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THE 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 OF NEW YORK. 
 
THE 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 OF 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 A STORY OF REAL LIFE. 
 
 BY NED BUNTLINE. 
 
 DUBLIN: 
 PUBLISHED BY JAMES M'GLASHAN, 
 
 21, d'olier street. * 
 
 mdcccxlix. 
 
2/5* 
 
THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 As a general thing, I dislike prefatory remarks, but so singular 
 is the work 1 have now to write, so strange its scenes and inci- 
 dents, so various and peculiar the characters which I have to 
 delineate, that I feel bound to tell the reader that strange as 
 all may be, it is drawn from life, heart-sickening, too-real life. 
 Not one scene of vice or horror is given in the following 
 pages which has not been enacted over and over again in this 
 city, nor is there one character which has not its counterpart 
 in our very midst. I have sought out and studied the reality 
 of each person and scene which I pourtray. Accompanied by 
 several kind and efficient police officers, whom, were it proper, 
 I would gratefully name, I have visited every den of vice 
 which is hereinafter described, and have chosen each character 
 for this work during these visits. Therefore, though this 
 book bears the title of a novel, it is written with the ink of 
 truth and deserves the name of a history more than that of a 
 romance. 
 
 I know that this work will offend many persons, for it will 
 strike at vice in every garb and station ; the gambling palaces 
 of Gotham shall have their place in my chapters, as well as 
 the less fashionable dens of infamy, where the thieves and 
 beggars 'most do congregate.' I write for the good of my 
 fellow-mortals and shall do it with a bold, truthful, fearless 
 hand, aiming to do my whole duty, regardless of all conse- 
 quences. Let the following pages be my test. 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF NEW YORK, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Not in the olden time "when the people differed as much 
 from us in character as in costume, do we commence this 
 story — but now, in modern days, when every man, woman, 
 and child, who reads it, can recognise its characters and 
 descriptions. 
 
 On the first day of January, eighteen hundred and forty- 
 one, it rained cold rain and the winds blew strong and gustily 
 in New York, and as the night came on, it grew colder and 
 colder until the falling rain became sleet and the wind 
 freshened into a gale. The day closed thus, and the bright 
 street lamps were lighted. Then could be seen the miserable 
 street-walkers taking their nightly round up and down 
 Broadway; poor, painted, tinseled creatures, now pausing 
 before the large-windowed hotels to show themselves to the 
 cigar-smoking loungers who occupied the big arm-chairs 
 within, then smiling with a faint and sickly smile upon some 
 country- looking promenader, thus throwing out a bait to in- 
 duce him to turn aside at the next street corner to speak to 
 them, or to make him follow them to the theatre of their 
 nightly infamy. And they shivered as they went along, for 
 some were very thinly dressed ; their powdered necks and 
 swelling bosoms were not half covered, and even those who 
 were better dressed, who had muffs and boas and velvet 
 cloaks, felt the piercing wind shrilly whistled through the 
 leafless branches of the Park trees, and blew the sharp 
 sleet into their unveiled faces. Of all the Broadway pro- 
 menaders at that hour, these miserable females were in num- 
 ber predominant, for few were abroad who were not forced 
 out from necessity, that lawless fiend who asks all and gives 
 nothing. 
 
 And even amidst these, as a lily among nettles, or a dove 
 
10 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 among vultures, passed one of their own sex who was pure ; 
 one yet undarkened with the taint which ever clouds an erring 
 woman's fame. She was a young girl — a glance at her large 
 blue eyes, golden hair and figure, as she passed beneath the 
 lighted lamps, would tell one that she was not over sixteen, 
 but her young face seemed thin with care, her large eyes were 
 sad and mournful in expression. So far as her garb could be 
 seen — it was neat, though of very common material, and she 
 seemed very thinly dressed — although a coarse woollen shawl 
 was wrapped around her, beneath which she carried a large 
 bundle. 
 
 Her steps were rapid and she trembled as she hurried 
 along, for she heard rude and uncouth sounds, and she shud- 
 dered as she met the depraved beings of her own sex, who 
 3tared each man rudely in the face who passed them. And 
 she shrank aside when she saw groups of young men come 
 reeling and laughing along, young men who had just got up 
 from their wine dinners, and the timid one would draw 
 closer the front of her black hood as she saw them rudely 
 stare at her. 
 
 And thus had she passed the gauntlet until she reached the 
 vicinity of Park Place, where two huge, parti-coloured lamps, 
 inform the passer-by that ' Florence' is in New York, and she 
 had passed so far free from insult. But here a party of young 
 men, who had just come from a certain No. three in the imme- 
 diate vicinity, where liquor and suppers can be had gratis by 
 the initiated, saw how timidly she hurried along the outer 
 side of the pavement, and as if by general consent stepped 
 before her so that she could not pass. 
 
 ' Ha ! my little dove, where are you flying to at this time 
 o' night V cried one of them, while another took the answer 
 upon himself, and replied : 
 
 ' To her nest to be sure ! Don't you want company, my 
 little chick V 
 
 The poor creature trembled and seemed as if she would 
 sink to the earth — she looked around as if to seek aid or see 
 whither to fly, but now they had completely encircled her. 
 
 ' Please let me go, gentlemen — I am not what you take me 
 for ! Oh, do let me hurry home — my poor mother is waiting 
 for me !' murmured she in a supplicating tone. 
 
 1 Then your mother knows you're out '!' cried the first speaker, 
 and while he rudely turned her face so that the lamp light 
 could shine upon it, he added — * I'll have to see you home, my 
 lady-bird — by Jove, but you're a "Venus, only you are a little 
 minus in the filling up — -you have to work, I reckon?' 
 
 • Oh, yes, sir ; but do let me go — I am carrying home work 
 now, and I must not, cannot stay !' 
 
 * What, a little sewing girl, eh ? The very game I like — go 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 II 
 
 away, boys, and let me talk to her — I spoke to her first, and 
 by Jupiter, I'm the one to see it out !' 
 
 ' No — not quite so rapid, if you please,' replied the one who 
 had spoken second — ' we'll toss up, Harry, who shall have 
 her !' 
 
 ' Oh ! Heavens, gentlemen, do let me go. I am not what 
 you take me for !' cried the poor creature, and now great tears 
 ran down her blushing cheeks. These were fashionable young 
 gentlemen, sons of the ' first families,' and yet they saw those 
 tears — saw her clasp her thin hands in supplication, and felt 
 no pity — stayed not their cruel persecution, and to her last 
 beseeching expression, only replied with a scornful laugh, 
 while he who had been addressed as Harry put his hand in 
 his pocket, and cried to the other : 
 
 * Yes, I'll toss up for her, Gus ! Here goes !' and up flew a 
 silver dollar in the air, down came the same with a clear ring 
 upon the sleety pavement, while Gus, who had shouted ' head* 
 as it went up. bent down to find it. 
 
 * Tail, by Jove !' he muttered, with a bitter curse, as he 
 raised the dollar and handed it back to the other. 
 
 * Then I win ; and here, my girl, is the dollar to commence 
 on !' cried Harry. 
 
 The girl did not take the coin— her tears seemed at once to 
 dry on her cheeks, and young as she was, there was a queenly 
 dignity in both tone and manner, as she cried : 
 
 ' 1 take no money, sir, but that which I earn by honest 
 labour ! Once more I demand a passage among you. I will 
 go home !' 
 
 'Not so fast, my beauty ! You're mine now, I've won a 
 right to you. I shall go home, or somewhere else with you !' 
 
 ' God protect me !' murmured the girl, then with a kind of 
 desperate firmness in her manner, she pressed forward to try 
 to force her way from amongst the crowd of drunken liber- 
 tines. But he who had won in the toss-up, clasped her firmly 
 in his arms ; in vain she tried to spring from his grasp. Then 
 she uttered a wild, piercing cry — a shriek of terror and agony. 
 And it was not in vain, for the next moment a tall form stood 
 among the laughing young men; two or three heavy blows 
 were heard and felt rather than seen, and with each blow one 
 of the party laid down. Before Harry could turn to see who 
 it was that interfered, a large bony hand reached his cheek, 
 and though struck by its open palm, he let go of the poor girl 
 and staggered up against the lamp post. 
 
 'Big Lize, of Thomas Street !' he muttered, as he saw the 
 tall form of the one who had struck him and his companions. 
 
 'Yes, I am Big Lize, you lushy Swell !' cried the woman, 
 ' and I can maul every sneaking mother's son of ye ! What 
 d'ye mean by stoppin' this ere gal against her will 1 ?' 
 
 'It's none of your business; go look out for yourself, jovt, 
 
12 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 thieving catamaran !' cried the young man, recovering some- 
 what from the stunning effects of the blow, and again spring- 
 ing toward the poor sewing girl, who shrank behind the huge 
 form of her protectress. 
 
 'You will have it then, my covey; you're mighty fond of 
 my mawley !' cried Big Lize, as with another blow, she landed 
 him clear down the stairs of the oyster saloon, which was be- 
 hind him ; and then turning to the girl, she cried, ' Cut and 
 run, my darling ! Hays is the word, and off you go ! I'll see 
 that they don't follow you.' 
 
 Then, when the poor girl, with one glad expression, ' God 
 bless you !' on her lips, fled up the street, Big Lize turned and 
 again confronted the party, none of whom dared to stir after 
 the girl whom she had rescued. Lize stood and gazed at them 
 a moment, while upon her dissipation marked, but yet firm 
 features, a freezing expression of scorn and contempt settled ; 
 then as she turned away and walked up the street, that ex- 
 pression gave way to one of deep sadness, mingled apparently 
 with satisfaction at the act which she had just performed. 
 
 1 God bless me !' she murmured, repeating the last, grateful 
 "words of the poor girl whom she had protected. ' Yes, I have 
 need of such prayers ; for God, or man, or the devil, or all 
 together, seem to have cursed me ! Oh God ! I once wore the 
 stamp of innocence on my brow — once I rode along these very 
 streets in my father's carriage, and now' ■ 
 
 ' Hallo, old gal, where are you stavin' to 1 Have you lifted 
 anything to-night V 
 
 The speaker who thus interrupted Lize in her soliloquy was 
 a short, well-dressed, fine-looking little fellow, with a pair of 
 keen black eyes, and seemed to be a friend well-known to her, 
 for, stretching out her hand, she replied — 
 
 ' How d'ye, Charley, my chum ! I haven't lifted nuthin'as 
 yet; but I mauled some o' the bigbug swells a bit ago. If 
 you'd been there you might have larnt 'em some lessons in the 
 knucking line V 
 
 ' What, warn't none of the files on the tramp V 
 
 'Not a mammy's son of 'em !' 
 
 ' What did you maul the swells for V 
 
 ' 'Cause they were abusin' a gal — a poor bit of a thing that 
 hasn't got hell's mark on her yet — that's as innocent as I was 
 ten years ago !' 
 
 ' You might have been in better business, Lize. You're too 
 blasted good-hearted to be on the tramp : but stir your pegs, 
 old gal. I'm agoin' to the crib ; see if you can't pick up some 
 cove as wants to see the elephant V 
 
 Well, tramp along, chummy,' replied the girl; Til see 
 what's what, my chuck !' 
 
 And then the girl sighed, when she found herself alone 
 again, and pulled her shawl closer around her. She was a 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 13 
 
 very singular -looking woman. No doubt many of my readers 
 have seen her as she has passed to and fro on the Broadway- 
 tide : if so, they will recognise this description. 
 
 Very tall, nearly or quite six feet in height; a form well- 
 proportioned ; a carriage rather graceful ; features that once 
 must have been remarkably handsome, and even yet are fine 
 and regular, though the hollow cheek, and high cheek-bones, 
 and narrowing chin, denote the havoc of time and dissipation; 
 a large, piercing eye of hazel ; lips which now are thin and 
 close, set over white and regular teeth — lip3 which have firm- 
 ness written in their expression ; a high brow, upon which 
 crescent shaped and delicately pencilled eyebrows are seen ; 
 dark hair, even yet soft and glossy, though thinned and 
 shortened. See this — and fancy a touch of paint on either 
 cheek, and a coat of powder on a rather slim neck and broad 
 uncovered shoulders, and 1 Big Lize, of Thomas Street,' is 
 before you. 
 
 We will leave her to seek a victim for her panel- crib, for she 
 ha3 long been an active panel-thief, while we follow the poon 
 little sewing-girl. 
 
 Up Broadway, until she has reached Canal Street ; then 
 down that broad thoroughlare toward the North Eiver she 
 fled, swiftly, though her weak limbs tottered and trembled 
 under her, never pausing, though she was panting and almost 
 breathless, until she reached a street leading diagonally with 
 that down which she hurried. Into this she turned, and soon 
 from it passed into a narrow little alley-way — a filthy, sick- 
 ening place — along which stretched a row of low, old frame- 
 houses, each looking as if they would crumble and fall down, 
 if they only had room to do so. 
 
 Into one of these, or rather its cellar, she stepped, and, as 
 she pushed open the creaking old door, fell forward upon 
 the bare ground, and fainted. Terror and exhaustion had 
 done the work. She lay senseless upon the ground, while the 
 bundle, to which she had clung all this time, rolled out from 
 under her arm. 
 
 1 My poor child — poor Angelina ! what is the matter V cried 
 a pale, sickly- looking woman, who, when the girl entered, had 
 been seated at the farther corner of the cellar, sewing by the 
 light of a small tallow-dip, which stood on the head of a 
 barrel, the only table visible in the dark, cheerless hole. 
 
 But the girl answered not : she lay still, even as if the hand 
 of death was upon her. With trembling- haste the mother — 
 for this was indeed that poor girl's widowed mother — seized 
 the light, and kneeling by her daughter's side, raised her head 
 on one arm, while she gazed tearfully down upon her face. 
 
 'No — not dead !— she breathes — she has fainted!' mur- 
 mured the woman ; and then setting down the candle, she 
 raised the poor girl's form, and bore it to the little cot-bed 
 
14 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 -which stood near her work-table. This was the neatest spot 
 in the cellar ; for a piece of old rag carpet was placed before 
 it, and the blanket that covered the bed, though thread-bare, 
 ■was clean. By the rustle that the bed made when the woman 
 laid her daughter upon it, could be discovered its material — 
 straw. Ah, how many in this city have not even that to lay 
 down upon ! 
 
 When she had laid her daughter down, she hurried to 
 "where a broken pitcher stood before her ' work- table,' and, 
 returning, commenced bathing the poor girl's face and brow 
 "with its contents, and tried to pour some between her lips. 
 The water seemed to have effect, for in a few moments the 
 girl slowly opened her eyes, then with a shudder closed them 
 again, while she slowly passed her hand across them, as if to 
 "wipe away the remembrance of some horrible vision. 
 
 * It is me, my daughter ! Oh, what is the matter ! Poor — 
 poor child — you are so weak and so tired !' 
 
 * They did not follow ! I am safe ; but I ran so fast !' mur- 
 mured the girl faintly; and her thin form shook with the 
 shudder that passed over her frame. 
 
 * What do you mean, my poor girl; have you been in 
 danger? Oh God ! has harm come to thee, my child? 
 
 The girl raised herself partly up on her elbow. Her eye 
 did not wander now so wildly as before, and she seemed to 
 regain a knowledge of where she was. 
 
 ' My dear— dear mother !' she cried ; and then as she 
 threw her thin arms around the neck of her parent, the poor 
 girl wept — wept for joy that she was now safe. And then, 
 while she yet was sobbing, in broken accents she told her 
 mother of the scene which we have already described — how 
 she had been insulted by things wearing the garb of mm — 
 how a terrible woman had rushed in and rescued her, and, 
 "with strange language but kind looks, bade her go home — 
 and how she had ran all the way, over a mile, amid the 
 pelting blast, and never let go of the bundle which contained 
 work for herself and her mother. 
 
 And then, -after her tale was told, she shivered and said — 
 
 ' I am very cold, mother !' 
 
 ' Yes, poor child, I know you are. Your thin hands feel 
 like marble in my grasp ; but you have brought money, we 
 will buy wood and have a fire ; and then I know you're hun- 
 gry, poor thing, you've only eaten one potato to-day !' 
 
 * I am not hungry, mother : but I've brought no money !' 
 'No money, child ! Have we worked night and day for a 
 
 whole week to be disappointed in our pay ! Why did they 
 not give it you? 
 
 ' They told me to come in the morning, mother ; and when 
 I begged them to give it me to night, they got angry, and 
 spoke so harsh, and said that you could trust them for a 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 Id 
 
 paltry two dollars — and then I took the new bundle of work 
 which was cat out, and came away. We can wait till morn- 
 ing, mother.' 
 
 * Yes, and you freezing, starving, dying, my poor child ! Oh 
 God. is not poverty a crime ! Why, why are we cursed with it !' 
 
 'Don't fret, dear mother. I'll get within the bed, and 
 when you come too, we'll put our clothes on over the blanket, 
 and we'll soon get warm ; for you will press me to your bosom, 
 and say kind words, as you ever do. That will soon warm my 
 heart. There are others poorer than me !' 
 
 * Oh no, child ; it is impossible ! When that candle is 
 burned out, I have not one cent to buy another ! 
 
 * But I will go in the morning and get the week's earnings. 
 The two dollars will make us comfortable again ; and then we 
 can make two more, if we work hard.' 
 
 1 Alas ! my child ; I fear our strength cannot hold out to 
 keep us up during the long, terrible winter. They tell a sad 
 tale of those who lived here last winter, you know !' 
 
 ' Yes, mother, I have heard them say that they burned up 
 the floor for firewood, and that even then it did not save them, 
 for when morning came after a cold, bitter night at the dead 
 of winter, the parents found their two little children dead. 
 But, mother, they were drunkards, you know, and they cared 
 but little for their poor babies !' 
 
 'Too true, my child ; and God cared for the poor creatures 
 by taking them out of a world so cold — so wicked as this. 
 Sometimes I wish that you — you whom I so fondly love, my 
 child — had died ere want and woe came upon us !' 
 
 'And then, dear mother, you would have been left to 
 struggle alone. Oh no ! thank God that J have been spared 
 to aid you. But you shiver ; you, too, are cold ; come to bed 
 and sleep till the morrow, and then I will go and get the 
 money, and we will have fire and food. I love to sleep, for 
 I almost always dream of happy days that are pa9t, and some- 
 times dream of joys that are to come, which makes me glad 
 until I wake.' 
 
 We have other scenes to go to, reader. This we will leave 
 for the present. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 * Curse that infernal girl ! I believe she has blackened both, 
 of my eyes. She hits harder than Bill Lord ever did ; and 
 he has laid me out twice in the same way, and for about the 
 same thing,' muttered Henry Whitmore, as he ' picked him- 
 self up' after Big Lize had 'landed' him at the foot e£ 
 Florence's steps. 
 
16 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 His companions at once gathered around him, and his 
 particular friend, Gustave Livingston, who had lost when 
 they tossed up for the possession of the poor sewing girl, now 
 bantered him, crying in a gay tone — 
 
 * You got more than was up in the bill, eh, Harry ! I'm 
 glad I didn't win in the toss-up !' 
 
 ' Blast the luck ! But where's the girl V 
 
 * Big Lize, do you mean V 
 
 ' No— confound it, no ! The little beauty — the sewing 
 girl/ 
 
 e Oh, she's off long ago, and has got Lize to protect her at 
 that. You're knocked out of your chance this time !' jeered 
 Gustave. And then, as if to make amends for his rather un- 
 timely joke, he added, ' let's walk up to the bar and enter a 
 plea, boys ; I've had my fun, and it's my treat.' 
 
 As this was an invitation which fashionable young gentle- 
 men never decline, Florence at once became the price of nine 
 drinks the richer, and the young gentlemen had another tier 
 of grog in their spirit-rooms. 
 
 Then Harry, who could not recover his spirits, even though 
 his glass had been filled with some of that B. B. B., the black- 
 bottled-best, proposed that they should take ' a round.' 
 
 ' Where shall we go V asked Gustave. 
 
 f Why I've had bad luck in at number three— s'pose we try 
 our fortune up at Pat Hisen's. He does things up in style — 
 keeps the best liquors, and sets the best supper table in town.' 
 
 ' You're right. He's a gentleman, every inch of him ; and 
 besides, his company is very select. You'll always find more 
 army and navy officers there than anywhere else in town. I 
 heard a right good thing from him about that the other day/ 
 
 ' What was it V cried all the party. 
 
 'Why, one of the army boys, — — , one that dis- 
 tinguished himself and came confounded near getting ex- 
 tinguished out in the Florida war, went in with some friends, 
 and after partaking of a magnificent supper, walked up to 
 Pat to apologise for not going to the faro table to play, saying 
 that he never gamecV 
 
 ' Don't apologize, my dear sir — don't say a word !' replied 
 Pat, in that broad, rich tone of his. ' I'm always glad to see 
 you and your friends here. Even if you don't play, your 
 presence gives a tone to the establishment. I'm glad, I 
 " a3shure" you, to see you here.' 
 
 ' And, no doubt, he was. Well, Pat is the man for my 
 money, or I for his, to-night l' cried Harry Whitmore; 
 and ascending to the pav$, the young men wrapped their 
 cloaks closely around them, and proceeded up Broadway, now 
 stopping to pass some coarse jest with a poor street-walker, 
 then breaking out in some bacchanalian song with a full 
 chorus. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 17 
 
 On they staggered up the street, across Canal, passing all 
 until they came to the neighbourhood of the renowned Niblo's, 
 where, crossing the street, they found themselves at the door 
 of what appeared to be a very genteel private residence. No 
 name was on the door, yet the number — five hundred, and I 
 forget the lesser numbers — was graven on a neat plate. 
 
 Harry rang the bell, and it was answered in a moment by a 
 very neatly dressed and genteel servant, who, without a word, 
 admitted the party within the first door ; but another was 
 before them, through which they could not pass without the 
 knowledge and consent of the master of the establishment. 
 But they had not long to wait in the corridor — the card of 
 Harry was sent up, and the consequence was a polite invita- 
 tion to walk up. Up a neatly carpeted stair-case to the second 
 story they passed, where the door was opened into a splendid 
 back parlour. Here they were met by Mr. Hisen in propria 
 persona. He had one of those bland, ever-smiling faces which 
 so well becomes a man of the world ; an eye at once quick and 
 searching in its glances, and features that would form quite a 
 map of study for a physiognomist. 
 
 He was well dressed, yet the flashiness of the sporting man, 
 ' stuck out' a little. There was a very slight mellowness in 
 his voice, as he welcomed the party, which bore a shade of the 
 brogue in it, but not enough to make one think him a late 
 importation from the Green Isle of the sea. 
 
 * Glad to see you, gentlemen ! rather early, but I'm glad to 
 see you, nevertheless ! It's coolish out to-night. I was just 
 thinking of brewing a bowl of "the real mountain dew," hot, 
 or if either of you prefer, there's some " 1301 brandy" on the 
 side-board ; very rare old stuff ; been bottled for twelve years 
 to my knowledge ; walk up and make yourselves perfectly at 
 home !' 
 
 It was remarkable how very fast the neat little gentleman 
 could talk ; the words, too, came with a liquid flow from his 
 lips, with a kind of unstudied persuasiveness which made it 
 impossible for those who were present to refuse his invitation. 
 
 Therefore, the punch was brewed, we need not add that it 
 was drank, and then cigars were introduced, for as Mr. H. had 
 remarked, it was 1 rather early,' too early for a fashionable 
 game, and none but fashionable men ever visited that esta« 
 blishment. The room in which they sat was furnished in a 
 neat and tasty style of elegance, two or three very fine land- 
 scapes were hung upon the walls, but none of those glaring, 
 lascivious paintings, which in a lower order of gambling hells 
 are always to be seen. The side-boards were well set off with 
 a handsome display of cut glass decanters, kc, which of course 
 were all filled with the choicest wines and liquors ; a centre 
 table was covered with the best papers and periodicals of the 
 
 B 
 
IB 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 day : among which the • tall Son of York's' excellent ' Spirit,* 
 the old 'Knickerbocker,' 'Albion,' &c, were to be seen. Every* 
 thing here was rich, neat and tasty. There was aTront parlour, 
 too, but we will take a peep into that by-and-by, when the ball 
 commences. 
 
 The party smoked and drank ; others came in, and time went 
 on until the hour of eleven. Then came a change over the 
 scene. The centre-table was moved aside, a long supper table 
 was set and soon loaded with all that a gourmand could wish, 
 for, even with the best which the market could produce. And 
 when the guests were seated — pop ! pop ! went the champagne 
 corks — the more heavy and serious sherry and Madeira was 
 quietly poured out with its gurgle, gurgle, so like the eddying 
 brooklet, and some, of superior taste to all, saw their glasses 
 filled with the 'London brown S,' its saffron- coloured foam, 
 o'ermantling the dark clear essence of the malt beneath. 
 
 But even these enjoyments, like all others, were fleeting, the 
 supper was over ; midnight was at hand, and it was time for 
 more fashionable amusements. 
 
 The party arose from the table ; the wide folding-doors which, 
 separated them from the next room were thrown open, and they 
 entered an apartment furnished lull as neatly as the other, but; 
 with one article in it which we have not seen before. It is a 
 long table — a rich heavy one of carved and polished mahogany, 
 and upon one end of it are piled heaps of red and white ivory 
 checks, things which are changed for money, used for the same 
 in betting, and are redeemable for cash at the bank — the faro 
 bank we mean. 
 
 A little silver box stands upon the centre of the table, and 
 in front of this box is arranged a suit of cards, face up, on the 
 table, and within the box is another set similar to them. We 
 forgot to say that behind this box stands a most elegant look- 
 ing gentleman ; a tall, slim, middle-aged gentleman, who 
 smiles as the party enter, and looks as if butter never could 
 melt in his mouth. 
 
 And now the party gather in front of the table, while Mr. 
 H. seats himself on the right hand of the dealer to attend to 
 the duties of banker. He opens the little casket which is to 
 contain the evening's earnings, or winnings, to call them rightly, 
 and with a winning smile, cries, 
 
 ' Proceed, gentlemen ; we are all ready now for a quiet little 
 game. Make your bets.' 
 
 And he is obeyed. 
 
 ' Give me checks for a twenty, Pat !' cries Harry Whitmore, 
 throwing down a bank bill of the XX size. 
 
 The round pieces of ivory are in his hand, and then others 
 get their bills changed in a similar way. The dealer shuffles 
 his cards, slips them into his box, and again Pat's rich voice 
 Is heard ; 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 ID 
 
 * Make your bets, gentlemen ; the board is open/ 
 
 Down goes ten dollars of Harry W.'s money on a king; 
 others bet on different cards, and then the dealer slips off the 
 cards, first one to the right, and then one to the left. Ere ano- 
 ther is touched the bets are attended to. Those that have 
 lost, see their money raked into the heap before the banker, 
 and the few that win receive their checks. All again make 
 their bets and so on until the deal is out. 
 
 Harry Whitmore was in luck, he kept winning until he had 
 more than made up his losses at number three Park Place; but 
 others were at that fatal board whom fortune favoured not so 
 much. There was a tall, fine looking young fellow, who had 
 played with great boldness, but with constant loss from the 
 time the bank opened. 
 
 * Who is he V asked Gus Livingston of his friend Harry. 
 
 1 Not knowing, can't say,' replied Harry, but at the same 
 time he propounded the question to a ' sporting gentleman 1 
 who was apparently only ' a looker-on in Vienna,' but who 
 really was a ' look-out' in the employ of the bank, who, sta- 
 tioned outside the table as a common spectator, could aid the 
 bank much by timely suggestions to 'green 'uns,' and also 
 ■could see that the betters only took up their winnings. 
 
 To Harry's question in regard to the young man who played 
 so desperately and lost so largely, the 'look-out' replied : 
 
 ' He is a clerk with S , the dry goods man, sir V 
 
 1 Is he wealthy? 
 
 'I don't know; he makes a pretty fair show. Shall I in- 
 troduce you V 
 
 * Yes, by all means. He is a fellow of spirit; I like to see a 
 man play deep !' 
 
 'So do I,' replied the sporting gentleman, and then he 
 added sotto voce : ' especially when he has charge of the key of 
 his employer's iron chest !' 
 
 Of course, this last remark was not heard, and while the 
 dealer shuffled the pack for a fresh deal, Harry and his party 
 were introduced in due form to Mr. Charles Meadows. 
 
 ' You seem to be out of luck to-night, sir !' said Harry to 
 him, after the usual salutations had passed. 
 
 ' Yes, I've cursed bad luck. I've lost three thousand to- 
 night, and two last night !' 
 
 ■ You play deep !' 
 
 1 Yes ; but luck must change you know, it can't always keep 
 on in this way !' 
 
 The gambler who had introduced him heard this remark, 
 and with a low chuckle, said again in an under tone : 
 
 ' It'll last till you drain the old man's chest, or are found 
 out, my hearty !' but of course the remark reached not the 
 cars of the young men. 
 
 * The game's set, gentlemen ! Make your bets !' agaia 
 
20 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 heard from the dealer, and once more Mr. H. put on one of 
 those inviting smiles. 
 
 • Try your luck once more, Mr. Meadows V said he—' your 
 turn must come soon ; Fortune's wheel is ever revolving V 
 
 ' It's a devilish long time in getting round to the right point 
 for me,' replied the young man, and then as he glanced down 
 zt the pretty cards which lay upon the table, he added — ' I've 
 got just a hundred left, I'll lay it all on the ace !' 
 
 This was done, other bets were made and the deal com- 
 menced. 
 
 ' Curse the luck !' cried Meadows, as his ace lost, while his 
 eyes flashed with excitement, « I say, Pat, won't you lend me 
 MtyV 
 
 ' I'm the very worst man in the world to borrow money of, 
 my dear sir, upon my honour, but just step into the back 
 room and tell Duane to give it to you. I'll endorse your I. 
 O. U7 
 
 The fifty was soon received, and almost as quickly lost, 
 Meadows grew pale when he saw it go, but he tried to smile, 
 and turned away saying : 
 
 ' It's of no use for me to play to-night. ' I'll wait till to- 
 morrow evening.' 
 
 Then he strode to the side-board, filled a tumbler half full 
 of raw brandy, emptied it at a swallow, after which he bade 
 the party good evening and left the room. 
 
 ' Do you know where he boards ? By Jove ! he is a man of 
 spirit : I must get acquainted with him !' said Harry Whit- 
 more, addressing himself to the gambler — (we beg his pardon, 
 sporting gentleman, we mean)— who was on the look-out. 
 
 ' I don't know, sir. I only meet him here : you will find 
 him here almost every night. As I said before, he is one of 
 
 the head clerks of S , the dry goods merchant; a 
 
 confidential clerk at that !' 
 
 'S don't know of his coming here, does he V 
 
 * I should think not, sir ; nor do J think Charley Meadows 
 
 would like S to know it. These mercantile men 
 
 will never let their clerks gamble at cards, though they them- 
 selves gamble in the rise and fall of their stock.' 
 
 We will leave this party now for a little while, and follow 
 young Meadows from this elegant and recherche establish- 
 ment. 
 
 When he reached the door, and felt the cold gale strike 
 his burning forehead, he raised the hat which he had drawn 
 down over hi3 eyes, and as he passed down the now silent 
 street, he muttered : 
 
 ' One more night of sin ! I am now ten thousand dollars 
 
 out, and if S were to discover it, disgrace and ruin 
 
 would be mine. Oh, God ! this is too bad ! I have robbed 
 my employer, stolen from one who has heaped me with 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 21 
 
 kindnesses, who has enabled me for years to support my poor 
 mother and . dear sister. But I will repay it and quit for 
 ever. One lucky night and I can regain all and replace it ! 
 I was lucky at first ; everybody says they play a fair game up 
 there, but it is strange that I can always win on small bets 
 and lose on large ones.' 
 
 The young man turned from Broadway down a street not 
 far from Canal, and after walking a short distance, paused at 
 the door of a neat little brick house. As he paused, he heard 
 the iron tongues of the different city bells strike two, and 
 after {eeling in his pocket a moment, he muttered again : 
 
 1 It is too bad, I've lost my night-key somewhere, I shall 
 have to ring and wake the old lady up.' 
 
 He touched the knob of the bell- wire, and while the bell 
 was yet tingling, the door was opened. 
 
 1 What, mother ! are you up yet V he asked of a thin, pale, 
 but sweet-looking lady, who might, by her appearanee, be 
 forty-five, certainly not more. She was dressed in deep 
 mourning. 
 
 ' Yes, Charles, Isabella and myself could not sleep when we 
 knew you were at work over your books. What a dreadful 
 night it is out !' 
 
 1 Yes ; it is bleak and dreary, mother, but you should not 
 have waited for me ; I told you that I had so many accounts 
 to make out, that I couldn't get home early !' 
 
 'Poor boy, you have to work so hard ; Mr. S surely 
 
 will raise your salary this winter. We have hard work to get 
 on and educate Isabella on eight hundred a year.' 
 
 1 Yes, it is true, mother !' and the young man sighed as he 
 took off his cloak and hat. 
 
 Was that sigh caused by the recollection that he had lost 
 thirty one hundred and fifty dollars that very night ? 
 
 He followed his mother into the neat but plainly furnished 
 little back parlour, and as he crossed the threshold, his sister 
 arose from her seat beside the centre-table, where she had 
 been reading, and with a glad smile hurried to meet him, and 
 pressed her pure warm lips to his with a kiss such as a sister 
 only can give. 
 
 Reader, will you pardon a digression. What on all the 
 earth is purer, truer, firmer than a sister's love. She loves 
 as woman ; yet not with passion, not as others love, only when 
 love is returned. Oh, who that has possessed a sister can 
 ever forget her first fond affection ; her warm, holy, passion- 
 less kis3. The writer ha3 one, and though years have gone 
 by since fate has separated him from her, never, never can he 
 forget the fond hours of their childhood's love ; though now 
 time and distance and the love of another may have estranged 
 her, yet will the memory of their infant hours bring back to 
 
22 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 liim, joy, love and gladness, linked with the name of his only 
 sister, Irene. 
 
 And Charles Meadows returned his fond sister's kiss; yes., 
 with lips which had breathed curses but half an hour before, 
 and had opened to the burning draught which he had taken 
 to stifle conscience. 
 
 Isabella Meadows was beautiful ! Dressed in an evening 
 wegkge, neat but plain, she looked as pure as an angel. Her 
 eyes were of a dark hazel, so nearly black that by candle- 
 light it would seem they were so. In dark brown curls her 
 hair fell upon a snow white neck, which with its graceful 
 curves would have served Canova for a model ; her form 
 •was tall, slender, yet perfectly proportioned, and if, as 
 sculptors say, the foot and limbs may be judged by the sight 
 of the hand, her small, delicate, tempered hand, would pro- 
 nounce hers to be perfection. She seemed to be about six- 
 teen ; and each word from her lips, each look and action, 
 showed her to be a child of nature. 
 
 We will now leave this scene, but the reader need not fear 
 to lose sight of any scene or character that has been laid 
 before him. We will follow all through their varying life* 
 cruise, and trace each character to its end. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Another day has passed in our history — a cold, tempestuous 
 day of winter. Oh, what suffering had been felt on that day 
 — how many a starving, dying wretch had felt the keen biting 
 of the frost, with no fire to warm the cold limbs and the 
 colder heart, — no friend to speak the kind word of sympathy 
 — no Christian to tell them that repentance and faith might 
 lead them to a home in another world where the sorrows and 
 ills of this would be all forgotten. Thousands have thus died 
 — men and women who have been nursed in the very hotbeds 
 of infamy and vice, here in this great city, who have never 
 heard the names of our Holy God or of his precious Son, save 
 as they were shouted in oaths and blasphemy. This is not 
 romance, reader— it is but too true ! 
 
 Another day has passed and once more we will look within 
 the cellar of the poor sewing girl and her mother. It is not 
 quite so drear and desolate as when last we left them, for 
 though it is dark and dreary outside, they have a candle upon 
 the old barrel head, and a little fire in the hearth-place. 
 The two dollars have evidently been received, and they are 
 now more comfortable. But the light of their fire and 
 candle serve only to show how very poor they are. The 
 bare, rough, cracked stone walls, the unfloored earth, two 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 23 
 
 low stools, the barrel-table, the little cot bedstead, alone are 
 seen. 
 
 The mother and daughter are at work, see them -with their 
 thin fingers stitching away over the garments for which they 
 are paid so little, the garments which will be worn with pride 
 where the rich and beautiful are assembled. Steadily they 
 work, for time to them is too precious to be wasted — each 
 moment is as a drop of life-blood in their veins. 
 
 With a sad smile the mother looks up at her daughter, and 
 she remarks : — * 
 
 ' We are better off now, dear one, than we were last night ! 
 
 1 Yes, mother, yet ere the weary week is gone, our scanty 
 store will be finished. If we work night and day, we cannot 
 earn more than two dollars, our rent here is one dollar a 
 week. Oh, it is hard for two, in the cold winter time, to live 
 upon a dollar ; yet, mother, there are others who suffer more 
 than we !' 
 
 ' Do not speak of it, child — I would not think so. But 
 daughter, cheer me up with your voice — sing me some song, 
 as you used to do ere we were not so poor as now V 
 
 * I will sing for you, mother, but not one of those gay songs, 
 which came from my heart as well as my lips in other and 
 brighter days.' 
 
 And then, in a sweet and plaintive tone, the fair girl sang, 
 THE SEWING GIRL'S SONG. 
 
 Wan and weary — sick and cheerless, 
 
 By a feeble taper's light, 
 Sat and sang the never-tearless, 
 At the dreary dead of night ; 
 
 The burden of her lay 
 
 Was work, work away, 
 Thro' the night and the day, 
 Was work, work away. 
 
 We are many in the city 
 
 Who the weary needle ply ; 
 None to aid and few to pity 
 Tho* we sicken down and die ; 
 
 But 'tis work, work away 
 By night and by day ; 
 Oh, 'tis work, work away^ 
 We've no time to pray. 
 
 Work we ever— pay is scanty, 
 
 Scarce enough to gain us bread ; 
 Starving in the midst of plenty, 
 Better far we all were dead ! 
 
 For 'tis work, work away 
 
 By night and by day, 
 Oh, 'tis work, work away. 
 We've no time to play. 
 
24 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 Hearts are breaking — souls are sinking 
 
 'Neath the heavy load they bear, 
 Yet live Christians never thinking 
 What our many sorrows are, 
 
 While we work, work away 
 
 By night and by day, 
 While we work, work away 
 With scarce time to pray ! 
 
 The daughter paused, for she heard the sobs of her mother 
 — she saw the big tears gush out from her sunken eyes, like 
 juice from the crushed grape, and her voice trembled, her own 
 eyes filled with tears. 
 
 Oh, how much more truth than poetry is there in our little 
 song, reader. 
 
 ' Oh ! why did you sing that sad, too truthful song, my 
 child 1 My heart was heavy before, but now its care-burden 
 is greater, for as a painting brings, up a remembrance of its 
 scenes, so do your words bring before me our lonely, miserable 
 condition. Yes, my child ; better far that we were dead than 
 thus to suffer in the very midst of a rich and beautiful city !' 
 
 ' I will sing another, mother ; it, too, has truth and a moral 
 in it.' 
 
 I'll never despair ! I'll never despair! 
 
 My heart shall be light ; 
 The glance of my eye shall ever rest where 
 
 The Hope-star is bright. 
 
 Oh, I have seen much of trouble and strife, 
 
 I've smiled and I've wept, 
 But firmly my course through the ocean of life 
 
 I've still onward kept. 
 
 I'm ever the same in joy or in sorrow 
 
 In sickness or health, 
 Careless to-day how dawneth the morrow, 
 
 In want or in wealth. 
 
 I'll never despair, though clouds do o'ercast 
 
 The hopes of my youth, 
 But fearless and bold, I'll face the rough blast 
 
 With honour and truth. 
 
 I'll trust to my God and the strength of his power, 
 
 Nor bow to the blast, 
 As 'neath the tall oak is shelter'd the flower 
 
 Till the storm be past. 
 
 'In Him indeed is our only trust.— His creatures would 
 care little if we did die and starve in their midst !' murmured 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 25 
 
 the mother, and though her eyes were almost blinded by the 
 tears which would come, she stitched away at the warm, com- 
 fortable garment which she was making. 
 
 And thus with their sad but simple converse worked mother 
 and daughter on, until the midnight hour was past, and then 
 after bending their knees in prayer to the orphan's Father 
 and the widow's Friend, they retired to their straw pallet and 
 clasped in each other's arms slept, — slept from very weariness. 
 That couple had got up with the dawn of light, reader, and 
 what think you they had earned by labouring steadily all 
 the livelong day and evening? Perhaps ten-pence a piece! 
 This is no fancy of mine — I haver seen poor girls, pale, sickly, 
 worn-out things, working day after day, and from their own 
 lips have learned the prices of their labour ; and then, to be 
 sure of my proof, have learned from their employers the same 
 truths. And what say these employers in excuse for thus 
 coining their gold from the life-blood of the poor? 
 
 Why, they have rivals in business — they must sell cheap or 
 not at all — to sell cheap they must get their work for almost 
 nothing, and these poor girls must work or starve, or do even 
 worse, and they must do it at the employer's prices. 
 
 Oh, many an unhappy inmate of houses of wretchedness 
 has been driven there by this very extortion of labour ; many 
 an inmate of our city prison has been forced into crime and 
 depravity, by hunger and cold, and who at the great day of 
 judgment will be answerable for this? 
 
 5fe, who living in the lap of luxury, have no care for the 
 suffering around ye ! 
 
 It was midnight, and still this same second evening in our 
 history, and the hell which we described before, was crowded 
 as usual. 
 
 Harry Whitmore, and his shadow, Gus Livingston, was 
 there ; and, beside them, before the long faro table stood 
 Charles Meadows, and by the checks in his hand, as well as 
 the excited appearance of his face, it could be seen that once 
 more he was trjing his fortune. 
 
 Harry was not playing ; he was only watching the play of 
 his new friend, who, as on the night before, played a bold, 
 reckless game, and of course a losing one. At each bet his 
 excitement grew greater ; and he followed a plan which is 
 sometimes used with success in a fair game — that of doubling 
 hi3 bet each time that he lost. At last his losses became so 
 heavy that his double would take every dollar he had with 
 him. He looked for a moment at the pile of five hundred in 
 his hand — paused, sighed, and hesitated — perchance he thought 
 then of his mother and sister, who, for his sake, denied them- 
 selves so many little comforts ; but as he was seen thus to 
 pause, a gentleman by his side, one whom he knew to be of a 
 
26 
 
 MYSTERIES AND" MISERIES 
 
 good family — a man, too, in a fine business, and who could, 
 of course, have no interest in the game — remarked — 
 
 * That ten spot has won twice in succession, Mr. Meadows; 
 it will be sure to run through." 
 
 'Thank you,' replied the young man; and then he laid 
 down his five hundred dollars on the ten spot; and, strange 
 to say, it did win. 
 
 1 I'd let it lay,' whispered his kind adviser, 1 it is sure to 
 run through !' 
 
 Charles Meadows did not see that by permitting his bet to 
 win, the dealer had a haul of over a thousand from the bet of 
 a young Englishman on another card ; he thought that his 
 luck was changing, and he let his thousand lay upon the 
 board in order to make it two. The next deal saw that 
 thousand quietly drawn over to the banker's side, and, with 
 a calmness caused alone by desperation, Charles Meadows 
 smiled and said — 
 
 ' Broke once more ! I am, indeed, in luck !' 
 
 He saw not the wink that passed between his gentleman 
 adviser and the banker. He thought, of course, that all was 
 fair. He was about to turn away, when Harry Whitmore 
 spoke to him. 
 
 ' Don't give up the ship, Mr. Meadows. That last bet was 
 unlucky, but the one before was all right.' 
 
 'I'm broke, sir !' was the calm answer of the young man. 
 
 ' Let me lend you a couple of hundred, and go you halves 
 in your luck, be it good or bad.' 
 
 1 By Heaven, you are indeed a friend ! I'll take it, and 
 give my note for it.' 
 
 'Never mind the note : friends, gentlemen never require such 
 paltry papers. Your word, sir, is as good as your paper 1' 
 replied the other, at the same time handing him over the two 
 hundred. 
 
 At this moment the dealer and the banker bent slightly 
 over towards each other, and, in a low whisper, the latter 
 said : 
 
 ' We must play him a little to-night. Let him win about 
 Jive, and he'll bring a larger pile to-morrow night.' 
 
 The dealer answered only with a look of assent, and the 
 next moment the deal began. A wink had been given to the 
 respectable mercantile gentleman, and though, as before, he 
 gave his advice to Charles, the latter won upon nearly every 
 bet. 
 
 * Play with small bets, and be sure,' said he. I wouldn't 
 advise you to play heavy. Lay it down in five and tens.' 
 
 And the fives and tens won, of course. But as his winnings 
 increased, the young man became more and more excited, 
 and wished to bet heavier. At last his pile reached the five 
 hundred. He determined to bet all upon a single card. And 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 27 
 
 now, with a smile of kindness, even Mr. H., the banker, 
 advised him not to be rash. 
 
 1 You have lost too much already, Mr. Meadows. Don't bet 
 jo rashly ; we don't want to win your money,' said he, in his 
 usual quiet and bland way. 
 
 * But I want to win my own back : I will lay this down on 
 the Jack !' replied the young man. 
 
 * iSTo, not on the Jack, or you would be sure to lose,' said 
 Pat. ' Just wait until the deal is turned without putting 
 lown your money, and if that card wins, I'll make you a 
 present of the amount !' 
 
 Meadows held back as he was requested, and, sure enough, 
 the Jack did not win. 
 
 Pat smiled, and congratulated the young man, while the 
 respectable adviser remarked, in a tone which could only be 
 heard by the betters : 
 
 ' What a noble fellow Pat Hisen is ! He is the only fair 
 gambler in town. He seems to play for amusement, rather 
 than for gain. He is a thorough- bred gentleman !' And then 
 as he turned to Meadows, he remarked : 
 
 ' I would advise you not to play any more to-night. You 
 see your luck has changed.' 
 
 ' What do you say, Mr. Whitmore ? I feel as if I was play- 
 ing for you now,' said Charles, addressing himself to his new 
 friend. 
 
 * Well, as you have already more than doubled my loan, I 
 think we might as well drop down to Bardotte's or Florence's P 
 and eat a few invigorators, of the "York Bay" or " Saddle 
 Rock" brand, and then go on a lender, kick up a row in 
 Leonard Street, or bother the " Charlies" a little.' 
 
 * Be it as you will. Here's your money back, and the half 
 of the winnings,' cried young Meadows. 
 
 * Never mind that, Charley, my boy. We'll need it to-night ; 
 you shall be the purser. Keep it to pay our way with,' replied 
 young Whitmore, carelessly. 
 
 And the next moment Gus Livingston took a chance to 
 whisper into the ear of Meadows — 
 
 1 A capital fellow is Harry ! Rich as Croesus, and free as 
 water !' 
 
 Reader, while these young men are wending their way to 
 the oyster saloon, we will tell you what the two inseparables 
 are. 
 
 Harry Whitmore is a descendant of one of the first families* 
 has had the advantages of education and travel ; and is what 
 the world calls a finished gentleman. He rides, dances, shoots., 
 and fences well ; speaks several of the modern languages ; is 
 skilled in music ; and has a very ready flow of conversation. 
 He is withal a 'ladies' man;' — but more, he is a consum- 
 mate, heartless libertine. He is not rich ; for the patrimony 
 
28 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 which he inherited from a kind grandfather is now run 
 through, and his only funds come from a fond and too indul- 
 gent mother, whose property is so secured, that, during her 
 lifetime, he can have no hold upon it. His father died years 
 ago. He gambles — generally with success, because he links in 
 with the gamblers and helps them. His fine person, plausible 
 manners, and the 'report' which he ever keeps up of being 
 etilL very wealthy, enables him to be a very efficient aid to the 
 w gentlemen with dark continuations." 
 
 Gustave Livingston, his ever present shadow, is one of that 
 genius which is so necessary to a character like Whitmore — a 
 kind of echo — ever ready to drink with him, or fight for him — 
 an ever present umpire ready to turn the scale of dispute in 
 his friend's favour ; ready alike to aid him in cheating or in 
 cajoling a victim. 
 
 He, too, is a descendant of a good family. But, alas ! for 
 'fallen aristocracy,' he has not only lost their wealth, but 
 their virtues, and he is now emphatically nothing more or less 
 than a genteel sponge. There are a goodly number of his class 
 in Gotham. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 There is a house in Cherry Street, not far from Catherine 
 Market — a low, frame house, painted yellow — a two storied 
 dormant-windowed building, which is well known to every 
 police officer in the city, and their visits to it have been 
 frequent. 
 
 A little to the north of its door stands an old-time tree ; and 
 for many a year it has been known to the 1 crossmen' and 
 'knucks' of the town as 'Jack Circle's watering place' and 
 * fence.' The dirty red curtains before the windows signify 
 that grog is to be had within ; and seldom did it happen, 
 either by day or night, that Harriet, the daughter of Jack, 
 who acted as bar-maid, did not have plenty of occupation in 
 attending to the guests. The house, as I said, is a low, mean 
 looking frame ; but, as it runs back, is much larger than it 
 appears. 
 
 Jack Circle seldom attended the bar himself, but either 
 moved about among his customers, conversing with them, or 
 absented himself in the back room, where none save himself 
 and a chosen few could enter ; for this wa-s a kind of general 
 assembling room for the English burglars and pickpockets, 
 who. driven from their own land, pursued their ' profession' 
 in New York. They had another hall, which we soon 
 will describe : but this was a kind of meeting, smoking, and 
 dxinking-room. And Jack Circle was their chief — they having 
 
OF HEW YORK. 
 
 formed themselves into a regular confederacy, agreeing to act 
 only upon the orders of their chief, which were to be given 
 after a consultation with the gang in assembly. And the 
 gang had their regular weekly meetings, when the report of 
 each member was as duly given to the chief, as the reports of 
 the city police are to their worthy head. 
 
 On the same evening which dates with the events of our last 
 chapter, there was a very 'select party' in the little dark back 
 room in the second story of old Jack's house, to whom we will 
 introduce you, reader. 
 
 First, let Mr. Jack Circle stand before you. He i3 large, 
 very portly, red-faced, jolly, Toby-Philpot-kind-of a-looking 
 fellow, and yet a man of immense muscular power. The bull- 
 doggish look about his eyes and mouth — the thick, short neck 
 — the broad round shoulders and full chest, proclaim him to 
 be what he is, — an Englishman of the real St. Giles's order. 
 His age is fifty or a little more, but like the general run of 
 men of his class, that age leaves him ju3t in his prime. He 
 is, and long has been, the chief of the gang to whom we 
 devote this chapter. 
 
 His daughter, Harriet, is well known as Tom Walker's wife, 
 to all the crossmen of the town, of whom she has ever been a 
 favourite, judging from the fact that she has now some four 
 or five husbands, for as soon as one of them got jugged and 
 found a temporary home in the State-prison, she would get 
 another, until she is so well supplied, that she generally has 
 one on hand all the time. She was, at the dating of our story, 
 about twenty-five years of age, not ill-looking, though ia no 
 way remarkable for extreme beauty. She was, however, tall, 
 well formed, and very powerful, and possessed a great influence 
 over the cracksmen of her clan. 
 
 And now for one more of the party — Mr. Bob Sutton. You 
 have, of course, heard of him, reader. He ia a perfect hero 
 among burglars ; his name has been connected with every 
 daring burglary that has occurred here within twenty years. 
 He is nearly a3 old as Jack Circle; has a rather open and honest- 
 looking face when not on the cross ; is very large and stout. 
 In some rough bout or ot her, he has had his cut-water staved 
 in — in other words, his noseha3 been broken in till it is rather 
 flat. Scars are seen like a map of pugilistic history all over 
 his broad countenance. He was once quite a celebrated 
 pugilist in England. He is known generally as ' Bob the 
 IVheeler,' because he was in his younger days brought up to 
 the trade of a wheelwright. He was once sentenced to Sing 
 Sing for life, but was pardoned out, and is now a greater 
 rascal than ever. 
 
 Then comes Bill Hoppy. He too has been gazetted so often 
 in our city papers, that his name is as well known as John 
 Smith's, He is rather a good looking fellow of thirty year? 
 
30 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 of age, with dark eye3, black curling hair, is 5 feet 9 inches 
 high, ever genteely apparelled, and is as daring a cove as ever 
 cracked a crib, touched a dummy, or palmed a glisten. 
 
 Jack Shaw — a tall, burly-looking, but well-formed cus- 
 tomer, with a slight cast in his left eye, which makes him 
 'look two ways for a Sunday' — is another of our friends. And 
 with ' Black Bill,' alias Jack Henderson, makes up the party 
 who, on the evening in question, were assembled in the little 
 up-stairs room. ' Black Bill' gets his sobriquet from his black- 
 muzzled, dark and forbidding appearance. He is tall, rough- 
 looking, resembling somewhat an old second mate, who, 
 broken for some misdemeanour aboard ship, becomes the 
 worst fore-mast hand that ever grumbled at an order, or 
 kicked up a mutiny. He is thirty- five or seven, and to use 
 the words of one who hiows him, ' looks the thief all over.' 
 Nearly all of these fellows are ' caffers* — a slang term applied 
 to the convicts of Botany Bay. in a future place the term, 
 and its origin, will be explained. Mr. Jack Circle has a pe- 
 culiar right to the title. 
 
 The whole of them are English ; their language is flash; and 
 they can boast of relatives in Botany Bay, and of others who 
 have reached quite as elevated positions as Mahomet's coffin. 
 
 But to their meeting. 
 
 ' Ye are all here, my covies,' said old J ack, when he glanced 
 around the room, which was lighted by the one side of a 
 regular thief s lantern ; * let's hear wot's on the lay ! Wot 
 r ave you got to say Bobby, my lucky V 
 
 ' Vy, Cap'n Jack, there's a crib as I've got my peepers on 
 where they will stir their tea with silver spoons, ven we knows 
 that pewter is better for their 'ealths.' 
 
 ' Can it be cracked heasy V 
 
 'Bout as heasy as gettin' into an old shoe.' 
 
 ' Vel, then, crack it, my lucky ; but do it up right ! Yofc 
 ^ave you got to say, Bill V 
 
 'I knows of a Gospel-shop w'ere they takes in their Sunday 
 dimes on silver plates, and sarves up their goodies on the 
 same sort o' stuff. Ve might as vel eat off o' silver onst, jist 
 to see 'ow the vittels 'ud taste !' 
 
 ' Eight as a trivet, my cove ; you is a prig of the old sort ! 
 Vot 'ave you got to say, Jack V 
 
 'Nothin' more than that !' and Shaw threw down a bag 
 which seemed by its sound to contain silver, and a goodly 
 amount. 
 
 ' Them ere's the werry answers as I like best !' cried Harriet 
 c 'Ow much have you lifted, Jack?' 
 
 ' A matter of five hundred, or so. I prigged two prancers 
 and sold 'em ; 'elped a swell to carry his gold thimble : borried 
 two cloaks for my uncle from " the Astor ;" and picked up a 
 4ummy for a green 'un, and went 'im 'alves r 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 31 
 
 c Oh Jack, times is a gettin' low,' sighed Black Bill. 
 
 'Vy; 'off .so? I dosent see but as I've done sumthin' 
 tow'rd payin' the scot this week.' 
 
 'But it's been in sich a small way,' replied Bill, with ano- 
 ther sigh. ' The time wos when we would'nt touch at nothin' 
 less than cracking a big crib ; and now it's enough to break 
 my heart to see a man of your talent and standing forced to 
 prig prancers, knuck tickers, and go on the low sneaks ! I'm 
 agoing to quit the profession.' 
 
 1 Quit !' exclaimed all, in surprise. * Quit the profession, 
 Bill r 
 
 ' Yes ; I'm agoin' into a respectable business !' 
 
 I Vot is it, Bill— vont you take me in for an active partner?' 
 added Harriet. 
 
 * Vot do you mean to do, Bill ?' said old Jack. 
 ' Why, cap'n, I mean to open a jewelry store. 
 
 'Open a jewelry store, you noddy ! cried Harriet, "ow're 
 you goin' to do that, 'ven you hav'nt got no more stock than a 
 broken down sheney ? 
 
 ' Why, my duck, I'm agoin' to open it with a jimmy and a 
 dark lantern, to be sure !' 
 
 ' Ha ! ha !' shouted the old man ; ' aller3 at your jokin', my 
 lucky. You're the cove as never died a cryin'. 'Ave you 
 found a bang-up lay ?' 
 
 I I haint found nothin' else.' 
 ' Vere away is it ?' 
 
 ' In Boston, the coppers there aint half so keen with their 
 peepers as they are here. I went on and borried the amount; 
 y my expenses from a swell that put up at the Tremont. I 
 iid it against my will, for I'm above little actions, and I've 
 sjot no small wices, but I was short of the dust, and had to do 
 it to pay expenses.' 
 
 ' 'Off many of the boys vill it take to crack the jewel shop? 
 
 ' Why, I want Jack and Bill Hoppy, and then I want a 
 youngster for a snakesman, one as can get in through a hole 
 in the back winder.' 
 
 ' When do you want to go on the dub?' 
 
 • The sooner the better, as the gal said when her man asked 
 aer the day.' 
 
 The chief paused a moment, and seemed to be counting up 
 ihe other engagements in his mind, when three, low, double 
 saps, were heard at the door. 
 
 'Its von uv us, Arriet, my gal,' said old Jack, and the 
 ffoman at once unbarred the door. 
 
 The person who entered, was 'Charley Cooper,' the same 
 lapper little fellow, who in our first chapter addressed Big 
 Laze in Broadway. 
 
 1 EUo, Charley, my kid ! tip ua your mawley, vot is'at new 
 
32 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 to niglit V cried old Jack, reaching out his mawley or hand 
 to the new comer. 
 
 ' Nothin' much worth pattering about. Lize made a big 
 haul last night ; I've brought it over to put in the big bag, 
 and draw our share of the lucky.' 
 
 ' 'Ow did she make the raise V 
 
 'Got a big bug home with her, and jist then her 'usband 
 came up stairs, and the swell did'nt have no time to count 
 his change afore he got out.' 
 
 'Come the panel over him, eh? Was the swell a gold- 
 finch V 
 
 * He wa3'nt nothin' else. Got a clear ten times ten out of 
 him.' 
 
 ' Won't he pay a wisit to old Hays V asked Harriet. 
 
 ' I reckon not ; he had grey hairs on his head, and maybe 
 he would'nt like to have it known where his breeches were 
 when the dummy was touched.' 
 
 ' Vel, my kiddies, ve might as vel count up the veek's 
 earnins, and divide the lucky,' cried old Jack ; ' I'll keep 
 Cupid's share, and 'Tilda's and the rest for 'em till they 
 come ; you're a losin' time, as the devil said to the parson 
 ven his congergashun vas asleep.' 
 
 And then old Jack bade Harriet trim the glim, and all the 
 spoils for the week were laid out, and the division made. 
 
 After this was done, quite an animated discussion occurred, 
 as to what the gang should next do. Henderson was opposed 
 to all small work, and was bent on opening his jewelry store, 
 to which Hoppy assented only on the condition of their help- 
 ing him first to sack the 'gospel-shop.' Each of the party had 
 some new place upon which the eye had fallen during the 
 week, and the dangers of detection and the prospect of success 
 in each case, was duly discussed ; old Jack, from his ex- 
 perience and extensive knowledge, having the loudest say in 
 the party. 
 
 At last all was settled, a visiting party of inspection ap- 
 pointed for the Boston lay, and then the party adjourned to 
 the less secret room below, for the purpose of taking a bout 
 at drinking and smoking. Harriet of course was their at- 
 tendant, while old Jack being through official business once 
 again mingled with his outside customers, many of whom 
 were petty thieves, &c., who, though not connected with his 
 gang in any way, used his house as a fencing ken, or place of 
 deposit for their stealings. No one would give a better price 
 than Jack for a set of spoons. No one could smash a fifty or 
 a check better, and a3 none save thieves visited his house, 
 they were pretty safe there. 
 
 Another picture, reader. A young man is seen sitting in a 
 large arm chair, one of that leather-backed easy kind, so 
 fashionable in the better sort of lawyer's offices ; before him 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 33 
 
 is a centre table heaped up with books of all kinds, and 
 printed in nearly all languages. With his heels coGked up 
 on the edge of the table and a fine cigar between his lips, the 
 young man seemed intently engaged in reading a email 
 octavo work, and while he read, ever and anon an approving 
 smile or appreciating remark could be seen and heard, as his 
 eye met pleasing passages. 
 
 The room looked like a perfect literary museum, though 
 its contents did not seem to be very classically arranged, for 
 there were large heaps piled upon the floor in every corner, 
 covered with dust ; some of them neat, elegantly bound 
 works, others with covers, ancient looking volumes. Maps, 
 pictures, inkstands, writing materials, were scattered all 
 around in rare confusion, intermixed with clothes, domestic 
 utensils, &c, &c. But by far the greatest amount of the 
 contents of the room was in books. 
 
 The young man seemed to be eighteen or twenty yeara of 
 age, was a fine, interesting, scholar-like looking individual, 
 dressed in a plain suit of black, wearing a white neckcloth, 
 and having rather the appearance of a student of divinity. 
 A wide, Byronical collar was thrown back to display a very 
 white and well turned neck; his curling black hair was 
 carelessly brushed back from a high, ample brow ; and if we 
 are to judge from the usual descriptions of them, he looked 
 very like a young poet. 
 
 Keader, this young man, Frank Uennoch, is now in Sing 
 Sing, serving out his term of punishment for a grand larceny. 
 You will in our romance learn more of him. 
 
 He wa*, as we have said above, seated in his easy chair, in a 
 room filled with the proceeds of his plunder, and he was en- 
 gaged in reading very attentively the first volume of Bulwer's 
 Paul Clifford. He paused, raised his eyes up from the book, 
 and took his feet down from the table, as three low taps were 
 heard at his door, then he still waited until three double taps 
 followed, when he said : 
 
 * 'Tis one of us, it's K,' and proceeded to unbolt the 
 door. 
 
 A rather good looking'female, of twenty-three or five years 
 apparent age, crossed the threshold, to whom he extended his 
 hand, exclaiming : 
 
 1 Ah, is it thee, my fair Matilda % My heart, like the wilt- 
 ing flower, has longed for the sunlight of thy smiles, and thy 
 presence is as pleasant a3 it was unlooked for.' 
 
 1 Oh, blast your humbuggery — talk plain English to me — 
 I'm not used to it. Patter flash, my lucky, you're a3 used to 
 it as I am.' 
 
 'Flash, Matilda! oh horrible, it is vulgar. Byron, Tom 
 Moore, Walter Scott, all favourite authors of mine, never used 
 9 
 
MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 it. Why, here is Bulwer : I'm reading his Paul Clifford, and 
 le don't use flash language in a dozen places. In all my 
 collection I've got but one book on the flash, and that's Cap- 
 tain Grose's dictionary. No, it's vulgar, and I won't use it,. 
 ^Matilda.' 
 
 ' Vulgar or not, it's mighty useful at times.' 
 
 ' Ye?, and I'll use it when it is necessary ; but Matilda, when 
 1 am in thy sweet presence I would prefer to address thee in 
 language more refined.' 
 
 ' Oh, sugar, you know what I'm used to, what the deuce 
 
 do you want to make out as if 1 was an angel for ?' 
 
 ' Ah, Matilda, to me you are an angel, a guardian angel, I 
 may say. When I was jugged the last time didn't you play 
 the affectionate sister for me, and bring me all I wanted 1 ?' 
 
 * Well, I didn't do no more than I ought to do, Frank ; you'd 
 do as much for me, wouldn't you V 
 
 ' Yes, peerless one, I'd deliberately lay me down and expire 
 for you? Matilda, I love you !' 
 ' Prove it !' 
 
 * How shall I ? must I scale the frozen cliffs of snow- capped 
 Orizabo ? Must I fly to the burning shores of ebon Africa, 
 aud bring thence the hide of the Nehemian lion] Must I 
 throw Van Amburg in the shade, and enter boldly in between 
 the jaws of Welch's elephant? Speak, fair possessor of my 
 heart, speak and I will thy will obey !' 
 
 * Oh, blast the thing, Frank, speak like a man of sense ! 
 You're as good a knuck as ever frisked a swell ! Why don't 
 you make a raise ?' 
 
 4 Why, to tell the truth, my love, I'm so much taken up 
 with my literary pursuits, that, on my honour, I've no time 
 to devote to the less elegant, but I acknowledge the more pro- 
 fitable avocation to which you allude. And besides, 'Tilda, I 
 have another objection !' 
 
 ' What's that ?' 
 
 * Why, to tell the truth, my fair friend, I've not got the 
 spunk to make a real large haul. When I hear of the boy& 
 making a large life, I always envy them ; but somehow or 
 other whenever I think of trying at something large, my heart 
 fails me !' 
 
 * You're a spooney ; I'll tell you what it is — with sich a 
 father and brother as you have, you ought to be ashamed of 
 yourself for doing so little : you've never done a nothin for 
 the honour of your family, when your precious daddy and your 
 brother has both "lifted themselves into notoriety.' 
 
 1 Ah, Matilda, now don't speak of them ; they are unfortu* 
 nate individuals. I can see them now within the dreary 
 walls of Sing-Sing; yes, I was thinking of them this very 
 morning, for I composed a poem on the subject. I'll read it 
 to you—' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 33 
 
 'Xo, no !' cried the woman, interrupting him ; ' I've other 
 jSsh to fry. We've got business for you !' 
 ' For me, what is it, my love V 
 
 ' Why there's a swell up town as has advertised for a private 
 secretary— some kind of a dark, you know — and old Jack has 
 found out from Sheney Bill, the Intelligence OHice keeper, all 
 about the old cove. He's rich as thunder, and close as a wolf- 
 trap !' 
 
 ' Well, what have I to do with that V 
 
 ' Why, you've got to git the sitervation ! The recommenda- 
 tions are all made out ; you've to be the only son of your 
 poor widdered mother, you know, to have 'sperienced religion, 
 and all that. The old cove goes in for all that kind of 
 humbug.' 
 
 • Well, what is to come after that?' 
 
 1 Why, you poor noddy, can't you see ! Get everything 
 right ; find out where he stows his precious ; get the run of 
 the house, and old Jack '11 send some of the boys to help you 
 to take care of him and his money !' 
 
 ' Oh, 'Tilda, it I do this, I shall be guilty of ingratitude, 
 that monstrous crime which Shakespeare calls — ' 
 
 'Oh, curse your Shakspeare, and you too. Why don't you 
 attend to your business. Jack has sent for you and you've 
 got to go. Here's the papc's' — and the girl handed him the 
 letters of recommendation — 1 the where he lives is on the 
 back of them, so cut for your lay, or old Jack '11 be down on 
 you with somethin as '11 get you in the jug afore you knows 
 where you is !' 
 
 ' Well, 'Tilda, if I must, I must. I hope the old covey has 
 got a good library. Ah, 'Tilda, you don't know what you lose 
 By not being acquainted with literary pursuits.' And the 
 Young man breathed a commiserating sigh. 
 
 ' I don't know nothin' about no persuits, 'cept the nab's per- 
 suite, and I'll be blasted if I likes them overly and above 
 common V replied the girl, and then she turned and left the 
 xoom. 
 
 For a moment Frank looked after her, then striking an 
 attitude, cried : — 
 
 'Thou art gone— thou art gone, like the last rose of sum- 
 mer, and left me alone !' Then glancing at the papers which 
 he held in his hand, he changed his voice and attitude into a 
 very good imitation of Charles Kean, and cried : — 
 
 ' To go or not to go 1 that is the question ! Whether it 
 ■will be better for me to stop here and read novels or to go 
 and make a raise worthy of the glorious profession followed 
 by Paul Clifford and other heroic men !' 
 
 Again he paused, and then striking an attitude imitative of 
 Anderson, continued : 
 
 ' Yes, I will go. I see a vision before me ! Be thou a spirit 
 
36 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 of wealth or a goblet damned ; bringst with thee airs from 
 Sing-Sing, or thoughts of Blackwell's, I go. Be the intent 
 wicked — its shape questionable, I care not ! I cry — go on ! 
 I will follow thee— yes, death or glory is my motto— Paul 
 Clifford like, I'll do or die !' 
 
 He seemed to have adopted the latter thought, for, after 
 slicking down his hair and arranging his neat, but thread-bare 
 suite of black, before one of his many looking glasses, he de- 
 parted on his errand, carefully locking the door behind him. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 At the close of our fourth chapter, we left three individuals 
 in the street, who were bent upon having, what our fashion- 
 able bucks call * a real bender,' and now, reader, with or with- 
 out your consent we will 'see them through.' 
 
 First, Charles Meadows, Harry Whitmore, and Gustave 
 Livingston, bent their way to Florence's for a few of the salt- 
 water vegetables, or invigorators, as Harry facetiously termed 
 them. 
 
 'Two stews and a raw,' were soon stowed away in their vic- 
 tualling holds, and then fortifying the inner man with a little 
 of the 1 B. B. B.,' the party felt prepared for the evening, or 
 rather for the morning, as the old City-hall bell had told 
 one sometime previous to the moment which found them 
 standing upon the pave at the corner of Park Place. 
 
 The streets were now nearly deserted; the night nymphs 
 had slunk away to their dens ; only here and there the ever 
 vigilant 'stars' could be seen on their beat3, examining each 
 hole or corner with certain glances, lest some thief or loafer 
 should have made a berth which belonged not unto him. 
 ~Now and then a person would hurry swiftly by, but he was 
 perchance speeding to the doctor's office to procure aid for 
 some one suffering in the agonies of illness ; and then again 
 one would be seen close muffling his face in his cloak, stealing 
 cautiously along, as if he had been guilty of something of 
 which he was ashamed. Perhaps he was slinking home to the 
 arms of an affectionate and waiting wife, and he too coming 
 from the gambling house, or a place of even greater infamy 
 for him. 
 
 The young men came up from the fashionable saloon, and 
 as they paused upon the pave, Harry cried : 
 
 1 Well, fellows, where shall we go ! I say, Charley, (excuse 
 the familiarity, but by Jove, I love you like a brother), which 
 -way shall we start V 
 
 'I don't care a copper, old boy; it's late now; my mother 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 37 
 
 and sister have gone to bed, and I'll make a night of it,' re- 
 plied the youg man. 
 
 'Have you got a sister? How old is she?' asked Harry 
 quickly. 
 
 'Only sixteen; and she's the prettiest girl in York, if I do 
 say it !' 
 
 • Prettier than mine, do you think ? They say my sister is 
 some in a crowd !' 
 
 * Well, you shall see for yourself, Harry — by Jove, you shall. 
 I'll bet the drinks on her beauty and leave it to yourself after 
 you've seen her.' 
 
 1 No ; I'll take the bet, but you shall see my sister, and then 
 I'll leave it to you to decide,' cried Harry ; and had Charles 
 Meadows looked him in the face at that moment by the lamp- 
 light, he might have seen the sly wink whieh was given to 
 Gus Livingston, to keep up the rig, for Gus knew well that 
 Harry Whitmore was an only child. 
 
 Like a good echo or sponge-assistant as he was, he added to 
 his friend's last remark : 
 
 'If your sister is'nt an angel, Charley, you'll lose the bet. 
 Maria Whitmore is'nt a girl that can be matched in every 
 crowd.' 
 
 ' Well, — we'll see,' replied young Meadows, ' but it's getting 
 late now, and we'd better be on the move.' 
 
 ' It's getting early, you mean; but it is just the fashionable 
 hour for the Leonard Street ladies, they're in full blast there 
 about this hour.' 
 
 ' When do the poor creatures sleep V asked Charles. 
 
 ' Why, in the day, to be sure; how green you are,' replied 
 Harry. 'You don't seem to know much about the fashions.' 
 
 '1 have never mingled with that class, yet,' replied the 
 young man — 'until I got into the infernal habit of gambling, 
 [ always spent my evenings at home with my mother and 
 Isabella.' 
 
 ' Isabella ! Is that your sister's name V 
 
 ' Yes — and my mother's also.' 
 
 ' A.nd I, because my pure, angelic sister, own's it.' 
 
 The eye of Whitmore Hashed with pleasure. In a low whis- 
 per he said to his echo : 
 
 'Gus, this must be something great, eh? Sixteen, pure, 
 yrcen, he means. I must see the bird.' 
 
 The echo only answered with a smile and glance of more 
 than wordy meaning, 
 
 •Well, where shall it be? At Julia B.'s, 55 Leonard, or 
 iome other of hell's paradises,' cried Harry. 
 
 'Where you please,' replied Charles; 'as I said before, I 
 im not acquainted with these localities or their mysteries.' 
 
 ' Then 'tis high time you were initiated ; we're the chaps 
 ihat can show you round ! eh, Gus ?' 
 
38 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' To be sure we are. "Why, Harry knows every pretty girl 
 that's out,' replied the echo in answer to this appeal. 
 
 'Then to Jule's let it he, cried Harry, and the young men 
 wrapped their cloaks around them and staggered up the now 
 almost deserted street. They soon reached Leonard street, 
 down this they turned toward the North River. But a little 
 way down and they paused before a large, fine-looking brick- 
 house, up the steps of which they passed and rsng the bell. 
 In a moment a little shutter at one side of the door was 
 raised, and a female voice asked : 
 
 ' Who is there]' 
 
 ' It's me, Mary. I'm here with two friends of the right 
 sort,' replied Harry. 
 
 4 Who's meV answered the facetious doorkeeper, 'I don't 
 know anybody of that name.' 
 
 1 Well, you know Harry Whitmore, don't you?' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, Harry, is that you?' cried the woman. 
 
 * To be sure it is, and it's as cold as Norway out here ; stir 
 your stumps and let us in, that's a good Molly.' 
 
 In a moment the heavy bolts were drawn back, the green- 
 painted iron door swung heavily on its hinges, and the young 
 men were within the most celebrated palace of infamy which 
 digraces Gotham. 
 
 As the door closed behind them, they could hear joyous 
 voices within ; gay peals of laughter, and the sound of the 
 piano also fell upon their ears. The next instant they were 
 in the large double parlour, where were already quite a nam- 
 ber of 'gentlemen,' some of them grey-haired men, but all 
 having the appearance of being morcied individuals, for here, 
 as well as in the gambler's nell, no one is wanted, who is not 
 the possessor of all-powerful gold. 
 
 There were a dozen or eighteen females, seated on the 
 splendid ottomans around the mom, all of them good-looking, 
 some of them very handsome. They were dressed very richly, 
 though in a manner calculated to exhibit the beauty of their 
 forms, even at the expense of modesty. Low necked dresses 
 revealed even more than bare, powdered shoulders : their 
 arms were unsleeved, and tho.-e who had pretty feet, wore 
 skirts sufficiently short to exhibit them. They were curled, 
 and powdered and painted, until art could do no more to add 
 to their looks, and now the poor miserable creatures were on 
 exhibition, as pieces of finery ready for sale. 
 
 And they seemed gay ; appeared to be happy. They 
 laughed and danced and sang as if their path was strewn with 
 flowers; yet, as beneath a glistening lake in the calm sum- 
 mer-time, a wreck may be hidden, so beneath that outward 
 gaiety many a broken heart lay cold and still : many a 
 wrecked spirit and crushed hope was concealed. They then, 
 amid the glare of lights, the reflection of the crimson velvet 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 curtains and the gorgeous furniture, looked as if they pos« 
 jessed beauty ; but could they have been seen without their 
 paint and ornaments, without the artilicial aids around them, 
 pale would then be their now rosy cheeks ; sunken their 
 lustreless eyes ; gone the smiie, and hushed the lauijh. 
 
 And many of these pooor hapless creatures were young — fif- 
 teen, sixteen, seventeen years of age — too young, oh Heaven ! 
 for that living grave. And how came they there] Let the 
 lawless, heartless, God forsaken libertines answer, who led 
 some of them away by false promises from the paths of honour 
 — let them reply ! Woman — fond, trusting, all-confiding 
 woman, but too often listens to their honeyed words. But 
 there {are yet other causes which led them there. Many a 
 poor girl, possessing nothing save beauty, has toiled and suf- 
 fered for many a weary winter's day, aud ibr her toil, like our 
 poor sewing girl, has not been able to sustain even the sem- 
 blance of comfort, or keep her chilled limbs warm. While 
 thus suffering, she has seen the courtesan pass along, robed in 
 silks and furs — at least dressed warmly, even richly. And 
 while the thought of her daily toil and her own misery was 
 contrasted with the lot of the other, she has yielded to the 
 voice of the tempter, and fallen into the pit whence no hand 
 amid all our Christian city will attempt to raise her. If she 
 had been able to live by her honourable labour, that poor 
 girl would rather have died than have sprung into the dead 
 sea of pollution and infamy. 
 
 Reader, excuse us ; but this is a book where we must at 
 times break aside from the thread of our story to moralise. — 
 He were worse than thoughtless, who could see and describe 
 the scenes which we have, and not give some reflections 
 thereupon. 
 
 When our trio entered the splendid parlour, they were met 
 by the beautiful hostess in person. 
 
 1 Good evening, Harry ; I'm glad to see you and Gus. You 
 have a friend, I perceive,' said she, in a bland and musical 
 tone. 
 
 'Yes, Jule,' replied Harry ' my very particular friend, Mr. 
 Meadows. He is rather verdant ; but you'll find him a glorious 
 fellow, quite " one of us," I assure you.' 
 
 ' I doubt it not ; nature has kindly written his character 
 upon his face.' And the ' lady reached out a very white and 
 richly-jeweled hand, while sne smiled most sweetly. Then, 
 she added : 
 
 * I will introduce you to some of my boarders, sir. You 
 will find quite a variety. We have blondes and brunettes. 
 The creole of the South ; the lily of the central States ; 
 and the snow-drop of the North. Take my arm and walk 
 around with me.' 
 
 The young man hesitated a moment ; he saw several mer 
 
40 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 chants there — men who knew him — and the fear for an instant 
 flashed across his mind, that his employer would hear of this 
 "visit. But he thought that, of course, for their own sakes, the 
 respectable individuals would keep the secret, and he accepted 
 the arm of Mrs. B., while Harry and Gu3 seated themselves 
 on a sofa, between a couple of girls, who were already half- 
 tipsy on champagne, and, to use their own language, ' were as 
 full of fun as an egg could be of meat.' 
 
 ' What is the style of beauty which you most admire V 
 asked the lady-patroness. 
 
 * Why, really, I know not. I admire all kinds, I believe,' 
 replied Charles. * It would be hard to say, but' — and the 
 young man glanced at his companion as he spoke — ' I think 
 dark, languishing eyes; dark hair ; a form full, even a little 
 embonpoint ; and a complexion at once clear and fair, may be 
 considered beautiful.' 
 
 Both her lip and her eye smiled, as his companion saw the 
 drift of his compliment ; but without appearing to notice it, 
 she said : 
 
 ' Then I must introduce you to a young lady from Balti- 
 more; or really from a city a little beyond.' 
 
 Then, as they paused before a very pretty and lady-like 
 looking girl, the hostess added : 
 
 ' Mr. Meadows, Miss Kate Hall. You will find Miss Kate a 
 very agreeable companion, sir ; but she seems dull to-night ; 
 I think a bottle of champagne will be of service to you both. 7 
 
 ' Order it, of course,' replied Meadows. And then the inte- 
 resting young lady moved aside, and left room for him to sit 
 upon the ottoman which she occupied. As he did this, he 
 remarked : 
 
 'You do seem sad this evening, miss; may I ask the 
 reason V 
 
 The young lady sighed, looked down upon the beautiful fan 
 which she flirted in her hand, and in a low, sweet tone, 
 replied : 
 
 ' Really, sir — we are strangers, and beside, I am not very 
 sad.' But, as if to give the lie to her own word3, her bosom 
 heaved with even a deeper sigh than before. 
 
 Meadows felt interested. The girl really was very pretty. 
 She seemed exceedingly lady-like. And while he took her 
 hand in his with a gentle pressure, he continued : 
 
 ' Do tell me, Miss Kate. I can sympathise with you ; and 
 if I can aid you, heaven knows that I will V 
 
 The lady gently returned the pressure of his hand. She 
 looked up at him ; he thought that a tear was gathering in 
 her bright eyes ; but she dropped them again beneath the 
 shadow of her long lashes ; and another sigh came from her 
 lips. She made no other reply ; and this made Charles only 
 the more pressing to know what was the cause of her sorrow. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 •12 
 
 At this moment the champagne was brought before them, 
 the cork rlew from the long-necked bottle, and Charles, receiv- 
 ing the two brimming glasses from the waiter, handed one to 
 lis companion, who simply placed it to her lips, then, without 
 drinking, set the glass again upon the salver. 
 
 * Will you not take your wine V asked Meadows ; and there 
 [?as tender solicitation in his tone. 
 
 ' I thank you,' replied the girl ; 'but I seldom touch wine, 
 [t is not that which can raise my spirits and once more Bhe 
 sighed. 
 
 Oh do tell me — do tell me, Miss Kate, what your sorrows 
 ire. I feel for you — will alleviate them if it be in my power. 
 I will be as a brother to you !' 
 
 'A brother T murmured she; and now she hid her face in 
 her handkerchief, while she continued — 1 1 had a brother 
 ance, one who, if he had lived, never would have seen me 
 here in this dreadful place, leading a life so full of brimming 
 misery ! Oh, sir, if you knew all, you would pity me !' and 
 aow he could hear her sob. 
 
 * I do pity you, dear girl ; indeed I do. Tell me all; I must 
 hear it ; I will aid you.' 
 
 * There are too many listeners here : the others would jeer 
 md laugh at me if they heard all that I would say.' 
 
 ' Then why not go to another room ; have not you a room V 
 ' But sir, you have been so kind — your voice is so full of 
 pure sympathy for me, I cannot ask you up there, where, 
 Heaven knows, I have spent hours of misery ! My room is 
 ip stairs;' and then she faltered, sighed again, and in a tre- 
 mulous tone added — 1 there is a bed in it !' 
 
 ' It matters not ; you need not fear me ; I only wish to 
 aear of your sorrows— to alleviate them if I can,' cried the 
 poung man. And now he set down his untasted glass of 
 wine. 
 
 ' I cannot deny any request from one so kind and noble as 
 yourself,' said the girl, and she arose to lead the way. After 
 ;hey had reached the hall, as they were about to ascend the 
 staircase which led into the second story, Miss Kate made an 
 jxcuse to return to the room for her handkerchief, which she 
 aad 1 accidentally ' dropped ; but had Charles returned with 
 aer, he would have seen her pause by the side of Mrs. B., to 
 [vhom she whispered : 
 
 'I've caught him, Julia ! I came the sentimental over him, 
 md I think I'll make a few out of him ! He is going up stairs 
 ;o listen to a tale of sorrow.' 
 
 The hostess smiled sweetly, and as Kate walked away, re- 
 narked to a gambler-looking man who sat by her side : 
 
 ' Kate is the most profitable girl in my house, Jack.' 
 
 Reader, we will not linger here in this garden of corruption. 
 SVe could, if we would, show you such mysteries and miseries 
 
42 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 here a3 you little dream of; but this i3 a book in which we 
 have pledged ourself not to write one line that we would not 
 lay before a young sister's eye. It would be impossible for us 
 to dwell upon the scenes here and describe them as they are, 
 without overstepping that pledge. Therefore, we will leave 
 Harry and Gus drinking champagne with their already 
 drunken companions, and Charles Meadows to listen to a 
 hackneyed story, which will only end in his giving Miss Kate 
 all the money in his pocket to save her from the impending 
 misfortune which has made her so sad ; and we will leave her 
 so overcome with his nobleness and generosity, that she can- 
 not part with him that evening; and lit you imagine more 
 or less as you choose. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Ik one of those beautiful streets which stretch across from 
 Broadway to the North River, not far from Union Square, 
 stands among many, a two story brick building with a small 
 yard in front, which is protected by an iron-railing. The 
 building is very neat ; its brass knobs on the door and bell 
 wire are brightly polished, there is not a speck of dirt upon 
 the marble door steps. Even the little evergreen trees in the 
 yard are trimmed down with quaker-like neatness. The 
 window- blinds are closed and the house seems still and quiet, 
 as if it was not inhabited. 
 
 The time when all this so appeared, was but a day or two 
 after the first date in our story. 
 
 If that house looked cold and rather cheerless without, it 
 was far from being so within. In the back parlour, which was 
 quite richly furnished, sat a rather corpulent gentleman, who 
 seemed rather past the prime of his life, of fifty or fifty-five^ 
 years apparently. He sat upon a sofa, which was drawn up 
 in front of a glowing coal fire, and was engaged in reading one 
 of our city periodicals. There wa3 a spice of dandyism in his 
 dress and manner— an eye-glass hung dangling from his neck, 
 which, of course, was worn more for ornament than use, since 
 he seemed to read easily without raising it to his eye. Every- 
 thing in the room wore the same appearance of neatness which 
 we have observed before in the outside appearance of the 
 dwelling. Each book upon the centre-table was laid at an 
 equal distance from its next neighbour — each article of 
 furniture was free from dust, and placed in exact positions 
 about the room. 
 
 The gentleman who sat alone here, was also, in his dress 
 and looks, as neat as the room. His hair, which once had 
 been black, and in fact was now only sprinkled lightly with 
 
OF NEW YORK. 43 
 
 jvrey, was brushed up into a peak which concealed a baldness 
 of the crown, and it was also combed down at the side to meet 
 a pair of rather heavy but well curled half-whiskers, which, by 
 their jetty blackness, showed that they had been dyed. 
 
 Header, this is Mr. Peter Precise, who has just retired from, 
 ihe business of soap and candle making, in which he has 
 realised quite a fortune ; and, moreover, he has but recently 
 learned that he possesses an interest in a family property in 
 England, or is supposed to, for, on the mother's side, he is a 
 descendant of the celebrated • Hunt family' of England. His 
 character and his name are very like. During his busines life, 
 he never varied in anything ; never lost a debt, or failed to 
 pay one ; for, in the first place, he would credit no one without 
 a precise knowledge of the means of paying ; in the second, 
 he never bemght anything that he could not pay for. 
 
 He was a bachelor, not because he did not like the female 
 3ex, but because he could never find a woman who did every- 
 thing by rule as he did, — who rose at just such a minute each 
 day, retired at just such an hour each night, and did just so 
 much work. He never kept a hand in his employment, who 
 did more or less than he was required — a single blot upon his 
 ledger would be the surety for his book- keeper's dismissal ; 
 even if his waggon horse stumbled, Mr. P. would sell him and 
 get another. In early life he always said that he would retire 
 irom business when he had acquired a fortune of fifty thousand 
 dollars, and as his books were balanced at the end of each 
 month, he knew at that time the precise amount of his 
 property. And on the very day when he found that he really 
 was the owner of the fifty thousand dollars, he gave up his 
 concern to one who had long been his clerk, paid eight thousand 
 dollars for the house and lot which we have described, and 
 retired to pass the rest of his life in comfort. 
 
