would
have served that purpose as well.

But are there not men with a wider horizon
than Plum's, as diligent, and more fortunate, who
accumulate gains and go on getting, each new load
pressing a little more of the life-blood out of their
hearts? The earth, instead of being fed from their
fountains with streams of liberality and gladness, is,
for them, converted into a banking-house, whose

[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]

vaults are filled with gold and silver; (fearful witnesses
at the last tribunal!) and Heaven is to them
a brazen, arid vault, to which no breath of love or
gratitude ascends from others; which no prayer of
faith or hope of theirs can pierce.

p348-186 CHAPTER XI. A CLERK'S TRIALS.

“Some men employ one portion of their lives to make the other
miserable.”

[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]

Harry Davis had a much harder struggle than
appeared by his letter to his mother, in refusing
Mrs. Dawson's gift of the fifteen dollars. It was accompanied
by a note, in which, with the most delicate
kindness, she urged its acceptance. Harry was to enter
the shop the next day, a stranger to its modes of
business, under a master who had not made, to say the
least of it, a favorable impression on him, — with new
associates, who too often look with a critical eye on
a new-comer. To all this was to be added the disadvantage
of appearing in a garb that had already
excited a demonstration of displeasure from Holson
and sinister looks from his clerks. If it be considered
what the temptations are to dress in a city under

[figure description] Page 178.[end figure description]

ordinary circumstances, and how great a majority of
men and women, young and old, yield to them, Harry's
perseverance in his resolution must be allowed to
border on heroism. It must be confessed that he rose
even earlier than usual the next morning; that he
took extraordinary pains in polishing his boots; that
he arranged his hair most carefully; and (he can afford
to have this little weakness told) that he tied and retied,
a half dozen times, his plaid cotton neckcloth, and at
last turned away from his three-inch glass, saying,
with a sigh, “Hang it! I cannot make it set like
those fellows'! There's no use in trying.”

Peace and Plenty were not larks in the morning;
but, being aware that Harry's duty was to open the
shop, and that he must be there at an early hour,
they kindly prepared his breakfast over night; and,
though he protested he wanted nothing more than bread
and a glass of water, he found then, and from that
time henceforth, prepared neatly, on a little waiter,
bread, butter, and a bit of cold meat. Our motherly
maidens said they did not “hold to setting a growing
boy to work on bread and water.”

[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]

We pass over the few first weeks of Harry's
novitiate, and will make extracts from his letters, which
will best tell his experience. We shall be compelled
to intersperse the extracts with a few notes, as
Harry did not choose to communicate to his mother
all the discomforts of his situation.

After having been a month at work, “I am beginning,”
he says, “to feel more easy in the harness,
dear mother. If it yet galls in some places, there are
others that have already become callous, and do not
feel it. Eugene Nevis was the youngest clerk, when I
came in, and I became, in his place, prince of the
lamps and knight of the broom. Eugene is a gentleman's
son, and a real gentleman in his spirit;
well-bred and kind-hearted. From the first, he has
treated me as if I were his equal in every way.
He even said, the first time I trimmed the lamps
and swept the shop, `I feel how much you have
the advantage of me, by knowing how to do these
things. When I began sweeping, I blistered my hands;
and I had a regular scolding every day from Holson
and the head clerks. And, as to the lamps, I daubed

[figure description] Page 180.[end figure description]

them, and spilled the oil, and my poor father had
to pay Holson twenty dollars for the damage I occasioned
the goods. I don't believe it amounted to
that, but Holson is a skin-flint every way.' Dear
mother, I thank you for every thing you taught me.
I find that no knowledge, be it even so humble as
how to fill a lamp well, comes amiss. Little did I
think, when I swept the rooms for you every day while
you were nursing Annie through her long fever, that
I was studying for a New York clerkship. The clerks,
for the most part, were pleased to find a clean shop
and bright lamps, and they treated me more civilly
than, by all accounts, they usually do new-comers.
One, to be sure, mean fellow asked me where I last
served as chambermaid, and another called me `Betty,'
and so on; but I had nerved myself to bear it, and
when they saw that I was tolerably manly, and no
`Betty,' they changed their tone. There are two or
three among them (we have twelve clerks) whom I do not
at all like; they are ostentatious and mean, ignorant
and arrogant. They have precious little instruction
from books, and not one tithe of the knowledge which

[figure description] Page 181.[end figure description]

poor Clapham got from an ever wide-awake observation
of nature. Country life for me, mother. Mr. Edward
Rice is our head clerk. He wears a gold chain and
satin waistcoat, and so on, and has a very genteel air,
which Mr. Holson thinks attracts customers; underbred
ones I rather think it does; but the coarse-grained
wood shows through the high varnish. The gold chain
notwithstanding, Mr. Edward refused yesterday to subscribe
a sixpence for a sick clerk whom Holson had
turned off. I doubt if he had a sixpence. When I
put down half a dollar, he raised his eyebrows till
I thought they would roll over the other side, and
he said, `Flush for a freshman! Straws show which
way the wind blows.' I knew he meant to intimate
a suspicion against me. I felt hot. I did not speak,
but I looked him steadily in the eye; his fell, and
I walked off to my business, satisfied that he felt
hotter than I. But I like even him, I like them all,
better than Holson himself.