 But he found that he was exceedingly lonesome, now that 
 he had given up business ; his very regularity had become so 
 habitual, that each morning found him up at his old hour, and 
 frequently, before he remembered that he had retired, he 
 would be on his way to the 1 old stand.' He had quite a good 
 library, and with it possessed some taste for reading. To this, 
 and a correspondence with several lawyers and members of 
 the Hunt family, he had now devoted himself, and in con- 
 sequence of the labour of letter-writing, and his loneliness 
 also, he had advertised for ' an intelligent, neat, discreet 
 young man, to act as a clerk and companion to an elderly 
 gentleman, retired from active business.' 
 
 One of the many Intelligence Office keepers, a man known 
 to Jack Circle and his gang as Sheney Bill, (the word Sheney, 
 among them, means Jew,) had seen this advertisement, and at 
 once, in connection with Jack, had taken means to supply the) 
 
44 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 Baid ' intelligent and discreet young man,' a3 we have seen in 
 our last interview with Mr. Frank Hennock. 
 
 As we said before, Mr. Precise was seated upon his sofa, 
 which was drawn before the fire, reading, when he heard his 
 door-bell ring. He did not lay down his periodical ; but he 
 ceased to read, and listened, while the servant, who came up 
 from the basement kitchen, answered the ring. 
 
 In a moment she came to the parlour door, and announced 
 that a young man, a very nice looking young man, was at the 
 door, who wished to see Mr. P. Precise. 
 
 ' Tell him to come in, Jenny, my dear !' said Mr, P. in a 
 quiet tone ; ' and see that he wipes his feet on the door mat, 
 Jenny.' 
 
 The girl turned away to obey, and Mr. Precise, getting his 
 eye-glass to his left eye, in the most fashionable style, awaited 
 the appearance of Mr. Frank Hennock. 
 
 Mr. Precise saw a rather pale, and very steady looking young 
 man before him, and for a few moments gazed at him from 
 head to foot, as if he would read his character in the glance. 
 Prank seemed to feel that much depended on that look, for, 
 simply bowing, without speaking, he remained in a respectful 
 posture until Mr. Price took down his glass and said : 
 
 ' You may step forward, young man. You have come to 
 apply for the situation of private secretary with me, eh V 
 
 ' Yes, sir. Here are letters for you,' and Frank produced 
 what Matilda Horton had called 'the papes.' 
 
 Mr. P. took them and glanced over the contents of each, 
 Then again raising his eyes to Frank, he scanned him with 
 another long and steady look. 
 
 'Looks neat — rather threadbare, but neat!' he muttered 
 in soliloquy: — ' hands clean ; wonder if he uses my soap — hair 
 nicely brushed — clean shirt — looks as if he would do, but 
 musn't trust to looks.' 
 
 Then addressing Frank, he asked — 
 
 ' Can you write a good hand — no scratching or blotting, 
 eh?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir — I will give you a sample, off- hand, if you wish !' 
 replied Frank, in a very meek tone. 
 
 ' You shall. Go to that secretary, upon which stands the 
 book-case, let down the draw-leaf, of which here is the key. 
 In the right hand drawer find paper; in the pigeon-hole above 
 it is pens ; ink is at the right hand corner. Take them and 
 draw me up a letter.' 
 
 * What kind of a letter, sir?' 
 
 ' Such a one as you would have written if I had addressed 
 you and offered you the situation that you ask for !' 
 
 Frank did as he was directed, and in the course of a couple 
 of minutes handed the letter to Mr. P. 
 
 The latter read it, muttering as he did so : 1 Very neat — well 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 45 
 
 worded— no blots— letters well formed. You've been to school 
 —studied hard— good boy, ehl' 
 ' I have studied and read much, sir !' 
 
 ' Fond of reading, eh ] You shall read to me — 'twill be a 
 *ood way of passing the long winter evenings. What do you 
 ike to read best]' 
 
 1 1 prefer religious works, sir, but sometimes read poetry.' 
 
 * Read to me.' 
 
 1 1 will read you a poem of my own, sir, if you please.' 
 
 ' What ! young man, can you write poetry yourself? You're 
 in extraordinary lad !' 
 
 f I have written a little verse at times, sir; yet, I dare not 
 sail it poetry,' replied Frank, very modestly. 
 
 'Well, sir, I'll judge of that for myself. If you have your 
 >oem about you, read it.' 
 
 Frank drew a much worn piece of paper from his pocket, 
 ind was about to commence reading, when Mr. P. interrupted 
 lim, by bidding him draw a chair and sit down. 
 
 This order obeyed, Frank again raised the paper, but before 
 •eading, said : 
 
 * I must tell you, sir, how I came to write upon the subject 
 ! offer to you. I had been out all day in search of a situa- 
 ion, and was going home to my mother, when 1 thought of 
 ;oing through one of the poorer parts of the city, and oh ! 
 ir, you cannot believe how much misery I saw in that walk. 
 
 did so wish that I was rich, to help the poor creatures, for I 
 aw them ragged ! yes, almost naked, some of them in the 
 treet and they looked so hungry !' 
 
 * You are a good boy, I believe !' said Mr. P., evidently 
 aoved by this mark of Frank's feeling, and then he added, 
 You wrote this poem about them, did you V 
 
 * Yes, sir ; I will read it to you now. I call it 
 
 'PITY THE POOP. 
 
 " The winter-times are coming fast, 
 Pipes loud and shrill the autumn blast, 
 And leafless limbs are quivering, 
 And houseless ones are shivering ; 
 
 With your eye 
 
 You may spy 
 
 Naked feet 
 
 'Mid the sleet ; 
 Then pity, oh ! pity the poor, 
 Who stand in the cold at your door ! 
 
 " When your hearth-fire blazeth brightly, 
 Even as it burneth nightly ; 
 
MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 "When you hear the wild winds, chilly 
 Pipe their warning loud and shrilly, 
 
 In the storm, 
 
 See the form, 
 
 Thin and pale, 
 
 Hear the wail 
 Of the suffering; list the cry, 
 • Help the poor! Help them, or they die !* 
 
 " Clothed in rags so thin and scanty, 
 Live they in some cheerless shanty ; 
 Doors unhung and windows open, 
 Roof all leaky, walls all broken ; 
 
 There half dead 
 
 Without bread 
 
 Hear them cry : 
 
 ( Must we die ? 
 Perish we in this great city, 
 None to save and none to pity V 
 
 " 'Mid the snow and'mid the hailing, 
 Christians, hear the orphan's wailing ! 
 Ye are bless'd with Heaven's plenty, 
 While their fare is poor and scanty. 
 
 Loud the blast 
 
 Whistles past ; 
 
 At your door 
 
 Stand the poor, 
 There are many in this city, 
 Few to aid and few to pity !" 
 
 Frank read this little poem with much feeling, and wh 
 he closed, Mr. Precise arose and walking to hia side, laid h-' 
 hand on his shoulder and after looking down in his face 
 moment, said : 
 
 ' What is your name, young man V 
 
 '.Frank Hennock, sir.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; it was so in the letters ; I had forgotten,' and 
 then Mr. P. once more read the letters over. 
 
 ' You seem to be a good boy, Frank ! I like you ; if you d 
 well and are particular and faithful, I'll do well by you. 
 am very particular, you must remember that ! Now, wh 
 wages do you want ?' 
 
 ' I don't know, sir, really ; I have a poor mother to ta" 
 care of !' Here Frank took care that his voice should trembl 
 a little, while his face became still more elongated. 
 
 ' Love your mother, eh 1 I knew you was a good boy. Yo 
 shall have forty dollars a month ; commence at six o'clo 
 to-morrow morning. Remember, at six o'clock, exactly.' 
 
 ' I can come to-night, sir, if you wish.' 
 
 ' I said six o'clock ; I don't want you one minute before 
 after that time. I get up at ten minutes before six 1 a 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 47 
 
 dressed in exactly ten minutes, and then I come down and 
 read the morning papers. Jenny makes the lire at five. You 
 understand me now V 
 
 * Yes sir ; I will be here.' 
 
 As Frank said this, he arose to leave the room, when again 
 Mr. P. asked: 
 ' Have you been to dinner, young man V 
 No, sir,' replied Frank. 
 
 ' Then stay here till dinner is ready.' The elderly gentle' 
 man took out his watch, and after glancing at it, said : 
 
 ' Jenny will set the table in precisely eleven minutes. 1 
 have but two servants : one is my cook, the other my house* 
 maid.' 
 
 Then another thought seemed to cross the mind of Mr. P. 
 : * Do you ever drink wine]' he asked of Frank. 
 
 ' No, sir,' replied the latter, 1 it goes against my principles 
 to drink.' 
 
 ' Good boy — very good boy ! No small vice3 — quite neat — 
 i I do declare Pm in luck,' muttered Mr. P., and then he asked 
 again : 
 
 'Do you like to go to church]' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, sir, I always go when I can.' 
 
 ' What church do you go to V continued the other. 
 
 The quick eye of Frank caught sight of a large ornamental 
 prayer book, upon the centre table, and without hesitation he 
 responded : 
 
 ' To the Episcopal, sir.' 
 
 ' To my own church— I have indeed found a treasure,' con° 
 tinued Mr. P., and then he said : 
 ' Go to the door, Frank, and ring the little bell which 
 i hangs there ; Jenny will come, and you will bid her show 
 ' you to the room next to mine. You will just have time 
 to wa3h before dinner — I always wash before dinner — you 
 i will find soap there of my own making, very fine old soap it 
 , is, too !' 
 
 The young man obeyed the order — Jenny came and Frank 
 j was shown to the room. As they went up stairs, Frank 
 i could not help admiring the neat figure of Jenny, who was 
 I indeed a very pretty girl. The room to which he was shown 
 I was like every thing in the house, neat, clean, and orderly to 
 an extreme. 
 
 When the maid opened the door, she paused and said : 
 ' This is the room, sir.' 
 
 * Thank you, thank you kindly, my fair friend,' replied 
 Frank, with a little affectation in his tone; then as he saw 
 that she still paused, he remarked : 
 
 1 We shall be better acquainted by-and-by, Miss Jenny.' 
 ' La, why you know my name,' said the girl ; ' how did yon 
 find it out V 
 
MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Our master told it to me.' 
 
 ' Our master !' echoed the girl ; ' why, you aint a going to 
 come and live here, are you V 
 
 * Yes ; I am his private secretary.'' 
 
 * I don't know what that is,' replied the girl ; * but I'm so 
 glad you're coming. I never sees no company ; the old cook 
 is deaf as a post, and I've been so lonesome.' 
 
 The bell from the parlour interrupted the conversation, and 
 Jenny was obliged to hurry below. 
 
 ' Just the very kind of a place for me ; I am like to be 
 appreciated all round, above and below stairs,' muttered 
 Frank, while he prepared himself for dinner. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Still another place and a new scene in our metropolis, reader. 
 
 In Frankfort Street, close by Gold Street, stands a dingy- 
 looking, two-story frame house, which has been long known 
 as a * watering. place' and ' dance house' for thieves and 
 pickpockets, Regular thief soirees were given here, at the 
 date of our story; and very popular among crossmen was 
 Dame Buckley, the hostess thereof. 
 
 She prided herself on her English derivation, or rather on 
 her birthright, for she was, like some other of our friends, a 
 lady of the ' St. Giles' class. She gloried in calling her 
 house 'The Star and Garter,' and boasted oft of the 'old 
 country liquor' which she kept on hand. The best 'moun- 
 tain dew,' the finest ' bog poteen,' the richest ale and porter 
 in all the States, could be found, she said, in her cellar. The 
 lady, at the time of the present writing, has found a more 
 central position in the city, where, at ' the Rising of the Sun,' 
 any reader who is so disposed can find her, and learn if the 
 following portrait be not correct. 
 
 Madame, or Kate Buckley, as she prefers to be termed, is 
 full five feet ten inches high ; the same length of tape would 
 be required to pass around her, and in shape she very much 
 resembles an exceedingly large sack of wool, girded in the 
 middle and tied with a ruffle at the top. With light brown 
 hair, not too thick for comfort in summer weather ; her eye3 
 rather small, of bluish-grey colour; and a face that looks 
 very like the sun rising through a fog-bank, she stands in her 
 ' native beauty' before you. She looks as if ' a wee drop of 
 spiritual comfort, taken often/ was her doctor's prescription ; 
 indeed, if we may judge from looks, we can believe that, like 
 the Irish grog-shop keeper, she is her own best customer. 
 Were you to see her as we have, surrounded by her peculiar 
 friends, the flashy crossmen of the town— her thin hair curled 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 4 'J 
 
 into all kinds .of neglige tresses— her flabby ears pendant with 
 huge, broad ear rings — a fathom or two of red and yellow 
 ribbon bound around her head and neck, looking for all the 
 world like a sailor's idea of a 'Moll Wapping' grog-shop sign, 
 you think her a subject for a moment's study. 
 
 But to our story. On an evening not much later than 
 that which chronicles the meeting of the burglar gang at 
 Jack Circle's establishment, Madame Buckley had a grand 
 Boiree at the ' Star and Garter.' Little Charley Cooper and 
 his pal, Big Lize, were there ; but none of the others whom 
 we met at Jack Circle's, though the entire company was com- 
 posed of crossmen and their women. 
 
 The music was made up of one fiddle scraped by a blind 
 negro, a tambourine played by a very fat Dutch girl, and a 
 harp touched not very lightly by * a German travelling 
 artiste,'' and to the concord of sound thus produced, many a 
 lively measure was stepped over the dame's rather greasy 
 : floor. Cotillions, fore-aad afters, reels, and waltzes were 
 i danced ; liquor ' suffered' some, and jollity was the order of 
 the night. 
 
 But while the dancing was going on in the outer room, in 
 an inner and more private apartment, a still richer scene wae 
 occurring. 
 
 The meeting which we were about to describe, was com- 
 posed of about a dozen and a half of thieves and ' knucks,' who 
 were listening to a dissertation on the art and glery of their 
 profession, coming from the lips of Captain Tobin, one of the 
 finest looking men, and the most expert pickpocket that walks 
 Broadway, or attends the crowded places of amusement. 
 ' Ah, shentlemens,' said he, at the 6ame time, touching his 
 I glass of claret to his lips, — he would drink no other liquor — 
 * Ah, shentlemens, zis iz one life of ver grand excitement ! You 
 go into a push — you keep one peep open for ze coppare — ze 
 ozzare you keep move 'bout for find ze dummy, eh ] Vel, you 
 I no shall see ze coppare — yoa shall feel for ze dummy, or ze 
 I skin, you shall sink you 'ave got him ; by dam one coppare 
 come look you right in ze ver face ! You get very much ex- 
 cite, eh ] But, by dam, you no say nossing— you go look for 
 anozzer push, and zen, may be, 'ave ze good luck— touch ze swng, 
 and zen you 'ave make ver much glory, ver much honor/ Ah, 
 it is one bizznasse magnifique ! Napoleon, ze gran Napoleon, 
 would 'ave make one ver gran gnof, if he try. S'poae like me, 
 zat gran sheneral shall 'ave misfortune ven he was young, eh 1 
 S'pose he lose his rank, he come ze fob on some of ze nobilitie, 
 and zey invite him to go to Amerique, as zey did me, he would 
 'ave been one ver grand captain like me, eh ] Yes, by dam ! 
 He would 'ave been ze Napoleon of New York !' 
 After thus delivering his opinion of Napoleon, Captain 
 
 D 
 
50 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 Tobin seated himself behind the long table, and with an air 
 of dignity commenced sipping his claret. 
 
 While he did this, another of the party arose, and a curious 
 looking customer he was. Standing exactly six feet three 
 inches high, round shouldered, and withal, a little stooping, 
 Mr. John Murphy was anything but a beauty. His face was 
 thin and long of the mould usually called 'lantern jawed" — 
 his complexion smoky ; his eyes small and dark ; his whole 
 appearance thiefi.sk. 
 
 He arose, and looking first at Captain Tobin, and then afc 
 the rest of the worthies, said : 
 
 'By Jabers, Cap'n, but it's you that's got the larnint, and 
 I'd rather hear you spake than to patter myself ony day — bub 
 I've a bit uv a question to ax ye !' 
 
 ' Vel, sare, vat shall it be V and, as the Frenchman spoke, 
 he looked with rather a contemptuous expression upon the 
 dirty, badly dressed fellow who stood before him. 
 
 • Why, if ould Boney would have made as good a gnof as yer 
 honer, what would ould Nosey Willington 'ave been if he'd 
 adopted the perfession.' 
 
 ' By dam, zare, nevare mention zat man to me ! Dam ze 
 man zut wheep ze gran' Napoleon V The Frenchman emptied 
 his glass now. and with a very ferocious air, grasped the 
 bottle and refilled it. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, Cap'n,' continued Mr. Murphy, 'but if 
 you spake uv the one, the other is as sure to come afore ye ia 
 yer thinkin' box as two crows of the same colour; and ye 
 never seed a white one.' 
 
 ' Blast me if I have'nt !' paid ' Long Bill,' alias William 
 Williams, Esquire, another tall, villanous looking dog, with 
 thief written by the hand of Nature upon every feature. 
 
 'An' where was it, Bill, that ye come foreninst the crater f 
 asked John. 
 
 ' Why, in " the Bay" to be sure — there where I seed the red 
 monkeys, and all that !' 
 
 ' Was it where you married the she nager V 
 
 The brow of Bill, black before, grew darker still at this 
 question, and he replied in a growl : 
 
 'Better be careful of yer blarney, my cove, or you'll know 
 the game uv fives afore ye die !' 
 
 'And by Jabers, Jack Murphy is jist the lad that ud like to 
 be larnt that game by the likes uv you !' cried the Irishman, 
 squaring his immense form into a position for action. 
 
 The Englishman sprang to his feet, and was about to pitch 
 into Murphy, when Captain Tobin arose very calmly, and 
 stepping between them, in a very quiet tone, said : 
 
 ' Beg your pardon, messieurs, but zis is ver wrong. Zere is 
 no need for fight viz yourselves ; ven you must fight, do it via 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 51 
 
 somebody zat is your enemy. S'pose you take one glass of 
 grog, razzare zan light, eh V 
 
 ' Bloody my eyes, if I cares which !' cried Bill ; and with 
 one of his most comical squints, Murphy added : 
 
 'Divil the bit uv difference ud it make to me, if it wor na 
 for obleegin' the Cap'n. I'll drink wi ye Bill !' 
 
 The two villains at once sent a pale, sickly looking girl, who 
 stood back by the door, out to Ma'am Buckley for a stiff 'ner 
 each, of grog, and the quarrel was settled for the time. 
 
 While these things were going on within, the 1 ball' in the 
 outer room was progressing on the Crockett principle, and the 
 thieves, with their ladies, were enjoying their share of this 
 world's fun and 1 nothin' else.' 
 
 Wo have given you here but a glimpse at this scene, for the 
 purpose of introducing you to some characters which will here- 
 after take prominent parts in our drama, and repay, perchance, 
 the lack of interest which this chapter may possess. We have 
 a hard task before us, in following real life, instead of imi- 
 tating some great predecessors in foreign cities, and giving a 
 clear scope to fancy ; and we shall need the kind indulgence 
 of our readers — we were about to say of the critics also, but 
 will not, for with them we intend to be as independdnt as a 
 I wood-sawyer on a rainy day with a 'quarter' in his pocket 
 i asking no favours — wishing none. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 * Well, Charley, how did you pass the night? Rested sweetly, 
 I hope ! You slid off so quietly, that Gus and me didn't 
 even miss you, till we heard that you had gone to look at the 
 picturea !' 
 
 Thus, in a light and careless tone, did Harry Whitmore 
 address Charles Meadows, when they met the morning after 
 the trio had determined to go on a ' bender.' The meeting 
 loccurred just in front of Piateux ; and Meadows really looked 
 ;as if he needed a gin-cocktail, or some other reviving beve- 
 Irage. He was pale and haggard ; his eyes were sunken, and 
 I had a blue semi-circle beneath them. Whitmore looked at 
 ihim in astonishment. 
 
 'Why, Charley,' said he, 'you look as if you'd just been 
 dragged through a sick Frenchman ! What is the matter 
 with you, my boy V 
 
 With a dry, husky voice, Meadows replied, as Yankees often 
 do, by asking another question, 
 
 ' Do you think they ever drug their wine in that place t 
 said he. 
 
 [ la what place do you mean— in Leonard Street? 1 
 
52 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Yes ; there where I have passed the night. God forgive 
 me for it !' 
 
 ' Why, what made you think so V 
 
 * Because I only drank three glasses of wine, and it made 
 me as drunk as I could be. I have been stupid drunk all 
 night, and awoke just now with such a headache as would 
 make a saint forget his prayers, and set a Millerite to cursing !' 
 
 ' But you remember you drank brandy before you went in 
 there.' 
 
 ' Only four or five glasses. I never was capsized with so 
 little before ; I am sure that the wine was drugged.' 
 
 'No, I don't think Jule ever would allow it; but I can 
 explain the way you got tight so soon. You had been drink- 
 ing strong brandy, and then, walking in the cold, did not 
 feel it ; but your coming into a warm room suddenly, and 
 taking three or four glasses of effervescing champagne, laid 
 you out. I have been served so a hundred times.' 
 
 ' Well, it may be so,' sighed Meadows ; ' this is the first time 
 I ever spent such a night, and in such a place. God grant it 
 may be the last' 
 
 ' Oh, pshaw ! Why. Charley, I'm sorry to see you so. Let's 
 go in and imbibe a cocktail ; you'll feel better after it. By the 
 way, how's your purse this morning?' 
 
 * Empty. 1 gave every cent to a poor unhappy creature, 
 who has promised to leave the dreadful life, which from mis* 
 fortune and necessity she was obliged to lead, and go home to 
 her poor heart-broken mother. She has a sister, too, dying of 
 consumption, and now she can see her before she dies.' 
 
 Harry looked at his companion a moment steadily, and then 
 burst out into a hearty laugh. 
 
 ' Do you mean to say,' cried he, ' that you gave Kate Hall 
 the whole of your money V 
 
 * Yes ; every cent. I know it was half yours, but that I 
 will refund.' 
 
 ' And she told you about her sick sister — her heart broken 
 mother, eh I' 
 
 ' Yes ; but why do you smile 1 why use this tone of levity V 
 
 * Because I didn't think you could be quite so green? 
 
 * I can't understand you ; explain if you please !' cried 
 Charles, in a tone of mingled mortification and anger. 
 
 ' Why, Charley, there is no use in crying over spilt milk, 
 but you've been awfully gammoned. Kate Hall has a sister, 
 but she is as bad as herself. The two have been " out" for 
 this ten or twelve years, and the sister has no more the con- 
 sumption than I have the botts ! As to the broken-hearted 
 mother, that was all humbug. You've been most egregiously 
 fooled !' 
 
 ' Excuse me, Mister Whitmore,' said Charles, in a stern 
 tone— 'I hope that I know enough of nature not to he 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 53 
 
 deceived quite so easily. I tell you that tears are not to 
 be made to order, and pumped up as you would salt water 
 from a vessel's hold !' 
 
 * That's just where you are mistaken, Charley. You 
 needn't get mad with me, but as I said before, Kate Hall has 
 most essentially done you brown ! She promised to quit the 
 life she leads Y 
 
 * Yes, and I, in turn, promised her never to enter a house of 
 that kind ag.tin !' 
 
 1 Well, by Jove, she was smart ! She only wanted you to 
 keep clear of her in future. I'll bet you live hundred dollars 
 that if you'll go there one week from now, you'll find her, and 
 she will be the jolliest girl in Jule's crowd. Will you bet on 
 her V 
 
 ' Yes, I will, sir ! I am not a fool, and I would be one if I 
 was deceived in that way ! I'll bet you five hundred, and 
 I when it is won, I'll send it to the poor girl whom you so 
 belie !' 
 
 'Well, Charley, you shall, when you win it. And now for 
 that cocktail.' 
 
 The two young men entered the beautiful saloon of Pinteux, 
 ! and doubtless the pretty bar-maid of the ' Cafe des Mille Co- * 
 lonne3' suited them to a T with the desired beverage. 
 
 They came out in a few moments, and Meadows seemed to 
 be in a much better humour. Whether this was caused by 
 the spiritual comfort which he had ju3t taken, or by a smile 
 from the pretty bar-maid, or by some new concession from 
 Harry, we are unable to determine. 
 
 As they stood in front of the door, Harry said : 
 
 ' You go down town, Charley, do you not V 
 
 'Yes,' replied the other; 'I shall breakfast at Bardotte's, 
 and then go to the store.' 
 
 ' Well, we must part then. I'm going up town. By the 
 way, when shall we meet? 
 
 * Whenever you please, after business hours.' 
 
 ' Well, say up here, two or three doors above, where I 
 always buy my cigars— where sweet Mary deals out tobacco 
 and smiles nightly.' 
 
 ' At the pretty cigar girl's, do you mean V 
 
 1 Yes ; have you never been in there V 
 
 * No ; I do not smoke. But I have seen her as I passed the 
 window.' 
 
 ' Well, meet me there at six, or half-past if it suits yon 
 better. Mary is a great girl, using the figurative sense. I've 
 a story to tell you about her some time. But you'll be there?' 
 
 ' Yes, at six, exactly, for at half-past six we take tea a(? • 
 home, and you shall go up to tea with me. I wish you to see 
 my 'Bella, and my mother.' 
 
 Oh, what a speaking volume there was in the pleasure-flash. 
 
5i 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 which gleamed from Harry Whitmore's eyes, as he received 
 this invitation. It said more plain than words — ' all is in a 
 right train — 1 am in luck — Satan is helping his own.' But 
 he quietly responded : 
 
 ' 1 shall be most happy: I'll be on the spot, Charley.' 
 
 Then they separated ; the one going down, the other up 
 Broadway. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Thank Hennock had been installed two days in his new 
 situation, and in these two days had completely wntpped him- 
 self in the good opinion of Mr. Precise. And Jenny, the 
 maid, declared him mentally to be a ' proper, nice young man, 
 and so 'mazin cute over his books, that an unlarnt body 
 couldn't help a likin' him ! 
 
 It was on the second night of his secretaryship, the hour 
 seven, and at a cosy little tea table, sat Mr. Precise and his 
 confidential clerk, as he was pleased to term Frank. The coal 
 fire gleamed brightly in its polished grate ; the tea-urn 
 steamed cheerily ; the large astral lamp threw a mellow light 
 over the neat apartment. 
 
 While all was so comfortable within, the wind whistled 
 through the leafless branches of the tree that stood before 
 the house, as the seaman often hears it pipe amid his rigging, 
 when, with reefed sails and bending spars, his ship dashes and 
 plunges through a storm-lashed sea. The sleet came with a 
 harsh and cutting rattle against the closed window- blinds, and 
 all the sounds which they could hear spoke of cold and storm. 
 
 ' It is a bitter night, Francis — a bitter night, it reminds- 
 me of what you say in the poem which you read to me,' said 
 Mr. P., at the same time bidding Jenny, who waited at the 
 tea-urn, to place one more lump of sugar in his cup. 
 
 Frank looked very grave, made a shudder, then looking 
 down at his plate, replied : 
 
 ' Yes, sir, and it e'en a'most kills me to think how the poor 
 people do suffer in such times as this ! I can't eat any more 
 supper now, sir, for you " bring to memory back the feelings," 
 — no, the scene I mean, which I saw on the very night I wrote 
 that poem. A scene where starving, freezing, dying wretch', 
 lay in filth and rags and misery all around me ! On sir, I d 
 thank God that 1 have a home and place ; but were I ric 
 I'd not sit here ; no sir, indeed I would not !' 
 
 * What would you do 1 ? 1 asked Mr. P., in a kindly tone ! 
 
 ' Do, sir? Why, I'd go out and help the poor creatures — 
 I'd carry 'em bread and clothes. There are one thousand 
 persons in one house in this city, and I don't believe there is 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 5-5 
 
 a fire in the whole house, or even one bed ! I saw that on the 
 night when I wrote that poem, sir !' 
 
 ■ Francis I' said Mr. P., and he raised both his hands, either 
 to express surprise or disbelief. 1 Francis, I cannot believe 
 this ! Young man, if you ever deceive me in but one single 
 word, 1 am done with you for ever !' 
 
 Frank crossed his hands upon his breast, and his face wore 
 , a look of deep humility and sadness, lie must have been 
 ! pained by this insinuation. 
 
 * I am sorry, sir, if you should doubt me ; but if you will go 
 ! with me this night, I will show you worse scenes than I have 
 
 related, or you may discharge me in a minute.' 
 
 • I will go,' quickly said the old gentleman ; * yes, I will go ! 
 I Jenny, my thick cloak — my over-shoes and woollen tippet. 
 
 I Bring them, I'll drink no more tea !' 
 
 But upon a second thought, Mr. Precise said : 
 
 'I have drank only four cups, I believe. Eb, Jenny !' 
 
 ' Only four, sir, 1 replied the maid. 
 
 * Then, before you go for my things, pour out one more. 1 
 i always drink five— and put two of those lumps of sugar in, 
 1 Jenny ; and, by the way, it seems to me that you've broken 
 
 them them a trifle smaller than I directed.' 
 
 'May be yes, sir, but I didn't mean so if I did. I always 
 try to be very particular,' replied the neat little maid. 
 
 • So you do. Very good girl — very good girl ! I'll do well 
 by you, if you keep on so.' 
 
 The maid's pretty blue eyes sparkled as she heard this, and 
 she quickly turned out the cup of tea, and putting in two of 
 the largest lumps of sugar, handed it over to Mr. P. 
 
 'A trifle too full, my dear, a trifle too full,' said Mr. P.; 'I 
 never like to have a drop spilt into my saucer.' 
 
 ' I'll be more careful, sir.' And again the maid curtseyed 
 and blushed. 
 
 ' Well, now go up stairs and get my things, Fin agoing to 
 1 walk out.' 
 
 ' Oh, master, do not, please ! Hear how the wind blows 
 and the sleet comes down !' 
 
 ■ That's the very reason I'm going out, child. Go and get 
 my things,' replied Mr. P., firmly, and then he raised hia cup 
 to his lips. 
 
 Jenny turned to obey, saying at the same time, 'I only 
 thought — I was so afeared you'd git a cold.' 
 
 'A good girl — a very kind, considerate girl !' said her 
 master, when Jenny, carefully closing the door as she always 
 did, had left the room. ' She'll make some man a good wife ; 
 • — neat, tidy, particular, saving, and pretty — very pretty !' 
 
 Jenny had paused in the entry, with her ear to the key- 
 hole, and of course heard this. 
 
 ' How I would like to be his wife— I do so want to be 
 
56 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 married ! But 1 can't get him. I wonder if Frank don't feel 
 like gittin married ! I will be somebody's wife before long !' 
 These thoughts were murmured as she went up stairs for her 
 master's things. 
 
 In about a half hour, Mr. Precise and Frank were fitted for 
 their tour of inspection, and they started out, Jenny having 
 very carefully loaded her master with everything in the shape 
 of tippets and comforters which Bhe could prevail on him to 
 wear. 
 
 The two walked up a3 far as Broadway, and on the corner 
 they waited for the omnibus which they could hear rattling 
 along over the hard pavement. Soon, as it drew near, by the 
 lamplight, they could see its driver wrapped in his oil-skin 
 cape and heavy drab over-coat, and that he could see them 
 was testified by his upraised hand, and voice almost as sharp 
 as the wind : 
 
 1 Down Broad way 1 Ride— sir, ride V 
 
 A nod of assent from Mr. P. brought the omnibus close in 
 to the side- walk, and our two friends were ensconced inside in 
 a moment. When they got in, there were but two persons 
 inside, and one of these recognised Frank in a moment. He 
 did not, however, see Frank's sign for him to remain un- 
 knowing and unknown, but reached out his hand quickly and 
 said : 
 
 ' Ah, ha ! my young frent ! I ver glad for see you !' And 
 then Captain Julian Tobin looked at Franks companion. At 
 a glance he saw that he was well dressed — he saw also, as his 
 cloak was open, that a gold chain around Mr. P.'s neck 
 betokened a watch to be in the fob, and his dark eye sparkled 
 while he gazed. 
 
 Frank saw that it was too late to deny the acquaintance, 
 and with perfect composure, said : 
 
 ' Good evening, Captain Delamere ! I'm glad to see you !' 
 
 Captain Julian shook the young man's hand heartily, then 
 as he shrugged his right shoulder slightly, gave a side glance 
 toward Mr. Precise, as much as to say — 'introduce me.' 
 
 Frank at once did so, and Mr. Precise thought the French- 
 man a very gentlemanly man, both in look3 and manners. 
 
 The other occupant of the ' bus' was a woman, and seated 
 in the farthest corner from the light, she seemed to avoid 
 observation. She was dressed in deep black. A black silk 
 hood was close drawn over her face, and beside this, a thick 
 crape veil of the same colour completely hid her features 
 from view. She seemed tall, and even though much muffled 
 up, appeared to have an elegant form. 
 
 The 'buss' now rattled down the street swiftly, but no 
 more passengers got in. The night was so cold and stormy, that 
 few, save the necessity-driven, or the prowling thief, were 
 abroad. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 57 
 
 Captain Tobin made himself exceedingly agreeable, and 
 soon, in the course of the conversation, learned the intentions 
 of Frank, and also got an inkling of the ' lay' which the latter 
 was on. 
 
 When the omnibus had got nearly down to Leonard Street, 
 the lady in black, as we must term her who sat in the darkest 
 corner, pulled the check-string twice, the driver obeyed the 
 sign and drew up at the left side of the street. Her sixpence 
 she handed to Frank, who politely offered to pass it forward 
 through the change window to the driver. After she got out, 
 Frank, from mere curiosity, glanced through the window to 
 see which way she went. As the ' bus' drove on, he saw that 
 she had paused before the door of a bowling saloon, the lamps 
 of which were opposite to where she alighte 1, and seemed to 
 be beckoning or making signs to some one within. 
 
 ■ Some liaison or other!' muttered he, but at the same 
 moment he pulled the check-string, for they were at the 
 corner of Leonard Street, as he knew^ by the bright lights of 
 the Cirlton House. 
 
 'You vil get out here, sareV said Captain Julian. ' Ah, 
 mon Dieu ! but is ver colt ! I shall help you out, sare — wrap 
 jou cloak ver tight, eh ! I shall help you !' and the polite 
 Frenchman made himself exceedingly busy about his new 
 acquaintance. Frank's keen eye had detected the heavy but 
 short steel nippers or scissors which the Captain held in hi3 
 hand as he assisted Mr. Precise, and he knew at once that his 
 master's ' thimble' must change pockets. 
 
 ' Halves !' he whispered, as he passed out first, by Captain 
 Tobin. 
 
 *Oui — to be sure, I nevare sheat my /rents P replied the 
 expert pickpocket in the same low tone — then pulling again 
 the cloak of Mr. Precise around him, he started to hand him 
 out, but at the moment stumbled, and both of them slipped on 
 the icy steps and fell. 
 
 ' You is not hurt, sare, I hope V said he with an air of 
 great concern, as he helped Mr. P. up ; and then receiving 
 the thanks of the old gentleman, he sprang into the omnibus, 
 crying : 
 
 ' Go on, driver, I, myself, shall pay ze fare !' 
 
 And well he might, for, as the stage went on, he drew for- 
 ward to the light and examined the watch which he had just 
 succeeded in getting, by cutting the gold safety-guard. 
 
 ' By dam !' he muttered, in a low gleeful tone — 1 by dam, I 
 ave make one gran speculatione ! Zis is one real Londonare, 
 sirteen diamond ! By dam, zey do glis'n ! One hundred 
 seventy-five dollare at least for ze timble, fifty more for ze 
 shain ! By dam, zis is ver goot speculatione !' 
 
58 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 After Frank and his new master had reached the sidewalk 
 before the Carlton House, the former led the way down Leo- 
 nard Street toward Centre. Soon they passed the dark and 
 frowning walls of the gloomy-looking • Tombs,' wherein, at 
 that moment, was many a heavy heart and burning brain ; 
 many a haggard wretch, upon whom the weight of crime was 
 far heavier than all the chains which could be laid upon him. 
 
 Mr. Precise looked up at these high walls, and, as he gazed, 
 said to his companion — 
 
 * What is that place ? I did not know that there was such 
 a one in all the town.' 
 
 ' It's the jug, sir,' responded Prank. 
 
 ' The jug, Francis ? The what ? I don't understand you !' 
 ' The Tombs, I meant, sir. The crossmen always call it the 
 jug.' 
 
 ' The Tombs ? I have heard of 'em often, but I always 
 thought they were some low, dirty jail-place — some mean un- 
 derground cells — not such an immense, castle-like building as 
 this.' 
 
 Mr. Precise paused now, for they were in front of the build- 
 ing, and he looked upon its massive pillars, its dark and heavy 
 front, and a feeling of awe stole over him, as the shade of a 
 rising storm-cloud gathers over a sunny meadow. 
 
 * It is an awful place,' said he, and then they went on. His 
 guide now kept across Centre, and down Orange Street to the 
 Five Points. Their approach to the place could easily enough 
 be known by the distant sound of fiddles and tambourines, for 
 on its borders every house serves the double purpose of a bro- 
 thel and a dance-house. 
 
 The old gentleman drew close up to his young clerk, for 
 these were new sounds that he heard, this wild mu*ic, and he 
 began to hear shouts and yells — the laughter of drunken wo- 
 men, and the curses of villanous-looking men, who were stag- 
 gering about very close to him. 
 
 * Take my hand, Francis — take my hand and keep close to 
 me/ said Mr. Precise, in a very under tone. ' This must be a 
 dreadful low place; isn't there some danger?' 
 
 * No, sir, not while I'm along,' replied Frank. ' I know 
 their ways; you just keep cool, and say nothing, but use your 
 peepers.' 
 
 'You're a brave, good boy, Francis; but what are peepers? 
 You use some strange expressions.' 
 
 'I was using the kind of language which you'll hear to- 
 night, sir. Peepers mean eyes ; but hurry along with me, 
 sir, and don't be afraid, I'll take care of you.' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 50 
 
 'You're a brave boy — I like you — I'll do well by you, I 
 will !' murmured the old gentleman ; and then he drew closer 
 to Frank, for now they were in the Points, and strange sights, 
 smells, and sounds came to his senses. He gazed with wonder 
 at the long rows of little wooden buildings, their cellars sunk 
 far below the swampy street, and, as he passed them, he gazed 
 upon rooms filled with ill dressed men, and painted, bloated 
 women, who were drinking, dancing, shouting and carousing. 
 
 Every little while he would mutter, 'it's an awful place 
 ihere — an awful place;' and he would shudder and start as the 
 disgusting-looking creatures would stare him in the face. 
 
 As they drew down to the centre, to the point where five 
 streets most, Frank paused and said — 
 
 I ' I'll show you the soup-house first, sir, where a good many 
 iof these people get all they ever eat !' 
 
 Frank led the way into a nasty-looking little place which 
 istood upon the corner before them, and Mr. Precise saw a 
 long, narrow counter, before which stood a row of miserable- 
 looking creatures, some eating from nasty bowls and tin cups 
 a dark, greasy mess; others with pieces of meat in their 
 hands; still others with glasses filled — not with water. 
 
 1 Stand here in the corner and look on for a little while,*' 
 said Frank, in a lone tone. 
 
 ' I feel sick — I shall vomit if I stay here. Oh sucJi a smell ! 
 "Who can eat here : let us go !' whispered the old gentleman. 
 But as he had to move aside from the door to get out of the 
 way of some new comers, Frank drew him to the corner. 
 
 These new-comers were a man and two women, all three 
 Irish ; and the cloak of Mr. Precise contained more cloth than 
 ithey had on altogether. 
 
 'And it's a saxpence we've got, and a bloody good blow-out 
 we'll have uv it,' cried the man as he entered ; and then 
 turning to a small-pox marked, pale, thin faced, red-eyed 
 | woman, who had an old coffee-bag for a shawl, he added: 
 ; 'I say, Nance, shall we hare some o' the ould divil's broth f 
 I 'I don't care, Jemmy, so it's somthin' to eat] Niver the bit 
 have I had hould of the day !' replied the woman. And then 
 her female companion added, 'An', by me sowl, it's me that 
 can't brag of bein' ahead ov ye, Nance. My ould man, or my 
 ould divil, has niver come anigh me for a month now, and the 
 childer be all gone off, too, the snakin' brats.' 
 [ * Never mind that, Jfissis H agger ty : I've a saxpence, an 
 it's my threet now — it is.' 
 
 As the man said this, he crowded into a place in front of 
 •,he counter, and assuming quite a patronising tone and air, 
 :ried : 
 
 I 'It's a penny 'orth o' broth that I'll have, and I'll have 
 thray spoons to ate it wid. 
 'Down with the ciiuk, then,' replied one of the dirty-lock- 
 
60 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ing fellows behind the counter, and when the Irishman laid 
 down the penny, he handed over a bowl of the nasty looking 
 scum which he had called for. The three ppoons were in it, 
 and each of the trio seized one, and went to work. The bowl 
 contained about a pint and a half, and it took these creatures 
 about fifteen seconds to clear it, and the man closed the meal 
 by licking the bowl clean, and handing it back. 
 
 'And now a wee drap of the crater wudn't hurt us,' said he, 
 again laying down one penny. 
 
 A glass of very white-looking liquor, called by those who 
 drink it 'turpentine gin,' was handed over, and the glass was 
 full. The man took a third at a swallow, then handed it to 
 Nance, who took her share, and passed it to Missis Haggerty 
 for a finish. 
 
 'An' now, ladies, what shall we be afther having nixt ! I've 
 get more money left, by jabers !' 
 
 ' And it's a smoke 'ud comfort me poor breaking heart !' re- 
 plies Missis Haggerty, and her motion was seconded by Nance. 
 
 1 An it's a smoke we'll all have ; so jist lind up the loan of 
 thray pipes an' a penny 'orth o' baccy in 'em !' 
 
 ' Three more cents were laid down — three short stemmed, 
 black, clay-pipes, that had probably been in a thousand 
 mouths before, were lighted by one of the 'clerks' of the 
 establishment, he taking a whiff through each to do so, and 
 handed to the party. They were still obliged to stand before 
 the counter and smoke, for fear they would run away with 
 the pipes, but they were not long in getting through. 
 
 Handing back their pipes, the feasted turned away to give 
 place to others who were coming in. 
 
 ' An' its yerself that's the gintleman, Jemmy !' said the wo- 
 men as they went out, ' an' a blessed good time we've had wid 
 ye the night !' 
 
 During this scene, Mr. Precise had hardly breathed — his 
 eyes were fixed upon the poor creatures before him. 
 
 ' I wouldn't have believed it, he whispered — five cents, and 
 they consider thi3 a luxury. What is that black looking stuff 
 made of, Francis V 
 
 'Out of the offals that are thrown from the market, and 
 the scraps of meat and leaves of cabbage and all that which is 
 thrown out from the kitchens in the back-alleys, sir. Haven't 
 you seen little children going about the streets with old bags 
 picking up the refuse of the gutters V 
 
 ' Yes, and grown people too !' replied Mr. P. 
 
 ' Well, they bring all that stuff here and sell it !' 
 
 ' Oh, Heaven ! can it be ! You did tell the truth about the 
 poor people, Francis !' 
 
 ' Why, sir, you haven't seen the poor people yet. The poor 
 people don't come here. They can't afford it !' 
 
 * What ! Now, Francis, don't tell me stories, you're a good 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 61 
 
 boy, but don't tell me stories,' whispered the old gentleman. 
 
 4 We'll see bye and bye, sir, we'll see !' replied Frank, ' and 
 now let us go from here.' 
 
 They were about to pass out, when a?ain the door opened 
 and Mr. Precise drew back from the object which entered, 
 with a shudder. 
 
 It was an old, white-haired man, at least the very few hairs 
 upon his head were long and white. He had no hat on, and 
 the sleet was still laying mixed in with the thin hairs upon 
 his skull. His features were as sharp as bones could be, for 
 the skin seemed to be pasted down upon them, even as would 
 look a skeleton head with cracked parchment stuck upon it. 
 He had no coat ; a kind of shirt, made up of a piece of blanket, 
 badly torn, without sleeves ; an apology for a pair of what 
 once had been summer trowsers for some sailor — and a pair of 
 old socks made out of a piece of cast-away carpeting, formed 
 that old man's dress. Had he not been so dirty he would 
 have been very pale ; but he had been laying down in some 
 muddy place, and was carrying about a paper-sheet's thickness 
 of it upon him. He might have been seventy or eighty year3 
 old — he might not have been over fifty ; for poverty make3 
 people grow old very fast. 
 
 Mr. Precise looked at this old man's sunken eyes : they were 
 fairly encaverned in his skull, and looked as if daylight could 
 hardly get in to them. He saw this with one hurried glance, 
 and as he drew back with a shudder, he murmured : 
 
 ' My God ! Can all this he, in a Christian city !' 
 
 The old man drew up to the counter— in a feeble voice which 
 sounded like a dull, dry crash of a rotten limb broken slowly 
 from a tree, he asked of one of the fellows behind the counter. 
 
 * Plase give me a little of the soup — only a little. 1 ha'n't 
 got a penny, but I'll get one to-morrow. I could't go out to* 
 day, I was sick !' 
 
 * Then wait till to-morrow for your soup. We don't irusi, 
 and you knows that !' answered the brute. 
 
 Tears gathered in the eyes of Mr. Precise, he was about to 
 start forward, and one hand was in his pocket, when the old 
 man spoke again. His voice trembled even more than before, 
 and two large tears came out from those sunken eyes, as you 
 may have seen a drop perspire from the edge of a great rock. 
 
 * I ha'n't had nothin' since the bowl I bought last night ; and 
 I'm so hungry !' he said, as he pressed his long bony fingers 
 against that part which, among our aldermen, is so apt to be 
 prominent. 
 
 ' I han't got your belly to take care of — clear out !' cried 
 the thing who stood behind the counter in a tone more dog- 
 like than before. The old man made no reply — he gave a kind 
 of long breath, an attempted sigh — for he had not strength for 
 a decent one, Then as he turned to go away, came a groan, 
 
 ■ 
 
02 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 — Oh, how like it was to the sound which I once heard when 
 1 bent over the grave of a loved one, and saw the first clod of 
 earth cast upon her coffin. It gave back a dull, sickening 
 echo ; — how like to that echo was the old man's groan. 
 
 Mr. Precise could no longer stand still ; he sprang forward 
 to the side of the old man, the hand which had been in his 
 pocket wa3 withdrawn, and in it was gold — bright yellow 
 .gold. 
 
 < Here, old man, here !' said he, and as he spoke, his voice 
 was choked and husky, and great tears chased each other 
 swiftly down his flushed cheek — ' here is money, buy food !' 
 
 The old man looked at the gold, then at the offerer, he 
 reached out his bony fingers to clutch it, but then he drew 
 them back and shook his head. 
 
 ' Ha'n't you got a penny t said he, ' that's too much, they'd 
 murder me for it if they knew I wa3 so rich !' 
 
 ' He is ri-jht, sir,' chimed in Frank, and even he, hardened 
 as the young villain was, wept, but he continued — ' the best 
 way to serve him is to give him food and clothes, not money. 
 He is old and weak, and the rest would rob him— kill him 
 trOO, as like as not !' 
 
 * Then food he shall have and clothes too— here old man, 
 I've got a warm cloak on, put it over your shoulders !' and 
 Mr. Precise was about to give him his cloak, when Frank 
 again stopped him. 
 
 ' Don't do that, sir, it would be torn away from him and 
 carried to a " fence" the moment your back was turned ! If 
 you'll go and buy an old suite at a second-hand shop, they may 
 let him keep it, if it isn't worth much !' 
 
 Mr. Precise looked around at the villanous, haggard, hungry 
 looking set who crowded up to see this scene. Their eyes 
 were fixed upon that piece of gold in his hand, and they 
 .glared as would caged wolves at a piece of meat, when they 
 were starving. 
 
 ' It'll be dangerous for us to stay here;' whispered Frank, 
 4 you ought not to have shown so much money. We'll take 
 ihe old man out and get him food in a more decent place !' 
 
 But now the whole crowd opened a begging chorus at Mr. 
 Precise. * God bless yer honer, an' it's me as ha dn't had a bit 
 to ate for a wake, and the childers nather !' cried one. Then, 
 in another tone, came an appeal from a hideous pox-marked, 
 one-eyed negro girl, who was so near naked, that the savages, 
 of Africa would have been ashamed of her. 
 
 ' What shall I do — what shall I do !' cried Mr. P., as they 
 crowded in on him, and pushed him back against the wall. 
 He was for a moment in a very dangerous position — there 
 were two or three big negroes, regular Five Point thieves, 
 who had crowded in. Frank saw that they were passing 
 forward, and with quick presence of mind, seized the piece 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 G3 
 
 of gold and pitched it to the end of the room farthest from 
 the door. 
 
 ' There, take it and divide it, 1 he cried. 
 
 "With howls and curses at each other, the whole crowd 
 rushed after the gold pitching and tumbling over each other 
 in their eagerness to get hold of the money — each one striving, 
 fighting to get it for him or herself. 
 
 'Now — quick, out we go !' said Frank, and he raised the 
 old man up in his arms and rushed for the door. It was a 
 light weight— that bundle of skintied-tcgether- bones. His 
 master followed, and as he got outside he heard shrieks, 
 curses, and heavy blows within. As a pack of hounds fight 
 over a hare— as they tear each other in the attempt to get a 
 bite at the victim, so were these poor wretches fighting over 
 that gold, 
 
 ' Oh ! God of mercy, is thi3 real, or a dream V groaned Mr. 
 Precise, when he found himself outside in the wind and sleet 
 once more, and then he paused to listen to the terrible sounds 
 within. 
 
 ' Don't stop, sir — don't stop, or some of 'em will be 
 * spotting" you ! Let us keep ahead — I'll take him to a 
 decent grocery,' said Frank. Rushing along across the open 
 space in the centre of ' the Points,' he paused at the door of 
 a little shop at the corner of Anthony Street, and said : 
 
 1 We'll go in here ; but where do you live, old man V 
 
 1 1 don't live anywhere now !' replied the poor old creature; 
 1 I did live in the brewery, but I couldn't pay my board, and 
 they turned me out !' 
 
 1 Well, you shall have a place there ; I'll see the agent in a 
 minute. Come in here, sir,' and Frank beckoned to his 
 master a3 he set the old man on his feet again ; 'come in 
 here, we'll get him a fit out, and then we'll go to the brewery I 
 There's the place where some poor folks live !' 
 
 They went into the shop, which was half filled with whites 
 and negroes, nearly all poor and ragged ; some well-dressed 
 wenches, others, villanous looking creatures. Some were 
 buying liquor — others wood — still others, food. 
 
 * Now, sir, we'll make our purchases, 1 said Frank. 1 I'll 
 take my arms full, and you shall pay for 'em.' 
 
 First, Frank took a dozen small sticks of wood from a large 
 pile, which was corded up on one side. These were about six 
 inches long, were perhaps an inch square — then he called for 
 a string of onions, a piece of salt porK — a nasty looking piece 
 they gave him, too, one which would weigh four or five 
 pounds — a loaf of bread, a candle, and a card of matches. — 
 Then he told the clerk to hand the old man one of a pile of 
 second-hand blankets which lay inside of the bar. This was 
 done. 
 
 ^Now, sir,' said he to his master, j we will go. Just pay the 
 
64 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 bill, and mind don't show any gold again.' 
 
 ' How much is it V asked Mr. P. of the clerk. 
 
 'Let's see — wood, twelve sticks, three cents; meat, ten 
 cents ; onions, three cents ; blanket, a quarter-dollar ; bread, 
 a penny : forty two cents, all total, sir. Throw off the odd 
 two cents, sir, you've bought so much !' replied the fellow 
 behind the counter, who seemed much more decent than the 
 other. 
 
 Mr. Precise stared at the man with a gaze of astonishment 
 for a moment. 
 
 ' Havu't you made a mistake V said he ; ' it's very little.' 
 
 'No, I guess not. Oh ! yes, I did ; there's the candle and 
 matches, another cent, that's all.' 
 
 Mr. Peter Precise liked to be particular, and so he took out 
 of his vest-pocket a little change — he counted out four ten- 
 cent pieces and three cents. 
 
 ' There's the amount,' said he. Then turning to Frank, he 
 asked : 
 
 ' Where now— where shall we go?' 
 
 'To the brewery, sir, to find a boarding- place for the old 
 man.' 
 
 At this moment they heard a faint sob — the old man had 
 been eating some of the bread, and had got strength enough 
 to weep ; and as he stood there with the blanket around him, 
 the tears came again from some place in back of those deep- 
 Bet eyes, and he sobbed. 
 
 ' It tastes so good; 1 can't help it, but it tastes 50 good]' 
 said he, in broken accents ; and then Mr. Precise wept once 
 more. 
 
 ' Let us go now, it is getting latish,' urged Prank. 
 
 ' I wonder what time it is I* said his master, and then, when 
 he felt for his watch, he discovered its loss. 
 
 ' Well, I do declare !' he cried. ' Why, how can this be? — 
 My watch is gone, Francis !' 
 
 ' Is it, sir V asked the young man, earnestly -, then looking 
 at the fob, and feeling if it were there or not, he added, in a 
 tone of astonishment — 
 
 ' Why, so it is ! I was afraid that them fellows in the soup- 
 shop were crowding a little too close on you.' 
 
 ' Do you think they took it there ?' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, sir. Them were all thieves, except one or two 
 that were low beggars ! This old man here wouldn't steal, but 
 all of them darkies are thieves by profession. 1 
 
 ' Oh, my ! What a place is this ! Who could have dreamed 
 it ! I gave two hundred and thirty-four dollars for that watch 
 and chain — they asked two hundred and thirty-five, but they 
 discounted one dollar, because I paid them in city bills. And 
 I never felt them take it ; how strange !' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 05 
 
 'No, sir, not so strange. They do up such things amazing 
 neat.' 
 
 1 Well they do f and Mr. P. said this feelingly, as if he felt 
 fully convinced of the fact. 
 
 ' And now for the brewery. Come along, old man — come 
 along, Mr. Precise. We'll go now where -poor folks live !' 
 
 The three went out into the street. It was astonishing 
 how much difference a half-loaf of bread had made in the old 
 man. Why, he scarcely tottered at all as he led the way — he 
 took steps almost as long as Frank did— and they were quick, 
 glad steps. The poor fellow had at last met with a ray of 
 summer's sunlight in his clouded winter— he had actually 
 found a friend ! 
 
 They went along the street until they came to a large brick 
 building, once used as a distillery, now known o&the* brewery.' 
 Into an alley which leads down on one side of it, a narrow, 
 horridly smelling little sink of about two hundred feet long, 
 known by the name of 1 Murderer's Lane, the old man led them. 
 About half-way down this, he paused, and pointing down into 
 a dark place, that seemed to yawn up, like a very mouth of 
 darkness, at their feet, he said : 
 
 * There's where I boarded, afore they turned me out !' 
 
 'Let us go down and see the place !' said Frank, and then 
 he took one of the candles which he had bought and stepping 
 into a door-way, ignited a match by rubbing it against the 
 wall, and lighted his candle. Then he came out, and stepped 
 down into the cellar, which doorless lay before them. The 
 old man followed — then Mr. Precise. 
 
 As they stepped into the hole, we cannot honestly call it 
 anything else, Mr. Precise gazed around in speechless wonder. 
 The tallow candle gave but a dim light, yet it was enough 
 for him to see the contents of that room. 
 
 In one corner lay a heap, apparently, of rags, but at 
 the sound of voices, and the glare of light, the heap moved, 
 and a woman, a pale, haggard looking wretch, whose un- 
 combed, dirty and matted hair fell down upon bony naked 
 shoulders, raised up and gazed with a wild, inquiring stare 
 upon the party. As she did so four children of different 
 sizes, raised up and gazed too— and the poor things looked 
 even more wan and wretched than she, and their faces wore 
 an expression of mingled fright and wonder. 
 
 Mr. Precise looked in another corner — there he saw eight 
 or ten — blacks and whites, raise from a perfect knot. They 
 had hardly any clothes — and had been sleeping close, to keep 
 warm, for a lot of old coffee bags, and some pieces of carpet 
 was all that covered them. He shuddered— was about to 
 speak, when a low, moaning groan was heard from another 
 corner still. 
 
 E 
 
CD MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 He turned, and he saw a woman lying upon the bare earth* 
 — her face was all broken out in red blotches— two children 
 laid beside her — one was very red in the face, like herself — 
 the other was deathly pale — still its face looked as if birds 
 had been pecking at it ; or, as if some eating, chemical acid, 
 had been dropped over it. The three had not enough 
 clothing on to conceal their thin, fleshless limbs — they had 
 no bed— not even a stone for a pillow. 
 
 ' My God ! worse and worse ! Good woman are you sick I 
 cried Mr. P., as he rushed up to her side. 
 
 1 Yes,' said she faintly, 1 an' I belave one o' the childers 
 has died, for the poor crater is cold, an' it won't spake.' 
 
 * Ob, heaven, so it is !' cried Mr. P., as he felt its thin 
 wrist, and found that its pulce was still, its hand ice-cold. 
 ' What was the matter 1 ?' 
 
 1 I don't know,' replied the woman, and she seemed hardly 
 able to breathe — ' we've all been sick for a wake, and maybe- 
 the poor thing has died uv nothin' to ate !' 
 
 'Nothing to eat, and haven't you had a doctor either? 
 
 ' No, sir, we nivir had as much as a smithereen to pay onej 
 and nivir a one could we git here widout it; and I was too 
 wake afore 1 know'd it to go to the hospital !' 
 
 Frank looked down intently, for a moment, upon the 
 woman and her dead babe, and then started back, pale with 
 fear and horror. 
 
 'Oh, my God, sir!' he cried, 'let's go from here — 'she'* 
 got the small-pox, see it's broke out all over her ! Let's go> 
 every moment is a damp of death to us !' 
 
 ' No— never will I leave such misery till I can relieve it— 
 never !' 
 
 ' You will catch the disease, sir, you will die !' 
 
 ' I care not, if I die in doing my duty ! God will take care of 
 any one that tries to relieve such wretchedness as this !' replied 
 Mr. P., and tears streamed down his cheeks in torrents, and 
 fell, like the holy rain of sympathy, upon that sick woman's 
 form. 
 
 ' Well, sir, what shall we do 1 Let us do all we can and go 
 from here !' 
 
 ' I'll tell you what ! Do you run for a doctor first, and 
 then go and buy wood and food, and clothes, and everything 
 for these miserable creatures ! Oh, God, can this be a 
 Christian town !' 
 
 ' Well, sir, I'll go !' cried Frank, apparently glad to get 
 out of that atmosphere; ' but it's dangerous for you to stay 
 here ! You've got money with you !' 
 
 ' Well, take it with you — I don't go from here till I see a 
 change in things ! No, no ! Thank God, I've got money, and 
 now 1 know what to do with it. There's a pocket-book in my 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 07 
 
 "back coat-pocket, Francis— it has five hundred and eleven 
 dollars in city bills in it, take it out !' 
 
 Frank felt' in the pocket— it was the work of a second for 
 him, entirely unobserved, to slip the 4 dummy' into his own 
 pocket, while he pretended to feel for it, then, in a tone of 
 surprise, he cried : 
 
 ' Why, sir, there isn't no pocket-book here, them fellows in 
 the soup- house must have got that too !' 
 
 'The old gentleman felt for it himself— then passed his 
 hand into all his pockets. Of course his search was vain. 
 
 ' Well, 1 never !' he exclaimed—' this is horrible. But I've 
 two eagles left — here they are, loose in my pocket, take them, 
 Francis, and if they don't go far enough, I've a warm coat on, 
 my boy, I'll sell it ; yes, and look there, look there ! See 
 them naked creatures shiver !' 
 
 Frank took the money and hurried out, and now the old man 
 who had come in with them, looked Mr. P. in the face : 
 
 * Mayn't I make a fire, sir 1 Mayn't I make a fire out of 
 my wood !' said he in tones stronger than he yet had used. 
 
 ' Yes, old man, yes !' and as Mr. P. looked around, he saw 
 the little fire place. No sign of there ever having been a 
 fire there, could be seen ; the walls were wet, the lioor was 
 the same, and filthy, too filthy for description was the whole 
 place. 
 
 The old man carried his little bundle of wood to the fire- 
 place ; the sticks were so small that they were easily lighted 
 by a single match, which he rubbed against one of them. 
 He only lighted four, for the old man was economical, but 
 they blazed up and showed a brighter light in the apartment. 
 And then, an old man, a very old one, more thin and 
 haggard, if possible, than the one we have described, crept on 
 ; his bones — I cannot truly call them hands and knees — 
 ■ through the filth to the fire. He crawled close up to it, and 
 ! reached out his skeleton hands to warm them. There was no 
 ; blood there ; why needed he to warm dry skin and bones ? 
 
 Perhaps there was a little marrow left in them, which he 
 : would thaw. He had nothing on save an old ragged shirt ; 
 
 no other clothing. And, as he lay stretched out, he looked 
 I at the pile of onions and meat which the other old man had 
 ; set down beside him ; and, though he said no word, his look 
 • asked all that misery ever uttered. But, as a miser clings to 
 his gold, so did the first old man hug his treasure. Where, 
 I thought he, or when will 1 ever get so much again. 
 But Mr. Precise saw the looks of both, and he said : 
 ' Share with him, share with them all, old man ! You shall 
 : have more ; yes, plenty more !' 
 
 The old man seemed to do it unwillingly, but he gave 
 ! the other an onion ; it was eaten, ekin, root and all, in an in- 
 stant. 
 
68 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 'Give hiin more ; then go around and give the rest some f 
 said Mr. P. 
 
 The old man obeyed, and it was strange to see how the 
 naked, haggard wretches clutched the food — how they crushed 
 it between their tremulous jaws, and then glared around to 
 see if there was not more. The string of onions didn't go far 
 among seventeen persons, for this was the number in that 
 hole ; and, besides, the sick woman and her living child were 
 too ill to be hungry — they could not eat. 
 
 ' Give them the meat — cook that and give it to them,' said 
 the old gentleman. 
 
 But they did not wait to have it cooked ; they crowded 
 around the fire, and, like wolves, tore it to shreds, and gulped 
 it down unchewed. It was lean, nasty, dark-looking meat ; 
 but it seemed to slide right easily down their gaunt necks. 
 
 ' Put on all the wood, we will have more soon !' cried 
 Mr. P., and he rubbed his hands together with an expression 
 of pleasure, at the thought that this misery should so soon be 
 relieved. 
 
 And then he walked to and fro across the damp place ; but 
 when his eye fell upon the poor woman who was so sick, he 
 saw her shivering with the cold, He took his large warm 
 cloak from his back, and laid it over her. Never had that 
 cloak covered such a sight before — a dead child, its dying 
 sister, their mother in the same situation. 
 
 The doctor came, and Frank was with him, bearing his 
 arms full of food and old clothes, and behind him came two 
 negroe3, carrying wood and other things. 
 
 * Good boy — good boy ; you've been quick !' murmured the 
 old gentleman. ' And now, doctor, do what you can for these 
 poor creatures. I will pay all expenses !' 
 
 The physician— a little, fat, round-faced, round-bellied 
 man, who looked the reverse of Shakspeare's apothecary — 
 bent down over the woman, gazed at her a moment, then 
 shook his head in a very ominous, or rather a meaning way. 
 
 ' It's but little use ; I tkink she's too far gone ! They may 
 do something for her in the hospital. Better send for a cart, 
 and have her and the live one carried there. If the other 
 hadn't died of this, it would have been worth five to the stu- 
 dents for a subject. But it's worth nothing now !' 
 
 ' What ! do they ever buy these poor dead creatures V 
 
 1 Oh, bless your soul, yes sir ! A'most always, they very, 
 seldom bury folks that die here, they can always get something 
 for 'em if they don't die of this !' 
 
 1 Oh God, is it possible ! Who could have believed it !' 
 
 ' Have you been up stairs, sir, yet ? I've got several cases 
 up there, but they don't pay me much !' said the doctor. 
 
 ' Up stairs !' repeated Mr. Precise. ' What ! is there more 
 misery like this here ? How many poor creatures live here V 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 'All told, I think about eleven hundred !' 
 Mr. Precise did not speak ; he actually gasped with sur- 
 prise. 
 
 While all this was going on, Frank had been at work trying 
 to make an equal division of the stores which he had brought. 
 The wretches seemed grateful for the food and clothes, but 
 many of them grumbled now becau?e no gin had come with 
 the presents. Such is human gratitude ; and this is not the 
 only application where the adage fits, f the more you give to 
 some, the more they want.' 
 
 But others were more grateful. And blessings were asked 
 upon the head of their new benefactor. 
 
 In a few moments after the doctor had told Mr. Precise the 
 number of beings in that cavern of poverty and death, the 
 latter recovered from his surprise enough to speak : 
 
 ' Pll believe you,' said he ; ' I'll believe anything now ! Send 
 for a carriage, and have that poor woman and her child taken 
 to the hospital ; and have the other buried, decently buried ! 
 See to this, and send your bill to me.' 
 
 ' Thank you for your patronage, sir, but I can't get a car- 
 riage for her. No driver would take her from here. I can 
 get a hand-cart, and some fellows here that have had it, to 
 draw her !' 
 
 ' Well, well— anything to make her more comfortable — do 
 what you please ! Ah, Frank, you're a good boy ! You told 
 the truth ! Yes, I'll do well for you, I will ; but Pm not rich 
 enough now. Pm agoing into business again.' 
 
 ' You are, sir V 
 
 ' Yes, yes, Pve got to make more money ; for now I know 
 what to do with it.' 
 ' You are too good, sir !' 
 
 ' Oh, no ; I'm not half good enough. But let us go around 
 and see more of this.' 
 
 * Oh, sir, you've seen enough for to-night. We'll come ano- 
 ther time.' 
 
 * Well, Francis, you are my guide for this night. I am your 
 elder, yet I will act under your direction.' 
 
 * Thank you, sir. You'll not lose by it. But you've been 
 rather unfortunate, losing so much to-night.' 
 
 * Oh, no. I have lost money — I've lost a good, regular-going 
 watch; but Pve gained a knowledge which will give me more 
 pleasure than aught else I could gain. I know what to do 
 with my money — I know what to do with all 1 can make here- 
 after ! Pve often been a little scared, Francis, at the thought 
 of death, and felt right anxious to know how 1 could work my 
 passage into Heaven, but now I've learned it. God will repay 
 one who devotes all the latter part of a not ill spent life to 
 
70 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 relieving such misery as this. Ye3, in future I live for thg 
 poor — for these wretched, miserable creatures !' 
 
 ' Well, sir, as I said before, you are only too good ! But 
 we'll go from here now. You've made a happy set here.' 
 
 ' Yes, thank God, yes !' replied Mr. Precise, as with brim- 
 ming eyes he turned to gaze upon those whom he had relieved, 
 and then he turned to go. 
 
 ' Stop a minute, Francis,' said he ; • did you tell that doctor 
 where we lived V 
 
 ' Oh, yes, sir ; and that sort of men never forget the address 
 of any one that they can raise change from.' 
 
 ' Well, then, I'll go with you ; but let us go home now, I'm 
 sick of this !' 
 
 * We'll go, sir, but I'd like to have you step in to Pete's, and 
 see a little of high-life on the Points.' 
 
 ' Where is Pete's? Who is he V 
 
 * He is one of the upper-ten of darky-dom, sir !' 
 
 f Well, where you please ; I'll go any where now !' 
 
 Leaving the doctor to attend the sick family, and the rest 
 enjoying a treat, rich as it was unexpected, the two now re- 
 traced their steps through ' Murderer's alley,' and then across 
 to one of the streets beyond the triangular square which 
 centres the sink of misery. Up this they walked but a few- 
 steps and paused at a low door, where the in ward- passage was 
 downward. 
 
 Mr. P. heard the sound of music within, he saw a large ne* 
 gro standing at the door, apparently to guard it. 
 
 ' Is this the place V asked he. 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' said Frank, ' come in, sir !' 
 
 But the huge Ethiopian planted himself before the entrance, 
 saying : 
 
 * A shillin' afore you comes in yah, Massa !' 
 
 Mr. Precise felt in his pockets, no shilling was there ; but 
 this lack of ' tin' made no difference, for Frank pushed for- 
 ward, saying : 
 
 ' You know me, Sam, I'm on the cross/' 
 
 Mr. Precise wondered at this strange expression, and still 
 more was he surprised to see the negro step aside and admit 
 them without another word. 
 
 And yet wider opened he his eyes when he stepped within. 
 He saw a sight ! Not less than two hundred negroes, of every 
 shade, from the light, mellow-cheeked quadroon, down to the 
 coal-black, were there. Some were dancing to music made by 
 a fiddle, a tambourine, and an exceedingly ancient looking 
 guitar ; all of them played with more strength than sweet- 
 ness; and speaking of this latter, the atmosphere was not 
 tinctured with too much of it. Those who were dancing, of 
 course, kept neck and neck with the music : to do so, it wa3 
 impossible not to sweat some, and the odour raised therefrom 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 was le38 agreeable than some of the perfumes which Goraui* 
 has invented. 
 
 Mr. Precise saw that those who were not dancing were 
 3eated around the room, some smoking, others chewing 1 the 
 weed,' still others drinking. The last were supplied by a tall, 
 rather good-looking fellow, behind the bar — whose wife, a very 
 handsome quadroon, was dancing on the floor. 
 
 As soon as Mr. Precise entered, a middle Bized man — of 
 course a coloured one — came forward to Frank, with a broad 
 grin that showed at least four inches' width of ivory. 
 
 1 Ah, how d'ye, Masta Frank] Glad to see you down yah, 
 yon an dat nice lookin gemplem !' 
 
 1 This is Pete Williams, the proprietor of this establishment !' 
 said Frank to his master. 
 
 The latter bowed, while Pete, bending almost to the sanded 
 floor, said : 
 
 ' Berry glad to see you, Masta ! De honor ob your 'quain- 
 tance be appreciate by me, I sure you ! Walk aroun an' see 
 de ladies !' 
 
 Pete was very well dressed; his plaid waistcoat did look 
 rather flashy, and his very rich cravat was too showy for good 
 taste ; but he looked better than any of his company. 
 
 ' Come back and see green-eyed Andy ! He's a natural 
 curiosity !' said Frank — ' he can palm a die ; or slip the loaded 
 ones, better than anybody in this village !' 
 
 ' I don't understand what you mean,' replied Mr. Precise — 
 4 but I'll go where you wish now and see what is to be seen !' 
 
 Frank led the way into a back room, where a crowd of 
 darkies were standing before a little table, upon which lay a 
 "sweat-cloth,' or a square piece of oil cloth, marked thus : — 
 
 1 2 3 4 5 6 
 
 
 
 Behind this sat an old negro, whose very few hairs were not 
 black ; and as each of those who stood in front laid down 
 their bets, he shook up his three dice, and laying them out 
 upon the table, took up all the money which had been placed 
 upon the figures not similar in number to those which he 
 threw. For instance, bets were made upon the one, four, 
 three, and five, he would be sure to turn up his dice two, five, 
 and six, so that one bet only could win, while he took those 
 that lost. 
 
 'Why do you call him "green-eyed Andy asked Mr. 
 Precise, after looking some time inteatly at the game and 
 also at the negro who shook the dice. 
 
72 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Because he always wears green specks, sir, I believe. 
 That is all the reason I know. His real name is Andrew.' • 
 ' This is gambling, isn't it V 
 
 * Yes, sir. On a small scale ; not anything large. The 
 a bank" here is worth six or seven dollars, not more!' 
 
 * Well, do let us go, there is nothing here which interests 
 meV said Mr. P., evidently quite disgusted. 
 
 The twain now turned to the outer room, where they found 
 that the general dancing had ceased a moment ; for a ' juba 
 dancer' was on the iloor. He was a young mulatto, and to the 
 liveliest tune which the ' band' could play, he was ' laying it 
 down/ in a dance, where every step in the hornpipe, fling, 
 reel, &c, was brought in ; double shuffles, heel and toe tappers, 
 in-and-out winders, pigeon- wings, heel-crackers ; and, then, to 
 close up, the richest step of all that ever was danced, the 
 winding-blade was footed. 
 
 Mr. Precise paused, and the first expression of admiration 
 which had passed his lips, came then. 
 
 * What wonderful agility !' said he—' what astonishing 
 quickness ; why, the fellow seems to be made up of hair- 
 springs ; he hardly touches the floor !' 
 
 But even this ceased, and Mr. P. got out once more amid 
 the wind and sleet of the stormy night, and he and Frank 
 went home. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Header, stand in the cloak of invisibility with me, and let 
 your imagination paint for you a beautiful boudoir, a lady's 
 chosen sanctum. Eichly furnished ; its curtains, carpets, 
 ottomans, all of the softest and most voluptuous colours; each 
 little article of bijouterie which a wealthy and tasty woman 
 "would desire, is there. Picturea, rare and costly, hang upon 
 the curtained walls ; the marble tables are covered with books 
 and periodicals. And through a door in its rear can be seen 
 a chamber furnished full as well. Everything in view betokens 
 wealth used with taste ; elegance not marred by anything 
 all-contrasted. 
 
 From the windows, however, you may see something which 
 would contrast with this ; you can see a field of bones— a spot 
 where many a grey and ancient stone tells the last incident in 
 man's history, when and where he, whose dust is beneath, 
 died. Yes, a grave-yard lies almost beneath those windows, 
 and a tall church-steeple towers so high, that its shadows can 
 fall upon the velvet curtains of the window whence you gaze. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 73 
 
 One would think it a singular coincidence— but many a pre- 
 mature death, many a broken heart has been caused by deeds 
 done in that house ; and while we look down upon the grassy 
 tombs, we can speak of ruin wrought quite feelingly. You 
 will not understand me unless I write more plainly. On the 
 floor next beneath that where is the boudoir, which we have 
 been looking at, is a gambling hell— a place where more than 
 one young man has been ruined, where the first blow has 
 been stnack which brought disgrace upon him ; broken hearts 
 and desolation unto them that loved him. 
 
 Yes, one of the most fashionable and one of the vilest of 
 all the hells in Gotham, overlooks a grave-yard. 
 
 If, as people once did think, the spirits of the dead can 
 arise at the midnight hour, they could find plenty of company 
 by simply crossing a narrow street ; and they could see all of 
 the passions displayed which are ever felt in the human 
 breast. They could see the drama, comedy, and tragedy of 
 nature ! they could see alternate hope and despair, anger and 
 calmness, fear and courage ; they could see men trying to 
 drown conscience in the burning water of fire ; they could 
 see villains rob villains; they could see genteel stealing and 
 wholesale robbery, not of money only, but of virtue, prin- 
 ciple, aye, of honour, and all that makes the soul of man 
 precious to itself. 
 
 We speak of what we have seen ; for many a sickening hour 
 have we spent in studying these scenes. We have gone within 
 these hells— we have marked looks, expressions, and charac- 
 ters, until the book is as one committed to memory, a memory 
 which holdeth all that it has gained. 
 
 Why Mr. Henry Carlton, the gambler, should have selected 
 so fitting a spot for his hell, we know not ; we only know what 
 too many young men of our city are aware of — that it is there. 
 
 But we were describing a lady's boudoir ; and though it was 
 so very near the grave yard, it looked as if it had been fitted 
 for love and happiness ; as if never a thought of death or 
 sorrow should enter there. 
 
 In this room see a lady. She is alone. In her hand she 
 holds a letter, and a variety of expressions come and go upon 
 her beautiful face while she reads it. She is pretty : yes, she 
 is more — is handsome. Her face possesses intellectual 
 beauty ; her brow is high and fair ; dark blue eyes, glossy 
 brown hair, delicate lashes to shade her large soft eyes, and a 
 face sweetly oval in form ; a figure tall, and perfectly propor- 
 tioned ; delicately small hands, with jeweled fingers ; a tiny 
 foot, slippered in satin, finishes our brief outline of her 
 appearance. 
 
 After reading the letter which she held in her hand, her 
 face beamed with a pleasant smile. She kissed the paper 
 over and over; then placed it in her throbbing bosom. 
 
MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Dear, dear Charles,' she murmured, ' were it death, a thou« 
 sand deaths to love thee, yet would I be thine. Thou alone 
 of all the millions who tread this ever-changing earth, wert 
 fitted to make me happy. Why we did not meet when we 
 were young and I was free, I cannot divine ; nor why a good 
 Heaven sends not congenial spirits together upon the earth, as 
 soon as they are born.' 
 
 Then she arose from the ottoman where she had been half- 
 reclining, and drawing one of the worked chairs closer to a 
 side-table whereon lay writing materials, she again mur- 
 mured : 
 
 ' I must answer his dear letter — yes, I will meet him as he 
 wishes. I could deny no request of Ais.' 
 
 She drew a perfumed sheet of note paper from a drawer, 
 and in a neat, beautiful hand, soon filled its snow-white pages. 
 Then carefully was it folded and sealed. 
 
 After this she rang a little silver bell by her side. The 
 outer door opened in a moment, and a middle-aged, fine- 
 looking mulatto woman entered. 
 
 ' Did you ring, mistress V she asked. 
 
 * Yes, Eliza ; take this note to him !' 
 
 The girl answered only with a look of intelligence — took 
 up the note and left the apartment. In a moment, however, 
 she returned. 
 
 'Mr. Sam Selden is in the passage, and wishes to know if 
 you can be seen, madam !' said she. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied the lady ; ' you can tell him to enter ; and 
 then, Eiiza, hurry away with that note. Tell no one where 
 you are going, and be prudent ; it would be worse than death 
 Go have my love for him known !' 
 
 ' Fear not, my lady, I never will betray you. I love you 
 too well for that.' 
 
 ' You are a good, honest, sweet girl, Eliza. You never 
 shall lose by your faithfulness to me.' 
 
 The girl left the room once more, and the lady seated her- 
 self on an ottoman, in a position of studied carelessness — in a 
 way which best displayed the beauty of her figure, and where 
 the rosy light through a crimson curtain would fall richest 
 upon her cheek. 
 
 The next instant a low tap was heard upon the door. 
 
 Her voice was very sweet when she cried, * come in,' and 
 her smile exceedingly bright, as a well dressed gentleman, 
 not much over her own age, entered. He was a little over 
 the middle height, very well proportioned in figure ; had a 
 piercingly bright eye of jetty black, deep set under a rather 
 heavy and frowning brow ; hair and beard of glossy silkiness, 
 dark as night when the storm is, and the moon and stars are 
 not. A heavy moustache helped to contrast a very fine set 
 of teeth, which, in smiling, as he met the lady, he took par- 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 73 
 
 ticalax pains to show ; and his rather pale face looked paler 
 3till for the same contrast. His dress was tastefully fashion- 
 able and very rich ; it fitted his genteel figure perfectly ; in 
 fact, Lockwood's establishment never turned out a better 
 suite, and one could almost swear to the ' Dubois cut' of his 
 beautiful frock ; his manner, as he entered the apartment 
 was graceful and easy. 
 
 ' 1 am glad to see you, Mr. Selden,' said the lady ; * are you 
 well to-day V 
 
 * Quite so, I thank you, madame. I need not ask you the 
 question : you look charmingly this morning. I never saw 
 you look so well.' 
 
 'Ah, sir, you are ever fond of flattery: but if I do look 
 well, it is because I am in fine spirits. I feel so happy to- 
 day ! ' 
 
 1 Why I thought to find you dull ; your husband is absent. 
 Are not married ladies ever sad when their lords are not 
 near V 
 
 1 Some may be,' replied the lady, in a careless tone ; and 
 then as the thought came over her that Mr. S. was her hus- 
 band's bosom friend, she added : * You forget that he is to 
 come home by this evening's boat. He wrote me so three 
 days ago.' 
 
 'Yes; yet he will not be here. I received a letter from 
 him this morning, informing me that he could not come 
 before next week.' 
 
 ' Indeed !' said the lady, in a tone of surprise, while a but 
 half- hidden ray of pleasure lighted her eye. 
 
 * Yes, madam,' continued Mr. S., ' and in his letter he 
 sent a bank note of five hundred dollars for you. Here it is.' 
 
 ' He is ever very kind ; but I did not need money. He left 
 me a thousand dollars only ten days ago, and 1 have not spent 
 half of it yet.' The lady sighed as she spoke of her husband's 
 goodness, and her face seemed a shade paler while she crushed 
 up the bill in her fingers. 
 
 Perhaps she was thinking of that sin which even then was 
 lurking in her heart ; she was thinking perchance of the 
 wrong which she had meditated upon his rights and honour — 
 even already might have consummated. 
 
 This scene and these characters we must now leave for a 
 little time, to return to it and them, of course, in another 
 chapter ; for among all of our pictures, the one they are con- 
 nected with is the wildest and darkest — one which brings in 
 all the strange, fierce passions of the human heart — Love, 
 Hate, Jealousy, Revenge, Murder. 
 
76 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Not far from the centre of our city, in a street which runs 
 parallel with Broadway, stands a tine looking three story brick 
 house, with green window blinds in front, which, for some 
 reason or other, are never thrown open. It is a very neat, 
 plain-fronted house ; no name is on the door ; its number, how- 
 ever, is prominent. 
 
 Speaking of its front, reminds us here to say that there is 
 another entrance from a back street. A high fenced alley 
 leads into a back yard in the rear of this dwelling, and many 
 a muffled form, close veiled and trembling with fear and 
 excitement, has hurried through that narrow little lane, and 
 entered that singular house. We will not yet say what this 
 house is — we will let it tell its own story ; but we will say that 
 there is not only one, but more than a hundred of its kind in 
 the city. 
 
 There always seems to be a kind of mystery about it. No 
 noise or disturbance is ever heard within its walls ; it is quiet, 
 still as a convent or a Church. Yet strange monk3 and nuns 
 would those make who go there. 
 
 The very next door neighbour knows not who dwells in this 
 house ; the servants of it will not speak to his servants, nor 
 unfold the secret, which is often and vainly sought for. When 
 twilight darkens, and night come3 on, many a man is seen to 
 enter, yet they, too, seem to wear a studied disguise — some- 
 times veiled females are seen to go in at the front door, though 
 nearly all of the visitors to that dwelling have the singular 
 habit of entering by the alley. 
 
 We will go in through the second story window, reader ; 
 yes, through blinds and all, in our fancy, and look at one who 
 is there seated, and who but a moment before had come into 
 the house by the back alley. As he entered the house, he had 
 met a lady, a middle aged, good-looking one was she, and in a 
 low tone had whispered, ' send to Mary, No. Broad- 
 way, and tell her that 1 must speak to her a moment, before 
 she dresses for her usual duties.' 
 
 The hour was about five, but as at the season when we 
 write (the early part of January, 1841) darkness comes early, 
 on this occasion it was twilight. 
 
 The gentleman, after giving this order, ascended to the 
 second-story front room, which we are now to look at. It was 
 furnished in a magnificent style ; red velvet cushions to each 
 chair and sofa ; crimson satin curtains to the windows ; many 
 fine paintings were hung upon its lofty walls, all of them, 
 however, of the French school, voluptuous — too much so for 
 description here. In an alcove, at one end of this large par- 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 77 
 
 iour, the curtains of a bed could be seen, so that this room 
 could be doubly used as a chamber and a parlour. Upon a 
 table of variegated marble, in the centre of the room, stood a 
 large globe astral lamp, which threw a warm, rich light over 
 it. A cheerful fire— coal of course, gleamed in the grate ; and 
 a piano, tlanked by a guitar, set off the end of the room op- 
 posite to that which contained the alcove. 
 
 And now, for one look at the gentleman. He was tall, well 
 formed, elegantly dressed, in that truly tasty style which men 
 of birth and wealth ever adopt. 
 
 His age, apparently, was fifty, perhaps not over forty years, 
 hiB complexion florid and healthful, his features rather fine, 
 yet so formed as to denote a character of great sensuality, 
 And yet, with all, there was an expression of refinement 
 even in his sensuality ; he looked very like what we would 
 have deemed the famous Earl of Buckingham to have been at 
 the same age. 
 
 Seating himself before the fire, he took some letters from 
 his pocket, and selecting one which had already been opened, 
 he commenced reading it ; and as he did so, soliloquized : 
 
 * By the hint which she gives here, I fear that both her and 
 myself are in rather a bad scrape. I like the girl, I would 
 not wish to see her disgraced — nor can I save her, for I am 
 married. I wish that she had known it from the first; it 
 would not now be so hard to break it to her. I once thought 
 that interest alone influenced her, but now it seems that love 
 for me must have led her where she is. 
 
 1 If her hint be true, what can I do. There is but one thing. 
 I have heard of a wretch in Greenwich Street, one Madame 
 Sitstill, who makes a trade of murder, who, for a few dollars, 
 will bind herself to destroy one life ; in doing so often takes 
 tico. If the worst comes to the worst, I will send Mary to her. 
 
 'The girl writes prettily. Little did I think when six 
 months agone, I met thee, Mary Sheffield, all would have 
 occurred which has. By accident I saw thee, where hundreds 
 before and since have seen thee — standing in thy smiles be- 
 hind a counter where the 1 weed' is stored in every shape.'' 
 
 The gentleman folded up the letter, placed it in his pocket, 
 then looked at his watch. 
 
 It is time she was here,' he muttered impatiently, 'it is 
 not far — not more than six or seven blocks to her employer's 
 shop; the servant must have been tardy in delivering my 
 message ; I know that Mary would hasten to me, if she knew 
 that 1 was here.' 
 
 Then again he paused, sighed heavily, and gazed steadily 
 into the fire, as if he were reading a lesson from the burning 
 coals ; a lesson which would learn him that the fire of the 
 human passions, like the flame before him, would destroy the 
 very fuel on which it feeds. 
 
78 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 Whatever may have been his reflections, they were dis- 
 turbed by a low tap at the door, and without awaiting an an- 
 swer, the one who touched it entered. It was a female— a young, 
 leautiful creature. She could not have been over seventeen 
 or eighteen, judging from her sweet and girlish face; yet a 
 full, perfect bust, such a one as Canova would have given his 
 left eye to have copied, and a figure perfect in all its propor- 
 tions, were hers. We cannot well describe her, but just 
 fancy one of the prettiest blondes that ever poet idealized or 
 painter pictured, and Mary Sheffield stands before you. 
 
 She hurried across the room to the gentleman's side, and 
 clasping her rounded arms about his neck, impressed a warm 
 kiss upon his brow, then while a tear stole down either cheek, 
 murmured : 
 
 'I am so glad, my Albert, to see you once more. Three 
 long days of anxiety have passed since I wrote you. I heard 
 not one word ; and much as I have trusted, I began to fear 
 that you, whom I so love, had deceived me !' 
 
 * No, my Mary,' replied the gentleman ' I have been absent 
 up the river to Albany, on business. I only received your 
 letter an hour since, and have ever since been cogitating upon 
 its contents. Have you really cause for the hint which it 
 contains of your situation. 
 
 The young girl blushed deeply, hung down her head, and in 
 a low tone replied : 
 
 * But too much, sir. Oh ! how unhappy I have been for 
 the last week ; but I will be so no more. You will marry me 
 now V 
 
 * Mary, I cannot yet. I have reasons which I dare not now 
 reveal. Yet at this time there is a bar between us which will 
 delay our marriage.' 
 
 ' Oh ! dear, dear Albert, there must be no bar ! No ! In 
 a few short weeks my situation will be but too apparent ; I 
 shall be turned from my place ! 1 am so well known to every 
 young man in the city, that my name and shame will be 
 bruited everywhere ! Oh ! death, anything, were better than 
 this !' 
 
 ' Speak not so, my Mary ;'I will not so desert you. All that 
 I can do, I will. You shall never say that I deserted you, 
 and left you to the wintry blasts of scorn. I cannot yet take 
 you as my wife ; but you shall have a house to live in. I will 
 visit you often, and — — ' 
 
 The girl arose from his knee, where, in childlike fondness, 
 she had seated herself, and while her blue eye flashed with 
 feeling and her red lip quivered, she interrupted him : 
 
 * You would make me your regular favourite — you would 
 more debase me than you have! Oh, Albert, I have fallen, 
 sinned far worse, far more than Mary the Magdalen ! yet will 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 70 
 
 I not do this. No. Make me now yonr wife, as long since you 
 said you would. Do it, if you are a man /' 
 
 * Mary, 1 cannot. I will support you ; at all expense, and 
 at all risks, I will preserve you from the danger of your present 
 situation.' 
 
 'Albert, do I understand you? Is not one of the risks at 
 which you hint, the losa of my life ! To comply with that to 
 which you allude, must I not be a murderess !' 
 
 'No. Use not such harsh terms, my dear. It is not 
 murder ! Mrs. Sitstill, to whom I would send you, is a kind 
 woman, a very useful one to society. Many a girl from the 
 highest grades of our aristocracy thanks her now, that her 
 name is free from stain.' 
 
 ' Yes,' cried Mary, 'yes— with a pale cheek, a sunken eye, 
 a broken constitution, and more, far more, the burning lire of 
 conscience, that gnawing worm which never dies — such may 
 live, but must I be one ! Albert Shirley, you could have 
 married me ere this if you would ; but,' and the girl shuddered 
 now, ' I begin to fear that you are like some of the rest of 
 your sex of whom I have heard. You have, like the bee, 
 taken the honey from the flower; it may droop, fade, and, 
 wither, while you buzz on in search of another.' 
 
 ' Mary, you wrong me. Within two weeks I will satisfy 
 you.' 
 
 ' Albert, dare I trust you ! And yet I must ; for where 
 can I find redress or aid. I am a helpless female ; if my dis 
 grace should become known, the world would whip me forth 
 into the wilderness of vice ; it would scorn, detest, drive me 
 mad with contempt and insult. He who stole from me my 
 purity — who led me aside with false promises and honeyed 
 words, from the pathway of the good, might still bask in the 
 world's sunshine ; while I, more sinned against than sinning, 
 would be driven, naked of fame and honour, into the gloomy 
 night of helpless misery and despair ! Think you that it is 
 their fault, that hundreds of poor females — young, beautiful 
 creatures— haunt our streets nightly to pursue their revolting, 
 self sickening calling] No, sir, it is not! But who would 
 raise a hand to aid them ] Not even a wall will echo back 
 an answer. They are not worth a breath or a sound !' 
 
 With astonishment Mr. Shirley had listened to the 
 rapidly uttered remarks of his strange and beautiful com- 
 panion ; and they were too true for him to answer. 
 
 She did not await a response. But while her cheek was yet 
 red with excitement, and her eyes were flashing through her 
 tears, she turned to leave the room. 
 
 'Stay, Mary, stay a moment. When shall I see you 
 again f 
 
 1 1 know not, Albert. Never, if you intend still to trifle 
 
80 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 with me. I can die alone, as well as with you, if I am not to 
 be your wife !' 
 
 'Say that you will spend Sunday afternoon here with me; 
 I may have good news by that time.' 
 
 * I will, Albert ; but 1 must hurry away now. It is already 
 time that I was in the shop. I must go and stand amid the 
 filthy fumes of smoke — to hear coarse jests made upon my 
 person — to be but a sign to attract coxcombs and dandies to 
 my employer's counter.' 
 
 f Poor girl, this shall not long be so !' said the gentleman, in 
 tones where kindness and pity were blended. 
 
 ' Indeed it shall not — it cannot ! I will not live so ? Soon- 
 er, far, would I at once spring into that unknown, which the 
 wicked dread, and even the righteous cannot gaze upon with- 
 out a tremor.' 
 
 And then they parted. The goor girl, muffled closely in 
 her cloak and veil, first hurried from the house by the back 
 alley ; then, ten or twelve minutes after, the gentleman too 
 stole forth from this singular establishment. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Readers, we hope you have not forgotten our poor little sew- 
 ing girl. Though she is of a class that seems entirely to be 
 forgotten by the good people of this city, we claim an exemp- 
 tion for her. The poor creature cannot possibly last long. 
 One winter of destitution — one bitter season of toil amid 
 starvation and wretchedness, must sicken her. If she sickens, 
 she dies; for then she cannot labour. Were she, scorning 
 the opinions of that world which scorns her poverty, to cast 
 herself into the hot- house of vice, she might get along very 
 well as regards mere food and clothes, for a winter or two ; but 
 let us rather hope to see her freeze, starve, die in misery, with 
 purity still in her soul, than to yield to the fatal step which 
 would engulf all that is precious and beautiful in her charac- 
 ter. 
 
 And do not think that she is a creation of our fancy. We 
 have no need of ' creations' in this work ; the reality is ever 
 before us. Yice, poverty, crime, and wretchedness, are not 
 only every-day words, but every-day sights among us. And 
 whose fault is it 1 We cannot say ; but let it be found out. 
 
 There are thousands of sewing girls here, whose characters 
 and sufferings are but duplicates of those we attribute to poor 
 Angelina. But leaving her, we will introduce you to another 
 character. She is of that better class of ' the fallen,' known 
 in Paris as the grisettes ; here, by no particular name. 
 
 Maria Deloraine, must have some evident occupation, some 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 81 
 
 apparent business?, or she could not live in the respectable 
 family where she does ; for they, with that spirit of know- 
 everything-ativeness, which is our national character, would 
 be sure to inquire how she got her money— how she managed 
 to dress so neatly and well. 
 
 Therefore Maria has chosen the easy and beautiful trade of 
 an embroiderer or worsted worker, and in this occupation 
 spends all of her leisure hours. We say leisure hours, because 
 she had another business than this, one which we will not 
 now name, but which, in the course of our work, shall tell its 
 own story. 
 
 She boarded with one Mrs. Windeman, a respectable widow 
 lady, one of that ' class which has seen better days;' but was 
 reduced, as she was ever saying, to the unfortunate necessity 
 of keeping a boarding-house. 'Twas dreadful, but it was; 
 and though she and her seven maiden daughters, descending 
 from the age of thirty to about twenty, spoke often of the faded, 
 glory of former days, when they 1 rode in Pa's carriage and 
 lived up town,' they had right hard work to keep up the 
 thread-bare appearance of former gentility. 
 
 They lived in a large three story brick-house in Greenwich 
 Street, and kept nearly every class of boarders which they 
 could pick up. But these they managed to classify, as well 
 in rooms and price, as at the table ; for a few medical students 
 from the South were mixed up with the daughters at the ex- 
 treme head of the table when at meals. Below these sat four 
 or five clerks, as the next most genteel; and still farther 
 down, sat some rough looking mechanics — hard working men 
 — who paid their board regularly, dealt honestly, but who, of 
 course, could not be so genteel as the rest, though some of 
 the others seldom found it convenient to 'settle up' with 
 Mrs. W. 
 
 Maria never was seen at the table. She had a parlour and 
 bed-room on the second floor ; to this her food was carried, 
 and seldem did she make her appearance elsewhere in the 
 house. She passed, with Mrs. W., as an orphan, who had a 
 small income from a legacy left her, and worked at her em- 
 broidery for the rest of her means. She saw but little com- 
 pany, and even Mrs. W. and her daughters acknowledged that 
 they were real gentlemen who came to see her. 
 
 At the time when we introduce her to our reader, she was 
 alone in her parlour, working at a piece of embroidery des- 
 tined for a chair back, and though she worked steadily, it did 
 not seem as if her mind was at her employment for she kept 
 ever and anon starting up, looking around and acting as if she 
 expected a visitor. 
 
 Nor did it occur that she should be disappointed. The. 
 little Irish servant girl, Rosa, came into the room, and said : 
 
88 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 'There's a gintleman below, as wants to see you, ma'am— 
 here's a bit o' paper that he guv me, wid his name on't, may 
 be ." 
 
 'Yes, it is he f replied Maria, looking at the card, 'ask Mr. 
 Whitmore to come up !' 
 
 The servant disappeared and soon Mr. Whitmore, our old 
 friend, made his entree. 
 
 ' Ah, Maria, I am very glad to see you — you look so 
 exceedingly well that I've no occasion to ask after your 
 health !' said he in a familiar tone, at the same time imprint- 
 ing a kiss upon her cheek, which blushed not at the liberty. 
 
 ' You are well, too, I see, Harry. It is long since I have 
 seen you. You do not visit No. '355' very often now. Mrs. 
 I. must miss so good a customer as you !' said the young lady. 
 
 4 1 have been rather steady of late, T must acknowledge ; 
 but 1 shall make amends by and by. Does she keep up her 
 select soirees yet — those chosen parties, limited to ten V 
 
 'Yes, I was there but a few evenings ago. But I received 
 a note from you to-day, Harry, informing me that you would 
 be here at this hour, and that you wished to see me on busi- 
 ness. What do you wish V 
 
 ' Why, I would like to have you to pass as my sister, with a 
 new acquaintance of mine, a young lady, and also with her 
 brother.' 
 
 ' What is the object?' 
 
 ' Oh, a mere whim of mine, my dear girl, a mere fancy. I 
 want her to come here and visit you, and you to go to see her 
 a few times.' 
 
 ' Were she to come here and ask for a sister of your name, 
 the folks down stairs would open their eyes. There is a 
 difference between the name of Deloraine and Whitmore.' 
 
 ' That's very true, my dear ; didn't think of that. But it 
 can be worked better yet. You shall meet her at Madame 
 I.'s, there is a greater appearance of fashion and wealth there, 
 and they will act as they are directed. The darkie in livery 
 at the door, the elegant furniture, and the fashionable ar- 
 rangement of the house will be of great advantage to my plan. 
 I can always let you know when she is to call, and when she 
 asks for Miss Maria Whitmore, you can of course be the she.' i 
 
 ' Yes, but what is your aim?" 
 
 ' Why, Maria, if you will have the truth, I wish to make j 
 her my wife without committing matrimony according to the 
 rules and forms prescribed by law. Do you understand me.' 
 
 ' Yes ; you wish to ruin her — to bring her also into the 
 fearful ranks of the fallen. Harry Whitmore, I thought that 
 you had made enough victims, more than you wish to answer 
 for, already.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't go to moralizing, Maria, for heaven's sake f 
 'No,' replied the girl bitterly— ' no, I am not one now to 
 
Or NEW YORK. 
 
 S3 
 
 moralize ; I know that, but, Harry, this is some poor innocent 
 girl, for whose moral murder you are now laying a deliberate 
 snare.'' 
 
 ' I'll tell you what she is, Maria. She is a pert, forward 
 chit, that is always condemning those who have made a slip ; 
 says that the prison is a sight too good for them, and all that ! 
 She has some beauty; and is fool enough, I think, to like me 
 some, though I have seen her but twice. I've already told 
 her that I had a sweet sister named Maria, and she is anxious 
 to make the acquaintance.' 
 
 ' I had rather you would pick out some other accomplice !' 
 
 ' I know none either so good-looking or so perfectly lady- 
 like as you, Maria. You can make a hundred dollars by 
 carrying on this affair.' 
 
 We know not whether the hundred dollars, or the flattery, 
 caused the girl to be less firm in her resistance to his desire, 
 but she replied : 
 
 • It's very hard to refuse you anything, Harry ; and if you 
 will promise on your word of honour not to do anything 
 which can get me into trouble, I'll consent.' 
 
 ' Of course I'll promise that ; and now for arranging the 
 first meeting. I'm to see her again this evening ; and to- 
 morrow I'll send you a note or see you and say when she will 
 pay Miss Whitmore a visit. You must remember to say a 
 great deal about your dear, dear brother; how good he is to 
 you, and all that.' 
 
 * You need not fear, sir. When I assume a character, t 
 always sustain it.' 
 
 ' Very well, Maria, I'll leave all to your good sense. And, 
 by the way, while I think of it, here is a fifty. You may 
 need some pocket change.' 
 
 ' You had better see Mrs. I., and give her a caution, so that 
 there can be no suspicion raised.' 
 
 ' I will, as I go up the street. And now, my good friend, 
 I'll bid you good evening !' 
 
 ' Good evening, sir.' 
 
 Again Maria Deloraine was alone. She was a very pretty 
 girl, and as Harry had said, exceedingly lady-like in her 
 manners. She was tall, well formed, of a very fair, clear 
 complexion, with black glossy hair; a fine brow, eye-lashes 
 that dropped entirely over her large black eyes, and could 
 hide them as she looked down at her work. Regular features 
 — a pouting, most kissable pair of lips, and a sweetly dimpled 
 chin, were also hers. Though there was much voluptuousness" 
 in her appearance, it was mingled with an air of refinement, 
 which made her doubly dangerous. She was dressed very 
 plain and neatly, as all women may safely do, who have 
 beauty. It is only ugliness or deformity that requires arti« 
 ficial aid to improve upon it, 
 
Si 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 When Harry Whitmore had left the room, she resumed her 
 "work again, and as she stitched away, she murmured out her 
 thoughts in soliloquy : 
 
 S o — another flower must be torn and transplanted from 
 the garden of purity to the fields of infamy and death. And 
 I — I, the once pure — must aid in this dark deed. But why 
 should I pause, or think it wrong. I am here — misery loves 
 company.' 
 
 CHAPTER X1Y. 
 
 'I sat, Cap'n, let's be hoff on a new lay that I've 'ad my peepera 
 on for a month o' Sundays.' 
 
 Thus cried little Charley Cooper to Captain Julian Tobin, 
 on the second Sunday night that occurred in our story. 
 Charley, Big Lize, the French Captain, and a new friend to 
 us, but an old one of theirs, called 'the Stutterer,' were all 
 who were present at this time in old Ma'am Buckley's little 
 back room. 
 
 As ' the Stutterer' is a new character, and rather an im- 
 portant one, we will give his daguerreotype. 
 
 He is of the medium size, not far from forty years of age, 
 5s about five feet seven inches high, has dark eyes and hair, 
 the latter curling and worn long. He dresses very well, but 
 rather flashily ; has a dark complexion; frowns when speak- 
 ing, especially when stuttering badly, which he does when he 
 gets very excited. He has the bad habit of swearing a great 
 deal ; and once or twice a year takes a trip over to England to 
 see how his friends get along there. 
 
 But back again to the subject. Captain Tobin heard th 
 proposition of little Charley, and taking out a very handsom 
 vatch, the identical one which he had borrowed of Mr. Precise 
 he glanced at it and replied : 
 
 ' Vere is ze lay — vat shall be ze speculatione, eh V 
 
 * The Dutch dance-house,' replied Charley. 1 There's a lot 
 o' swells as has got to goin' there lately to dance with th 
 Dutch g'hals, and we might do up a job or two of a nigh 
 that 'ud pay right fair.' 
 
 * Vel, ve shall see, ver soon— direcklee. Zere is an engag 
 ment zat I expect in some sree or four minute, zen 1 will go 
 see vat is out.' 
 
 ' Wh-who d'ye 'spect, Cap cap'n V asked the Stutterer. 
 
 ' Zat dam lawyare, Messieur Tarhound ; he is employ to fo 
 me some dam leetle dirty shob, and I must wait for see h* 
 till it is eight o'clock.' 
 
 I'll just t-tell you wh-what it is, Cap'n, it's my private h 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 85 
 
 pinion, purty d — cl hopenly hexpressed, that th-that Tarhound 
 is a devilish mean r-r-rascal. He'd steal from a thief !' 
 
 The Captain was about to reply, when the very individual 
 alluded to verified the old adage — • speak of the devil and he's 
 sure to appear' — by walking in. 
 
 He was a little over the medium height, well formed, dressed 
 shabby-genteel— had hard hazel eyes, straight black hair, 
 worn long over his ears, as if to hide some mark there. Hia 
 face had a kind of sheneyish expression, in which avarice, 
 -cunning, cowardice, and licentiousness were all so mixed to- 
 gether that they could not be separated. Although he vege- 
 tated under the name of C. Agrippa Tarhound, Esquire, the 
 legal gentleman had no particular office, nor hung he out ' a 
 shingle' anywhere. His clients were generally to be found in 
 or about the edges of the ' Points,' except when he could get 
 hold of some poor woman or green countryman, whose sor- 
 rowful faces as they approached the * Tomb3,' showed them to 
 be in trouble ; and then, if by either personating himself or 
 by assuming the name of some better known lawyer, he could 
 get a fee out of them, he would do it, of course. We have a 
 pleasant anecdote or two concerning this interesting character, 
 which we will work in hereafter — one especially regarding a 
 * will' and his first debut in Jersey, which is immeasurably 
 rich. He is known only as one of the * Tombs' lawyers/ and as 
 he stands at the head of his peculiar grade, we give him a 
 place in our romance. 
 
 When he entered the room and saw the company which we 
 have described, he made a low, cringing bow to each, and, in 
 a kind of fawning tone, said : 
 
 * I'm very glad to see you, gentlemen ; glad to see you, Miss 
 Eliza, very.' 
 
 1 Sorry I can't return the compliment. Next to a copper, 
 a lawyer is what I hates the worst, 'specially a poor 'un.' 
 _ Tarhound's brow, red and liquor-stained before, grew a 
 little purpleish at this ; but the captain interfered, and said : 
 
 ' Nevare mind ze lady, sir, she is ver fond of speak in ze 
 sarcastique ; but we shall talk ofze biznasse. Vat 'ave you do 
 for zem dim boys, eh]' 
 
 1 Got a hearing— get 'em out in the morning, Captain. 
 Straw bail, and all that. It '11 cost something, though.' 
 
 1 How, great deal V 
 
 1 About a double X, for paying the bail and my fees.' 
 
 ' I shall give you ze monee. But, Messieur Tarhound, if 
 ze dam leetle boys be not go free before noon to-morrow, I 
 shall give you one case again nevare.' 
 
 * Don't fear, sir. I'd have 'em out if old Matsell himself 
 was to examine them.' 
 
 ' Ah, daui zat Messieur Matsell ; if he was deat, zen would 
 
86 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ze gno 'ave one grand shubilee — one ver fine holiday !' said 
 the French Captain ; and then he asked : 
 
 ' "Who shall 'ave ze honare of examine ze little boys?' 
 
 ' Old Deserve, to be sure, and I can stuff him with any- 
 thing. Why, he thinks I'm one of the best lawyers at the 
 bar !' 
 
 ' Then it's my hopinion th-that he can be most b-b-blastedly 
 s-st-stuffed,' said the stutterer, quietly, while Big Liza asked : 
 
 ' What's the kids in for, old fuddle-cap V 
 
 1 1 don't like your complimentary terms, Mi«s Eliza/ replied 
 T. ; * but I'll answer the question. The youngsters are in for 
 till- tapping. A Froglander grocery-keeper caught one of 'em 
 ■with his hands in the money-till ; his pall didn't keep his 
 peepers open.' 
 
 ' The bigger fool he. Will they have to visit the Island f 
 
 * No, not while C. Aggrippa Tarhound is retained for them. 
 I never let my clients go there if they fork up handsomely.' 
 
 * C-ceptin' when you gets dr-drunk on the money and 
 f-f-forget th-the case t-till they're sentenced, as you d-did with 
 Sal Snow, th-the Micky Riley g'hal.' 
 
 ' I wasn't drunk, Mr. H., I was only rick? replied the 
 lawyer, quite indignant at the Stutterer's insinuation. 
 
 ' Vel, sare, it is not mattare now ; zere is your twenty 
 dollare ; tell zem dam leetle ra&cale boys zat zey must not 
 get grab any more, or by dam I will let zem go to ze devile ; 
 yes, my dam, I will !' 
 
 The lawyer liked his company very well, but he had sense 
 enough to see that they didn't like him ; therefore he made 
 his exit. 
 
 'Now, Sharlee, I vil go viz you on zat ozzare lay, but we do 
 not want many of ze boys, eh]' said Captain To bin to little 
 Charley. 
 
 'No,' replied the pickpocket. 'Lize will pal for me ; the 
 Stutterer shall pal for you. Lize is the best bulk that a file 
 ever knucked after ; and we'll go there for an hour, and then 
 come home and take a peep at the swag we both 'ave lifted. 
 
 ' Yel, sare, tramp is ze word.' And with this the worthies 
 bent their way to Elizabeth-street near Grand, where is still 
 to be seen one of the sights in Gotham. Separating, and 
 keeping on the shady sides of the streets, the select party of 
 four started for their field of labour. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 87 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 There were many sad, and very few bright scenes in our last 
 part ; we will endeavour to commence this less gloomily. 
 Fancy is a kind creature, reader ; an angel of the mind, 
 which often ministers sunshine when the clouds of reality are 
 around up. 
 
 Let her take yon to a house on the Third avenue, where 
 every sign of wealth and elegance is visible, externally and 
 internally. You may have seen some of the up town palaces 
 of our merchant-kings, kings we say, because wealth makes 
 power here ; if so, I need not trouble you with the description, 
 or myself with writing it. 
 
 In her chamber sat a mother — a sweet, lovely creature was 
 she— her age could not be over twenty, and yet a bright-eyed 
 child of at least four summers' blossoming, sat in her lap. 
 Her eyes were dark blue, and that boy looked up at her with 
 eyes blue as the shadowed ocean, and liquid too with affection 
 were they, as is the bedewed violet's cup, when its slender 
 stem is bent at the early dawn to greet the sun rise. His 
 chubby little face was set in a frame of golden curls, and she 
 twined her fair fingers amid the silken tresses, and gazed 
 down upon him with a fond pride - only to be felt by a young, 
 happy mother, who looks upon her idolized first-born. 
 
 The child was playing with one of her soft brown ringlets 
 that dropped within his reach, escaping from a cluster which 
 lay thick upon her snowy shoulders, and prattling in that 
 sweet broken tongue which none but infants learning first to 
 imitate their parents' words can speak. 
 
 The door of the chamber opened, and a youug man, per- 
 chance of twenty-six or eight years, entered. He was about 
 the middle height, well formed, and wore the unmistakable 
 look of a gentleman. A glance at his light brown hair and 
 clear blue eyes at once showed the relation which he held to 
 the cherub we have described. 
 
 * Dear Annie !' said the gentleman, as he entered, and with 
 a hasty step he crossed the carpet and folding his arms around 
 her and his boy, kissed his young wite tenderly. 
 
 And she — the beautiful mother, looked up and kissed his 
 
88 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 fair high brow and murmured : — ' My own dear Edward !' in 
 tones that spoke her fondness. They were the deep-voiced 
 echoes of a full, true heart. 
 
 And the little cherub too raised his pouting mouth and 
 lisped — ' Give Willie a kiss too, Papa !' 
 
 4 Ye3, my boy, yes !' and while the father raised his child 
 in his arms, he said to her who bore it — 
 
 ' Oh my Annie, you have made me but too, too happy. I 
 often fear that we who are now so blessed will yet feel the 
 touch of sorrow, for in life as with the elements — it cannot 
 always be sunlight. The storm may, the night must come.' 
 
 ' But, dearest, should it, are we not together 1 You have 
 borne prosperity well, you have a firmness and energy that 
 will never fail you when misfortune comes. It is easier for a 
 true man to bear adversity, than for a bad one to bear pros- 
 perity. To some, misfortune is necessary ; as with the 
 grape, they must be crushed ere the true essence of the 
 character, the strong spirit of the man is expressed.' 
 
 ' Yes, Annie— I could breast the storm, but for you, for 
 our child should I tremble.' 
 
 * Are we not so linked together, Edward, that each to the 
 other will be a support— even as the thick growing trees of 
 the forest aid each other to withstand the blast V 
 
 * True, dear one, we are linked together — yet as is the oak 
 to the vine which clings around it, am I to you ; as the bud- 
 ding rose which starts from the sod beneath, is our child to 
 us both. The bud may easily be crushed, the vine may be 
 torn from the oak, and yet the strong tree survive them both.' 
 
 The large eyes of the young wife filled with tears. ' Let U3 
 not talk so sadly,' she murmured, ' let us not paint for our- 
 selves a clouded sky — but wait till it comes.' 
 
 'We will change the subject,' replied he — 'but yet it is 
 best sometimes to think of that which may be, for then we 
 will be the better prepared for it when it comes.' 
 
 ' True, dear one, but I will sing you a song now and thafc 
 will remind us of the past, which is even as dear to us as the 
 present. I will sing you your own— the one you used to sing 
 to me when we were first wedded.' 
 
 Leaving the boy in his father's arms, the young wife passed 
 across the room and taking up a guitar which stood carelessly 
 in a corner, returned to her seat, tuned it and sung in a low 
 deep voice, which seemed to fill the room with soulful 
 melody — 
 
 THE SONG OF THE HEART. 
 
 A pure heart and a peaceful mind 
 
 And a soul above despair, 
 Which upward looks and leaves behind 
 
 The heavy clouds of care ; 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 80 
 
 And a dear wife smiling nigh 
 
 With her baby by her side : 
 Oh, that is the life I'd choose, 
 
 Of all the world beside. 
 
 " Oh, for a life that's wild and free," 
 
 A thoughtless one may cry ; 
 But give a life of peace to me, 
 
 A clear and cloudless sky, 
 And a lov'd one smiling nigh, 
 
 My comfort and my pride, 
 Oh, that is the life I'd choose 
 
 Of all the world beside. 
 
 There are tempests loud and high 
 
 And sorrows ever near, 
 But the star of hope is in the sky 
 
 To light our pathway here, 
 Then we'll let the tempests blow 
 
 And let the troubles come, 
 The lamp of love will brightly glow 
 
 With light where'er we roam. 
 
 She ceased, and yet it seemed as if the echoes of her voice 
 dwelt still in the room, even as if they could not die, for her 
 smiles, — her looks of love were still the same — and these were 
 reflected in the face of her husband and his boy. 
 
 Oh, why should ever a cloud come over their joy? And 
 how could it?- Edward Abingdon was rich, respected by all 
 who knew him, beloved by a devoted wife. His fortune was 
 not invested in stocks, or in those gambling schemes and 
 lotteries of speculation which are as uncertain as the caprices 
 of a coquette ; therefore poverty could not well approach 
 him. He had not even trusted to a 1 Bank,' which, with such 
 fate as has leeii, mi^ht break, or be robbed by its officers, or 
 the more honourable burglar. He had fifty thousand dollars 
 in cash there in that house ; he owned a block of buildings — 
 the very block of which his dwelling made one. These, with 
 their rent, gave him a princely income on which to live and 
 to entertain his cherished friends. 
 
 But we will now leave him and his, to turn to other scene3 
 which must be woven in our web. 
 
 Harry Whitmore sat by the side of Isabella Meadows. Her 
 down-cast look — her blushing cheeks told not that he was 
 saying aught improper to her. Had his intentions been 
 pure and honourable he was not speaking one word that 
 she should blush for — yet he, the heartless villain, was breath- 
 ing vows to her which he neither intended to fulfil or even 
 felt — he was telling her that she had won the first pure love 
 of his heart, praying her not only to give him her affection 
 but her hand. 
 
90 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 She blushed ; for this was the first time that her ears had 
 even listened to words like these ; never before had her heart 
 known that gush of sympathy which is felt by that which 
 knows it is beloved. 
 
 His words where not displeasing to her, for she who had 
 seen so little of the ways of the world was indeed struck with 
 his fine personalle, his plausible and agreeable manners, and 
 his apparent devotion to her. He was so fond of her brother^ 
 too, that she could scarcely help loving him. Therefore, though 
 her eyes were downcast and her head slightly turned away, 
 Harry knew that in winning her love, at least, his success was 
 certain. He saw that in either eye a tear glittered beneath 
 the drooping lashes, he noticed that her red lips quivered, and 
 her bosom heaved, though she did not speak. But he was not 
 satisfied with this proof of her feelings. Again he repeated 
 his last declaration : 
 
 'Dear Isabella, I have laid open my very heart to you; I. 
 have told you that your goodness more than your beauty 
 has won from me a love as pure as it is fervent. Will you 
 not reply — will you not bid me hope for a return 1 ?' 
 
 ' Oh, Harry — dear Harry ! how can I speak V murmured the 
 fair girl— and tears, great bright tears, rushed down hern 
 cheeks, as the dew from the full blown rose when its stem is- 
 shook. 
 
 Harry let go of the waist ribbon which he had been care- 
 lessly toying with, and clasped her graceful form to his breast 
 while he imprinted kiss after kiss on her sweet lips. She 
 blushed yet deeper, and faintly struggled to free her form 
 from his passionate embrace, but it would have been plain 
 to a less knowing man than Harry Whitmore, that her strug- 
 gles were only dictated by an innate sense of propriety, not 
 by her own natural inclinations. 
 
 But at last, even his ardour, as mere passion's ardour ever does, 
 cooled off, and he used his lips once more for speaking. 
 
 'I now know that you love me, Isabella, and I am happy,' 
 said he — ' happy to a certain degree, but I shall never be 
 completely so until you are mine entirely, hand as well as 
 heart !' 
 
 She was about to speak, but he continued : 
 
 ' I know not when this can be exactly, for we shall have one 
 powerful opponent. My mother, upon whom I depend, is a 
 very set woman, and she wishes me to marry a wealthy girl of 
 her own choosing. She would disinherit me and cast me off 
 for ever were I openly, and at once, to wed against her will.' 
 
 ' Why should she object to me. There is not one breath in 
 all the world which can stain my character.' 
 
 ' 1 know that well, dear Isabella, but my mother is a very 
 strange woman. It is to our interest, dear one, not to offend 
 her.' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 91 
 
 * I dont wish to, Harry — no, not to attain happiness for my- 
 Belf. 1 am yours, at your own time !' 
 
 'Aye, and in my own way,' said the heartless wretch, in a 
 tone too low for her to hear, and then he added : ' it will 
 not be long, dear one. My sweet sister shall use her influence, 
 Maria has heard of you so often through me, that she already 
 knows and loves you. You must indeed see her, and to day.' 
 
 ' Whenever you like, Harry. I have now no will but yours.' 
 
 'She comes into the traces right handsomely,' muttered 
 Harry again, and then while he imprinted another burning, 
 passionful kiss on her pure lips, he said : 
 
 'I must leave you for a brief time, sweet one. I shall re* 
 turn within two or three hours, and then you shall visit my 
 sister. If Charles comes home while I am out, tell him I will 
 join him this evening as he desired ; and by the way, Isabella, 
 say nothing of our late conversation to him or to your mother. 
 At a proper time I will break it to both of them !' 
 
 ' It shall be as you wish,' responded the young girl, but she 
 wondered much why he should wish to keep this news from 
 her only relatives. Her young heart was so full of joy that she 
 wished to pour its over-running into the bosoms of those 
 whom she loved. She yearned to tell her dear good mother 
 that she loved, was beloved, and felt too happy for utterance, 
 
 But for his sake, and regarding alone his wishes, she res- 
 trained herself. 
 
 Again he kissed her, and then arose and left her side. 
 
 He had not gone ten steps from the door, when he met hi? 
 shadow, Gustave Livingston. 
 
 | ; 'I was just coming to find you, Harry; got some capita! 
 news for you !' cried the latter, as he met our arch villain. 
 ' Well, Gus, out with it !' 
 
 ' You remember the little mink that we tossed up for in 
 front of Florence's, dont you V 
 
 ' Yes, the sewing girl, you mean. I ought to remember her, 
 when I got knocked down for her.' 
 
 1 1 know where she is — where she lives !' 
 
 ' Well, what of it V 
 
 ' You seem rather cool about it — I suppose you wont even 
 thank me for my information." 
 
 'I shall not — I've better game afoot than her !' 
 
 ' Then you're willing to give her up to me V 
 
 ' Certainly. I don't want to see the dowdy thing again, 
 (f I hadn't been a little tipsy 1 should have never looked at 
 ler !' 
 
 ' She's the prettiest girl I ever saw in Gotham !' 
 
 ' What ! prettier than my 'Bella ? It is impossible.' 
 , ' It is true — but, speaking of her, how goes on the game 
 \re you likely to win <' 
 
02 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Of course. Did you ever know me to lo3e in such a game 
 Did I ever lay my eyes on fruit which I failed to taste V 
 
 ' Ah, Harry, you're a sad dog — a demnition sad dog 
 Which way were you steering when I met you V 
 
 'Down to Greenwich street to see Maria. I've got t 
 arrange matters for Isabella to meet my sister.' 
 
 * Your sister ! Ha Ha ! a demed good joke ! Rich, ex 
 ceedingly !' 
 
 ' It will be if it is well carried through, but I must hurr 
 along. I've no time to waste, for I've got to introduc 
 Isabella, and then to return in time to meet Charley, and gi 
 with him to Carlton's. They can skin him better there thai 
 at Pat's. Pat will be a gentleman in spite of hi3 profession 
 and hasn't the heart to quite ruin a poor devil like Charlej 
 but they'll do him up in the other place.' 
 
 'I shouldn't wonder if they did, for that genteel am 
 polished scoundrel, Sam Selden, deals pretty often, am 
 *' Butcher Bill" is always on hand for a look-out and adviser 
 
 ' Well, meet me there at ten to-night, and we'll see wha 
 we can make. Carlton promises halves.' 
 
 * I'll be there,' replied Gus, and then the two separated 
 one to prepare to ruin the pure and unsuspecting IsabelU 
 the other, to persecute our poor Angelina. Poor, we said 
 yes, that girl is poor in all things save virtue, patience am 
 industry. We will soon pay her a visit, and in the meantim 
 will take a cruise to Mr. jack Circle's den, and see how th 
 burglars are getting along. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Once more in the upper back room of the crib, known in on 
 first part as Jack Circle's, and located in Cherry street 
 near the Catherine Market. 
 
 Jack is there in all his glory, for he has a large party c 
 his gang around him, who have come to report the labours o 
 the past week, and to cut out new work for the next. Bil 
 Hoppy, Bob Sutton, Black Bill and many others of our ol 
 friends are there. In the darkest corner, by the side c 
 Harriet Circle, stands a young man dressed very neatly ii 
 black, whom the reader will recognise, because he is makiii 
 love in most poetic language to the lady. It is none othe 
 than Frank Hennock. He was just in the middle of Romeo 1 
 garden address to Juliet, which he was slightly altering t 
 suit Harriet's circumstances, when the meeting was called t 
 order by Mr. Circle, who cried : 
 
 £ Vel, my covies, ve might as vel perceed to business 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 Frank, my kiddy, vot 'ave you done in the vay of that 'ere lay 
 1 put you on.' 
 
 * Not much as yet, Captain Jack !' replied the young hope- 
 ful. 1 1 borrowed this five hundred from the old gentleman 
 the other night at the Points,' and the young villain handed 
 over the pocket-book of Mr. Precise, from which he had taken 
 the odd eleven dollars, to leave even hundreds. 
 
 Jack's eyes sparkled as he opened the dummy and looked at 
 its contents. 1 Vy, my kiddy, you it one of the b'hoys, sure ! 
 You've paid your veek's hexpenses and summat more for yer- 
 self ! 'Ows the old 'un's crib V 
 
 'It would be very easily cracked— but I think we'd better 
 hold on awhile !' 
 
 ' Vy, vots in the vay now V 
 
 * Nothing in the way, only the prospect of a little heavier 
 haul if we wait !' 
 
 'Jest 'ave the kindness to hexplain yerself, younker, ve 
 doesn't deal in riddles.' 
 
 ' Why, my new master is expecting a fortune over from 
 England very soon. He comes by his mother's side from the 
 celebrated Hunt family, and the lawyers have hunted him up 
 and only a little more proof ia wanting to give him a whole 
 million of bright dollars.' 
 
 All the party now gathered up closer to Frank and listened 
 with deep interest to his remarks. 
 
 ' 'Ow did you find out all o' this V asked Jack. 
 
 ' By the letters he receives and which I have to answer* 
 Of course I know all his secrets, being his private secretary.' 
 
 *Vel, my kiddy, ve'll see vots best. If there's a show for 
 more than he's got now, ve'd better vait for it, for ve're a doin. 
 very vel on our other lays.' 
 
 * Aye, and ve'll do better yet on a new von as I've clapped 
 my peepers on !' cried Jack Shaw, giving a very knowing leer 
 
 : with his squint eye. 
 
 * Yot is it, Jack V asked old Circle — * You're allers on 'and, 
 vith Bomethin' rich !' 
 
 ' Yel if we gets into the crib that I was pattering about, 
 I we'll make one of the hauls, but it's rather a tight place — got 
 : alarm bells, big dog and all that !' 
 
 ' If it's got the swag in it, that's hall that ve asks !' said Bill 
 Hoppy. 
 
 'Vel, it has, Bill, but 'ow about that ere gospel shop as you 
 was agoin for to crack last week V replied Shaw, 
 i 1 All right as a trivet, my cove— took the pewter and old 
 Jack smashed it for us.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied old Circle, ' Yen ve counts up you'll see 'ow 
 I've done it up. But 'ow about that 'ere Boston lay V 
 
 Black Bill, to whom this question was propounded, replied: 
 
 'It vont do yet. I sent on to have the screws fitted, and 
 
94 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 3omethin's leaked out, for they've put a glim inside and two 
 he fellers and a dog. People is a gettin bright now a days ; 
 afore long a cracksman vont 'ave no more chance than a 
 atump tailed cow in fly time.' 
 
 * That's a gospel fact,' sighed Harriet, and she was about 
 to say more when three double taps were heard at the door, 
 signifying that some of the gang wished admittance. 
 
 'Let 'em in, 'Arriet, my gal !' said old Circle. 
 
 Harriet obeyed, and two persons entered. One was a tall, 
 dark complexioned, shrewd looking fellow, in whose jet blaek 
 eyes could be seen the fire of villany and deep cunning. Hig 
 arched eye brows, aquiline nose, thin lips and curling black 
 hair, all bespoke him a native of a foreign soil. In fact, h& 
 looked like a gipsy, or an Italian. 
 
 A woman was with him, and her features were so like hig, 
 that any one would know them to be brother and sister. She 
 was younger and more delicate than he ; rather pretty, and 
 dressed very neatly and well. The man looked to be about 
 thirty-five or forty year3 of age ; he too was genteelly dressed. 
 
 As he entered he spoke, his accent also being evidence of bis 
 foreign derivation, 
 
 ' All here, I see, Captain !' said he. 
 
 ' Aye. 'Ow d'ye Genlis ! 'ow's your sister ! and 'ow goes on 
 fortin telling V 
 
 ' Well,' replied the man, * fools are more plenty here than in 
 Europe, but they don't pay as well. I'm about to try a large 
 game, however !' 
 
 ' Vot's that 1 Pad your limber and let's ear vot it is !' 
 
 ' Why I've got my eye on a child who shall make at least 
 a hundred thousand dollars for us, in one way or another !' 
 
 ' A kid ? I don't understand you !' 
 
 * Well, I'll explain. I know a young married couple who 
 are very rich. They have a child which they idolize. That 
 child shall be stolen ; by opportune hints, when they are 
 driven to despair at its loss, they shall hear of Genlis the 
 Gipsey fortune teller. They'll pay well to see their lost one, 
 if it is only in my magic looking-glass. Then in one way or 
 another, we'll skin them till they are worth a little less than 
 nothing !' 
 
 ' It '11 be a great lay, if the game's fat,, replied old Jack. 
 e Is it a goldfinch V 
 
 * Fifty thousand, hard dust ; more coming in every day and 
 plenty of plate !' replied the Gipsey. 
 
 ' Vere is it V asked Jack Shaw, who had been listening to 
 the words of Genlis. 
 
 1 That's telling, my cove, I always keep dark when I don't 
 want a pal, and my sister is all I need on this lay ! ' replied 
 the Gipsey, casting a rather distrustful glance at the burglar. 
 
 [ I honly axed caze I thought you'd spotted a. crib that I 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 95 
 
 »W my own peepers on up in the Third avenue,' replied the 
 thiet, carelessly, but at the same time his keen eye was fixed 
 upon the Cipsey's face, which for a moment wore an expression 
 of surprise. 
 
 ' Will you tell me the name of the family you mean V asked 
 Genlis. 
 
 " That 'ud be telling,' replied the fellow, with a coarse 
 laugh, at the idea of turning the tables on his non-com- 
 municative companion, and then he added : ' I'd like to 'ave 
 the dust that all that ere row of 'houses would bring !' 
 
 1 A row of houses ! he certainly knows the place,' said 
 Genlis, in a low tone, then turning to Jack, he added — ' If 
 you've spotted the crib, Jack, I'll go you halves if I have my 
 own way.' 
 
 ■ D'ye think I'm sich a bloody noddy a3 all that 'ud come 
 co V replied the burglar. * Why, I've got two doors fitted now 
 in the crib ; it vould'nt take me a month o' Sundays to do the 
 rest, and go nobody halves/ 
 
 ' But Pll make more out of him than he's got in his safe, if 
 it is Mr. Abingdon that you mean !' 
 
 ' Vel, you 'ave hit it !' cried the burglar — 'I thought ve 
 VOfl on the same lay. Now ve can harrange the business 1' 
 
 Leaving Jack Circle and his crowd for a little while to fix 
 and arrange their matters, we will take a glance at some of 
 )ur other characters. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The widowed mother of Angelina, our poor sewing girl, sat 
 alone in her cellar. A cheerful fire was burning before her; 
 there was food upon the barrel-table, by which she had been 
 at work. The night was just setting in, but the bright fire- 
 light precluded the necessity of a candle, especially as the old 
 lady was not sewing. 
 
 She had a glad expression on her worn and wasted counte- 
 nance ; it seemed to be as much a stranger there too, as a tear 
 would be upon a stern warrior's check. She was soliloquizing, 
 and as she spoke, she shook silver in her hand, as a kind of 
 accompaniment to her words. 
 
 1 God is good !' she said. ' It is strange why this good young 
 man should take so much interest in me, who are so poor, who 
 beforetime have been neglected by all. He gave me five 
 dollars in bright silver, and sent me food and fuel, and says I 
 shall no longer live in a cellar. How good and noble he is. 
 Angelina will be so happy when she cornea— for now the poor 
 girl can rest.' 
 
 At this, moment, the of whom the mother spoke, entered. 
 
96 MISTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 He little hood and shawl were both spotted over with the snow 
 which wa3 falling outside, and the long curls of her hair were 
 filled with the large flakes. She staggered as she entered, and 
 tottered over to the bed whereon she half reclined, and 
 murmured : 
 
 ' Give me some water, dear mother — I am very weary, and 
 my head aches with a deep and throbbing pain, which dims 
 my eyesight. My cheeks burn, feel how hot they are, and 
 yet it is cold in the air.' The poor girl clo3ed her eyes, and 
 sunk back still more. 
 
 The mother hastily took up a bottle which stood by the 
 lood, and pouring out some of its contents into a broken tea- 
 cup, hurried to her daughter's side, raised her head, and after 
 removing her hood, held the cup to her lips. 
 
 'Drink, my poor child, drink ; it will do you good !' said 
 she, tenderly. 
 
 The young girl opened her lips, but as she took one swallow 
 of the draught, she raised her head, and looking her mother 
 in the face with a wondering eye, said — 
 
 ' That is not water, mother !' 
 
 ' No, my child, it is wine. Drink it, it will make you strong ; 
 I drank some before you came, and feel so smart now !' 
 
 ' Wine, mother 1 I have heard that rich people drank wine 
 — how did you get any V 
 
 'A good young man came here just after you went down- 
 to the store with the finished work, and he seemed to feel so 
 much for us. He brought me some food and wood, and gave 
 me five dollars in money !' 
 
 ' What for, mother ] Did he want work V 
 
 ' No, child, no. He was rich, and he had a gentle heart. 
 He saw our poverty, and you see how kind he ha3 been.' 
 
 The girl looked at the food, the cheerful fire, and then her 
 large blue eyes filled with tears. 
 
 ' Eor your sake I am very glad, mother !' she murmured. 
 
 ' For my sake, child ? Why not for your own, too V 
 
 4 Because I shall not stay long, mother, to see it. I have 
 had a fever for more than a week, and it is killing me.'^ 
 
 ' Oh, no, dear, dear child!' cried the mother — 'it is not, 
 cannot be so. Here, take some of this wine, you will soon 
 feel better !' 
 
 ' I'd rather have water, mother— the wine burns my lips, 
 and they are too hot now !' 
 
 ' You shall have it, poor dear. Yes, your cheeks are hot 
 and red, too, as roses !' 
 
 The good mother hurried to the broken pitcher which stood 
 beside the work-table, and brought it to her daughter. The 
 girl took a long draught from the pitcher, and then mur- 
 mured : 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 97 
 
 * Pour out a little in your hand, mother, and put it upon 
 my forehead, for my head aches dreadfully ! ' 
 
 The parent did as 9he was desired. With her thin hands 
 she laved the pale brow of her sick child, and pushed back 
 the golden tresses for fear of wetting and dimming their glos- 
 siness, for, indeed, they were beautiful. 
 
 As the poor girl revived more, she reached out her hand, 
 which she had kept close clenched until now, and said : 
 
 ' There is the dollar for our last three days' work, mother. 
 I'm glad you have more — but this we earned.' 
 
 There was a faint tone of pride in her voice as she spoke. 
 That tone seemed almost like a rebuke to her mother for 
 having accepted charity, but the latter heeded it not, for she 
 said : 
 
 ■ That dollar will buy you a pair of shoes, dear, the ones 
 you have on are entirely worn out, and we have money 
 enough to rest now for a whole week at least !' 
 
 ' I'd rather do something else with the dollar, mother, if 
 you'll give it to me !' 
 
 I What, my child ? Surely you need shoes more than any- 
 thing else.' 
 
 • I can do without them, mother, but the ring that my poor 
 father gave to me when he was dying, we pawned it, you 
 know, for a dollar, and I have never been happy since. It had 
 his coat of arms on it, and he told me never to lose it, for by ifc 
 we might find our uncle out if ever he came back from Eng- 
 land.' 
 
 ' True, child, but we've been so poor I had forgotten that/ 
 
 I I never have, mother. I'd like to see my uncle before I 
 die.' 
 
 'Oh don't talk of dying, child, my heart is half broken 
 now ; don't speak of dying !' and the mother burst into a flood 
 of tears. 
 
 The angel daughter drew her mother's head down upon her 
 
 bosom and kissed her eyes, while she said soothingly : 
 ' Don't cry, dear mother, I'll not speak of death again — I'll 
 
 try not to think of it !' 
 Then as the mother became once more calm, she added : 
 ' Uncle had a daughter — my cousin, hadn't he V 
 ' Ye3, child, but she was very bad and almost broke his heart. 
 
 He killed her seducer and fled to England. I have never 
 
 heard of him since !' 
 'Where is she — his daughter V 
 
 ' I don't know, dear. I once heard that she wa3 living a 
 terrible life, but I wouldn't believe it. 1 should rather have 
 hoped that she was dead.' 
 
 ■ Dead, mother?' 
 
 [ Yes, child ; rather than see you, where I last heard she 
 a 
 
MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 was, I would pray God to let you die. I would rather close 
 your eyes for the last time, than open mine to see your 
 infamy. 
 
 ' Don't talk so, mother. You need never fear for your 
 child. She can die, but she will never do wrong.' 
 
 ' I know it, dear one — but won't you try and eat some? I 
 have waited all this time for you to come home to eat with 
 me.' 
 
 ' I cannot eat, mother ; I am not hungry now. Oh, I would 
 
 like to sleep, for my head aches so hard !' 
 
 ' You shall, child, you shall, but not quite yet, for that good 
 young gentleman is coming back again to see us to-night, to 
 tell me where he will find U3 a better room than this !' 
 
 ' What makes him so kind, mother?' 
 
 ' His good heart, I suppose, child ; what foolish questions 
 you do ask !' 
 
 Not so foolish as the mother thought was that young girl's 
 question. She had lived long enough in this all-selfish world 
 of ours to know that few good acts are performed without 
 Borne self interested cause : though we will do the few justice 
 who act without selfishness. They are as angel visitants upon 
 the earth, ' few and far between.' 
 
 Immediately after the mother had responded to Angelina's 
 question, a tap was heard at the door, and while the daughter 
 arose from the bed and took off her shawl, the mother 
 hastened to open the door. 
 
 When she did so, a person who stood outside, close muffled 
 in a cloak, entered. As he did so, and opened his cloak, the 
 old lady exclaimed : 
 
 ' I thought it was he. This, Angelina, dear, is our bene* 
 factor !' 
 
 Angelina had started to her feet, and when she did, her 
 fever-hued checks and excited eyes gave her an almost 
 supernatural beauty; but when she glanced at him who 
 entered, her colour faded— she bent down her head and hid 
 her face. 
 
 ' What is the matter, child ? Why do you not look up and 
 speak V asked the mother. This is the gentleman, dear, who 
 has been so kind to us?' 
 
 * Oh, mother, I have seen him before. He was one of those 
 who insulted me on that dreadful night, when I ran all the 
 way home !' 
 
 The mother had no time to speak, for Gus. Livingston step- 
 ped forward and said : 
 
 'It is true, madam, that I met your beautiful daughter 
 when I was rather the worse of liquor. But 1 did not know 
 how good and pure she was, or I would rather have died than 
 injured her.' 
 
OF NEW 70 BE. 
 
 90 
 
 He said this in a tone so kind and earnest, that the mother 
 was completely won over to his side. 
 
 'I am sure you would'nt, sir,' said she, 'I know that you 
 are too good-hearted to do her any harm, who never has 
 harmed you.' 
 
 1 Indeed, I hope I am, madam. That I once had a share in 
 frightening her, is true, but 1 offer a humble apology ; and 
 to prove that I am your frietwl and her's rather than an enemy, 
 
 I have come to say that you will find a large furnished room 
 engaged in a house, No. — Leight street, to which you can 
 move in the morning. The room is paid for a month in ad- 
 vance, and here is ten dollars more to settle up with here, and 
 to move you.' 
 
 I God bless you for your kindness, sir,' said the old lady, 
 you are too generous. I do not need half so much. I owe 
 nothing here except this week's rent, one dollar !' and the 
 old lady tried to hand him back the golden eagle which he 
 had placed in her hand. 
 
 * No, no, my good madam, no, keep it I* said he, 1 you are 
 clothed but too scantily for the season, keep it lor your 
 necessities You are poor, I am rich, compared with you, 
 keep it for my sake !' 
 
 The widow wept, while she consigned it to woman's usual 
 pocket — that formed by the portion of her dress which covers 
 her heart, we mean— and then she remembered that she had 
 not asked the gentleman to sit down. She hurriedly wiped 
 the seat of one of the low stools with the skirt of her dress, 
 and placing it before the fire, asked him to occupy it. 
 
 * No, no, my kind madam,' said Gus, with a patronizing air, 
 
 I I only called to let you know where I had secured a better 
 lodging for you ; but I am sorry that your sweet daughter 
 seems so unforgiving.' 
 
 * Oh, she is not so, sir. The poor girl is sick and fretful. 
 You will find her grateful, sir, indeed you will, when you 
 meet us again.' 
 
 I I hope that she will be les3 sad and more forgiving than 
 now, at least !' replied Livingston, while he fixed his burning 
 glance upon her as she sat, still pale and trembling, upon 
 the bedside. 
 
 'Oh, she will be, indeed, sir, forgive her tonight. The 
 poor girl \9, feverish. She has worked so hard all this fall 
 and winter !' 
 
 1 Poor creature, I pity her, indeed I do. She shall not again 
 suffer so much !' said Gus, and both his look and tones were 
 full of sympathy. 
 
 Angelina still sat with her head bent down, and her cheeks 
 were yet pale. Livingston evidently saw that he could make 
 no headway on that evening, and after giving the widow the 
 number of the room which he had engaged for her, and the re« 
 
100 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ceipt for its rent, he took his leave, promising to visit her in 
 her new quarters on the next evening. 
 
 ' Why did you act so coldly, Angelina, to the gentleman 1 
 I've a great mind to be angry — to be very angry with you, 
 child !' said the widow, when herself and daughter were left 
 alone. Her tone was stern, far more so than usual. 
 
 Angelina burst into tears. 
 
 ' Oh, mother, it is hard to hear you speak so harshly. That 
 man means no good for all his kindness. I see it all now, 
 you will but too soon !' 
 
 ' Oh, tush, child ! You are too suspicious. What could in- 
 duce him to act selfishly?' 
 
 ' Too much, mother. I am young, and to my misfortune, 
 they think me beautiful !' 
 
 ' They're right, child ! You are pretty, though you are my 
 daughter, and I say it. You are very handsome. Who knows 
 but what this noble young gentleman will fall in love with 
 you and marry you V 
 
 * Marry me, mother 1 ? lie marry me! Oh, little do you 
 know of him or his class, if you think he would marry me. 
 The snake charms the bird to destroy the fledgling in it3 
 nest. He is the snake, you are the bird, I am the fledgling.' 
 
 4 Oh, tush, child ! You speak in riddles. But your cheeks 
 are flushed up with the fever again ; you had better go to 
 bed!' 
 
 ' I will, mother, after I have prayed God to care for us in 
 this new danger !' 
 
 ' Well, child. We will sleep early to-night, that we may 
 rise soon in the morning and go to a better room. But I must 
 cat, I'm very hungry.' 
 
 ' Do not wait for me, mother, I am hungry no more !' and 
 the daughter with this sank to her knees by the side of the 
 little cot, while the mother seated herself to her cold supper. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The reader remembers that hell which we described as being 
 appropriately situated, in that it overlooked a grave-yard. 
 We will give him now a scene within that place, and show 
 him some of the demons who there do congregate. 
 
 We will pass by the supper table ; we will not even glance 
 at the rich paintings and costly furniture, but will at once 
 take a place before the gambler's altar — the faro table. 
 
 Look at the two most important personages behind it ; the 
 banker and the dealer. The first, is a man of middle size, 
 slender, well formed, and very genteelly apparelled. He has 
 a blue eye, regular features, light brown hair, and a still 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 101 
 
 lighter beard and moustache. His face is very pale, and there 
 is an expression of care and anxiety upon it, which speaks of 
 some hidden sadness. He sits upon the right hand of the 
 dealer, and attends to the cashing of checks, and the checking 
 of cash. 
 
 He is no other than the husband of the lady whom we have 
 described as dwelling in the suite of rooms above — Mr. 
 Henry Carlton. 
 
 Now, for one glance at the dealer. You have seen Mr. 
 Sam Selden before, and in the very chapter which described 
 this place. He is now in his glory, for the faro box is in his 
 hands, and verdant victims are before him — but his look is 
 cold and careless, for they are but a picayune set, who are play- 
 ing ; young clerks, and boys who are only losing their pocket 
 money. To win this, is only to keep up the game, till some- 
 thing better turns up. 
 
 But see ! the cold looks of Mr. Selden melts into a sweet 
 and fascinating smile ; his dark eyes flash with pleasure, 
 and in a low whisper, he tells Carlton that ' the pigeon is 
 coming.' 
 
 A party of three advance from the other room, and as they 
 come in, Carlton arises, and stretching out his hand to Harry 
 Whitmore, says : 
 
 * How are you this evening, my dear sir 1 I'm exceedingly 
 pleased to see you and your friends here. Mr. Meadows, how 
 do you do? Walk into the other room a few moments, and 
 take some supper and a glass of wine ; in the mean time, 
 we'll manage to make our table a little more exclusive." 
 
 The young men did as they were desired ; and soon the 
 report of a champagne cork announced that they had obeyed 
 directions. A half hour later, and the young men arose 
 from table, much higher spirited than when they sat down, 
 and re entered the faro room. 
 
 It was now only occupied by about a dozen persons, and 
 all these were of that class called sporting gentlemen. The 
 other customers, whose games were too light for profit, had 
 been reminded that it was one o'clock, and time to close, they 
 had thereiore absented themselves. 
 
 ' We can have a cosy, genteel game, now, Charley P said 
 Harry Whitmore, as he seated himself with his two com- 
 panions, directly before the dealer. The other replied : 
 
 'I hope it will be a more winning one than the last I 
 played.' 
 
 His look and tone were both a little gloomy as he spoke ; 
 but as others seemed to notice this, he assumed a gayer tone, 
 and addressing himself to Carlton, cried : 
 
 ' We intend to run you hard to-night, sir. We've brought 
 a pik amongst us, on purpose to break the bank.' 
 
102 
 
 MYSTEB30SB AND MISERIES 
 
 There was a singular smile on the banker's face, when he 
 replied : 
 
 1 We'll have to stand our luck, what ever it is. Fortune is 
 more fickle than woman !' 
 
 Meadows was about to reply, but Selden, who had been 
 c fixing' the cards, now cried : 
 
 'Make your bete, gentlemen ! deal's ready !' 
 
 The countenance of Meadows became a shade paler as he 
 drew out a large roll of bank notes from his pocket book, and 
 laid them down by his right hand. The eyes of the gamblers 
 sparkled all the brighter, when they noted the hundred, 
 marks upon the bills and saw that he intended to ' play 
 large.' They *oo, to keep up appearances, began to have 
 their fives ard tens changed into checks, and placed their 
 bets also on i he table. 
 
 'Shall I }Jve you some checks?' asked Carlton of Meadows. 
 
 'No, sir ! I will play a larger game than that V and as he 
 spoke he placed three one hundred bills on a single card. 
 
 Harry Whitmore bet a twenty dollar bill on the same card, 
 and Gus. Livingston followed suite with a five. 
 
 ' All down V asked Mr. Sam Selden, with a quiet glance at 
 each face around the table. 
 
 No answer being given, the affirmative wa3 assumed, and 
 the deal commenced. 
 
 Charles Meadows tried to appear calm, but the colour be- 
 gan to heighten in his face, his iip3 began to quire and his 
 hand to tremble. 
 
 The deal went on. The ace, whereon Charles had laid his 
 money, won, and his bet was doubled. Of course Gus, and 
 Harry also won, and the two latter at once took up their bets 
 and winnings. Not so with their reckless friend. His game 
 was evidently desperate and he let his six hundred remain 
 upon the card. 
 
 The deal again went on, and again that ace won, leaving 
 twelve hundred dollars on the card. The excitement of 
 Meadows now became intense. The pupils of his eyes dilated 
 — the colour came and went in his face as the flushes of the 
 Aurora Borealis Hit across a northern sky. Thrice he moved 
 his hand to take up the money — but he withdrew it again, 
 and in a stern tone cried : 
 
 ' Go on with your deal ! it shall be all or nothing !' 
 
 The others all stopped to see his play and the deal went on. 
 Again, for the fourth time, that card won. 
 
 Twenty-four hundred dollars were now his own, and ifc 
 seemed as if he should have been satisfied, but he was not, 
 for in a tone of triumph, he cried : 
 
 ' I told you I'd run you hard, Carlton !' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied the latter, with a dissembled appearance of 
 chagrin, ' you do seem to be in luck to-night V 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 103 
 
 'lam, and it is high time that I was. I've lost enough 
 within the List two weeks to drive a man mad ! Shuffle for 
 a fresh deal, while I take a glass of that old brandy to steady 
 my nerves. I'll show yon how to bet now, fellows !' 
 
 The moment that Charles turned his back to go to the side- 
 board, Carlton bent his head over to Harry, and in a whisper 
 asked : 
 
 • How large is his pile, to night?' 
 
 'Five thoasahd, he told me, just before he came in !' 
 
 A smile was exchanged between the two, and the nest mo- 
 ment Charles returned, having swallowed a bumper of brandy. 
 
 1 All ready, again !' cried the polished Selden. ' Make your 
 bets, gentlemen ; make your bets !' 
 
 All declined ; saying that it was now a battle between 
 Meadows and the bauk, and they preferred looking on to en- 
 gaging in the game. 
 
 The dealer still remained calm and composed, and fingered 
 the cards as cooly as if thousands were not depending upon 
 their turn. The deal commenced afresh, Charley again betting 
 upon the ace. 
 
 The cards were turned up— ho lost, at one sweep, all of his 
 winnings. He took from the roll of bills in his pocket-book 
 exactly the same amount — laid it again upon the ace. A 
 second time it lost. He had now but twenty-three hundred 
 dollars left. With that recklessness which blind despair only 
 can give, he laid down two thousand dollars upon that fatal 
 ace. Mr. Sam Selden smiled as he saw this ; one quick move- 
 ment of the villain's dexterous fingers and again the ace was 
 turned upon his own side. 
 
 'Your luck has turned !' remarked Carlton in a low tone, 
 'yon had better wait for another chance !' 
 
 '1 think I will; ye?, sir, I think 1 will.' responded the 
 young man in a hoilow voice, with a calmness which was 
 supernatural ly strange, because it was forced. 
 
 Then he turned to his companions : 
 
 ' Let us go on a spree Let's h ive a regular bender — I've 
 three hundred left, and it'll just put us through fair !' 
 ' Where shall we go !' asked Harry. 
 
 ' To Jule's, or to hell ! I don't care where, so there's plenty 
 of liquor to be had ! Harry VVhitmore, if you knew what I 
 know to-night, you'd no, 1 won't say it !' 
 
 1 Won't say what, Charles, my dear fellow V replied Harry. 
 ' what is the matter 1 You look wild ! Are you ill T 
 
 'No — no ! I was only thinking. It's nothing now— but I 
 had a strange fancy. Did you ever see a man shot V 
 
 'Shot]' 
 
 ' Yes, in this way, just so !' cried the young man, and quick 
 as thought he drew a pistol from his pocket, cocked it, placed 
 it against hia temple, and pulled the trigger. 
 
101 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 Harry and Livingston sprang instantly to his side, but had 
 the weapon exploded, their movement would have been too 
 late. As it was the cap merely burst, but the unfortunate 
 young man gasped, murmured : 
 
 * Eternal disgrace ! my poor sister and mother ! r then fell 
 back senseless on the floor. The excitement had been too 
 much for him — the wretched youth had fainted. 
 
 ' We must not not carry him home in this state ? where can 
 we put him till he recovers V said Harry, as he helped to raise 
 the young man from the carpet, and took the pistol which 
 Charles still held with a convulsive clutch. 
 
 ' I have a room up stairs,' replied Carlton, ' where he can be 
 taken care of for the present, and I will send for my own 
 doctor. He is used to such cases, and knows how to treat 
 them. 
 
 The party now broke up. Harry Whitmore assisting to 
 carry Charles up to the bed room which Mr. Carlton offered 
 for the use of his victim. 
 
 Whitmore sent Livingston away, but remained himself, say- 
 ing that he would watch over his friend till daylight. After 
 the doctor came, Selden, Carlton, and Harry left the room for 
 a few moments and returned to the bank to divide the plunder. 
 
 'How much has he got out of his old man, now; — old S , 
 
 I mean V asked Carlton, alluding to Charles. 
 
 ' About fourteen or sixteen thousand, I think ! It i3 hard 
 to find out, for he does not know that I am aware of his 
 defalcations.' 
 
 1 Well, there is plenty more to be had, if he only plays his 
 game right— I think I shall have to advise him, somewhat !' 
 
 ' Well, do anything that don't commit me. I've a game to 
 play with his sister, which must not be blocked, till it is 
 through !' 
 
 ' Ah, you're a sad dog among the women !' said Selden, with 
 an approving smile—' I'm lucky myself, but you run me out 
 of sight, in that line.' 
 
 ' Never mind the women — they're a curse to a man at the 
 best !' cried Carlton, ' let us talk of this busines?. After we 
 
 get all we can out of old S , through this pigeon, I want 
 
 to use him in another way. I'll set Jack Circle and his gang 
 to work, and with this fellow's knowledge, we can make a 
 clean sweep of the whole establishment.' 
 
 ' What ! — are you connected with him ? I never dreamed 
 that you were quite so extensive in your villany !' cried Whit- 
 more, in a tone of surprise. 
 
 Carlton frowned, but simply replied : 
 
 'You've a great deal to learn yet, sir! but we'll put off this 
 matter till to-morrow, and then have a regular understanding 
 in the case.' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 105 
 
 Harry now returned to his friend's side, and the others re" 
 tired to their rooms. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 On a bed in his neat, second-story back-chamber, lay Mr. Pre- 
 cise. He had been very sick, with an inllamatory rheumatism, 
 caught with a severe cold, at the time when he returned to 
 his house, on foot, from the Five Points, without his over- 
 coat, which the reader will remember he took off to cover the 
 sick woman in the Brewery. 
 
 A large writing table was drawn close up to his bed side, 
 and before this eat Frank Hennock, pen in hand, busily 
 writing. Numerous letters lay before him, and as from time 
 to time he referred to these, it was presumptive that he was 
 responding to them. 
 
 It was near night, so near that Mr. Precise said : 
 
 ' You had best light a candle, Francis. It will hurt your 
 eye sight to write in the twilight. Thank God, candles are 
 plenty, and it is better to consume them than the sight.' 
 
 Frank answered only by arising and obeying the wish. 
 
 Again seating himself, he was about to resume his work, 
 when Mr. Precise interrupted him by asking : 
 
 'Who was that gentleman that you named to me to day, 
 Francis, as a good lawyer ; one who could be entrusted with 
 the legal matters regarding the inheritances of the Hunt 
 family V 
 
 'Mr. Tarhound, sir. He is a very smart man — (in his own 
 opinion).' The last four words were uttered sotto voce. 
 
 ' I think I'd like to see him Francis. My head is completely 
 turned topsy turvy with this business. I sometimes wish that 
 I hadn't a drop of the Hunt blood in my veins, or that the 
 family had never left any property !' 
 
 The old gentleman was unusually petulant as he said this, 
 for his body was racked with pain. A twinge came over him 
 as he made the last expression, and while it made him writhe 
 under its torture, his red face turned to even a darker purple. 
 But it passed away, and he became more calm. 
 
 'I was wrong to make that last wish." said he, 'very 
 wrong, for I want this money. Yes, I need it very much !' 
 
 ' You, in need, sir V exclaimed Frank. 
 
 'Yes, my good boy - not for myself, but for others. Have 
 you forgotten the misery we saw but a few nights since?' 
 ' Oh, no, sir, nor can I ever forget it.' 
 
 ' I don't think you can, my boy— indeed, I don't. I wish 
 now to be rich, Francis, to be very rich, so that I can help 
 
106 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 these poor wretches. I've a plan in my head, which I've been 
 thinking of all the day long, to save and benefit them.' 
 ' W hat is it, sir, if you please V 
 
 'It is this, Francis. YVhen my share of the Hunt estate 
 comes to me, if it is two or three hundred thousand dollars, 
 as they say it may be, I will buy a large farm, eight or ten 
 miles from the city, and put up plenty of houses and work- 
 shops. 1 will call it the " Home op the Poor." You shall 
 help me to managre its affairs, fur 1 will be at its head, and 
 ■we will go and pick up all these poor people and take them 
 there. I will be very particular, Francis, in the government. 
 There shall be no drinking, no dissolute conduct. The women 
 shall have a separate department, except those who are mar- 
 ried, and they shall be taught to sew, and do other work. 
 The men shall work the farm, raise their own food ; or such 
 as are mechanics, shall have tools and employment. All of 
 the money arising from their labour above their simple ex- 
 penses shall belong to those who earn it, and for them I will 
 keep a kind of savings bank. I will have a school for the 
 children, and they shall be brought up and educated under 
 my own inspection. Those who have been wicked, shall never 
 hear the past alluded to. Their crimes shall be forgotten, 
 and all encouragement shall be given to them to live in the 
 right way. I will have prizes for all those who behave well 
 — I will kindly reason with those who do not.' 
 
 1 It would be a great blessing, sir,' said Frank, who had been 
 gravely listening to the good old man's plan, 'especially if 
 that principle of not keeping up the memory of the past to 
 the wretched, should be carried out. There are good asylums 
 for the wretched in this city, but they seldom reform any one, 
 because, either by direct words, careless hints, or thoughtless 
 airs of superiority, they crash the spirit back into the very 
 mire it is struggling to arise from.' 
 
 'It is true. How well you reason, my good boy. You are 
 the very one I need, Francis, in this great work. I wish to 
 accomplish it: to see it succeed, and to know that I have 
 saved some miserable creatures, from despair and crime; to 
 see them happy, industrious and prosperous around me, and 
 then I will be willing to die. Yes, to calmly go up to that 
 God who will reward those who do their duty here below. 
 
 'You can go on with your letters, Francis, I'll think this 
 matter over, while you are writing.' 
 
 ' If you please, sir, I should like to go and see my mother ! 
 She was not very well, last evening, when I was there !' replied 
 the young man. 
 
 ' Well, well, you may go, but be back early. You're a good 
 boy — you love your mother. I like you for it, Francis, I do, 
 indeed !' 
 
 Frank carefully filed his letters again, wiped his pen, and 
 
OF NEW YOKE. 
 
 107 
 
 placed it across the top of his inkstand, and laid everything 
 :n Ltl place upon the table, before he arose. Mr. Precise 
 watched every motion, and a quiet smile lighted up his face 
 aa he saw how well ftta youth followed the lessons he had 
 taught him. 
 
 'G> to the safe, Francis— here, take the key from under my 
 pillow,' said the old gentleman, 'and take an eagle from a 
 little tin box which contains just a hundred of them, and give 
 it to your mother from me, to buy her warm clothes with. It 
 is a very cold winter.' 
 
 * Oh, you are too good, pir ; too good !' eaid Francis, In a 
 tone of grateful feeling, but he took the key and went for the 
 money. 
 
 While this good old man was laying there, even amid his 
 own sufferings and pains, planning ways of benefiting those 
 who are ever to be found in this city, there were misers count- 
 ing their gold, and clinging to it as fondly as ever a husband 
 did to his long-loved, tried and cherished bride. 
 
 Yes, there were old men, who though on the very point of 
 leaving this world on a voyage where they can carry no cargo, 
 not even their shrivelled carcases, counted and gloated over 
 their gold, as if it could save their souks from perdition, their 
 bodies from the worm. And were a naked, sick and life- 
 weary beggar to ask these meu for alms, their answer would 
 be colder far than the wintry blast. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 O.vs week can make a strange change in a beautiful being. 
 It can fade the rose-hued clieek; it can dim the lustrous eye; 
 it can shadow the lily brow ; and oh, what may it not do 
 with the heart, for from that comes all these changes. 
 
 In the very room where we last saw her, in that singular 
 house, with the back -alley entrance, stood Mary Sheffield. 
 Her cheek was pale, her eyes were sunken, her lip3 blue and 
 quivering with excitement. The hand in which she held a 
 crushed letter was trembling like the wing of a dying dove ; 
 her whole frame seemed quaking with excitement. 
 
 With her left hand pressed to her brow as if to still some 
 throbbing pain, she paced to and fro across the room; her 
 right hand clenched the letter. 
 
 4 Oh God ! has it come to thi3 !' she moaned in a low tone 
 of agony. ' Deceived — betrayed— ruined ! He writes that 
 he is married — writes, to break the shock of our meeting. 
 On, Heaven! — shall I not curse him? No; let Heaven 
 avenge me. He will be here soon and will he dare to look 
 
108 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 upon her whose doom he has sealed; whose life he has 
 blasted V 
 
 A light tap at the door. Mary turned towards it, and stood 
 pale, still as a marble statue. She spoke not ; but with a power- 
 ful effort, seemed to still down the tempest in her heart. 
 
 The door was opened, and he whom we last saw with her, 
 Albert Shirley, entered. Hastily he crossed the room, and 
 with open arms advanced to embrace the lady. 
 
 Then for the first time she moved and spoke. 
 
 'Back, sir, keep back ! Lay not your hand upon my form, 
 lest it freeze !' and with an air of queenly dignity, she 
 motioned him off with the same hand which held his letter. 
 
 1 What does this mean, dear Mary V asked the gentleman 
 in a tone of surprise — * I expected tears and reproaches from 
 you—but not this icy coldness !' 
 
 ' Tears, sir ! Can you, like Moses, draw water from a rock I 
 Can sap come from a blasted tree? Oh, God ! Albert Shirley, 
 how can you, how dare you look upon her whom you have 
 ruined* 
 
 ' Euined, Mary ! oh, speak not so ! I will not desert you — I 
 will save you !' 
 
 ' Save me ? From what ? The poor-house, or the common 
 brothel? Will you condescend to make me that which I am 
 and yet dare not name, and make me an abettor in your adul- 
 tery ? Albert Shirley, I can die, but we must part — for ever \ 
 Go to her whom you have injured — your wife; but when you 
 press her to your breast, remember how you have wronged me. 
 Albert, you will have my blood to answer for before the bar of 
 God — for my hours are told !' 
 
 '"No— no, dear Mary. Do not speak so. I will do all that I 
 can for you. Your beauty led me to this — 1 will do ail that I 
 can to repair it.' 
 
 ' You know my situation ?' As the young girl asked this, 
 her cheeks burned with a momentary blush, but it passed 
 away in a moment, and left her even paler than before. 
 
 ' Yes,' he replied, * 1 do, and already have I made arrange- 
 ments which will save you the shame of an exposure, and pre- 
 serve your reputation.' 
 
 ' What are they?' 
 
 'Whenever you call with this card, upon Madame Sitstill, 
 whose number is also on it, she will do all for you that is ne- 
 cessary. She will be kind to you a3 a mother, and I have 
 given orders for every comfort that money can command.' 
 
 The girl stood and looked at him while he thus spoke, with 
 an expression of such utter despair and misery, that if he had 
 been possessed of a heart of stone, he would have felt it. 
 
 He did, and in a kind, imploring tone, he said : 
 
 ' Dear Mary— do listen to and believe me. Come, sit down 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 109 
 
 by me — let rae hold your poor head on my breast, and once 
 more kiss your brow.' 
 
 Listlessly, even as if she had been an automaton, Bhe suffer- 
 ed herself to be led to the sofa, when he seated himself by her 
 side. She shrank from him, when he put his arm around her 
 waist, and after he had kissed her upon the forehead, she 
 turned away her head with an involuntary shudder. 
 
 * Let us talk calmly, dear Mary,' said he — ' what is, cannot 
 be helped. Shelley says, " what 'twas weak to do, 'tis weaker 
 to regret, once being done." Cheer up ; tell me of what you 
 are thinking.' 
 
 ' Only of murder, sir !' responded the pale girl, still keeping 
 her face turned from him. 
 
 ' Murder, Mary ! "What do you mean V 
 
 * Have not you asked me to commit a murder V 
 
 1 No — no, child. Call not the necessary act of which we 
 have spoken, a murder. If that was a murder, hundreds of 
 such crimes are committed every month in this city.' 
 
 1 It is a murder— it may prove a double murder, for I can- 
 not endure much now !' 
 
 * Do not fear, dear Mary. There is no danger under such 
 experienced hands as Mrs. S. Do you consent to go to her V 
 
 1 Oh, God ! what can I do? I must, for if it is hard to bear 
 nlone the knowledge of my own shame, how could I endure 
 the finger of scorn from others.* 
 
 1 It is true, Mary. For your own sake — for mine, do as I 
 desire. When shall I have a room engaged for you?' 
 
 * Oh, not now. I cannot yet leave my place. I am pledged 
 to give one month's notice before I leave my situation. Give 
 me time to become prepared for the horrible suffering which 
 
 know I must endure.' 
 
 'You shall have it, Mary. It will be time enough thi3 
 three months yet.' 
 
 * Then, in the meantime, promise never to see me again !' 
 
 ' Never to see you, Mary ! Oh, cruel, cruel girl ! You 
 know not how I love you, or you would not act so !' 
 
 ' Cruel ! Albert Shirley you are the last being on earth to 
 talk to me of cruelty. Have 1 not perilled and lost all that 
 is precious to a woman, for your sake 1 Cruel ! let the tiger 
 which tears the pocr gazelle, talk to it of cruelty, or the hawk 
 which rends the bosom of the dove. Man, no longer, my 
 
 love— FAREWELL !' 
 
 Before the astonished Shirley could rise to his feet, she had 
 snatched her bonnet, veil, and shawl from the arm of the 
 sofa, and darted from the room. 
 
 He knew that it was useless to follow her — and after going 
 as far as the door, returned to the sofa. He sighed heavily as 
 he re-seated himself. 
 
 ( She is a strange creature !' he muttered in soliloquy. ' If 
 
110 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 I could have made her my wife, she would have been the most 
 true and devoted one that ever blessed a husband. But that 
 was impossible. I do not wish to lose her, either. She is a 
 magnificent girl. I hope she will be prudent — and perhaps 
 after this first burst of passion is over, she will come back to 
 quiet reason, and be as 1 wish her.' 
 
 Oh, little did that man know of Mary Sheffield's heart, 
 when he thought that her feelings, because quickly aroused, 
 must be fleeting and changeable. There is a mine in a western 
 mountain, a mine of coal, which fifty years ago was set on fire 
 by a light accidentally coming in contact with a current of 
 gas. That mine caught in an instant — yet it has burned ever 
 since. Where there is fuel in the heart, the flame of leeling 
 may be lighted in an instant, and still it can burn for ever. 
 
 After his few words of soliloquy, Shirley arose and rang a 
 little silver bell which was on the centre table. 
 
 The same lady of whom he made inquiries, a3 described in 
 the eleventh chapter of our first part, answered the bell by 
 her own appearance. 
 
 Shirley handed her a ten dollar bill, and bade her good 
 day ; then departed. 
 
 * Pretty good room-rent, for a half hour !' said the woman, 
 with a sniiie, as she glanced at the bill. 'Mary must have been 
 very kind, to make him so generous.' 
 
 Little did that woman dream of the scene which had just 
 occurred in that room. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 In the front parlour of the * 355' house alluded to, by Harry 
 Whitmore and Maria Deloraine, in the thirteenth chapter of 
 our first part, sat the female who we have last named. 
 
 From time to time she glanced at the gold watch which she 
 carried, and each moment her manner betrayed her impa- 
 tience. She was seated by the centre-table, which was covered 
 with periodicals and annuals. She had already glanced at the 
 titles of every one of these, and looked at some of the 
 engravings in them, but she seemed too nervous to appreciate 
 or care for them. 
 
 She was there, waiting the arrival of Harry Whitmore, and 
 Isabella Meadows, prepared to wait the arrival of Harry's 
 sister. Her nervousness was very natural. Why should not 
 a woman be excited, who was taking her first step as an 
 accomplice in the intended ruin of a pure and helpless girl. 
 
 She arose, went to the window, and slightly pushed aside 
 the heavy crimson curtains, that she might look out into the 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 Ill 
 
 street. As she did this, the door-bell rang, and an expression 
 of satisfaction passed over her face. 
 
 ' They have come,' she said, and then she hurried to her 
 seat, and took up a book, which she opened in the middle, so 
 as to appear deeply engaged. 
 
 The next moment the door opened, and Harry entered. 
 Isabella was leaning on his arm. As Maria arose, Whitmore 
 advanced, and introduced the two. 
 
 ' Maria, this is Miss Meadows, of whom I have often spoken 
 to you ; — Isabella, know my sister !' 
 
 Maria at once sprang forward with an appearance of glad 
 surprise, and kiting Isabella warmly, said : 
 
 1 1 have heard Harry speak of you so often, that I know you 
 already. You've beeu bewitching him, I fear. He is ever 
 talking of you.' 
 
 The young girl blushed, and as she returned the kisses of 
 Maria, with interest for the same, replied : 
 
 ' I am glad to know that he remembers me when absent 
 from my side.' 
 
 ' That is the time, dearest,' said Harry, ' when one who 
 loves, thinks most of her to whom he is devoted, because then 
 he most misses her. You know the old song — ■ 'tis said that 
 absence conquers love," &c, yet it is not so. But, Isabella, 
 you must excuse me. I've some business in Wall-Street to 
 attend to. I'll leave you with Maria, and return in an hour, 
 or less.' 
 
 When the two female? were alone, the thread of their con* 
 versation was again renewed. 
 1 My brother loves you very much, Isabella.' 
 
 * And I love him, too, very much !' replied the artless gixl, 
 colouring, however, as she spoke. 
 
 * So he has told me. He wishes to marry you immediately, 
 but we are so situated with mother, that I fear he would be 
 imprudent in doing so. He has told you all, 1 suppose ]' 
 
 * He has only toid me that she was a stern woman of strong 
 prejudices l' 
 
 * Has he not told you that I do not live with her V 
 
 I jSo, indeed, he has not !' replied Isabella, in a tone of sur* 
 prise. 
 
 'It is true. This is the house of a friend, where I am 
 boarding for the time. My mother quarrelled with me, and I 
 determined to acc- pt the offer of a kind friend, and to come 
 here, and live with her until my mother became more rea- 
 sonable.' 
 
 I I am so sorry to hear of trouble existing between a parent 
 and her children. 1 have the dearest, best mother in all the 
 world. You must come and see her. 1 know you'll love her.' 
 
 ' I will, if she is like her daughter.' 
 
 * Oh, she is far, far better !' replied the simple, pure-hearted 
 
112 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 creature, c and I know she will like you, even as I do V and 
 Isabella drew her chair close up to Maria, and clasping her 
 arma around her neck, kissed her tenderly. 
 
 The cheek of the latter was for the first time, for many a 
 day covered with blushes. Did not the fire of shame fill her 
 heart, and cause them ? Shame, that she should be an accom- 
 plice in the intended ruin of that pure and spotless creature. 
 She could not even return the kisses which she received ; her 
 whole frame quivered as with the tremors of a troubled 
 spirit, beginning to be irresolute in its very guilt . 
 
 * It cannot be— it must not !' she murmured, in a tone, not 
 intended for Isabella's ear. But they were heard by the 
 latter, for she said : 
 
 * What do you allude to ? Have you any trouble, dear 
 sister? Forgive me, but I must call you sister.'* 
 
 * Oh, Isabella, do not call me sister ! Do not, for the sake 
 of the heaven which made you pure, and me ! 
 
 What Maria Deloraine would have said, we know not. At 
 that instant, the door opened, and Harry Whitmore re entered 
 the room. He saw the flushed countenance, and agitated 
 manner of Maria, and in a moment divined that something 
 was wrong. There was a momentary flash of suspicion in his 
 heart, and anger in his eye, but he controlled it, and said in 
 a gay tone : 
 
 ' You've got the blues again, sister 1 You mustn't mind 
 these fits of sadness, Isabella. Sis will have them at times ; 
 but she is generally happy. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, very happy ! Happy as the death-doomed prisoner. 
 Happy as a dying infidel, who feels there is a God, but not for 
 him !' replied Maria, bitterly. 
 
 ' Oh, do not talk so, my dear sister ! You shall be happy- 
 Henry and me will make you so !' cried Isabella, trying to 
 soothe the agitation of the other with caresses. 
 
 Henry — I — yes, v:e are trying to make you happy ! Are 
 we not Henry 1 Shall I not tell her how much we intend to 
 do for her V 
 
 'Hush ! a3 you value your life, hush !' whispered Harry, 
 as he bent down and pretended to kiss her, and then as he 
 saw she was about to speak, again he added, ' if you speak, 
 she shall never leave this house. You know me !' 
 
 The face of the girl turned pale — but it was with pain, for 
 all unconsciously he had grasped her arm with the force of a 
 vice. But she did not speak again in that strain. She 
 covered her face with her hands, and burst into a flood of 
 tears. 
 
 ' Dear Isabella, do me the favour to step into the next room 
 a moment — I don't think there is any one there. I must rea- 
 son with my sister a little. I know her troubles, you do not/ 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 113 
 
 cried Harry, at the same time leading her to the folding door3 
 of the back room, which he opened. 
 
 But he was mistaken when he said there was no one there. 
 Upon a sofa reclined a lady — one who looked as if she came 
 from the land where cheeks are dark, and blood is warm. Her 
 hair was black a3 the inner feathers of a raven's breast, her 
 eyes large, dark as jet, and languishing, too, as ever threw 
 dangerous glances at a man. Her form was large, but fault- 
 less in proportion ; and as she started to her feet at their en- 
 trance, she really looked beautiful. She had been reading, 
 but she dropped the book upon the floor as she arose. 
 
 Harry quickly stepped across the room, and picked it up, 
 saying — 
 
 ' Ah ! is it you, Miss Emma 1 Don't be alarmed, I pray 
 you— I've a friend of my sister's here, whom I will leave with 
 you a moment, for 1 wish to see Maria alone !' 
 
 The girl looked at him with astonishment, but a glance from 
 him, and a single whispered word of caution, and a promise 
 of money, acted like a charm. She at once seemed to under- 
 stand the whole matter. 
 
 * Any friend of dear Maria, or of her good brother, is wel- 
 come with me !' 
 
 1 Then, Isabella, I'll leave you with Miss "Wood a few mo- 
 ments — when sister is more calm, I'll call you in.' 
 
 He returned to the front parlour, drew close the doors after 
 him, and again stood by the side of Maria. She was still in 
 tears, sobbing loudly. 
 
 * Maria, what does this mean] what has made you so 
 chick-en-hearted all at once V 
 
 1 Oh God ! Harry Whitmore,! was once like her— spare her, 
 for the love of Heaven. Can you look at her innocent face,, 
 and hear her pure thoughts, and still demon-like seek to de- 
 stroy her V 
 
 * Pshaw, girl, you don't think I'd destroy her— you're not 
 destroyed — and I wouldn't make her worse than you are !' 
 
 \ is o — you couldn't ! And yet you would add one more 
 crime to my fearful catalogue ! Oh, Harry, if you area man,;, 
 give over this intention !' 
 
 Maria, it is too late ; but I will reward you better. When 
 she is mine, you shall have one thousand dollars.' 
 
 * One thousand dollars V muttered the girl, who had ceased 
 sobbing ; ' one thousand dollars ] Often 1 have vowed, if ever 
 I could get so much together, to go where I was unknown, and 
 to commence a new life ; to live once again virtuously.' 
 