“I have told you, my dear mother, that I did not
like Holson. I like him less and less every day. Kind

[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]

Mrs. Dawson has been blinded by his intensely obliging
manner to customers. If she could see behind the
scenes, she would be disgusted with his selfishness,
his rapacity, his ill-temper, and tyranny. To me, his
sycophancy to his customers, and his mean ways, are
most revolting — sometimes ludicrous. If a lady ask
for pink silk, and he has not it, he tries to persuade her
that red is pink, or that cherry is more fashionable
than pink, or crimson richer, or scarlet more becoming;
and the worst of it is, he does persuade half the
women. Yesterday he was outwitted. A lady was
looking at the silks. She fixed her attention on one.
Holson, who is very quick at detecting a lady's fancies,
thought it was a sure nibble, as poor Clapham used to
say; and, as usual, he set to work to obviate whatever
objections she might raise against it. I must say,
ladies are pretty ingenious at this. `Quite a charming
thing that,' he said; `just opened. I bought the
only case of these silks in this city.' `I saw the
same pattern at Beck's,' said the lady, dryly. `Ah,
indeed! did you? Possibly Mr. Beck imports.' He
tried another bait, often successful. `I sold a dress

[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]

off this to Miss Liston.' `Indeed!' exclaimed the lady;
`but what Miss Liston?' `Really, I don't quite know.'
`Then I cannot buy it, and run the dreadful risk of
its being Miss Liston, the grocer's daughter, and not
Miss Liston of the Fifth Avenue. In short, Mr. Holson,
I prefer to be a leader, and not a follower.'

“`Ah — indeed — very good!' said the fellow, with
one of his odious convulsive little titters. `Upon my
word, I think this piece has not been cut, after all.
Rice, it was quite a different thing Miss Liston bought?'
`Quite,' said Rice, and Miss Liston was dismissed.
`I was looking for a fatigue dress,' said the lady,
still hovering over the same piece of silk. `Just the
thing, then, madam; you see it is dust-color, adapted
for riding or walking.' `It must be suitable for an
evening dress,' persisted the lady. `Exactly, madam.
A change of ribbons and a lace cape — we have loves
just opened — makes it an evening dress at once.'

“`I was looking for a summer silk —'

“`Just the thing, ma'am.'

“`But,' she said, chopping round again, `I always
buy a silk for wear.'

[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]

“`Of course, ma'am, of course. You see this is
quite solid.'

“`How do you think it will do for travelling, Mr.
Holson?' `Admirably; the thing. A mantilla over it.—
we have them at all prices — makes it quiet at once!'

“Still the lady did not come to the desired point,
and Holson, hardly concealing his impatience, said,
`What objection can you make to it, ma'am?'

“`None in the world,' she replied, coolly turning
on her heel, and walking out of the shop, `but that
it does not suit my fancy!'

“It was not very dignified for a lady to play at
his own game with Holson; but, I confess, I was
pleased to see him beaten, and I betrayed my satisfaction
by a smile. Holson saw it. I was standing
at his elbow; and he looked like a thunder-cloud,
and he has been more testy to me than usual ever
since.”

“Yesterday, an intelligent looking gentleman came
into the shop, and introduced himself to Holson as
one of the trustees of the Mercantile Library. He said,

[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]

looking round upon us, that he had taken advantage
of a rainy day, when he believed he should not interrupt
us, to call and solicit our subscriptions, or
rather to offer us an opportunity to subscribe to the
`Mercantile Library Association.' He presumed most
of the young men in so prosperous an establishment
as Mr. Holson's were acquainted with the institution;
but those that were not, he would inform that it
comprised a good library, carefully selected, and a
reading-room warmed and lighted, to which any clerk
could obtain access every evening by paying an initiation
fee of one dollar, and two dollars annual subscription.
This also entitles him to draw a book from the
library every week. He then went on to say to
Holson, that of course every gentleman at the head
of such an establishment as his, must feel a deep responsibility
for the young men in his employment,
and under his guardianship; that he must feel painfully
anxious to shield them from the temptations
incident to idle hours in a large city; and to provide
for them innocent and profitable occupation.
`The retail shop,' he said, `was often the threshold