 1 Well, Maria, now is your chance. You can make it.' 
 
 1 Yes, but at the expense of a human soul — at the expense 
 of all which that poor girl possesses, that is worth living for. 
 Oh, Harry, I cannot i' 
 B 
 
114 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 < Cannot, girl ! There is no such word for me. You shall 
 have your choice. I will soon let Mrs. Windeman know what 
 you are — I'll have your name " heralded" through the city, 
 till you are as well known as Clara Norris, or any other of the 
 stock company of the theatre of vice in the city. Choose, 
 and that speedily ! Shall it be the thousand V 
 
 The poor girl shuddered, but she knew that she was at his 
 mercy, and she feared the public exposure which he threat- 
 ened. Beside this, interest was gnawing out the good feeling3 
 which had just began to grow in her heart, for a dream and 
 hope, which she has long cherished, was now within her reach ; 
 she could, by a compliance with his wishes, gain the means 
 of forever quitting the sickening life which she so long had 
 led. 
 
 Her tears ceased. With a pale cheek, and a sad calmness, 
 which was strong and firm, because forced with a desperate 
 effort, she said— 
 
 ' It shall be as you will. Yes, though it sinks my soul into 
 hell itself, and tears the last good principle from my wretched 
 heart — I will do it. Call in your victim. I'll wheedle and 
 Smile now ! oh, yes, I'll be a very queen of deception !' 
 
 ' Now you talk like a good sensible girl, as you are !' said 
 Harry, quite contented to see the storm pass over, which had 
 so nearly wrecked his designs. 
 
 He then went to the back- parlour door, and opening it, 
 cried t 
 
 ' You can come in now, dear Isabella. The shower is over, 
 and the sun has come out !' 
 
 Isabella gladly obeyed his request, and when she saw a 
 smile once more on Maria's face, her own brightened up, and 
 she sprang into her arms, and kissed her sweetly. 
 
 ' Oh, I am so happy, dear sister. May I not call you sister, 
 Maria V 
 
 Certainly, if you like to. My brother appears in a hurry to 
 make you such.' 
 
 The young girl blushed, while Harry caught her to his arm?, 
 pressed his lips warmly to hers, and said : 
 
 ' Yes, dearest, our marriage shall not be long delayed. I 
 cannot live so much from your side : — but 'tis getting late, I 
 don't wish to hurry you, but I've an engagement to keep, 
 which makes time precious to me. Beside, I've your brother 
 to meet this evening, and some arrangements to make for him 
 before then.' 
 
 These * arrangements' were only to prepare Mr. Carlton and 
 his gang for the meeting, which the reader is already aware 
 of. But the sister little dreamed of this. She replied to his 
 remark : 
 
 [ Do urge him to come home earlier, dear Henry, He stay3 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 115 
 
 out so late, and often, that I fear he is hurting his health. 
 He looks very pale, and care-worn lately.' 
 
 * He has so nmch to do, dearest. The head book keeper of 
 
 such an establishment as that of S , has a great deal of 
 
 labour and much responsibility. 
 
 * Yes, replied the young girl, with a sigh, 1 1 wish that I 
 was rich, he should not toil so any longer.' 
 
 1 You will be. soon, dearest — but put on your bonnet and 
 cloak, again. "We must go.' 
 
 This was done— a kiss and an invitation to call, was ex- 
 changed between the two girls, and then Isabella returned 
 homewards. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 It was night — the night after that when Charles Meadow3 
 was so completely ' done' by Carlton and his fiendish gang, 
 and of course the first night for Angelina and her mother in 
 their new quarters, in Leight Street. The two were in a 
 3mall but neatly furnished little parlour, or sitting-room. A 
 small cooking stove, with its pipe leading through into the 
 chimney of the boarded-up fire place, was nearly red-hot, and 
 on its top a tea kettle steamed up cheerily, singing as merrily 
 as a 'cricket on the hearth.' 
 
 The open door of a little chamber on one side of them 
 showed the white counterpane and neat tester of a bed, one 
 very unlike the little cot which had served them as a resting- 
 place in the cellar, where they had existed, we can scarcely 
 say, lived. 
 
 There was not much furniture. Livingston had hired this, 
 and had not been very extravagant either, in his outlay, but 
 3till this was luxury, compared to the bare, cracked walls of 
 their abode. 
 
 Angelina sat by the little pine work-table in one corner, 
 sewing, as usual, but her good mother was engaged in setting 
 her tea-table, and she made more bustle about it, than would 
 ten servants in a fashionable house, for it had been very long 
 since she was able to spread a cloth upon her table, and to put 
 unbroken cups, plates, saucers, <5cc. upon it. And her com- 
 ments too, as she set out the things, were really amusing, and 
 even brought an occasional smile upon the thin face of her 
 poor child. 
 
 * I do declare ! I never !' she would cry, as she placed each 
 new dish upon the table — ' I never did set a table so nicely 
 before in all my life. Things will taste so good, 'Lina, dear ! 
 Don't work any more to night, child ! Just get up, and look 
 how nice I've got everything laid V 
 
116 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 The girl did so, but as she looked at the table, Bhe exclaimed 
 in a tone of surprise : 
 
 ' You've set the table for three, mother !' 
 
 ' Yes, child. The kind gentleman said he'd be here to take 
 tea with us ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, mother, do not ask him here. Indeed, he means some 
 dreadful wrong. He would not be so generous to us if he did 
 not expect some return.' 
 
 'Tush ! child. You are always so suspicious. Directly, 
 you'll begin to think that Fd conspire to wrong you.' 
 
 ' Ob, no, dear mother !' cried the young girl, bursting into 
 into tears, and throwing her thin arms around her neck, ' do 
 not say so, dear mother, I know you well, but I cannot drive 
 from my brain the memory of that dreadful night, and the 
 connection which this man had with it.' 
 
 * But, child, he has said that he drank too much wine on 
 that night ; that he did not know what he was doing. He 
 certainly apologised very handsomely.' 
 
 ' Yes, mother, but — ' 
 
 The young girl's reply was cut short, by a rap at the door, 
 and while the mother hastened to open it, Angelina hHrried 
 into the bed-room, and closed the door. 
 
 'Ah, good evening, madam. Hope you're well, very well * 
 Where is your beautiful daughter, and huw is she V said Mr. 
 Gus Livingston, in a free and easy manner, as he entered. 
 
 ' Well, I do declare. Why, the child has gone and hid her- 
 self in the bed room. She is so timid, sir; you must forgive 
 her, for it is natural to the poor child. I was so once.' 
 
 Livingston bit his lip with vexation, but took the chair 
 which the old lady placed near the stove for him, and said : 
 
 ' Your daughter has no occasion to fear me. I'm sure she 
 never had a truer friend than myself.' 
 
 ' I know it, sir, indeed I do ; but Angelina was so frightened 
 on that first night, when you met her in Broadway, that she 
 cannot get over it.' 
 
 ' She will soon get acquainted with me, and like me better. 
 I don't think that I am so very frightful !' 
 
 ' Oh, no, sir ,- you are gentle, kind, and very good-looking* 
 I will talk to her, and try to make her like you better.' 
 
 'Do, my good woman, do ! Get her to come and take tea. 
 at least.' 
 
 The mother went into the bed-room, and closed the door after 
 her, while Gus. remained in his chair, carelessly whistling 
 over an air, from some opera or other. 
 
 It was several minutes before the bed-room door opened 
 again, and Gus. had heard loud whispering from the mother, 
 and sobs from the daughter. But at last, the former seemed, 
 in a measure, to have conquered the repugnance of the girl, for 
 she came in leading her by the hand. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 117 
 
 He arose, and reaching out his hand, said, in a low and re- 
 spectful tone : 
 
 ' I had hoped that you would hare forgiven my rudeness 
 before now, Miss. Indeed, it makes me very unhappy to know 
 that you are angry with me.' 
 
 ' She did not take his hand, but in a faltering voice, replied : 
 
 * I am not angry with you, sir. I have forgiven you, I hope 
 God has.' 
 
 * Thank you, I shall fell more happy now, but not, if you 
 ever treat me with bo much coldness.' 
 
 1 It is better, sir,' replied the young girl, in a firmer tone — ■ 
 ' for you know how different are our situations. We never 
 can be intimate. You are a gentleman, a rich one, I suppose. 
 You know that I am a poor, uneducated sewing-girl.' 
 
 1 You need be so no longer. You are too delicate and beau- 
 tiful for such a life.' 
 
 ' I shall not lead it long, sir !' replied the girl, in a sad tone, 
 which told that thoughts of death were in her heart. 
 
 * JS"ot a month longer ; no, not a week, dear girl, without 
 your wish !' said he passionately. 
 
 * Oh, mother ! dear mother, do not leave me here alone !' 
 This exclamation was caused by the mother taking up the 
 
 water pail, and going to the door, and Angelina was afraid to 
 be left for a moment, in such company. But her mother, who 
 thought her presence only a draw-back upon him, whom she 
 wished to become her daughter's husband, made this an ex- 
 cuse for leaving them a moment together. 
 
 ' I'm only going out to the pump, for a bucket of water. 
 It is only a few steps from the door ; I'll be back in a mo- 
 ment, child !' cried the mother, not even pausing at her child's 
 request. 
 
 The moment she was gone, Livingston continued : 
 
 ' Yes, dear girl ; I love you, and will make you mine !' 
 
 ' How T and as the young creature asked that question, she 
 •fixed her clear blue eyes on his, with an expression which 
 would read every thought in his heart. 
 
 He could not stand that look. His eye fell beneath it, and 
 he blushed up to the very temples while he hesitated to an- 
 swer. 
 
 She noted this, and exclaimed. 
 
 * I knew it was so ! You have sought me, but to destroy 
 me, as the hunter seeks his game !' 
 
 'Oh, no, dear girl, you wrong me ! I did not understand 
 your question !' 
 
 1 Then hear it plainly. "Would you marry me — would you 
 link yourself to me by the la*s of God and man r 
 
 1 Yes — that is, as soon as I can. I am so situated with my 
 parents that — ' 
 
 ' Oh, sir, you need make no excuses. Your hesitation in 
 
118 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 answering me would be proof, if nothing else occurred, of 
 your intentions. But did you really wish and intend to 
 marry me, you could not.' 
 
 < Could not ? Why, my beautiful— oh, why V 
 
 ' Because, sir, I do not love you. No man living can ever 
 claim my hand, who does not possess my heart : no, not were 
 he possessed of uncounted gold, and 1 had to work the hand 
 which I refused him, to the bare bones.' 
 
 ' Oh, do*not speak so. You must — you shall be mine !' 
 
 ' Never, sir, never !' replied the young girl, proudly and 
 firmly. 1 If it is this that has caused your bounty to my poor 
 mother, take it back. We can return to our cellar, we still 
 can work, and earn enough to keep us alive.' 
 
 * Foolish girl, you know not what you refuse. Beware how 
 you push my love from you, for you can be made to feel that 
 a slighted lover can become a bitter enemy.' 
 
 ' I care not, sir. My trust is in God ! You cannot harm 
 me, for He, the All-powerful, is my protector !' 
 
 ' Girl, you seem determined to defy me. Do you not know 
 that I can go to your employers, whom I know, and cut you 
 off from work V 
 
 * There are others who can employ me.' 
 
 * Were I to go to these, and say you were no better than the 
 girls who nightly walk the streets, would they employ you V 
 
 'It would be false — cruelly false !' cried the poor creature, 
 bursting into tears. 
 
 * Yet they would believe me quicker than you !' 
 
 ' God would know the truth ! oh, leave me, now, sir, if 
 there is a spark of true manhood in you, leave me !' moaned 
 the poor girl in her agony. 
 
 ' You had better not force me too far. You never shall 
 rest — you cannot hide from me. I have offered to make you 
 my wife — you have refused it, now you shall be — ' 
 
 He whispered that last word in her ear, and it must have 
 been one of horrible import, for she sprang from his side, 
 and shrieked as if a serpent had stung her to the heart. 
 
 She rushed toward the street door. Another moment, and 
 she would have been in the gloom and darkness without, had 
 not the door opened, and her mother appeared. 
 
 'What is the matter, child ? Dear Angelina, what is the 
 matter]' cried the mother, terrified by her daughter's 
 actions, and palid looks, and setting down her pail of water, 
 she put her arms around the trembling creature, to keep 
 her from falling. 
 
 ' We must go from here, mother ; we must leave this 
 place V sobbed'the poor girl. 
 
 « Leave it, child ? What does this mean ? Has ha dared 
 to insult my poor girl.' 
 
 ' Oh, mother, ask no questions— but let us go !' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 119 
 
 'What ! uot wait for tea, when it is all ready, and I've Bet 
 OUt things so nice V 
 
 * Wait for nothing, that comes from his hands, mother ! 
 It would be poison to our souls.' 
 
 * Oh, what has he been doing — come into the bed-room., 
 and tell me, child !' 
 
 ' She need not leave my presence, to tell you, madam. I 
 offered to make her my wife — she scornfully refused me, and 
 then I said words in my haste, when 1 did not mean ; words 
 which I was sorry for the moment I uttered them. J hope 
 she will forget them and forgive me.' 
 
 ' Never— never !' exclaimed the indignant girl, ' and, sir, 
 if you do not now, this instant, leave this room, I will ! 
 I would rather wander about exposed to all the dangers of 
 the streets, than to live for one moment in a palace where 
 you were present ! ' 
 
 *It shall be as you wish. I will come here no more !' re- 
 plied the villain, in a tone of remorse. ' My ardent, passionate 
 nature carried me too far ; a banishment from your presence 
 will indeed be a punishment to me !' 
 
 After saying this, he took his hat, cane and cloak, bowed 
 respectfully, and departed. 
 
 The moment he was gone, the sewing-girl turned to her 
 mother, and while the tears streamed down her cheeks, said : 
 
 ' I am sorry for your sake, mother, to leave all these com- 
 forts, but we must. I must hide from the dreadful persecu- 
 tions of that man. He is, indeed, what I feared he was, and 
 will do everything on earth now to accomplish my ruin, in 
 both body and soul !' 
 
 ' Where can we go, child — where can we go 1 back to our 
 miserable cellar V 
 
 * No, mother, he would find us out there. There is one place 
 where we can go — it is a dreadful spot, but we would be safer 
 there, because he never would think I would choose such a 
 place to live in !' 
 
 * Where is it, child V 
 
 ' It is down in a part of the city that is called the Five 
 Points. When I worked for those clothing men in Chatham 
 Street, I went across through there, to go by a nearer way, 
 one day, and I met a very poor woman, to whom I gave a 
 shilling.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, I remember that. You gave her a shilling when 
 you had but four.' 
 
 ' I asked her where she lived,' continued Angelina, ' and she 
 Bhowed me a large house called the Brewery, where she said 
 all the very poor people lived. It is a horrible place, mother, 
 but we can live there a little while, till this monster loses sight 
 of me, or forgets me !' 
 
 Til do just as you wish, child. You are my only comfort 
 
120 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 now your poor father has gone. I am glad that you got his 
 ring back !' 
 
 ' So am I, dear mother !' and as she spoke, Angelina kis3ed 
 the large cornelian ring which she had upon her fore-finger. 
 It was shaped like a shield, and had a coat of arms and crest 
 engraven upon it. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 At the same hour, in a back room of the same house where 
 occurred the last scene between Mary Sheffield, and Mr. 
 Shirley, in our sixth chapter, two persons were seated side by 
 side in conversation. 
 
 In the fine figure, high white brow, clear blue eyes, and 
 fine features of the lady, the reader is permitted to recognise 
 Mrs. Carlton, her whom we last saw comfortably quartered in 
 the gambling hell of Mr. Carlton, 
 
 The gentleman who was with her, was a middle-sized, rather 
 well-formed person ; had blue eyes, fair complexion, and light 
 brown hair. His face had very little intellectuality in its ex- 
 pression, though the features were regular, and rather pleasing. 
 He was a little over-dressed, that is, there was a rather un- 
 natural pretension to fashion— which the true gentleman 
 never assumes. Many of our readers may have noticed the 
 almost professional look of a smart, showy stage-agent; or of 
 an outside hotel-runner; or of some of our city merchant 
 * drummers.' If so, they will know precisely how this gentle- 
 man, Mr. Charles Cooly, looked. 
 
 He was seated very close to the lady, and held one of her 
 small white hands in his, while he conversed with her. 
 
 ' You say your husband is jealous?' said he. 
 
 ' Yes/ replied the lady, ' he is, and cruelly so. But I am 
 used to it now — he has ever been so, even since the day we 
 were married. Had he not been jealous of me, when I was as 
 constant to him a3 is an angel to its God, I never would have 
 done as I have, and have given him cause for jealousy.' 
 
 4 Does he suspect me V 
 
 5 Ko. He can place his suspicions on no one, because we 
 have been so very cautious. He followed me once, I think, 
 but I threw him off my track, by taking an up-town omnibus, 
 and going so far up.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; it was that cold blustering night — when I so 
 feared you would catch cold.' 
 
 ' The same ; when I called you out, and we took a brief 
 walk together.' 
 
 ' Where is he now— if he should follow you to this house, 
 he would at once know all !' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 121 
 
 c Vol very cautions, dear Charles ; for well I know his fear- 
 fal temper. Should he catch us here at any time, both our 
 lives would surely be the forfeit. Oh, I have passed through, 
 scenes with him, which I cannot describe.' 
 
 i Why do you remain with him, then, dearest. Why do 
 you not at once fly with me to the west, or somewhere that 
 will place us beyond his reach V 
 
 ' Oh, Charles, my children, I cannot leave them ! My 
 darling little boy, and sweet daughter, how can I desert them. 
 No, we will wait till something occurs that may make us 
 more happy.' 
 
 1 It shall be as you wish, dearest. I only seek for your love 
 and happiness. Were I rich, I would at once say, take them, 
 and fly with me ; — but, as it is, you know how I am struggling 
 to get along. Had I more capital, I would go into some other 
 business. I do not like the one I am in at present.' 
 
 * It is better than that which my husband follows. If it is 
 less profitable, still it is more creditable.' 
 
 ' True,' replied Cooly, * but it is not one which suits my 
 feelings.' 
 
 'You will have another, I hope, soon. Whenever you 
 want money, come to me. I can always command some !' 
 
 1 Oh, I thank vou, dear Hannah, but I will not call upon 
 you for funds. Your love is all that I ask.' 
 
 ' That you have, Charles. I think you have had proof 
 enough of that.' 
 
 ' I have, indeed, Hannah, but such proofs are ever welcome 
 to me,' and as he spoke, the man bent forward and impressed 
 a long, passionate kiss upon her voluptuous lips. 
 
 She returned it with fervour — threw her arms around his 
 neck and — we will leave this scene for another. It will not 
 be proper for us to stay here longer. 
 
 On the morning succeeding the night, when Charles Mea- 
 dows had fallen back senseless, after his attempt at suicide, 
 after a broken and nervous slumber of perchance an hour or 
 two, the unhappy young man awoke. Sir. Carlton was by his 
 side — Harry Whitmore had left. 
 
 The eyes of Meadows opened, but he closed them again with 
 a shudder. 
 
 A cold sneering smile passed over the face of the gambler— 
 a smile more expressive of his cold blooded fiendish nature, 
 than we can find words to describe. 
 
 1 How are you this morning, my young friend V asked he. 
 
 Again Charles opened his eyes, then pressed his hands to 
 his forehead convulsively, while in a faint tone, he mur- 
 mured : 
 
 4 I've had a horrible dream !' 
 
 'A dream, indeed!' said Carlson, 'you've been very sick. 
 
122 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 Yes— where am I? This is not home ! in the prison al- 
 ready V and a3 he spoke, the young man gazed wildly around 
 him. 
 
 *Ha ! ha ! That is an idea V laughed Carlton. ' This looks 
 like a prison, don't it. 'Tis the best furnished oue in all 
 America, if it is !' 
 
 The scattered senses of the young man began to be more 
 collected — he looked upon the rich furniture of the apartment, 
 and felt that his body was stretched upon a yielding bed of 
 down. Recognizing him who stood by the bed side, he spoke : 
 
 ' Am I yet in your house, Mr. Carlton?' 
 
 1 You are, sir, and I have watched by you all night, or at 
 least, all the morning. It was nearly three when "you were 
 taken sick.' 
 
 ' Sick V murmured the wretched yoath, 'have I been sick? 
 I feel as if I had been dreaming of some strange and horrible 
 scene.' 
 
 ' You were crazy as a loon. Do you remember trying to kill 
 yourself] Nothing but a bad percussion cap saved you. It's 
 a good thing to have caps that will explode, sometimes, but 
 at others, as in this case, a bad one saves a deal of trouble.' 
 
 ' I don't know what you are talking about !' replied Charles ; 
 his senses evidently still wandering. 
 
 * Then just listen to me. You remember losing your 
 money in fair play, at my table ? 
 
 * Yes ; my dear friend Harry wa3 there.' 
 
 ' That is true. Do you remember what you did, after 
 leaving the table V 
 
 ' No ; I must have drank too much.' 
 
 ' You were not drunk, but you were desperate. You tried 
 to blow out your own brains, but the pistol didn't go off; so 
 you did — into a fainting fit.' 
 
 1 Now I know all. You had me brought here instead of 
 sending me home. I thank you for the forethought. It has 
 saved my mother and sister's feelings. I thank you, indeed 
 I do.' 
 
 * Never mind thanks, sir, I have other things to talk with 
 you about. I know the cause of your desperation.' 
 
 * The cause, sir ? "What do you mean— have I been talking 
 in my delirium V 
 
 * It matters not how / found it out, but old S would be 
 
 rather wrathy if he knew of those odd thousands, eh V 
 
 With a convulsive bound, even as if he had been shot 
 through the heart, Meadows sprang from the bed, and while 
 with a palid face and glaring eyes he confronted Carlton, he 
 almost shouted : 
 
 ' For God's sake, tell me how you knew th\< !' 
 
 1 It matters not,' replied Car-ton, * how I c.ime by it s 1 thai 
 I know it.' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 123 
 
 * Well, sir, what will you do — expose me V The young man 
 spoke in a thick and husky tone, which told his perfect des- 
 peration. 
 
 Carlton paused a moment before he answered, as if it was a 
 delight to him to torture the unfortunate clerk, and then re< 
 plied : 
 
 * No— not if you treat me right.' 
 
 ' Treat you right ? Must I brile you to silence.' 
 
 ' You needn't use that word for it, but as you are in my 
 power, you must not hesitate to accede to my wishes.' 
 
 Must not 1 Henry Carlton, you are talking to a desperate 
 man. By heaven if you do not swear before God, this moment, 
 to keep this terrible secret, I'll shoot you as I would a dog.' 
 
 ' Shoot away ; I will not swear !' replied the gambler, with 
 his habitual cold and fiendish sneer. 
 
 The young man's hand was thrust quick a3 thought, into 
 the side pocket, whence he had drawn his pistol on the 
 preceding evening, but the weapon was not there. It had 
 been taken care of. 
 
 Carlton saw his look of disappointment, and while he 
 laughed, he cried : 
 
 *I always keep dangerous play-things out of children's 
 hands. Now will you come to terms'?' 
 
 1 What terms ] I have no money. You took all I had in 
 the game ] a st night.' 
 
 * You can get more, as you have already.' 
 
 * Oh, God, no ! 1 have already taken and lost seventeen 
 thousand dollars. I fear every hour to be found out.' 
 
 1 Oh, pshaw ! You can run on a year in this way, while you 
 keep the books and cash account yourself/ replied the 
 gambler carelessly. 
 
 ' And then, what ] At the end of that year would come 
 disgrace— a public trial— a states prison, and — it would be 
 death to my poor mother and sister !' 
 
 ' Oh, no — no danger of that ! There are very few people 
 who die of disgrace — but in this ease there's no need of any 
 one knowing it.' 
 
 ■ How can it be helped 1 Tell me, in God's name, tell me I* 
 
 'If you'll do as I wish you to, I'll see that you are never 
 found out, and 6how how to make an odd fifty thousand for 
 yourself.' 
 
 ' How ] Explain, if you care for my misery at ail, ex- 
 plain !' groaned Meadows. 
 
 The gambler fixed his keen eye upon him, and continued. 
 
 ' You know how large a stock old S keeps, and how 
 
 much cash he has on hand V 
 
 ' Ye?, very nearly. He never hns less than from four to 
 five hundred thousand duilsri worth of goods on hand, but he 
 
124 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 deposits most of his money in the bank. We seldom have 
 more than four or five thousand dollars in cash in at once. 
 
 1 That's only pin-money. Did you ever try your hand in 
 forging f 
 
 * No ; do not try to set me on another crime. I have done 
 too much already.' 
 
 ' Oh, pshaw ! You're too chicken-hearted. You're in for 
 more than you can ever get again, why not make a haul worth 
 having. The principle is the same. If you're found out with 
 what you have now done, you'll suffer just as much as if it 
 was ten times more.' 
 
 ' True ; too true. I am in your power, now — what would 
 you have me do V 
 
 * Only to draw a cheque at the right time, for all that you 
 
 can get out of the bank, in S 's name. On the night of 
 
 the same day, through you, a gang of excellent fellows, Jack 
 Circle's burglars, shall borrow the keys of you, or else get 
 their own screws fitted, and " lift" a few thousand dollars 
 worth of silks and laces. Nothing more !' 
 
 ' Nothing more !' echoed the unhappy clerk, ' nothing more 
 than to rob and completely ruin a man who has ever been my 
 friend and benefactor.' 
 
 * Why did you commence on him?' 
 
 ' Why — why ? Because one of your villanous, fiendish gam- 
 blers first led me on to play with my own funds. Let we win 
 till I was crazy with success, and then beat me. I borrowed 
 of my employer, unknown to him, till borrowing became 
 stealing ; and here I stand a thief* 
 
 * Well — well ! You use too many hard words, my boy, but 
 as you abuse yourself as well as us, I don't know that I've 
 any right to complain ! But we'll drop all this — I shall now 
 consider you a partner of mine — if there is any sadden danger 
 of your being found out in what you have taken, come to me, 
 and I'll let you have the cash to get you out of it. We must 
 hold back, and make a large haul.' 
 
 The young man answered not, but seated himself on the 
 side of the bed, and seemed lost in thought. 
 
 Carlton regarded him a moment with evident satisfaction, 
 and then said : 
 
 ' Breakfast will be ready in ten or fifteen minutes in the 
 next room, I'll leave you till then, to think over this matter. 
 Only Sam Selden will breakfast with us, and he is one of us, 
 you know.' 
 
 Carlton left the room after making this observation, and 
 Meadows was alone in his misery. 
 
OF NEW YOKE. 
 
 125 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Jack Circle and Genlis, he who styled himself the Gipsy 
 fortune-teller, were alone in the upper back room of Jack's 
 crib. A single candle dimly lighted the gloomy place, and 
 gave the singular faces of these two men a dark and shadowy 
 look. He seemed to be concocting some plan with old Jack, 
 for he shook his head at some proposition made by the latter, 
 and said in his usual low, and deep tone : 
 
 • It won't do, Jack ! It won't do— the coppers are too wide 
 awake !' 
 
 ' They does keep their peeps purty vide hopen ; it's a fact, 
 but wool can be hauled over 'em for all that !' replied Jack, 
 who seemed bent on having some plan of his adopted. 
 
 Genlis now took out his watch, and after noting the hour, 
 asked : 
 
 'What time did Tobin say he would be here?' 
 'Vy, he was to be here habout ten — it arn't more than that 
 now, is it V 
 
 1 Yes, ten minutes over. I'd like to see him — he is a keen 
 boy, in his own way.' 
 
 1 Yes, but it's in sich a wery small line. I does like to see 
 men hambitious in everything 'specially in our line.' 
 
 What the response of Genlis would have been, we do not 
 know, but a rap at the door, in the usual significant way,, 
 announced an intruder. 
 
 ' Who's there ¥ asked Jack, gruffly. 
 
 c One frent, and his companie !' replied the person without,, 
 his tone and broken English at once announcing him as the 
 French Captain. 
 
 ' Ah, is that you, uncle Tommy]' and as he said this, Jack, 
 hastened to open the door. 
 
 1 Yes, zare, all zat is left of me in zis dam bad wezzare ! — ze 
 dam rheumatiz, it most kill me several times !' and as he said 
 this, Captain Tobin came in, followed by a person closelv. 
 mutiled in a large cloak, with a common cap drawn down so 
 much over his eyes, as nearly to conceal his face. 
 
 • Who the devil 'ave you got there as seems afeard to show 
 his phiz 'mongst honest folks like usV asked Circle, looking 
 very hard at the pickpocket's companion. 
 
 The reply was given by the stranger casting off his cloak. 
 
 'Ah, is it you, Carlton? cried Genlis, and then while he 
 warmly shook his hand, he added, 1 how goes things on at the 
 bank ¥ 
 
 ' Swimmingly ! plenty to do, and all of the boys at work.' 
 Then, turning to Jack, the gambler said : 
 ' I've come to put up a job for you and your gang, Jack t' 
 
126 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Yell, vot is it 1 — Ye're allers on 'and for any thin' as '11 pay.* 
 
 * This will, to a big figure too, if you do it up right.' 
 
 * Yell, can't you tell a feller vot it is — and not keep him in 
 hexpense all this 'ere time. 
 
 * You know old S 's store V 
 
 * Him as keeps down there in Broadway, you means, doesn't 
 you]' 
 
 ' Yes, the same.'' 
 
 * Yes, I knows he's got an almighty lot o' stuff in his crib, 
 and he must 'ave plenty of the dust too V 
 
 * Well, 1 want that crib cracked.' 
 
 ' There's many a vant as is a can't, old feller ! why the cop- 
 pers is paid to keep a 'special look out for that ere place. I'd 
 as lives try to crack a Wall-street bank, right in the face of 
 the private watchees and all.' 
 
 ' But I've got things fixed better than you know. I've some 
 one that will fit your keys, and fix everything to your hand.' 
 
 ' Yot, a hinsider V 
 
 ' Yes, one of his own clerks.' 
 
 * Yel, then there's some sense in considerin' over the matter. 
 Don't you think so, chums V 
 
 This last question was addressed to Tobin and Genlis. 
 
 The latter replied, that Harry Carlton knew what he was 
 about, and that what he said was right, was right; while 
 Captain Tobin put bis finger to one side of his nose, contracted 
 his brow, paused apparently for a moment's thought, and then 
 replied : 
 
 ' Yes, sare. I sink it will be von ver' grand speculatione !' 
 
 ' We can make a swag of at least a couple of hundred thou- 
 sand, if it is done up right !' said old Jack, and then he added — 
 ' Y"ou just put it up your hone vay, Mr. Carlton, and when 
 you wants the boys, just let me know, and they shall be on 
 'and with the tools.' 
 
 1 Well, that is understood ; now, what about that other affair 
 of yours, Genlis, the one you was telling me of last evening V 
 
 * It will be all right. Inez is on the look-out, and at the 
 very first opportunity will seize the child.' 
 
 * You'll make a grand spec out of that, I expect V 
 
 * Well, I hope so — money is scarce with me now-adays.' 
 1 And yet business is not dull.' 
 
 ' No,' replied the fortune teller, 1 but then it is very trifling. 
 Nothing but romantic young girls — clerks who sell tape and 
 needles — Irish servant girls, &c. One can never make a for- 
 tune out of them, in fact, hardly a genteel living.' 
 
 ' Well, if you all work your cards right in the case you told 
 me, and then get two or three more of the same kind, you'll 
 pay up for lost time.' 
 
 * It is true; replied Genlis, ' and I don't think we can fail 
 in this case. 
 
OF NEW VORK. 
 
 127 
 
 A rap at the door announced another visitor. As the 
 right sign had been given, Jack Circle at once opened the 
 door, and Frank Hennock entered. 
 
 kilo, youngster, vot is in the vind, now? Yot 'ave you 
 come to report V 
 
 1 1 came to see if Mr. Tarhound is here, I want to get him a 
 good fat fee out of my new master.' 
 
 * A fee ! For what V exclaimed Carlton. 
 
 ' Only some of the infernal Hunt business ! My head is 
 racked all to pieces with it — and it really needs a lawyer to 
 get his money.' 
 
 'Then get a lawyer, don't get him. He's only fit to help 
 thieves out of a dirty scrape,' exclaimed Carlton, again, * he 
 has no influence in court.' 
 
 * But this is not a court business ; it is only to draw up 
 some papers that he is wanted. Beside I'm too well known 
 to the lawyers generally, and this fellow depends so much 
 on us that he'll be sure to keep silent.' 
 
 ' That's true ; and silence is necessary.' 
 
 ' Vel, if you vants him, youngster, I'll see that he calls on 
 your gov'nor !' said old Circle. 'And now boys let's drink. 
 I'm as dry as a fish out o' water. Frank, just tell 'Arriet to 
 come up yen you goes down, ve are habout to tipple. And 
 you may tell her to mix you summat warm,' cause it must be 
 cold out to night.' 
 
 Frank at once took the hint to leave, and in a few moments 
 the old man's daughter came up. As she thrust her face into 
 the half-opened door, leaving her body outside, she asked : 
 
 ' What'll it be, my coviesl Heavy wet ? Cold or warm]' 
 
 'For me, brandy and water, cold,' said Genlis. 
 
 'Ditto,' added Carlton. 
 
 ' What'll you have, old rheumatizV asked the woman, look- 
 ing at Captain Tobin, who had quietly seated himself in a 
 corner, and lighted a cigar. 
 
 ' I shall 'ave some sing ver warm, madam; some sing zat 
 will make zis dam rheumatiz in the back of my head, and my 
 shouldares, go ver far away !' 
 
 * Rum toddy, a little cayenne in it, eh]' 
 
 1 Yes, I sintr it shall be some room toddee !' 
 
 ' What'll it be for you, dad?' continued the girl. 
 
 ' Rum, old Jamake, of course, hot as thunder, and sweet as 
 you are my gal !' replied old Circle, and the attentive 
 daughter hurried away to fill her orders. 
 
 We will leave these men, and even let the night slip on 
 without any further records of them. 
 
 It wa3 the afternoon of another day. In her little basement, 
 front sitting-room, sat Mrs. Annie Abingdon. Her little 
 child was playing at her feet with a large assortment of toys, 
 
128 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 doubtless supplied by his fond father, who was not in sight. 
 The mother was engaged in some needle work, and as she 
 stitched away, she hummed over a favourite song. Indeed 
 that beautitul woman looked to be the very picture of happi- 
 ness and contentment. Suddenly the child paused in his 
 play, and seemed to listen with deep interest for a moment, 
 to a sound which came faintly to his ear. At first, it was 
 like the distant rumbling of carriages, then as it seemed to 
 grow louder, the child arose from the floor and ran across the 
 room to the front door, where he again paused and listened. 
 The sounds became more plain— the face of the little fellow 
 brightened up, and a flash of pleasure illuminated it. 
 
 * Oh, ma, dear ma,' he cried — 'the soldiers are coming. 
 Oh, hear the drums ! Do let me go to the door !'— and now 
 the full burst of music from a brass band came sweeping 
 through the air. 
 
 As the little fellow spoke, he raised on his tip-toes and 
 managed to open the door. His mother had hardly raised 
 her eyes from her work, but as she heard the spring of the 
 latch, she cried : 
 
 ' Don't go out, my dear. 'Tis too cold for you.' 
 
 1 Only to the door, ma, to see the soldiers !' said the child, 
 and ere she could answer, he had gone out to the steps which 
 fronted the house. 
 
 ' As he stood here, he saw the gay uniforms, flaunting ban- 
 ner, and burnished weapons of a company of city volunteers ; 
 and then as they came up, his eye fell upon the crowd of 
 children who were rushing along to see the soldiers. He 
 was completely carried away with the music and the glitter, 
 and almost unknowingly he straggled on with the rest. He 
 had not gone very far, when a kind-looking lady spoke to him. 
 
 ' "Who?e boy are you, my child?-' she asked in kind tones. 
 
 f I'm Willie Abingdon,' said the little fellow, while he looked 
 up at her with a mingled look of curiosity and fear at being 
 spoken to by a stranger. 
 
 But her smile was very kind ; and when she took him by 
 the hand and led him into a confectionary near by, and bought 
 him some candies, his conquest was made, and he really for 
 the moment forgot his mother. It is true that this lady, who 
 was so kind to him, had dark eyes, hair, and skin, all of these 
 very unlike his mother's, yet she, like the latter, had a soft 
 voice, and a very kind tone. 
 
 After she had supplied him with candie?, and given him a 
 very pretty little sugar horse, the lady took him by the hand, 
 and led him out into the street. The soldiers were gone— the 
 crowd had passed on. The little boy could hear the distant 
 sound oi the receding music — but his thoughts were now d£ 
 home— he wished to hurry there, to show his mother his 
 pretty presents- A carriage stood in front of the door, a verj 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 129 
 
 a handsome carriage, with two large fine-looking horses at- 
 tached to it. 
 
 * Oh, what pretty horses !' cried the boy, clapping his little 
 hands together with pleasure as he looked upon them. 
 
 1 Do you think so, my child I Does not the carriage look 
 pretty, too V asked the lady. 
 
 * Oh, yes, ma'am, it is very pretty. Oh, how I'd like my 
 ma to have one like it !' 
 
 ' Would you ] Don't you want to take this to her V 
 
 1 Oh, yes, ma'am, if it was mine, I would ! la it yours ?' 
 
 * Yes, child ! Do you want to ride in it ]' 
 
 ' I'd like to, ma'am, but I can't. I must go home,' replied 
 the boy, with a manner which shewed that the ride would 
 indeed be a pleasure to him. 
 
 The lady noted this, and her dark eyes gleamed strangely 
 bright, as she saw it. 
 
 4 Come with me, and ride home in the carriage, my little 
 pet !' said she. 
 
 The boy did not hesitate — he let her lift him into the 
 carriage, and as the driver closed up the steps, she cried — 
 1 Home first — to the boat next ! Be quick !' 
 
 The driver mounted his box and drove rapidly off, while the 
 voman, Inez Genus, clasped the beautiful, stolen child in her 
 arms. 
 
 At the very moment when that carriage, with its closed 
 pannels, and drawn curtains, passed the door of the Abingdons, 
 that poor child's mother was standing on the door step, look- 
 ing up and down the street for her child. That child was 
 within the reach of her voice, and she knew it not. She had 
 not missed him until the sound of the music and marching 
 men had gone by, and she thought that he might have gone 
 up stairs, or back into the kitchen. 
 
 Running back to the latter, she called to Katrine, her 
 Dutch servant girl : 
 
 " Katrine, is Willie with you V 
 
 * No, ma'am ! He ish not pe here since I wash clear up de 
 taple !' 
 
 ■ Oh, Heaven ! What can have become of him ; run up 
 stairs, look in every room for him ! I'm so afraid he has got 
 off into the street, and will be lost.' 
 
 The servant hurried up stairs, and again the mother went 
 to the front door, and strained her eyes up and down the 
 street, looking for her lost one. But it was in vain. She 
 rushed back into the sitting room, only in time to meet the 
 servant, who could not find the child up stairs. 
 
 M Oh, Merciful Heaven ! he must be lost !' moaned the 
 mother, in agony — * run Katrine— run down the street, and 
 
130 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ask everybody you meet. I'll go up — Oh, what shall I do * 
 ■what will Edward gay !' 
 
 With her cheeks pale from terror— her eyes streaming 
 with tears, the mother snatched up her hood, and without 
 waiting for her shawl, rushed out in Rearch of her child. 
 The servant also went out, and as they did so, forgot in their 
 lurry even to shut the door. 
 
 Twenty minutes later, Edward Abingdon returned from 
 down town, in an omnibus. As he reached his door, he was 
 astonished to see it left standing open on a day so cold, and 
 more surprized when he found the sitting-room entirely de- 
 serted. The man servant was not there — he called for Katrine, 
 and she too was absent. He did not know but his wife might 
 have taken the child, and gone into a neighbour's house for a 
 few moment's visit, but at the moment when this thought 
 struck him, he saw the little fellow's cap and cloak, and he* 
 3mew that his Annie was too careful of her babe, to take it out 
 in such severe weather, without being well wrapped up. 
 
 He hurried up stairs — went into every apartment and called 
 upon the names of his wife and child. Bat his only answer 
 came from the echoing walls. 
 
 He hurried down stairs again, for he began to be really 
 frightened, and he had more reason to be when he met his 
 wife who was just staggering in through the door, as he re- 
 entered the sitting-room. 
 
 'Oh, Edward — our child !' she screamed, and fell forward 
 fainting in his arms. 
 
 ' Annie, dear Annie, speak ; tell me what is the matter !* 
 cried the husband, but he spoke to one as senseless as a marble- 
 statue. 
 
 He hastily laid her down upon the sofa, and poured water 
 freely over her face. He kissed her again and again, and 
 tried every means to bring her to. But it seemed impossible. 
 He however poured some of the water in between her lips, and 
 then she showed some signs of returning consciousness. Her 
 eyelids began to quiver — next, her lips slightly opened, and a 
 feeble sigh was breathed. 
 
 The husband renewed his exertions, and soon her eyes 
 opened upon him. 
 
 'Oh, Heaven! Dear Edward, our poor child!' she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 1 What of it, Annie ? Where is he V 
 
 * Oh, I cannot tell— 1 have looked everywhere, Edward i 
 The last I saw he stood in the doorway, to see some soldiers 
 who were passing. In a moment he was gone from my sight 
 — Oh, G )d, I fear he is lo3t !' 
 
 A fl ood of tears came now to relieve her heavy heart, and 
 while her husband raised her head to his bosom, he said : 
 
 'Do not feel so bad, dear Annie. The child may have 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 131 
 
 Wandered away, but he will surely be found. I will adver- 
 tise for him, and send out searchers.' 
 
 * God in mercy grant he may be found I' murmured the 
 mother— 'why has not Katrine returned]' 
 
 1 Is she out looking for Willie 1 ?' 
 
 • Yes ; I sent her one way, and went the other myself. Oh, 
 Edward, what shall we do if he is lost]' 
 
 ' Trust to God, and use every exertion to find him, my love. 
 It will do no good to despair !' 
 
 « It is true, Edward. I will try to be more womanly. Oh, 
 low truly you spoke when you said that sorrow might come, 
 and that it is best ever to be prepared for it.' 
 
 At this moment Katrine returned, of course, without any 
 knowledge of the child. Leaving his wife in the care of 
 Katrine, Abingdon hurried out to adopt measures for a search. 
 Although he had been more calm than his wife, he had as 
 deeply felt the loss ; but for her sake he had restrained and 
 concealed his fear and anxiety. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 • Well, Gus., how are you this evening 1 Up for fun 1 Any- 
 thing on hand, eh ¥ cried Harry Whit more, not more than an 
 hour after the last scene between Gus. and Angelina, had 
 occurred. The two met just in front of the Cake de mille 
 Colonhes. 
 
 The brow of Livingston was contracted, and his voice stern 
 and gruff, when he answered : 
 
 'No ! I have been fairly bluffed off by that little stuck-up 
 thing, the sewing-girl !' 
 
 1 What ! driven off the track, entirely 1 you don't mean it, 
 Gus. !' 
 
 'I do mean that she has bluffed me off, but as to my 
 leaving the track, that's another thing. By foul means if I 
 can't, use fair, I'll have her yet !' 
 
 • Well, go ahead, old boy ; but you don't use the right 
 means, my lad. Do things as smoothly as I do — you are too 
 rough. A woman must be coaxed — you can't drive her half 
 as easy as you can a mule.' 
 
 ' I tried coaxing/' replied Livingston — ' I took her and her 
 mother from a cellar, where they were living poorer than 
 church mice, and furnished two rooms for them, and paid the 
 rent in advance.' 
 
 ' Well, that was all right, but did you at once go to making 
 love?" 
 
 1 Yes. I couldn't help it. That girl has driven me mad !" 
 
 * I should think so, by your actions. You ought to have 
 
132 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 been the disinterested benefactor, for at least a week or tear 
 days. Jn that time, you might have won her confidence 
 enough to have got her to ride out with you, then your way 
 would be ea9y enough !" 
 ' How V 
 
 'Why, to have driven her to Leonard-Street, or down to 
 Madame I's, to call on a friend. Once in9ide the door, she 
 never could help herself.' 
 
 J That's true, Harry. You have a natural talent for theae 
 things, which I can't acquire. Don't you think of any waj 
 that I can work now, to get hold of her?' 
 
 'Yes, a dozen.' 
 
 'Name one and the best, "an thou love3t me, Hal." I 
 should have advised with you at first !' 
 
 1 Of course, you should. But, for -her— let me see. Do you 
 think she knows anything about the Leonard Street densV 
 
 ' No, I don t believe that she has any true knowledge of 
 these places, or the people that live there. She is verdant 
 upon nearly all subjects — ' 
 
 ' Except that which she bluffed you off on !' said Harry, 
 laughingly interrupting him. 
 
 'She is particularly verdant on that, or she would prefer 
 my offers to the life of toil and suffering which she endure3. 
 But, that plan of yours, Harry. Let me hear it.* 
 
 'Just let Jule, or one of her girls send and hire the girl to 
 come to the house to sew. When you get her in there, make 
 her your own.' 
 
 ' But she and the old woman will raise the devil with me. 
 They'll make a fuss, and get Matsell, or some other keen-eyed 
 magistrate on my track, and then will come a trial, which of 
 course will be heralded to the world if I dou't lay down black 
 mail enough to buy twenty black females at the Orleans 
 price.' 
 
 ' No. You needn't fear that. The girl when once ruined, 
 would keep silent for her own sake. You'd have every thing 
 your own way, when you had completed your designs.' 
 
 ' By Jove, I believe I would ! Give me you for a planner, 
 yet, Harry.' 
 
 ' I'm full as good in executing as I am in planning !' 
 ' That is true ; and by the way what puts you into such 
 good spirits V 
 
 • Nothing more than that I've been as lucky as you have 
 unfortunate.' 
 
 ' What ! You don't mean to say that you have succeeded 
 already in that Meadows easel' 
 
 ' No, not exactly succeeded, but I have everything sure. I 
 do these things more calmly and deliberately, but far more 
 certainly than you. I follow the tactics of Aaron Burr 1' 
 
 'I should say you did; especially in your deliberation and 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 133 
 
 perseverance. I've heard old men say that Burr never laid 
 his eye npon a woman whom he was pleased with, that escaped 
 hig snare !' 
 
 * That is true ; nor have T. Bat let's go in out of this, and 
 take a smile It is too cold to stand here talking.' 
 
 As the two went into Pinteux, Harry continued : 
 
 'Which way were you bending, Que., when we met?-' 
 
 '1 was going up town to meet Bill Lord, Butcher Bill, Ned 
 Shorter, and some others of the boys, to have a round. I was 
 mad and intended to get these fellows out on a bender, and 
 then to raise a muss somewhere. I'd like to see a fight to- 
 night — I would, by thunder !' 
 
 •Well, don't let me be any draw-back to your laudible 
 intentions or pat riot ick wishes.' 
 
 'Ah, Harry, you're a wag, always punning. Who said any- 
 thing about raising an Irian row. I'd rather see those boys in 
 at Pete's on the Points, than anywhere else. 'Twould do yon 
 good to see them knock the darkies round. Niggers stand an 
 almighty sight of beating, you know !' 
 
 'Yes, if you don't hit them on the shins — but what'll yon 
 imbibe ? The lady behind the bar is waiting.' 
 
 'Punch— old Monongehela, hot !' replied Livinsgton, at the- 
 same time smiling most benignly upon the bar maid, who ci 
 course returned if, for she smiled on all customers. 
 
 The beverage was mixed, a ditto was done for Harry, and 
 soon they disappeared where many of their spiritual relatives 
 had gone beJore. 
 
 'Where are yon bound to ?' asked Gus. in turn of Harry, as 
 the latter drew on his ri^ht hand glove after paying for the 
 liquor. 
 
 4 Well, I was about to drop down to Carlton's to see if any 
 of the boys were there ; or in at Jack Harris' to pass off an 
 hour or two — hut if you feel like taking a round, I'll go 
 along, I've nothing particular on hand.' 
 
 ' Where's Charley Meadows, to night V 
 
 'He's sick; he hasn't got over that Carlton scene, yet. 1 
 Buppose he'll be all straight though, before long.' 
 
 The two now left the bar room, and we will answer to the 
 reader that last question of Livingston's. Where is Charles 
 Meadows? 
 
 At the very hour when they were speaking of him, the un- 
 happy young man was seated before bis writing desk in his 
 little chamber at home. His face was pale — his whole appear- 
 ance ghastly. A partly finished letter lay before him — he 
 had paused and Reemed to be trying to settle bis mind down 
 upon some dark and desperate thought. He had crushed the 
 quill pen, with which he had written, between his teeth, and 
 had unconsciously drawn his sleeve over a part of his writing , 
 and made it but an illegible blot. 
 
134 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 Taking the spoiled pen from his lips, and dashing it upon 
 the floor, he aro-e and commenced pacing the room. As he 
 did so, his thoughts were expressed in audible soliloquy. 
 
 ' It must be. I am dishonoured enough now— I had better 
 die than plunge myself deeper into crime ! Yes; one touch, 
 one instant can end my present misery but — ' and that young 
 man trembled as he spoke — ' there is a future t Oh, God, to 
 me earth is now a hell; if I die there is but another hell 
 waiting for me ! Oh, misery ! misery.' 
 
 He paused and looked around the room. Upon his toilet 
 table lay many a neat little article made by his young sister's 
 hand — the room had been arranged by her. Oa his reading- 
 table lay a bible presented by his fond mother. Bat too 
 seldom had he opened its leaves. While he looked upon 
 these, the thoughts of his contemplated suicide came up again. 
 
 'Oh, Gi)d! Can I leave them ]' he murmured — ' and yet 
 rather than live to see them suffering from my disgrace I 
 would die a thousand deaths. I cannot, will not survive it— 
 and it must be found out. The books may be examined in my 
 absence — yes, by the heaven whose laws 1 am about to break, 
 I will do it ! ' 
 
 He stepped hastily across the room, and opened a small 
 dressing-case. From beneath a paper in its bottom, he took a 
 phial and as he held it up between him and the light, his wild 
 eye read in large letters on the label, 
 
 " Be careful — Pkussic acid." 
 
 'Careful !' said he, and he laughed wildly — 'very great 
 cause have I to be careful. A few moments more, and care 
 will be all over for me !' 
 
 That young man was calm now, even as if he had been 
 about to take a glass of wine, or some pleasant cordial. His 
 face was deathly pale, his lips blue and cold, his eyes dilated, 
 but brilliant, more so even than when we have seen him under 
 the horrible excitement of the gaming table. 
 
 He walked to the table, took up another pen, and wrote a 
 few more lines in the letter which lay there. 
 
 •There is no need of a seal or direction there,' he said, 
 * they will learn all but too soon.' 
 
 Then he arose, took the deadly phial in his hand, and went 
 to the bed-side. He laid himself calmly down, uncorked the 
 phial, and raised it to his lip. 
 
 Oh, why did he tremble then — pause in the fearful act, 
 and spring from the bed ! 
 
 He heard his sister's voice, cheerfully singing as she came 
 up the stairs. The next instant he laid down the phial 
 on the mantel piece, for her hand was on the door latch, and 
 her sweet voice paused in its song to ask : 
 
 'May I come in, dear brother V 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 135 
 
 ' Yes, Isabella !' said he hoarsely, * come in. I was about 
 to retire, but you can come !' 
 
 She opened the door, but as she looked at his ghastly face, 
 she cried : 
 
 ' Oh, my poor brother — you are worse, you are very sick ! 
 Do let me send for the doctor ! I must call mother !' 
 
 ' No, Isabella, stay,' replied he, — 1 1 am a little unwell, but 
 it is only a headache. I soon will recover from it. 
 
 * Oh, dear brother, I fear not. You don't know how sick 
 you look !' 
 
 ' No matter how I look, sister. Let me judge my health 
 from my feelings. You may go and make me a cup of tea, 
 if you will !' 
 
 1 Yes, dear Charles, anything to do you good. You have 
 toiled so hard, dear brother, lately, but you shall not do so 
 much longer. 
 
 ' No, I do not intend to !' said he, with an emphasis which 
 of course she could not understand. She hurried away to 
 make his tea, and once more he was alone. 
 
 Again he ioook up the poison. He regarded it a moment 
 steadily — then dashed it into the ash-pan beneath the coal- 
 grate. 
 
 'I cannot leave her and my mother !' he said. 'I will do 
 this last villany for Carlton, and raise funds enough to leave 
 this land for ever, and to take them with me, where they can- 
 not hear of my conduct. I will hope on, and not let despair 
 again drive me to this pitch of madness.* 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 It was cold, drizzly and dreary on the morning when Angelina 
 and her mother left their room in Leight street, each carrying 
 a bundle, on their way to their intended abode, the Brewery. 
 
 Down to the ' Points' the two helpless females trudged, and 
 when they got there, they found everything very still and 
 quiet, for people who carouse and revel all night, and thieves 
 who labour in the night, are apt to sleep late. 
 
 They paused before the Brewery, and as they looked up at 
 the dirty walls of the immense building, Angelina sighed and 
 said : 
 
 'This is the place, mother !' 
 
 ' Well, child, it doesn't look so awful bad after all !' 
 
 ' No, not on the outside, mother, but they say it is a dread- 
 ful place when you get in. But he won't follow us here P 
 
 The mother was about to make some reply to her child, but 
 *ras interrupted by a short, fat, very red-laced, vulgar-looking 
 
136 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 fellow who stood on the steps of a room which was used as z 
 f grocery' in the front of the house. 
 
 'What ar yon arter? D'ye want a room, wimmen V eaid he. 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' responded Angelina — ' we are looking for a place 
 to live !' 
 
 ' Well, my clunk o' beauty, you've spotted the right place 
 and run afoul of the right feller, if you've got the dust to pay 
 your rent. I'm the agent of this ere 'stablishment, I am •* 
 
 As the fellow spoke his form and face fairly puffed out with 
 the importance of his situation. 
 
 ' We want a room, sir, and we are willing to pay for it,' said 
 the poor girl, timidly, shrinking from the rude gaze of the 
 coarse, vulgar fellow. 
 
 1 Well, you can get it — let me see— I've three left. Where'll 
 you have it, up stairs or down V 
 
 * We do not care, if it is only quiet !' replied Angelina. 
 
 ' Not hard to please, eh ] Come along, and look at 'em 1* 
 and as the man said this he led the way around to the entrance 
 at the side of the house known to us in a former chapter, as 
 murderer's alley. 
 
 He passed in and paused at a door about midway of the 
 passage. 
 
 ' There's a room on the second floor here, as is empty,' Baid 
 he — { and you can have it for fifty cents a week, payable in 
 advance, invariably.' 
 
 'Let us see it, sir, if you please,' said Angelina, who seemed 
 in this case to take the business all upon herself. 
 
 'Sartainty! Walk up ladies and suit yourselves. Oar 
 prices range from twenty five cents up to one dollar !' 
 
 Angelina and her mother followed the man up a narrow 
 pair of creaking stairs which were so thick with dirt that they 
 seemed to walk upon sand, until they reached the second 
 flight, where the man kicked open a door on his left hand. 
 
 It opened into a narrow stall, lighted dimly by one window^ 
 which had been smashed out of glass. There was a fire place 
 in it, but scarcely a sign that fire had ever been there. In one 
 corner lay a small heap of stuff which once had been straw, 
 but now it was as ' fine cut' as Mrs. Miller's tobacco, and 
 looked as if the mice had been resting in it for years. 
 
 No furniture at all was in sight. 
 
 The daughter gazed at it in silence, but the mother after 
 one look, cried : 
 
 1 How can we live here, child ! It is dreadful, we can't stay 
 here— we ll die !' 
 
 ' Better die here, mother, than live in vice, though the dome 
 of a palace sheltered us !' 
 
 1 True child— very true. But can we live here? 
 
 1 Yes, mother, wherever God pleases to send us. We ai& 
 bis creatures— not our own I 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 137 
 
 1 Well, wimmen, will you take the room !" asked the agent. 
 
 1 Yes — we will take it, but we must have wood and food !' 
 replied the girl. 
 
 ' Well, lay down the dust — change, I mean, and then consider 
 the room your own !' 
 
 The mother drew out her purse, which by the way, was 
 made out of the toe of an old stocking, and handed him the 
 fifty cents for the rent. 
 
 'All right,' said he; 'now, if you want fire-wood, or any 
 thin* to eat, just come down and take it.' 
 
 ' Thank you, sir, we must have both fuel and provisions i 7 
 replied Angelina. 
 
 ' Well, my gal, just come down and get what you want. 
 I'll sarve you right, never fear — as long as you 'ave the money 
 to pay for it. My store is close underneath, where I was 
 standin* when we first spotted each other.' 
 
 ' I'll come, sir. We need many things,' said Angelina, tear- 
 fully, for she thought of the good things which her mother 
 had left behind her. 
 
 The man left the room, and Angelina followed him, with 
 some change, to get a lew necessary articles. 
 
 These he supplied her with, at a very low price — for things 
 must be cheap here. Then she returned to her mother, and 
 the two tried to arrange their little room. One of the large 
 bundles which they had lugged down, contained their bed- 
 clothing, and though they had been obliged to leave their 
 cot-frame behind, by the help of some straw which Angelina 
 bought of the agent, they managed to make a very comfort- 
 able bed place. A small fire was lighted in the little hearth- 
 place, and as far as such a place could look cheerful, this did, 
 Angelina had worked with a gladness in fixing these things, 
 which surprised her mother, for the young girl felt that her 
 persecutor would not dream of following here, and this one 
 great danger so absorbed her mind, that she feared or thought 
 of no other — though many and terrible ones were now around 
 her. Of these she had no knowledge, therefore, was as secure 
 in her own mind, as if they were not. 
 
 We must have work now, mother!' said Angelina, we, 
 shall have to work very hard now, for this room will be very 
 cold without fire.' 
 
 'Yes, child — but we've some money left; take to-day, at 
 least, for rest.' 
 
 '1 will until to-night, mother, for I fear to go out in the 
 day-light, lest I should meet him. But when night comee, I 
 shall go down to the store and get more work.' 
 
 The mother was interrupted in her reply by a heavy knock 
 on the door. mm ■ 
 
 The daughter trembled from head to foot. 
 
138 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Oh, God, it may be Jte—it it is, do not let him in, dear 
 mother — save me as you love your child!' 
 
 A coarse female voice outside, soon dispelled this fear of the 
 poor girl, for it cried : 
 
 * Is anybody lives here, sure V 
 
 'Go open the door, mother — it is some poor Irishwoman !' 
 said Angelina, ceasing now to tremble, and still standing in 
 the farthest corner of the room.' 
 
 The mother unfastened the door, which was closed by a 
 hasp and staple on the inside, and as she did so, a large, red- 
 faced, filthy-looking woman entered. Her dirty neck and 
 great flabby bosom were almost entirely uncovered — her dress 
 was ragged, and so scanty in its skirt, that she exposed large 
 swollen legs and ankles, stockingless, and full of those fes- 
 tering, disgusting blotches, called rum sores. A pair of old 
 cast-off men's shoes were on her feet, but the toes looked 
 for daylight through numerous openings. She had nothing 
 on her head save a very scanty quantity of grizzly, uncombed 
 hair. 
 
 As she came in. she nodded her head, and cried: 
 
 ' The agint tould me that some new neighbours had come, 
 and I've come to say, how d'ye, and visit yez. Me name is 
 Missis Haggerty, and it's me*elf that's a lady born and bred, 
 only it's a little poor I've been lately !' 
 
 The widow and Angelina looked at the strange woman, but 
 neither of them spoke ; between their fear and disgust, they 
 were speechless. 
 
 But Missis Haggerty was not to be put off in her visits. — 
 She walked into the room, and with her red and swollen eyes, 
 looking Angelina rudely in the face, said : 
 
 ' An' it's a purty face yez have got, miss ; I'll be bound that 
 ye've lots o' lovers !' 
 
 1 No — I never have any,' replied the poor girl, feeling that 
 she must speak, and not offend the strange vi.*itor. 
 
 ' Niver have ony : Och, an' it's yerself that's a bloody fool, 
 then, wid yer purty looks. Yez could make lots o' money.' 
 
 The girl shuddered, but did not reply. The woman conti* 
 nued : 
 
 ' Is it a bit o' baccy ye'd be after givin' me to fill my pipe 
 wid V 
 
 1 We have no tobacco ; we never smoke !' replied the widow 
 gathering a little more courage. 
 
 ' Niver smoke ] Why it's yerselves then a«* don't know what 
 a blissed life is. You've a mere drap o' gin for a poor sick 
 crater, tho' V 
 
 ' No, we never drink, either !' 
 
 'Not drink gin, sure!' exclaimed the woman, and her face 
 seemed to try to express both astonishment and contempt. — 
 Why, I thought yez wor Christian wimmen, an' ye're no better 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 than haythen3 ! Maybe yez have a saxpence about yez, that 
 ye'd lind to a poor woman as is a lady born, for wid it I oan 
 have a drink an' smoke !' 
 
 ' I've no change less than a shilling,' replied the widow. 
 
 ' Then give me the shillin' jist, an meself '11 git it changed 
 for yez.' 
 
 The mother took out her little 6tock, and picking out a 
 shilling, handed it to the woman, but she did not mark how 
 the eyes of the sick woman glared at the little handful 
 of change which was left, even as a beast looking upon its 
 prey. 
 
 But she took only the shilling, as she did so, saying: 
 
 * It's meself that 'il niver forget yez. I live yer nex door 
 neighbour, an' it's often I'll come an' see yez. I'll no let yez 
 be lonesome, for yez ar Christian folks, for all yez don't drink 
 or smoke. I'll do that same for ye, whinever I can raise the 
 dust r 
 
 After she said this, the woman hurried away to get her gin 
 and tob icco, while the widow closed the door again. 
 
 'I knew it would be horrible — but yet this is better than 
 Ms persecution !' murmured poor Angelina, as she sank down 
 upon their little pallet of straw, to which the mother also 
 came. 
 
 1 Let us try and sleep, mother ; we will work to-night after 
 I come home from the store !' said Angelina. 
 
 The mother only replied by bursting into tears, and putting 
 her arm? around her child's neck. 
 
 ' D m't weep, mother. It is wrong to cry. Do you not 
 remember my song — never despair ] The cloud i3 always the 
 darkest where the bright lightning is about to break forth. 
 God cares for us — let us trust to Him !' 
 
 * We will, my angel child, we will ; but this place is horri- 
 ble !' 
 
 'Hope, faith, and love, will make the dearest place bright, 
 mother. Now do stop crying, and let us sleep in each other's 
 arms, as we so often have done !' 
 
 * But that dreadful woman may come back.' 
 1 The door is fastened, mother.' 
 
 1 So it is, child. I had forgotten that.' 
 The mother now ceased to weep, and, interlocked in each 
 other's arms, they went to sleep. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 It was but a few moments afcer the night had set in — in fact, 
 it was yet twilight. Tremblingly as she crept down the nar- 
 row stairs, and out through the filthy, horrible-smelling alley, 
 
140 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 poor Angelina started for the store of her employers to get 
 work. Once out in the street, she ran as fast as her feeble 
 limbs would carry her ; for now the streets were full of men 
 and women, and strange sights and stranger sounds met her 
 ear as she hurried along. 
 
 When she arrived at the head of Beekman Street, she 
 turned off to cross into Nassaau Street, down which her way 
 led to her employer's store ; but as she stopped to wait for an 
 omnibus to pass, the light of the lamp above her shone full 
 upon her, and one of a party of young men who were on the 
 other side saw it. 1 
 
 ' By thunder, there she is ! On her trail once more, and 
 curse me if 1 leave it !' shouted the young man ; and, as he 
 hurried across the street, his companions shouted — 
 
 ' Go it, Gus ! The devil catch the hindmost !' 
 
 Poor Angelina heard that voice, and, with a wild shriek, 
 turned and rushed through the open gate into the park. On 
 — on she fled, but she heard his step close behind her. Her 
 limbs trembled under her — her breath grew short. She saw 
 a female dress before her, and rushing up to its wearer, while 
 she elapsed the dress, and fell to the earth, shrieked : 
 
 ' Oh, gave me — save me from him !' 
 
 ' What's the matter, my little chick V cried the gruff voice 
 of one who before had spoken to her, and the terrified girl 
 recognized in it her former protector, Big Lize. 
 
 ' Oh save me once more ! Look, he comes !' and aB the 
 young girl spoke she pointed to Livingston, who was already 
 close upon them. 
 
 Drawing back the poor girl with her left hand, as the villain 
 came within her reach, Lize planted a blow between his eyes 
 which would have knocked down an ox. It left him perfectly 
 senseless. 
 
 The woman then took the sewing-girl by the hand, and led 
 her out into Broadway. 
 
 When she got under a lamp, she paused and looked Angelina 
 in the face. As she did so, the memory of the other scene 
 came up in a moment. 
 
 'Why, is it you? How comes it, that when you are in 
 trouble, I'm always near?' 
 
 * I know not, but Heaven will bless you as I do, for saving 
 me from him ?' 
 
 'Blessings ! blessings !' murmured Lize — 'Oh, gal, you are 
 innocent yet, keep so — keep so !' and her eyes filled with tears, 
 as she bent over the sewing girl, and kissed her. 
 
 As she did so, Angelina returned her kiss fervently, and 
 while with one arm she clasped her neck in gratitude, with 
 the other hand, she tried to wipe away the tears which stream- 
 ed down the cheeks of the woman. Suddenly the eye of the 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 141 
 
 latter glanced upon the ring which was on the girl's finger. 
 She looked at it closely, then almost screamed : 
 
 ' For the lore of God, tell me where you got that ring T 
 
 1 It was my father's !' replied Angelina. 
 
 1 Your father's t Oh, God ! girl, who are you V 
 
 1 Who am 1 1 What is the matter—why do you clench my 
 hand so hard 1 You hurt me ! Why do you stare at me so 
 wildly V 
 
 * Girl — if you love your God, answer me one question ! 
 What is your family name V 
 
 1 My father's name was Lindsay— James Lindsay !* 
 
 * Oh, God, is it so ! Are you yet pure— yet free from that 
 damning, fearful taint which is sinking me into hell ? 
 
 * I dont know what you mean. I never have done wrong — 
 I never will.* 
 
 ' Thank God ! thank God ! If I am miserable, you yet shall 
 he happy ! I am — but no, I will not tell you now. Another 
 time, and I will !' 
 
 PART THIRD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 - Where do you live,' continued Big Lize, still grasping the 
 hand of the trembing Angelina. 
 
 1 In a place they call the Brewery P replied the young girl. 
 
 ' What ! in the Brewery and alone V 
 
 * No, not alone. My mother is with me and we only moved 
 there this morning !' 
 
 'Oh, why, why did you go there where none live but 
 beggars and thieves V 
 
 'Because he, the wretch from whom you have just saved 
 me, followed and insulted me. We tried to hide from him !' 
 
 'The villain ! He shall no longer persecute you. If ever 
 he dares as much as to look upon your sweet face again, I'll 
 put him where only the devil can find him !' 
 
 The young girl drew back involuntarily as she saw how the 
 3trange woman's dark eyes Hashed, and noted how hoarse was 
 her voice when she made the threat. 
 
 Lize saw this and in a softer tone said : 
 
 ' Don't be afeared o' me gal. I'd rather tear my own heart 
 
142 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 out than hurt a hair of your head. Where were you going 
 •when that cove took after you V 
 
 * Down into Nassau street to get some work at Mr. 'g 
 
 clothing store.' 
 
 'So you've arnt your living by sewing?' 
 
 ' Yes, such as it was, but we've had very hard work to live.' 
 
 'Yes, poor gal, yes; I know you have by your very looks, 
 but it shall not be so any more. You need not go to the 
 store for work ; here, take this !' 
 
 As the woman spoke she put a heavy purse into the hands 
 of the girl. 
 
 The latter seemed to feel afraid to take it, but Lize gave 
 her no time for consideration. She turned her around to- 
 wards Chamber street, and said : 
 
 ' Put the purse in your bosom, child ! Pat it up and hurry 
 along with me !' 
 
 ' Where to — where do you wish to lead me V asked Angelina 
 timidly. 
 
 ' To find your mother ! She must be moved from that hor- 
 rible crib. You shall live there no longer. To-night you shall 
 stay with me ; to morrow I'll find you good rooms. There is a 
 hundred dollars in the purse I gave yeu. It is yours, for I 
 have earned it !' 
 
 The woman shuddered as she spoke, and while she pressed 
 her hand to her brow, she added : 
 
 ' Yes, and eternal damnation !' 
 
 Angelina could not comprehend the meaning of this lan- 
 guage. She both feared and loved her singular companion, for 
 rough as was her language and wild her manner, yet had she 
 been the poor girl's protectress. 
 
 Lize hurried along towards the Points, still holding the 
 frightened girl fast by the hand, and soon they turned into 
 the narrow alley known as "murderer's lane," and hastened 
 up the dark passage which led to the room were Angelina 
 had left her mother. The stairs creaked under the weight of 
 the large woman, but she hurried on close behind the sewing 
 girl. 
 
 The latter paused at the door of the room, which she had 
 bade her mother fasten on the inside, when she left, and with 
 a trembling hand knocked for admittance. 
 
 She did not hear the expected response or question from 
 her mother's lips. She knocked harder, saying at the same 
 time : 
 
 'Mother must be asleep !' 
 
 Still no answer came from the room, and though the door 
 had wide clinks in it. no light gleamed through them. 
 
 'Can it be that she has gone out and let the fire go down?' 
 murmured the daughter, and again she knocked harder than 
 before. 
 
OF NEW YORK, 
 
 143 
 
 She started b:\ck as she did so, for with a creak that 
 sounded almost like a wailing sound, the door yielded to the 
 pressure of her hand arid partly opened. 
 
 The young girl scarcely breathed. She groped her way 
 into the room, followed by Lize, who had not spoken since 
 they left the street. 
 
 Two steps did that poor girl take across the floor ; then a& 
 her foot touched something which was extended before her, 
 she bentshudderingly down and felt the object with her hand. 
 
 Oh, holy God ! What a piercing shriek arose from her lips 
 then — a cry expressing more agony than words ever can de- 
 scribe. 
 
 ' What is the matter, gal] Why do you scream so V asked 
 Lize of the wretched girl, who had fallen forward on the floor, 
 
 No answer came. Angelina was senseless. The woman 
 knelt down by her side, but when she reached forward her 
 band to raise the poor girl's head, that hand touched a face 
 as cold as marble. Lize in an instant felt a dreadful presen- 
 timent. She arose, and rushing to the stairway, shouted : 
 
 'Murder! a light— bring a light here, for the love of 
 Heaven !' 
 
 But no one heeded the cry — such screams were of too com- 
 mon occurrence there to be listened to by the miserable 
 wretches who lived in the other rooms. The woman rushed 
 down the stairs to a door which had been half open when she 
 came up, and where she had seen a light burning. There 
 were three or four half naked negroes playing cards on the 
 floor by tins light, but Lize rushed in, and snatching it up 
 returned in an instant to the room above, followed by the 
 negroes with curses, for they thought that she had stolen the 
 candle. 
 
 When she entered the room they were close upon her heels, 
 but even they, wretches as they were, paused and fell back 
 when they saw the scene which lay before them. 
 
 Angelina lay prostrate upon the dead body of her mother, 
 whose face told but too plainly that she had met with a hor- 
 rible and unnatural death. The eyes of the old lady were 
 protruded from their sockets ; her tongue was out, and the 
 face was blue and discoloured. The black marks of fingers 
 upon her neck showed that she had been strangled ; her torn 
 dress was proof of the dreadful struggle which she had made 
 for life. In one hand she clenched a part of the stocking-foot 
 which had been used to contain her money, but the rest had 
 been torn away with the money. Not a vestige of clothing, 
 nor any of the provision, had been left, even the wood which 
 had been laid near the tire place when Angelina went out, 
 was gone, and the fire had been totally extinguished. 
 
 Lize set down the caudle and looked in speechless horror 
 
144 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 upon the oorpse for a moment, then raised the head of the 
 senseless daughter on her lap. 
 
 ' Water,' she cried — 1 go bring me some water ! The girl is 
 not dead — bring water !' 
 
 One of the negroes turned to obey her, while the others 
 crowded up closer, and with a sickening curiosity gazed upon 
 the dead woman. 
 
 In a few minutes the negro who had gone for the water, 
 returned with a pitcher, and Lize commenced bathing the 
 poor girl's brow with it, and tried to force open her lips to 
 pour a little down her throat. 
 
 At last, a feeble gasp, and then a sigh gave token of returning 
 consciousness, and the miserable girl opened her eyes slowly. 
 At first she only saw the face of Lize, but then her wandering 
 glance fell upon the hideous visages of the negroes, and with 
 a start and shudder, she turned her head away. In doing so 
 her face was turned down where the light fell upon the dis- 
 torted countenance of her dead mother. 
 
 For a second she looked steadily upon it, then as with 
 super-human strength she sprung from the arms of the woman, 
 and screamed : 
 
 • Oh, God ! My mother— dead ! dead ! Why do I live I 
 Alone — all alone now ! 
 
 ( No, dear one, no ! You are not alone !' cried the tall wo* 
 man, ' I will protect and care for you now !' and then, though 
 she had tried hard to suppress her feelings, she burst into a 
 fiood of tears. 
 
 Angelina whose calmness was that produced by utter de» 
 spair, knelt down without a tear, now, and raised her dead 
 mother's head upon her knee. 
 
 'Murdered— murdered,' she murmured, 'oh, why did I 
 leave her alone ! It is all my fault, for I brought her here 
 to this dreadful place !' 
 
 Lize in a few moments recovered a little from her hysterical 
 burst of grief, and turning to the same negro who had 
 brought her the water, begged him to go and call a watch- 
 man. As the negro started to do this, the others who had 
 come with him, all disappeared, as if they did not care to be 
 seen by the guardians of law and peace. 
 
 When they had all left the room, Lize turned again toward 
 the dead woman, at whom she looked with singular interest. 
 
 ' Yes,' she murmured — 1 the gal told the truth. Them 
 features can't be mistaken — there is my poor father's sister — 
 dead, murdered !' 
 
 Angelina was too deeply absorbed in her own silent, heart* 
 bursting grief, to notice what the strange woman said, and in 
 a moment more heavy steps were heard on the stairway, and 
 two of the city police entered, one of them bearing a lantern. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 * What's been again! on here)' asked one of them gruflly. 
 « More murder in this hell hole, eh 1 Who is this woman V 
 
 4 She is my Aunt; she was well an hour since when her 
 daughter went out fov work !' replied Lize. 
 
 4 For wort, she went out, eh T said the man coar?ely, at the 
 same time moving his lantern so as to throw its light on the 
 pale, tearless face of the unhappy child. 
 
 'Yes, for work ! She is not what you take her for !' cried 
 Lize. 4 She is pure and free from guilt, she is my own cousin P 
 
 ' Well, that's rich ! That is a recommend, Lize. V 
 
 'Ob, God, must r,\\j shame be thrown upon her too! He 
 knows me !' murmured Lize ; then as she saw that the men 
 looked with a feeling of interest and pity on the pure- 
 looking face of Angelina, the woman drew nearer to them, 
 and said in earnest tones : 
 
 ' So help me God, gentlemen, she is innocent and good ! 
 Foverty drove her here; they have not been here a night y«t. 
 The girl went out for work, I met her, saved her from insult, 
 found out who she was, and came home here to take her 
 mother and her away to a decent place, and found her, oh, 
 God ! just as you see her now I 1 
 
 * It's a bad busiiess, Liz;, but you do seem to tell a straight 
 story !' replied the officer who had first spoken. 4 But, old 
 gal, this must be looked into. The crowner '11 hold his in- 
 quest, and yon and the little gal '11 be wanted. We'll have 
 to jug you for to night P 
 
 4 Oh no, do not take me from here — let me watch by the 
 side of my dead aunt. I'll not try to go away, indeed I 
 won't ! One of you. can stay and watch with u?. I have 
 money to bury her decently !' 
 
 * I don't see as there'd he any wrnng in that !' said the 
 other officer, 4 I'll stay here and keep her and the gal, while 
 you po for the crowner, and report the murder !' 
 
 4 Well, Jem, let it go so. But we must try to find out some- 
 thing about the murder, so's to try and catch whoever did it !' 
 
 ' Leave that to the J ustice, mate, we've enough on our 
 hands now. Look there, that erj gal 's agoin' to faint !' 
 
 The officer sprang forward in time to prevent the poor girl 
 from falling to the floor, and for a few moments busied him- 
 self in trying to bring her to. Me succeeded at last, and 
 now, for the first time since she had entered that dreadful 
 room, she burst into tears. 
 
 The stern men turned their head* away, but it was to hide 
 the hot drops of sympathy which coursed down their own 
 rough cheeks. 
 
 Angelina now for the first seemed to see them, for she 
 sprang from the floor and as she gazed at them, shuddered 
 from head to foot, and cried : 
 
146 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Who killed my dear mother? Take me too!' 
 
 'Poor thing! l\>or thing !' muttered the men, wiping 
 away their tear?. ' Don't fret : it can't be helped now; but 
 we'll tind out who did it and have 'em hanged !' 
 
 The girl saw by their tears that they were friend3 and her 
 fear subsided, but her grief grew yet more wild. 
 
 Big Lize now tried to console her, though her own voice 
 was nearly stifled with sobs. 
 
 'Don't cry, gal,' she said, 'don't cry! Youre not alone. 
 I'll be a mother to ye. You shall never work again, I'll keep 
 you like a lady as Ion? as you live !' 
 
 ' Work,' murmured the young girl, ' oh God ! to call my 
 mother back to life I woul-i work my fingers to the bare bone ! 
 Oh, mother, mother, why did I leave you !' 
 
 ' It wasn't your fault, child, don't take on so! I'm nigh 
 mad now, for G )d's sake don't fret !' 
 
 The young girl did not reply : she seemed almost choked 
 with sobs, and could not speak. 
 
 Leaving his lantern with his comrade with advice not to 
 let any one enter or leave the room, the watchman who had 
 proposed to go for the coroner, departed on his errand. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Several days had elapsed after the loss of little Willie 
 Abingdon, and his parents still mourned bitterly for him. 
 They had searched everywhere through the city; had adver- 
 tised in all t:ie papers; but their effort3 to gaiu tidings of 
 him had been vain. 
 
 Oh ! how many a fearful dream had his poor mother, 
 waking and sleeping, in which his fate was pictured. 
 
 Now, in her wild fancy, she saw him wandering off until 
 he reached some one of the many piers which jut out into the 
 rushing river's tide ; she saw him looking over into the eddy- 
 ing water, then reel forward, fall and sink amid the bubbling 
 waves. 
 
 Again her fancy would paint him alive, but it was only to 
 see him ragged and filthy, thin and half-starved, led along by 
 some vile, professional beggar-woman, passed as her own 
 child, beaten to make him cry, starved to make him haggard, 
 and used as a bait for misplaced charity. 
 
 She had heard of these things, which are but too common 
 in the streets of our metropolis, and her tortured imagination 
 pictured even this for her darling and only boy. 
 
 In consequence of this she gave orders to her servant girl 
 to detain every beggar that called to ask food or other alms* 
 that she might question them. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 147 
 
 A few dayB after the child had been lost, Katrine, the ser- 
 vant, hurried into her sitting room, and told her that a 
 bestir woman was at the door— one who had two children 
 with her. 
 
 With a beating heart the miserable mother hurried to the 
 door, to see the beggar, herself. With anxious eyes she 
 glanced at the two ragged, wretched-looking little children, 
 bat neither of them at all resembled her lost boy. 
 
 Giving the dark-hued woman who led them a bright half- 
 dollar, she asked : 
 
 ' Are thoie your children, good woman I 1 
 
 * Si— dey is mine I' said the woman, with a strong Italian 
 accent. 
 
 1 But your eyes are black, theirs are blue.' 
 
 'Mine husbant be Ingles*/ muttered the woman. 
 
 ■ Have you, in any of your wanderings, seen a little boy, a 
 blue eyed child, with curly hair]' asked the mother. 
 
 'Eh? I not know the Inglesa talkee varee much,' replied 
 the woman. 
 
 ' I have lost a little boy,' said the tearful mother, en- 
 deavouring to ppeak very plain, so as to make the woman 
 understand. 'I have lost him, and I will give one hundred, 
 yes. a thousand dollars, to find him !' 
 
 The eyes of the beggar-woman sparkled brightly as she 
 heard this, aQd she seemed to understand such English very 
 well, for she repeated : 
 
 ' Loss your babee, eh]' 
 
 1 Ye?, my little boy. If you can only find him, I'll give 
 you a great deal of money. You need never beg any more !' 
 
 ' I no can find. Fortune teller veree wise, can tell every- 
 thing !' 
 
 ' A fortune teller V cried Mrs. Abingdon, willing to grasp 
 at every chance to hear of her lost one. ' Can this person 
 tell me where my child isV 
 
 'Si ! She can tell ev'ry tings !' 
 
 ' Where does .»he live V 
 
 'Gif me five dollare, I will say?' replied the woman. 
 In a moment the purse of the mother was opened, and the 
 money paid. 
 
 ' She lire in a leet houpe corner of Grand an ■ ■ street. 
 Aak for Julia, de ole Ingum woman !' 
 
 When she said this, the beggar turned away and again the 
 mother returned to her room. 
 
 ' If my husband were to hear of this,' she soliloquized, 'he 
 would call me superstitious and reprove my fjily. Yet I 
 will see this woman. I will try everything to recover my 
 poor boy. But I will not tell him, unless 1 find out some- 
 thing by her l' 
 
 Taw was early in the afternoon. In an hour after, Mra 
 
148 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 Abingdon, closely veiled and alone, left her house to go to the 
 place designated by the beggar. 
 
 She did not see that the very same woman, dressed a little 
 differently, and without the children, had stood on the oppo- 
 site side of the street when she left her house ; nor did she 
 observe that this woman, with hasty steps preceded her, 
 going in the same direction, but much faster, probably for ths 
 purpose of giving information of her coming. 
 
 Mrs. Abingdon hurried along until she fouud the house, 
 where upon knocking, she was admitted by a black dwarf, a 
 hideous loooking wretch. 
 
 He led her into a dark room where a tall woman stood, 
 whose hue, features and form, all seemed to tell her deriva- 
 tion. She was evidently an Indian. 
 
 In each corner of the room the frightened mother saw a 
 large black cat, the eyes of which seemed to glare at her with 
 fiendish and unnatural brightness as she entered. 
 
 The Indian woman stood before a table — a singular shelf, 
 put on a tripod of legs, when Mrs. A. entered, and appeared t3 
 have been busily engaged in looking over a dirty pack of cards* 
 but upon the entrance of her visitor, she pointed to a chair, 
 and in a deep, hollow voice, said : 
 
 * Sit ! 1 saw thee in my cards and know thy wish !' 
 Trembling with fear and excitement Mrs. A. sat down, and 
 
 then asked : 
 
 ' You say you know my business, what is it V 
 
 * He was a beautiful boy, you loved him very much !' said 
 the woman, still fumbling over her cards, without looking 
 up. 
 
 ' Ob, God, you do know it !' gasped the mother. 
 1 Aye ! Why should I lie 1 You would see your lost 
 child !' 
 
 ' Yes — oh for the love of God ! tell me, does he live?' 
 ■ Julia cannot speak until her palm is crossed with goldj 
 bright gold !' 
 
 In a moment the purse of the mother was drawn from the 
 pocket, and though there were half and quarter eagles in it, 
 ehe picked out an eagle and handed it to the woman, who 
 stretched out her long, bony, skin dried fingers for it, ani 
 clutched it as a hungry maniac snatches at food. 
 
 Then she turned, and taking up four black balls from the 
 table, threw one at each of her cats, without speaking. In an 
 instant the animals came and crouched down at her feet. 
 
 She then commenced fumbling over the dirty pack of cards, 
 mumbiing over some strange, unintelligible words all the 
 while, and finally let one of the cards drop as if uninten- 
 tionally among the cats. In a moment, each ot these sprang 
 back to her corner, one of them carrying the dropped-cari 
 in her teeth. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 ' The child is alive !' muttered the woman ! 
 
 * Oh, thank God ! But where is it— can I find it V cried 
 Mrs A., whose reason seemed to be carried away by the sin- 
 gular proceedings of the fortune-teller, and now apparently 
 believed in the use and truth of the mummery. 
 
 The Indian woman again fumbled over the cards, with the 
 same gibberish that she had used before, but without calling 
 the black cats to her aid. After a few moments she spoke. 
 
 * I cannot say. It is beyond my art — the fates will not tell 
 me ; but there is one. my master, in this city, he can tell, aye, 
 can show you the boy !' 
 
 * Who is he— where can I find him]" asked the mother, 
 trembling still more with anxiety. 
 
 ' He is one who exercises his mystic art for few, and is very 
 secret !" replied the woman. ' Before I can tell you — you 
 must swear to be secret, and to obey the directions which are 
 given you !" 
 
 'I will swear, I will do everything to regain my lost 
 child !' 
 
 ' Then, if you would go to see your child in the magic glass 
 of Gkslis the Gipsey king, and to hear of its fate, when the 
 moon leaves its first quarter, four days from this, come to this 
 place. A carriage will take you to him. But he is a king — 
 his charges are princely. You must bring five hundred 
 dollars in gold as an offering to him, and you must come 
 alone. Come as soon as darkness gathers over the earth V 
 
 * I will come !' murmured the mother, and then finding 
 that she could learn no more from the Indian, she hurried 
 away. 
 
 When the lady was gone, Genlis himself stepped out from 
 behind a dark curtain which concealed the entrance to a 
 small back room, and with a smile, said : 
 
 1 You did that very well, indeed, Julia ! Keep that eagle 
 for yourself. This game is turning out even better than I 
 hoped. She takes the bait famously !' 
 
 The haggard old Indian woman took up the yellow ten 
 dollar piece, and with a 6mile which looked more like a 
 grin than anything else, consigned it to a leathern purse which 
 she drew from her bosom, and which from appearance and 
 sound aa the eagle was dropped intoi^, seemed to have 'more 
 of the same sort 1 in it. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Wa left Charle3 Meadows in a sad state in the eleventh chap- 
 ter of our last part. Though he had broken the bottle of 
 prison, still his mind was verging on despair. 
 
150 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 His sister was ab«ent but a short time from him, and when 
 she returned, she brought him up some hot tea, which she 
 had made. Her mother also returned with her. She 
 anxiously asked how he was. 
 
 '1 am better now — I was a little feverish, but I am better' 
 I think I will go out and take a walk — the night air will cool 
 my head !' replied the 6on, sipping a little of the tea which 
 his kind sister had prepared. 
 
 'Oh, do not go out, clear brother,' said the latter. 'You 
 are too weak and ill !' 
 
 'Isabella,' replied he, I am the best judge of my own 
 strength !' Then as he saw a tear-drop till her eye, when his 
 tone was so harsh, he lowered his voice and in a more kind 
 manner, said : 
 
 ' Forgive me, dear sister ! I have become petulant with this 
 fever — 1 mean no unkindness. I think it will do me good to 
 go out !' 
 