[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]

to a high commercial position, and it was very important
to the young men to be furnishing their
minds with the knowledge befitting an honorable
station; that the time had gone, or was going by,
when merchants and traders were looked down upon
by an idle class; that our merchants were our princes,
and they should show the world what stuff princes
should be made of. He said that every American
lad should know what was requisite to make a man
a man; fine clothes were not; fine friends were not;
but probity and a well-informed mind were. The
first every merchant would be careful to inculcate
for his own sake, by precept and example, (mercy,
mother! he did not know Holson,) and to promote
the last, the Mercantile Library had been instituted.
He hoped the young men would be as eager to
subscribe as he was desirous to have them.' He
first presented his paper to poor Deacon Carey, as the
boys call our book-keeper — a thin, pale, and man,
both bald and gray. He shook his head, and declined;
but said, respectfully, `I have neither money
nor time, sir; if I had I would subscribe, if it were

[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]

only for the sake of my lame son.' The stranger
bowed, and passed on to Mr. Rice. Rice shrugged
his shoulders, and said books were so cheap it was
not worth his while. `But,' urged the stranger, `you
will have the advantage of a reading-room, open,
lighted, and warmed till ten o'clock in the evening.'

“`A gay place!' said Rice, with a contemptuous
curl of his lip. I never saw a calmer tempered man
than this gentleman; he did not seem in the least nettled.
Without paying the slightest attention to Rice's
sneer, he said, `There is a greater variety of reading,
and better selected, in the library than you will find
in the cheap prints; and besides, these cheap prints are
a tremendous expense to your eyes.' Rice shrugged
his shoulders and shook his head, and Holson said,
`Pass on, sir, if you please; pass on. The boys are
wasting time.' Wasting time! Mother, I believe Holson
thinks time was given to spend in making money,
and for nothing else. As it proved, the gentleman's
good arguments, though lost on Rice, had their effect
on the rest. Six out of the twelve set down their
names; I among the six. Now, mother, don't you

[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]

and Annie stare as did Holson and Edward Rice.
Let Annie cast up my account.

“Travelling expenses,	50
“Subscription to the sick clerk,	50
“Initiation fee,	1 00

“I could afford to subscribe. I have three dollars
remaining of my five. I hope to earn something over
and above my salary before the year is out; but if
I do not, I have enough in reserve to pay my library
fees, and one dollar for extras. O, one thing I must
not forget to tell you, it pleased me so much. I
signed last, and was at the desk, returning the pen to
Mr. Carey, when the gentleman said to him, `Put your
name down. I will see to the fees for this year at
least, and I dare say this young man' (looking at me)
`will take the trouble to draw out the books for your
lame boy.' Mr. Carey smiled, — the first smile I have
seen on his face since I have been in Holson's shop;
and he looked cheerful all day. It is pleasant for
those who have money to go round buying smiles
and cheerfulness for those whose fate is hard, like poor
Carey's. Don't you think so, mother?”

[figure description] Page 189.[end figure description]

Harry had many vexations to endure, of which he
made no report to his mother. Those clerks, — at their
head Edward Rice, — who took airs on themselves, put
all odd jobs on Harry, and he was sometimes kept at
the shop till nine, ten, and eleven o'clock, though the
nominal hour of closing it was eight. He was patient,
because he was manly, and determined not to fret
about trifles. Trifles he called them; but they deprived
him of his greatest enjoyment — his reading, and
his pleasant social hours at his happy home. A much
more serious trouble to him was the continual displeasure
and fault-finding of Holson. “It's all your fault,”
he said, “Davis, that Eugene Nevis has left the shop.
Not that I care for the rascal; I can get twenty better
clerks in his place; but it's your (we omit the word
with which he graced it) — country notions. His
relations were good customers, and now they have all
quit, for he has told his own story.”

Nevis did tell his own story, which was, that, stimulated
by Harry Davis's example, he had absolutely
refused to make the false representations which Holson
insisted on as the common course of business.

[figure description] Page 190.[end figure description]

That common course was, to say to a lady, “You
had better buy this dress now, ma'am; it's the last we
have of it;” when, perhaps, there were half a dozen
pieces of the same on the shelf; or, “I sold this
muslin yesterday for five shillings, which I now offer
to you for four.” “You will not find another velvet so
cheap as this in New York,” &c., &c.; and uniformly
to assure the buyers that every article was offered
below cost. A lady was one day looking at an expensive
muslin, and said to Harry, “I doubt this
color. Do you know if it washes?”

“No, it does not, ma'am.”

She looked surprised at his unexpected frankness,
and smiled.

“Thank you,” she said, and left the shop. Holson
was engaged with a customer, but Harry perceived
that he overheard and oversaw the transaction. He
took the first opportunity of abusing Harry outrageously.
He would have struck him, if he had dared. Soon
after, another customer came, to whom Holson himself
showed the same muslin. She asked the same
troublesome question. “O, I'll warrant it,” said

[figure description] Page 191.[end figure description]

Holson. Thereupon the lady took it, and, on the faith
of Mr. Holson's warranty, brought it back the next
day. Holson said, “Of course he would take it back;
but the lady must take something else out of his
shop. She had no occasion for any thing else. She
wanted nothing but a muslin gown. There was no
redress without more trouble than it was worth, and
she retained the fading warranted muslin.

p348-201 CHAPTER XII. THE BOOK-KEEPER.

“Deep malice makes too deep incision.”

[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]

The spring business had begun, and Harry was
more than ever confined to the shop. He became
pale, and every day paler and thinner. He
dreamed of country breezes, swelling buds, early
flowers, and the full spring chorus of birds; but,
instead of all this, he was waked by the harsh
sound of the first wheel rolling over the pavement.
He hurried to the shop, not to leave it, at night,
till he could scarcely drag his weary limbs home.
His kind hostesses became anxious about him. Miss
Peace advised a blue pill taken twice a week, as
“rulable in the spring;” and Plenty, when Harry
shook his head at this, suggested that camomile tea,
three times a day, would strengthen him. But Harry

[figure description] Page 193.[end figure description]

insisted that nothing would do this, if not the good
bread and meat of their table. How and when he
should pay for this bread and meat, now wore upon
him more than his work and confinement. When
his quarter's salary became due, Holson had put him
off; and, when Harry repeated his request for his
dues, and urged the necessity of paying his board,
Holson told him that if he did not wait till it was
convenient to pay him, he might whistle for his
money; that he could get clerks enough without
wages. Unfortunately, Harry had no written contract;
and Mrs. Dawson, the only person whose testimony
could aid him, had suddenly gone to the West Indies
for health. No word or sign from the good sisters
intimated that Harry was behindhand; but he was
too honest, too manly, to continue to be a charge to
them, and he resolved, if Holson did not pay him at
the end of the six months, which would now be in two
days, he would leave his employment, and get another,
even if it were domestic service, that would enable
him to pay his debt. His painful impatience was
increased by hearing old Mrs. Bland say to Mary

[figure description] Page 194.[end figure description]

Hale, “I never saw your aunts wear their old bonnets
out on Easter Sunday before. What is the
reason?” “Why,” said Mary, “I am sure, Mrs.
Bland, aunts' bonnets look very decent.” “Yes,
decent; but, in twenty years, I have never known
them go to church, on Easter Sunday, with their old
bonnets.” “The reason is, grandmother,” said blind
Nannie Bland — “Hush, Nannie!” said Mary; but
the little girl either did not hear or did not heed.
“Aunty Peace says that they have not any money
till Harry pays them.” “O Nannie!” said Mary,
deprecatingly. Her eyes met Harry's. He smiled,
but it was a smile of the deepest mortification.
Mary understood it, and felt tears of sympathy
coming, and she left the room. Harry followed her,
and explained his embarrassment; and Mary begged
him not to be troubled, and said, in their kind spirit,
that her aunts would rather never have new bonnets
than he should leave them. This was quite true,
and this might have been the consequence to them,
for they had scarcely an unappropriated shilling.
Their income was one thousand dollars. With this

[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]

they maintained in independence their comfortable
little establishment. They boarded their old friend,
widow Bland, for just enough to cover the expense,
“throwing in,” as they termed it, “blind Nannie; she
being such an interesting child, it was only a pleasure;
and she ate like a Canary.” They supported
their three orphan nieces; many an old friend was
welcomed to their hospitable table. They rented a
pew in the church their parents attended before them,
took a weekly paper, a religious magazine, and subscribed
to two charitable societies. Had they not
more enjoyment from money with their one thousand
dollars, than some rich men with their millions?

Truly, contentment with godliness is great gain.

Harry's affairs were approaching a crisis. Till
this should be past, he had resolved to make no
mention of his anxieties to his mother.

There was one person in Holson's shop, a far
greater sufferer than Harry. This was Carey, the
book-keeper. He was an amiable man, rather inefficient
from protracted ill health, and timid from continued
misfortunes. His wife was a feeble woman,

[figure description] Page 196.[end figure description]

and his children sickly. His whole life had been
under a dreary, leaden sky. He had ceased to hope,
but always looked for something worse.

At a period of uncommon pressure to poor Carey,
and of elated prosperity to Holson, he had lent his
book-keeper a few hundred dollars; and, from that
time, he had kept him under the harrow. Whenever
he had any purpose to gain, he would threaten
to withhold his salary, or to seize his furniture to
satisfy the debt. For two or three weeks, Harry
had observed that Carey was unusually dejected; that
he was every evening behindhand with his books;
and, one evening, after watching him going over and
over the same column of figures, and then leaning
dejectedly on his elbow, he said, modestly, to Carey,
“You do not seem quite well, sir. I am a pretty
good accountant; perhaps I can assist you.”