 ' Well dear brother, if you think so, I can say no more. If 
 J did not love you, I should not feel so anxious !' 
 
 ' I know it, Isabella. You are a good, dear girl !' 
 
 The young man sighed as he gazed upon her. Perhaps he 
 was even then thinking of the disgrace which would fall upon 
 her if his crime became known ; but little did he dream of 
 the fearful peril which she was in. He did not know that 
 the libertine, Whitmore, had almost completed the fatal net 
 which was to ensnare her ; that the toils were clo>ing fast 
 around her. Poor girl ! Unsuspecting as the timid antelope, 
 upon which the ambushed hunter has fixed his deadly aim, 
 she, fearless in her very innocence and ignorance, was care- 
 lessly sporting on amid the bright flowers of hope, and the 
 gay pictures of her own happy fancy. 
 
 Dressing himself in his outer garments, so as to bear the 
 chilly air of the night, the brother kissed his mother and 
 sister, and departed. When he left, he told them that he 
 would be back early — that however they must not sit up for 
 him, as he carried his night key, and could enter without 
 disturbing them. 
 
 It was not the fashionable hour for the gambling opera- 
 tions. As gentlemen, always decline drinking before dinner; 
 so do gamblers decline playing before supper, and the supper 
 table is never set before ten, even in the most plebeian 
 establishments. 
 
 In an upper room of Mr. Carlton's establishment, were two 
 persons, at the same time that Charles Meadows left his door. 
 
 One of these was Carlton, the other, his confederate in 
 villany, Sam Selden. The subject of their conversation, wa* 
 the unfortunate Meadows. 
 
 'Do you think he'll do it?' asked Selden of Carlton, in re* 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 151 
 
 spouse to information from the other of the proposed robbery 
 and forgery. 
 
 1 Do it !' replied Carlton, in a tone of surprise at the suppo- 
 sition of failure, expressed in the question. 'Do it ! yes, I'll 
 wind him up so close that he would not dare to refuse me 
 anything ! No, not were I to bid hiui commit a murder !' 
 
 ' 1 don't see how you can get him into a fix so hard as that ! 
 replied Selden. 
 
 • Why, Sam, I thought you knew me better ! To-morrow' 
 
 he will be in such a pickle with old S that he'll have to 
 
 come to me to get him out of the scrape, and then, before I 
 give him any aid, I'll make him sign a confession of his own 
 guilt, aye, and a bond to do whatever I ask of him !' 
 
 • But how will you get the suspicions of S awakened? 
 
 How will you get Charley into a scrape]' 
 
 'Read that,' replied Carlton. 'It will be in the hands of 
 
 S by noon to morrow,' and he placed a letter in the 
 
 hands of Selden. 
 
 The latter took it and read aloud : 
 
 *' Mr. S is advised to look pretty sharp after his head clerk, one 
 
 in whom he may repose too much confidence for his own security. A 
 young man who frequents houses of ill-fame — bets largely at the faro- 
 tabic, and gives large supper parties on eight hundred a year, needs 
 watching. This caution is given to Mr. S by a Friend." 
 
 After reading it, Selden looked at Carlton with surprise. 
 
 ' Well,' said he — 'you are smarter than I thought. When 
 the old man raises a fuss, you'll lend Charley the dimes to 
 make all his stealings up ]' 
 
 • Yes, on conditions*.' 
 
 1 He will agree to anything to save his name from disgrace.' 
 
 1 To be sure he will, and then when he has proved by his 
 books and cash in hand that this letter is slanderous, old S. 
 
 will love him more than ever, and we shall have a fair 
 
 sweep at every thing !' 
 
 1 That's true. You have a grasping mind, Cirlton.' 
 
 ■ 1 have one mind, Sim, and that is to be as rich as John Ja- 
 cob Astor before I am fifty years of age, and then I'll go to 
 Mexico or S >uth America, kick up a revolution, and found a 
 kingdom for myself, as Aarou Burr intended to do !' 
 
 'If you do, 1 hope you'll make me your prime minister ? t 
 
 'A ■prime minister you would make, Sim ! But wouldn't 
 you rather be the Secretary of the Treasury 1' 
 
 ' I thought that you'd hold on to that berth yourself?' 
 
 If Mr. Carlton intended to respond to Mr. Seidell's remark, 
 it was cut short by a tap at t he door. 
 
 Carlton arose and unlocked it. One of his servants handed 
 him a card. He glanced at it, then, with a smile, turned to 
 Selden. 
 
152 
 
 MISTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Speak of the devil and he's always on hand said he. ' I 
 
 wanted to see this fellow before I sent the note to S , and 
 
 here he is.' 
 
 Then he bade the servant show Mr. Meadows up. At the 
 same time he put the anonymous letter in his pocket, and di- 
 rected Selden to retire into another room by the back door. 
 
 * You may as well go in and play a came of cheag with 
 Hannah, to pass off the time for an hour,' said he. ' My wife 
 must be dull, for the hour is past when she sends the child to 
 bed.' 
 
 Selden left the room, and the next moment Meadows 
 entered by the front door. 
 
 'Ah, how d'ye this evening? Pale yet, I see, but better 
 than when you left V exclaimed the gambler, extending his 
 hand. 
 
 The young man took it with an involuntary shudder, then, 
 as he sunk feebly into a chair which Carlton placed for him, 
 he replied : 
 
 ' I'm better, but very weak !' 
 
 * Yes, so I see !' 
 
 The gambler rung a small hand bell which lay on the table. 
 It was answered by the appearance of the mulatto servani 
 who figured in the eleventh chapter of the first part of th ; 
 work. 
 
 ' Eliza, bring some of that wine which is in the baekcham* 
 ber cupboard ! The long-necked bottles, sealed with green 
 wax !' 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' replied the girl, hastening to obey her master's 
 order. In a few moments she brought in the wine and 
 glasses. After opening the bottles, she obeyed a sign made by 
 her master, and left the two gentlemen alone. 
 
 * Take a little of this wine, it is very fine. Osmond never 
 imported better, and his stock is acknowledged to be A. 1.* 
 
 Meadows swallowed the wine quickly aud held the glass to 
 be refilled, but did not speak until the second had passed his 
 lips. 
 
 ' It is good wine. I feel a little better, 1 was faint when I 
 came in,' said he. 
 
 ' So I observed/ replied Carlton,' but as you are better, 
 may I ask why I hive the honour of your company ! Did you 
 think of trying your luck again V 
 
 ' No ; I am broke, fiat broke ! I haven't a dollar left !, 
 
 ' But you can get more !' 
 
 ' I fear not. I've had the devil in me since I saw you. I've 
 keen absent from the store, and if the books have been looked 
 into, and the cash account reckoned up, I an a lost man !' 
 
 * No— not so ! Have you forgotten our conversation of the 
 other morning? I promised to help you if you got into a 
 scrape !' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 153 
 
 * Yes, on condition that I should lunch deeper into crime 1' 
 1 But it will be more safe for you. Your agency in the 
 
 matter will be unknown !' 
 
 * I cannot do it,' replied the young man. 1 1 cannot bring 
 myself to ruia the man who has ever proved a kind friend 
 to me !' 
 
 ' Do you think he'd hesitate to prosecute you to the full 
 extent of the law, were he to find you out]' asked the 
 gambler. ' Do you think he'd pause one moment to consider 
 of your disgrace and the misery which your imprisonment in 
 the penitentiary would bring on your mother and sister V 
 
 The wily Carlton had touched on the right chord. Meadow3 
 turned pale when he heard those mentioned who were so 
 dear to him, and he gasped : 
 
 1 Carlton, you have me in your power ! If you save me 
 trom disgrace I will do a3 you wish !' 
 
 'Very well, then— I will pledge myself to let you have 
 money to the lull amount of your defalcations at any moment 
 when it is needed. But you must at once take wax impres- 
 sions of every lock in your establishment, for me. You can 
 keep your books up as if you bad the cash, which you have 
 drawn and lost, in your hands. If the old man asks any 
 questions, just put him off, and come to me for the money. 
 If he charges you with any thing, put oa the innocent zndig- 
 rant to the highest 1' 
 
 * I will do all that I can, but were it not for my poor sister 
 and mother, I'd blow my brains out first !' replied Meadows. 
 
 1 Thereby making an ass of yourself,' said Carlton, with a 
 sarcastic smile. ' I never hear of a man committing suicide, 
 that I don't think of the old adage, "bite your own nose off to 
 spite your face !' 'ft does not save a man's character to de- 
 stroy his own life— it only leaves it entirely defenceless, liable 
 to every slander which malice and enmity can invent. It 
 leaves a blot upon his name and family which the tide of a 
 thousand years cannot wash away. 
 
 * But we'll quit the subject. It's not very pleasant, as the 
 Irishman told the priest, who wa3 warning him of his danger 
 in the world below. Take another glass of wine, Charley !' 
 
 ' I will, and go home. I must go to the store in the morn« 
 ing, and I tremble at the thought of it.' 
 
 * You need not. I'll see you safe through your dangers.' 
 Meadows now returned home, and the gambler descended 
 
 to his hell* 
 
1U 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 CHAPTER IT. 
 
 A few moments only before Mr. Carlton advised Sam Selden 
 to go in and play a game of chess with his wife, Eliza, the 
 mulatto girl, had come into Mrs. C.'s room with a note. 
 
 The lady received and read it. While she was perusing it, 
 various expressions, both of pleasure and pain, went and came 
 on her expressive face. After she had read it, she refolded 
 the note and placed it in her bosom, then asked the girl : 
 
 'Did Mr. Cooly give you this himself, Eliza? 
 
 ' Yes, mistress,' replied the servant, who, unlike her sex 
 and class generally, did not seem at all talkative, only using 
 so many words as were barely necessary for a direct answer. 
 
 1 Did he say any thing V 
 
 ' He bade me be very careful, madam, and said that he 
 thought we were watched.' 
 
 'So he hints in his letter. Did he tell you of any circum- 
 stance that made him think so V continued the lady. 
 
 ' He said that a gentleman who boards at the same house 
 with him, and who is about his size, came in at eleven last 
 night, and just as he turned to go up the door steps from the 
 pavement, a man who had stood in the shadow of the house, 
 stepped before him, and. looking him full in the face, asked 
 his name. The gentleman gave it — the other muttered 
 semething about that "d — d Cooly,' and went off.' 
 
 The lady listened to this relation of her servant, and then 
 replied : 
 
 ' He may be watched, but I don't think so. He is too 
 timid ; it is strange to me how I can love him so dearly, when 
 I cannot but see that he is a coward at heart !' 
 
 A low tap was heard at the door. 
 
 'Go and see who is there, Eliza,' said the lady, quickly seat- 
 ing himsell again, and placing herself in a graceful attitude. 
 
 The door was opened and Mr. Selden entered. 
 
 His bland smile disclosed his beautiful teeth,and he bowed 
 low as he said : 
 
 'Good evening, madam. Your husband had company, and 
 fearing you would be lonesome, asked me to come up and 
 play a game of chess with you.' 
 
 ' My husband is very kind !' replied the lady. 
 
 Selden noticed the slight tone of sarcasm which she used, 
 but he wished not to have her think so, and replied : 
 
 ' He was certainly kind to do me an honour ; but perhaps 
 you do not wish to pUy !' 
 
 1 Oh, yes, 1 am perfectly willing. I was doing nothing, ex- 
 cept reading, when you came in.' 
 
 ' May 1 ask what work V said Selden, glancing at the table 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 155 
 
 by "which she was seated. There was no book upon it. The 
 lady saw his look, bat was not at all disconcerted, for she 
 instantly replied : 
 
 ' 1 was perusing Lady Montagu's Letters. Eliza took the 
 volume to my chamber to change it, the moment before she 
 heard your knock.' 
 
 'Ah, yes!' said Mr. Selden, a little confused. 'That Lady 
 Montagu wa9 a strange woman.' 
 
 4 A very independent one, I will allow !' replied the lady. 
 'She had mind enough to think for herself, and sufficient 
 courage to express her thoughts.' 
 
 'Therein very much resembling Mrs. Carlton,' said Selden. 
 
 ' I do not know whether youintend me a compliment or not 
 said the lady, 'but in the letter which 1 last read, I remember 
 a verse which you and my husband might very aptly take 
 home to yourselves.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! may I hear it f 
 
 1 Certainly — or read it, if you like. It is in a letter to the 
 Countess of Mar, No. CXLV. in Sharpe's London edition of 
 her Letters, and if 1 remember correctly, is : 
 
 * The man of love enraged to see, 
 
 The nymph despise his flame; 
 At (UcC and cards misspends his nights, 
 
 And slights her noble game !' 
 
 I believe it is very near the original, and I am sure' its 
 appropos*' 
 
 * You are very hard upon us, lady ; but if you are the 
 nymph and despise the suit of your lovers, is it not enough 
 to drive them to play V 
 
 ' But I have only one lover — my husband. You surely do 
 not place yourself on my lists, and I a married woman !' 
 
 ' Lady, a peasant may love his Queen, even as he can look 
 up at a bright star in heaven and worship it !' 
 
 ' Yes, and he may lose his head by his presumption !' said 
 Mrs. C. in a tone of deep meaning. Observing that her 
 answer a little confused the elegant gambler, the lady added : 
 
 ' Let us quit this nonsensical talk and commence our game ; 
 I expect you will be more at home in that than in making 
 love !' 
 
 ' Perhaps so, bat I would like to take lessons in the last, if 
 you would become my teacher !' replied the gambler. 
 
 'Sir, I am astonished at your remark ! Are you not my 
 husband's friend V 
 
 ' Yes, lady, but more friendly to you than him, as my con- 
 duct proves !' 
 
 ' How, sir ! explain yourself f 
 
156 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 Because, madam, when I am aware that you receive and 
 read other letters than Lady Montague's, I hide the secret in 
 my own breast, instead of arousing an already jealous husband 
 fey the report !' 
 
 The lady blushed up to her eye3. She felt that he knew 
 something— how much, she dared not think. She was not 
 aware that the letter which she had but halt concealed in her 
 bosom, could be plainly seen, so low was the dress made at the 
 neck. 
 
 His eye had rested on it, and he made the remark at hap- 
 hazard, which her confused manner at once told had struck 
 home. Following up his advantage, he added : 
 
 ' You need not fear me, lady, but at least in future treat 
 me with a little more kindness. Do not act with me as if I 
 were a slave, born to be trodden upon by you !' 
 
 *I shall ever try to treat Mr. Selden with courtesy !' replied 
 the lady, who now began to recover her self-possession. 
 
 'Do not call me Mister Selden with such a haughty air ! — 
 Hannah Carlton, I love you ! Do not treat me with such 
 coldness ! 
 
 As he said this, the gambler attempted to take her hand 
 but she withdrew it, and in a firm tone, said : 
 
 ' Mr. Selden, I will dispense with your company ! Were I 
 to tell my husband of this insolence ' 
 
 ' He would very soon be informed who the more fortunate 
 lover is /' said the gambler, with a bitter smile. 
 
 * If you will not leave the room, I will !' said the lady, 
 indignantly ; and, suiting the action to the word, she arose, 
 and passing into the chamber, slammed the door to, and 
 locked it behind her. 
 
 * By the Hand that made me, she shall pay for this !' mut- 
 tered the dark-browed man fiercely, as he arose and strode 
 out of the room. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Two more days of hopeless misery for our poor sewing-girl — 
 the bereaved and unhappy Angelina. The poor girl had seen 
 the disfigured co^e of her mother laid beneath the frozen 
 ground in this time, and she had been led before a coroner^ 
 jury, and also to a magistrate's court, to give evidence in 
 regard to the horrible murder. 
 
 The jury could only render a verdict of, 'came to a violent 
 death by the hand of a person or persons unknown,' &c. ; the 
 eagacity of the magistrate was put at fault, and all the satis- 
 faction which the poor girl could gain, was to hear that she 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 107 
 
 was pitied. Justice was indeed too blind to search out the 
 murderers. 
 
 Angelina was in a bad place, for one who was pure and 
 virtuous, for it was neither more nor less than the panel- crib 
 of her new found cousin. Yet, for the time at least, Lize had 
 dropped her usual business, and with as much kindness as if 
 she had been a human creature, once possessed of a soul, heart, 
 and the other attributes which elevate the human being 
 above the animal ; even as kindly as if she had been a 
 Christian, she had devoted herself to consoling the almost 
 heart broken orphan. We could not be so entirely unfashion- 
 able, so totally unworld-like, as to insinuate that this depraved 
 and fallen female could possess the same feelings which others 
 feel, but they were very like ! 
 
 Yet were we to say they were the same impulses which 
 actuated her, that would be felt by those of 1 the world' who 
 had not become depraved, we would be laughed at. We judge 
 so, from observation, from noticing how these hapless crea- 
 tures are treated by the world — driven from post to pillar by 
 the lash of scorn, given no opportunity for reformation, but 
 forced, once having fallen, to remain so. 
 
 Why this is we cannot divine, yet it is too plainly to be seen. 
 There are hundreds in this city who are heart sick of vice 
 and its miseries, who with a kind word and helping hand 
 might be drawn from the fearful gulf into which they have 
 been plunged, frequently by the perfidy of men, often, very 
 often by poverty and temptations which poverty and suffering 
 could not withstand. 
 
 The writer, though young, has had the experience of much 
 travel, he has visited many of the large cities of the world,, 
 both at home and abroad, but never in all his cruisings has 
 he seen a wider and a richer field for the noble-hearted and 
 God-sent philanthropist than in this city. 
 
 But novel-readers, we believe, are not fond of such di- 
 gressions as these. We will resume the thread of our story. 
 
 It was as we said, a sad place, that panel crib, for Angelina ; 
 but Lize had so far avoided letting her cousin know how she 
 lived, though the poor girl had gathered from a former con- 
 versation with her mother, that the cousin had fallen into 
 depraved habits. 
 
 It was the second day after the murder, and night had 
 come on. Lize was sitting beside her pale cousin, talking to 
 her of hope and future happiness, when a low whistle was 
 heard, which seemed to come lrom another room at the back 
 of that where they sat, and was yet so close that it might have 
 been in the very same room. 
 
 The young girl started to her feet, and trembled from head 
 to foot, while she looked around to see where the sound carte 
 from. 
 
158 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 * Don't be afeard, gal !' said Lize, quickly — ' It's only a 
 signal from my pal ! But you don't know what that means, 
 gal. Just sit down and don't be scared. Nothing shall ever 
 hurt you, where I am !' 
 
 Again the whittle was heard, and more plainly this time. 
 Angelina heard a noise as if a board had been drawn along 
 the floor behind her, and turning quickly around, saw that a 
 part of the ceiling of the room had been removed, and a small, 
 very genteelly dressed young man stood in the opening. 
 
 The poor girl was too much frightened to scream, she stood 
 and trembled in speechless terror. 
 
 * What d'ye mean, Charley, by scarin' this poor gal, so? 
 Why couldn't you have come in through the front door, like 
 as if you were on the square !' exclaimed Lize, in an angry 
 tone. 
 
 'Cause this 'ere vay vo3 the 'andie't,' replied Cooper, the 
 pickpocket, for this was he ; ' but who is she?' 
 
 ' She's my cousin, and a good girl, and you needn't patter 
 no flash afore her, for she don't understand it !' 
 
 "Ow long 'ave you 'ad her?' 
 
 'Ever since you went on to Boston — her mother was killed 
 down on the *' Pints" a day or two ago.' 
 
 ' Down to the Pints, eh ? And you call her a good gall, 
 Lize ! I didn't think you vos so green.' 
 
 ' Blast your eyes, Charley, you're jist as bad as the rest !' 
 You don't think anything good can be akin to me ; and be- 
 cause this poor gal's mother was killed the first day that 
 poverty drove her down into that hell-hole, you think the gal 
 must be as bad as I am !' 
 
 'I didn't say you was bad, Lize ; you needn't go for to get 
 mad with me now !' said the man, considerably put out by 
 her quick and angry reply. 
 
 ' Then just go away and leave us aWe till to morrow night !' 
 replied the woman, ' to morrow I'll get a better boarding- 
 place for her !' 
 
 ' I wish you would,' replied the man, ' 'cause this 'ere losin' 
 time, isn't vot its cracked up to be ! Ve vants to use the 
 crib ; ve 'ave done so little this veek, old Jack '11 be as cross 
 as a bear with a soar 'ead !' 
 
 ' Well, tramp now, and come agin to morrow night ; do, 
 Charley, that's a chuck !' 
 
 ' I will in a shake ; but 'avent you got summat vet in the 
 locker X 
 
 ' There may be a drop o' brandy there— go and help your- 
 self !' replied the woman. 
 
 The pickpocket crossed the room to a small cupboard, and, 
 opening it, took a black bottle from an upper t*helf, which, 
 haying uncorked, he tipped into a tea cup which was before 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 159 
 
 him. Taking a hearty sip of the brandy, he corked and re- 
 placed the bottle, then saying : 
 
 ■ So long, till to-morrow night, old gal V he turned and left 
 by the same way he entered. The moment after he went out, 
 the panel wan nipped biok again, and the ceiling looked just 
 as it had before, even as if it was solid and immoveable. 
 
 During all this time, Angelina had been staring around 
 her, and at this strange speaking man, without daring to utter 
 a word. Bat when he had lefc the room, she burieci her face 
 between her hands and burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 • Oh, let me go away from this dreadful place !' she sobbed ; 
 * I cannot stay here !' 
 
 ' You shall go away, gal, as soon as I can find a good, re- 
 spectable boarding house for you !' replied Lize, soothingly, 
 ' but you needn't be afeard while you are here !' 
 
 ' Who was that Btrange man. and how did he get in, that 
 way] a*ked the girl, still sobbing. 
 
 * I can't tell you all, gal. He is an old friend of mine, and 
 Chem panels are made on purpose to slide back.' 
 
 I Bat what for !' continued the girl. 
 
 ' Don't ask me. child — don't ask me, for G >d's sake !' 
 
 Angelina ceased sobbing, she wiped away every tear from 
 her cheek, and looked the larjje woman full in the face. The 
 cheek of the young girl was white as the leaf of the magnolia, 
 and her thin lip* too were pale and bloodies. Her eyes alone 
 were bright, even brighter than they had been ere her care 
 was so great, her sorrows so deep, for she was even then 
 suffering with a burning fever. 
 
 But she seemed to possess strength as she arose to her feet, 
 and looking Liza steadily in the face, exclaimed : 
 
 I I cannot stay here any longer. My mother once told me 
 that you were bad— that you had broken your poor father's 
 heart and ' 
 
 'Oil ! gal ! for the love of G>J, spare me !' cried the 
 woman — ' 1 am bad, but don't you pour fire into my heart. I 
 have tried to be good to you— G>d knows I have, and I'd 
 sooner endure the torments of hell eternally, than to harm a 
 hair of your head !' 
 
 Tears rolled down her flushed cheeks, and sobs choked her 
 utterance. 
 
 The tender heart of Angelina was touched — in an instant 
 she reproached herself for her cruelty to one who had been so 
 kind to her, and clasping L'za, who had knelt at her feet, to 
 her bosom, she wept, with her, and cried: 
 
 'Dj not weep, dear cousin ! Forgive me for hurting your 
 feelings, but I wa-« nearly crazy. I did not know what I said. 
 Oh, forgive me — 1 was cruel, and you have been 59 kind, dear, 
 iear cousin !' 
 
 [ Pear, oh, God bless you, gal, for that kind word. Kin4 
 
160 
 
 MASTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 words don't often fall on my ear. I'm used to curses and 
 abuse, but I couldn't bear to have you blame me !' 
 
 * I will not again, cousin. I never will speak so again — I 
 never will ask you questions again !' 
 
 * You shall have no need to ask 'em gal ; I'll tell you all n 
 for you know too much, not to know all !' replied the woma.i, 
 becoming more calm. 
 
 'It will pain you cousin, you need not tell me !' replied the 
 young girl, in a kind tone. 
 
 4 No, don't try to stop me now, I must tell you, gal. This 
 is a panel-house, and I have led a bad — bad life for many a 
 year. I did drive my poor father e'en a'most mad, and he 
 went abroad, God only knows whether he is yet living — 1 fear 
 not !' 
 
 The woman paused — the big tears rolled down her cheeks, 
 and occassionally a heavy sob seemed to come up from the 
 very bottom of her heart. As she became calm once more, 
 Bhe continued. 
 
 ' You don't know what a panel house is?' 
 
 'No,' replied Angelina, 'I never heard of one before?' 
 
 'Well, gal, I'll tell you a little story, you musn't blu3h or 
 get scared, for I tell it to you for a lesson. It'll explain what 
 a panel crib is. 
 
 ' There was a woman walking up past the Astor House the 
 other night ; she was dressed up right smart, and what with 
 paint, and false curls and all that, looked very enticin' like. 
 Bhe saw an oldish looking cove standing on the steps of the 
 hotel — a man with grey hair and a rather reddish face, but 
 he was dressed well, and looked as if he toted dimes about !' 
 
 ' Toted dimes !' repeated Angelina, not understanding the 
 expression. 
 
 1 He looked as if he had money,' continued Lize. ' "Well, 
 there he stood, looking up and down the street, just as if he 
 didn't know what to do with himself for the evening. Well, 
 this good looking woman caught his eye a3 she went past, and 
 she looked up at him with a quiet kind of a smile, as if she 
 liked the looks of the old cove. He seemed to be a little 
 flattered by this, and when he saw her look back after him, 
 when she had passed, he just started on up the street after 
 her. She had got away up to Florence's, before he overtook 
 her, and then he walked a little way close behind her — but 
 when she got beyond the bright lamps, he walked on past her, 
 till he got nearly up to the next corner, looking back once in 
 a while, to see her face. Well, she seeing this, could'nt help 
 smilin,' and then he fell back close alongside of her and 
 said : 
 
 ' " It's a fine evenin', Miss !" 
 
 '"Yes, sir, very — but I am not a Miss V said the woman, 
 as politely as she knew how, 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 161 
 
 1 " Indeed!" said he, "why you are too young to be married!" 
 
 * " No, sir, I've been married nearly a month !" replied the 
 vroman, and she sighed heavily as she said this. 
 
 ' " What do you sigh in that way, for 1" said the old gentle- 
 man, still walking along with her. 
 
 * " Because I'm not happy !" said she. 
 
 Not, happy ? Isn't your husband kind T 
 I don't like to talk about him!" said the woman, and 
 again she sighed very heavily. 
 
 * The old gentleman pretended now to feel a good deal of 
 interest for her, and began to ask her a great many questions. 
 
 1 She finally told him that her husband treated her very 
 bad, and spent all his money in grogshops, and had gone 
 away to Jersey that day, without leaving her a cent or any- 
 thing to eat ; that he was a fighting, crazy fellow, who'd kill 
 her if she complained, and she'd walked out because she felt 
 too bad to stay in the house. The old covey was very par- 
 ticular in asking her when her husband would get home, and 
 she told him that he wouldn't get home before the next 
 night. 
 
 \ Well, then, he began to pity her very much, and told her 
 that he had money and would help her and be kind to her. 
 People call that same cove one of the wisest men in the 
 United State3 ; but he was fool enough to tell the woman his 
 name, and the high situation which he held, and she was struck 
 dumb almost when she knew who it was that had picked her 
 up, and was talking to her. She never had thought before, 
 that the voice which had chained the attention of the 
 assembled wisdom of the nation, should be heard pattering 
 soft talk to her, but so it was. 
 
 * Well, to make the story short, after a good deal of talk, 
 he persuaded the woman to let him see her home, and when 
 he had got to her door, he invited himself in. After awhile, 
 he persuaded her that he might as well sleep there, as at the 
 Astor House, and she after crying a little, kind of consented, 
 but went out of the room, while he went to bed. 
 
 'The old covey went and stowed himself away, and left his 
 clothes on a chair, close by the ceiling, where she had set it, 
 when she went out. He had'nt more than got covered up, 
 when he heard a tremendous knocking at the front door, and 
 heard a man with a very gruff voice, cursing and swearing 
 and calling to be let in. 
 
 'In an instant the woman rushed into the room, and said in 
 a tone of terror : 
 
 ' " Oh, mercy me ! What shall I do— it is my husband !" 
 
 1 Well, the old covey was scared some then, I reckon ! He 
 jumped out on to the fioo:> and while he hurried to put on 
 his clothes, he asked : 
 £ 2 
 
162 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 '"How can I'get outl Is there no back door? I wouldn't 
 have him catch rue and be exposed, for the world ! How cart, 
 I get out V 
 
 '" There's no way except the window, and it opens out into 
 a muddy alley. The mud is knee deep ?" answered the woman. 
 
 '"It's no matter, open the window! Anything but ex- 
 posure !" cried the old man, taking his vest, coat and hat in 
 his hand. Then, as she raised the window, he got his rather 
 portly frame up into it, and in a moment dropped through. 
 The woman listened a moment, and heard him crawling along 
 through the filthy alley, and then went and opened the front 
 door and let in the person who had been knocking so hard. 
 ' When he came in, he had a smile on his face, and said : 
 ' " Well, old gal, wot's the swag? Wot 'ave you lifted V 
 'She took a big, greasy-looking, leathern pocket book from 
 her bosom, and a gold watch. 
 
 ' " Hopen the dummy, and let's see wot's in it !" said the 
 man. 
 
 ' She opened the pocket-book, and found seven hundred • 
 dollars there in money, and a lot o' papers. 
 
 ' She looked over the papers, and after reading them, said : 
 
 '"These here are'nt no use to nobody but the owner, we'll 
 send 'em to him, at the Astor, through the post !" 
 
 ' Then they looked at the thimble !' 
 
 'The thimble?' asked Angelina, who, in spite of her feel- 
 ings, had become interested in this story. 
 
 * The watch, gal : thimble means watch ! They looked at it, 
 and found it a thirteen jewelled, doubledcased, regular To- 
 bias; so that it turned out the woman had made an eight 
 hundred and fifty dollar haul. She had lifted it out of the 
 old man's pocket, through a sliding panel like the one my pal 
 came through, and the old covey had been too scared to look 
 in his pockets, till after he got out of danger !' 
 
 ' But why didn't he come back with police, when he found 
 he had been robbed V asked the young girl. 
 
 'D'ye think he didn't care no more for his character, than 
 to have it known that he had been robbed in a panel-house, 
 by a common street woman that he'd picked up? If he had 
 lost seven thousand instead of hundreds be would have kept 
 mum about it. How do you think he would like to have seen 
 a paragraph in the Herald or Sun the next day, announcing 
 
 that the Hon. , had been robbed of seven hundred 
 
 dollars and a gold watch by a courtesan !' 
 
 'But this story is not true, cousin !' 
 
 ' As true as gospel, gal ! I know where the watch i3; and 
 it didn't happen very long ago !' 
 
 ' And what became of the wicked woman V 
 
 1 She's here along side o' you, gal. Yes, shame that I should 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 163 
 
 say it, gal, I am the same one— and have been a panel thief 
 this five years P 
 
 The yo ang girl shuddered involuntarily, and drew back 
 from the aide of the woman; but when she saw that the 
 action was noticed, and evidently pained Lize, she took her 
 hand again, and in a kind tone, said : 
 
 ' But you won't do so any more, cousin, will you. Do lead 
 a good life, now, and God will bless you for it !' 
 
 4 1 will try to, gal, indeed I will !' replied the woman — ■ 
 ' I'm sick of doing wrong, and it's in my heart to be good, 
 but it's very hard to get a decern living after you've once 
 made a slip !' 
 
 * Why is it — can you not work]' 
 
 * Yes, gal, I would gladly work, but no one will employ a 
 gal that has been known to do wrong. But I'll try to quit 
 this life, if I can only get away from the gang !' 
 
 ' The <jan<j \ What has that to do with you — how can it 
 keep you from being good?' 
 
 ' Because, gal, I'm in their power. If I was to leave 'em 
 without the consent of all hands, they'd blow me for some of 
 my work, and I'd be sent up !' 
 
 * Blow you I Sent up ? Cousin, I cannot understand you.' 
 
 * Well, gal, it's because I've been so used to pattering Hash 
 with thieves, that I forget how to talk in Christian language. 
 To "blow" would be to tell of some of my stealing ; and to 
 get me "sent up," means to get sent to the States Prison ! If 
 I was to leave my gang, without they're willing, they could 
 give me a great deal of trouble !' 
 
 1 1 hope then that they will let you go, cousin, for I would 
 rather work night and day than see you here, leading such a 
 dreadful life !' 
 
 * God bless you, gal ; you're a living angel, you are P 
 responded the woman, raising the girl's hand and kissing it 
 fervently, 'I will live right; and I'll work too— yes, I'll work 
 to help you along.' Then after a moment s pause, Lize looked 
 at a watch which she drew from her bosom, and said : 
 
 * You'd better go to bed, gal ! It's latish now, and we want 
 to go to bed so as to get up early to go and look up a board- 
 ing house for you !' 
 
 Seeing the girl look timidly toward the part of the ceiling 
 which contained the panel, the woman added : 
 
 •Don't be afeard, gal ! There shall no harm come to ye !' 
 
 * I am not afraid — I will pray and g> to bed !' replied the 
 pure orphan. 
 
 * Pray for me, gal, pray for me ! I dare not pray for my- 
 self f cried the woman, as she saw the young girl kneel ; and 
 there she sat and wept, while her cousin prayed to the Father 
 of the orphan. 
 
1G4 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Isabella Meadows sat alone in her mother's back parlour 
 A note was in her hand, and a few, quiet tears were trickling 
 down her cheeks. They did not seem like the droppings of 
 sorrow, but more like the dews of a joyful heart. Yet a 
 flushed cheek, lips slightly pale, and hands which trembled as 
 they held the letter, spoke of an agitated mind — a heart flut- 
 tering with excitement, perchance with pleasure. 
 
 Her low-toned soliloquy must explain her true feelings. 
 
 ' Dear, dear Harry !' she murmured, as she kissed the let- 
 ter, ' he loves me, I know he does, else he would not be so 
 anxious to marry me. He says it must be this night. So 
 soon — and then so secretly. It makes me tremble. There 
 seems an awful responsibility in making these vows, which 
 once spoken must neVer be broken until death.' 
 
 The young maiden paused a moment and seemed to con- 
 sider ; then again she spoke : 
 
 ' How can I keep it as secret as he desires'? It is hard that 
 even my mother cannot share my joy !' 
 
 At this instant the outer door bell was heard, and she hur- 
 ried to open it. He, of whom she had just been speaking, 
 entered. 
 
 ' Dear Henry !' she cried as she sprang to his open arms 
 and fondly kissed him. 
 
 ' I see you have received my note !' said he, glancing down 
 at the letter which she held. 
 
 'Yes, dear Harry, and was pondering over its contents 
 when you rang the bell !' 
 
 ' Well, dear one, what do you think of it V 
 
 * Oh, Henry, I hardly know what to say. This is very soon 
 — and I should at least like to let my mother know of it !' 
 
 'It cannot be so, dear Isabella. You do not know the im- 
 portance of entire secrecy : my grandfather is even now ill : 
 one word from my mother would alter his will, which I Tcnov) 
 is made in my favour now, and if our marriage should reach 
 her ear in any way, it would blast my prospects for ever !' 
 
 ' But, Henry, mother would never betray our secret !' 
 
 'Isabella, I would not trust any one — hardly myself. I 
 would not even tell your brother, dearly as I love him !' 
 
 The maiden sighed but did not reply. Her better spirit 
 and the innate sense of propriety natural to her sex, was evi- 
 dently combating with her inclinations. Whitmore saw the 
 necessity of turning the balance, and, after pressing his lips 
 again warmly to her white brow, said : 
 
 ' It is useless to think any longer, Isabella. If you really 
 love, me you will consent !' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 1C5 
 
 £ If I really love you, Henry V repeated the maiden, with a 
 look of reproach, while her eyes tilled in an instant with 
 tears. 
 
 1 Forgive me, dearest ; I know you love me : but you must 
 be mine ;' urged the libertine, tenderly. 
 
 '1 will, Henry— I will,' murmured the maiden, and the 
 next moment she sealed the promise with a fond kiss. 
 
 * When V he asked, after passionately returning the warm 
 pressure of her pure lips. 'Shall it be as I wish, this night !' 
 
 1 Yes — if you desire it V murmured the blushing girl, and 
 she hid her face on his bosom. 
 
 1 Well, dearest, all will be ready. I have bought the ring 
 and engaged the clergyman. He and my sister will be the only 
 persons present !' 
 
 1 Can you trust him to keep the secret V 
 
 ' Yes. He is a friend of mine— a young man who has but 
 lately taken orders, and to-morrow starts upon a distant mission 
 to the West. This was one of my reasons for being in such a 
 hurry V 
 
 * Dear Henry, I was wrong to wish for delay !' 
 
 1 Well, dearest, it is all right now. You must tell your 
 mother that you have promised to spend a week with my sister, 
 who is a little unwell, and that you will come home to see her 
 every day or so. In that way you can get olY without suspicion, 
 i Ah, here she comes ' 
 
 The mother entered, and Whitmore, rising, saluted her 
 warmly, as usual. 
 
 She, with kind dignity, replied to his inquiry after her 
 health, and took the chair which the daughter placed for her. 
 
 ' I have a favour to ask of you, Mrs. Meadows !' said Henry, 
 when she was seated, ' It is that you will let Isabella go and 
 stay with my sister for a week. Poor Maria is sick and very 
 louesome !' 
 
 'I am sorry to hear it,' replied Mrs. Meadows. 'Though I 
 do not wish to appear selfish, I should be very lonesome too, 
 without my dear child !' 
 
 'I can come and see you, and ptay three or four hours every 
 day, mother, and Charles seems to fetay more at home in the 
 evenings than he used to do !' 
 
 4 Well, child, it shall be as you wish. I never wish to stand 
 for one moment in the way of those I love, or of any plan 
 which they may form for enjoyment,.' 
 
 'Theu I'll consider it a Rattled thing. I'il be back at sunset 
 with, a carriage !' cried Whitmore, gaily. After a few more 
 careless words, he turned and took his leave. 
 
 Oh, how that young girl yearned to tell her mother all — to 
 tell her that within a lew hours she would be a wife. 
 
 A wife? Oh, little did »he dream how she was to be 
 
 L 
 
16G 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 "wedded ; how worthless and false the ceremony would be, 
 ■which she had so dreaded for its solemnity ; how cold and hol- 
 low-hearted would be the vows which she should hear from 
 Henry Whitmore's lips that evening. 
 
 Of this let the reader judge. When Whitmore left the 
 house of Mrs. Me-idows, he hurried to the suite of rooro.3 oc- 
 cupied by his friend, Gus. Livingston. He found that worthy 
 laying back on a sofa, with a glass of hot whisky punch in one 
 hand, and one of Paul de Kock's novels in the other, seeming 
 to be enjoying both. 
 
 He lazily arose when his friend entered, and, with a careless 
 tone, said : 
 
 'Ah! is that you, Harry? Didn't know but it was Jim 
 Decatur, or some other one of the b'hoys ! How goes things ? 
 Have a punch, eh V 
 
 * No, I've no time for that ; I shall want you in that charac- 
 ter, to night, Gus ! I've got everything straight !' 
 
 ' What ! do you mean that which you were talking about 
 this morning — the priest V 
 
 4 Yes, you must play parson — you have a black suit, and 
 I've already got a grown and white cravat for you ! 
 
 ' But, dem the thing, that isn't all that's wanted P replied 
 Livingston, looking down at the very questionable volume 
 which he held in his hand — ' I need a prayer book !' 
 
 * I've got that too,' replied Whitmore, taking one from 
 his pocket ; 'you needn't fear that I'd forget anything !' 
 
 ' Who's going to give the girl away V asked Livingston, who 
 seemed particularly anxious to have everything done up in 
 proper style. 
 
 ' Herself, to be sure. You and Maria will be the only wit- 
 nesses.' 
 
 ' Where will the ceremony take place?' 
 ' In the back-parlour, at Madame I.'s !' 
 ' The old woman makes you pay up pretty high, for all this? 
 eh.' 
 
 ' Only a couple of hundred ! Maria comes it the heaviest 
 — she has a thousand !' 
 
 1 Whew ! She does take it large. How soon is the fun to 
 come off V 
 
 ' You be there at about seven. Come in a coach by yourself. 
 Here is fifty in small bills, it'll put you through for to- 
 night !' 
 
 ' Yes, I reckon, yes,' said the young fellow, with a careless 
 drawl as he pocketed the roll of bills which Harry gave him. 
 
 Whitmore then left to attend to other matters connected 
 "with his nefarious plan, and to make arrangements at the 
 house in Greenwich street, for the reception of his bride. 
 
 His bride ! Better far would it have been for her, had she 
 jbeen the bride of death I 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 107 
 
 When Whitmore left Isabella and Mrs. Meadows, she com- 
 menced telling her mother of some little preparations which 
 she wished to make before her intended visit, but ere she had 
 finished, her brother entered. 
 
 * Why, you are home very early to-night V said she, and 
 then as she glanced at him, she added in a tone of alarm, ' you 
 surely are unwell again ! Your face is deathly pale, and your 
 eyes are bloodshot !' 
 
 'It has been a busy dry, and I have been worried with my 
 accounts !' said he, but his tremulous tone and nervous 
 manner, spoke plainly of a deeper trouble. 
 
 His mother looked with a pitying eye upon him, and while 
 she pressed her hands tenderly upon his brow, said : 
 
 * Poor boy ! You have to work too hard !' 
 
 ' It will not be so, long, mother !' said the young man, and 
 J>oth his look and tone was wild when he spoke. 
 But she did not notice this, she only added : 
 'I hope not, my dear child. I cannot bear to see you toiling 
 away your very existence, and that for so small a salary !' 
 
 * My salary is raised, mother,' replied the young man. 
 ' Kaised, my boy ! what do you mean]' 
 
 'Mr. S gives me twelve hundred dollars ayear, after 
 
 to-day !' 
 
 1 Twelve hundred dollars? Thank God ! we can get along so 
 comfortable on that !' cried the mother, joyfully. 
 
 But her son did not join in her apparent pleasure — he 
 seemed sad and gloomy. He had that day suffered a shock 
 "which he could not easily recover from. What it was, the 
 Teader will learn in another chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 <.)n the next morning after his last interview with Carlton, 
 Meadows went to his employer's store, at his usual hour. 
 Though he entered it with a trembling and misgiving heart, 
 
 he was met by Mr. S with a kind smile, and his health 
 
 was inquired after with a manner of so much interest, that 
 his fears were at once dispelled. Yet his conscience waa 
 not at ease ; the very kindness with which the merchant met 
 him, added fuel to the tire of agony which Wis burning in his 
 heart. 
 
 The morning passed away until neir noon, and each moment 
 brought more quiet to the mind of Charles Meadows. He 
 had been busy in regulating his books, and had, as Carlton 
 directed, so made out his cash account that by his books it 
 appeared to be all in hand. 
 
168 
 
 MYSTERIES AXD MISERIES 
 
 It was noon, or a little after, and the hour when he usually 
 went to a neighbouring refectory for a lunch. Just as Charles 
 was about to leave the store, he saw a post man enter and 
 hand a letter to his employer. The latter opened it, and as 
 he did so, Charles, ever-suspicious now, saw first a flush of 
 surprise, then signs of agitation, pass over hi3 fine, honest face. 
 
 Meadows, however, was about to pass out, when Mr. S 
 
 called to him. 
 
 ' I should like to see you, Charles, when you are at leisure. 
 Here is a letter filled with very grave charges against you. 
 I hope you will disprove them !' 
 
 ' Sir 1' said Charles, blushing up to the eyes, * I do not 
 understand you !' 
 
 And yet he had heard every word that was spoken. 
 
 'If you were going out — never mind till you come back !' 
 said the old gentleman ; 'but be quick, Charles, for I have some 
 important business with you. 1 would like to look over your 
 books !' 
 
 ' Oh, certainly, sir. I was going out to take lunch ; I will 
 be back soon !' 
 
 * Very well, Charles ; you need not hurry— I will go and 
 look at your books while you are gone !' replied the old 
 gentleman, eyeing Charles very closely. 
 
 But the latter had now forced a calmness, which, to his too 
 confident employer, looked like natural composure, and as 
 he went out Mr. S said, in a low tone — 
 
 ' It cannot be true ! He has always appeared' steady, and 
 I've had him so long, and treated him so well, that he could not 
 rob me. I'll not believe it— yet it will do no harm to ex- 
 amine his books !' 
 
 Folding up the letter with a tremulous hand., the merchant 
 repaired to the desk used by Charles, to look o?er his 
 accounts. 
 
 CHAPTER Till. 
 
 Though when Charles Meadows left his employer's store, 
 
 after Mr. S had spoken to him, he appeared calm, his 
 
 heart was almost frozen with terror. He could not mistake 
 the look or words which he had received. He felt that the 
 dreadful hour had come, the hour when be would be ruined 
 for ever, or choose the course which would ruin his friend 
 and benefactor, and stamp his soul with that darkest of all 
 man's natural faults, ingratitude. 
 
 He thought but a moment as he hurried on, not toward the 
 refectory, but to the rooms of Carlton, and that moment's 
 thought determined him— weak, fata,! thought— to trust to 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 1 GO 
 
 Carlton rather than obey his heart's first impulse : to confess 
 his wrong, and abide by the mercy of his employer. 
 
 In a few moments he rushed, pallid and almost breathless, 
 into the room where Carlton sat with Selden, both of them 
 enjoying a glass of wine. As Meadows entered, a look of 
 fiendish triumph gathered upon the face of Carlton, and he 
 glanced at his companion with a look that told plainer than 
 words could:' • my plan has succeeded— be is in my power !' 
 
 Meadows did not notice the look, for the very next instant, 
 before he could speak, Carlton arose, offered his hand, and in 
 a gay tone, cried : 
 
 * Glad to see you, Charley ! You're just in time to take a 
 glass of wine ; sit down and join us !' 
 
 ' No, air, no wine for me !' gasped Meadows, in a low, husky 
 tone, while he gasped the hand of Carlton, convulsively. 
 1 I've no time for that ! I wish to see you alone a moment !' 
 
 ' Ah, alone, eh ! Very well. Excuse me for a few moments, 
 Sam, I'll be down directly !' replied the gambler, coolly 
 taking his glass of wine. Then as he rose he turned to 
 Charles and said : 
 
 * We'll go up into the same room where we had our last 
 interview, if you please ! 
 
 ' Anywhere ! Anywhere, so that we can be alone ! re- 
 plied the young man, nervously. 
 
 The gambler said no more, but led the way to the room. 
 
 When they entered he drew an easy chair up to the table 
 whereon ink, pens, and writing paper laid carelessly, and 
 motioning the clerk to a seat, said : 
 
 ' Well, Cnarley, what's up now 1 ?' 
 
 'Have you got the money I told you I had robbed from 
 S r 
 
 ' Well, I reckon I have as much ! W r hat is the sum V 
 
 ■ Seventeen thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars •' 
 replied Meadows, trembling at every word. 
 
 ' Yes, I've got it; but I thought you'd take more ! 
 
 'No; 1 have balanced my books this morning, and that is 
 the exact deficit.' 
 
 * But you gave credit as if you had it all in the safe V 
 'Yes, but I have not one cent there, and the old man has 
 
 just demanded to look over my accounts ! Some villain has 
 written a note to him about me ; I don't know what is in it! ' 
 
 'A note! Who could have written it]' exclaimed the 
 gambler, in a tone of innocent surprise, which was well sus- 
 tained by his looks. 
 
 'I know not— do not care; if you do not let me have the 
 money, 1 am lost, ruined for ever !' 
 
 ' Don't fret, then, my dear fellow — don't fret ! I have 
 the money here at your service -all in different sized notes 
 
176 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 on various banks, so as not to look at all suspicious ! I'll 
 count it out for you !' 
 
 ' Oh, God Almighty bless you !' cried Charles, earnestly, 
 and tears streamed down his chetks. ' I shall yet be saved, 
 and my poor mother and sister will not be disgraced.' 
 
 1 Of course not — of course not !' said Carlton hastily. 
 Then handing Charles a paper, he added : 
 
 * Here, sign that little document while I count out the 
 money for you !' 
 
 Whil6 he proceeded to count up a large roll of bank notes, 
 Charles took up the paper and commenced reading it. 
 
 1 What is this V he cried, in a tone of astonishment, before 
 he had read half a dozen lines. 
 
 ' Read it all — read on !' responded Carlton, * it is only a 
 security which I want for the fulfilment of your conditions. 
 You surely do not expect me to lend you nearly twenty thou- 
 sand dollars without any security V 
 
 Meadows did read it through. 
 
 * My God, sir !' he cried, in utter astonishment, * do you 
 expect me to sign this — a full acknowledgment of my guilt in 
 robbing my employer of ' 
 
 ' Just seventeen thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars. 
 I'll fill up the blank I left, for then I did not know the exact 
 3um V interrupted Carlton, drawing the paper towards him 
 and making the entry. 
 
 1 But, Mr. Carlton, you do not expect me to sign this 
 paper? — and, besides, here is a bond, by which I am to pledge 
 myself to obey your directions, in case you pay this money 
 for me !' 
 
 'Certainly,' replied the gambler, calmly. 'I expect you 
 to sisrn both documents !' 
 
 ' Then, sir, your expectations will be disappointed ! I will 
 not sign !' replied Meadows, with a bitter tone of desperation.' 
 
 ' Of course you have aright to do just as you please, sir, 
 with your signature. But I also reserve a right to do as I 
 please with my money !' responded the gambler, even yet 
 more calm. As he spoke, he quietly replaced the bank-notes 
 in his pocket book, and putting it in his pocket, arose as if to 
 leave the room. 
 
 * Oh, villain ! Villain ! Have you no heart f cried the 
 despairing clerk. 
 
 ' I should think I had,' replied Carlton, * when I offer to 
 give you such a sum upon your simple promise to do me a 
 favour !' 
 
 ' Is there no other way ? I will work till I die to pay you, 
 interest and all, if you will only lend it to me !' 
 
 1 There is no use in trifling, Mr. Meadows,' replied the fiend, 
 'you have but one way of getting the money. Sign !' and 
 he pointed to the paper. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 171 
 
 ' I will not— I cannot !' moaned the unhappy clerk. 
 
 1 Then I will wish you a good-day, and a prosperous trip to 
 ►Sing Sing ! I shall look lor the Herald bright and early in 
 the morning. Bennet will give us all particulars, I hope I 1 
 
 The gambler smiled, as only he could emile, and started 
 toward the door. For a moment the wretched young man 
 stood as if spell-bound, then sprung across the room at a 
 single bound, and foil on his knees between Carlton and the 
 door. 
 
 ■ Mercy ! Save me !' he cried. 
 
 1 Sign !' sternly replied the gambler, pointing towards the 
 paper. 
 
 4 Oh, anything but that ! Fiend, if you are a devil, remem- 
 ber that you were born of a woman !' 
 
 1 Very complimentary, upon my word, especially from one 
 who asks a favour !' replied the gambler, sarcastically, yet 
 still apparently preserving his temper. 
 
 The poor clerk was driven to the last pitch of despair. He 
 arose again to his feet, and while his face became more and 
 more pale, his lips were compressed and bloodless. Hi3 eyes 
 glared with a light far more intense than natural, his form 
 seemed to dilate and swell into a larger size, and bis nostrils 
 expanded like those of a war-horse snuffing the battle-storm. 
 
 * I'll thank you to move out of my way, sir; I wish to go 
 down and finish my wine !' said the gambler, in a mild tone, 
 fixing his eye upon the maddened clerk. 
 
 ' Villain ! will you give me the money]' 
 
 1 I'm very sorry, indeed — but can't afford to accommodate 
 you on any other terms than those I've mentioned,' replied 
 Carlton. 
 
 •Then, by heaven if entreaty won't melt you. force shall I 1 
 shouted the desperate young man, and as the words left his 
 lips, he sprung at the gambler with the bound of a tiger. 
 
 But Carlton had anticipated this from his looks, and step- 
 ping a little aside, so as to avoid the plunge, reached out his 
 foot, and tripped the other as he rushed forward. 
 
 Meadows fell heavily on his face, and the blood gushed in 
 a torrent from his nose. Carlton did not try to keep him 
 down, but stood and looked at him calmly, his arms folded, 
 and not the slightest sign of agitation in his manner. 
 
 The clerk slowly arose — but his appearance was changed. 
 The tire in his eye was gone — he was, if possible, still more 
 deathly pale than before. He seemed to gasp for breath. 
 
 'Oh, God !' he murmured — 'water— 1 am faint ! Give me 
 water — 1 will sign !' 
 
 He would have fallen again, had not Carlton caught and 
 supported him in his arms. He steadied him back to a chair 
 beside the table, then rang the bell which lay at hand. 
 
 Eliza, the servant girl, appeared. 
 
172 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Some water— a bowl and a napkin 1' said her master. 1 Be 
 in a hurry — the gentleman's nose has taken to bleeding, and 
 he is faint !' 
 
 The servant did not answer, but hurried to obey her orders. 
 
 The basin of water was brought, also some of the same 
 cooling liquid in a tumbler. 
 
 With as much apparent kindness as if he had been a bro- 
 ther, Carlton washed the blood from the young man's face, and 
 aided to stop the bleeding. After he had drank some of the 
 water, Meadows began to recover, and soon was able to breathe 
 freely and epeak. 
 
 'Too much time has been lost,' he said, with a shudder : 
 'give me the paper — I will sign !' 
 
 Carlton handed him the pen and paper. The young man 
 took it, and without a tremor signed his name. He was 
 calm — but it was the stillness of desperation. As soon as it 
 was done, Carlton looked at the paper, then said : 
 
 ' You've no objection to a witness that this is your signa- 
 ture?' 
 
 ' Do as you please, only give me the money !' replied the 
 clerk, in a subdued tone. 
 
 ' Here, Eliza,' said Carlton to the girl who had awaited his 
 orders, ' put your name here !' 
 
 The servant obeyed. 
 
 ' Now, Eliza, bring us a bottle of that old wine !' added the 
 gambler. 
 
 'No wine for me:— the money, and let me go!* said 
 Meadows, imploringly. 
 
 ' I'll give you the money, of course,' responded the other, 
 ' but you must take a glass of wine ! You look dreadfully. — 
 
 Old S would be sure to suspect something. Put a little 
 
 more water over your face, and then wipe it dry.' 
 
 "While Meadows was doing this, Carlton again counted out 
 the money and handed it to the clerk, who clutched it, even 
 as if it were some antidote for a deadly poison which he had 
 been taking. 
 
 Eliza came in with the wine, and, after swallowing a bum- 
 per, Meadows started from his seat to return to the store. 
 
 ' Stop one moment, if you please !' said Carlton. 
 
 'What, is there more for me to do? For God's sake, have 
 I not done all that you asked V 
 
 ' Yes, to be sure, my dear boy, but just go to the glass there,, 
 and brush your hair before you go out. You look like a fright. 
 Calm and compose yourself, so as to carry it through bravely. 
 Come, another glass of wine !' 
 
 'No more— 1 do not need it !' replied the clerk. The next 
 moment he was gone. 
 
 ' Well managed, by Jupiter !' muttered Carlton, as hie 
 victim disappeared. • This is what I call lending money at 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 173 
 
 five thousand per cent, interest.' And he chuckled as he took 
 the bond and confession, and put it away in the place lefc 
 vacant by the money which he had given to the clerk. 
 
 The latter hurried away to meet his employer, and it is 
 probable that his walk, and the consciousness of having the 
 money, made him more calm, for that he fully succeeded in 
 quieting the fears of his employer, and satisfying him of hia 
 honesty, and the slanderous falsity of the anonymous note, 
 is proved by the announcement which he made to his mother 
 on that evening, when he returned home, as described in our 
 sixth chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 It was evening, twilight, we mean, on the fourth day after 
 Mrs. Abingdon had vi.-ited the Indian fortune-teller. Air. A. 
 had been absent all day on a trip to a neighbouring town, for 
 still he kept up the search, day after day, for hia lost boy. 
 He had not yet returned, and as darkness began to come on, 
 Mrs. A. put on her bonnet, veil and thick cloak, then calling 
 her servant, Paid : 
 
 * Katrine, I am going out to spend the evening with a friend ; 
 if your master Cumes home before I do, tell him not to be 
 alarmed, I will come back in a carriage.' 
 
 The girl replied, and the next moment Mrs. A. was on her 
 way to the Indian fortune teller's as fast as her feeble limb3 
 would carry her. On arriving at the house, she saw that a 
 carriage w;<r> indeed in waiting, and also noticed that the hones 
 harnessed before it were not matched in colour, one being 
 dark, the other white. It looked more like a common hack, 
 too, than a private coach. 
 
 Bnt she did not pause to look at it, only noticing the pecu- 
 liarity in a glance, while she knocked at the door which once 
 before bad been opened unto her. 
 
 The same dwarf appeared to admit her, and she next found 
 herself before the Indian woman. 
 
 'You are here and ready !' said the Indian. 
 
 ■ 1 am, but let me go quickly. I wish to rind out about my 
 child, and get home before my husband returns !' 
 
 1 You need not fear,' retnrned the fortune-teller. 1 He will 
 not be at home until nearly two o'clock.' 
 
 1 What ! so late ? How can you tell — where is he f 
 
 ' He is now in a small town in New Jersey. He will return, 
 by the Philadelphia late train of cars.' 
 
 * On, heaven ! How strange is this ! how can yon tell P 
 'Woman, a?k not how, only mark that which I say is? re- 
 plied the fortune-teller. 
 
174 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 * But, my child ; when can I go to this man, whom you call 
 your master V asked the lady. 
 
 ' Have you brought his offering V 
 
 ' If yoa mean the money, I have it here. There are five 
 hundred dollars in that purse !' replied Mrs. A., handing the 
 woman a purse which was round with its fullness. 
 
 The woman took it and went behind the curtain of the 
 back room. While she was absent Mrs. A. heard whispering, 
 and the clink of the gold as it was counted out, but before 
 she could revolve the reason of these whisperings in her 
 mind, the woman returned. 
 
 ' The offering is good — the amount right,' she said, f you 
 shall now go to Genlis, the king of all the Gipseys in 
 America. His mirror will show thee thy boy, wherever he 
 may be !' 
 
 1 Oh, haste then, to take me there !' 
 
 * I will, lady, but you must first be blindfolded.' 
 
 ' Anything— anything, to pee my lost Willie !' And then 
 the lady permitted a large black shawl to be bound tightly 
 around her head, covering her eyes with several folds, only 
 leaving her room to breathe freely. 
 
 The moment after this was done, the voice of a man was 
 heard close by her side ; not a gruff or discordant tone, but 
 soft and calm, even as gentle as that used by her own husband 
 in his fondest moods. 
 
 ' Gome, lady,' said the man ' take my arm and fear not ; 
 you are under my care and protection 1' 
 
 There was something in his tone even more soothing to one 
 so nervous as Mrs. A. than the harsh tones of the Indian ; 
 though she trembled, she clung to the arm through which he 
 placed hers. 
 
 * To the carriage now — it will not take very long !' added 
 the man, and she walked on, soon finding by the cold air that 
 she was in the street, next finding herself gently lifted into 
 the carriage. 
 
 Her conductor entered, seated himself by her side, and, 
 without having received any audible orders the driver started 
 off at a very rapid speed. 
 
 The person who sat with Mrs. A. seemed from his address 
 to be a man of genteel manners and general information, and 
 as the carriage hurried on, endeavoured to open a conversation. 
 But she wa3 too frightened to more than answer his remarks 
 by monosyllabic expressions, and he soon became silent. 
 
 The carriage all this time seemed to be driven at a rapid 
 rate, and Mrs. A. supposed that she was driving directly out 
 of the city. After full an hour had passed, she ventured to 
 ask of her companion : 
 
 'Are we not nearly there?' 
 
 1 Y«s, within about a mile !' replied the man, and the 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 carriage kept on, still jolting over the paving-stones, when, 
 from the distance gone, it ought to have been out upon some 
 unpaved road. 
 
 Tor full a quarter of an hour more the carriage kept on, 
 but at the expiration of this time they stopped. 
 
 Her conductor quickly alighted, and before he handed her 
 out of the carriage went to speak to the driver. 
 
 She took advantage of this moment of non-surveillance to 
 draw her scissors from her pocket, and cut a single cord from 
 the tassel of the coach which hung on the side next to her, 
 and to replace the scissors and cord in her pocket before the 
 man returned. 
 
 This, though it occupied not ten seconds, was scarcely done 
 before her conductor was again at the coach door. 
 
 'You will alight here, madam!' he said, and then he 
 reached out his hand to assist her in doing so. 
 
 She took his arm, after getting upon the pavement, and 
 soon judged from the absence of fresh air that she was 
 ontering an alley. Next her guide paused, and by the sound 
 of a bell rung by him, she judged that she was at a door. She 
 was right, for she heard the door swing on its hinge3 ; then 
 as they advanced she felt a carpet under her feet. In another 
 instant they commenced ascending stairs ; then after walking 
 along a carpeted passage they descended stairs, and in a mo- 
 ment were in the open air again, but not apparently passing 
 through the door by which they had entered. 
 
 I What does all this mystery mean I* asked the lady, begin- 
 ning to be frightened. 
 
 * Genlis, the King, wishes it !' replied her guide, ' do not 
 fear, there is no danger V 
 
 They went on ; but Mrs. A. supposed by the feeling of the 
 cold air, as well as by the brick pavement beneath her feet, 
 that she was again in the street. Yet this was not the case, 
 as subsequent pages will prove. But they went on and on 
 until Mrs. A. became impatient, thinking that she had al- 
 ready walked several blocks. 
 
 ' Have we not nearly arrived at the place V she murmured, 
 1 1 am so tired !' 
 
 * Ten steps more, fair lady, and we are there,' replied her 
 guide. 
 
 The steps seemed short ones to her, for she was conscious of 
 entering a door the next moment, and after passing but a 
 little way, found herself seated carefully on a soft and yield- 
 ing sofa. 
 
 Then a female voice addressed her in a tone of uncommon 
 sweetness. 
 
 ' Are you fatigued or frightened, lady V 
 
 I I am tired; but are we there V 
 
 1 You are in the dwelling of Genlis I' replied the voice. 
 
176 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 f Then let me see my child. May I take this bandage from 
 my eyes?' 
 
 ' Count one thousand, silently but truly,' replied the 
 stranger, * then remove it !' 
 
 The lady was about to commence, when again the other 
 female spoke. 
 
 ' You must remember,' said she, ' not to speak, whatever 
 you may see, else the charm will dissolve in an instant ! 
 You would see a child, a blue-eyed, golden-haired boy, whom 
 you have lost V 
 
 *I would !' replied Mrs. A., rapidly recovering her presence 
 of mind, with the assurance that one of her own sex was near. 
 
 ' Then,' replied the other, ' be calm — see, but do not open 
 your lips ! Count on, and when the thousand is told, take off 
 your veil !' 
 
 Audibly, but with a trembling voice, did the poor mother 
 commence counting ten hundred units. How long seemed to 
 her the time ; how slowly her powers of utterance seemed to 
 work. But she finished. 
 
 With atremuloushand she untied the bandage which covered 
 her eyes. When this was done, a blaze of light, coming, she 
 could not see from where, seemed to blind her, but either the 
 light grew more dim, or she soon got more used to it, lor she 
 could now look around the room. It was of an oblong shape, 
 and hung altogether with black. A chill ran through every 
 vein of Mrs. A., when she saw this, for it at once seemed 
 ominous of the death of her child; but ere these thoughts had 
 time to settle into her almost fear-frozen heart, she saw at 
 the upper end of the room, a beautiful being which looked 
 more like an angel than a being of earth. 
 
 It appeared to be a woman, for a woman's peerless form, 
 her swelling bosom, tapering waist, full lips, and limbs at 
 once voluptuous, yet delieate, were there, but too slightly 
 hidden by a light gauze, short dress, such as is worn by the 
 stage- dancers, even much more transparent. Woman as she 
 was, Mrs. A. blushed as she looked, yet gazed at this beautiful 
 vision. It did not move — it seemed to be a Etatue or a wax- 
 figure. If so, it was indeed perfect. As it was turned quar- 
 ter-face toward her, Mrs. A. saw that it had large, black, 
 mournful -looking eyes, that seemed turned toward heaven, 
 even as if in prayer ; its lashes were long and silky, its hair 
 curling and jetty black. In complexion it was very clear, 
 yet not so fair, nor so pale as even Mrs. A. was. Yet in 
 symmetry of figure, it was perfect. 
 
 She looked at it in silent surprise, for she remembered her 
 warning not to speak. She then noted that it stood close to- 
 the upper end of the room, some forty or fifty feet from her, 
 and close beside a curtain of black velvet which hung over 
 that end of the room. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 177 
 
 While she still gazed in silent astonishment upon this 
 beautiful creature, a deep, heavy, but not unmusical voice 
 was heard close beside her, saying : 
 
 'So, this daughter of mortals would test the skill of 
 Gen lis V 
 
 She turned quickly and saw by her side a very tall and sin- 
 gular-looking man, whose dress was as odd and quite in unison 
 with his personal appearance. He was, we have just said, 
 rather tall ; his eyes were black as night, his complexion as 
 dark as a Moor's (not quite as dark as the negro Othello's of 
 our present theatre), and his look stern and commanding. 
 
 The poor lady trembled as she gazod, she could not speak. 
 She glanced again at the person — saw that his dress was of 
 Turkish or Persian style, she did not know which, and as his 
 face seemed to unbend its sternness beneath her fearful and 
 imploring gaze, she gathered strength to say : 
 
 ' If you are this Geniis, the Gipsey king, do show me my 
 child!' 
 
 ' Daughter, beware, and dare not to speak or move ! One 
 word or motion will be enough to break the charm !' 
 
 As he said this, the strange being moved a wand which ho 
 held in his hand, and, as he did so, the beautiful vision at the 
 upper end of the room knelt upon the floor. Then the cur- 
 tain slowly arose, disclosing to the anxiou3 mother a plain 
 mirror — a very large one, occupying the other end of the 
 room. When the curtain had been rolled up to the ceiling, 
 which seemed to be done by invisible hands, Mrs. A. noticed 
 that a kind of fog or smoke seemed fa3t gathering over the 
 face of the mirror. Still she looked on, until the mirror bore 
 the appearance of a sky, through which the white scud of the 
 wild storm is flying. Then, when her heart had become almost 
 still from fear and anxiety, the clouds seemed to stop, and 
 right in their midst arose a form — the form of a young child. 
 Oh, how she gazed at it, while yet the clouds seemed to hide 
 some of its proportions, but in a few moments it wa3 plainly 
 visible. 
 
 There he stood, her own Willie, dressed in the very clothes 
 which he had worn when she had last seen him — garments 
 proudly made by her own hands; therewith his glad blue 
 eyes and bright brown hair, lie seemed to look a little moi ■'• 
 pale ; but even this might have been fancy with her. 
 
 Tell a mother not to speak or move under such circum - 
 stances ! Better bid the ocean go to sleep, or the north-we.it 
 blast to hold its peace ! 
 
 She gazed one long, long minute. She was satisfied that it 
 waaheT 
 
 She gave one wild shriek : 
 
 ' My child ! my child ! it is my boy !' then rushed towar:' 
 the spot. As she did so, she heard a coiae like the hissing of 
 
178 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 a serpent — then a rumbling, like distant thunder. Her 
 strength failed ! she trembled — fell to the floor. 
 
 It might have been but a minute, it might have been an 
 hour that she was insensible — she knew not how long; for 
 when she recovered, Genlis, the Gipsey King, was bending over 
 her, applying restoratives, such as are commonly used. 
 
 The curtain was still up — the angelic form still knelt close 
 beside it, and the mirror was yet in view. But the latter was 
 plain, nothing but the bright glass could be seen. 
 
 As she came to her senses the lady murmured — 
 
 * Where has he gone ? Oh, it was him ! it was him !' 
 
 * Lady. 1 warned you not to speak or move !' replied Genlis : 
 1 you broke the charm !' 
 
 ' Then, was it not real V 
 
 ' I may not say, but had you remained still, you would have 
 learned more !' 
 
 ' Oh, try it once more. I will not even breathe !' murmured 
 the mother. 
 
 'I cannot now. If you would again look in the Magic 
 Mirror, it must be at another time !' 
 
 1 When, oh, when? I will indeed look at it again !' 
 
 ' Then be where you entered the carriage to-night, four 
 evenings from now !' 
 
 ' I will — I will !' replied the lady. ' Oh, why did I speak V 
 
 ' It cannot now be helped, lady. The Fates willed it ; be 
 patient and hopeful — you yet may see and recover your child, 
 but it will be after many trials and much expense !' 
 
 * I care not, oh, I care not, so that I once more may clasp 
 him to my arms !' replied the mother. 
 
 * You shall,' replied the Gipsey; but it is all over for this 
 time ; you must again be veiled and return as you came !' 
 
 'Bat, why all this mystery V 
 
 * Because this is a land of stern laws and great unbelief ! 
 AVe must be secret ! You have sworn to keep this visit and 
 its sights a secret, even from your husband. Pledge me the 
 same, even as you did Julia !' 
 
 ' Why — why must I keep it from him V 
 'It is enough that you must ! Promise, or you shall never 
 see your infant more ! 
 
 'I promise !' murmured the woman. 
 
 The Gipsey now proceeded to veil her as before, then she 
 was led out into the air, and after walking a short distance, 
 replaced in the carriage. It was driven off very fast, and now 
 there seemed to be no one inside of the coach with her. She 
 however, di I not move or speak, and for an hour the coach 
 rattled along, while she sat trembling in it. 
 
 At last it stopped ; the steps were let down, and a man 
 having the Irish brogue on his tongue, said : 
 
 1 You can get out here, ma'am !' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 17'J 
 
 She did so, and while she waited to have the bandage pulled 
 from her eyes, she heard the steps put up, the carriage door 
 shut to, and then heard it rattle upon the pavement ae it was 
 driven rapidly off. 
 
 She then dared to take off the bandage herself. To her sur- 
 prise she found herself before her own door. Had it not been 
 ibr the black shawl in her hands, and the distant rattling of 
 the receding carriage, she would have believed herself in a 
 dream, but she could not. All had been but too real, and, 
 moreover, reader, strange as is this 1 mystery' it is no romance, 
 as the sequel will prove; no formation of our fancy, but a 
 true account of a real occurrence in this city. It may now 
 appear strange and supernatural, we will see by and bye how 
 it will look. 
 
 When Mr*. A. rang the bell and was admitted by Katrine, 
 she asked for her hnsband. He had not yet returned home, 
 She began indeed now to believe all she had seen and heard, 
 though she never had been superstitious before. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 When Carlton had dismissed Meadows, after securing the 
 bond, he returned to his confederate, Selden. 
 
 * Succeeded V asked the dark-browed villain. 
 
 He needed not to inquire— the look of triumph gleaming 
 from Carlton's eyes was enough to tell him that he had not 
 failed. 
 
 'Of course,' replied the gambler; 'when did I ever fail in 
 any thing I tried to turn my hand to !' 
 
 ' How did he act— did he take the conditions easilv V 
 
 * About as easily as a spoiled child takes ipecac. First a fit 
 of the sullen — then a trial of the pathetic — to close up, a 
 a grand effort at the tragic .' 
 
 ' Which you ' 
 
 1 Tripped in an instant. When he found it was my con- 
 ditions or no money, he concluded to sell himself. He is now 
 my slave — he dare not call his soul his own V 
 
 ' By Jove, but you should have been a king — you would 
 have lorded it nobly on a throne !' cried Selden, apparently in 
 real admiration of the deep villany of his master. 
 
 'I would, if I had been born as the Czar of Russia, lord 
 over the lives of millions of subjects. Then I would have 
 Kinged it, indeed, for there should be no will but mine, no eye 
 that dare to gaze upon me without I willed it. Then, we 
 would see whether 1 would be spurned, hated, scorned, as I 
 am now, simply because I am a gambler ! 1 can't go into the 
 Jbest society ; why ] because I am a sporting man. Men, mer« 
 
180 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 chants and aristocrats will come here to my rooms and play with 
 me — they will drink wine and eat at my table, they meet and 
 shake hands with me, here, but when I meet them in the street, 
 the gentlemen cannot recognise me. They never invite me to 
 their houses. Though my wife is perhaps as well educated, 
 and as agreeable as any of theirs, she never can be invited out 
 to see them. Curse such consistency, say I ; if they can asso- 
 ciate with me at one time, 1 can't see why they should not at 
 others ! I don't care so much for myself as I do for the sake 
 of my wife I' 
 
 'She manages to do very well,' replied Selden, with ap- 
 parent carelessness. ' I reckon she's not much at a loss for 
 company !' 
 
 ' Company, Sam 1 Why she hardly ever goes out, and ' 
 
 ' Excepting in the evening, pretty often !' replied Selden, 
 
 still in his careless tone, interrupting Carlton. 
 
 ' In the evening ! Why, Sam, what are you talking about? 
 
 This very morning my wife told mo that she was sick aud 
 
 tired of living so lonely — that she had not been out of the 
 
 house once for ten days !' 
 
 * Indeed !' exclaimed Selden in a tone very expressive of 
 doubt. 
 
 ' Yes ; do you know to the contrary V 
 
 * Why if she says so, it's against my rule to contradict a 
 
 lady, but never mind, we'll drop the subject V [replied 
 
 Selden, still more careless in his apparent tone. Yet he was 
 using the very means to fan the flame, to awake the sleeping 
 jealousy of that fiery husband, and well he knew it. 
 
 The husband looked him sternly in the eye, for a moment 
 after he had last spoken, then, while his face grew a shade 
 more pale than usual, if possible, and his blue lip quivered 
 with excitement, he said in a husky voice : 
 
 ' Sam, don't put the devil in me ! I know that woman, 
 but I've not been jealous of her lately— I hope I've no cause 
 to be P 
 
 ' I hope not !' replied the Iago still in his quiet insinuating 
 tone. 
 
 ' You hope not ! Sam, you mean something ; yes, by 
 Heaven, you know something ! Are you my friend !' 
 
 'If you don't know that, and cannot judge mo by an in- 
 timacy of years, my words will never satisfy you of it !' 
 
 ' Right, Sam, right. Yes, I know and have often proved 
 your friendship. I'm calm now — go on and tell me all. 
 You know something about my wife !' 
 
 Carlton said that he was calm. He was so, calm as the 
 full-charged storm-cloud, full almost to bursting with 
 lightning and thunder and the sweeping wind which bows 
 the forest ; calm as that cloud when it settles down towards 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 181 
 
 the earth and hides the face of heaven from the terrified 
 worms ot mortality. 
 
 Selden saw this, and his following hesitation only served to 
 add to the power of the storm. 
 
 1 Speak— don't tritle with me ! Tf you know anything 
 about her, tell me of it !' cried Carlton, evidently each 
 moment more agitated. 
 
 * Don't get excited, my friend,' cried Selden — ' don't get 
 excited, I've not said that 1 knew anything !' 
 
 ' No, you have not said it — but. I know you do. Now, do tell 
 me, that's a good fellow, Sam, I'll be calm — calm as if I was at 
 the board with a big game on hand. See, I'm calm and 
 quiet now ; I was a little excited for a moment, but I'm 
 quiet as a lamb now !' 
 
 If quivering lips, eyes reddened and flashing with but 
 half suppressed excitement, the muscles of the face twitching 
 as with spasmodic convulsions, the hands clutched until the 
 blood seemed about to burst from beneath the finger-nails, 
 the whole frame of the man trembling — denoted calmness, 
 then was that villanous gambler calm. 
 
 However, Selden had his game to play, and well did he 
 know, — thief, murderer, wretch, libertine, accomplished as 
 he was in all the phases of villany — how to play it. His eye, 
 lustful, far more than that of Tarquin ; his heart more 
 cowardly in its lust than that of lachmo; his intent deeper 
 and his soul darker than lago's; his whole character so black, 
 that if the combined iniquity of Sodom and Gomorrah could 
 be condensed, boiled-down, and then distilled into a quantity 
 the si/.i of his heart, it would not be half so black, so vile, 
 so devilish, as that heart ! This is the character of the 
 original of him, whom we have taken as our Sam Selden. 
 He is a true character, as too many of our readers know, 
 especially ladies, for he is ever on the fashionable pro- 
 menades, and if he observes a lady whose beauty or manner 
 strikes him, he is sure to follow and annoy her. We have 
 given his description before, but it will be no harm to renew 
 it. He is of middle size, slim, well made, always gentedbj 
 dressed ; wears a jet black beard and moustache, has very 
 white teeth which he is very fond of showing ; a high, fair 
 brow, a little overhanging his large, jet-black eyes. His com- 
 plexion pale, his manner calm and dignified. 
 
 Fair readers, this description is given for your benefit. We 
 know we have made out this man handsome — he is so — the 
 serpent, which, seducing Eve from her duty to God and her 
 husband, brought misery and wretchedness into the world, 
 was also beautiful. 
 
 The villain is a snake — you can see it in hi3 fiery eyes— as 
 such beware of him, for we have given his exact description. 
 M 
 
182 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 So much for him— the assassin, gambler, and libertine. We 
 will now resume the thread of our story. When Carlton 
 begged him to go on, saying that he was calm, Selden replied : 
 
 * I will not say a word, without you will promise me two 
 things !' 
 
 < What are they ?' 
 
 ' The first is, that you will offer no harm to your wife, what- 
 ever her conduct may have been !' 
 
 * Well, the second V cried the other impatiently. 
 
 ' That you will never tell her that I had anything to do 
 with informing you !' 
 
 ' Leave me the first out — the second I will agree to, wil- 
 lingly !' 
 
 ' No, Carlton, both or neither !' 
 
 ' Then both let it be. Now go on, and tell me all !' 
 
 * You will offer her no violence]' 
 
 ' No — no ! I have said I would not — that is enough !' 
 ' Ye3, for your word is better than your bond to a friend !' 
 ' Well — well, go on, tell me all ! Is she false to me V cried 
 Carlton, his voice trembling with agitation. 
 
 ' She told you that she had not been out for ten days f 
 
 * Yes, this very morning she said so !' 
 
 * Then on this very morning she told a lie. Night before 
 last, you went out early to see some of your friends, did you 
 not V 
 
 ' Yes, I did, I believe !' 
 
 ' You told her you could not spend the evening with her ; 
 that you had business which would keep you out till it was 
 time for the bank to open V 
 
 ' Yes, but how did you know that V 
 
 * You told me !' 
 
 e Ah, did 1 1 Well, go on, I had forgotten !' 
 
 ' You went out : you had not been gone twenty minutes, 
 •when I saw a female come down stairs. She was dressed very 
 commonly; had on your servant's cloak and bonnet, and a 
 thick, green veil. I thought that she didn't look quite so 
 tall as Eliza ; and as I had nothing to do before the bank 
 opened, I thought I'd take a walk, and see who it was that; 
 kept her face veiled so close !' 
 
 ' Well, well— go on, tell me all ! Was it she 1 ?' cried Carlton, 
 becoming more and more excited. 
 
 'Just keep cool, and you shall hear !' replied Selden, delibe- 
 rately pouring out a glass of wine and swallowing it (the wine, 
 not the glass). 
 
 He then continued : 
 
 * I found she hurried on up Broadway, so I took the other 
 side and kept even with her, careful all the time not to lose 
 3ight of her. We went on in this way until we got up to 
 Leonard Street, where she turned to cross over to the right- 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 183 
 
 hand aide of Broadway. I slunk back into the shade of the 
 houses, and she didn't see me, and then as she passed on, I 
 followed. Before I had gone ten steps further, she was met 
 by a man who had evidently been waiting for her, and taking 
 his arm, walked on up the street. 
 
 ' But who was this woman — was this my wife !' cried 
 Oarlton, now excited almost beyond the control of his reso- 
 lution. 
 
 ' Be calm, my friend ; be calm, as you promised, and hear 
 all ! I will have my own way of telling this story !' replied 
 Selden. 
 
 And then he continued : 
 
 * When I saw this, I shifted over to the other side of the 
 street, and walked on — ' 
 
 Did you know who the man was?' asked Carlton. 
 
 • Yes : I recognised him by the light of the lamp that stands 
 in front of one of the five-story brick boarding-houses there I* 
 
 ' Well, who is he]' 
 
 'Just let me tell my ^tory my own way, if you please,* said 
 Selden, filling himself another glass of wine, and drinking it 
 leisurely. 
 
 • Well, go on— go on ! You seem to take your time about it!' 
 
 I Ye3, I generally do in everything,' replied the villain, and 
 then he continued his story. 
 
 I I kept on up the street, a very little further back on the 
 other side, until we got to Canal- street, and here 1 saw they 
 were about to cross over. While they waited for a chance, 
 for some passing omnibuses kept them back, I crossed over 
 to Canal, and standing close in the shade of the brick store 
 at the corner, watched them till they crossed over and passed 
 me, keeping down along the north tide of Canal. 
 
 ' I followed now, at about ten or fifteen steps distance 
 keeping close in the shade of the houses, and wrapping 
 my large Spanish cloak close up around my face. They kept 
 
 on until they had got to street, here they paused at 
 
 the corner, and the lady, after a few words, passed on to the 
 next street. The man, as soon a? she had gone on, went up 
 
 the west side of street a few doors, and stopping before 
 
 the door of a three story brick house, rung the bell. He was 
 admitted. 1 then knew why the lady bad gone on : there was 
 a back entrance to the same house !' 
 
 ' Yes, it was Madame 's, but the woman, was she my 
 
 wife r 
 
 ' Wait till the time comes, I tell you !' replied Selden, 
 * hear the story my own way, or don't hear it at all !' 
 
 ' Well, go on ; for God's sake go on, I'm half crazy !' 
 
 The lago first poured out another glass of wine, then, after 
 drinking it, continued : 
 
 * When I was fully satisfied of the drift of the game, and 
 
MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 saw the man whom I spotted and Inev, go into this assigns* 
 tion-house, I resolved to see who the woman was, for as yet I 
 had not made up my mind about her, though 1 had my mis- 
 givings !' 
 
 1 Well, go on ; do make haste !' cried Carlton, nervously. 
 
 * Plenty of time— plenty of time ! don't get yourself into a 
 pet !' replied Selden. 
 
 ' I'm not fretting, but, go on. You take things as easy 
 as if you were preaching me a sermon •' 
 Se.lden continued : 
 
 * Therefore, to make sure who she was, I went around to- 
 the back entrance and took a station in the shade opposite to 
 it, across the street, and waited. 
 
 ' After I had been there about an hour, the same woman 
 came out. I followed her and at the very corner where they 
 had separated, he joined her again. I followed them on, and 
 both of them kept on down Broadway till they got here to 
 your very door, and then he parted with her in the entry way, 
 and here, for the first time, by the hall lamp, I got a sight oi 
 her fac - as she pulled aside her veil to kiss him !' 
 
 ' And she was ' 
 
 ' Your wife !' 
 
 ' Great God, I thought so ! I was sure of it — but she shall 
 die ! 1 have forgiven before, but ' 
 
 * Stoo, my friend, stop !' cried Selden, laying his hand 
 gently on the shoulder of the infuriated and almost raving 
 Carlton. ' You promised to do her no harm !' 
 
 * So I did, but 1 made no promise in regard to him \ Who- 
 is he] Tell me and I'll have his heart's biood before i sleep !' 
 
 'Then 1 wont tell you. If you will act like a madman, 
 what is the use of my siding with you ? I'll never tell you his 
 name, if you act in this way !' 
 
 ' Sam, is this your friendship ? "Would you have me tamely 
 submit to this insult ; this infernal wrong V 
 
 'No, of course not. But I'd have you get your revenge 
 safely and surely !' 
 
 ' Well ; so you saw her kiss him, and she was my wife !' 
 
 ' Yes — and as 1 had satisaed myself on that point, I deter- 
 mined at first to put him out of the way. As I had no tools 
 with me, though I do generally carry them, I went up stairs 
 to get a brace of pistols or the knife that I used up at the 
 garden that night, you know. While I was gone, he cleared 
 out, home, I supposed, or up to his place. Well, I followed 
 up there, and looked in, but he wasn't there. So I went 
 around to his boarding-house and waited for him. Once I 
 thought I had him. but it turned out to be somebody else; 
 and after all the fellow got clear.' 
 
 ' Well, you'll tell me who he is now? I'm calm as ever I 
 was !' said Carlton. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 185 
 
 * Yes, I'll tell you, if you'll promise to act only with me 
 and on my advice !' 
 
 ' I will : for so far you have proved a good friend.' 
 
 * Then, it ia Charles Cooly.' 
 
 ■ What ! Cooly— he whose place is in Broadway close to 
 Leonard V 
 1 Yes, the same fellow.' 
 
 * Holy Heaven ! this is too much ! I could have borne it if 
 she had picked out a man my superior in either look*, feelings 
 or anything. But he. He is not fit for a street-sweeper. 
 Why should she, a woman with beauty, education, talent and 
 wit, take up with such a clod hopping scoundrel as heT 
 
 ' There's no accounting for taste,' replied Seldeu, in a dry 
 tone. 
 
 * No, there is not ; but this fellow shall pay for his fun with 
 his life. 
 
 'Remember your promises; don't let her dream of any 
 thing, and do what you do in a way that'll keep you clear of 
 the law,' said Seldeu. 
 
 'Don't fear, Sam, the worst of my temper is over now, I'll 
 be Cilm,' replied Carlton. 
 
 Yet he was mistaken. The worst of his anger was not 
 over. Anger is like tire put to good fuel : while it llames and 
 smokes it m;ike3 a greater and fiercer show, but when the fuel 
 is burned down into coals, how much more intense ia its heat, 
 how much greater its power. 
 
 So, noisy, flaming anger is seldom very dangerous; it is the 
 calm, settled, vindictive kind which is most to be dreaded. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Larly on the morning succeeding the night when we last 
 described the scenes connected with them, Big Lize and An- 
 gelina started in search of a boarding-house for the latter. 
 The young girl was very feeble, and scarcely able to walk. 
 Her face was pile and thin; a few weeks of suffering had 
 made sad havoc with her beauty. And yet she looked very 
 interesting with her lar^e, mournful-looking eyes, and her 
 beautiful hair, which had once more been dressed with care. 
 Her wardrobe had been much improved, too, with the aid of 
 her cousin, who, despite her many faults, was liberal and 
 kind ; and she really looked quite decent, though very ill. 
 
 They had not far to look for a boarding-bouse, for signs 
 denoting such are almost as tnick here as lawyers 1 bhinglea 
 are in Philadelphia. 
 
 Lize soon obtained an interview with the landlady, and 
 representing herself as a working-girl at a house where they 
 
186 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 would not take boarders, asked for board for Angelina, as a 
 sickly cousin, who had just come in from the country. 
 
 The story of Lize suited well with her looks, for she had 
 dressed plainly that morning, and had used neither paint 
 powder, nor curls; therefore, when she had satisfied the land- 
 lady ol her ability to pay ' weekly, in advance,' the bargain 
 for a room and board was easily made. 
 