“You are very kind,” replied Carey; “perhaps
you can. I have made some mistake here. I cannot
detect it. I believe I am losing my head.”

“O, no,” said Harry, cheerfully; “go and sit on
that old sofa at the end of the shop, and rest your

[figure description] Page 197.[end figure description]

head. Rest is all it wants, and that it wants enough.”
Poor Carey went, stiff and languid, and with but
half a man's life in him. Harry soon detected the
error, and rectified the figures.

“It is all right, Mr. Carey,” he said. “Can I
do any thing else?”

“O, thank you, yes. If you will look at the two
last pages of last week's accounts, you will see they
are not footed. But it will keep you too late; you
too are tired.”

“Not sick-tired, as you are; not at all too tired
to do this. You take a little doze, and I will wake
you when it's done.”

So Harry went to work with a clear head and
willing heart; and, in an hour's time, the accounts,
that were the despair of the poor old book-keeper,
were adjusted, and he went behind the screen to
wake Carey. He was not sleeping; he was too care-worn
and anxious to sleep. The tears came in his
eyes when he thanked Harry. “I do not know your
match,” he said; “you are one by yourself, Harry
Davis.” But there seemed no sense of relief; the

[figure description] Page 198.[end figure description]

spring of his mind was broken. After a minute, he
rose, walked slowly to the desk, locked it, and left
the shop in complete absence of mind, without even
bidding Harry good night.

The next day, Harry's salary fell due, and he took
an opportunity of reminding Holson of it. Holson
said it was not convenient to pay it, and he must
wait. Harry said, manfully, he could not wait. Holson
replied, he should “wait and do nothing else.”

Harry then said, calmly, “I shall leave your service
this evening, Mr. Holson.” Holson stared.

“And a pretty box you'll be in,” he said.
“There's no other such fool as I, to engage to give
a raw boy wages. I'll give you no character.”

Harry, though a modest young man, was not to be
bullied out of his rights, or his self-possession.

“No character that you could give would be of
service to me, Mr. Holson,” he said, calmly; “but I
have friends.”

“Who, who, who?” cried Holson, angrily interrupting
him.

“The good, honest people I live with.”

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“He! he! he! the old maids!”

“And,” resumed Harry, “Mr. Nevis, — Eugene
Nevis's father.”

“What, Mr. Russel Nevis?”

“The same — father of the clerk who left you
after I came. Perhaps you have forgotten him.”

Holson bit his lips with vexation. “You know
Mr. Russel Nevis! I don't believe a word of it.”

“I have dined with him every Sunday for the last
month, and he has invited me to continue to do so,
till he goes to the country.”

“A pretty figure you must cut at Mr. Nevis's
table,” said Holson, his eyes reconnoitring Harry's
dress insultingly. Harry stood his ground unflinchingly.
Holson's temper was boiling; but, with all
his blustering, his passion, and his love of tyranny,
he was wary and cautious. He was conscious that
Mr. Nevis was a powerful friend, and that he had no
good opinion of him. He was certain Harry spoke
pure truth, for he had never been able, by menace
or persuasion, to induce him to deviate from it;
and, more than all, he was aware that Harry was the

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best clerk in his shop, the most solicitous to perform
his duty to him, and most acceptable to his customers;
and therefore, when Harry said again, decidedly, “If
you do not pay me my salary to-day, you have violated
your contract, and I am released from mine,
and shall leave you.” Holson, without saying another
word, gave him a draft for the fifty dollars. A knave
is no match for an honest man, if he be capable.

“Mr. Holson,” said Harry, in the same firm voice
he had sustained through the interview, “I consider
myself released from my engagement with you, by
your failure to perform your part of the contract.
You have subjected me to mortification, and my
friends to inconvenience, by failing to pay me when
my money was due. I shall consult my friend, Mr.
Nevis, and shall be governed by his advice, either to
remain with you the remaining six months, or to leave
you on Monday.”

Holson stared at Harry as if he were something he
did not comprehend. His anger rose, but he felt that,
if he gave way to it, it would be like the wave beating
against a rock, and, muttering a curse, he turned away.

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What gave such power to a poor country boy?
High and right aims. Not an aim at riches or external
distinctions of any sort, but an aim to be true
in all the relations of life; to act up to the convictions
of his due; to resist temptations, small and
great; and to develop his faculties by all the means
allotted to him. Thus fortified with the true spirit
of a man, a knave could not oppress, nor a flashy
clerk look him out of countenance.

It was Saturday, bad weather, and a dull day in
the shop. Holson was more irritable than usual,
abusing some of the clerks, and fretting at all.
Harry observed him repeatedly speaking earnestly
to Carey, and that Carey made no reply, and looked
even more wretched, more ill, more dejected, than
ever before.

“Poor deacon!” said one of the clerks, jogging
Harry's elbow; “do look at him, rubbing his forehead,
and his eye wandering about as if he saw nothing;
I should not wonder if he were to cut his throat.”

“Nor should I,” said Harry, with a sigh of deep
compassion. He turned, and saw Holson at his elbow,

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and was sure, from a certain conscious look, that he
had heard him.

Saturday evening was busier than any other evening
of the week. Harry had got every thing in
order, and waited an hour for Carey to be done.
He then asked him if he could assist him. “No,”
said Carey, “nobody can help me. My poor wife!
My poor children!” He laid his head down on his
desk, and gave way to a flood of tears.

“O Mr. Carey,” said Harry, “you are tired out —
you are used up.”

Carey shook his head. “It is not that,” he said.

“Tell me what it is, then,” said Harry; “or tell
some other friend. My mother always says there is
no burden that can't be lightened by a friend's helping
you bear it.”

“You are kind.” Carey raised his head, and wiped
away his tears. “I have got to be a mere child.
There's no use in struggling any longer.”

“Do go home now, Mr. Carey, and let me come
and see you to-morrow.”

“No, I cannot go home yet; but you must go.

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Leave the key, and come to-morrow to my house and
get it. It always does poor Johnny good to see you.
It is too late to do me good.” Harry saw he was
not to be persuaded, and he took his hat and bade
him good night.

Soon after, there was a knock at the door. Carey
opened it, and Holson came in; and, as soon as
Carey resumed his seat, he said, as if continuing a
previous conversation, “It's all before you now —
choose! Break with me, and see who will employ
you Go round and ask for a place with your bent
body, and blue lips, and hands shaking like the
palsy.”

“It's serving you, and serving you faithfully, Mr.
Holson, that's bent my body and made my hands
shake.”

“Have not I paid you for it? — lent you money
too?”

“Yes,” replied Carey, speaking with a little more
spirit; “and that's been the chain that bound me
down to this desk, and you knew it. It may be as
well broken now as ever.”

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“And you, and your wife, and your children, starving
in a bunch — hey, Carey?” Holson spoke in a
softer and more persuasive tone, as he added, “Don't
be a fool. I say again, do what I want of you;
there is no risk to you, — no risk, and great gain.
I will give you up your note to me, and a check
for two hundred dollars!” There was no answer from
Carey but a deep-drawn sigh; and Holson went on
to particularize exactly what he wanted done, which
was an alteration of certain entries in the accounts,
in order to cover a fraudulent transaction of his, which
was on the eve of detection. The change could only
be made by the hand that had kept the accounts.
“Let it be well done, and soon done, Carey,” he
concluded. “Promise me, only promise me, that you
will come here to-morrow and do it. I will trust to
your word, and give you up, on the spot, your note
and the check. Yes, I'll make the check three
hundred, and trust entirely to your truth, if you give
me the promise.”

“To my truth, Mr. Holson! Then there's something
left, thank God! I have not worked and

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suffered like a dog for nothing!” He laughed loud
and unnaturally, and then, recovering himself, he stood
up, and speaking courageously, and with fresh life, he
said, “I'll not do it — never! If all else is gone,
truth and honesty are left. We may starve. God's
will be done. I have decided, Mr. Holson.”

“Holson walked up and down the shop hurriedly.
He then returned to the desk, and said, in a determined
voice, “I have decided, too. I did not come
here, to-night, till I had fully revolved this subject,
and made up my mind what to do. I knew you
were a fool, and I thought you might be obstinate.
I prepared two strings to my bow. One was put into
my head by overhearing something that passed between
John Bell and that cursed fellow Davis. They both
thought your mind shaken, and that you were on the
point of committing suicide. If you are found dead
at this desk to-morrow morning, I shall summon these
boys before the inquest, and the verdict will surely be,
`Throat cut by his own hand!' Here is a knife, and
I swear I'll finish you, unless you promise me instantly—
not one breath's delay — yes, or no?”

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Holson was a desperate man. Ruin — utter disgrace—
stared him in the face, and disappointment,
rage, and vengeance, hurried him on. Carey's knees
knocked together. “Yes, or no?” reiterated Holson.

Carey's tongue was parched with fear and horror.
He tried to utter “no;” he could not move his
lips.

“Speak!” cried Holson, holding up the knife.

God gave his servant strength; he said, audibly
and clearly, “No!”