 ' I shall come to see my cousin every evening, and if she 
 gets any worse you must call a doctor ; I will always see the 
 bills paid,' said Lize ; 1 and now, ma'am, if you please, we'll 
 see what kind of a room you'll give her.' 
 
 ' Certainly, Miss ; walk up stairs and see. Three rooms 
 vacant — two on the third, one on the fourth floor — dollar less 
 for that ; and as for doctors, we've six in the house, regular 
 boarders,' replied the voluble landlady, at the same time 
 leading the way up stairs. 
 
 'Six doctors !' repeated Lize in surprise— ' Why, wha: do 
 you do with them all? 
 
 ' Eat 'em, sleep 'em — regular boarders !' 
 
 'Eat them V asked Angelina in a timid tone, which im- 
 plied a desire not to remain under a roof where they eat 
 people. 
 
 • That is, we feed them !' replied the landlady. 
 1 Yes, but six doctors in one house ! that beats me !' mut- 
 tered Lize. 
 
 ' Oh, they're young ones; they don't count much, and then 
 they're such good company ! They tell such funny stories 
 about ghosts, and digging up bodies, and dissecting, and all 
 that, you can't think ! Why, I don't know what my daughters 
 would do if it was'nt for them !' 
 
 By this time the landlady had arrived at the third floor, and 
 showed Angelina one of the rooms for hire ; and as it suited 
 her very well, Lize concluded the bargain, making all the 
 necessary stipulations in regard to tire, lights, &c. 
 
 ' I'll have your trunk sent along soon, cousin,' said Lize, as 
 soon as all was settled. 
 
 ' My trunk V replied the poor girl, remembering that she 
 had nothing in the world save what she stood in, for those 
 who had murdered her mother had taken the last rag. 
 
 ' Yes, cousin, 1 will send it soon ! replied Lize ; then, as she 
 bent down to kiss her, she whispered — ' I'll get you one, dear. 
 Now, hold your tongue, don't speak, or the old woman '11 s'pect 
 suthin' !' 
 
 Angelina returned her cousin's kiss warmly, and held her 
 peace ; but tears stood in both her eyes as the latter arose and 
 bade her good bye. 
 
 ' Don't feel bad or lonesome, child, I'll see you again to- 
 night !' said Lize, and then, before the young girl could say 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 187 
 
 another word, the woman turned away with the landlady, and 
 Angelina was again alone. 
 
 Oh, how lonely she did feel when that door closed upon her ! 
 She lelt that she had but one friend in the world, and that 
 friend, who had twice protected her when in dark danger, 
 who had buried her mother, opened her purse to her, met her 
 with every Christian kindness, was a courtezan, a street* 
 walker, a panel-thief ! 
 
 And she was glad to have found such a protector— grateful 
 to God for it ; for she knelt down when she was alone and 
 thanked Him for His protection— and more, she prayed that 
 soon, very soon, she might be permitted to follow her mother 
 to that world where sorrow is not and trouble cannot come. 
 AY as she wrong in this 1 was that young, helpless, poor, yet 
 pure girl, wrong to pray God to remove her from this in- 
 fectious world of sin and rott enness, ere yet its foul disease 
 had settled within her heart ] 
 
 We will not say, but let others think as they will. 
 
 'The first thing which Lize did alter leaving her young 
 cousin's room, was to give more orders regarding her comfort 
 to the landlady. 
 
 1 She' a poor sickly thing,' said she, ' and must be nursed 
 careful I' 
 
 ' She shall — Pll treat her just like one of my own daughters I' 
 replied the landlady. ' She does look sickly — poor thing, 
 and just as if she'd been a crying for a week.' 
 
 1 She has ; her mother died a few days ago ! replied Lize. 
 
 * What of] No catching disease, I hope V 
 
 * Oh, no, ma'am, it was very sudden, a kind of a strangulation 
 or somethin' !' 
 
 1 Oh, yes, what one of our doctors calls a " 
 
 • I haven't time to stop ma'am ! I must hurry home !' said 
 Lize, and so she escaped hearing the technical name for stran- 
 gulation. 
 
 She hurried away at once to a ready-made drees store, and 
 having taken Angelina's measure before they went out in the 
 morning, she eoon purchased a quantity of new clothing which 
 she knew would fit her tolerably well, and do, at any rate, 
 until she could have her fitted out better by a regular dress- 
 maker. Purchasing a trunk, she paid the bill, and ordered 
 her purchase sent home. She then made many other little 
 purchases, such as articles for the toilet, shoes, stockings, &c, 
 and soon had everything which the poor girl needed, and many 
 little articles of luxury beside. 
 
 After getting home, and packing all the thin?", sie naile 
 a neat card upon the trunk, on which she had written the 
 name, 'Miss Angelina Lindsay,' and paying a porter, bade 
 him carry the trunk to the house where the had lef r her cousin. 
 
 • Be caretul not to say where you took the trui.k from, just 
 
188 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 leave it, ask, and answer no questions, and when you come 
 back. I'll give you another quarter !' 
 
 * Thank ye nia'ain, it's myself, Dinnis O'Flaherty, as'lldoyer 
 biddin ony day, for sich bright looks an good quirthers !' re- 
 plied the porter, hurrying off with his load. But he had not 
 gone ten steps from the door, when he heard himself called 
 back. 
 
 ' I forgot to send the key. The young lady would be 
 troubled to open it, without that,' said Liza, at the same 
 time handing the key to the porter. 
 
 ' Yes, sure would she, ma'am, widout she wa3 an ould young 
 un !' replied the man. 
 
 Lize did not exactly like his looks, and as she had nothing 
 better to do, she said, 'It's no matter! give me the key — I'll 
 go around with you !' 
 
 ' Och, very well, ma'am — but, about the other quarther — if 
 you go wid me, you won't be here to give it to me as you 
 said you would, whin I come back !' 
 
 ' It's all the same— I'll give it to you there !' replied Lize, 
 and now the poor porter started off, with her close behind 
 him. 
 
 In twenty minutes more the trunk was in Angelina's room, 
 and the key in her possession. 
 
 Woman always has curiosity, so had Angelina, and the con- 
 tents of the trunk were soon looked over. The dresses and 
 little articles of fancy were looked at carelessly, but one of 
 her kind cousin's purchases was taken up, looked at first with 
 surprise, then with pleasure, and pressed to the young girl's 
 lips fondly and fervently. 
 
 Methinks I hear my readers wonder what present a fallen, 
 wretched and degraded courtezm could have selected, which 
 should so please a pure and good girl. Many a guess would 
 they make, I think, before they would touch the right ubject, 
 but we'll save them the trouble of wondering. It was a 
 Bible. If Lize was not good herself, she knew of the book 
 which good people do love — and she judged rightly that it 
 would be an acceptable present for her young cousin. 
 
 After Angelina had examined her trunk, she took her new 
 Bible in her hand and went to her window and seated herself 
 by it. The day was beautiful out ; and though it was 
 winter, still the sun shone mildly down upon the housetops, 
 making even the snow look warm and sweaty. 
 
 She could not refrain from raising her window. As she did 
 so and gazed out, looking up and down the street, the fresh 
 air came and gare a little more colour to her cheek. 
 
 Suddenly, however, that colour faded— her cheek became 
 white as the snow on the opposite roof, and as she drew her 
 head quickly in, she crisped, and murmured : 
 
 1 Again— again ! Oh, God help me — my persecutor, again ! ' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 180 
 
 Then she peeped carefully from the window once more, and 
 as she did so, quickly again drew back, and murmured: 
 
 * He stops at this door — oh, God ! Have I been betrayed — 
 vko could have sent him here 1 ?' 
 
 She paused a moment as if for thought, and to gather 
 strength, and then she cried : 
 
 1 1 will fly— I will not stay here — he shall insult me no 
 more !' 
 
 ' In one moment more she had put on her bonnet and shawl ; 
 her veil was doubled over her face, and leaving her trunk 
 open, everything just as it was when she opened the window, 
 she hurried from the room. 
 
 When she passed down the stairs and reached the front door, 
 a gentlemen was just entering the parlour, and in his voice 
 she recognized Livingston. It was him whom she had seen 
 from her window, and yet he did not come there to seek her, 
 nor did he dream of her vicinity when she passed him and 
 went out. 
 
 This was the house of Mrs. Windeman. Livingston had 
 called to see Maria De'oraine, wko still retained her rooms 
 here, though to excuse her temporary residence at Madame 
 I.'s, she pretended to be on a visit to a sick friend. Yet at cer- 
 tain hours she managed to be ' at home,' to meet sundry little 
 engagements. 
 
 Had Angelina known all this, she would not again have 
 been a homeless wanderer in the street, but alas, she was ! 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 On the evening of the same day when Carlton advanced him 
 the money, Meadows began his dreadful servitude by fur- 
 nishing him with impressions of every important key in his 
 employer's store. This Carlton had demanded in a note 
 which he wrote him but au hour afterwards, and as Charles 
 had charge of the keys, this was an easy thing for him to do., 
 especially as directions how to procure the impressions were 
 given. 
 
 As we have already seen, after this was done, he staggered 
 home, pale, weak and almost fainting from the effects of the 
 dreadful excitement through which he had passed on that 
 day. 
 
 He had not been home long when Harry VVhitmore re- 
 turned with a carriage to convey Isabella, as both she and 
 her mother supposed, to his sister's on a visit. 
 
 It wis strange that neither brother or mother felt any sus- 
 picion or won fered why he should take her away just at 
 night-fall, but they did not, for the conduct of Whitmore be- 
 
190 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 fore the females, had been very pure and exemplary, and the 
 brother only thought him a little wild, and even conceived 
 that this was caused by his over-good-heartedness. 
 
 And Isabella went with a heart half sad and yet glad. 
 She scarcely knew how to feel. A3 the hour approached — 
 Bhe certainly felt more and more that natural'fear which any 
 pure and delicate maiden must feel, but then she loved 
 Whitmore, and where woman loves, she is all confidence. 
 She did not dream of deceit. Yet, when she parted with her 
 mother, then her eyes were tearful, and she kissed her with 
 more than her usual fervour. She went to her brother too, 
 and kissed his feverish brow with her moist, warm lips, and 
 bade hica good night with a trembling voice. 
 
 Her mother responded to her parting words, with a — 
 
 'Good night; God bless you, my dear child !' which 
 thrilled to the bottom of the daughter's heart. 
 
 1 God bless her !' Indeed did she then need His blessing 
 and protection ; but Providence seemed to have abandoned 
 her, pure and innocent as she was. 
 
 Yet who shall dare to condemn the all-wire and far-seeing 
 Creator for this : who shall murmur at his will. All things 
 are ordered for the best : and this, though we cannot see its 
 good, must be connected with the great scheme of life and 
 its necessary changes. 
 
 Isabella and her intended seducer entered the carriage 
 which he had prepared, and hurried away to Greenwich 
 street. 
 
 "While they were leaving the carriage, and standing before 
 the door of Madame I., another carriage drove rapidly past. 
 It was close curtained and had but one occupant, yet she 
 was one of our characters, one who had a sad and heavy heart. 
 Her destination too was a house in Greenwich street, one of 
 most ' ^questionable character.' 
 
 Poor Mary Sheffield — she too had parted with her mother, 
 parted perchance never to see her again, had received a 
 blessing and a kiss as Isabella had, but, oh, how differently 
 was she situated. 
 
 But she might have been only a little advanced in 
 misery. Was not the other on the verge of taking the same 
 road which she had followed ? Was Isabella more pure as 
 she stood there while the carriage of Mary drove past, than 
 was Mary Sheffield five months before] No — ala3, no! 
 What would five months more bring to Isabella Meadows ? 
 Alas, who then could say 1 
 
 True to her promise, Big Lize called at Mrs. Windeman's at 
 nightfall to see Angelina. Upon inquiring for her, she was 
 told that she had gone out not more than an hour before 
 dinner, and had not since returned. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 191 
 
 Lize hurried up to her room, where she found everything 
 in confusion, just a3 the poor frightened girl had left it: 
 her Bible laying on the chair by the window — the window 
 still open. 
 
 ' My God !' murmured the woman, * what can have become 
 of her V 
 
 * I can't tell— can't imagine !' said Mrs. Windeman, who 
 had also come up stairs, 1 the girl saw her go out !' 
 
 * She went alone, didn't she]' asked Lize. 
 
 ' Yes, but she seemed in a great hurry, and all of a tremble 
 like: the girl noticed it particularly, for she'd just let in 
 a gentleman !' 
 
 * A gentleman ? Did he speak to her V 
 
 * No, he didn't come to see her ; he came to visit one of my 
 boarders, Miss Deloraine !' 
 
 1 Who was he — do you know him V 
 
 1 Oh, yes, he's a particular friend of Aramintina, one of my 
 daughters. He's the rich, handsome Mr. Gus. Livingston !' 
 
 * Gus. Livingston ?' muttered Lize, 'I've heard that name 
 before !' 
 
 ■ Yes I dare say you have ; everybody knows him — he's so 
 rich, and so handsome. They do say he pays particular at- 
 tention to Miss Deloraine, but my Aramintina says it's no 
 such thing, and she had it from his own lips !' 
 
 * Livingston ? Gu3. Livingston ] Oh, yes, by heaven ! I 
 remember now. 1 see it all : the poor gal saw him a comin' 
 when she looked out of the window and then she cut and 
 run !' cried Lize, who had not heeded the remarks of the 
 landlady. 
 
 She seemed almost maddened with the thought. 
 
 'Where on earth could she be]' murmured she, again; 
 then while anger flushed her face and brightened her eye, she 
 cried : 
 
 ' Curse that Livingston ! If harm befals that poor gal, I'll 
 have his heart's blood !' 
 
 1 Oh, my I how you do talk ! Why, he had nothing to do 
 with her V 
 
 1 You lie, you old hag ! I tell you he had ! He drove her 
 out of your rotten old crib here !' 
 
 1 Hag ? how dare you talk so to me ! I thought you wasn't 
 any better than you should be]' screamed the angry landlady. 
 
 ' Out of my way, afore I walk right over you ! I'm a goin" 
 to look for the gal, and if 1 don't find her. you and your Gus. 
 Livingston shall suffer, or my name's not Big Lize ! that's all; 
 git out of the way ;' shouted the enraged woman, and pushing 
 Mrs. W. aside, she sprang down the stairs and hurried away. 
 
 Her first idea was to search for Angelina ; but she knew 
 that she might nearly as well look for a needle in a haystack, 
 as to try to 6eek out the poor girl in this vast city without 
 
102 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 some trace of her route, and she then determined to meet her 
 pal as she had promised, in Thomas street, and to get his aid 
 aa well as that of all the prowling gang, who, being ever on 
 the walk, might stand some chance of finding her out. 
 
 She therefore hurried on up Greenwich street, and had 
 nearly reached the corner where she would turn up to Broad- 
 way, when the door of the carriage which had just stopped 
 close before a door which she was passing, opened, and a 
 gentleman stepped out of it muffled in a cloak. She got a 
 glimpse of his face as he stepped on the pavement, for there 
 were lights attached to the carriage, and she at once recog- 
 nized a man whom she had twice knocked down. 
 
 It was Livingston. 
 
 ' Curse you ! I have found you, have I !' she cried, spring- 
 ing upon him and clenching him by the throat, ' Where is 
 the pair 
 
 ' Stop, stop, my good woman, you are making a mistake 1' 
 cried Livingston ; 'I am a minister !' and as he said this he 
 dropped his cloak, and showed that he was robed in the full 
 costume of a clergyman. 
 
 But she had seen his face, and she knew it well. 
 
 ' Minister be d d !' she cried ; * I know you, Gu3. Living- 
 ston I I know you in any rig !' 
 
 Livingston was naturally a coward, but his present business 
 made him doubly so, and while his whole frame trembled he 
 cried : 
 
 ' Let go of me, my good woman ! Let go of me — I tell you 
 you are mistaken ! Here, take my purse; there's nearly fifty 
 dollars in it ! take it and let me go !' 
 
 'D n your money ! Where's the gal]' shrieked the wo- 
 man, clenching him still closer, and beginning to choke him. 
 
 ' In the house, I s'pose !' gasped the terrified villain. 
 
 The woman dashed him to the earth with terrific force, 
 where he lay amid a crowd, which was rapidly collecting, and 
 a3 she did so, turned to the door, which at that moment was 
 opened by a gentleman, for the noise made had already 
 alarmed the neighbourhood. 
 
 'What is the matter here 1 ? What the h — 1 is the rows' 
 asked this gentleman as he stepped out upon the threshold. 
 
 'Go to h — 1 and see !' shouted Liza, madly, for in Whitmore 
 she recognised another of those who had insulted her cousin 
 before Florence's, and as she spoke she dashed his head vio- 
 lently against the door post, and rushed into the house. 
 
 Turning into the open parlour, she saw three females, all of 
 them apparently much terrified. 
 
 'Where is the gal]' Give her up you bloody strumpets, or 
 I'll tear the house down !' 
 
 ' Oh, mercy, the woman is mad !' murmured Isabella, for 
 there she stood, dressed all in white, ready for the bridal. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 193 
 
 * What do yon want V asked Maria Deloraine and Miss 
 Wood, who were more calm, because, perchance, they were 
 more used to such scene9. 
 
 1 My cousin ! my poor cousin ! She's here, I know she is, 
 for I've seen the men that tried to take her off before. Blast 
 'em, I've given 'em sore heads for one while !' cried Lize. 
 
 4 Woman, you're crazy. Go away, or we'll call the police l' 
 said Maria, advancing toward her. 
 
 * Call your police, if you dare ! They're just the people I 
 want. 1 know what kind of a house this is. Give up my 
 cousin, or I'll call the police !' 
 
 ' Who is your cousin] 9he cannot be here !' said Isabella, 
 timidly, for she had begun to recover a little f rom her fright. 
 
 Lize looked at her before she spoke, and that glance deter- 
 mined her answer. 
 
 ' Look'ee, Miss, you looks as if you was innocent, like, and 
 hadn't been long in such a house as this ; do tell me where 
 they've hid my poor cousin P 
 
 Maria saw by the look of Isabella that she begun to be 
 alarmed, and placed herself at once between her and the 
 woman. 
 
 * Don't listen to her, dear sister P she cried. ' The woman 
 is certainly crazy !' 
 
 ' No, not crazy yet !' replied Liz'? more calmly, * but I soon 
 shall be if I don't find poor Angelina. Oh, for God's sake 
 give her up to me V 
 
 Isabella was touched by the imploring tone of the woman, 
 and despite her alarm saw that Sumething must be wrong, and 
 determined to become satisfied. 
 
 ' Who is Angelina]' she asked, coming forward and looking 
 Lize in the face. 
 
 1 She is my cousin, Miss — a young innocent girl— one tha* 
 looks t.3 pure as you do, who I'm sure ought never to have 
 come to a hou«e like this !' 
 
 ' Like this 1 What do you know of this house ?-' 
 
 ' W T hat ] don't you know — are you not yet a victim V 
 
 * A victim? To what] Tell me quickly !' 
 
 Maria saw that this would not do: exposure was but too 
 certain if it continued, and she cried : 
 
 1 Isabella, you must not listen to this woman, she is crazy ; 
 come, do come into the back room !' 
 
 Miss Wood too joined in pressing her to leave the room, but 
 so far forgot herself as to use some very coarse epithets 
 toward Lize. 
 
 How it would have ended now we know not. but the entrance 
 of two more persons on the scene, made an instant change. 
 
 Isabella saw her affianced lover stagger into the room, bis 
 face covered with blood, supported by a man garbed as a 
 minister, whose nose was also bleeding. 
 
194 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 * What is the matter, Henry ! Oh, mercy ! What if the 
 matter V she shrieked. 
 
 ' Nothin', Miss, only I mashed his head a little agin the 
 wall, for him and that other scoundrel have stolen my cousin !' 
 
 ' D — n that woman, she is always in our way !' cried Liv- 
 ingston, forgetting his clerical robe. 
 
 Isabella heard this, aud turning to Lize said : 
 
 * Do you know that man — is he not a minister I* 
 
 ' One of the devil's ministers, Miss. He is Gas. Livingston, 
 one of the wildest rakes in town !' 
 
 ' Water — water,' murmured Whitmore, 1 1 shall faint !' As 
 he said this he staggered to a sofa and fell back on it. But 
 Isabella did not move to help him. 
 
 She stood like one spell-bound. With her hands clasped 
 over her brow, as if to keep her head from bursting with the 
 dreadful thought which entered it, she stood and looked first 
 at one and then another of the party. 
 
 Maria, self convicted, had sunk down upon a chair and 
 burst into tears. Emma Wood alone had presence of mind to 
 go for water for Whitmore, who had indeed fainted. 
 
 Livingston stood by the door as if he intended to run away, 
 looking both frightened and foolish. 
 
 This lasted only a second. It was broken by Lize, who 
 made a bound upon Livingston, and. before he could move, 
 seized him by the neck. 
 
 * Where is my cousin F she shrieked. 1 Give her up, or, by 
 the God that made you, I'll choke you to death ! what are you 
 a doin' here with a priest's gown upon you )' 
 
 1 Let gi of me, good woman — don't go to raise such a cursed 
 row, here ! I don't know your cousin !' 
 
 ' Take that for lyin', you blasted thief !' shouted Lize, 
 giving him a cuff upon the ear, which would have knocked 
 him down, if she had not upheld him with the other hand. 
 
 'D n you, let me go!' cried Gus., maddened by the 
 
 pain, and striking her heavily. 
 
 1 That's your game, is it, my covey !' cried the strong 
 woman. 1 Two can play at it then !' 
 
 As she said this, with her clenched hand, she struck him 
 two tremendous blows, which left him completely senseless. 
 The next moment, when she let go of him with her left hand, 
 he fell limberly to the floor, and made no motion to get up. 
 
 Lay there, you worthless dog !' cried Lize, spurning him 
 with her foot. 
 
 She now advanced to Isabella, and with a changed tone, 
 and manner, begged her to tell her, where they had hidden 
 poor Angelina. 
 
 'I kno»v nothing, woman, indeed I do not,' she replied. 
 Oh, God, what can all this mean V 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 195 
 
 She then turned to Maria, who having lost all self-com- 
 mand, was weeping in the corner, and said, 
 
 ' Maria, there is something very wrong here ! oh, as you are 
 a woman, tell me — tell me if you love me P and the beautiful 
 girl knelt down before the courtezan. 
 
 1 Go away from here — quick. Leave the house before he 
 jomes too !' sobbed Maria—' do— do — it is your only safety !' 
 
 '. I will— I will — oh, thank God, I've a home to go to I* 
 shrieked Isabella, who, though not yet comprehending all the 
 plot, knew that she was in some imminent danger. 
 
 But, as she turned to the door, she saw that Whitmore had 
 recovered, through the aid of Emma, and was once more on 
 his feet. 
 
 He sprang in an instant to the door— the key was on the 
 inside. He locked it, and put the key in his pocket. 
 
 ' Where were you going, dear Isabella]' he asked. 
 
 ' Home, sir ! home, to stay there, until this strange mystery 
 is explained.' 
 
 'Dearest — it — it can be explained on the spot; that woman 
 is crazy V 
 
 Lize did not speak, she stood over Livingston, with her 
 arms folded, as if she was waiting for him to get up again. 
 Isabella looked a moment at Whitmore, and then replied : 
 
 * I do not care whether she is crazy or not ! I will go home !' 
 
 * Isabella,' replied he, in a calm, firm tone, * you shall not, 
 until I have had a chance for explanation !' 
 
 ' Well, sir, go on; explain quickly — is he a minister V and 
 she pointed to the prostrate Livingston.' 
 
 * Yes, certainly, and ere this moment would have married 
 us, had it not been for that crazy woman.' 
 
 'Marriage in a house like this ! Talk of religion in hell, 
 and vice in heaven ! Marriage here ! Ha ! ha ! that is a 
 joke !' cried Lize; and then, before another word could be 
 uttered by Whitmore, she turned to Isabella and said : 
 
 ' Young woman, I begin to see into this 'ere business. That 
 swell has brought you here on a promise to marry you, and 
 he's put this other cove up to sham minister. He'd have mar- 
 ried you for ■ month, and then have kicked you out o' doors. 
 These ere gals are no better than I, and I've been on the town 
 for years !' 
 
 'Shameless wretch!' cried Whitmore, 'stop your lying! 
 Isabella, you can see she is crazy P 
 
 ' Crazy or not, Henry, I wish to go home. Once more I ask 
 you to open the door !' 
 
 ' But you cannot go home without a carriage !' 
 
 ' There is one at the door ; 1 saw it when I looked from the 
 window, a moment ago !' replied Isabella. 
 
 ' I do not care ; Isabella, you shall not go till I explain, and 
 satisfy you that nothing is wrong ! 
 
19G 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Do let her go, Harry, do let her go, or I'll tell her all V 
 said Maria, still sobbing, and advancing to Whitmore. 
 
 He saw how inopportune was this remark, and, in a moment, 
 maddened by anger, struck her heavily on the face, crying — 
 
 t Take that for your interference !' 
 
 She tottered back and fell to the floor, while the red blood 
 gushed from her mouth. 
 
 ' Oh, coward ! how could you strike your sister !' cried Isa* 
 bella, indignantly. 
 
 ' I'm not his sister ! Oh, save yourself while you ca 
 murmured Maria, and then fainted. 
 
 Emma Wood, who had stood idly by, not knowing what to 
 do, sprung to her aid now, exclaiming — 
 
 * You're no man, Harry Whitmore, to strike a woman ! I'll 
 have nothing more to do with your infernal villany !' 
 
 * Give me the key of that door ! 1 will not stay longer ! 
 I now begin to fee it all !' cried Isabella. 
 
 ' If you do, Miss, then you shall stay and see it through !' 
 replied Whitmore, now boldly throwing oft* even the guise of 
 affection. ' You shall not leave this house to-night. You 
 came here with your own consent — you shall only leave it 
 with mine !' 
 
 Oh, mercy ! God of heaven protect me ! murmured the 
 helpless girl. 'Henry Whitmore, if you have a man's heart 
 in you, let me go ! 1 will forgive all you have intended, only 
 do, pray, let me go !' 
 
 'I will, when I pet ready, but not to-night. Why, girl, 
 you're foolish : this is my wedding-night ! 
 
 'No no! That night will never come ! I will die before 
 you shall ever be husband to me !' 
 
 ' Well, well, just as you like. If you won't marry me, I 
 assure you I shall not press the matter; but you are mine now !' 
 
 ' Oh, God ! never ! never ! Is there no way of getting out 
 of this terrible place V screamed the unhappy girl. 
 
 ' Yes, gal, there is, and I'll help you !' replied Lize, stepping 
 to the window and flinging up the sash. 
 
 As she did this, her shrill voice rung along the street, and 
 
 'Watch! Watch! Murder! Help! Help!' 
 
 Whitmore knew the effect which this cry would have, and 
 raising Isabella in his arms before she could move, Le sprung 
 through the back parlour door and disappeared. 
 
 Twice her scream was heard — wild, loud, and fearful, and 
 then all was still — still as the grave. 
 
 When Lize heard the hurrying footsteps of the watchmen, 
 she turned again to the room, and saw that Whitmore and 
 Isabella had disappeared, but Livingston had regained his feet. 
 
 Emma Wood had been busy in trying to recover poor Maria 
 — eo far without success. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 107 
 
 At this moment Whitmore returned, and putting in the key, 
 at once opened the door. 
 
 ' Where is the girl ? asked Livingston, in a whisper. 
 
 ' Sife in the cellar, tied and gagged !' replied Whitmore, in 
 the same tone. ' Now support me, and we'll soon have this 
 noisy lady hushed up. She shall see that the watch is called 
 to some purpose, or I'm mistaken. Here, Emma, take Maria 
 into the back parlour; Gus. help her, quick? Then shut and 
 lock the door.' 
 
 This was done, and when Whitmore opened the front door 
 to the watchmen who came, there was no one but Big Lize 
 and Livingston in the front parlour. The carriage which 
 Livingston came in, but had forgotten to pay, drove off at the 
 first alarm. 
 
 'What's the devilmintT asked one of the watchmen, his 
 brogue betraying that he was Irish, like nearly one half, or 
 perhaps more, of his brethren 1 in office.' 
 
 ' There's one of the women in the house crazy drunk, and 
 she's been fighting and raisiug a row. 1 wish you'd take care 
 of her !' 
 
 ' Faith that we will !' replied the other, and the two {oh 
 lowed Whitmore into the parlour. 
 
 ' Which is the craturT asked the first watchman, as he en- 
 tered, for both Livingston and Lize were particularly quiet at 
 that moment. 
 
 * There— the woman ; seize her — she has raised the row !' 
 
 Lize, who had been struck dumb by the sudden disappear- 
 ance and quiet of Isabella, had stood wondering what had 
 become of her ; but now the spoke. 
 
 ' Are you watchmen V she asked of the guardians of the 
 night. 
 
 'Faith, that we are, so come along wid us paceably, like a 
 lady, now !' said No. 1, shaking hid large club most unin- 
 vitingly. 
 
 ' Then do your duty ! Arrest those men ; for I believe 
 there's been a murder done here withiu less than five minutes 
 i past !' 
 
 ' A murder ! Ju-t hear her ! Why she just broke in, and 
 tried to murder us ! Look how we're bleeding yet !' 
 
 ' So they are ! and she looks big enough to ate 'em up !' 
 replied watchee Xo. 2. 
 
 ' Come along wid us ; we knows you,' said No. 1. 
 
 1 But it is not nie that you want ; it was I that called you ; 
 these young men hive a young woman in the house, that 
 • they're trying to ruin, and — ' 
 
 'Just hear her ! 1 told you she was crazy, or drunk,' cried 
 Whitmore; and Livingston added: 
 
198 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Yes, she's undoubtedly crazy. Da take her off, my good 
 fellows. There's an X for your trouble.' 
 
 * Sure, an' it's no trouble at all, at all, your honour,' said 
 No. 2, pocketing the ten-dollar note, at the same time saying, 
 
 ' I'll halve it wid ye, Phalim, when we git it changed.' 
 
 ' Well, come along wid ye,' cried the other to Lize, * if ye 
 called us, you wanted us, sure, and here we are arter you !' 
 
 4 You will not arrest those villains, then V asked Lize. 
 
 ' Sure an' I don't see ony, 'ceptin' it be yourself !' replied 
 No. 2, and as they both began to sidle up towards her, No. 1 
 said : 
 
 * Now, behave yourself like a dacent woman, as may be ye 
 are, an' can prove to his honour in the mornin', do now, an' 
 come along wid us, like a lady !' 
 
 'Keep back ! keep back ! 1 will not be arrested V cried she, 
 and, quick as lightning, she snatched the large club from the 
 speaker's hand. 
 
 The other watchman struck at her, but she met his blow, 
 and before he could again raise his hand, she struck him 
 down. The other sprang to his aid, and shared the same fate. 
 The coast was nearly clear now, and Lize sprung through the 
 open door, dashed through the crowd, which had been gathered 
 in the street, by the noise, and in a moment more was safe, 
 having turned up a dark and narrow alley, which led out of 
 the main thoroughfare. 
 
 'Bejabers, but she did hit hard!' muttered watchman, 
 No. 1, about three minutes after she had left, picking himself 
 up at the same time. 
 
 ' Sure, an' I think it was a man in gal's petticoats, I do ! r 
 muttered the other, rubbing his head. 
 
 ' Where is the divil]' asked No. 1. 
 
 * She's clear ; she ran out of the door !' replied Whitmore. 
 ' Och, yer honour, why didn't yez knock her down V 
 
 1 She had your cudgel in her hand, and seemed inclined to 
 do all the knocking herself, but never mind ; let her go now !' 
 replied Whitmore, who was glad enough to get rid of her, and 
 wished now to have the watchmen leave also. 
 
 ' Yis,' replied No. 1, ' we may as well agree to let her go 
 now, for she has taken the lave whither or no. But she said 
 something about murder !' 
 
 * Oh, she was crazy, I told you,' replied Whitmore, * here is 
 another X for you, to save your friend the trouble of changing 
 his !' 
 
 ' Ah, thank yer honer ; we'll drink your health wid it !' 
 1 Very well ; good night !' 
 
 ' Good night, yer honers, pleasant dreams wid ye !' 
 The watchmen went away. Whitmore and Livingston were 
 once more alone. 
 ' Well, by thunder, this was a go V muttered Livingston, 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 190 
 
 ■who had divested himself of his clerical gown, when he 
 assisted Emma to take Maria to the back parlour. 
 
 1 But we're out of it ! Now you can take yourself home a3 
 soon as you like !' 
 
 What, Harry ! shan't I stay to marry you ?' 
 
 * No, blast it, no ! I'll not even do her the honour of askam. 
 marriage now. I shall not want you any more : but I'll be at 
 your rooms in the morning.' 
 
 ' Early r 
 
 ' Can't say as to that ; but wait there till I come !' 
 'Very well ; good night !' 
 
 Wheu Livingston had gone away, Whitmore went into the 
 "back parlour. 
 
 Maria had recovered from her fainting-tit, and Emma was 
 "washing away the blood stains. 
 
 ' I am very sorry, Maria, that I struck you,' said he, in a con- 
 trite tone ; ' bat you made me so angry, that I didn't know 
 what I was about I 1 
 
 1 Where is Isabella]' asked Maria, not heeding his apology. 
 
 ' Gone home ; she's safe ; but don't be angry with me !' 
 replied Whitmore ; 1 1 did not know what 1 was about, when 
 1 struck you !' 
 
 ' No ; yoti did not, but I can tell you. You were making for 
 yourself the bitterest foe that ever followed a man to curse 
 him ! You have lied to me. Isabella Meadows is in the 
 house ; Emma saw you carry her back, when I lay senseless 
 where you had laid me, with a mean, unmanly blow !' 
 
 1 Maria, I took her to the back door, and let her go, so that 
 she should not tell the watchmen. The moment I let her go, 
 she ran through to the street, and a3 the watchmen Cume in, 
 I saw her go up towards her home.' 
 
 While Whitmore spoke, Maria gazed him steadily in the 
 eye, but he was enough of an accomplished villain to bear all 
 this ; and returned her gaze without a flush or tremour. 
 
 'You may speak truth, and you may not, Harry Whitmore ; 
 but, if you do wrong that poor girl, may her curse, my curse, 
 and the curse of God Almighty rest upon you !' 
 
 Whitmore did blanch a little, when he heard these words 
 in astern tone, but he recovered himself in a moment, and 
 said : 
 
 ' I've given her up, Maria, you need not fear for her ; but 
 do make up with me !' 
 
 * Never, never, sir ! You struck me — a woman, even as if 
 1 had been a beast !' 
 
 ' But, Maria, you blinded me with anger !' 
 
 ' I care not — there is no excuse for a man raising his hand to 
 a woman. Would to God the arm that is raised to strike 
 any woman, if it be the hand of a man, could be blasted ere it 
 fell !' 
 
200 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 * Well, well, Maria, if you will quarrel with me, you must. 
 But I don't deserve it !' 
 
 ' Don't deserve it ! Does a murderer deserve hanging V 
 
 Whitmore did not reply immediately, but commenced 
 counting some money from his pocket-book. After he did so, 
 he passed a small roll of notes towards Maria, saying : 
 
 ' There are the thousand dollars, Miss Deloraine. If your 
 part of the bargain is not fulfilled, mine shall be !' 
 
 Maria was evidently touched at this apparent generosity, 
 but she neither spoke nor reached out her hand to receive the 
 money. 
 
 Whitmore then laid it in her lap, and taking out two fifty- 
 dollar notes from his pocket book, handed it to Miss Wood. 
 
 1 There, Emma, take that — I'm sorry I've given you so much 
 trouble. Now ladies, I'll bid you good evening !' 
 
 He turned away as if he really meant to leave the house — 
 and this at once caused Maria to think that Isabella had indeed 
 gone home. 
 
 * Stop a moment, Mr. Whitmore,' said she, ' where were you 
 going]' 
 
 ' To my lodgings, Miss Deloraine ; — have you any com- 
 mand V 
 
 ' No, sir — but — but I do not think it right for me to take 
 your money. Have the kindness to take it back !' 
 
 'No; you said some time ago that you needed just one 
 thousand dollars, that with it you could accomplish some pur- 
 pose which you had long cherished. Keep it, and may you be 
 happy !' 
 
 His tone was now kind, though cold, and as it was assumed 
 on purpose to deceive her, and to work upon her better 
 feelings, it succeeded. 
 
 Emma kissed her, and said, 
 
 ' Do make it up with Harry, Maria ! I am sure he i3 sorry 
 he struck you !' 
 1 Indeed, I am,' added Whitmore. 
 
 Maria, whose heart was of a strange compound, a mixture 
 of good and bad, with both natures ever struggling to gain 
 the ascendancy, did not need this interference of Emma's to 
 decide her. Her impulsive mind, quick to anger, and as 
 quickly calm again, had already changed, and she said : 
 
 1 I'll forgive you, Harry — but even now I do not like to 
 take this money ! You have failed in your undertaking, 
 perhaps, through me.' 
 
 * Never mind — keep the money. I've lost the girl, but 
 " there are as good fish in the sea as ever were caught !" I 
 replied Harry, at the same time drawing Emma Wood to 
 him, and impressing a kiss upon her full red lip3. 
 
 The girl seemed flattered by this attention, and returned 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 201 
 
 the kiss, perhaps as a kind of receipt for the hundred dollars 
 which he had given her. 
 
 Maria thought that, as affairs seemed to be turning, her 
 company was not needed, and rising, said : 
 
 ' I'll go home, Harry, now ; if you have no objections !' 
 
 ' None in the world, Maria ; if you have entirely forgiven 
 me.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; and I will try to forget all but your kindness !' 
 replied the girl. 1 Give me a kiss, Harry, and consider all 
 made up.' 
 
 * Certainly, Maria — I wish I could forgive myself as easily 
 for that unlucky blow.' 
 
 ' Don't think of it any more, Harry— come and see me to- 
 morrow, if you can, for I shall leave town in a day or two.' 
 
 * I will, Maria. Good-night !' The girl lefc the room to 
 get her cloak and bonnet, and in a few moments more left 
 the house. 
 
 * So much for her,' cried "Whitmore, after he heard the 
 outer door slammed to, and knew thereby that 6he had left. 
 ' So much for her ; she's out of the way.' 
 
 ' Well, what do you intend to do with yourself, Harry V 
 asked Miss Wood, with a smile ; ' You don't intend to gc 
 home to night, eh V 
 
 1 No, indeed !' replied the libertine. 
 
 * Then I suppose that ' 
 
 'You needn't suppose anything at all, Emma,' replied 
 "Whitmore, interrupting her ; 1 you can retire as soon as you 
 choose ; 1 do not need your company any more to night.' 
 
 * Why, Harry, how strange you talk. I thought ' 
 
 * Confound it ! I don't want you to think. I want your 
 room — not your company.'' 
 
 ' But, Harry, there is no one in the house but us. You 
 know when Madame I. gave it up for this affair to you, I was 
 to remain in charge.' 
 
 'Yes, you were, and to let me do just as I pleased in the 
 house.' 
 
 'That is true: now, what do you please to do 1 Will you 
 have some wine V 
 
 ' No; 1 wish no wine. I want you to go to bed, and if you 
 hear any noise, to forget it, and pay no attention to it.' 
 
 ' Then the girl is in the house yet.' 
 
 ' To be sure she is ! Do you think I'd let her slip after I'd 
 got her fairly in my hands 1' 
 
 1 It would not have been much like you : but what do you 
 intend now V 
 
 ' That is my business ; you go to bed, and to sleep. Here 
 is another fifty, put it under your pillow to dream upon.' 
 
 ' Tnank you, Harry ; but you are so wild, 1 must pity the 
 poor creature.' 
 
202 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 I Piiy her? Ha, ha ! that is a good joke, Emma, from you. 
 How long is it since I heard you wish that you had it in 
 your power to bring all woman kind down to a level with 
 your class !' 
 
 'I believe I did pay something like that, but then I didn't 
 have a case like this, right before me, to think of.' 
 
 ' Well, well, girl ; you may save your pity. She will never 
 be any worse off than you are. Now, just become invisible 
 as soon as possible, she must be half-dead with cold and 
 fright.' 
 
 • Where is she V 
 
 * In the cellar. I laid her down on a pile of straw, or some- 
 thing.' 
 
 ' She keeps very still ; may be she is dead.' 
 
 'No danger of that; she wont die so easy; but, as for 
 her keeping quiet, you would too, if you had a handkerchief 
 stuffed in your mouth, and your hands and feet tied.' 
 
 ' Oh, how could you serve her so ! Harry 'you are cruel ; by 
 Heaven, if you had treated me so, I'd kill you, if I had to be 
 hung for it.' 
 
 I I don't think you would ever put a man to such a neces- 
 sity !' replied Harry, with a smile; 'but, leave me, I'm 
 going down after her.' 
 
 Emma, who did not seem much pleased with his course, 
 arose, and slowly left the room, while he hurried away to the 
 cellar. 
 
 Jn a moment more he hurried back to the parlour, for a 
 light, muttering as he came : 
 
 'She isn't where I laid her down! curse it, how could she 
 move when I bound her so tight.' 
 
 He again descended, and after a moment, he rushed up the 
 stairs, cursing and swearing at every step. 
 
 ' Emma ! Emma !' he shouted. 
 
 'Well, what is it? asked the cyprian, bending over the 
 balustrades of the stair- way, for she now was in the second 
 story. 
 
 ' The girl has escaped ! By thunder, this is too bad ! But 
 she must be in the house.' 
 
 1 1 hope not,' murmured the girl ; ' poor thing, how I pity 
 her.' 
 
 This was said as Whitmore commenced a search in the 
 lower rooms. At the moment when she expressed her pity, 
 Emma heard a noise behind her, and, even before she could 
 turn, heard a low moan, and the words — 
 
 ' Oh, save me ! save me ! For the love of heaven, save me !' 
 
 She looked around, and there stood poor Isabella — her 
 white dress stained with the earth of the cellar— her face 
 pale as marble— her eyes wild with terror — her whole frame 
 quivering with the agony of fear. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 203 
 
 1 Oh, save me, save me !' murmured the poor girl, kneeling 
 — her hands clasped together, and great tears standing in her 
 large eye;*. 
 
 'I will, if I can ! Oh, where can I put you! He will 
 search the hou-e. There— go in my room ! Hide under the 
 bed ! Don't move, or hardly breathe ! I'll do all I can for 
 you — poor, poor girl.' 
 
 A3 Isabella hurried into the room of Emma, the steps of 
 Whitmore were heard. He was already ascending the stairs, 
 having sought in vain for his unfortunate victim below. He 
 appeared to be in a fearful rage, — curses, bitter and loud, 
 were on his lips, coupled with such threats as made even 
 EmmaWood tremble. 
 
 PART FOURTH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 When Angelina, our poor sewing- girl, fled from the house of 
 Mrs. Windeman, frightened at the appearance of Gas Living- 
 ston, she knew not where to go. Her first thought was to 
 return to the panel-crib of her new found cousin, but two 
 thoughts at once arose to prevent her from going there. The 
 first, was her knowledge of the character of that house; the 
 second, a fear that Lize had something to do with the appear- 
 ance of Livingston ; that she, led away by some new and 
 tempting inducement, had betrayed her. 
 
 This was a cruelly unjust thought, but Angelina did not 
 pause to consider how directly contrary it would have been 
 to all the former conduct of the poor panel-girl, whose cha- 
 racter, with all its faults and vices, certainly did not possess 
 the stain of faithlessness. What she was, she knew and felt, 
 but too well; what she had been, she still remembered; and 
 she was too open hearted to pretend to be what she was not. 
 In fact, she was of that character which we rarely, yet some- 
 times, do meet — one who was honest in her open acknowledg- 
 ment of all her faults. Not that she would openly acknow- 
 ledge her guilt to all, for she could either be silent or give 
 vent to 'virtuous indignation' before a magistrate, or she 
 could be whatever she wished to the verdant stranger whom 
 she wanted to inveigle into her crib. A talented woman was 
 she in her way. 
 
20i MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 But to return to Angelina. When she left her boarding- 
 house, she hurried on, trembling at the sound of every foot- 
 step behind her, directing her course towards the northern 
 part of the city. She almost ran, while she was in the 
 crowded and busy thoroughfares of the city— but she became 
 very weary in a little while, for she was weak in body 
 and sick at heart. As night came on, she had reached a quiet 
 street in the upper portion of the town, one of those few 
 streets not used by the omnibus lines, and traversed by few 
 vehicles except an occasional private carriage belonging to 
 one of the wealthy dwellers in that neighbourhood. 
 
 Her steps were now very slow — she felt faint at heart and 
 a dizziness seemed to come over her brain, and to throw a 
 mist before her eyes. The twilight began to deepen — still she 
 wandered on, not knowing where to go or what to do. 
 
 At last she felt that she could go no further. She saw a 
 young lady advancing, wrapped in a warm cloak, her hands 
 folded in a large muff, and she determined for the first time 
 in her life to beg. The young lady was attended by a well- 
 dressed young man, and both of them appeared to be of the 
 wealthy class, by the rich and fashionable appearance of their 
 garments. 
 
 Angelina timidly looked the young lady in the face as she 
 came near, and with a voice trembling from emotion as well 
 as fear and cold, said : 
 
 ' Please, Miss, aid a poor helpless girl to get a place to lodge 
 in to-night. I will work, indeed I will.' 
 
 The young lady paused a moment, for Angelina stood right 
 before her, then turning up a little pug nose, which was 
 slightly blued by the cold, replied : 
 
 ' I haint got no change, have you any, brother Alfred 
 Eustace V 
 
 * Ye?, but not for the like3 of her,' responded the young 
 man with a careless glance at the trembling girl ; • there are 
 lots of places where she can get lodgings free and make money 
 by it, too, down town. Come along sis, she's not fit for you to 
 speak to.' 
 
 And young Alfred Eustace Fitzroy Fitz Lawrence hurried 
 his sister away, after making his last coarse and unfeeling 
 insinuation, leaving the wretched Angelina standing alone 
 upon the icy pavement. 
 
 It was now dark. • Oh God of mercy, let me die and gc 
 where my mother is,' murmured the poor girl. 
 
 She staggered to a door step close to her, and seating her- 
 self upon it, burst into tears. But she tried to hush her sobs 
 as she heard footsteps approaching, and almost held her 
 breath, for her first attempt at begging had so chilled her, 
 that she did not feel like speaking to another passer-by. But 
 the person who now approached didn't intend to pass, he 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 205 
 
 turned to the very steps where she sat, and was passing up 
 them, when her half-stifled sobs, which she could not sup- 
 press, fell on his ear. 
 
 He stopped, and descending to the corner where she was 
 Heated, close up against the iron rail, asked in a voice which 
 sounded rather gruff, but still not unkind : 
 
 ' Hallo ! what's this — what's this ? Who are you on my 
 door step at this time o'night V 
 
 ' Forgive me, Sir, I'll go, but I was so tired !' murmured 
 the poor girl. 
 
 * Where to — where do you live f asked the gentleman, now 
 looking more closely at her. 
 
 Her only reply was a fresh burst of tears. She could hold 
 in no longer. That question told her how utterly homeless 
 and desolate she was. 
 
 * Poor girl— poor girl !' Now don't cry, but tell me what's 
 the matter !' 
 
 She would have spoken if she could, but her sobs choked 
 her utterance. 
 
 ' Poor creetur !' murmured the gentleman in a pitying 
 tone, and he passed his hand over his own eyes, as if to wipe 
 away a sympathetic moisture there. 
 
 The kindness of his tone seemed to assure poor Angelina 
 that she need not lear an insult from him ; and when he 
 again asked here where she lived, she replied, that she had 
 no home now. 
 
 'No home, child? Now be a good girl and don't tell me 
 stories. I can't abide 'em. Where is your father and 
 mother V 
 
 * Dead — both dead !' sobbed the girl. 
 ' No brothers nor sisters ?' 
 
 ' No— none ! I am all alone !' responded the poor girl. 
 'Why how have you lived? Where did you live until 
 now f 
 
 * I lived with my poor mother till she was— till she died, 
 and then I went with a woman who said she was my cousin, 
 but I saw a man who frightened me and I ran away !' 
 
 'A man that frightened you? Did he mean you harm V 
 inquired the gentleman still more kindly. 
 
 ' Yes, Sir, he had insulted me before, and I was so afraid of 
 him !' 
 
 'And you have no home now?' 
 'No, Sir!' 
 
 ' Poor creetur ! I must do something for you, I must ! 
 Let me see ; If I give you money, do you know where to find 
 lodgings V 
 
 'No, Sir, indeed I do not. I'm afraid to go down town — 
 there are so many men in the street who will insult a poor 
 girl like me !' 
 
200 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Right — you are right, my girl. I believe you are good. I 
 can't see you well here, but yon weep and tell a very straight 
 Story. You don't walk the streets at night I* 
 
 'Oh, no, Sir ! God save me from that !' 
 
 ' Amen, my good girl ! I believe 1 can trust you. I'll 
 give you a home for to-night at any rate. You shall have 
 some warm supper, and tell me all your story, and then you 
 shall sleep with Jenny my house maid !' 
 
 * God will bless you, Sir !' murmured the poor girl, grate- 
 fully. She obeyed him, and followed him to the basement door 
 of the building before which they had stood. Herang the bell, 
 and in a moment the door was opened by a neat, tidy-looking 
 girl, who held a light in her hand. 
 
 The maid looked surprised as she saw that her master was 
 followed by a young girl, aud as the latter rather held back, 
 tbe gentleman very kindly said, 
 
 1 Come in, my dear, come in out of the cold !' 
 
 Then turning to the maid who had opened the door, he 
 said : 
 
 'Jenny, here's a poor girl who has no home. Give her 
 some supper and treat her kindly !' 
 
 1 Yes, Sir,' said the maid, dropping a low curtsey, but 
 looking very suspiciously at the poor creature 1 who had no 
 home.' 
 
 They now entered the little sitting room in the basement, 
 where a very cheerful fire was blazing. 
 
 A young man was seated before this, with a book in his hand, 
 apparently very intently engaged in its persual, but he arose 
 as the party entered. 
 
 ' Ah ! Francis,' said the old gentleman, * reading away, 
 eh? good boy — very good boy !' 
 
 The maid now assisted the old gentleman off with his hat 
 and overcoat, while the young man took them from her, and 
 placed a chair for his master. 
 
 1 Never mind the chair for me, Francis, I shall go up to my 
 parlour,' said he, ' but here's a poor girl whom you and Jenny 
 must be very kind to ! Hurry and get her some supper !' 
 
 ' Yes, Sir,' said Jenny, — ' but, sir, have you had supper 
 yet r 
 
 'No— really no ! "Well, I had forgot all about that. Never 
 mind ; give her some as soon as you can. Poor creetur, how 
 thin she looks ! She must have had a deal of trouble !' 
 
 Then, when he had made her take her bonnet and shawl off, 
 he continued, speaking, as if to himself : 
 
 1 Poor creetur ! how pale — she would be pretty if it wasn't 
 for that !' 
 
 Then he turned to Francis and said, 
 
 1 Come up staira with me, Francis, I want you a little 
 while !' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 207 
 
 ' Ye<?, sir/ said Frank, laying down his book. 
 Before the old gentleman had reaehed the door-way, he was 
 stopped by the little housemaid, who whispered : 
 
 * Is she to stay here all night V 
 
 ' Yes, Jenny, of course she is ! She has nowhere else to 
 go!' 
 
 ' Then where is she to sleep?' asked Jenny quickly. 
 
 1 Why, with you of course. You have a large double bed !' 
 
 The little servant maid seemed struck dumb with surprise 
 at this announcement. 
 
 ' Why, sir,' she gasped, 'you've picked her up in the street. 
 How can I tell what she is? I don't know what I've done, 
 "Mr. Precise, to be treated so ! I'm sure she's some bad girl, and 
 if she sleeps in my bed, I won't, that's all !' 
 
 Jenny's voice had risen from the low whisper to a pretty 
 loud key before she closed this last speech, and poor Angelina 
 could not help hearing it. 
 
 'I will sleep anywhere — here on the carpet, or on the set- 
 tee!' said she timidly, 'I don't wish to offend that young lady.' 
 
 * Young lady indeed !' cried Mr. Precise angrily — 1 why she's 
 not half as good as you are, poor girl, for she has no feelin' for 
 a 8ufferin' fellow creetur. You shall have her bed. and if she 
 don't choose to share it with you, she may find a place some- 
 where else 1' 
 
 * Then I will, so I will !' replied the maid indignantly, 
 looking rather wickedly at Frank ; 'and what's more, Mr. Pre- 
 cise, I'll not stay in a house where I am treated so, so I won't. 
 I'll not be turned out of my bed for every strumpet you choo3e 
 to bring home with you !' 
 
 Poor Angelina heard this cruel term, and again bursting 
 into tears, said to Mr. Precise — 
 
 ' I'm not what she calls me, 3ir, indeed I'm not. No, sir, if 
 I would be bad like many other girls, I would find plenty of 
 homes in this city— I would not have been a homeless wan- 
 derer at this hour !' 
 
 'Tint's true, my good girl ! I believe you ! your very tears 
 tell your tale!' replied Mr. Precise, kindly; then turning to 
 Jenny, he added : 
 
 ' You may choose your lot now, Jenny ; either act like a 
 Christian, or leave my house !' 
 
 Finding that her angry and indignant mood could have no 
 effect, Jenny now altered her tone, and said : 
 
 'If you say she is good, sir, I suppose she must be^but I 
 don't like this takin' up with everybody as comes along, so I 
 don't !' 
 
 ' I don't care what you like, Jenny : I like to do my duty as 
 a man and a Christian ; and now hurry and get supper for us 
 all ! The poor girl must be mainly hungry ; any one can see 
 it by ner looks ! Don't cry any more, my dear, I'll be a friend 
 
208 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 — yes a father to you ! After you've had your supper, you 
 shall tell me all your story, and I'll see what I can do lor 
 you 1 Poor creetur, I'm sure she's had a hard time on't. 
 Come along Francis — we must attend to business to-night. 
 a>e been talking about my new plan for a " Home for the 
 Poor" and I mean to draw up a plan for a company, for I'm too 
 poor to do it all by myself !' 
 
 ' If you please, sir,' said Frank, recollecting that he had an 
 engagement at Jack Circle's, ' if you please, sir, my poor 
 mother is very low ; I'd like to go and see her for a couple ol 
 hours. I'll be up bright and early to attend to your business 
 in the morning.' 
 
 Mr. Precise paused a moment before he made a reply, for 
 his heart and head were both full of this new plan for doing 
 good; but at the end of that thoughtful moment, he replied : 
 
 * You're a good boy, Francis, to love your mother. Go and 
 see her. Here, take this, ' (handing him a ten dollar piece) 
 * tell her to buy medicine with it, or anything to make her 
 comfortable. She has a good son ; tell her that I, Peter 
 Precise, say so.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' replied Frank, looking at the money as if he 
 really felt ashamed to take it. Then he asked : 
 
 'May I go before tea]' 
 
 ' Yes, my boy, if you want to. Jenny be careful and lock 
 the street door behind him ; and I say, Frank !' 
 'Sir V 
 
 ' Be home early, my boy !' 
 
 'Oh, yes, sir, you may depend upon me 1' cried the young 
 rascal ; and as if perfectly satisfied that he could depend upon 
 Master Francis, the good old gentleman ascended to his 
 parlour, bearing a new pleasure in his bosom — the thought 
 that he had given a home to a desolate one, that he had closed 
 the day with a truly Christian and charitable act. 
 
 How many of our readers who are wealthy, or, at least, 
 have to spare, beyond the means necessary for their comfortable 
 sustenance, can say this for one hundredth part of their ending 
 days 1 
 
 When Mr. Precise had left the basement, Frank busied him- 
 self in putting on his outer garments to prepare for his walk, 
 at the same time glancing often at Angelina, who had seated 
 herself sadly before the fire, as if he wished to make out what 
 kind of a character she could be. He had seen so few poor 
 girls in the city like her, who wore the appearance of virtue, 
 that he could not comprehend her. 
 
 Jenny, meantime, without speaking to, or hardly glancing 
 at the poor friendless girl, busied herself in preparing for 
 supper, until Frank told her he was ready for going out. 
 
 She then took the light to see him to the door and close it* 
 
 ' This is somethin' new in our master !' said she, as soon as 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 209 
 
 Frank and herself got into the entry or hall which led to the 
 outer door, she having closed the inner one behind her. 
 
 * New, but not strange ! just like him! he is a warm-hearted 
 old covey !' replied Frank. 
 
 ' Well, I don't like it, so I don't : and as to sleepin' with 
 her, I won't, that's flat !' said Jenny. 
 
 * Well, what'll you do ] Sit up and cry all night 
 1 No, I won't do that !' 
 
 1 Well, what will you do V 
 
 1 I'll, — I'll — , Francis, I'll — you know what I mean !' 
 
 ' No, 'twont do now, Jenny. She'll blab to the old man. 
 You must be careful now ; remember what Shakspeare 
 says — ' 
 
 'I don't care what Shakspeare says, Frank ; I don't want to 
 sleep with that 'ere creetur as he's picked up in the streets. 
 May be— she — she keeps boarders in her upper story.' 
 
 1 What 1 Ah, yes, I understand. You mean she may be 
 flush with creeping ideas V 
 
 * Yes ; and 1 don't like to sleep with her.' 
 
 ' Well, Jenny, my love, as Byron says, " there are antipa- 
 thies,'' but I think you are safe ; the girl looks nice and 
 clean ; you'd better run the risk.' 
 
 1 Well, if you say so ; but Francis, dear, will you be horns 
 early V 
 
 ' Yes, my dear, if you'll sit up for me.' 
 
 ' To be sure I will ; but will you come soler 1 
 
 'Of course, my dear; I was slightly elevated the last 
 
 evening I was out, but I met some old friends, and the im- 
 
 bibatorial spirit overcame me a little !' 
 
 ' Yes, and it was so lucky master didn't find it out/ 
 
 'So it was, my dear : good night,' and imprinting a hearty 
 
 kiss upon the buxom maid's pouting lips, Frank made hi.-s 
 
 exit. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 1 1 was an hour later. Mr. Precise had finished his supper, 
 Jenny had cleared away the table, and now the old gentle- 
 man sat before the comfortable fire in the back parlour, lister.- 
 ing to the tale of Angelina. 
 
 He heard her in simple but touching language relate how- 
 she and her poor mother had striven and suffered since her 
 father'3 death ; how they had worked for their bare and 
 scanty living; and he shuddered as her tale reminded him of 
 poverty which he had already witnessed in once instance at 
 least. And when Bhe came to that part which told of the 
 villany and persecutions of Livingston, the old gentlemaa 
 
210 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 almost swore, so angry was he at the thought that she, so 
 young and helpless, should be pursued and iusulted, simply 
 because she was poor and beautiful. 
 
 But he calmed himself to listen to her continuation. When 
 she told him about her mother and herself seeking a home in 
 the ' Brewery,' he stopped her and asked her all about the 
 place. Her replies satisfied him fully of her truth, and when 
 she told him of the horrible murder of her mother, while her 
 utterance was checked by her sobs, tears poured down his 
 cheeks. 
 
 He did not check her, however, until she had told all, and 
 then he paused and bighed several times before he ventured 
 to speak. 
 
 ' Poor creetur !' said he at last. 'You've had more trouble 
 in your short life than I have ever seen, and I'm old enough 
 to be your grandfather !' 
 
 Then he sat still, and looked at the fire very intently for 
 nearly half an hour, without speaking. Then suddenly 
 bringing his hand down upon his thigh with a heavy slap, 
 which so frightened poor Angelina that she started from her 
 chair, he said in a determined tone : 
 
 'Yes ! I'll do it !' 
 
 Then while Angelina was wondering what he meant, he 
 turned to her and said : 
 
 'My dear, wouldn't you like to live with me all your life, 
 and be a daughter to me V 
 
 'I'm willing to work for you, sir, if you'll give me employ- 
 ment,' replied Angelina. ' I can sew very well, and 1 think I 
 could do housework, only I've been very weak lately !' 
 
 ' But I don't want you to work much. Only to sew a button 
 on for me now and then. I've neither chick nor child in the 
 whole world to love — no one to leave a dollar to — no one to 
 leave my name with. If you'll live with me, and be a good 
 girl, I'll bs a father to you !' 
 
 The young girl did not reply. Tears stood in her large 
 eyes ; her lips trembled with emotion, but she could not 
 speak. 
 
 Mr. Precise did not wait for her answer, however. He 
 again brought his hand emphatically down upon his knee, 
 and said : 
 
 ' Yes, you shall be my own daughter. I'll educate you 
 like a lady. You shall bear my name, and when I die, you 
 shall have all I own !' 
 
 The door opened at this moment, and Jenny appeared, her 
 face being very red, too. as she entered. 
 
 ' Did you call me, sir?' she asked, looking first at Angelina, 
 and then at Mr. Precise. 
 
 ' No, Jenny, I did not, nor do I want to be disturbed !' re- 
 plied Mr. Precise, in a sharp tone, 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 211 
 
 'I only thought 1 thought I heard you call !' said 
 
 Jenny, turning very red, and darting a spiteful glance at the 
 sewing girl. 
 
 * Then you made a mistake. You may go to your work 
 again !' said Mr. Precise, sternly. 
 
 The waiting-maid did not reply, bat turned away with a 
 scornful shake, which much agitated the voluminous skirts of 
 her garments, and slamming the door behind her, left the 
 apartment. 
 
 The reader will better understand the reason of this con- 
 duct, when informed that Jenny had spent the twenty minutes 
 prior to her appearance, in listening at the key-hole of the 
 back-parlour door. 
 
 After she left, Mr. Precise again spoke to Angelina : 
 
 ' Would you net like this arrangement, my dear]' 
 
 The young girl sighed, and a few scattering tears stole out 
 from her large blue eyes and ran hurriedly along her cheeks, 
 which were not so pale as they had been A red flush was 
 gathering upon them, and also on her forehead. Yet her lips 
 were growing more pale. 
 
 She made no answer to Mr. Precise, but he, noticing her 
 heightened colour, thought it was the warm flush of pleasure 
 thrilling through her veins, at the thought that a better day 
 was dawning upon her young life. 
 
 'How beautiful you look, my dear!' said he, 'why I do 
 declare your cheeks are as ro9y as a Spitzenberg apple. 
 
 The young girl smiled sadly at this compliment from the 
 good old bachelor, and turned to brush away the tears which 
 ran down her cheeks, but her heart was brimful of grief, and 
 an occasional drop would run over in spite of her attempts to 
 check it. 
 
 Mr. Precise saw her little hand pressed against her fore* 
 head, and asked in a kind tone : 
 
 'Does your head ache, my dear]' 
 
 ' Oh yes, sir, very much ! It is very hot !' 
 
 The old gentleman looked at her lips as she spoke, for he 
 heard her voice tremble, and he noticed that they were very 
 white, and quivered as she spoke. 
 
 ' Poor girl, you are feverish ! You must go to bed ! You 
 shall have a doctor !' 
 
 ' Oh no, sir, I am not very sick ! don't go to any expense 
 for me V murmured the girl, who indeed felt sick. 
 
 ' But I will V said the old gentleman, feeling her pulse and 
 at once detecting the fever— and he hurried to the bell and 
 rang it. 
 
 The maid took her own time to answer it, for after waiting 
 several minutes, Mr. Precise had taken hold of the bell-pull 
 to ring it again, when Jenny made her appearance : 
 
 'Did you want me, sir V 
 
212 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 * Yea, to be sure I did, you lazy huzzy ! Why don't you 
 move when you hear me ring.' 
 
 'I did come sir !' replied the maid spitefully, looking an- 
 grily at poor Angelina, as if to say, ' this is all your fault — 
 I'd like to scratch your eyes out.' 
 
 ' Then go for a doctor, and be quick about it.' 
 
 1 What, sir, are you sick ?' 
 
 1 No— confound it— hurry along, and don't stand there to 
 ask questions !' 
 Jenny turned to go, but she had one more question to ask. 
 
 * What doctor shall I call, sir? 
 
 ' Watson, to be sure. I never have any other inside of my 
 doors, you know !' 
 ' But, sir, what shall I tell him ? you are not sick.' 
 
 * Confound the girl, she'il drive me mad ! Go and tell him 
 1 want him as soon as he can come ! Now hurry !' 
 
 Having now no more questions to ask, Jenny retired, 
 moving, however, very slowly. 
 
 Mr. Precise had heretofore been patient, but his red face 
 grew much redder than usual, and following her to the door, 
 he said angrily : 
 
 ' Jenny, if you behave in this way, I'll discharge you in the 
 morning.' 
 
 ' Then you'll have to pay me my month's wages — for you 
 haVn't given me warning !' 
 
 * So I will — but I don't care, I'll not put up with your im- 
 pudence.' 
 
 1 It's all along of your bringin' that nasty little good for 
 nothin' into the house !' replied the maid, putting her apron 
 up to her eyes ; ' 1 never was treated so before, I wasn't, and it's 
 too bad it is, after bein' so good to me as you have, and makin." 
 me love you so.' 
 
 Jenny now began to sob very loudly, thinking that tears 
 would subdue her master, if her angry tongue could not, but 
 he was not in a humour which she could reach, for he 
 alammed the door too, without replying again. 
 
 * Well, I never !' cried Jenny, ceasing her sobs as the door 
 closed — ' I do believe he's gone st-irk stavin' demented ! I'll 
 make her pay for this — I will ! I'll get a doctor, and I'll take 
 my own time a doing on it too ! She sleep with me indeed ! 
 I reckon there's two to make a bargain about that ! Why I'd 
 rather sleep alone all my life — and that would be dreadful ! 
 Oh dear, 1 wish Francis was here ! This last whim of my 
 master's beats everythin' in Shak?peare all holler, so it does !' 
 
 While Jenny was thus indignantly soliloquizing, she was 
 preparing to go after the doctor, which she did after a delay 
 of full half an hour. 
 
 Meantime the fever was rapidly rising in the burning veins 
 of poor Angelina, and though she did not murmur, or utter 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 213 
 
 one word of complaint, her quivering limbs, throbbing pulse' 
 and mildly Hashing eyes, all told of the fearful progress of 
 pain and disease. 
 
 Mr. Precise watched the poor sufferer, as she lay there upon 
 his sofa, and often did he go to the door and look out, to see it 
 the doctor was not coming. The doctor came at last, and 
 when he looked upon his patient he sighed, for he was a kind 
 hearted man. 
 
 1 You should have sent for me before I' he said, in a low 
 whisper, to Mr. Precise ; ' I am afraid she will not have 
 strength to bear the medicine necessary to break such a fever. 
 She is very weak !' 
 
 'Poor thing ! Do all you can for her !' said Mr. Precise, 
 wiping away a couple of great tears which trickled his cheeks, 
 as they ran down two ravines, leading to the corners of his 
 mouth. 
 
 1 Yes, yes. We must hope for the best, and do all we can, 
 Have her at once undressed and put to bed in a cool room; I 
 will make out a prescription !' replied the doctor, taking one 
 of his cards out, and writing upon it. 
 
 Mr. Precise again called for Jenny, and she, who really had 
 no wish to leave her place, and had many reasons for desiring 
 to keep it, now obeyed him, and assisted in placing the poor 
 girl in her bed. She also hurried to the nearest apothecary's 
 for the medicine, and quite made Mr. Precise forget her 
 former misconduct in her present officiousness. 
 
 Mr. Precise himself sat and watched by the side of the 
 sufferer, preparing her medicine with his own hands, and 
 really seeming to feel as much interest in her fate, as if she 
 were indeed his daughter. 
 
 Iu finding snch a friend for poor Angelina in this last deep 
 trial, God had indeed proved that he cared for the fatherless I 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 We presume that you are curious, reader, to know the fate of 
 the unfortunate sister of Charles Meadows. 
 
 We left her, just entering the room of Emma Wood, while 
 Henry Whitmore, in a fearful angry mood, was ascending the 
 stairs. 
 
 When he reached the landing, Emma asked in a tone aft 
 careless as she could assume : 
 
 1 Where is she ? Has she not gone out V 
 
 ' Curse me if I know,' replied the libertine. ' She has hardly 
 had a chance, for the door opening to the entry was not closed; 
 we must have seen her if she had passed that way.' 
 o 
 
214 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' But where can she be? Didn't she go out by the back- 
 door?' risked the woman, wishing, if possible, to keep him from, 
 the right track of his victim. 
 
 * No.' replied he, ' I tried that door, and found it locked on 
 the inside. I believe she's in the house yet, and if she is, by 
 the Hand that marie me, I'll have her.' 
 
 Whitmore sternly looked Emma in the face as he said this, 
 and while he noticed how pale she turned, and that her eye 
 avoided meeting his, his suspicions became aroused, and he 
 cried in a stern and bitter tone : 
 
 'Emma, I'm not in a humour to be trifled with ! If you 
 know where she is, you'd better give her up. 1 warn you 
 now, for hell is in me to night.' 
 
 For a moment the courtezan kept silent. Oh, what a 
 moment of agony was that for poor Isabella. There she lay, 
 within three steps, and heard the terrible threat, and she knew 
 that one word from the lips of the woman, nay, one sign from 
 her hand, would disclose her place of concealment, and then, 
 what could >he. a weak, terror-stricken, helpless girl, do against 
 his inhuman force and stength. 
 
 And when the courtezan spoke, the wretched girl, for one 
 moment, was thrown into the unutterable agony of believing 
 herself betrayed, for the woman replied to Whitmore : 
 
 ' I do know where she is ! You must think you are some- 
 body, to scare me with your big words !' 
 
 'I don't want to scare you, Em !' replied the villain, 
 lowering his tone a little, ' but if you know where she is, just 
 tell me !' 
 
 'Don't you wish I would?' said the girl sarcastically. 
 'Yes, indeed I do. Come, Em, I'll give you an X.' 
 ' Not enough !' replied the girl carelessly. 
 'Then, I'lfdouble it.' 
 ' Not enough yet ! 
 
 'Why blast the thing, Em, you must think I'm made of 
 gold !' 
 
 ' No, I don't ! You're like Sam Selden there's more brass 
 in your composition than any othor metal !' 
 
 ' Well, Eua. dropping all these compliments, what will you 
 take to tell me ? 
 
 Oh ! how poor Isabella trembled while she heard this con- 
 versation ! 
 
 Emma Wood paused a moment after Whitmore's last ques- 
 tion, and then said : 
 ' A cool hundred !' 
 'Well, tell me?' 
 
 ' Hand over the tin !' replied the woman. 
 'I've given you nearly all I have with me. I'll let you. 
 have it to morrow ! I've nothing but a twenty dollar bill.' 
 ' No — no ; to-morrow is a bad pay-day !' replied the girl. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 215 
 
 ' I'll give you my note !' 
 
 'I don't want your note — Vd make a pretty face trying to 
 collect it, wouldn't I, if you chose to refuse payment. They'd 
 ask whether it was for value received, I suppose !' 
 
 'Blast it.youseem to want to plague me to night!' cried Whit- 
 more angrily ; then, as he glanced at his hand, he saw a ring 
 which Isabella had in an hour of confidence and fondness placed 
 on his finger. It was a diamond, set in a very antique manner, 
 and had been an heir-loom in her family — one. which she 
 would never have parted with, except to an affianced hus- 
 band. Glancing at this ring, Whitmore said : 
 
 • Here's security. There's a ring worth double the money. 
 You may have that if you'll tell me.' 
 
 * Well, give it to me,' said Emma. 
 In a moment it was on her finger. 
 
 Isabella was about to spring from beneath the bed where 
 she had crept, and had determined to leap from the window 
 even at the risk of destruction, when Emma said to Whitmore : 
 
 1 She is in the street somewhere ! I saw her go out when 
 you was talking to me in the back parlour.' 
 
 ' Curse you, is this the information !' cried Whitmore, al- 
 most bursting with anger. 
 
 1 Yes. Ha ! Ha ! I've done you out of the ring, eh f laughed 
 :he sirl. 
 
 • Which way did she go!' shouted Whitmore. 
 
 ' How could I tell ? I saw her slip out of the entry, and I 
 wasn't agoing to 'tell, for I do think it's a shame for you to 
 hunt that poor girl about so, when there's plenty prettier 
 ones and good enough for you too, that are ruined now !' 
 
 Whitmore paused a moment to think what plan to pursue. 
 If, as Emma said, Isabella had escaped, he supposed that she 
 would be able to reach her home before he could overtake 
 her; and moreover, he knew that if she had once actually 
 gained the street, it would be a difficult and danjrerou* busi- 
 ness for him to try to bring her back when policemen and 
 others were continually passing. 
 
 Isabella now began to breathe more freely, for she hoped 
 that the courtezm would not betray her. 
 
 Whitmore again looked at Emma, and he still noticed that 
 her eye was averted from his gaze, as it had been while she 
 spoke. He felt sure that she had not told him the truth, but 
 he determined to find it out if possible. Dissimulation was 
 his plan. 
 
 ' Well,' said he, ' If I must give up the chase, I suppose I 
 must, but it is hard to lose twelve or fourteen hundred dollars 
 for nothing on a poor chit of a girl like her !' 
 
 * It would have been harder for her to lose what all the 
 gold in the world could not buy back to her — her virtue and 
 purity !' said Emma, coldly. 
 
216 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' So it would, my fair philosopher, and we'll drop the Bub* 
 ject !' said Harry carelessly, and then he added : 
 
 ' I'll go home, I believe, or up to Carlton's ! you're too cross, 
 for my company to-night !' 
 
 Thus saying, he turned away, passed down the stairs, and in 
 a few moments Emma heard the street door slammed heavily 
 after him. 
 
 She went into her own room, where Isabella met her with 
 tears of gratitude. 
 
 1 Oh ! God bless you !' she cried, kissing her fervently, 'you 
 have saved me from worse than death. Oh, that I had the 
 means of repaying ycu !' 
 
 ' You have repaid me !' replied Emma. ' One such pure 
 kiss as that, one such prayer for God's blessing on my guilty 
 head, is worth a thousand such acts.' 
 
 Who would have thought it ! tears, great warm tears, came 
 from that lost girl's large black eyes. 
 
 The well of human feeling was not quite dried up in her 
 heart. Though steeped in guilt, though hardened in very 
 misery, she proved that there were yet fruitful spots in her 
 heart ; that there was at least one sunny spot in her character. 
 And who will dare to say that such as she cannot be drawn 
 from the sea of wretchedness where they have fallen 1 ? Who 
 will say, pass them by and let them perish ! Oh God ! why 
 should the cry of perishing thousands go up in this city, and 
 no aid be extended to them ! 
 
 But to return to our story. Emma Wood's heart was 
 touched by the blessings and caresses of the poor girl whom 
 she had tried to aid, and she determined as soon as possible to 
 get her out of that house and its impure neighbourhood. 
 Therefore she said to Isabella : 
 
 'You must not stay here ! he will be sure to come back and 
 find you — you know your way home Y 
 
 ' Yes, but I feel so weak !' murmured the girl. 
 
 'Never mind, I'll go and get you a carriage,' said Emma ; 
 ' I'll not be gone a moment. Lock the door inside, and 
 when I come back 1'Jl give three knocks, and you'll know it 
 is me. Ah ! what made you start so V 
 
 ' I thought I heard a noi.^e outside of the door,' replied 
 Isabella, trembling. 
 
 Emma stepped to the door, looked out in the entry, but saw 
 no one. 
 
 ' It w r as only your fancy,' said she, and then continued : 
 
 ' I'll go and get you a carriage, and see you safe in, and 
 then I shall feel contented.' 
 
 ' I leel afraid to stay here alone,' sighed Isabella. 
 
 ' Oh ! no one will come in. I'll lock the street door behind 
 me as I go out, and I'll not be gone more than a few minutes.' 
 
 1 WeJ), go, I will try to be calm,' murmured Isabella. And 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 217 
 
 yet when Emma left her, the poor girl turned still more pale, 
 and trembled as she heard the sound of her steps dying away 
 in the distance. 
 
 She locked the door inside, as she had been directed, how- 
 ever, and then knelt down by the bedside and prayed — 
 prayed fervently to God to save and protect her in the peril 
 which environed her. Her heart was full of dread, yet ; she 
 could not feel safe under that roof. 
 
 Only a few momenta elapsed, when she heard quick steps 
 ascending the stairs, and her heart for a moment almost 
 stopped beating in her anxiety. But she heard the signal, 
 the three low taps upon the door, agreed upon to denote the 
 return of Enma, and she hurried to the door to open it. 
 
 As she drew baek the bnlt, the door flew open, and she 
 shrieked as she saw Harry Whitmore before her. 
 
 She would have fallen to the floor, but his arms elaaped 
 her, and he drew her form to his breast, now swelling with 
 the pride of his villanous triumph. 
 
 ' So, so, my fair lady ! thought you was free, eh ! You 
 didn't know what a persevering lover you had ! Ha ! ha !' 
 
 She did not bear his taunts. She did not feel the burning 
 and passionate kisses which he imprinted on her lips. She 
 did not see the fiery glances which he bestowed on her form, 
 beautiful even in its disordered dress, her face lovely in even 
 its death like pallor. 
 
 'Fainted, eh! so much the better for me; 1 can manage 
 her more easily !' he muttered, and then raising her from the 
 floor, he bore her out, and closing the door behind her, 
 hurried down stairs. He carried the still senseless girl into 
 the front parlour, and closing the door which opened from 
 that room into the entry, awaited the return of Emma Wood 
 with the carriage. 
 
 He had but a moment to delay, for, as he closed the door, 
 he heard the wheels of the approaching carriage dashing 
 along the pavement. 
 
 In another minute the hack stopped at the door, Emma 
 hurried out, and telling the driver that the lady would be 
 out in a minute, passed by the door where Whitmore stood 
 with the insensible girl in his arms, and hurried up stairs. 
 The moment after, Whitmore stepped noiselessly out, and 
 finding the back door open, quickly lifted poor Isabella in, 
 aaying to the driver : 
 
 'It's all right, my man, go ahead !' 
 
 ' Is this the sick lady, sir?' a>ked the coachman. 
 
 ' Yes — yes, drive on !' cried Whitmore impatiently, for he 
 feared the return of Emma Wood to the door. 
 ' Where to, sir V said the driver. 
 
 'To 100, Church Street!' replied Whitmore, 'and be 
 quick ; she is very sick, I want her taken home f 
 
218 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 'What to old Ma'am SweU's?' asked the driver, as he 
 closed the door. 
 
 * Yes, to be sure ; be quick, and I'll give you a ten spot !' 
 
 ' Oh, very well, sir !' said the driver, making more haste, 
 1 if it is to be paid for, I'll do my work, and ask no questions, 
 but that's a funny place to take a sick young lady to, I 
 think !' 
 
 He drove off, just as Emma, finding her room tenantless, 
 came down stairs. She could not comprehend the reason of 
 this, until she saw a white scarf which had been worn 
 by Isabella, lying upon the door step, and then she thought 
 that Isabella had gone into the carriage of her own accord, 
 and hurried the driver off. 
 
 ' I do think it was a little ungrateful of her to go off, and 
 never say goodbye!' she said, 4 but the poor thing was 
 frightened out of her wits !' 
 
 Little did she dream that the wretched girl was again in 
 the power of her infamous persecutor, and that he was bear- 
 ing her away to a den of infamy, where no one would raise 
 a hand to save her ; where all were so low and vile, so guilty 
 themselves, that they would only glory in aiding to make 
 another as bad as they were. 
 
 This he knew well, and when he found that he could 
 not complete his villany at Madame I.'s, he determined to 
 take his victim to a place where he would be secure from 
 interruption. 
 
 It was late, and hii carriage drove along through silent 
 streets, but it had not very far to go, ere the driver drew up 
 before the house which he had named. 
 
 ' Ring the bell and ask Madame S. to step here a mos&ent. 
 Tell her Harry Whitmore wants to see her,' said Whitmore 
 to the driver, as the latter opened the carriage door. 
 
 ' My fare first, if you please, sir !' said the driver, who had 
 evidently dealt with some of the fancy city bucks before. 
 
 ' Certainly, and if you'll give me your word not to tell the 
 woman that hired you, where you drove to, or that you saw 
 me at all, I'll give you a twenty !' 
 
 ' Done. I'll keep as mum ad a mouse when the cat's about. 5 
 
 Whitmore handed him the twenty dollar bill and the 
 driver then rang the belt, In a few moments the door was 
 opened, and in answer to Whitmore's message, a middle 
 sized, dark-eyed, red-faced specimen of fallen wo inanity made 
 her appearance. 
 
 Whitmore whispered hi3 wishes in her ear, and told him 
 that his victim was there in his arms senseless. 
 
 'I've only one objection. All my rooms are occupied,"" 
 Said she. 
 
 * Who has the third story, back room V asked Whitmore. 
 ' French Rose !' replied Madame S. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 219 
 
 1 She pays you ten dollars a week for it !' 
 ■ Yes P 
 
 ' Til give you a hundred, if you'll let me have everything 
 my own way !' said Whitinore. 
 
 ' And let me keep the girl when you cast her off? asked 
 the woman, while her dark eyes Hashed brighter than usual, 
 at the prospect of gain. 
 
 1 Yes, il you can. I don't want her long. I want to 
 break that infernal pride of hers, and make her p;iy for the 
 trouble ehe's given me !' 
 
 ' Well, then, you may have the room, but the front garret 
 would be more quiet. There are thick shutters on the side 
 that fronts the street !' 
 
 * Well, well, anywhere, so that I can be quick. She acts 
 as if she was coming to !' cried Harry. 
 
 'Then bring her in !' said the trafficker in the misery of 
 her sex. 
 
 As Harry obeyed, and lifted the poor girl out of the car- 
 riage, the fresh air somewhat revived her, and opening her 
 eyes, she saw the face of Whitmore. 
 
 She screamed faintly aud struggled to get away, but he in- 
 stantly put his hand over her mouth, and was hurrying in, 
 when a lot of young fellows who were just going in turned 
 and met him on the steps. They were evidently some of the 
 b'hoys, and tolerably elevated. 
 
 4 Ello !' cried one, ' what's this ere chap a doin"?' 
 
 Seeing that they were not men with whom he was acquaint- 
 ed, Whitmore tried to push on, while Madame S. replied to 
 the first speaker : 
 
 1 It's only one of my girls drunk, and this gentleman is 
 taking her in.' 
 
 * Well then, let her slide !' said the b'hoy, 'but I say, old 
 'oman, aren't you agoin' to stan' treat ]' 
 
 ' Oh ! go away now, and don't make a fuss !' 
 
 * No, we don'c, old lady, if yer don't stan' treat. We're the 
 b'hoys, we are, ourselves ! We've brought a strange b'hoy here 
 to see your house, and you've got to treat, bee the Laud — yer 
 have !' 
 
 ' Well— well, go in, and I'll treat if you'll keep quiet and 
 don't kick up a row !' replied the landlady. 
 
 The carriage now drove off, and Whitmore having carried 
 his victim up stairs, the landlady entered the well furnished 
 parlour with her forced guests. 
 
 Her dark eyes Hashed angrily as she saw the b'hoys spout 
 their tobacco juice over her beautiful carpets, but ehe dared 
 not say anything to offend them, else her looking glasses and 
 other furniture would have been sure to suffer some. 
 
 It was strange, but true, that though she cared little for 
 the police, or any who hud a legal right to enter her doors, 
 
220 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 and disturb her establishment, she scarcely dared to call her 
 soul her own before the new comers. 
 
 _ They ordered wine— she got it for them ; they kissed her 
 girls, and cuffed them round to hear them squeal, yet no one 
 thought of resisting their ' innocent familiarities.' 
 
 At last, when the wine was brought up and poured out, the 
 one who hailed Whitmore on the steps, cried out : 
 
 ' Are ye all loaded and primed, gents V 
 
 Each of the b'hoys replied, as they held a brimming glass 
 aloft : 
 
 * We aint nuthin' else, Mose, we aint !' 
 
 ' Then fire away ! Xo, hold on, till I interduce the strange 
 b'hoy to the boas she !' cried the young man who seemed 
 leader of the crowd, and who was known by the antique, but 
 abbreviated cognomen, 'Mose.' 
 
 As he said this, he led out a short, dandified, grey-eyed, 
 light-haired,brown-whbkered individual, and addresing him- 
 self to Madame S., said : 
 
 * Lookee yer, old 'oman ! this ere chap is one of the b'hoys, 
 and he's from down east, he is ! We've taken him in, and 
 he's one of us ! He is a little dressy, but that's nuthin' — 
 he % & a tailor, and carries his sign on his back !' 
 
 « What's his name 1 I think I've seen him before !' said the 
 landlady, fixing her dark eyes upon him. 
 
 'Oh ! well, you my call him Smith or Jones, je3t as you 
 like, but we calls him the Apostle, we does !* 
 
 '.Why so ? He don't look very much like a preacher.' 
 
 ' No,' replied Mose. ' Nor he don't look werry like a soger, 
 but he is, and a full private at that. Why, he's one of the 
 'b'hoys, I told yer, and nothin' else. He's a traveller, been to 
 Holmes's Hole, and other sich places of worship. Here's to 
 him — let's drhink.' 
 
 Mose set the example,, and soon the bumpers had disap- 
 peared down sundry exceedingly capacious throats. 
 
 ' Well, wots to pay 1 Wots the damage V asked Mo9e. 
 
 ' Let me see, three bottles champagne — nine dollars for the 
 general run of folks, but only seven, for you,' replied the land- 
 lady, who began to hope that the b'hoys would for once pay 
 up : but when Mose spoke again, her hope fell still-born. 
 
 'Don't yer wish you may get it 1' he said making the ma- 
 sonic sign with his thumb resting upon the end of his nose, 
 and his four fingers performing sundry singular antics near 
 the end of his nasal member. 
 
 'Yes, I do !' she replied spitefully. 
 
 ' Then charge it to profit and loss. You'll rob Peter to pa? 
 Paul, you'll not lose by it !' 
 
 ' I hopes you're not personal, Mister Mose !' said the down* 
 east b'hoy, turning rather red in the face. 
 
OF NEW VORK. 
 
 221 
 
 c Well— don't know as I vos, but if yer think so, and want 
 to make a muss about it, why jiat say so, that's all !' 
 
 * No — I do not want to make no row,' replied the fellow, 
 turning exceedingly pale, as he regarded the decidedly com- 
 bative attitude of Mose, 1 only as you call me the 'Postle, I 
 didn't know, Mose, but you meant suthing in that last speech.' 
 
 ' Well, then, there wont be no row in this ere meetin' — but 
 I say !' said Mose, again confronting the landlady, ' do you 
 know Jack Scott !' 
 
 * No, nor 1 don't want to,' replied Madame S., who was quite 
 put out of sorts by such unprofitable customers. 
 