Holson seized Carey by the throat. He gasped;
he could not make a sound. At that moment,
Harry Davis sprang on Holson, grasped him by the
collar, and released Carey, who sank, fainting, to the
floor. Holson staggered back to the wall, stunned
with the horror of detection, powerless and silent.
There was a glass of water on the desk; Harry
dashed it in Carey's face, and reanimated him with a
voice of encouragement. “Fear nothing,” he said;
“the danger is past. Come with me; lean on me. I
will see you safe home.” After some effort; Carey
rallied and left the shop with Harry.

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It was probable that Holson had expected to intimidate
Carey into compliance, and had not deliberately
planned his murder; but to what extremity
he might have been urged by his savage and roused
passion, if Harry had not interposed, it is impossible
to say.

It may be remembered that Harry, after offering
his assistance to Carey in settling his accounts, bade
him good night. He was so struck with the expression
of despair on the poor man's countenance, that,
instead of going away, he turned, unperceived, and
stole back to a sofa, screened from observation by a
curtain, so arranged that Holson might take his lunch
there when detained at the shop by a pressure of
business. There Providence stationed Harry as a
guardian angel to poor Carey.

p348-217 CHAPTER XIII. LIFE IN JAIL — A SURPRISE.

“My son, thou art yet to be tried upon the earth, and to be exercised
in many things.”

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We left Clapham reposing with the peace of good
resolutions. They gained force from the steadying
effect of sleep. The next morning Hunt and
Slocum renewed their solicitations. They did not care
for him, or his companionship; but they coveted the two
or three dollars which he had earned in the ring trade,
and they believed he was already in their toils. Clapham
returned a civil but firm refusal to their soft
words, and they desisted, Slocum saying to Hunt,
“Never mind now; a week or two more will limber
him. Nothing like jail life to take vartu starch out
of folks.”

It was just after this last resistance, and Clapham

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secretly felt that it was a reward for it, that he espied,
among the rubbish swept into a corner of the room,
the fragments of a pamphlet giving an account of the
disasters and wreck of the ship Commerce, on her return
from New Spain to the port of New York.
Clapham had had one winter's schooling, during one
of his father's long absences from home, and he had
then learned to read and spell words of two syllables.
By an hour's effort, he made out the title. It struck
on his memory, and recalled many adventures he had
heard his father relate of a certain ship Commerce in
which he had been wrecked when a child. Here,
Clapham thought, was a chance of learning to read, if
he would work hard; and, stimulated by his curiosity
to ascertain if the pamphlet really contained the stories
recounted by his father, he set to the task. The print
was small and blurred, and, in many places, rendered
quite illegible by dirt-stains. The first two pages were
merely prefatory, and filled with commercial and nautical
terms, which greatly increased Clapham's difficulty.
He persevered, however, and in one week he read
these two pages. And, though many a time his head

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ached, and his eyes were misty, it was by far the
shortest and pleasantest week he had passed since
Deleau left the jail. The next week, he went on
better; and now he came to the incidents, in a different
form, of which his father had retained and related his
indistinct impressions. The name of Felix Hale,
second mate, frequently recurred. His daring in various
exploits was noted; his fair dealing and generosity
to the crew were dwelt on; and the particulars of
his death, which occurred during a contest with a
privateersman, in defending a woman, the only passenger
in the ship, were minutely given. The account of
him concluded as follows: “Thus, by a fatal stab in
the back, we lost the best man in the ship — honest
to his last farthing; true to his last word; brave as
Julius Cæsar; and tender-hearted as a woman. He had
married in New Spain, and his wife died there, leaving
a son, whom he was bringing to New York. When
the Commerce was wrecked, and we escaped by night,
in the long-boat, this little chap was asleep below with
old Norman Dunn, who had adopted him, and given
him his name. The boat was already overloaded, and,

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as the man was old, and always drunk when ashore,
and the boy would be better off in Abraham's bosom,
all hands agreed not to wake them. The Commerce
was never heard of after.”

Clapham spelt through these last sentences, his
heart throbbing as if it would leap from his bosom.
He recalled distinctly Norman's graphic description of
awaking one morning, and finding himself alone on the
wreck of the vessel with his father, (the old sailor who
adopted him,) and his saying that, after a few days' heaving
about, they were taken off and carried to England.
He seemed to have forgotten his real father, with whom
he had had brief intercourse. The rough old sailor took
him from port to port, and finally, dying at sea, the
boy was sent to a small seaport on Long Island Sound,
in Connecticut. There, at the age of eleven years, a
solitary and dropped link from the chain of humanity,
he was found by the overseers of the poor, and sent
to school. He could not bear its restraints, and ran
away into the interior; and from that time he led a
roving and lawless life.