 ' Well, you needn't be quite so crusty about it. Jack Scott 
 and Bill Kirby are b'hoys, they are ! Ned Forrest is some, 
 but he aint a touch to Jack Scott when he wraps himself up 
 in the star spangled banner and goes for to die — three cheers 
 for Jack Scott !' 
 
 Three hearty cheers were given, which Madame S. neither 
 joined in nor approved of, for she cried, as soon as her voice 
 could be heard — 
 
 1 Don't make so much noise, for Heaven's sake, gentlemen ; 
 you'll have the police in here — you'll ruin me !' 
 
 ' It's cussed hard to spile a rotten egg !' cried Mose ; ' an' as 
 to yer police, jist bring on a cord or two on 'em. We can lick 
 the crowd, v:e can !' 
 
 No police came, and the b'hoys becoming tired of the fun 
 there, proposed going to some other gilded hall of infamy to 
 put the 'she boss' through, as they had Mrs. S. 
 
 They therefore left her, and she was very well satisfied to 
 get off from such a crowd with so little damage. 
 
 The moment after they had gone, Whitmore came down 
 3tairs, and handing Madame S. a key, said : 
 
 * You'll have to go and doctor that fool of a girl. I cannot 
 get her out of her fainting fit. The moment she opens her 
 eyes and sees me, she goes off again. I'll leave her till to« 
 morrow evening, and so you attend to her and try to bring her 
 to herself. Tell her not to be a fool. I have determined to 
 make her mine, and mine she mu3t be, willing or not !' 
 
 ' I'll see what I can do with her, Harry,' said the landlady, 
 taking the key from him ; ' but wont you take a glass of 
 wine V 
 
 ' No, I thank you,' replied he, 1 I'm going round to Carlton's 
 to win four or five hundred, and I want to keep my nerves 
 steady. Wont you lend me fifty to begin with ? — I'll return it 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Certainly,' replied the landlady, ' you have first-rate se- 
 curity in the house !' and she laughed as she took the money 
 from her purse and handed it to him. 
 
222 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Whitmore hurried from Church Street around to the hell of 
 Carlton. It was quite a fashiouable hour when he arrived. — 
 Theguest3 of Mr. C. had eupped, and were already clustered 
 before the other table, behind which Mr. Sam Selden sat, 
 assisted by a genteel-lnoking, grey headed gentleman, who 
 acted as banker in the absence of Mr. Carlton, who had other 
 business to attend to just at that moment. 
 
 Whitmore first visited the side board, and partook of some 
 of Mr. Carlton's extra-tine brandy, in order to settle his nerves 
 for the game. As he was pouring out the liquor, a tap upon 
 his shoulder caused him to turn quickly around, and he saw, 
 standing before him, Charles Meadows. 
 
 The shock of seeing him was so sudden, and Meadows looked 
 so pale, that Whitmore for a moment entirely lost his self- 
 possession, and dropped his half filled glass to the floor, where 
 it was shivered into atoms. But as he saw that a faint smile 
 was forming on the countenance of Meadows, and that his 
 face, though haggard and pale, did not wear the looks of 
 anger, the self- convicted villain recovered himself enough to 
 respond to the friendly salutation of the young clerk. 
 
 1 Why, how pale you look ! are you sick V a-ked the latter 
 of Whitmore, as he noticed his evident agitation. 
 
 ' No — yes — that is, I'm not sick, but I'm not very well. I 
 felt dizzy just now, and came to take some brandy to try and 
 settle my nerves,' replied the villain. 
 
 ' Well, I'll join you, I'm not well to night myself,' said 
 Meadows. 
 
 'No,' responded Whitmore, 'you look badly—what i3 the 
 matter ?' 
 
 ' Nothing, only I've rather over- worked myself lately !' re- 
 plied the clerk, with a carelessness which completely re assured 
 Whitmore. 
 
 They both filled their glasses with brandy slightly diluted, 
 and crank. 
 
 ' Do you intend to play to night V asked Meadows. 
 ' Yes, I believe I'll try my hand. I've a fifty to lose : will 
 you play ]' 
 
 ' No, I think not,' replied Meadows. ' I'm rather short, just 
 now — had to give my mother a hundred this evening, for 
 rent !' 
 
 1 Go me halves, with mine V 
 
 * Thank you, Harry, but I'd rather look on and see you 
 play. You always win !' 
 
 * Yes, generally in all kinds of games !' said Harry, with a 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 223 
 
 smile, which would have seemed meaning to any one, except 
 one so confiding as Meadows. 
 
 They turned to go to the faro- table, but just at that moment 
 another person entered, whom they waited for. It was Gus 
 Livingston. He looked surprised to see Whitmore there, but 
 calmly returned the salutation of both the young men. 
 
 'Why, where have you been, Harry] I've been looking 
 everywhere for you. 1 just left the Count and a crowd at 
 
 Jim Decatur's room, at the C n, where they were having a 
 
 quiet little private game of poker— I thought you'd be there.' 
 
 1 No — that's a small potato crowd !' replied Whitmore ; 
 'I've been spending a very agreeable evening in the company 
 of ladies. 1 just left Charley's sister and mine ; by the way, 
 Charley, Miss Isabella is a very fine musician !' 
 
 1 Yes, she has very fiue natural taste, and I've had the best 
 masters for her !' replied the unsuspecting brother. 
 
 Livingston had exchanged glances with Whitmore, and 
 thought by the look of the latter that he had triumphed. — 
 Filling a glass for himself from a decanter on the side board, 
 he said : 
 
 ' I'll propose her health ! Join me in it f 
 
 1 With all my heart !' said Whitmore, ' may Ehe be always 
 as happy as she is now P 
 
 ' Ha ! ha ! she ought to be happy in having such a demni- 
 
 tion fine fellow for a brother !' said Livingston, in a 
 
 singular tone. 
 
 Meadows did not notice the tone, but poured out another 
 glass, and drank it off. He was evidently bent on trying to 
 drown the memory of his guilt. He did not even object to a 
 third glass before they approached the faro-table. 
 
 When they took a stand in front of the dealer, Whitmore 
 looked at Sam Selden, and cried : 
 
 • Here, Sam, let's have this fifty broken into five dollar 
 checks. I'm going to win my night's expenses !' 
 
 Taking up the fifty dollar bill which the young man tossed 
 over to him, Selden bowed very politely, and passed it to 
 the banker, who soon handed out its equivalent pile of red 
 checks. 
 
 ■ Ready for the deal !' said the handsome gambler, showing 
 his white teeth, and smiling upon the betters. 
 
 ' Don't abbreviate, Sam just say ready for the devil !' cried 
 Harry, placing five of his checks upon a card. 
 
 ' Dem'd good, that, Harry ! More truth than poetry P cried 
 Gus. Livingston. 
 
 But their conversation was cut short as the deal com- 
 menced. 
 
 Whitmore has placed his money upon the Jack, and in a few 
 moments it was drawn, and upon his side. 
 
224 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 'The Jcnave wins, sir,' said the polite Selden, smiling mali- 
 ciously as he emphasised the word. 
 
 ' Ha ! ha ! he hit you there,' cried Gus. 
 
 'Will you take up your bet, sir?' asked Selden of Whit* 
 more. 
 
 1 No, let it lay, the "knave may win again !' said Harry. 
 
 The deal went on, and the knave not only won once, but 
 four times in succession, leaving Whitmore the winner of four 
 hundred dollars en that card. 
 
 ' There, that'll do for to night !' said Harry, when the deal 
 wa3 out : 'just hand me over the change for those checks — I 
 don't want any more just now !' 
 
 ' Where'll we go?' asked Gus., as the three young men drew 
 back from the crowd which fronted the faro table. 
 
 * Anywhere, for fun !' said Harry. ' I've no engagements 
 this evening !' 
 
 ' Morning, you mean. It's after twelve !' said Meadows, 
 looking at his watch. 
 
 1 Well, it's no matter. Let's go and have something to eat, 
 Florence is open yet !' cried Harry. 
 
 ' I'd rather drink !' said Meadows ; ' let's go upon a bender, 
 I haven't been on one for some time now !' 
 
 ' Agreed !' cried the other two ; and by way of a founda- 
 tion for future potations, they took another glass of Carlton's 
 brandy. 
 
 ' Well, — which way V cried Meadows, whose spirits began 
 to rise with the effects of the liquor. 
 
 ' Won't you go to Jule's, and see the anj?el of darkness that 
 fooled you so nicely — Kate Hall V asked Whitmore. 
 
 1 No, not there. I've had enough of her !' replied Meadows. 
 
 'Let's go to old Swett's !' cried Gus. Livingston. 
 
 ' I'm agreed, anywhere !' cried Meadows. 
 
 c But not there !' said Whitmore, quickly. ' I won't go to 
 Swett's !' 
 
 ' Why not 1 ?' asked both the others. 
 
 ' Because I don't like her place— it's a low hole !' replied 
 Whitmore. 
 
 ' So much the better — we can kick up a spree there and 
 nobody will know us !' said Meadows. 
 
 ' Well, if you will have it so, go a head !' said Whitmore, 
 in a bitter tone ; ' but may-be you'll wish you had not gone V 
 
 ' What the devil set3 you against her so V asked Gus. Liv- 
 ingston with surprise. 
 
 ' Oh nothing, go on, I will follow !' cried Whitmore. 
 
 The three now started out, but at the front-doorway they 
 were met by Carlton. 
 
 He smiled as he saw Meadows. 
 
 1 You are the very man I was thinking of, Meadows !' said 
 lie, ' and the one whom I wished most to see !' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 225 
 
 * Ah, indeed ! Well, sir, you do see me V said Meadows, 
 with difficulty repressing a shudder, as he gazed upon the man 
 and remembered the dreadful scene of that morning. 
 
 ' Yes, but I must see you alone !' replied the gambler, in a 
 pleasant but decided tone. 
 
 'I'm just now engaged. You see I have company !' said 
 Meadows. 
 
 1 1 cannot help it, sir,' replied Carlton ; ' business must take 
 precedence of pleasure !' 
 
 ' This is no business hour !' said Meadows sulkily. 
 
 ' Hours were not specified in your lond !' said Carlton in a 
 low whisper, bending his head clo«e to Meadows's ear. 
 
 The young man turned ghastly pale, and rather groaned 
 than spoke : 
 
 ' What do you want with me V 
 
 ' Dismiss your companions, and come with me. You shall 
 soon learn !' replied the gambler, sternly. • Kemember, sir, 
 that you are mine now, body and soul.' 
 
 Poor Meadows felt that this, alas! was but too true, and 
 turning to his comrades, said : 
 
 ' I can't go with you, boys. Carlton and I have business 
 together which I had forgotten. You must excuse me.' 
 
 ' Certainly !' cried Whitmore, glad of any excuse which 
 would break off this proposed visit to Church Street. 
 
 'Well, did you ever !' said Gus. as Carlton went up stairs 
 with Meadows. ' Why Charley turned as pale as a ghost 
 when Carlton whispered to him. He don't seem to dare to 
 call his soul his own — what can "cow" him down so, before 
 Carlton V 
 
 '1 suppose he owes him money,' said Whitmore. 1 Charley 
 hasn't got hardened yet, enough to look a man boldly in the 
 face whom he owes.' 
 
 'Poor fellow, he's too tender-hearted to belong to our set 
 then P said Gas. ' Why if Jim Decatur and the Count and 
 some of the rest of us didn't owe all the tailors and jewellers in 
 town, we'd be miserable. Charley can't be aware of the ex- 
 quisite pleasure one feels in damning a dun ! But I forgot — 
 where's hia sister V 
 
 ' In bed, I suppose !' said Whitmore, who seemed not to 
 feel particularly communicative. 
 
 * Well, how did you get along after I left you 1 }' 
 
 'Well enough !' said Whitmore, and then before the other 
 could ask any more questions, he added : 
 'Good night — I'm going home !' 
 
 ' But, Harry, stop — lefs go over to Florence's and have one 
 more drink. What's got into you to-night V 
 
 * The devil,* replied Whitmore gruffly, and turning on hie 
 heel he walked quickly up into Broadway. 
 
 ' Well, I believe bo !' muttered Livingston, looking in 
 
220 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 astonishment upon the receding form of his friend, and then 
 slowly taking the same direction. 
 
 He had gone but a few steps, when he heard a noise in 
 the direction taken by Whitmore, which indicated a row. 
 Qu3. was not exactly a coward, though not overstocked with 
 bravery, and as he detected the sound of Whitmore's voice in 
 a loud key, he hurried on to his assistance. 
 
 He found him at the corner just above Florence's, sur- 
 rounded by a set of fellows who seemed crazy drunk, and who 
 were in fact the same whom we have already seen at the 
 house in Church street. 
 
 ' So ho, try to run over a b'hoy rough shod, would yer !' 
 cried the leader of the gang to Whitmore, who it appeared 
 had offended him in some way. 
 
 * Get out of the way, or by Heaven I'll let daylight through 
 you !' said Whitmore, attempting to proceed, and drawing a 
 dirk from his bosom. 
 
 ' So, you'd stick a feller, would yer !' cried Mose, adding a 
 tremendous oath, ' I'll show yer a trick of the Bowery, / 
 will !' and in a moment a whizzing sound was heard, as he 
 whirled something in circles around his head. 
 
 Whitmore advanced, and crash came the heavy slung-shot 
 down upon his raised arm, and it fell powerless by his side, 
 dropping the knife, for the bone was broken. 
 
 * Go it, Mose ! Give him hell !' cried the b'hoys, and 
 again the terrible weapon came crashing down upon his head, 
 though with less force, for his hat partly broke the blow. 
 Yet it was very severe, entirely stunning him. 
 
 'Hays !' cried the crowd. ' Hays, Mose, you've done him !' 
 and the b'hoys made off at full speed. 
 
 Livingston arrived in a moment after, and found Whitmore 
 senseless, and bleeding very badly. Summoning the watch, 
 he had him carried to his own rooms, which were near, and 
 called a surgeon. 
 
 The latter at once examined his injuries, which were found 
 very severe, and placed his broken arm in splints. The 
 wound on the head, however, had only served to stun him for 
 the time, and within three or four hours he had recovered his 
 senses, enough to know his own situation. 
 
 'Curse the luck !' he muttered— 'it seems as if the devil 
 was disposed to thwart me in everything just now ! How 
 soon can I move, doctor !' 
 
 ' You ought not to think of it under three weeks, and then 
 with care !' replied the surgeon. 
 
 ' Three weeks ? Damnation !' muttered the libertine 
 fiercely. ' If it costs my life, I'll be our. in three days !' 
 
 'You'll do it at your own risk ! Your arm is very badly 
 broken !' said the doctor. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 227 
 
 It was now nearly dawn, and Whitmore, calling Gus. 
 Livingston to his side, said in a low whisper, — 
 
 1 There are four hundred and twenty-five dollars in my 
 pocket, Gus. !' 
 
 ' Yes/ replied that worthy,—' what can I do for you, 
 Harry V 
 
 'Just take two hundred of it around to old Ma'am Swett's, 
 and tell her how I'm fixed. Tell her to keep that bird in the 
 cage safe for me, and I'll be around as soon as 1 can. The 
 other two hundred and twenty live you can have !' 
 
 * Thank you !' replied Gus., 'but what bird do you mean? 
 Not Charley's sister]' 
 
 ' Yes,— I've got her there, but as you value me and your 
 own life, keep it mum. Don't let it get out, or she may 
 escape me before I am well. Tell old Swett to keep the 
 secret, and she'll be no loser !' 
 
 ' Certainly I will, but by Jove, Harry, you are a genius ! 
 Nothing puts you out,' said the echo, filled with admiration 
 at the villany of his leader. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 4 Ah, ha ! I see you 'ave one ver select companie !' cried our 
 old friend Captain Tobin, as he entered Jack Circle's crib. 
 
 The very select co.npauy consisted of Black Bill, Jack Mur- 
 phy, 'Tilda Smith, Harriet Circle, Long Bill, Charley Cooper, 
 and a few more of the 1 fraternity,' who were enjoying a quiet 
 smoke and 'sum mat vet.' 
 
 Ah, ha ! one ver select companie, Capitan Shack !' 
 
 Ello ! Uncle Tommy !' cried old Jack, as he recognised his 
 visitor; 'tip U9 your mauley, my cove.' 
 
 The Frenchman theu bowing very politely to Harriet Cir- 
 cle, said : 
 
 •If you please, Mademoiselle— will you make for me one of 
 your shin cock-tail ^uperbe V 
 
 ' I won't do nothin' else, Uncle Tommy !' replied the girl, 
 and hurried away to prepare his gin cock- tail. 
 
 She came up in a few moments, accompanied by Frank 
 Hennock, who had just arrived. 
 
 Frank had no w gained a position, which made him 1 some- 
 body' in the crowd, and his arrival was noticed by all of the 
 rest. Tae party was at the same time augmented by the ar- 
 rival of another of the gang, Big Lize. 
 
 Her face was flushed, as if she had been drinking, — and her 
 eyes were flashing with anger or excitement. 
 
 'Ello, Lize! What's up now?' cried old Circle, as he 
 noticed her excited looks upon entering. 
 
228 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Give me some gin !' she muttered almost fiercely,—' give 
 me some gin, I'm in trouble !' 
 
 'What, 'avent you 'eard nuthin' 'o the gal yetV asked 
 Cooper, who had evidently seen her since the loss of Angelina. 
 
 ' No, — I've been back to that crib in Greenwich street, and 
 it wasn't her as was there arter all !' cried the woman, empty- 
 ing a glass of gin at a single draught. 
 
 ' What're ye patterin' haboutT asked old Circle. 
 
 ' Nuthin' as concerns the bizness !' replied Cooper : ' it's 
 honly some private trouble of Liza's !' 
 
 ' Vel, vot is it? Can't we 'elp her ?' 
 
 * Not's I see. She's lost the run o' a cousin o' hers, a poor 
 young gal as she'd taken a likin' to.' 
 
 ' Oh's that all ? I didn't know but she'd been up afore his 
 'onour !' said Jack Circle. 
 
 * D'ye think I'd care for that, you noddy V said Liza, spite- 
 fully. 1 1 don't care no more for his 'onor than I do for you, 
 and that aint much ; but if I don't find that 'ere poor gal afore 
 I'm much older, I'll burn half o' this town up !' 
 
 'An' be jabersbut a summery way that 'ud be to find her !' 
 cried Jack Murphy, 'there 'ud J)e warm weather if ye wor to 
 do it !' 
 
 ' 1 don't want none o' your jokes, but I've a favour to ask of 
 you all !' cried Lize. 
 
 ' Then spake out, as the young 'an said to the cat, when he 
 pinched her tail !' cried Mr. Murphy. 
 
 'I want you -all when you're on the tramp, to keep a look- 
 out for this girl, my cousin. She's about sixteen year old, and 
 very an 'some !' 
 
 'Then there's no family resemblance !' said Mr. Murphy., 
 rather ungallantly. 
 
 Lize, however, did not heed his remark, but continued : 
 
 'She's got bright brown hair all in curls — blue eyes, that look, 
 as if they were made for an angel, and is pale and thin a little 
 now, cause she's seen trouble !' 
 
 Frank Hennock stepped up to Lize, and was about to speak, 
 when she added : 
 
 'I'll give a hundred dollars to any one of ye. that'll find her 
 for me !' 
 
 Frank paused when he heard this, and pressed the remark 
 he was about to make. He thought that he recognised in the 
 description, the young girl who was at his master's, but he 
 determined to see Lize alone, ask her some questions, and. 
 then, if his supposition was correct, he could quietly pocket 
 the reward which Lize offered. 
 
 At that moment the usual signal was given, and another 
 person entered from outside. It was Carlton, and he was 
 alone. 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Carlton, wot haboufc that 'ere lay. Isn't it time 
 
OS NEW YORK. 229 
 
 we was a doin suthin t If the boys don't 'ave some work afore 
 long they'll forget 'ow. There's nuthin like keepin' their 
 ands in !' 
 
 'That's true, Jack,' replied Carlton, 'you may look out for 
 the first rainy night. But have you picked out a place to 
 stow the goods away in V 
 
 'Yes, 'Til Smith's dad— the old city Bank covey, has a 
 snuggery up town, as '11 do.' 
 
 ' Well, that's settled now ; what about old Precise V 
 
 * You may crack his crib as soon as you like,' said Frank, 
 stepping forward, ' I'm tired of stoppin' there, and I'm afraid 
 there'll be apparent reasons for my leaving before long at any 
 rate !' 
 
 Why, what's upV »sked old Circle. 
 
 1 Don't be afther axin the young gintleman questions as 
 makes 'im blush !' cried Jack Murphy, 'didn't he say the 
 leasons would soon be apparent, when only his modesty kept 
 him from saying out bouldly, that it ud be 'imself that 'ud 
 
 be fL-parentS 
 
 ' He's hit it,' said Frank, ' and the sooner I get out of the 
 house the better I'll be pleased.' 
 
 ' Osv much of a swag can we lift?' asked Black Bill. 
 
 4 Why some ready tin— a set of silver— gold watch and 
 chain, a little jewellery, and some duds, that's all.' 
 
 ' Arn't the young 'oman saved up suthin V asked Long Bill. 
 
 ' Ye3 — but I'm principled against taking her earnings. It's 
 all she's got, and she'll need it before long.' 
 
 ' The young 'un's right,' said old Circle, then turning to 
 Carlton, he asked : 
 
 ' 'Ave you tried the checque? 
 
 Carlton replied, by throwing down a roll of bank notes 
 upon the table. 
 
 ' Them's the tickets,' said Circle, as he gathered up the lot, 
 ' Don't you think we can can try it on agin)' 
 
 ' We might for a small figure,' replied the gambler. 
 
 ' Then, young 'un spose you do us another checque,' said 
 Circle, addressing himself to Frank. 
 
 'For bow much'?' asked the young villain. 
 
 ' It won't do to risk over rive hundred,' said Carlton. 
 
 ' I'll give it to you to-morrow,' said Frank ; ' but when are 
 we to divide and phare oft' V 
 
 'Next Sunday,' replied Circle, 'that is, if all 'ands are 
 hagreed.' 
 
 A general assent was given, and Frank HennoGk then 
 asked, when he might expect a visit from the gang at his 
 master's. 
 
 'I've left that 'ere lay to Black Bill and Jack Murphy,' 
 said Circle. 
 
230 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 • When will you be up V asked Frank of these gentle.nen. 
 
 ' At our airliest convayniance, my honey !' said Jack, ' and 
 we hope the ould gintilman wont throuble himself to Bit up 
 for us I' 
 
 The plans for robbing the Broadway store and the house of 
 Mr. Precise were now duly canvassed and discussed by the 
 ■whole party, and the men picked out who were to attend to 
 the business. Several other lays were also mentioned, but 
 these were to be deferred until the two first had been at- 
 tended to. 
 
 * I wonder 'ow Genlis is adorn' with his lay !' asked Circle 
 of Carlton. 
 
 ' First rate — let him have his own way in that !' said the 
 latter, ' he's keen !' 
 
 'Aye, you're more than 'alf right there !' said Circle, 'and 
 now let's all take summat vet !' 
 
 Finding that the business was over, Frank now thought of 
 his promise to be home early, and taking advantage of a mo- 
 ment when the rest were clustering around the table where 
 th'e liquor was, he asked Big Lize to go out with him. She 
 at first refused, but he hinted at his knowledge of the girl 
 and she immediately hurried out with him. 
 
 CHAPTER VJL 
 
 In a room of that same mysterious house, which we have al 
 ready described — the one where Albert Shirley met poor 
 Mary Sheffield, and where we have before seen Mrs. Carlton 
 — sat the last named lady. 
 
 Her beautiful face was flushed with excitement. Her eyes 
 were red — she had evidently been weeping — and her form 
 seemed to quiver with agitation. She started at every sound 
 which she heard, and seemed to be anxiously awaiting the ap 
 pearance of some one. 
 
 Suddenly a step was heard ascending the stairs— the door 
 flew open, and Cooly entered. 
 
 ' Charles, dear Charles P she cried, as she sprang into his 
 arms — « I'm so glad to see you— I've had a terrible scene with 
 my husband !' 
 
 'Yes, so your note told me— but does he know of our 
 intimacy V 
 
 ' Yes, he told me all, and named you,— I denied it, but I 
 know he has found it out !' 
 
 ' The devil he has ! what is to be done V cried Cooly, turn« 
 ing pale. 
 
 ' We must fly, dear Charles !' said the lady, not noticing 
 his pallor. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 231 
 
 'Fly ! where to, or how ? I have no means of leaving !' 
 
 1 1 am prepared for that. Here are two thousand dollar*, 
 •which 1 took from a drawer in my bureau, where he left it 1' 
 replied the ready witted and fond woman. 1 We can leave 
 the country with that, or go out, west !' 
 
 Cooly did not reply. Things had evidently taken a turn 
 ■which he did not like. 
 
 'Don't you think it'll all blow over, if we separate for a 
 ■while, Hannah V asked he. 
 
 ' Blow over !' exclaimed she, in surprise — ' you know little 
 of Henry Carlton if you dream of such a thing ! He never 
 will forgive you or me — and your life alone will satisfy him.' 
 
 ' But, Hannah, you know I go prepared ; besides this, he 
 would not dare to attack me here, in the crowded city, where 
 policemen are so thick.' 
 
 ' Dare— Charles 1 He dare do anything ! You don't know 
 him as I do. Will you go with me or not !' 
 
 ' Why, Hannah, really I ' 
 
 ' Answer me, sir, at once ! Let it be yea or no !' cried 
 3Irs. C. sternly. 
 
 ' Why, Hannah, my business !' 
 
 ' Charles Cooly, don't try to form an excuse. Your business 
 is worth nothing, and you're in debt now. I offer you two 
 thousand dollars, to leave all and go with me to some place 
 where we are not known. Here, take the money!' and she 
 handed him a pocket-book. 
 
 ' But, Hannah, what is the use ? I should be called a 
 coward by all my friends— 1 should have to leave !' r 
 
 ' Leave 1 Do you talk of leaving anything?' cried the lady 
 in a bitter tone. ' Do you leave two children whom you love 
 as you do your own soul — do you leave every luxury which 
 heart can desire, as I do? Stop, Charles Cooly, don't speak ! 
 I've something to say, now, and 1 mill not be interrupted till 
 I have said it ! 
 
 ' You met me, and won me away from a fond and trusting 
 husband — you made me love you, as /, only I can love ! You 
 have brought me into that fearful shadow from which I can 
 never escape, for when a woman's fair fame is once lost, it can 
 never be regained. Our intimacy is known, my reputation is 
 blasted for ever, by and for you. 1 have given up honour, 
 wealth, children — all — all for you, and now dare you stand 
 there and say you will not fly with me, at least beyond the 
 persecutions of my husband V 
 
 Cooly turned pale as death while he listened to her elo- 
 quent and bitter gush of language, and yet he thought that 
 he never before had seen her look so beautiful as the did 
 then, with her eyes flashing, her face flushed, and her form 
 swelling in every muscle. 
 
332 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Why do you not answer — will you go with me V she con 
 tinued. 
 
 ' Give me a little time to think of it, Hannah,' said he. 
 
 ' I would not thus have answered you !' she said scornfully. 
 
 'No, Charles, had I been in your place, and were you in 
 mine, we would even now, be speeding to some distant spot, 
 where we could be happy.' 
 
 •But, Hannah, this has come upon me unexpectedly, and I 
 was unprepared for it.' 
 
 * Unprepared ? Why, Charles, how often I have warned 
 you that I had a watchful and dangerous husband ! You 
 ought to have been ready for this, as 1 was — but when will 
 you give me your answer ]' 
 
 ' In a day or two,' replied Cooly. 
 
 'In a day or two!' Why, Charles— a day or two heneee 
 <9Ught to find us hundreds of miles from here. No, — you 
 must answer within two hours — and mark me, if you desert 
 me now. I will hafe you with all the fervour with which I 
 Jhave loved you. BewareY 
 
 The warm-blooded and impetuous woman turned and left 
 the room. 
 
 < ' Well, this is a devil of a scrape !' muttered Cooly, as he 
 turned towards the door. 
 
 ' Yes !' said a deep voice close by his side, and he turned 
 red and white alternately, and trembled in every joint as he 
 felt a hand laid heavily upon his shoulder. 
 
 The speaker was Sam Selden, who, hidden by the curtains 
 of the heavy mahogany bedstead, had been a witness to this 
 interview, unknown to both parties. 
 
 Cooly quickly put his hand inside of his vest, as if to grasp 
 a concealed weapon. 
 
 ' Pshaw ! keep cool ! Don't go to drawing anything on 
 me !' said the gambler, fixing his dark eyes upon the pallid 
 face of Cooly, ' be sensible and let us arrange this little 
 matter !' 
 
 ' What have you got to do with it V asked Cooly, a little 
 more assured, when he saw no sign of attack made by Selden 
 
 'A good deal !' replied the gambler. 'Iam Harry Carl- 
 ton's bosom friend — he loves his wife yet, unworthy as she is, 
 I have heard her proposal — saw her give you the two thou- 
 sand dollars. Now all I have to say is this, — quit her, and 
 leave the city without her, and you may keep the money !' 
 
 ' I will quit her, but not the city — and as to the money, 
 you may take it back to Carlton,' replied Cooly. 
 
 * You're a fool,' said Selden impatiently—' if you stay here, 
 Harry Carlton '11 kill you.' 
 
 * No, he wont — and all I'll do is to give up the woman/ said 
 Cooly. 
 
 * Then you will not leave the place !' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 233 
 
 ■ No,— there is the money — take it to Carlton, and tell him 
 his wife is aa much to blame as 1 am.' 
 
 « Will you write to her, and let me take the note, and say 
 in it that you have done with her for ever V 
 
 1 Yes, and glad to get rid of her so ea9y. She has a devil 
 of a temper, and begins to be troublesome,' replied Cooly. 
 
 The gambler rang the bell. In a moment the lady of the 
 house came to the door. 
 
 * Wine, gentlemen V she asked, in a tone and with a manner 
 that did not evince any surprise at the appearance of Selden, 
 who she knew was in the house, but had supposed to be in 
 another room. 
 
 1 No,' replied Selden, with his usual politeness, ' but writing 
 materials, if you please, Madame !' 
 
 In a few moments they were brought, and Cooly wrote a 
 note, which was dictated by Selden. 
 
 ' Now, all 1 have to say is, that you'd better keep clear of 
 Carlton, and let her alone for the future !' said Selden, as he 
 pocketed the note, and also the money which Cooly had 
 returned. 
 
 Cooley left the room without a reply. Ssldcn smiled when 
 he was gone. 
 
 ' So far, eo well !' he muttered. ' I wonder how she'll like 
 this note,' and he read over the letter of Cooly. 1 1 reckon 
 she'll wish she hadn't crossed Sam Selden's wishes.' 
 
 Then wrapping his handsome Spanish cloak around him, 
 the gambler left the room. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Onb hour after the last scene, Mr. and Mrs. Carlton were 
 alone in the neat little parlour, above the gambling hell, which 
 overlooked the graveyard. 
 
 He waa paler than usual, and much agitated, while she was 
 as calm and composed as if her bosom never had harboured a 
 thought other than a pure and faithful wife should think. 
 
 4 1 am sorry you are so jealous, Henry, !' said she, in her 
 asual sweet and musical tone. ' Some one has been telling 
 tales of me — to set you against me.' 
 
 The husband did not reply, but pased up and down the room 
 angrily. A moment after a knock was heard at the door. 
 
 ' Who's there V asked Carlton, sternly. 
 
 •Selden !' 
 
 'Ah, come in Sam !' cried Carlton, recognising his friend's 
 voice. 
 
 The handsome gambler entered, and as he did so, Mrs. C 
 started to retire into the bed- room beyond. 
 
2U 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 * Stay a moment, if you please, madam !' cried Selden, 'I 
 have a note here, which I was requested to deliver to you V 
 
 Tue lady returned, and taking the note from his hand glanced 
 at the superscription. She trembled as she did so, and while 
 the blood rushed into her face, she cried : 
 
 • Where did you get this, sir ? 
 
 ' The writer gave it to me a short time since !' he replied. 
 
 ' I met him at a house in street, where he told me he 
 
 had just parted with a lady !' 
 
 1 Oh God ! can he be such a villain !' she gasped, as she sank 
 back into a seat. 
 
 ' Read the note, madam, it may require an answer !' said 
 Carlton, who, from a tingle look given by Selden, seemed to 
 comprehend the case. 
 
 ' Thank you, sir,for reminding me of it — it may !' said she, 
 in a sarcastic tone, recovering her calmness by a strong effort, 
 and rising from her seat. 
 
 There was not a tremor in her hand as she unfolded the 
 note, not a quiver of her lip, as she read every word of its 
 contents. Yet while she read it, the blood forsook her face, 
 her lips became pale and bloodless. 
 
 Twice did she read each word in that note. Then slowly 
 she tore it up, and when it was in scraps she threw them on 
 the floor* and placed her small foot upon them. 
 
 'Have you seen the contents of that note]' she asked of 
 Selden. 
 
 „ 4 He wrote it in my presence, and bade me bring to your 
 husband these two thousand dollars !' replied the gambler, 
 handing Carlton the money. 
 
 ' Where did this money come from, Sim?' asked Carlton. 
 
 ' He need not tell you — 1 will !' cried the pale wife ; I took 
 it from the bureau, and gave it to a false coward, to pay his 
 expenses and mine to some distant land !' 
 
 ' You gave it to Charles Cooly V 
 
 ' I did ; and the wretch has now spurned it and me from 
 him ! may God Almighty curse him !' 
 
 ' Stop, Hannah, stop !' said Carlton, with mock gentleness; 
 'you forget that he is your lover !' 
 
 'Lover? oh God ! if the burning hate that I feel for him 
 could rest for one moment on his heart, it would shrivel it 
 like fire ! Henry Carlton, if you are a man, if you ever loved 
 me, go and kill him !' 
 
 ' And get myself hung, Hannah ? no, no, I can't oblige you 
 in that ; and, besides, what harm has he done me?' 
 
 1 Only seduced your wife, sir ! only made a vile adultresg of 
 the mother of your children — that is all !' cried the maddened 
 woman. 
 
 ' Why, Hann&h, you surprise me ! did you not, a short time 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 235 
 
 since, vow by all that was good on earth and holy in heaven, 
 that you were pure, and true to me V 
 
 'Ye.*, and I perjured myself for him— for the coward, who 
 has so basely deserted her whom he has ruined !' 
 
 'And so you think he deserves punishment T continued the 
 husband. 
 
 • Yes. death !' hoarsely cried the wife. 
 'Would you kill him?' 
 
 * I — I ? oh God ! I could not !' murmured she. 
 'And yet he would do more than kill you !' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ! Henry Carlton, I have done wrong, but hear 
 me ; you have been at fault. I loved you devotedly unce, but 
 you neglected me. Night after night you stood before your 
 gaming table ; day after day you spent with the companions 
 whom you have gathered around you. This thing. I will nob 
 call him man, met me in a sad and unguarded moment, when 
 you were away. He saw that I was sad and lonely, and he 
 pitied me. That pity has been my ruin. Had not your 
 neglect made me an object of pity, I would still have been as 
 true to you as the sun is to its course I' 
 
 The gambler listened to her words, and his voice trembled 
 as he turn* d to Selden and said : 
 
 'Sam, leave us a little while.' 
 
 After the door was closed, Carlton turned to his wife, and 
 she noticed that his eyes were moist. 
 
 ' Hannah,' said he, 'you have spoken truly. Much of this 
 has been my fault. I love you yet, and I will forgive you 
 when — when that wretch is dead !' 
 
 ' I do not ask forgiveness,' she replied. ' I have wronsred 
 myself and my children as much as 1 have injured you. But 
 as for him — he must not live to glory in my shame !' 
 
 'He shall not,' replied the gambler slowly, but firmly. 
 Then he added : 
 
 ' Hannah, 1 have a favour to ask of you !' 
 
 'Speak on — I am your slave henceforth, Henry !' 
 
 ' No. Hannah, do not speak so !' replied he kindly. ' I will 
 bury the past. We will both do better in future !' 
 
 Tears came from his eyes as he spoke. How strange it was 
 that one so hardened in deep and calculating villany as he, 
 could weep : could be possessed of some of tho*e softer and 
 more tender feelings of human nature, placed in his bosom 
 perchance to contrast with hi* other attributes, as we some- 
 times see the violet and rose peep out on a barren mountain 
 side, in the very shadow of the grim black rocks. 
 
 But he brushed these away and said : 
 
 *I want you to write a note, or send a message to Cooly, 
 Hannah.' 
 
 ' What, Henry ' 
 
236 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 1 It will be the last you need ever send, Hannah ; he dies 
 to-morrow night.' 
 
 The woman looked up in her husband's eyes, and she knew 
 he meant what he said. 
 
 'What message shall I send]' she asked. 
 
 'Tell him that you must have a few minutes conversation 
 to-morrow evening. Ask him to meet you and walk with 
 you a little way !' 
 
 ' I will send the word,' she replied. ' Retire into the bed- 
 room, and I will ring the bell for Eliza.' 
 
 Carlton obeyed, and Mrs. C. rang a little bell which lay 
 upon her table. In a moment the mulatto girl came in. 
 
 • Eliza,' said the lady, 1 1 want you to go and see Mr. Cooly 
 for me.' 
 
 ' Yes, Mistress I* 
 
 ' I want you to tell him I have received his note, and that 
 it is all right, but I must see him once more. Tell him I ask 
 it for the last time, and that he must take a short walk with 
 me to-morrow night !' 
 
 ' Yes, Mistress !' 
 
 ' And be careful — let no one hear you deliver the message V 
 The servant disappeared on her errand, and Carlton again 
 came forward. 
 
 ' You have done right, Hannah. I will now make my 
 arrangements.* 
 
 ' To punish him V she asked with a shudder. 
 
 'Yes,' he replied, 1 1 shall not rest till it is done. Remem- 
 ber, Hannah, no feeling for him. He has deserted and 
 spurned you away from him.' 
 
 ' It is true,' she murmured bitterly — ' I will not pity him— 
 but must I aid in his death V 
 
 ' Yes, you must get him into a good place. You must get 
 him otf alone, for the coward keeps a crowd around him all 
 the time, and there is no other way of getting him alone !' 
 
 'Do as you will — I am your slave now,' said she sadly. 
 He deserves death.' 
 
 ' He shall have it, Hannah — yet we must act very cautiously 
 to avoid the law.' 
 
 ' Will you kill him V she asked. 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Then it is Sam Selden,' she said. 
 
 'No, both of us might be suspected. I have chosen one on 
 whom suspicion cannot rest. Even you will not know by 
 whom the deed is done. I have all my plan laid, and it can- 
 not fail!' 
 
 ' It ought not — yet — ' 
 
 * Yet, what ? Why this trembling and agitation, Hannah 
 Look at the paper which lies at your feet-— did bia hand 
 tremble when he wrote that V 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 2Z7 
 
 ■ No, nor shall mine again !' replied Mrs. C. 1 But leave 
 me for a while, Henry; I will grow calm — desperately calm V 
 
 1 I will, but fir3t, Hannah, take this as a token of reconci- 
 liation.* 
 
 Mrs. C. shuddered as she felt the pressure of his lips. He 
 had evidently ceased to be an object of either love or respect; 
 with her — for when a woman's heart is once alineated, it can 
 never return to its allegiance and former fondness. Like a 
 tlower with its stem half-broken off, it may linger on a little 
 while with the appearance of freshness, but it never can 
 regain its original strength and beauty. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Mr. Shirley, the seducer of the unhappy Mary Sheffield, was 
 seated in his elegantly furnished sitting-room, listening to 
 music from the lips of his daughter, a beautiful young girl, 
 who accompanied herself with rare taste on a piano. 
 
 Mr. Shirley had finished his day's business, dined comfort- 
 ably, and now sat there in his dressing-gown and slippers, as 
 carelessly as if his miserable victim, poor Mary, had never 
 existed. Had he forgotten her 1 ? It would appear so, if one 
 might judge from his smiling face and self satisfied look. 
 
 'That last song was very well sung, child !' he said, as his 
 daughter arose from her piano, and coming to his side, 
 pressed her fair pure lips to his high brow. 
 
 1 1 think our Constance is improving in her music I' said 
 Mrs. Shirley, a pale care-worn looking lady, who seemed to be 
 older than he. 
 
 ■ Yes, and in beauty too !' said the proud father. 
 
 4 Beauty is a dangerous possession !' said the mother sadly. 
 1 It has been the ruin of many a poor girl !' 
 
 A sudden cloud semed to cross the brow of Mr Shirley, but 
 he shook it off, and said gently : 
 
 ' You're always moralizing, my dear. If our daughter doea 
 not benefit by your teachings, it will be her own fault.' 
 
 The reply of Mrs. Shirley was cut short by the entrance of 
 a servant, who brought in a note. 
 
 ' This was just left, sir,' said the servant, 1 by a man who 
 said it must be deliYered in haste.' 
 
 Mr. Shirley opened it, and turned as pale as death when he 
 read it 
 
 ' What is the matter, dear father V cried his daughter, 
 noticing his agitation. 
 
 'Albert, you have bad news there !' cried his wife. 
 
 * No, no, only some perplexing business,' he replied. 
 
 1 Can you not tell me what it is V asked the lady sadly ; ' if 
 
238 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 you have any trouble or perplexity, who should share ifc but 
 your wifeV 
 
 ' It is nothing, Cordelia,' he replied — ' only a friend of mine 
 is in trouble — I must go down and see him !' 
 
 ' You will not be gone long, dear Father !' said the 
 daughter, 1 we shall be very lonesome till you return.' 
 
 * I'll soon be home, my pet !' said Mr. Shirley, kissing her, 
 and then he hurried to change his dress, preparatory to going 
 out. In a few moments he had gone forth, and he was hurry- 
 ing as fast as he could to obey a summons which was con- 
 tained in the note which he had just received — a summons 
 which he dared not disobey. 
 
 And what was that summons 1 Let the note itself say, Mr. 
 Shirley, in his haste and agitation, had dropped it upon the 
 floor wheu he went out, instead of thrusting it in a side 
 pocket as he thought he had. 
 
 Constance picked it up in a moment after he had left, and 
 as it was open, noticed the writing. 
 
 * In what a beautiful hand it is written, mother,' she said, 
 ' it must be from a lady !' 
 
 The mother glanced at the note carelessly, but the first four 
 or five words attracted her attention, and she could not take 
 her eyes from it. She turned pale, but she read on. 
 
 The note was a3 follows : 
 
 <■ My dear Mr Shirley, 
 
 ' Mary Sheffield is very low, and I am afraid she will not live the 
 night through. The operation is over, but it has been a fearful time. 
 She is perfectly sensible, and insists upon seeing you immediately. She 
 bids me say to you, that she will not live to see the sun rise, and I fear 
 she speaks but too truly. You had better come, for if she dies, I wish 
 to consult you upon the disposition of the body. It is a bad case, and 
 if the police were to get hold of it, both you and I would be in a bad 
 scrape. We cannot get over this as easy as we did with Jane, the 
 bindery girl. Bring some money with you. 
 
 * In haste, truly yours, 
 
 ' Caroline L. Sitstill, 
 
 « No. — — Greenwich St.' 
 
 Mr.=. Shirley read every word, and then gazed upon that 
 note for a long, long minute, ere she spoke. 
 
 Then she fell upon her knees, and with her clasped hands 
 pressed to her brow, murmured : 
 
 ' Oh God ! is it so ! was it for this I have been so neglected ! 
 and must my poor daughter suffer for his wickedness !' 
 
 She dropped the note to the floor, and her daughter, who 
 was terror-stricken by her mother's strange conduct, snatched 
 it up, and cried : 
 
 ' What is the matter, dear mother ? What is there so terri 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 239 
 
 ble in this note? It frightened father, and now you are in 
 tears and agony ! Tell me, mother, tell me !' 
 
 'Nothing, dear Constance, nothing!' replied her mother, 
 trying to calm herself. 1 Go and tell the coachman to put the 
 horses to the carriage. 1 am going out. 
 
 ' You'll let me go with you, mother V 
 
 ' No, child, I cannot. I must go alone !' 
 
 ' Mother, there is something very strange in all this ! 
 Please let me read that note !' 
 
 * No, Constance, you must not. I will take care of it !' re- 
 plied the mother, taking it, and putting it in her bosom. 
 
 * Now do go and call the carriage.' 
 
 The young girl obeyed, but tears were glistening in her eyes 
 as she went. There was a mystery in all this which she could 
 not understand. 
 
 The carriage was called, and in a very short time Mr?. 
 Shirley was driving to the same place where hi;r husband had 
 gone. He, having stepped into the first hack he met, had al- 
 ready reached the house where his suffering victim was dying. 
 
 He was met by Mrs. Sitstill at the door. 
 
 ' Is she alive V he asked, as he entered. 
 
 ' Yes, but very low. Walk up V replied the woman, lead- 
 ing the way into a second story back room, where, upon a 
 splendid couch lay a pale, ghastly looking creature, whom 
 Shirley recognised as her who had been so beautiful, poor 
 Mary Sheffield. Her features were now distorted with pain, 
 her eyes were sunken, and the colour had lied from her lips 
 and cheeks. 
 
 ' So, you have come, Albert !' she whispered huskily ; 1 1 
 wanted to see you before I died !' 
 
 'You will not die, Mary,' he replied, in a choked tone; 
 
 * the worst is over now !' 
 
 'No, Albert— the worst is not over ! For me and for you 
 the worst is yet to come ! 1 shall die in a few hours, but 
 even then the worn is not over. Albert Shirley, — there is a 
 hell for both of us ! For you, there may yet be joy on earth 
 — you may have time given you for repentance— but you will 
 never forget me !' 
 
 Shirley trembled and quivered as if his heart already felt 
 the torments of hell. 
 
 'Come close to me, Albert !' paid the dying girl, — 'come 
 close to me, and take my hand. I want to talk to you. I 
 have loved you, Albert, and I love you yet, though you have 
 deceived, ruined, murdered me, soul aud body !' 
 
 The man groaned, but did not speak — he felt even then a 
 deeper agony than she. 
 
 4 1 have yet one favour to ask, before I die,' she continued, 
 'it is, that you'll take care of my poor mother, and aid her. 
 Do not leave her to the cold charity of the alma-house, or in 
 
2iO 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 her helpless old age permit her to be a wandering beggar in 
 the Btreet8. If it had not been for you, Albert, I should yet 
 be the happy girl I was, and be living to support and take 
 care of her !' 
 
 Her words cut him to the very soul — for they were true, 
 He could not gainsay a single one of them. 
 ' I will take care of her ! he replied. 
 
 ' Then, Albert, I will forgive you all the wrong you have 
 done me. But do not let her or the world know the cause of 
 my death — bury me secretly, and do not let my name be 
 blasted with the shadow of this shame !' 
 
 * You will not die, Mary, — do cheer up, — the worst is over V 
 said he, trying to cheer her up even against his own fears, for 
 he felt that she was indeed dying. 
 
 'No, — I feel that death is lading his cold hand upon me (J 
 she murmured, ' but I do not wish to live— yet I am not fit to 
 die !' 
 
 Suddenly a noife was heard at the door, the sound of foot- 
 steps on the staircase was heard, and Shirley shook in every 
 limb, for he recognised the voice of his wife. The servant 
 who had admitted her, supposing her to be a patient who 
 needed the services of Madame S., now found out the error 
 too late, and was trying to persuade her that Mr. Shirley was 
 not there. Madame S. hurried to the door, but as she opened 
 it, the wife saw her husband, and calling his name, rushed up 
 the stairs. 
 
 * Let her come !' said Mr. Shirley mournfully, — I deserve it 
 all.' 
 
 * Where is this Mary Sheffield — where is the wanton who 
 has seduced a husband from his home !' she shrieked, as she 
 rushed into the room. 
 
 But she hushed and stood aghast, as she looked upon the 
 pallid face of the dying girl. 
 
 'Is that your wife, Albert?' murmured Marv, looking at 
 Mrs. S. 
 
 1 The unhappy man groaned his brief reply. 
 
 ' Come near me, lady — I can do you no harm — I am dying !' 
 ehe murmured. 
 
 Mrs. Shirley shuddered, but advanced and took the hand of 
 the dying girl. 
 
 'I little thought, lady, that he was married, when I gave him 
 my love!' she said faintly. ' You will forgive me— he told 
 me that he was alone, that no one had a right to his love.' 
 
 The wife looked at her guilty husband. 
 
 ' It is too true — too true 1' he murmured — c Oh, may God for- 
 give me !' 
 
 'Amen, even as I do !' feebly added Mary; and then she 
 turned her eyes upon the already tearful face of Mrs. Shirley^ 
 and said : 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 Z4i 
 
 4 Forgive me, lady, I wronged you without knowing it !' 
 
 ' I do, I do !' cried the lady, bursting into tears. ' Oh, Al- 
 bert, what have you done.' 
 
 'Dimned myself eternally !' groaned the unhappy man. 
 
 'Oh, do not say so. Live to do her justice, and to repent,' 
 moaned Mary, and then gasping for breath, she added : 
 
 'Albert, take care of my mother !' 
 
 One more gasp, and one attempt to speak — and her breath 
 passed away, while yet the hand of her seducer's wife was 
 clasped in her own. Her last look was upon him, her last 
 trord was the name of her poor mother. 
 
 And this was the last of poor Mary Sheffield — she who wa3 
 known as the ' Pretty Cigar Girl !' 
 
 She had been dead scarcely a moment, when Madame Sit- 
 still, in a businesslike way, as if she was used to such work, 
 proceeded to close her eyes. Tiien obeying a sign from 
 Shirley, she left him and his wife alone in the room. 
 
 'Oh, Albert, this is dreadful !' murmured the wife. 'She is 
 dead.' 
 
 ' Yes, and I have murdered her !' groaned the conscience- 
 stricken husband. 'Cordelia, I have sinned deeply — I have 
 wronged you — but for your daughter's sake, forgive me.' 
 
 ' For her sake, I will, Albert, if you can forgive yourself — 
 but 1 can never banish the memory of this night ! Yet we 
 will never speak of it again. Arrange for this poor girl's 
 'burial, and let us go home, our carriage is at the door.' 
 
 The merchant called Madame Sitstill in, and told her thot 
 whatever draft she made for burial expenses, should be paid 
 on presentation to him. 
 
 ' We cannot manage this affair in the usual way,' said Ma- 
 dame S. ' The girl is so well known that her death will be 
 inquired into — but I have a plan 1 think will do. Do you 
 keep quiet whatever you may hear. I will attend to all, and 
 on to-morrow 1 shall expect to have my drafc for one thou- 
 sand dollars cashed.' 
 
 'It shall be done ]' said Mr. Shirley; then turning to his 
 wife, he asked : 
 
 ' How came you to know of this, and how did you trace me 
 bare V 
 
 She took the letter which he had dropped, from her bosom, 
 and handed it to him. 
 
 'I was careless, but, C>rdelia, it is for the best. I could 
 not have borne this terrible secret alone— it would have 
 killed me.' 
 
 They turned and took a last look at poor Mary as she lay 
 there so white and cold. Her face was calm when she died. 
 
 The distortion had passed away, and a smile seemed to have 
 frozen there. Her hands were crossed upon her breast, and 
 much of her remarkable beauty seemed left to her. 
 
242 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 They took one last look, then turned away, and soon their 
 carriage rattled from before the door of that terrible hoaee. 
 
 Albert Shirley, or the reality of our shadow, is yet living; 
 but the memory of that fearful night will' never leave him. 
 It haunts his dreams at night; it burdens his soul by day, 
 Poor Mary ! She is indeed avenged. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 It was the morning after Mrs. Abingdon's visit to Genlis, 
 Mrs. A. and her husband were seated at their breakfast table. 
 Both of them looked pale and care worn. 
 
 'Annie, said Mrs. A., 1 you have some secret in your bosom, 
 which you will not confide to me.' 
 
 ' A secret, Eilward,' she replied, in a tone of surprise. 
 
 ' Yes, dear Annie, one that disturbs you even in your dreams. 
 It is wronging me not to confide in me.' 
 
 'I do confide in you, Edward.' 
 
 ' In all things, Annie? Is there nothing that you hide from 
 mel 
 
 The young wife coloured up. She could not tell a lie, and 
 yet she had sworn to Genlis not to reveal her visits. 
 
 ' Speak, Annie,' said her husband, impatiently. ' There is 
 something strange in this conduct.' 
 
 ' What ! you are not jealous of me, Edward ? 
 
 ' No, Annie ; God forbid that I should be ; I would not be 
 thus calm if I were, but I know that you have something 
 that troubles you, which you are studiously concealing from 
 me !' 
 
 ' How do you know it, Edward?' 
 
 ' You have unconsciously informed me of it. I passed a 
 sleepless night, and all the night you were murmuring about 
 some one whom you ca'led Geneis /' 
 
 The young wife started at this name. 
 
 ' Who is he V asked the husband. 
 
 ' Edward, I cannot tell you !' she replied. 
 
 'Cannot tell me, Annie? you certainly wish to quarrel 
 with me. Your conduct is unaccountable !' 
 
 'I acknowledge it, Edward ; yet if you will be angry with 
 me, I cannot help it !' 
 
 'You acknowledge that you have a secret which you are 
 keeping from me !' 
 
 ' Yes, one which I dare not reveal ; but it does not concern 
 your honour as a husband, or my duty a3 a wife.' 
 
 ' Annie, this must be explained !' said Mr. A., sternly, 
 ' Who is this Genlis — what is he?' 
 
 ' I cannot tell you, Edward.' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 243 
 
 'Annie, you must, I have never before assumed this tone, 
 but now you force me to do so. I demand this secret.' 
 
 * Edward, I have sworn not to reveal it.' 
 ' To whom, and for what V 
 
 'To Genlis, and to recover our poor lost boy.' 
 
 • Yes, you murmured of him in your sleep, and spoke of a 
 steamboat and a schoolmaster.' 
 
 ' I was dreaming of the pictures.' 
 
 'What pictures, Annie? You will drive me mad with 
 anxiety. Once more 1 demand this secret of you.' 
 
 ' Edward, 1 cannot reveal it !' said the wife, in a firm, sad 
 tone. 
 
 ' Very well, Mrs. Abingdon ! I'll see if I cannot find it out 
 in some way. I'll find out this Genlis, if he be in this city, 
 and I'll force the secret from him, even if I have to cut it out 
 of his heart !' cried the husband, angrily. 
 
 Mrs. A. burst into tears, but did not answer, while her hus- 
 band arose from the table, and paced up and down the floor 
 with a heavy, irregular step. 
 
 'Fine times I' he continued; 'very fine times, when my 
 wife can have secrets involving the names of other men, and 
 keep them from me.' 
 
 'Edward,' said his wife, as she heard this remark, 'you 
 will be sorry for this base and unfounded insinuation.' 
 
 ' And you madam, ought already to be sorry tor having 
 sworn to another man to keep a secret from your husband.' 
 
 ' Oh, Edward, you wrong me ! God in heaven knows that 
 you do.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so, madam. But I've a few questions to ask you. 
 Have I not always been a fond and faithful husband to you?' 
 ' You have, Edward !' 
 
 1 Has there been a desire of your's ever mentioned which I 
 have not complied with V 
 
 ' No, Edward, no ! I have no complaint to make.' 
 
 ' Have you ever known me to withhold from you a single 
 secret, even to the minutest item of my daily business V 
 
 'No !' sobbed the wife. 
 
 ' That is all ; I wished to know if I had fulfilled my duty 
 to you as a fond and true husband.' 
 
 ' You have, Edward ; but do not ask of me this secret V 
 
 ' I shall not, madam !' replied the hu?band, in a slow, calm 
 tone, which betokened his mind to be verging on desperation. 
 ' I am about to leave you— I will trouble you no more. You 
 may send for Mr. Genlis to help you keep your secret.' 
 
 As he said this, he took his hat from the stand, and turned 
 towards the door. 
 
 In a moment, his sobbing wife was on her knees before him, 
 clinging to his form. 
 
 'Oh ! Edward, for the love of heaven do not treat me bo J 
 
£44 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 I do not deserve this — indeed I do not !' she sobbed in broken 
 accents, while she clasped his hands and deluged them with 
 tears. 
 
 The husband tried to be sternly calm. He turned away hia 
 head, but his lips quivered, and moisture gathered in his eyes. 
 
 ' Oh ! Edward, for the love you bear our poor lost boy, do 
 not leave me in anger ! Oh, have mercy upon me ! I have 
 not wronged you,' cried the unhappy wife. 
 
 ' The secret,' said he in a low, husky tone, for he was almost 
 choked with emotion. 
 
 ' Oh, do not go from me — I will tell you all,' she sobbed. 
 
 * Kise — do not kneel !' said he, and as he bent down to 
 raise her up, she felt hot tears gush from his eyes upon her 
 face. 
 
 * Oh ! God, Edward, would you have left me V 
 
 ' Annie, I was crazed with suspicion. What is this secret V 
 
 * Sit down, and be calm — I will tell you all. God forgive 
 me for breaking my oath.' 
 
 The young wife now revealed to her husband all that had 
 happened, from her first visit to the Indian woman, to the 
 last night's scene. 
 
 'Oh, forgive me, Annie, how much I wronged you ! You 
 are an angel !' cried the husband, when he had heard all, and 
 with passionate fondness he kissed her pouting lips. 
 
 1 1 thought you would be sorry, for having been so foolish 
 as to be jealous of me/ she replied, with a smile ; ' but now 
 that 1 have told you all, Edward, what is to be done 1 Shall 
 we give this man ten -thousand dollars t 
 
 ' It is a very large sum, Annie, and he has evidently stolen 
 the child. I do not believe in his magic. That is all humbug.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Edward, you would not say so, if you had seen all 
 that I have seen ! ' 
 
 '1 mean to see it. and him too, Annie. I'll force him to 
 restore the child. He has misled you by his ideas of magic, 
 and you have already given him a thousand dollars!' 
 
 'Yes, Edward! but I thought I could regain our poor 
 Willie by it !' 
 
 ' True, Annie, and I do not blame you. You were deluded 
 — -but you did one sensible thing.' 
 ' What was that, Edward |" 
 
 ' Cutting off the cord from the tassel in the hackney-coach. 
 It may lead to the detection of the whole viliany. Why did 
 you do it V 
 
 ' I hardly remember. I believe a thought came into my 
 head, that I might wish to find that coach again.' 
 You noticed the colour of the horses?' 
 ' Yes, one was white, the other brown or black.' 
 Might there not have been a covering on one or the other?' 
 ( No, I think not— and the driver was an Irishman !' 
 
01 NEW YORK. 
 
 246 
 
 * That is no clue. Nearly all the hack-drivers in town are 
 Irish, and a saucy, cheating, good-for-nothing set of scoun- 
 drels they are too. If you were to rake the dominions of his 
 sulphuric majesty with a fine-toothed comb, you couldn't find 
 a more unprincipled, rascally set ! Have you the cord which 
 you cut oft' I" 
 
 ' I have,' replied the wife, going to her work-basket, and 
 producing it from a needle-book, where she had carefully 
 placed it. 
 
 ' 1 shall take it to my good friend, Justice M , and tell 
 
 him of these facts, and I think, between us, we will soon get 
 on the trace of the poor boy,' said the husband. ' If we once 
 find the hack driver, we can force him to take us to the house 
 of this Genlis, and we'll soon see, then, what his magic is 
 made of ! ' 
 
 'You will not be jealous with me again, Edward]' asked 
 the young wife, as she looked up fondly in his face. 
 
 'No — my own dear — dear Annie ! this has been our first 
 quarrel — it shall be our last ! Bat you will own that things 
 looked a little suspicious V replied he, as he tenderly kissed the 
 high fair brow, from which he pushed aside the clustering 
 curls. 
 
 ' Yes, but I did not know that I talked in my sleep, Ed- 
 ward P 
 
 ' Oh ! that is an old habit of yours. Often and often have 
 I awakened in the night, and found you clasping me to your 
 bosom, and calling me by every fond name that you could 
 think of, and still you were sound asleep !' 
 
 ' It is a second nature with me, dearest !' said the blushing 
 wife. ' one that will not offend you, 1 hope !' 
 
 ' Offend me ! My own sweet Annie — it is my greatest joy. 
 If our poor boy was only restored to our arms, 1 should be per- 
 fectly happy. I am now happier than I was, for I have feared 
 that Willie Wds dead. Now I am satisfied that he is living, 
 and has only been stolen from us to extort money.' 
 
 The husband now went forth to find his friend, the Police 
 Justice, so as to take measures for tracing the child. He first 
 thought of letting Mr3. A. make Genlis another visit, and of 
 following the carriage that conveyed her ; but fearing that 
 Genlis had spies, who would see that the carriage was fol- 
 lowed, and alter its destination, he determined upon first 
 quietly finding the carriage and driver, if possible, unknown 
 to Genlis, whose character he had very accurately conjectured. 
 
24G 
 
 MYSTERIES A:;D MISERIES 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ' Do you say you know where my poor cousin is F asked Lize 
 of Frank Hennock, as soon as they had got outside of Jack 
 Circle's crib. 
 
 ' I shouldn't wonder if I did !' said Frank knowingly. 
 ' She's rather slight — about fifteen or sixteen years old, would 
 be pretty if she wasn't so thin — has blue eyes, light curling 
 hair, and wears a black dress.' 
 
 ' Yes— yes, you have seen her, where is she !' cried Lize, 
 eagerly. 
 
 ' I've some conditions to arrange before I can afford to tell 
 you,' replied the young man. 
 
 * Name them, and be quick !' cried Lize. 
 
 * Well, the first one is— the money, you said you'd give A 
 hundred dollars.' 
 
 'So I will.' 
 
 I Well, I don't doubt your honour, but as Paul Clifford used 
 to say, I'd like to see the colour of your money, Lize.' 
 
 ' I hav'n't so much with me, Frank,' said the woman, 'but 
 if you must have it — I can get it in five minutes. Charley 
 Cooper or old Jack '11 let me have the brads in a minute.' 
 
 I I don't care about the money till I show you the girl,' said 
 Frank, 1 and that can't be to night.' 
 
 ' Why not ? Look here, younker, you know me, and I'm not 
 to be fooled with !' cried the woman angrily. 
 
 * I'm not trying to fool with you, Lize !' said he, shrinking 
 back from before her clenched and threatening hand. 
 
 4 Then tell me where the girl is.' 
 
 ' If I do, you'll not try to see her to-night V 
 
 * I don't know about that. Is she safe V asked Lize. 
 ' Yes,' replied the thief, ' and in good quarters.' 
 
 ' Then why can't you tell me where she is!' 
 
 ' I will, if you'll promise me the money when you see her, 
 and promise not to let them that you'll find with her know 
 that you ever saw me before.' 
 
 ' Well, tell me — I'll promise,' cried the woman eagerly. 
 
 •' Then, she's at my master's.' 
 
 ' What, the old cove that they were just talking about, in 
 
 there V 
 
 ( Yes -nobody else.' 
 
 ' How did she come there V 
 
 1 Why, he picked her up fainting in the street and took her 
 in.' 
 
 ' God bles3 him— but, Frank, why can't I see her to-night V 
 1 Because I don't think it would be right. When you do 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 247 
 
 come, yon mustn't look as if you knew me, and mind, you 
 mustn't break the old bond and betray the gang.' 
 
 ■ No— no, of course not. But I'd like to see the poor gal. 
 Didn't she look sick, and frightened V 
 
 * Yes — like Ophelia on the banks of ' 
 
 1 Oh, curse your poetry, younker ; talk sense to me. How 
 can I manage to see her ? How can I explain my finding out 
 she was there V 
 
 1 Tell 'em a watchman told you such a girl went in there— 
 and ask after her name.* 
 
 ' Well, enough said, I'll do it — and if this is indeed my 
 cousin, I'll give you the hundred to morrow. I shall be there 
 early — by the way I've forgotten to ask the street and 
 number.' 
 
 Frank gave her this information, and then hurried away. 
 
 It was getting late and Lize determined fco go home. She 
 had nearly reached the street where she would turn off to go 
 to her room, when she found herself impeded by a crowd of 
 young men, most of whom seemed to be drunk, for they all 
 were very noisy. 
 
 1 There's what I call a high old g'hal !' said one of the party, 
 as he looked at Lize. 
 
 'Don't you know who she is F cried another — 1 it's big Lize 
 of Thomas street t 
 
 1 Known everywhere — my God, it is time for me to die I* 
 groaned the unhappy woman. 
 
 'Then you'd go where you'd be better known than any- 
 where else !' cried one of the party, with a coarse laugh. 
 
 1 Get out of my way, and let me pass along quietly I* cried 
 Lize, seeing that some of the party were determined to stop 
 her. 
 
 ' Don't yer wish we would !' cried one of the coarsest of the 
 crowd, thrusting himself directly before her. 
 
 She only replied by raising him clear of the pavement, 
 and dashing him into the gutter, and attempting to pass on. 
 But the whole party took up the cause of their discomfited 
 comrade, and Lize was in danger of very rough treatment, 
 when a smaller party hurried up the street, and a large, 
 square-shouldered young fellow pushed into the crowd, cry- 
 ing : 
 
 ' Ello ! what 're ye about yere anyhow ? what's the muss?' 
 
 At this moment he saw the fellow whom Lize had thrown 
 into the gutter, rush up and strike her, with a broken brick, 
 on the head. 
 
 Mose, for this wai none other than he, sprang at the coward, 
 and felling him with a single blow, he shouted ; 
 ' Strike a glial, would ye f 
 
 Then shouting to his party to come on, he dashed into the 
 whole crowd that had interrupted poor Lize, and in less than 
 
MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 a minute all of them who had not run for it, lay stretched 
 upon the pavement. 
 
 He then helped Lize up. She had been stunned by the 
 blow which she had received, but was not much injured. 
 
 ' Make tracks, old ghal !' said Mose, as soon as she was on 
 her feet, ' the watch '11 be along here afore soon — they know 
 I'm out on a spree, myself ! They wouldn't go lor to come 
 for to try to take me up ; but they'd jug you if they could !' 
 
 ' Yes, they're always down on us poor women !' said Lize — 
 ' they're afeard to take men up, but the women must suffer 1' 
 
 She then started away, as Mose had advised, and soon 
 turned down the street which led to her room. Just as she 
 turned the corner, a person who had been following her at 
 a distance, stepped up to her side and spoke: 
 
 ' I didn't know but you'd like comp'ny hum to-night — 1 
 rayther guessed you mought be lonesome J'said the man, who 
 turned out to be the down-east b'hoy, whom Mose called the 
 Tostle. 
 
 ' You may turn around and go back then,' said Lize scorn- 
 fully, as she looked at the scrimped pattern of a man who 
 stood before her. 
 
 ' Well, that's short and sweet, and kinder like givin' a feller 
 the mitten !' grumbled the 'Postle. 
 
 Lize paid no attention to his remark, but passed on, while 
 the 'Postle turned around to rejoin his company, mutteriBg as 
 he went : 
 
 ' There's some tall gals, here in York, sure, but I don't like 
 their manners ! They don't understand courtin' like our 
 folks to hum !' 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 * Well, Sir, what do you want of me V asked Meadows, of 
 Carlton, in a gloomy tone, when he followed the latter, after 
 separating from Whitmore and Livingston. 
 
 ' Sit down and take a glass of wine, and I'll tell you !' 
 replied Carlton, shutting the door of the room, and pointing 
 to a table upon which wine and glasses had already been 
 placed. 
 
 ' I have drunk enough !' replied Meadows, as he seated 
 himself. 
 
 1 Well, I'm confounded dry !' said the other, pouring out 
 some wine and drinking it. He then asked : 
 
 ' Do you know how Mr S stands with his Bank 
 
 has he much cash deposited V 
 
 * Yes,' replied Meadows, ' he is preparing to make his spring 
 remittances to Europe !' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 2i9 
 
 c How large a cheque have you ever known him to draw at 
 once V continued the gambler. 
 
 « Fifty thousand dollars for a single payment V replied 
 Meadows. 
 
 * Then forty thousand now would be safe, eh?' 
 'What do you mean a forgery V 
 
 1 There's no use in calling it by that name !' replied the 
 gambler. * Manslaughter, or homicide, always sounds more 
 genteel than the coarse and vulgar term, Murder ! By the 
 way, Charley, how would you like to kill a man]' 
 
 'What, Sir ! What do you mean]' asked the clerk in an 
 indignant tone. 
 
 'Oh, I only asked for information !' replied the gambler 
 carelessly. ' But about this other business — this checque, I 
 must trouble you to do that up for me !' 
 
 'What, to add forgery to my crimes? Carlton, for God's 
 sake do not drive me deeper into the hellish pit !' groaned 
 Meadows. 
 
 ' You gave me a bond which specified particularly that you 
 were to obey me !' said Carlton, in a deliberate tone, taking a 
 second glass of wine. ' You've got your hand in, and you 
 might as well go ahead !' 
 
 ' Suppose I refuse ?' 
 
 ' Then your little item of stealing might be recorded in 
 Court, and an officer request the pleasure of furnishing you 
 with free board at the Tombs !' 
 
 'You forget, that no theft can be proved upon me ! The 
 
 money is paid back and is safe in the vaults of Mr. S— — !' 
 
 replied Meadows, with a triumphant smile. ' I'm not quite 
 so much in your power as you thought, Mr. Carlton !' 
 
 ' Indeed !' said the gambler. 1 Then you mean to have 
 things your own way, eh V 
 
 ' Ye3— if you try to force me to go on and intend to make 
 me a slave to your will !' 
 
 ' You will not fulfil your bond, eh V 
 
 'No V 
 
 ' Why did you sign it ?' 
 
 ' To get the money back which you had stolen from me at 
 your infernal faro bank !' 
 
 ' Indeed — that was your reason, eh ! But why did you 
 sign the confession of having stolen the precise sum of seven- 
 teen thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars !' 
 
 'Because I was desperate — you had me in your power 
 then !' 
 
 ' Yes, and I still have you in my power,' replied the gambler 
 with a sneer. 1 You have kindly furnished me with the 
 means of recovering that money this very night, if I chose — 
 keys are made by this time to fit the vaults, aye, and every 
 door in your employer's store. I think I could make a very 
 
250 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 good spec by picking out some of his thousand dollar shawls, 
 some of his hundred dollar handkerchiefs, &c. Oar up town 
 ladies would give a little more than half-price if they were 
 told they were smuggled, eh V 
 
 • You could not harm me by robbing him in that way. My 
 accounts are all correct !' replied the clerk. 
 
 ' No — but I think, after all, that the confession and bond 
 might be copied into the Herald — I think some proof might 
 be found to connect the name of Charles Meadows with 
 robbery. What an item it would make for Bennet. f* Stu- 
 pendous villany'' — ** confidential clerk ' — " weeping mother 
 and distracted sister" " accomplished and beautiful girl" — and 
 "heartless wretch" — and all that !' said Carlton, with his cus- 
 tomary sneer ; and then, as he saw the effect which his remark* 
 had upon Meadows, he added : 
 
 • I happen to have a still stronger hold upon you. Every bill 
 that I gave you was a counterfeit. They were very good ones 
 though, and such as I knew would not easily be detected — but 
 a note to Mr. S. connecting your name with a counterfeiting 
 gang, might possibly remove the good impression that he has 
 of you, especially when he found so much bad money in hand.' 
 
 ' Oh God — I am indeed in your power !' moaned the clerk. 
 ' And now my ruin is certain — for the money will be refused 
 when I go to deposit it.' 
 
 'Certainly!' replied Carlton— ' but you will have things 
 your own way.' 
 
 ' No — no — do as you wish with me !' groaned Meadows — ' I 
 am indeed your slave 1' 
 
 • Now you talk sense,' replied the gambler, * and we can 
 proceed to business. First, I wish you to draw a cheque for 
 forty thousand in the name of S . Have it ready for pre- 
 sentation whenever 1 say the word, leaving the date vacant. 
 Then make drafts also with his signature on such Southern 
 houses as you can get cashed here without difficulty. In that 
 ■way we can raise sixty or seventy thousand, and on the night 
 of the day you make this raise, some friends of mine will 
 avail themselves of your kindness and pay a visit to the vaults 
 and store-room of your employer's establishment.' 
 
 ' My God !— what a deep planning villain you are ! 1 said the 
 clerk, in astonishment. 
 
 ' Rather apt— but it is my trade !' replied the gambler, 
 drily. 
 
 'How much of all this am I to have?' asked Meadows 
 ' you know that I must leave before it is found out.' 
 
 ' Yes, and if all succeeds, I think twenty-five thousand dol- 
 lars would do for your share.' 
 
 ' Less than half !' 
 
 1 Yes— and you have less than half the trouble. The poor 
 Jburglars run more risk than you.' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 251 
 
 * More risk ! Do not I lo?e all that is worth having— a pood 
 name and fair reputation] I tell you plainly — Henry Carl- 
 ton, if 1 could recall my first mis-step — the first thought that 
 induced me to take money from my employer to win more 
 with — I would cut off my right hand before I'd pass the por- 
 tals of a gambling-house ; yes, I'd cut my throat, rather than 
 do what 1 have done !' 
 
 *. Indeed !' said the gambler, with a sneer. * You must bo 
 fond of committing suicide — you tried it once here, but made 
 a botch of it !' 
 
 1 Yes, thank God ! it would have ruined my family if I had 
 succeeded,' replied the clerk. 
 
 ' Well now, we'll drop tha", and talk of business again,' said 
 Carlton. ' Cheer up and take a glass of wine.' 
 
 Meadows took the wine, but he was neither in a mood nor 
 situation to cheer up. 
 
 ' We must arrange for your escape after the cheque and 
 drafts are presented P said Carlton ; ' I should be as glad 
 to have you safe out of the country then, as you would be 
 yourself !' 
 
 ' I do not doubt it — if I was taken up I should convict you 
 too !' 
 
 ' Not all. There will not be the slightest proof of ray con- 
 nexion with you. You can prove that you gambled at my 
 table perhaps, and perhaps you cannot, for men wouldn't like 
 to swear they had seen you play there, for fear the world, the 
 immacculate and suspicious M world," would .want to know 
 what they were doing there themselves.' 
 
 * Where can I go to — what country is the most safe ?' asked 
 Meadows. 
 
 * Why, as to safety— I think Greenland or Africa would be 
 the best, for they are the only countries where I have never 
 heard of the police.' 
 
 ' This is not a subject to joke upon — where can I go and 
 not be followed ; and more than that, where can 1 go and find 
 no accounts of my leavintr in the papers 1 My mother and 
 Bister would die of shame if they were to find it out.' 
 
 1 Cuba. Some of the interior villages of Cuba I think would 
 do. Their government prohibits American papers because 
 they are afraid of our democratic principles.' 
 
 * It would be too near !' replied Meadows. ' I should be 
 surely recognised at some time.' 
 
 ' So you would be, if you went to the North Pole, perhaps. 
 There never was but one place where a Yankee did not find 
 his way, yet !' 
 
 * And that V 
 
 ' Was Captain Symmes' Hole, and there's no doubt in my 
 mind, but some of the Yankee passengers on board the Presi- 
 
252 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 dent are trying to get there now— that is, if she stuck in an 
 ice-island as the mesmerists say.' 
 
 Meadows did not heed Carlton's attempt to be witty, but 
 again asked : 
 
 ' Why could I not go to Buenos Ayres, or Brazil V 
 
 * You're too honest to thrive in those countries. An honest 
 Yankee there would be kicked out of society !* 
 
 * Don't torment, me with your jokes, Mr. Carlton ; they're 
 untimely, to say the least.' 
 
 ' So they are, my boy, but I wanted to get you in good hu- 
 mour, for I've another piece of business in store for you.' 
 ' What, more villany V 
 
 'No, not exactly villany, but a little piece of justice on my 
 own private account, which I'll give you live thousand for. 
 That'll swell your purse to thirty thousand, and if you'll go 
 into the interior of Cuba, change your name and buy a plan- 
 tation, you'll do well.' 
 
 4 My mother and sister must find all out, if I change my 
 name.' 
 
 'So they would, if they found you possessed of so much 
 money, if you didn't have pome good excuse.' 
 ' What excuse could I have? 
 
 ' Why, tell thern you caught old S in smuggling, 
 
 and that the government found out you were a witness, and 
 that he gave you this money and hired you to leave, rather 
 than to stay, and be forced to appear against him.' 
 
 ' Yes, that # would do. But it will require a great deal of 
 management to get off !' 
 
 * Leave that to me. Now take another glass of wine, and 
 we'll arrange the other little matter of which I spoke.' 
 
 * What is itV asked Meadows, declining to take more wine. 
 ' As I said before, it's only a small matter. I have an 
 
 enemy, a man who has injured me deeply — I want him 
 punished !' 
 
 ' I am no fighter !' replied Meadows ; ' you can surely settle 
 your own quarrels.' 
 
 ' Unfortunately, in this case I cannot, without laying myself 
 too much under suspicion. It is known that I am the man's 
 aworn and deadly foe — while you do not even know him, and 
 of course would not be suspected.' 
 
 ' But why so much fear of the law? Surely if a man injures 
 you and you thrash him, the law will do no more than fine you 
 a few dollars.' 
 
 ' That is true ; but, in this case, my man must get more than 
 a thrashing.' 
 
 ' What do you mean V 
 
 ' Only that he must get a few inches of steel through his 
 iieart, or a bullet through his brain.' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 253 
 
 Meadows shrank back in horror from the cold-blooded vil« 
 lain. 
 
 * What !' he gasped ; 1 do you expect me to commit a mur- 
 der for you V 
 
 * Certainly, if I wish it done ; the bond specified obedience 
 to all my demands.' 
 
 * But not murder ; oh God ! spare me from that.' 
 
 ' Sorry 1 can't make it convenient to excuse you, but the 
 fact is, you're the only friend I have that 1 can use !' 
 
 1 Where is Selden 1 He was made for an assassin, you can 
 see it in his eye. You know that he has courage ; he has 
 already stabbed his man.' 
 
 ' Yes, and he is too well known for me to use him in this 
 ease. I choose you, because you are unknown, and no one will 
 suspect you.' 
 
 'Oh God! I cannot do that, Carlton. Anything else, but 
 spare me from that ! I would not have strength to strike a 
 blow !' groaned Meadows. 
 
 I It requires very little strength to pull a trigger,' replied 
 the gambler, 1 and I shall have everything so prepared in this 
 case, that there will be no danger to you whatever.' 
 
 ' Who is the man V 
 
 I I cannot tell you that; it is enough that you do not know 
 him !' 
 
 ' But if I do not know him, how can I do what you wish?' 
 
 ' That shall all be arranged. He shall be brought to you, 
 you shall have neither difficulty nor danger to encounter !' 
 
 'I cannot, dare not do it !' murmured Meadows. 
 
 ' You can, and mu-t !' replied Carlton. ' I will have no 
 trifling in this matter. You are in my power, and must do as 
 I wish I When this is done, and our raise made out of old 
 
 S , you shall have no more trouble, but shall be 
 
 placed on board a vessel bound to Cuba — you, and your 
 mother and sister ! I'll pledge my honour for that !' 
 
 His honour — the honour of a professional blackleg ! Let 
 the devil talk of his religion after that ; or a beggar of his 
 wealth; or a prostitute of her virtue ! 
 
 Meadows sighed, as he paused to think of the dreadful 
 proposition of Carlton. He was, indeed, in a dilemma. 
 Certain ruin was his, if he dared to persist in a refusal, for 
 the gambler had him in his power ; and if he consented, he 
 might safely leave the country with his mother and sister, 
 possessing sufficient fortune to make them comfortable for 
 life in a foreign land. He did not pause to think how easy 
 and natural it would be for the gambler to break his word to 
 him after all the villany had been furnished; he was in the 
 net, and was blind to everything save his own immediate 
 danger. 
 
254: 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 'I will leave you to think of this matter until to-morrow ! 
 said Carlton ; ' 1 hnow you'll be secret on the subject !' 
 ' Yes, yes ; but do spare me from the murder !' 
 
 * Pshaw ! man, call it homicide— justifiable homicide, and 
 it wont look half so bad to you !' 
 
 ' How can it be justifiable V asked the clerk. 
 
 * Because this man has done me the deepest wrong on 
 earth !' replied the gambler, in a deep tone, while his eye 
 flashed with the memory of the wrong. ' He has seduced 
 the wife of my bosom — the only being on earth that I love, 
 except the children she has borne to me ! He has torn her 
 heart from me— he has stained her with a black and damning 
 shadow that not even bis blood can wash away !' 
 
 Meadows shuddered as he looked upon the now flushed face 
 of the gambler, and saw the fearful working of the storm of 
 passion, which he had restrained all this time. 
 
 'I would kill him myself,' he continued, ' but I will at any 
 rate be suspected and arrested. I'll have to prove an alibi I 
 Sam Selden '11 have to do the same ! There is but one other 
 that could do it, and I'm afraid to trust her hand.' 
 
 * Mine would be a weak one, I fear !' said Meadows. 
 
 * You love your siiter V said Carlton. 
 ' Yes — 1 do, as few brothers can.' 
 
 'Were she seduced — blasted — ruined, would you have a 
 weak hand if you stood armed before her seducer V cried 
 Carlton. 
 
 * No— I would cleave his heart were it guarded with a coat 
 of mail !' said Meadows. 
 
 'Then strike but one blow for me — and you shall have the 
 power to make your mother and 6ister happy for ever ! 
 Meadows, I have talked harshly to you — have threatened you 
 and all that — but do this one favour for me — I ask it as a 
 favour — and I will be the best friend you ever had. I will 
 give you fifty thousand dollars; yes, for his heart's blood I'd 
 almost give his weight in gold — you will do it, won't you V 
 
 Carlton, in his excitement, had forgotten the bond, for- 
 gotten that he was the master. His usual pallor had deserted 
 him, and his eyes gleamed like sparks of living fire. 
 
 Meadows filled a glass with wine — dashed it down his- 
 throat, and in a low husky whisper, asked — ! 
 
 * When must it be done V 
 
 ' Soon, very soon. I'll let you know to-morrow.' 
 ' Give me till then to decide.' 
 
 * No — now — note. ' cried the gambler — 'I must have all 
 uncertainty off my mind ! I shall go mad, and be fool 
 enough to murder him myself. Speak, will you do it V 
 
 * My hand would tremble, I could never reach his heart 
 with the steel.' 
 
 ' A pistol shall be your weapon.' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 * Its report would bring aid to him — I shall be detected.' 
 
 * No — 1 have arranged everything for that in my mind al- 
 ready, and walked over the spot where he must die — and have 
 seen the course which you rnust take. I had but just come 
 from there when I met you — and had just seen him — the 
 wretch who mu9t die ! You need not iear— I pledge you my 
 sacred honour, than for you there is not the slih test danger. 
 You never will be suspected. I'll prepare the weapon my- 
 self, and I'll take good care that it shall be loaded to sna^ 
 this time.' 
 
 * I'll see you to morrow !' said Meadows gloomily— again 
 swallowing some wine. 
 
 1 Well — let it be so, you'll do it for me, Charley !' 
 
 ' I suppose I must ! I'm your slave !' replied the clerk. 
 
 'No — rather say my fkiknd if you'll do me this favour!' 
 replied Carlton. 
 
 After taking some more wine, they separated — Meadows to 
 return to his mother's hou>e — Carlton to repair to his faro 
 table, and meet some of the respectable citizens of this great 
 city. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Poor Angelina ! A second day of sickness had dawned upon 
 her, and though she looked far more beautiful than she had 
 on the night before, her very beauty indicated the fearful 
 progress of her disease. Her cheeks were Hushed and of a 
 rosy hue; her blue eyes seemed larger and brighter than ever. 
 Yet the blue veins on her throbbing temples were dark and 
 swollen — her pale lips quivered, and every now and then 
 opened with a low moan of suffering, while her frame was 
 convulsed with the racking pain of the fever. 
 
 Mr. Precise had not closed his eyes all night. He had given 
 his bed up to Jenny, though the latter had offered to sit up 
 and watch with the invalid. So far as being sleeplees, he had 
 not had the advantage of the sick girl. She had not slept— 
 but had lain and tossed with pain, all the night. 
 
 'I am so glad it is day once more !' she murmured, as the 
 grey light of early dawn came in through the open shutters 
 of the window. 
 
 1 Yes — you've had a hard night — poor creetur !' said Mr 
 Precise, kindly — ' but never mind, the doctor '11 be here soon, 
 and '11 cure you up.' 
 
 ' No — no !' sighed the girl, ' you are taking all this trouble 
 for nothing. I feel as if 1 should not get well V 
 
 * Don't talk that way ! you'll soon be well and hearty as a 
 spring lamb !' said the old gentleman, while a tear came up in 
 
256 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 either eye. 'Turn over and try to sleep, child— I'll have 
 some gruel made for you, agin the time you wake up !' 
 
 ' I will try,' murmured the sufferer — ' but my eye? ache as 
 if they were coming out. My head seems as if it was all on 
 "fire !' 
 
 ' Poor creetur ! I wish I could bear it all for you !' said the 
 old gentleman. 
 
 ' Oh ! God bless you, sir, you are too kind to me !' replied 
 the sufferer. 
 
 'No, my child, no indeed ! we can never be too kind to the 
 suffering whom we meet. But go to sleep now — that's a good 
 girl. I'll not talk to you any more.' 
 
 The old gentleman leaned back in his easy chair as he said 
 this, but he did not keep silent very long, though he said no 
 more, for he almost instantly dropped into a slumber himself, 
 and began to snore very loudly. His snoring, too, was almost 
 like talking. First it would come out with a long, low, 
 swelling murmur, with a gradual rise in the intonation, as if 
 iie was asking a question. Then would come a short, quick 
 snort, like a cross single-syllabled answer. Then, again, his 
 nasal member would seem to imagine itself a stage horn, for 
 it would give a very good imitation of that instrument, we 
 mean of the small straight tin horn, used by western stage- 
 drivers. 
 
 Angelina lay there and listened to this singular music for 
 some time, until Jenny came into the room. As she did so, 
 Mr. Precise awoke. 
 
 ' Well, I do declare. Why, I must have gone to sleep,' he 
 muttered, as he rubbed his eyes. ' What time is it, Jenny V 
 
 * Breakfast-time, sir,' replied the girl. 1 The muffin-man 
 has been here — and I've got your coffee ready.' 
 
 ' Make some gruel for this poor girl, — why, my dear, haven't 
 you been to sleep yet 1 ?' 
 ' No, sir, I am not sleepy,' murmured the sufferer. 
 
 * Well, — it was so strange that I should go to sleep, and 
 then, I had a dream, too !' 
 
 'A dream, sir]' repeated Angelina, wondering what he 
 could have dreamed about while he snored so loud. 
 