To return to Clapham. He was assured that this

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Felix Hale was his grandfather; that there was good
blood in his veins; that his grandfather was a true
and honest man, honored and loved. It was a proud
and happy day for the poor boy, and many and many
a time he said over to himself, “Felix Hale's blood
is in my veins. I know it is. I always did hate to
lie and steal, like poison.”

Again and again he read over the fragmentary
leaves. He had them every word by heart. After
that, the reading naturally became tiresome. Again he
besieged Plum to give him something to do, and again
was surlily repulsed. Again he besought a book of
the jailer, and was again denied. Two weeks more of
idleness passed away. His health suffered. The room,
never ventilated, was noisome. His head continually
ached, or had a heavy, confused feeling, worse than
pain.

Slocum and Hunt never forgot Clapham's money.
Their appetite for rum and tobacco reminded them of
it; and one unhappy day for Clapham, when he was
looking paler and more haggard than usual, his eyes
half closed, and his neglected leaves lying beside him,

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Slocum called to him, “Come, Clap, draw up, and look
on; there's no harm in that, my man. We'll be
frindly, the same as if you'd never snubbed us.”

“I may as well!” thought Clapham; “I shall die
lying here, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, nothing to
do. I have tried my best.” He had tried manfully;
but no one should ever cease trying. He drew near
to them. It was this first movement that led to the
evil that followed. “Resist the devil and he will flee
from you.” But resist to the end. Clapham looked
over that game, and another, and another. He began,
unconsciously, to feel an interest, and, as soon as he
perfectly comprehended the game, to hope that Hunt,
whom he disliked less than Slocum, would win. There
was usually a small bet pending. The pies, nuts,
tobacco, and cakes, received from their outside friends,
supplied the means of making them.

The second day, he answered to their invitation
more promptly. “I go not harm yesterday,” he thought,
“and why should I to-day? It does make the time
pass.”

“You are a smart lad, Clap,” said Slocum, after

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Clapham had been looking on an hour or two. “I'll
bet you, Hunt, he could play a game now, without a miss.”

“He play! Your granny, as well,” replied Hunt,
with an air of great contempt.

“Well, I'll bet on him. Try, just once, Clap.”

Clapham, provoked by Hunt doubting his capacity,
took the cards.

“What's the use of betting with me?” said Hunt;
“I've got nothing, and less. What do you say, Clap,
for our side. Will you venture six cents against Slo's
six apples? You've the chink, you know. Come, don't
hold back, don't be tight. We are all, but you, as
poor as church mice. Well, if you are so close, twelve
apples to your six cents.”

“I don't care for the six cents,” said Clapham.
He hesitated from a foolish dread of their redicule,
if he told them he did not like to bet. He had sense
enough to fear that betting would draw him in to play
more with them. “But never mind; it is but once,”
he thought; “just to see if I can play without a miss;
and I don't want them to think me mean.” He took
the cards.

[figure description] Page 215.[end figure description]

Ah, Clapham, if you had but thought then, “The
thing is to do right, and then it matters not what others
say or think.” They had caught him. Clapham
took the cards; they exchanged winks, and he proceeded
to give his whole mind to the game. He
played it right, and won it, and won the apples into
the bargain. He felt the pleasure of excitement. It
was a new world to him. No more consciousness of
headache; no more drowsiness, nor dulness. He continued
playing till it was so dark he could not see a
spot on the cards. Slocum and Hunt were goodnatured
all day. After they had instructed Clapham
in “All Fours,” they taught him “Loo;” and Clapham
dreamed all night of “Flusher,” and “Blaser,” of
“Great Loo” and “Little Loo;” and when he arose in
the morning, he was as eager to go to the cards as
they were to have him.

Betting was now a regular thing with every game.
Clapham had resolved not to stake more than six cents
at a time. That, he thought, was a small risk; and,
as they won his money, they staked cash against cash.
Clapham lost oftener than he won; but he was not

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aware how much the luck run against him, till towards
the close of the week, when, on counting over his
money, he found but fifty cents remaining.

He had scarcely won a game that day. A suspicion
of foul play dawned upon him. He began to
realize that gaming was a bad business for him, and,
like many older gamblers, he resolved that, as soon as
he had won back his money, or detected the fraud he
suspected, he would give up playing. “I must, at any
rate,” he said to himself, “hold on till I find out if
they cheat me.” They had gone on cheating so successfully
that they were not on their guard. Game
followed game, and on each Clapham lost his sixpence.
He became almost sure that he perceived
where the fraud was. His heart beat so that he was
afraid they would perceive it; but he kept himself
apparently cool till he was certain, and then, striking
Slocum's cards out of his hands, he exclaimed, “It's no
play. You've cheated in the deal. I saw you!”

“You lie!” cried Slocum.

“Let him lie!” said Hunt. “Here is his last sixpence.
We've wound him up.”

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