 ' Yes, and it was such a strange one. It was about my new 
 plan for the good of the poor. I thought that I was on the 
 farm that I'm going to have laid out for them— and that the 
 houses were all built, and the fields laid out, and the people 
 all at work, and I stood there looking at them and rubbing 
 my hands with joy, when all of a sudden, I heard a loud noise 
 like a gun fired, or a peal of thunder, and everything sank 
 out of my eight. While I stood there, wondering what on 
 earth all this meant, I thought I saw an angel stand before 
 me, dressed all in white, with great white wings, and a face 
 just like yours, my dear, and it looked very mournfully at 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 257 
 
 me, and shook its head sadly three times. I was juet going to 
 speak to it, when it flew away up into the sky, — and then I. 
 woke up !' 
 
 1 Wall, — I never !' cried Jenny, who, with mouth and eyes 
 wide open, had been listening. 
 
 * Go and make the gruel, Jenny,' said Mr. Precise, sharply ; 
 then, as he turned aud looked at Angelina, he saw that tears 
 were stealing down her cheeks. 
 
 ' Do you believe in dreams, my dear V he asked. 
 
 * Yours will come true, sir !' she replied, — ' 1 know I shall 
 die very soon.' 
 
 * Oh ! God forbid,' said the old gentleman fervently — ' it 
 would be too hard for you to die now, when your troubles 
 are all over I* 
 
 ' There's a woman down stairs — a great tall woman, who 
 wants to know if there aint no such girl here as Angelina 
 Lindsay !' said Jenny, who had just come up stairs. 
 
 'That's my name— it must be my cousin!' murmured 
 Angelina. 
 
 ' What shall I do— shall I let her come up? — she looks awful 
 fierce !' said the maid. 
 
 Til go and see who she is,' replied Mr. Precise, 'but, 
 Jenny, haven't you got this poor girl's gruel ready yet. 1 do 
 declare you're as slow as a new 'prentice !' 
 
 ' I'll have it up in a minute, sir I* 
 
 Mr. Precise went down stairs, and soon returned with the 
 visitor, who, of course, was Lize. 
 
 The woman saw Angelina, and rushing to her bedside, 
 covered her feverish cheeks with kisses, while tears of min- 
 gled joy and sorrow gushed from her eyes. 
 
 ' Oh ! God, my poor, poor gal — I've been e'en a'most crazy 
 about you — why did you run away from the boardin'- house V 
 
 * I saw him — that young man who has tormented me so, 
 He came to the house after me !' replied Angelina. 
 
 'There — it was just what I thought ! You saw him and 
 ran away — he didn't know you was there. He was there to 
 see some one else — but you're sick. Your head is hot as fire.' 
 
 * Yes, cousin Eliza, 1 am sick ! and am glad to see you 
 before 1 die.' 
 
 Before you die P echoed Lize — 1 Oh, God, she is not so eick 
 as (hat, is she !' 
 
 Then turning to Mr. Precise, she asked, 
 ' Do, pray tell me, sir, if she is in danger !' 
 Mr. Precise could not answer. 
 
 ' She is— she w,' shrieked the woman, ' and it's all my 
 fault; I ought never to have left her side. Oh, God, why is 
 everything that I love cursed and blasted !' 
 
 ' Don't Iret, dear cousin, it is not your fault, and this gen* 
 tleman has been so very kind to me !' 
 
256 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Oh, God bless him for it — he shall never be the loser — 
 but-* 
 
 A thought came like lightning over the mind of poor Lize ; 
 she remembered that this was the master of Frank Hennock, 
 that he was the very man whom her gang was trying to rob. 
 
 * It shall not be !' she muttered. ' No — no —he shall not 
 suffer, if I have to blab it all out !' 
 
 ' What does she mean]' said Mr. Precise, noticing the wild 
 looks and strange language of the woman. ' What do you 
 mean, my good woman V 
 
 * To save you from harm — beware of , hush, I'll tell 
 
 you some other time !' said Lize, pausing in an instant, as the 
 door opened, and Frank Hennock made his appearance. 
 
 ' I'm ready to attend to that business for you, sir,' said the 
 young rascal, looking as composedly as if he had never seen 
 Lire before. 
 
 * Very well, Francis, go down to the parlour — I'll try to 
 come down directly.' 
 
 ' How is the poor young lady, sir?' asked Frank, who, no- 
 ticing the agitation of Lize, began to think it was better not 
 to leave her alone with Mr. Precise. 
 
 * Sick— very sick,' replied Mr. Precise. 
 
 'The doctor's here, sir,' said Jenny, popping her head into 
 the room, 'and the gruel's ready, sir.' 
 
 ' I must go for a little while,' said Lize, but I'll be back 
 afore night, and if you please, sir, I'll watch with my cousin 
 till she is better.' 
 
 * Yes— poor thing, you may. You're a good woman to think 
 so much of her, poor creetur, but she sha'n't suffer while 
 you're gone !' 
 
 The doctor entered at this moment, and as he took the hand 
 of his patient, and glanced at her face, a shadow of care and 
 pain came over his countenance. 
 
 Lize watched him closely, as if she would read the fate of 
 her Gousin in his look, and tears gushed from her eyes, when 
 she saw his look of anxiety. 
 
 ' Save her, doctor, save her life, and I'll give you all the 
 money I can rake !' 
 
 The doctor smiled, and replied : 
 
 * We'll do our best for her ; but money would not add to 
 my skill. We will hope for the best !' 
 
 Lize turned away to hide the scalding tears which rushed 
 down her cheeks, which were very pale now. She had taken 
 no time to put paint upon them that morning. 
 
 ' I'll go now,' she said, ' and I'll be back the earlier. Good- 
 bye, Angy ! God bless you !' 4 and she kissed the sick girl fer- 
 vently. 
 
 Frank Hennock followed her down stairs, apparently to let 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 259 
 
 her out at the front door, but really to get a chance to speak 
 to her. 
 
 1 Lize,' said he, as he stood on the door-step, ' you're not 
 goin? to ** blow" on ua to the old man V 
 
 *N'>, Frank but you've got to stop robbing him. He's 
 acted like a livin' angel to that poor gal, and I'll not see him 
 harmed ! you've got to stop short where you are, or I will 
 blow, that's sure as gospel.' 
 
 ' You know what a risk you'd run in doing it, don't you !' 
 
 * Yes, and you'd run the risk of 'commodations up the river 
 for a while, too,' replied the woman. 
 
 ' Well, but you'll go and see old Jack, and get him to agree 
 to it, won't yoa ?' asked Frank. 
 
 * Yes, and I'll make him pay the old man his money on the 
 forged cheque, too,' said Lize ; 1 he shan't suffer by any of our 
 gang, when he's acted so kind to my cousin as all this comes 
 to. You've had enough, and too much out of him already ! 
 
 ' Well, just fix it with old Jack, and I'm easily satisfied. I 
 kinder like the old covey, myself,' replied Frank. And then 
 he added : 
 
 1 You've not forgotten the hundred dollars, have you, Lize V 
 'No, but I've not had time to raise it yet, replied Lize; 
 
 4 I'll get it of Charley Cooper to day/or you. I'm going to live 
 
 on the Fquare after this, Frank.' 
 ' What ! and desert us, your old comrades and companions 
 
 in war]' 
 
 ' I shall never go on the cross again !' 
 
 1 Then, farewell to all your greatness ! why, Lize, I thought 
 you'd more ambition.' 
 
 1 Not in that line,' replied Liza ; 1 but I must go. Remem« 
 ber, now, the old gentleman is not to suffer any more !' 
 
 * Of course not, of course not, if you say so, Miss Eliza !* 
 and Frank bowed low, and gallantly kissed his hand, as the tall 
 woman hurried away. 
 
 Then he muttered to himself : 
 
 ' This treason must be nipped i' the bud ! as Shakespeare 
 says. We'll have to clap a stopper on her jaw- tackle, or she'll 
 blow the gaff! as Cooper says in the Water- Witch.' 
 
 ' What witch? was that great tall woman a witch 1 ?' asked 
 Jenny, who hail just come up stairs to inform Frank that his 
 breakfa?t was ready. 
 
 1 She looked a little like one, dMn't she !' laughed Frank. 
 
 1 Well, she wis a strange lookin' creetur; but what was you 
 a sayin' so petikler like?' asked Jenny, a little disposed to be 
 jealous. 
 
 1 Oh, nothing, only speaking of the sick girl up stairs, who 
 it appears, is her cousin !' 
 
 'I wish she'd kept her cousin to hum, so I do !' replied 
 Jenny, spitefully ; 1 our master's taken such a likia' to her 
 
260 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 that there's no doin' any thin* with him now. I'd been 
 expectin' all the time that he'd do sumthin' for us when 
 we got married, and now, I do believe he's goin' to 'dopt her 
 and call her Miss Precise !' 
 
 'Shoudn't wonder if he did !' replied Frank. 
 
 ' Then he'll do nuthin' for us when we get married !' 
 
 * Oh, yes, I'm sure he will, o;hen we do !' replied Frank ;. 
 1 but talking of that, let's go down to breakfast !' 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Fkahk Hehnock went up stairs to his master as soon as h<; 
 had finished his breaklast, for he felt uneasy lest Lize might 
 have dropped some hint about her knowledge of him or his 
 character. 
 
 The doctor had gone, and Angelina had sunk into a fitful 
 slumber, or rather doze, for ever and anon she would start 
 and mutter in incoherent language, as if terrible dreams were 
 raving through her burning brain. 
 
 Mr. Precise laid his finger on his lip, as Frank entered, for 
 him to keep silent, and the latter went in on tip toe. Bending 
 his lips close to Mr. Precise's ear, he whispered : 
 
 ' Wont you go down and eat, sir, 1*11 stay here and watch 
 her !' 
 
 'No, Francis, you're a good boy to think of me, but I can't 
 eat now. I'm afraid that poor creetur is agoin' to die !' and 
 the old man took out his handkerchief, not to hide his tears, 
 but to wipe them away. 
 
 Frank sighed, and put his handkerchief up to his face too, 
 and said : 
 
 ' Oh, sir, I hope not. She is so beautiful and looks so good !' 
 
 'She bears her suffering like an angel, she doe3 !' said the 
 old man, 'and the poor creetur has only seen the dark side o* 
 life. 1 want her to live and enjoy the sunshine a little while. 
 If she dies I shall never be happy agin !' and a broken sob 
 burst from his lips. 
 
 ' What a strange woman that cousin of hers seemed to be 1* 
 said Frank. 
 
 ' Yes, and I'd forgotten, but she talked very strangely to 
 me. I must see her again and get an explanation !' 
 
 ' What did she say V asked Frank, tremulously. 
 
 ' Water — just a drop, if you please !' murmured the invalid. 
 ' I am so hot. Oh, mercy— my head will burst open with this 
 dreadful pain !' 
 
 Mr. Precise sprang to help the poor girl, and Frank could 
 not get the explanation which he desired, but his own guilt 
 made him picture it ten times worse than it really was, and 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 261 
 
 is soon as he could do so, he begged Mr. P. 'a permission to be 
 absent for a little while — saying that he wanted to see his 
 sick mother. He readily gained this permission, for Mr. 
 Precise cared little about attending to business just then. 
 He was not a man who could think of many things at once, 
 and his whole heart and soul had become interested in the 
 fate of the poor sewing-girl. 
 
 Frank hurried, therefore, as soon as possible, to the house 
 of Jack Circle. He found the latter in his little front bar- 
 room attending to his usual business, but as he passed through 
 into the back-room, he gave him a sign, and Jack soon fol- 
 lowed him. 
 
 'What's hup now? asked old Jack, 'what brings you here 
 in the day time V 
 
 ' Treason ! Clouds dark and ominous hang o'er our house/ 
 cried Frank, assuming a tragical air. 
 
 ' Clouds be d d,' said old Circle, who had no ear for 
 
 poetry — ' What's the row ? Talk plain hinglish to me— I 
 don't hunderstand nuthin else.' 
 
 ' Well then — to descend to the grade of your understanding, 
 v:e are in danger,' said Frank. 
 
 ' 'Owl' cried old Jack, "as any one blowed the gaff?' 
 
 ' No — not yet, that I know of, but still I have my fears, 
 as George Washington Dixon said about the revolution in 
 Yucatan.' 
 
 ' Oh, blast your Dixons and revolutions — just speak hout 
 and let hus know what's hup V 
 ' Well, you know big Lize.' 
 
 * Don't know nobody else, she's a reg'lat gallows gal, she 
 is !' replied old Jack. 
 
 ' May be yes, and may be no !' replied Frank. ' She's 
 gettin' offish lately, and I'm afeared she'll blow the gaff !' 
 
 ' Shel' cried Jack in surprise. • Why, she's one of the best 
 'ands in the whole gang. No, you needn't be afeared o' her.' 
 
 * But she is the one I am afeared of— she saw my master 
 this morning.' 
 
 ' Wh — what !' cried Circle — 'not to blow on us?' 
 
 f No — but, you see, he picked up the girl she was asking 
 after the other night — and she's Lite's couain, and Lize feels 
 grateful,' and she don't want us to do the old man !' 
 
 ' Well, that's kind o' nateril, too, in Lize,' said old Jack, 
 1 but it won't do for us ! We've laid out to lift all we can, 
 and "elp your gov'nor to take care of his property, and she 
 mustn't go for to hinterferc !' 
 
 1 How will you atop it ] She has already said something to 
 nut him on his guard, I expect.' 
 
 1 The bloody 'ell, she has I' cried Jack — ' we must jug her, 
 a 
 
2G2 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 till arter we've cracked his crib. She didn't say nuthiD 
 habout the check V 
 
 * No, I think not — but she's to see him again this after- 
 noon.' 
 
 ' No she wont !' replied Jack, ' not if she can be found 
 afore that. I've got a mg berth down in the cellar, for sich 
 as she. Blow the gaff? Why blast her heyes, she's forgotten 
 the rules. I'll have her 'tinted up — she'll be here to see me on 
 petikler bizuess, afore she's three hours older.' 
 
 ' That '11 be tiie only way to keep all safe,' said Frank. 
 
 ' Yes — but I'm not one as can be kotched napping any 'ow/ 
 said Jack. 'I'll fix the lady, I will. Come hout and take 
 summat vet ; a pot o' yale, or some 'alf-and-'alf P 
 
 Frank complied with the invitation, and then hastened to 
 return to his master. 
 
 'Hit s werry hodd,' soliloquized Jack after Frank had gone 
 away—' hit's werry hodd in Lize to take sich a kink inter' er 
 'ead ! But there's no tellin' what a 'ooman won't do, if she 
 takes a iikin' to a creetur. I thought Lize was safe as a lost 
 ha'penny — but she was allers a wilful human, and there's no 
 more dependin' on a wilful 'ooman, than on a skeery cracks- 
 man.' 
 
 The old man's daughter Harriet came in at this moment. 
 ' Where've you been, 'Arriet my gal V asked Jack. 
 'Bound to Jew Mikes— to get the tin for them spoons 1 
 replied she. 
 
 ' 'Ow much did he give — is he goin' to melt 'em V 
 
 * No. He give me the same he did afore. He's agoin' to 
 scrape off the name — rub 'em down and puc 'em up for new 
 in the Broadway crib.' 
 
 ' He's keen, even for a sheeney !' replied Jack, but his con- 
 versation was interrupted at this moment by the entrance of 
 customers. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 When poor Isabella Meadows came to herself, she found that 
 she was in a small room, well furnished, but hung around 
 with licentious and obscene pictures. She shuddered as she 
 judged the character of the place from this ; but she felt some 
 relief, on finding herself alone. She arose from the couch 
 ■whereon she had been carelessly thrown, and going to the 
 door, tried the lock. It had been fastened outside. She 
 glanced around the room, and saw that there was a window 
 in front. She quickly tried the shutters of that, and found 
 that they, too, had been fastened—apparently nailed from the 
 outside. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 203 
 
 ' No hope, not even the means of death !' she murmured. 
 
 She trembled as she heard the bolt of her door turned 
 "back, for she expected to see the hated form of Whitmore, 
 and her heart was full of terror. But she was pleasantly dis- 
 appointed. A young and very pretty girl entered, and then 
 Isabella heard the door locked again by some one who was 
 outside. 
 
 'I have come to stay with you tonight!' said the girl. 
 •Mrs. Swett said you might be lonesome, or feel bad, and 
 ■want company !' 
 
 ' Then he has gone away V said Isabella. 
 
 ' If you mean your beau, I s'pose he has, or the old woman 
 ■wouldn't have sent me up here, 'specially as the parlour was 
 full of company !' 
 
 1 Pm glad he is not here— but why am I kept here— why 
 was the door locked just now?' 
 
 * Oh ! they always do that when a girl first comes here, till 
 she gots a little used to the place. They kept me locked in a 
 whole month, before they'd even let me go down in the par- 
 lour.' 
 
 1 Then you did not come here willingly t 
 
 * Oh ! no, indeed ! I came to town from , up the 
 
 Tiver, to get work — or to get into a milliner's. When 1 got 
 down in the boat, I asked a hackman to take me to a respect- 
 able boarding-house, and he brought me here. I don't like to 
 tell you the rest — but I've been here six months now. 1 was 
 very unhappy for a while, but I'm used to it now.' 
 
 1 Poor girl !' said Isabella, for the moment forgetting her 
 own perilous situation, ' had you no friends]' 
 
 * Yes, a mother and two sisters, but Ma'am S. wouldn't let 
 me write to them, and now, I suppose, they think Pm dead !" 
 
 ' But don't you want to escape from here !' 
 
 * No, — not now. "What would be the use— I'm ruined for 
 everything but this !' replied the girl. * No one would give 
 me work — I could not get a place anywhere, it is my only 
 chance for a decent living to stay here now ! 1 get clothes 
 and all I want to eat, and when I get melancholy, 1 drink 
 wine till I get happy, and forget everything !' 
 
 * Oh, God ! — is it possible that such a life can be led V 
 moaned Isabella. 
 
 1 Oh ! you'll get used to it !' said the girl. ' I used to talk 
 and fret, but I found it was of no use, so I made the best of a 
 bad bargain.' 
 
 ' Is there no way to get out of this horrible house ! I know 
 but too well what it is !' 
 
 ' No— Ma'am S. always keeps the key and lets every one in 
 and out. They say she's very rich, but she don't act so with 
 us poor girls. She manages to get all we make — but if you 
 like, let's go to bed. It's getting late, and I'd like to sleep to- 
 
264 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 night. I've had to keep up late every night, and I do feel as 
 if a good night's rest would be so good.' 
 
 * You can sleep if you like,' said Isabella, ' but for me, I 
 cannot. Oh, is there not some way of getting out of here V 
 
 * If you had plenty of money you might— the old woman 
 would do anything for money.' 
 
 « Alas !' sighed Isabella, 1 1 have none ! "Would to God 
 that I had the means of ending my life !' 
 
 Poor girl— her prospect was indeed dark. Her companion 
 soon retired, and glad of a chance to rest, soon fell into a 
 sound slumber. But Isabella could not close her eye3. She 
 could hear the sound of laughter and revelry below — and she 
 shuddered at every sound, for she feared, more than all, the 
 return of Whitmore. She did not dream of submitting to 
 the fate which had befallen the poor girl, who slept before 
 her — she determined rather to die. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The day passed, and poor Angelina grew no better. Mr. Pre- 
 cise still waited by her side, and the doctor had already called 
 several times. Her fever was at a height which made the 
 crisis near. He knew that ere the dawn of another day her 
 fate would be determined — the fever would turn and break ; 
 or her strength would give way entirely. 
 
 Noticing that she very often glanced at the door, and seemed 
 to be thinking of something more than her mere illness, Mr. 
 Precise asked : 
 
 * What do you look for, my dear ] Is there anything I can 
 do for you V 
 
 * Ko, sir, thank you !' murmured the invalid. ' My cousin 
 gaid she'd be here before noon — I want to see her. It's strange 
 she don't come/ 
 
 ' So it is — but don't you know where she lives? I'll send 
 for her.' 
 
 1 1 don't know the number, sir,' replied Angelina ; ' it is in 
 Thomas Street, close to Church, but she's seldom at home J 
 You know that I told you she had led a bad life — but she 
 •wants to be good now.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ! I remember. She shall have a chance to reform. 
 I'll take care of her and her poor old father !' replied Mr. 
 Precise. 
 
 ' I've been trying to think what she meant by her strange 
 language this morning, sir. I'm so afraid some harm is com- 
 ing to you. She knows all the thieves in the city, I've heard 
 her say, and I'm so afraid they mean to rob you or some- 
 thing.' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 2Q5 
 
 1 Oh ! no, — I can't think so !' replied Mr. Precise; ' besides, 
 I've very little property up here. I keep my money in bank.' 
 
 ' It is very singular that she stays away so long. She seemed 
 to love me so much — and then she had something important 
 to tell you — but said it should be when she came again.' 
 
 ' Yes,— she did seem to like you,' said the old gentleman,' 
 ' it made me take quite a liking to her !' 
 
 ' I do wish she'd come— there must be something wrong 1' 
 murmured the invalid. 
 
 There was indeed something wrong, and it was not by her 
 will that Lize had broken her promise. That had been a sad 
 day for her, so far. We will glance at some of the incidents. 
 
 After leaving the house of Mr. Precise, Lize hurried down 
 to her home ; and after sitting down awhile there, she started 
 up saying, 
 
 Til go to old Jack's and put a stop to his robbing that 
 good old gentleman, who is so kind to poor Angy.' 
 
 She then went to old Circle's, which place she reached but 
 a short time after Frank Hennock had left. Old Jack was 
 delighted to see her : never before had she seen him so much 
 pleased. 
 
 1 Vont you take a drop of summat vet ; I vos just thinkin' 
 OY you,' said he. 
 
 1 Well, what do you think, old stick-in-the-mud.' 
 
 'Why, my gal, 1 vos a thinkin' vot a huseful member of 
 our society you vos.' 
 
 ' Then you'd hate to lose me, wouldn't you V 
 
 * Couldn't think o' sich a thing !' replied Jack. ' Why there 
 ar'n't such a panneller on the cross has can come hup to you. 
 'Tild' Hoag ar'n't nowhere, and the bloody houtsiders never 
 does a job hup right ! but what'll you take]' 
 
 'Nothin' ! come in the back room — I want to talk to ye in 
 private !' said Lize. 
 
 * Sartin,' responded Jack ; ' 'ere, 'Arriet, come 'ere and tend 
 bar while I have a patter with Mi?s Eliza.' 
 
 The old man's daughter came in, and Circle whispered 
 something in her ear, then led the way into the back room, 
 ■where Lize alone followed him. After closing the door, he 
 eat down, and pointing to another seat said : 
 
 ' Well, what's hup ; 'ave you put your peepers on another 
 lay r 
 
 1 Xo, it's not that,' said Lize ; 1 I've come here, Jack, to get 
 you to break up a lay that you've put up already !' 
 
 'To breakup a lay, Lize? why this is su'thin' new,' said 
 Jack, counterfeiting the utmost surprise, though Frank's in- 
 formation led him to expect this turn from her. 
 
 ' Yes, it is,' she replied ; ' but I've got my reasons for it.' 
 
26G 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Tout you say vot they is f asked Mr. Circle. 
 
 ' Yes. That man, Mr. Precise, whose crib you've given 
 over ior Black Bill and Jack Murphy to crack, has done ine a 
 favour that I'll never forget as long as I Jive. I want you to 
 let him off, and to pay him back the money on that cheque.' 
 
 1 Wot,' cried Jack in astonishment; ' why wots come hover 
 you, Lize] You ar'n't a goin' to turn a canter, are you V 
 
 ' No, I'm not going to do nothing of that sort, but I ask this 
 of you as a favour V 
 
 1 Well, Lize, not meaning to give you a short ans'er, the lay 
 
 is all put up, and I'll be d d if it's agoin' to be broke up,* 
 
 said old Jack. 
 
 ' Then, Cap'n Jack, you'll force me to put the good old man 
 on his guard. I say he shall not be robbed !' 
 
 ' So — you'd 'peach, would ye ? Blow the gaff on us, as 
 allers 'elped you out of hev'ry scrape you got hinto.' 
 
 ' I don't want to blow on you, Cap'n Jack — but I've made 
 up my mind that old man shall go free of trouble.' 
 
 ' May be you'd like to be Cap'n of the society, eh V said Jack 
 sarcastically. 
 
 ' No — nor what's more, I don't mean to have any more to 
 do with you or your gang; I'll live on the square after this.' 
 1 You will, will you ! vel, I've only one hobjection to that 
 
 ere !' 
 
 ' What is it]' 
 
 ' Honly, that if you don't choose to live on the cross with 
 the society, you shan't live on the square out of it — that's hall.* 
 
 ' What do you mean, you thieving old fence.' 
 
 ' I means that ve'll board you at hour own hexpence, hold gal 
 — you needn't work for your livin.' 
 
 ' 1 don't understand you !' said Lize. 
 
 'Don't yer] Well, jest wait a shake, an' I'll hexplain. 
 'Arriet my gal, 'as the cider come yet V 
 
 ' Two barrel, dad,' replied the girl, from the bar-room. 
 
 ' Have 'em fotched in, we'll stow one barrel away in the 
 cellar !' added the old man. 
 
 As he said this, two men entered the back room. They 
 were Black Bill and Jack Murphy, and they stepped in be- 
 tween the door and where Jack and Lize were seated. 
 
 ' If you're agoing to have company, I'll leave !' said Lize, 
 getting up. 
 
 ' No — jist 'old hon habout a minnit !' said Jack. ' I want to 
 see wot these 'ere gentlemen 'ud say habout giving up their 
 lay.' 
 
 ' Givin hup our lay]' growled Black Bill. 'Wot the 
 bloody 'ell's that fur.' 
 
 ' Yis, if it's a fair questin !' added Jack Murphy, looking* 
 first at Circle and then at Lize. 
 
 ' Why— that 'ere lady, Miss Eliza, 'as got a new kink inter 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 207 
 
 her 'ead, and she wants you to give up crackin the hup-town 
 covey's crib.' 
 
 4 She be d d !' said Bill gruffly— 'let her mind her hown 
 
 lays, we'll take care o' hours.' 
 
 1 Well trate the ould gintleman kindly, though, if she axes 
 it as a favour!' said Murphy ; 'we'll be dacent and leave him a 
 pair o' breeches to put on in the inornin' and a dresein' 
 gownd may be.' 
 
 ' I'm going !' said Lize — ' I see there's no reason in you.' 
 
 'Going to blow usl' asked Jack. 
 
 * I didn't say that !' replied the girl. 
 
 1 No — but the devil trust you, I wont, you arn't agoin* 
 bout o' yere just yet !' 
 
 'No— I think it's rather could out o' doors, ye might take 
 could !' said Murphy. 
 
 Black Bill didn't speak, but he put his broad shoulders 
 against the inside cf the door and folded his arms with an 
 air of quiet determination. 
 
 ' So — you'll keep me a prisoner f asked Lize. 
 
 1 Not meanin' for to give you a short answer, I'm d— — d 
 if we don't,' replied Jack. 
 
 ' What, if I promise not to peach !' 
 
 ' You'd forget your promise, may be, as easy as you make 
 it.' 
 
 1 No — no, you must let me out, I want to go and look for 
 my father !' said Lize, who began to be a little frightened, at 
 the prospect before her. 'I was only joking with you, Jack, 
 
 1 wouldn't blow the gaff for nothing.' 
 
 ' An' a pleasant joke it was,' cried Murphy, ' an' it's only 
 a joke Cap'n Jack is a playin' on ye, now !' 
 
 1 There's no use o' humbuggin,' Jack !' growled Black Bill, 
 • she's on the trap— let her slide.' 
 
 Just at that moment, Jack, who had 'risen and passed over 
 to the side of the room, touched a ring that appeared to be 
 fastened to the ceiling, and Lize felt herself suddenly sinking 
 — the floor seeming to yield beneath her weight. She made 
 3 spring towards the door — but was thrust back by Murphy, 
 and in another moment she was hidden in darkness below — 
 the trap having canted and left her upon the ground, in a 
 deep cellar below the room where she had been seated. In a 
 moment, the trap was back in the same place as before, and 
 only the stifled shrieks of poor Lize could be heard. 
 
 * Well, that's what I call a rum go !' said Black Bill, after 
 the trap had closed. 
 
 1 Better come out an' take a go o' rum, to settle your 
 stummac !' said old Jack, coolly. ' She'll be heasy enough, 
 "till arter you've cracked the old 'un's crib ! I'll tend to her.' 
 
 ' A very sensible remark o' yours !' said Murphy, ' an' one, 
 
 2 think, as '11 raise no 'jectiona on our part. By the waji 
 
268 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 Cap'n Jack, a matthewmattycall questi'n ' as jisfc revolved 
 itself inter my craminyum.' 
 
 ' Vel, vot is it ;' asked old Jack. 
 
 * Why, I've often heard, 'mongst orthers, an' other unfort* 
 'nate individuals, this 'ere question revolved ; whether it wer' 
 possible to square a circle? What's your opinion — as the 
 devil asked of the minister, when he quoted scriptur' to him ! 
 
 ' Why, don't know as I see the sense o' the thing,' replied 
 Jack: — 'if it means that one o' the Circle family ever was 
 known to cruise on the square — it's a bloody lie. The 
 whole breed was born on the cross, an' they'll live on it, 
 that's as sure as mad dogs in July !' 
 
 ' Then it's yer opinion that the Circle can't be squared?' 
 
 ' Hexactly !' replied old Jack. 
 
 * Thin I'll be afther takin' a drink wid ye, for I'm of the 
 same persuasion, as the divil said to the Methodist !' replied 
 3Iurphy. 
 
 The party now adjourned to the bar room. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Charles Meadows came down to his mother's breakfast-table^ 
 pale and haggard, on the morning after his midnight inter- 
 view with Carlton. He noticed, also, that his mother looked 
 weary and unwell, as if ehe, like him, had passed a sleepless 
 night; but she, with a mother's anxiety, was the first to speak, 
 
 * Poor Charles ! You're sick this morning !' she exclaimed, 
 'Mr. S must not keep you up so late !' 
 
 'It is nothing, mother !' said he with a forced smile, 'we 
 are very busy down at the store, and since he has raised my 
 salary, I must do all I can, you know, for his interest !' 
 
 ' Yes, that's true, but still you musn't hurt your health, or 
 you will not long have the strength to earn your salary !' 
 
 ' Oh ! never fear, mother, I shall keep my strength as long 
 as I need it— but you look unwell, mother — what is the 
 matter with you V 
 
 *1 slept very badly, my son, and I had such a horrible 
 dream about you and your sister !' 
 
 ' A dream about us — what was it mother V 
 
 * I hate to think of it,' replied the old lady, with a shudder 
 — ' It was dreadful ; — but I do wish you'd go and see 'Bella, 
 I'm afraid she's sick !' 
 
 ' No danger of that, mother, — I saw Harry Whitmore just 
 as I was coming home last night, and he said he'd just left her 
 and his sister, well and hearty !' 
 
 'But wont you go and see her this morning?' urged the 
 jnother. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 2G9 
 
 * I'll not have time to-day, mother — but it's likely she'll 
 come home during the day — if she don't, I'll go and see her 
 this evening, if I can possibly spare the time !' 
 
 1 Well, do— I cannot drive that terrible dream from my 
 mind !' 
 
 ' What was it, mother? do tell me !' 
 
 ' Oh God, it was horrible ! I dreamed that I saw a snake 
 folding itself around poor 'Bella in great slimy folds — and her 
 I face grew dark — and her eyes turned red with agony, and her 
 tongue stuck out from her mouth, and the blood streamed 
 down from bursting veins upon her bosom, and yet 1 could 
 not help her. Then I saw the head of a snake, and it had a 
 human face — a face just like Mr. Whitmore's. Oh ! I'm so 
 afraid some harm '11 come to the poor girl through him !' 
 
 * Pshaw, mother — it was only a dream!' replied the son — 
 ' Harry Whitmore is the very soul of honour. I would trust 
 him quicker than any man in town. Besides, he love3 Bella 
 — has openly told me so, and as I know only waits to get his 
 mother's consent to offer her his hand in honourable marriage.'' 
 
 4 Well, well— we are all in the hands of God !' murmured 
 | the mother. 
 
 * But go on — tell me all your dream !' 
 
 ' Well — continued the old lady — * I looked at poor Bella., 
 till I saw her a crushed, blackened, and shapeless mass, and 
 then it seemed as if wings were given to me to fly away from 
 the dreadful spot, and I found myself in a town. It seemed 
 
 I to be night, but I could see as plainly as if it was broad day- 
 light. I saw you — and I was trying to get to you to tell you 
 about poor Bella, when you looked at me and motioned to me to 
 keep back. I couldn't think what you meant, but I saw you 
 step into a little shadow and crouch down as if you wanted 
 to hide yourself. And then I noticed you had a pistol in your 
 
 I hand !' 
 
 'A pistol, mother,' shrieked the young man, springing from 
 his seat and turning pale. 
 ' Yes. child ; but what is the matter?' 
 *" Nothing, mother, nothing, go on, it is only a dream.' 
 She continued : 
 
 ' I tried to go to yon, but again it seemed as if I was fas- 
 tened to the earth. Then I saw a man and a woman walking 
 along towards where you were. The woman was very pale, 
 and was weeping ; but she didn't look like our 'Bella.' 
 
 ' Go on, mother 1 go on, tell me all,' cried the son, impa» 
 tiently. 
 
 ' Well, they two came on till they got just where you were, 
 and there they stopped, and the woman went on talking to 
 ! the man, and crying. But he seemed stern and cold, and then 
 she acted as if she were pleading to him for some favour. 
 
270 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' But he shook his head, and pushed her back from him 
 when she tried to kiss him. 
 
 ' Then she seemed to get angry, and shook her clenched 
 hand at him and stamped her foot upon the ground, and just 
 then you crept slowly out from the shade and ' 
 
 'Killed him ! say, mother, did I kill him]' screamed Mea- 
 dows, interrupting his mother, and glaring upon her with 
 eyes that seemed to be bursting from their sockets. 
 
 * Oh mercy ! my son ! what is the matter V shrieked the 
 old lady; 'don't be so excited, it was only a dream.' 
 
 ' True mother, true, but I was so excited in it, that I had 
 forgotten myself. Pray, go on ; I will not interrupt you 
 again.' 
 
 ' Well,' she continued, ' I watched you steal out carefully 
 behind him, until you got so close that you could touch him ; 
 and the woman saw you, too, but didn't say anything, till you 
 raised your hand with the pistol in it close to his head; and 
 then she turned and ran away. Just at the same moment, I 
 saw the smoke, and heard a noise, as if your pistol had gone 
 off, and I screamed and woke up.' 
 
 * Oh horrible — horrible !' groaned the son, while great drops 
 of sweat came out upon his brow, and then he murmured : 
 
 ' It is only a dream.' 
 
 * Yes, child, that's all. Don't take on about it, or I shall 
 be sorry I told you.' 
 
 ' Don't you believe dreams come true sometimes, mother V 
 asked the son. 
 
 ' Well, 1 don't know. They used to in the bible clays, but I 
 hope these wont,' she replied — ' I know they can't ! 'Bella 
 is as pure as a snow-drop, and I know you're too good to kill a 
 man ; when you were a boy, you wouldn't so much as kill a 
 fly, like the other hoys.' 
 
 ' Wouldn't I V asked the young man, in a thoughtful man- 
 ner. 
 
 ' No — nor even fight with your schoolmates, except they 
 forced a fight on you.' 
 
 ' Then you think I'd not have spunk enough to kill a man/ 
 said the clerk with a strange, wild laugh. 
 
 I hope you'd never have the heart to do it,' replied Mrs. 
 Meadows. 
 
 ' Not even in self defence, eh?' continued Charle3. 
 
 * Why I suppose that would be different,' replied the old 
 lady — ' but I hope you'll never be placed in such a dreadful 
 necessity.' 
 
 The young man shuddered, but did not reply. 
 < Why don't you eat your breakfast— it's all getting cold. I 
 do declare you haven't eaten a mouthful,' cried the mother. 
 ' Your dreams have spoiled my appetite,' replied he. 
 ' Oh, never mind them, my son — they're only dreams. X 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 271 
 
 a'pose I was thinking of you and 'Bella, when I went to 
 sleep — come, drink your coffee.' 
 
 'No — 1 cannot ! It is time I went down to the store,' re« 
 plied the son. ' 1 don't feel very well this morning.' 
 
 1 Poor child, you do look sick ! You must have more 
 sleep — there's nothing wears young folks out more quickly 
 than want of rest and irregular hours.' 
 
 ' But I must attend to business, mother.' 
 
 ■ Not at the expense of your health, my dear son. I'd rather 
 live on less than to see you look so pale and care-worn.' 
 
 ' You're a good, kind mother,' said the son feelingly. 
 : We'll all do well, and be happy bye and bye.' 
 
 • I hope so,' sighed the mother — ' we've seen pretty close 
 times — but yet we have no ri^ht to complain, for there are 
 those in this great city who'd be very glad to change situations 
 with us.' 
 
 1 Not with me !' thought the unhappy clerk — 'not with me, 
 surrounded as I am by everything to make me wretched.' 
 
 Those frightful dreams had thrown a cloud over his heart, 
 and he could neither eat nor smile. He soon started down 
 towards his store. While on his way, he met with Selden 
 and Carlton, the latter drew him over to the other side of the 
 street, and in a low tone said : 
 
 ' I am now arranging that business for you. You must 
 manage to get excused from the store to day — I wish you to 
 spend the day with me \* 
 
 * I cannot,' replied the clerk, with a shudder — ' I have 
 several important accounts to make out for Mr. S.' 
 
 'They must be deferred until to-morrow !' said Carlton, in 
 3 firm tone. * This day must be spent with me — for we have 
 weighty matters to arrange !' 
 
 ' Relative to my leaving the city V 
 
 'Yes,' replied the gambler, 'and also in the other matter 
 which formed the subject of our last conversation !' 
 
 'The murder?— Oh ! for God's sake spare me from that !' 
 gasped Meadows, with a shudder. 
 
 'Pshaw, don't be a fool, young man !' replied the other, 
 grating his teeth in his impatience. I thought this was all 
 settled between us !' 
 
 'So it was— yet it is dreadful to do a murder!' replied 
 Meadows, keeping his eyes fixed upon the ground as if he did 
 not dare to lift them, even to the face of the wretch who 
 confronted him. 
 
 'It's nothing after you get used to it !' replied the gambler, 
 in a careless tone. 'If I was not sure to be suspected, I'd 
 kill the rascal, myself ! I'd no more mind putting him out 
 of the way, than I would a 6u ike that lay in my path !' 
 
 'The dream will come true— and if one, the other,' mut- 
 tered Meadows, not seeming to heed the remarks of Carlton. 
 
272 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' What dream are you talking of V asked the latter. 
 
 ' You know Harry Whitmore,' continued Meadows, with* 
 out heeding the question — 1 What kind of a man is he'?' 
 
 'A devilish fine fellow !' replied Carlton. 
 
 1 But is he honourable — is he not a libertine P continued 
 the clerk, raising his eyes in a searching glance to the face of 
 the other. 
 
 'A libertine? No, indeed ! Harry may sometimes cruise 
 around a little and go to see the fashions, but he was never 
 wild in that way, to my knowledge !' 
 
 ' You do not believe he would ruin a pure young girl under 
 the mask of love and friendship V 
 
 ' No, indeed ! He would be the last man in the world to 
 do that ! He is the very soul of honour,' replied the gam- 
 bler, who, though he did not comprehend the reason or drift 
 of the clerk's questionings, knew enough to protect the ' fair 
 mame' of a confederate in villany. 
 
 Meadows seemed to breathe more freely after Carlton's 
 last reply. A load was taken from his breast. 
 
 ' I wil not believe the dream in regard to her,'' he mur- 
 mured 'but mine must come true !' 
 
 ' What dreams are you speaking of?' cried Carlton. ' Blast 
 the thing — you must be crazy !' 
 
 'No, not yet !' replied Meadows, 'but I've a very fair pros- 
 pect of being so before long.' 
 
 ' Pshaw, man ! you are acting childishly. Go to your store 
 and excuse yourself — tell them your mother is very sick, or 
 use some other white fib, and then come to my room3. We 
 will arrange our matters over a quiet glass of that old Osborn 
 wine !' 
 
 ' Does he know anything of it V asked Meadows, indicating 
 with a gesture, Sam Selden, who stood on the opposite curb- 
 stone tapping the toe of his elegant boot with a slight rattan 
 held in his gloved hand. 
 
 ' Yes, Sam and me have no secrets between us !' said Carl- 
 ton. 
 
 The gambler was slightly mistaken. He did not know that 
 Selden had tried first to seduce his wife — and that if he had 
 succeeded, he would have been the last to excite her husband's 
 jealousy. 
 
 'Why could not he do this job ?' asked the clerk. 
 
 ' Because, as I told you before, he and I are too intimate. 
 He, like myself, would be suspected. When the deed is done 
 we must loth be at home. You will not even be dreamed of !' 
 
 'Ha ! ha ! I have been already !' cried Meadows, with a 
 hollow laugh. 
 
 ' What ! why young man you must be crazy ? What do you 
 mean V 
 
 * My mother dreamed that she saw me kill a man last night*" 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 273 
 
 c Indeed ! well her, dream will eome true — bufc old women's 
 dreams are not evidence in law nowa-days. You'll be in no 
 danger from her evidence or anything else.' 
 
 ' I wish it was all over !' sighed the unhappy young man, 
 £ and that I and my family were across the blue waters.' 
 
 * So do I, heartily,' added Carlton, 1 but if wishes were horses 
 beggars might ride. You must act ; it lies with yourself to 
 finish all and to off in less than a week.' 
 
 ' Yes, and it must be done !' said the clerk, gloomily. ' You 
 must arrange all — I am but your tool, and you can use me.' 
 
 * Weil, you'll get excused and spend the day with meV 
 
 * Yes, if L must.' 
 
 1 Very well, then. We'll separate now— it is not best for us 
 to be seen together much. I'll expect you in half an hour.' 
 
 Carlton rejoined Seldon and passed on up the street, while 
 Meadows with his eyes still fixed upon the ground turned the 
 corner and walked down Broadway quite abstracted. 
 
 PART FIFTH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Isabella. Meadows did not close her eyes during that long and 
 weary night. She had listened to the rough shoutings of 
 drunken men in the streets — she had heard the tolling of the 
 fire-bell — she had heard the old clock 'of St. John's tell each 
 hour as it rolled slowly along over the heavy ocean of time. 
 She had shuddered while she listened to the sounds of revelry 
 in the rooms below — and she had heard shrieks mingling with 
 laughter. It was a dreadful night to her. And yet the poor 
 girl who had been sent in to pass the night with her, glad ot 
 a chance to get one night's rest, slept— slept as soundly a3 if 
 guilt and misery had not made their home in her bosom. 
 
 Daylight came, and through the slatted blinds of the fasten- 
 ed shutters, thin rays of early light peeped in. Isabella once 
 more tried the small window, but it was closely fastened ; be- 
 sides, it was so small that her body could scarcely have passed 
 through it, if it were open. 
 
 ' No hope— not even of death !' she murmured, tearfully. 
 1 Oh ! if my brother or my poor mother knew of this. Charles 
 would rescue me, or die.' 
 
274 
 
 MYSTERIES ASD MISERIES 
 
 At that very moment they were talking of her, for it was> 
 the time when Mrs. Meadows was relating her dream. 
 
 At this same moment the girl, who had slept so soundly, 
 woke, wich a start, and looking wildly around her burst into 
 tears. 
 
 ' Oh, dear !' she murmured, ' I had such a happy dream. I 
 thought I was at home again, sleeping in the little back room 
 with my sister Lottie, and the flowers were twining up around 
 the window casings ; and I heard the birds sing just as 1 used 
 to do ! Oh, why could I not have died in such a dream !' 
 
 'Poor girl !' sighed Isabella; 'death would indeed be a re- 
 lief from such a life ; yet you do not wish to die !' 
 
 'No, no, not exactly ! I do wonder if it's breakfast time.' 
 replied the girl, recovering from the momentary delirium of 
 her dream, and sinking its ' romance' into plain ' reality.' 
 
 ' Has no one been in yet V she continued. 
 
 ' No,' replied Isabella; ' since about three o'clock everything 
 has been still in the house.' 
 
 ' Yes ; that's shuttin' up hour,' said the girl ; 'but you didn't 
 undress— haven't you been to bed V 
 
 ' No,' replied Isabella ; ' I have not closed my eyes — nor will 
 I, except in death, while I remain under this roof !' 
 
 ' You oughtn't to take on so,' said the girl — ' it's no use. 
 I've seen others act just so, and they didn't make nothin' by it 
 
 Their conversation was interrupted by some one opening the 
 door. The next moment a hideous looking, poc marked old 
 negro woman opened the door, and said to the young girl : 
 
 'Missus wants you, Miss Clementina.* 
 
 'Is that your name ?' asked Isabella, of the young girl. 
 
 ' It's the name Ma'am S. gave me, but my real name is 
 Mary,' replied the girl. ' All the girls have new names given 
 to 'em when they come here. We've got a Fanny Ellsler — 
 aVirginie — a Lady Montague — a Blanch and Constance — but 
 theyr'e all fancy names.' 
 
 ' Missus wants you right away, Miss Clem. !' cried the old 
 negress, and then dropping a curtsy, while she grinned a hor- 
 rible attempt at a smile, she looked at Isabella and said : 
 
 ' If de new Missee please — Joanner '11 take her footin' !' 
 
 Isabella glanced at her companion to know the meaning of 
 this strange remark. 
 
 ' She means you must give her a present. It's always the 
 way when girls first come out.' 
 
 ' Alas ! I have nothing in the world to give her, here ; but 
 if she or you will help me out of this dreadful house, I'll give 
 you all that I can get. Do, if you have hearts in you — do 
 help me away from here. Just let me out]' 
 
 ' I'd like to see 'em do it,' said a sharp voice at the door, 
 and the flushed face of Ma'am S. was thrust in. 
 
 'Clem., go down stairs/ said she. 'Joanna, go and attend 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 275 
 
 to your cooking ! when I send you on an errand, I want you 
 to hurry ; not to stop and palaver with my boarders !' 
 
 The negress and the young girl vanished before this storm 
 of words, and the landlady stood alone in the door-way, with 
 her arms akimbo, and her hands resting upon her hips. 
 
 * Young lady,' said she, in a lower tone, 'if you know what 
 is best for you, you'll just take things easy. No one is 
 agoin' to hurt you — and if you'll only be quiet, I'll treat you 
 like a lady. Anything you want to eat or drink shall be sent 
 up — you shall have books, or the papers, or anything that's 
 reasonable !' 
 
 * Oh, for mercy's sake, then, let me go home !' 
 
 ' That's unreasonable !' replied the landlady. * Your lover., 
 Harry Whitmore, has engaged board for you— and as he pays 
 me a hundred dollars a week it would be a losing business for 
 me to part with you.' 
 
 ' Oh, God, have mercy on me ! Is there no hope !' mur- 
 mured the unhappy girl, while tears burst afresh from her 
 swollen eyes. 
 
 * There's no use in your taking on about it,' said the woman, 
 coldly. ' Your betters have led the way before you. It's only 
 your fancy and rotted pride that makes you fret. Harry '11 
 keep you like a lady, if you behave yourself, and if you don't 
 choose to take it easy, you may take it rough, that's all.' 
 
 ' Oh, mercy, mercy ! If you'll let me go from here I'll give 
 you a hundred, yes, five hundred dollars.' 
 
 ' Poh ! Harry would give me a thousand to keep you„ 
 You must think I'm green ! Just make yourself easy, my 
 lady, that's my advice. Now be a good girl and I'll be a 
 mother to you.' 
 
 ' A mother ] Oh, God, if my mother only knew where I 
 was !' sighed the wretched girl. 
 
 Yes, but the if is in the way !' said the hag. She was 
 about to say more, but hearing the bell of the street door 
 rung, she locked the door upon Isabella, and descended. She 
 found Gus. Livingston at the door, whom, as a friend and 
 follower of Whitmore, she knew very well. 
 
 ' Well Gus.,' said she, familiarly, ' what brings you here so 
 early. I didn't know that you was brave enough to come to 
 my door in the open day-light.' 
 
 ' Business makes a difference/ said Gus., as he entered the 
 open door. 
 
 'Yes, in course, but what if your business]' asked the 
 landlady. 
 
 * You've got a bird caged for Harry Whitmore.' 
 ' Yes, I s'pose he told you so.' 
 
 1 Yes, and sent me here to pay his respects, as he i3 unable 
 to come, and also to pay you over a couple of hundred,' said 
 Gus., handing her the money. 
 
276 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 * Why, what's the matter with him this morning !' asked 
 the landlady — ' did he go on a spree last night— headache and 
 all that, this morning V 
 
 * Well, his head certainly must ache a little, there being a 
 lump on it fully as large as a piece of chalk — but a broken 
 arm is his main excuse for sending a substitute this morning.' 
 
 ' Why, you don't mean to say he has given the girl over to 
 youV exclaimed Ma'am S. 
 
 ' No, not exactly. But he told me to see the young fool, 
 and talk to her.' 
 
 ' Well, you won't make much at it. She's all clouds and 
 rain-drops. It is strange what fools these young girls are, but 
 they mil be so, there isn't one in five hundred that takes to 
 Jiving out naturally.' 
 
 ' Where is she V asked Livingston, who, in attempting to 
 see Isabella, was certainly overstepping the errand upon 
 which he came. 
 
 ' Up stairs ; I'll show you her room— but you mus'n't offer 
 fco plague her !' replied the landlady. 
 
 * Of course not— I'm Harry's friend, and honour, you know 1' 
 replied Gus. 
 
 ' There's devillish little honour amongst men where a 
 pretty girl's in the way !' replied Ma'am S , evincing a very 
 true knowledge of human nature in her remark. ' But I'll 
 trust you, Gus.,' she added — ' because you know that Harry 
 would cut your heart out if you was to try to take her away 
 from him.' 
 
 ' He isn't in a way to do much cutting just now !' said Gus. 
 with a laugh, following the landlady up stairs. 
 
 ' When'll he be able to be out — you didn't tell me now his 
 arm was broken !' said Ma'am S. 
 
 ' Answering your last question first — he got his arm broken 
 in a row — and he'll not be out for a day or two yet. 
 
 ' Well, so much the better. The girl '11 have time to settle 
 down and be reasonable,' said the landlady. 
 
 The next moment she unlocked the door, and Gus. 
 Livingston stood in the presence of Isabella. Ma'am S. 
 retired at the same time. 
 
 * Miss Meadows, I presume V said Livingston. * We have 
 met before, I believe.' 
 
 Isabella could not for a moment bring him to her recol* 
 lection, for he was dressed in the height of fashion, and 
 looked quite differently from his appearance when dressed in 
 a priest's gown. 
 
 ' Have you, too, come here to persecute me V she asked, 
 sadly, as she shrunk back from his earnest gaze. 
 
 'No, indeed, my dear Mis3; quite the contrary, I assure 
 you, upon my honour. Knowing your brother as intimately 
 as I do, I cannot be otherwise than a friend.' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 277 
 
 'A friend !' she cried — ' yet you are his, Henry Whitmore's 
 friend ! I remember you now — I saw you last night — your 
 dresa only was different.' 
 
 'It is very true, Miss Meadows, and I was performing my 
 part in a little masquerade got up by my friend Whitmore, 
 but I did not dream that you were intended for a part in it !' 
 
 ' Then you were not a willing accomplice in his villany V 
 asked the trembling girl. 
 
 ' Indeed I was not— I did not know that you were there, or 
 that Harry had any dishonourable intentions towards you. 
 If I had, I should not have permitted it; my regard for my 
 partieular friend, your brother, whom I saw but a few 
 minutes ago, would have forbidden it.' 
 
 'You saw him, you say, a few minutes ago— did you tell 
 him of my situation 1' 
 
 'No,' replied Livingston, 'I thought it best to rescue you 
 from it without a noise ; it will preserve your reputation, you 
 know, from any little remarks which might be made !' 
 
 ' Then you have come here to rescue me V 
 
 'Yes, on conditions !' replied the young man. 
 
 ' What are they V asked Isabella, in a tremulous tone. 
 
 Gus. took her by the h ind gently, and in a manner as mild 
 
 as if he were about to pay her a compliment, said Reader 
 
 we cannot repeat his words. They were enough to bring the 
 red blood up into her pale face with a mantling wave of fire 
 — her large eyes flashed — she sprung to her feet, and while 
 her beautiful form seemed to swell into an increased stature, 
 she flung his hand from her, and shrieked, rather than spoke : 
 
 'Wretch ! fiend ! dog I Is this your friendship]' 
 
 ' By Jove, you are a beauty !' cried Gas., lookiog upon her 
 as Bhe stood there in the very majesty of just anger, ' 1 will 
 have a kiss if I die for it !' 
 
 As he spoke, he stepped toward her. 
 
 ' Back, sir ! stand back, if you value your life !' cried the 
 indignant girl, forgetting that she was weak and weaponless. 
 
 'By Jove, but you do up tragedy well, Simpson would 
 Bave the Park, if he'd engage you,' said Gus., still advancing. 
 
 She saw that, she could not stop him, and bounding toward 
 the little window, dashed her form against it with her full 
 force, crushing the glass, and endeavouring to precipitate her- 
 self through it into the street. 
 
 She would inevitably have succeeded, had not Liv- 
 ingston seized her, and drawn her back. At the same moment 
 Ma'am S. rushed into the room. 
 
 | What the deuce is the matter !' she cried. ' What's all 
 this, Gus., have you broken your word V 
 
 'No, not exactly. I just tried to get a kiss from this proud 
 s 
 
278 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 chit, and she boxed my ears, and then tried to jump out of the 
 window !' 
 
 'The more foolish she — but just come away, and let her 
 alone,' said the landlady. 
 
 Gus., who was not much encouraged by his reception, com- 
 plied with her request, and Isabella was once more alone. 
 
 She had cut her hand badly with the broken glass, but she 
 did not speak or murmur. Her tears were dried— her face 
 wa? pale — pale with desperation. Her compressed lips — 
 flashing eyes and heaving bosom, all spoke of the same feeling. 
 When the door was locked again, she returned to the window 
 and examined it. A smile came over her pale face when she 
 saw that she had loosened the casement, and now could push, 
 the shutter open. 
 
 ' I can die now, when death or dishonour becomes my 
 choice,' she murmured, as she looked down from the dizzy 
 height upon the ragged pavement below. And she smiled 
 again at the thought, for she did not feel as defenceless as 
 before. 
 
 Then she noticed that persons were continually passing to and 
 fro below her, and a new thought rushed into her head, for 
 when people are in peril, they think strangely fast. 
 
 She turned around to the table to seek for writing materials, 
 but none were there. Yet her blood was streaming — it was 
 a fitting ink to write a message of distress with. Tearing a 
 blank leaf from a book, and taking a pin from her dress, she 
 dipped the head of the latter in a gash in her hand, and 
 wrote these words upon the paper. 
 
 ' I am kept here a prisoner, against my will. For the love 
 of Heaven, come to my aid and rescue me while I am yet 
 pure and innocent, or send the police to my aid ! God will 
 reward you, and a wretched helpless girl will pray for you. I 
 write in my own blood— I have no ink !' 
 
 Quickly folding up this note, she returned to the window,, 
 opened it a little way and peeped out. 
 
 She saw some negroes passing, but they looked ragged and 
 filthy, and she did not want to trust them. 
 
 A butcher's cart was approaching, and on its front a young, 
 red-headed, fair-faced fellow of twenty years of age, or there- 
 about, was seated. She saw only that he looked honest, and 
 that his eyes chanced to beturned up toward her face. She 
 reached out her hand and dropped the paper, and she could 
 have wept with joy when she saw that it fell into his cart. 
 The young man reached back and took it up, and then, 
 she saw him check his horse and read the paper. 
 
 He did not seem exactly to understand it, for he scratched 
 his head and pored over it several minutes, and then looked 
 back at the window. 
 
 Isabella stretched out her bleeding hand, and watched hia 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 279 
 
 motions with intense interest. But she could not tell what 
 were his intentions — for after again looking intently on the 
 note, and then turning his eyes toward her, he drove on up 
 the street, scratching his head as if in search of an unexploded 
 idea. 
 
 Now her heart was heaved upon the waves of uncertainty. 
 The question to her was whether he would return with help— 
 or let it pass by unheeded. 
 
 But in no better hands could her note have fallen, than 
 into those of red-headed Mose, the Bowery butcher-boy, one 
 who with some faults possessed some of the most sterling 
 virtues that ever warmed the human heart. 
 
 When he picked up the note, as we have already seen, he 
 drove on a little way, and stopped to read it. 
 
 * This smells o' blood— by thunder !' he muttered, as he 
 looked at it. ' Gal — prisoner against her will ! — something 
 ap — 1 
 
 He paused, and looked back at the little window, where he 
 saw her white hand, streaked with blood, waving to him. 
 
 ' Shouldn't wonder if there's a muss in that 'ere house to- 
 night !' muttered he, scratching his head, and again reading 
 the hastily written note. 
 
 1 She must be game !' he continued — ' She aint afraid o* 
 blood : she must be a gallo's gal. I'll see her out— sure's my 
 name's Mose. Can't do it now — must sarve the cust'mers, and 
 hunt up Sikesey, and four or five more of the b'hoys, and then 
 it'll be dark, and we can go in — we can !' 
 
 Mose took one more look at the window, and then putting 
 the note away in a greasy pocket, beneath a white apron, 
 amongst the proceeds of his morning's sales, was about to 
 drive on, when Isabella put her head entirely out of the 
 window. 
 
 Mose looked at her steadily for a moment. 
 
 'By gosh !' he muttered, she looks prezady like little Bell 
 Meadows, sister to Charley, that I used to go to school with ! 
 It must be her. I'll go to look for Charley, Boon's I get 
 through my route.' 
 
 He determined to satisfy himself as to her identity, and 
 turning his cart around, drove back past the house. 
 
 * Isn't that Bell Meadows V he asked, in a low tone, but 
 loud enough for her to hear it. 
 
 ' Yes, yes ! oh, do for Heaven's sake help me !' replied she. 
 
 'I won't do nothin' else— but you jist keep shady, and 
 don't say nothin' to nobody afore night-time ! I'll be thar, 
 then, me and Sikesey ! But where's Charley V 
 
 'In S 's store. Oh, do let him know I am locked up 
 
 here P 
 
 * Well, I will !' replied Mose, and then drove off. 
 
280 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Another morning had dawned upon poor Angelina. Its light 
 did not fall upon her flushed cheeks this time. Her fever 
 had passed away, and there she lay, pale, weak, and helpless, 
 Tfith scarce strength to speak. 
 
 Mr. Precise was nearly as pale as she, for he also had passed 
 another sleepless night by her bedside. He seemed to be as 
 much interested in her fate as if she was his own daughter, 
 and tears welled out from his eyes, as he noted how sadly fast 
 she was changing. 
 
 It was not long after daylight that Jenny came up stairs, 
 treading very noiselessly as he had directed her, and asked 
 him if he would not go down to breakfast. 
 
 ' No, Jenny — bring me a cup of tea, and a piece of toast, 
 ■with a very little butter on it/ he replied ; 'and do the toast 
 quite brown, Jenny !' 
 
 ' Anything for her, poor thing V asked Jenny, glancing at 
 Angelina. 
 
 * No, not before the doctor come?. He said she mustn't 
 take anything till he saw her— he'll be here directly !' replied 
 the kind old gentleman. Then, as Jenny was about to turn 
 away, he asked : 
 
 'Where is Francis?' 
 
 ' In the basement, readin' July Sneezer !' replied the maid. 
 ' Reading what]' asked the old gentleman, in the same low 
 tone. 
 
 'July Sneezer, out o' Shakspeare !' repeated the girl. 
 ' Julius Cjesar, you mean, don't you child V 
 
 * Yes, sir, I 'spect that's it — it's very grand ; he was just a 
 readin' that part where Brutus sticks him in the stomach 
 with a knife — oh, it's so grand !' 
 
 » Well, well, never mind ! Don't speak so loud, Jenny— 
 you'll disturb her. When you go down, tell Francis I want 
 to see him, after he has had breakfast.' 
 
 The maid departed to enjoy more tragedy with her lover., 
 or rather to take her part in the familiar and pleasant domes- 
 tic drama of the Breakfast. 
 
 Noticing an anxious glance which the invalid cast toward? 
 the door, the old gentleman arose, and as he bent over her, 
 asked : 
 
 ' Was you thinking of the doctor, dear I He'll soon be along; 
 r— he said he'd be here early !' 
 
 1 No, it was not of him. He cannot save me !' replied the 
 poor girl ; ' but I was thinking of my cousin. It is so strange - 
 that she has not come back. I do so want to see her before I 
 die I' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 281 
 
 ' Don't talk of dying, dear,' said the old man, brushing away 
 a tear. ' I don't see what can keep your cousin away.' 
 
 ' I am afraid she has come to harm, sir,' murmured the sick 
 girl. 1 Though she has been very wicked, I know she is sorry 
 for it, and her very tears proves that she loves me !' 
 
 ' Yes, yes. But what harm could come to her V 
 
 ' I cannot tell, yet I feel as if it is eo. I do so want to see 
 her and my uncle before I die !' 
 
 ' You shall, if they can be found — I will send Francis out 
 fco look after them — he will be up here directly— ah, there is 
 the doctor — I know his ring at the bell — it is quick and sharp, 
 for he is always in a hurry.' 
 
 In a moment the doctor entered, and, hastening to the in- 
 valid's side, felt her pulse, and spoke kindly to her. 
 
 ' I shall die, doctor!' she mur.nured. 'You need not be 
 afraid to tell me — I do not fear to die. I have prayed God to 
 take me away, for I have had but little joy in life.'. 
 
 The doctor was a stern man — he had been at many a death- 
 bed ; without a tremor he could even then have amputated an 
 arm or a leg, but his lips quivered, and his eyes filled, as he 
 gazed upon the young and patient sufferer. 
 
 ' I will come again, by and bve !' he said, softly, and then 
 he went out of the room. Mr. Precise followed him. 
 
 1 Will she live, doctor ?' he asked, when the door was closed 
 behind him. 
 
 Tears gushed out of the doctor's eyes. ' I was called too 
 late !' he said. ' The fever has gone, but it has carried her 
 life with it— I could hardly feel her pulse, and her hand is 
 cold as marble !' 
 
 * My God, how hard !' said the old man. ' I have just 
 learned to love her so, and I was agoing to adopt her — oh, it 
 is too hard !' and the noble hearted old gentleman wept like 
 a child. 
 
 'I will come again— but it is of no use; she will not live 
 till to-morrow morning !' said the doctor. 
 
 Mr. Precise tried to dry his eyes, and went into the room 
 again, but Angelina saw plainly the traces of his tears. 
 
 ' Do not weep for me, my dear, good friend !' she murmured. 
 1 It is best for me to go away. I have prayed God to take me 
 home to him, and I hope he will. I have tried to be good, and 
 often, often have 1 knelt down and prayed to Him to prepare 
 me for death !' 
 
 'You are a living angel !' sobbed Mr. Precise— 'I wish I 
 could die in your place. I am an old body, and not worth 
 much — but you are so good-hearted, you ought to live !' 
 
 The door opened, and Frank entered. 
 
 ' Yoa wanted me, sir?' said he, in a low tone. 
 
 * Yes, Francis. I wish you to go and hunt up the woman 
 
282 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 that was here yesterday morning. Big Lize, she is called, I 
 believe !' 
 
 ' But where can I find her V he asked. 
 
 ' Somewhere in Thomas Street, close to Church, her poor 
 cousin says. Now go and hunt everywhere— 1 want to see 
 her very much — she commenced telling me something yes- 
 terday !' 
 
 ' What was it, sir V asked Frank, quickly. 
 
 ' 1 don't exactly know, Francis, but tell her to come here 
 quickly — I wish to see her— besides her poor cousin (Mr. P. 
 said this in a whisper) is on her death-bed !' 
 
 ' Poor creature !' said Frank, taking out his white handker- 
 chief, and raising it to his eyes. 
 
 f You are a good boy, Francis— but now hurry away, and 
 try and find her cousin !' 
 
 1 Ye9, sir,' said Frank, but as soon as he got outside the door, 
 he added, ' in a horn. 1 ' 
 
 The meaning of that very popular phrase may not be un- 
 derstood by all our readers, but Frank meant by it, that he 
 should not trouble himself much in the search for Lize. 
 
 ' Things are coming to a head !' he muttered, as he stood 
 upon the landing at the head of the stair-case. ' Jack's men 
 '11 be here to-night. 1 think I better mizzle now. With me, 
 to go or not go, is the question. Whether it would be better 
 to stay and see the fun out, or to make mjself scarce. If I 
 stay I'll have a scene — but there's precious little romance in a 
 night-row, as Byron said of sea-sickness ! Jenny is getting 
 too loving also ; her affection is rising very fast, and 1 reckon 
 I'd better slope, for fear of accidents ! But then ' 
 
 * Francis!' said his master, opening the door. 'Ah, I'm 
 glad you haven't gone yet. My new watch has run down, and 
 I've lost the key or mislaid it !' 
 
 ' Will mine fit it, sir V asked the young villain. 
 
 It was tried, but would not do. 
 
 ' Take my watch with you, then, Francis, and get a key 
 that'll fit it — a common brass key will do just as well as any T 
 
 The young villain's eyes glistened as he took the valuable 
 watch, which had been bought to supply the place of that 
 borrowed by Captain Tobin. 
 
 'Now, go on — but do you want anything more? asked Mr, 
 Precise, observing a hesitating look in Frank's face. 
 
 ' Why, sir, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd like to get 
 fifteen dollars — it's my mother's rent day, and she hasn't 
 enough to pay it !' 
 
 ' You're a good boy — always dutiful, Francis ! replied the 
 old gentlemen, taking out his wallet, and unrolling some bills. 
 
 ■ Why, I havn't anything less than a fifty !' said he. ' Never 
 mind, Francis, get it changed, and bring me back the change, 
 and do be quick !' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 283 
 
 'Of course, sir,' said Frank, pocketing the watch and 
 money, and descending the stair-way. 
 
 1 These are on my own hook !' he muttered, ' and they're 
 sufficient reasons to decide me. The die is cast — farewell to 
 Jenny, and my secretaryship !' 
 
 Without taking a formal leave of the housemaid, Frank 
 put on his over coat and departed, putting his beautiful 
 pocket edition of Shakspeare in his pocket, as also sundry 
 other light but valuable articles, which he had collected in 
 anticipation of this hour. Among these was a stocking foot, 
 which contained all of Jenny's earnings, for though Frank had 
 objected to this appropriation when spoken of before the 
 gang, he saw no reason for not taking it upon 1 his own hook,' 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Big Lize was not a woman to despair — not one who would 
 sink down and give way to weakness and tears, and when she 
 found herself entrapped and caged by Circle, after a few 
 shrieks and curses uttered in the bitterness of the moment, 
 she rose from the damp ground where she had fallen, and 
 began groping around to find what kind of a place she was in. It 
 was utter darkness, but she soon found the wall, and by slowly 
 traversing itsside3, found that she wa3 in a cell of about ten 
 or twelve feet square, which was separated by a wall of stone 
 from the outer cellar, next to the street, where old Jack kept 
 his ales and liquors. 
 
 She of course did not know the thickness of this wall, but 
 as she heard the noise of waggons and carts that were passing 
 in the street, through it, a hope came to her heart tbat she 
 might dig her way out. But she had no tools. She felt of 
 the stones— they were small and irregular, of the kind 
 generally used in building cellar walls, an! cemented together 
 with ordinary plaster. 
 
 At first she tried to tear out some of the stones ; but in 
 the effort she only lacerated her hands, without starting a 
 single piece. Yet she had a weapon — what woman is there 
 below the grade of the 1 upper-ten ' who doe3 not carry it 1 
 She had scissors in her pocket. 
 
 She quickly tried them, and to her joy found that with their 
 points she could scrape away the cement little by little. Yet 
 it was a slow and weary task, and afcer she had worked for 
 hours, she had only got a little wiys into the wall. 
 
 She knew the day had pas3ei away, for she could hear the 
 noise of the gang when they assembled in the evening, and 
 as she paused from her labour to listen, she heard a plan laid 
 out for robbing the house of Mr. Precise. The gang had 
 
284 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 received accurate information from Frank Hennock, and 
 knew where everything lay, and even had prepared a key from 
 an impression which Frank had taken, to open the little iron 
 safe in which the old gentleman kept his ready money. 
 
 And all thia time Lize was in agouy. Her heart yearned 
 to know where and how her wretched father was ; her tor- 
 tured fancy painted her poor cousin dying; and then her 
 noble benefactor was to be robbed and ruined, and she who 
 might have saved him was there a walled-in, helpless prisoner. 
 She cursed, and raved, and tore her hair, but it was useless. 
 A mocking laugh from the upper room was her only answer. 
 She shouted for water, for her feverish lips were burning like 
 fire, but not a drop could she get ; she had eaten scarcely 
 anything for two days, so exciting had been the scenes 
 through which she had passed, yet not a mouthful of food was 
 offered to her. 
 
 And yet she would not despair. "With bleeding hands she 
 ■worked on ; now and then, it is true, she uttered a low moan, 
 as her swollen heart would heave beneath the weight of its 
 misery, but not a tear fell from her eyes. On through the 
 long and weary watches of the night she toiled — after every- 
 thing was still above her — careful to make no noise, yefc 
 scraping away in du«t the cement which bound the stones of 
 the wall together, and yet when the noise above and outside 
 began again, and she knew thereby that another day had 
 dawned, she had not cleared away more than six or eight 
 inches in depth. True, she had loosened the way and taken 
 out several of the stones, yet she began to grow weak, and her 
 heart trembled when she thought that her strength would 
 fail her before she could open a passage. Her only hope 
 was in getting out in time to warn Mr. Precise, and she 
 knew that it must be done by night, or at least, early in the 
 evening. 
 
 Her thirst increased every moment, for her fever of course 
 added to it, and time after time she raised her raw and bleed- 
 ing fingers to her lips to suck them. 
 
 Some hours after daylight, however, she heard the trap- 
 door above her move, and quickly ceasing her work she cast 
 herself upon the ground. 
 
 "Ow're you are gittin' halong, hold gal V cried Circle. 
 
 ' For God's sake give me some water !' moaned Lize in a 
 piteous tone, not caring that the wretch should know how she 
 was getting along. 
 
 'Summat vet, eh? Youldn't you like suthin' a leetle 
 stronger than water?* said he, in a bantering tone. 
 
 'Anything you like. Jack. Oh, do have mercy on me, I 
 am dying !' moaned Lize in a still weaker tone, used purposely 
 to deceive him. ' Don't treat me worse than you would a 
 dog ! Indeed I'm dying !' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 285 
 
 ' That be blow'd !' cried Jack, roughly, ' dyin' ar'nfc so 
 bloody heasy's all that ! But I'll give you summat vet, for I 
 don't mean to starve you to death. Vot '11 you 'ave — a pot 
 o" 1 'alf-an-'alf, or a taste ©' gin 1 ?' 
 
 ' Water, water, I'm in a burning fever !' moaned Lize. 
 
 1 Well, then I'll give you some o' the jug diet — you're used 
 to that !' said the old man, and closing the trap he went 
 away. 
 
 He returned in a few minutes and opening it again, lowered 
 down a basket which contained a jug of water and a loaf of 
 bread. 
 
 ' Thank God !' murmured Lize, a3 she saw this timely 
 supply. 
 
 1 Better thank me, hold gal !' cried Jack. 1 Take 'em out 
 o' the basket, I want to 'aul it up agin' !' 
 
 Lize took the water and bread — and Jack hauled up the 
 basket and closed the trap over her. 
 
 She raised the jug to her lips and took a long, long draught 
 of the cooling water. 
 
 * Thank God !' she murmured again, fervently. 
 
 Oh, how sweet was that draught to her. Never tasted wine 
 richer to an epicure— it was nectar to her. 
 
 And then she broke the loaf and ate ravenously. Nofc 
 a gourmand in our city ever enjoyed a meal as she did that. 
 She felt that it would give her strength to renew her work. 
 She would have given anything to have bathed her hot brow 
 and burning hands in the water, but she dared not— it was 
 too precious. 
 
 After using a part of her food and water, she carried it 
 near the place where she had been at work, and placing it 
 carefully upon the ground renewed her labour. Her strength 
 was much restored now, for hope again found a home in her 
 heart. Though her hands were cut to the very bone with the 
 sharp and jagged stones, she dug away during all of that live- 
 long day. As she kept on, the sounds from the street came 
 more plainly to her ears, and at last she actually got a glimpse 
 of light, through a narrow crevice, where she had plucked 
 away a small stone. And this was just at twilight, as she 
 could see by the grey dimness which poured into the outer 
 cellar through the glass window which lighted it. She took 
 a hasty glance while it was yet light, to see how she could 
 manage, when she got into the next room, to get into the 
 street, and, while she was looking, got a glimpse of a pair of 
 stout legs descending a ladder on the lefc, and as they were 
 surmounted or rather surrounded by a set of exceedingly 
 dirty petticoats, she rightly conjectured that they belonged 
 to the old man's daughter ' 'Arriet.' The said feminine 
 came down to fill a decanter from one of the casks in the 
 eeilar, and as Lize listened carefully to the manner in which 
 
286 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 she returned and the sound made by the closing door at 
 the head of the ladder, she was satisfied that it was only 
 an ordinary trap-door, shutting down from above without 
 locking. 
 
 The small window, level with the street which fronted the 
 cellar, seemed to be the only other outlet, but Lize was not 
 daunted by the difficulties which lay before her. She felt as 
 if all would be over when once she had made her passage 
 through the wall, and with renewed energy she worked on, 
 only pausing now and then to wet her feverish lips with 
 a sip of water. 
 
 Darkness closed in, and though she could no longer see the 
 light in the next apartment, she could feel that every exertion 
 served to increase the size of the aperture. She knew that 
 she had but little time to spare, and though the pain of her 
 wounded hands was intense, she kept on until the sound of 
 the trap door moving above her warned her to be on her 
 guard. 
 
 ' Ello, hold gal !' cried Jack Circle, from above, ' 'ow're you 
 gittin' on jist habout now !' 
 
 ' When 're you going to let me out V asked Lize, by way of 
 a response to his question. 
 
 * Jist when we're ready, and not afore !' said Jack. 
 
 ' Oh, don't hurry yourself,' said Lize, carelessly, ' I'm very 
 comfortable now since you gave me something to eat ' 
 
 * S'pose you are — you wouldn't like summat vet, eh V 
 
 ' I shouldn't wish to give you so much trouble/ replied 
 Lize. 
 
 ' The trouble hisn't so much, Lize — you seem to take things 
 so heasy now, I don't mind sendin' you down a little suthin' ; 
 if you'll honly come hinter reason, I'll let you hout o' that in 
 the mornin', maybe we'll want the place to stow haway swag 
 in !' 
 
 * Thank ye, for nothing,' muttered Lize, but the old man 
 did not hear her. He had gone to bring her ' summat vet.' 
 
 ''Ere it is, old gal,' said he, a moment alter lowering 
 down a small bottle of brandy. ' Til fling ye down a blanket 
 bye 'n' bye — you must a 'ad a 'ard berth on't last night.' 
 
 ' Shouldn't wonder if I had !' replied Lize, taking the 
 bottle from the string, at once uncorking it and taking a sip 
 of its contents. 
 
 Jack made no reply, but shut down the trap again, leaving 
 her, as we must for the present, in the company of the brandy 
 bottle. 
 
 Very questionable company, we hear a Crotonian reader 
 say — questionable it may be, spirited it certainly is, and if of 
 the quality usually vended at the fashionable * dispensaries* 
 in Gotham, we have no hesitation in pronouncing it evil, or 
 bad, confoundedly bad, if you like the word better. Liquor- 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 287 
 
 dealers and milkmen must think themselves privileged cha* 
 racters in our city ; they certainly are a sinful class, for they 
 seem to make it a point never to deal in anything pure. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Charles Meadows was in the same upper room where Carlton 
 had held his former interviews with him. It was afternoon, 
 Wine and food were on the table. Though he had drank 
 freely of the former, his face was ashy pale, and his whole ap- 
 pearance indicated that of a person struck with a deathly 
 sickness. 
 
 Sam. Selden was seated near him, but he looked as com- 
 posed and comfortable as ever, and very deliberately sipped 
 his wine, now and then raising the glass between his eye ancl 
 the window to admire its rich colour. 
 
 'That is great wine !' said the gambler. ' Carlton never 
 gets it out except upon extraordinary occasions. He bought 
 it of Osborn— a half-pipe imported on trial. It was too ex- 
 pensive for the general run of customers, but Carlton took a 
 fancy to it, and where he takes a fancy, money is uncounted. 3 
 
 ' What time is it]' asked the clerk, gloomily, not heeding 
 Sam's panegyric upon the wine. 
 
 'Seven minutes after four, precisely,' replied Selden, 
 glancing at his watch. 
 
 ' What time will it be dark?' continued the clerk, without 
 raising his eyes, which were gloomily fixed on the table. 
 
 ' About seven, that is twilight, it will not be really dark 
 before half-past.' 
 
 • Only three hours !' muttered the clerk, with a sigh* 
 ' Only three hours. My God, how time flies to-day !' 
 
 'It's been rather heavy on my hands,' said Sam., carelessly; 
 ' I've not even taken my customary stroll along Broadway, to 
 see the fashions. I wonder if I haven't been missed by some 
 of the dem'd fascinating promenaders, who're there as regular 
 as the sun shines, to see and be seen.' 
 
 The cogitations of Selden were cut short by the entrance of 
 Carlton, who cried : 
 
 ' Well, boys, how're you passing the time — find that wine 
 rich, eh V 
 
 ' The wine is demnition good I' replied Selden ; 1 but our 
 friend Charley seems to be in the dumps— it don't wake him 
 up.' 
 
 'Come, come, Meadows, cheer up. Take another glass— 
 there's no use in being dumpy ! Everything is fixed now,' 
 said Carlton. 
 
288 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 At the same time, he put a small pistol case down upon 
 the table, and, taking a pistol from it, added : 
 
 ' See there ! I've just been cleaning that little beaaty, and 
 loading it up. I'll bet it'll go off as clear as a rocket.' 
 
 Meadows looked at the weapon, and shuddered, but did not 
 speak. 
 
 * What's the matter, Charley, you're not going to flunk out, 
 are you V asked Carlton, noticing the shudder. 
 
 1 No, sir,' said the clerk, in a tone so quick, deep and harsh, 
 that Carlton involuntarily started, ' No, sir; I shall do my 
 part, be ready to do yours.' 
 
 ' Certainly, my dear fellow, but you needn't scare a man to 
 death. Come, take a glass of wine, and compose yourself.' 
 
 'I will drink no more,' replied the clerk, gloomily, taking 
 up the pistol, and handling it in a manner so careless, that it 
 alarmed Carlton, toward whom it was accidentally pointed. 
 
 'Look out there, Charley — be careful how you handle that 
 weapon,' he cried ; ' it's loaded to go off.' 
 
 'So I suppose ; but you needn't fear, it'll not go off before 
 the time — seven, half-past seven, it'll be dark, then,' replied 
 the clerk, in the same calm and gloomy tone. 
 
 'Yes, that'll be about the time— did you go over the 
 ground and see how it lay V 
 
 • Yes !' replied the clerk. 
 
 ' Don't you think my plan is well laid V continued Carlton. 
 
 ' Yes !' said Meadows, without raising his eyes from the 
 weapon which he held. 
 
 ' If you follow it in every particular there will not be the 
 slightest danger. After you are clear, go home quietly, and 
 go to sleep. 1 
 
 ' Sleep 1 ha ! ha !' wildly laughed the clerk. ' I expect to 
 sleep very sound — don't you V 
 
 ' Just as usual. You make a great deal more of this matter 
 than I would,' replied the gambler. 
 
 ' Oh, no, I consider it a trifling thing. It is only a murder I 1 
 replied the clerk, in a bitterly sarcastic tone. 
 
 ' Have you tried on the dress, yet V asked Carlton, wishing 
 to alter the tone of the conversation. 
 
 * Yes/ 
 
 'Does it fit 1 Can you move easily in it F 
 
 • Well enough !' responded the clerk, moodily. 
 
 ' Well, then, all is fixed— there will be nothing to prevent 
 its success. But you must go home at once, after the work is 
 done — and then go to your store in the morning as usual ! 
 This will be necessary, to avoid exciting suspicion. You'll 
 have to keep your ears open, and your lips shut too, after it 
 is all over. I shall have some trouble— but nothing can be 
 proved against me, the whole affair '11 blow over in a week 
 or two. 1 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 280 
 
 The clerk made no reply, but eat with his head bent down, 
 gazing upon the pistol as he had before. 
 
 ' This is dull, really ; Sam., join me in a glass of wine/ said 
 Carlton, who in spite of his assumed indifference and calm- 
 ness, felt more and more nervous, as the hour of his purposed 
 revenge approached. 
 
 When the two had filled their glasses, Carlton again spoke 
 to Meadows. 
 
 1 You'd better take another glass of wine, Charley,' said he. 
 ' Give me some brandy— let it be strong as fire,' said the 
 clerk, sternly. 
 
 ' Why, you don't mean to get drunk 1 That would never do.' 
 
 * Drunk,' repeated the young man in a bitter tone. 1 You've 
 not liquor enough in your house to make me drunk now. I 
 am weak, 1 want brandy to strengthen me.' 
 
 Carlton went to a cupboard, in a corner of the room, took 
 a sealed bottle out of it, and, after brushing away the dust, 
 drew the cork. 
 
 * There,' said he, as he put it before Meadows, 'is some 
 that's older than either of us. It was bottled in 1801 — I got 
 it of Kachau in '40 !' 
 
 Meadows made no reply, except by pouring out a tumbler 
 half full of it, and drinking it down raw. 
 
 In a few minutes it seemed to have produced an effect— his 
 cheeks, lately so pale, flushed up— his eyes sparkled, and rising 
 from his chair, he paced to and fro across the floor with a 
 firm, quick step. 
 
 Carlton looked at him anxiously — he feared that the liquor 
 had been too strong, and would disable the clerk from his 
 purposed deed. Meadows saw the look — divined its meaning. 
 Smiling, he said : 
 
 'You need not fear me now — it was just what I wanted — 
 I was weak in heart and body — but I'm all right now P 
 
 'I'm glad of it,' replied Carlton. 'The hour is near — but 
 you must remember all the directions.' 
 
 * You need not fear me now. Though flushed, I am calm 
 and strong,' replied Meadows. 
 
 'Suppose you put on the dress, and let me see how you 
 look !' said Carlton. 
 
 ' Certainly !' replied the clerk, proceeding to put a woman's 
 frock on over his other clothes. Taking off his cap, he put 
 that in his pocket, and then put on a common bonnet, which 
 was covered with a green veil. The dress which was per- 
 fectly loose at the waist, so as to be easily taken off, was 
 covered by a large shawl, and the disguise was finished. 
 
 ' How do I look V asked the clerk, as he stepped mincingly 
 across the room, endeavouring to imitate the inimitable walk 
 of woman. 
 
 f Capital ! Yery like a lady— but not much like my wife V 
 
290 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 said Carlton. * But you'll do ! You saw the place where you 
 was to throw in the dress V 
 ' Yes !' 
 
 ' Have you the lead attached to it V 
 
 'Yes ; and to the shawl and bonnet ! I'll see that they're 
 put out of sight — they'll never rise against me !' 
 
 1 Well, then, all will be right— but be careful that you're 
 not observed on the dock !' 
 
 ' Oh, never fear. It will be quite dark when I get down 
 there,' replied Meadows. 
 
 ' So it will — and here it is, after five already. I must go and 
 see my wife. Sam '11 keep you company till I come back/ 
 said Carlton, and passing through into his wife's apartments, 
 he left them together, as we must also do, for the present. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ' 1 bklievb we'll soon have that villain Genlis in our power, 
 Annie !' said Mr. Abingdon, as he entered his wife's sitting- 
 room, a short time after the date of our last scene there. 
 
 'How, dear Edward? tell me !' quickly responded the anx- 
 ious wife. 
 
 * Why, when I went to our good friend M and told him 
 
 all of the circumstances, he at once started out with me to 
 visit the various Hack stands, to see if we could not find the 
 driver who had taken you to the house of Genlis. 
 
 ' We went to the stand at the Park— to that in Chatham 
 Square, and to several of the largest stables, but found no 
 team corresponding to the one you described, nor any coach 
 with the tassel mutilated. We had almost given up the hunt 
 
 in despair, when M remarked that sometimes a coach or 
 
 two was to be found at the bottom of Hudson Street and 
 West Broadway. We hurried down there, and sure enough 
 a coach was there, with a team answering your description. 
 
 ' The moment M glanced at it, and saw the driver, he 
 
 said, " that we were on the right clue." The owner of the 
 hack, it appeared, was a fellow very appropriately called 
 " Dirty-faced Jack," but he was not with the hack at the time, 
 one of his hands, Mr. Terrence 0' Grady, being in charge of 
 the vehicle. 
 
 ' Terrence knew the magistrate in a moment, and when he 
 saw us stop and examine his coach, he started off at a run, 
 intending to make himself " scarce'' as they say in the West. 
 But M — - gave chase and overhauled him in a moment. 
 
 ' " Och ! yer honer is intirely mistaken ! I was only goin* 
 afther my dinner 1" replied Terrence, 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 201 
 
 c " Your dinner, at this time of day, you scoundrel 1 Why 
 it's five o'clock !" said M . 
 
 ' "Bat, yer honer, Biddy has got to be very fashionable, o' 
 late times ! We always git our pratie3 an' beef at five !" re- 
 sponded Terrence. 
 
 ' "Ah, very well. We'll take a look in your carriage !" said 
 
 M opening the hack door, and looking at the tassela 
 
 hanging by the side. 
 
 ' They were the same colour of the cord we had, and we at 
 once detected the place where you had cut it off. So, you 
 see, Annie, that little thoughtless act has turned out to be 
 greatly serviceable I' 
 
 1 Thank Heaven !' replied the young wife—' but go on, Ed- 
 ward, and tell me the rest !' 
 
 'When we found by the tassel that we had the right coach, 
 M turned to Terrence, and said in a stern, harsh tone : 
 
 ' ** You've been carrying on a nice business, haven't you V 
 
 1 u I've never done any thin' that my masther didn't bid me 
 to V replied the fellow. 
 
 ■ " Then he told you to do all this work for Genlis, eh V 
 
 * At the name of Genlis, the fellow's confidence forsook him 
 sntirely. 
 
 * "Och, botheration take 'em all ! I told 'em it'ud come 
 to this !" he cried, and then turning to M , he added: 
 
 ' " For the love o' heaven an' all the saints, Mr. M , do 
 
 let me off this wonst ! I'll quit drivin', and nivir another 
 box '11 I sit on, till I go to my own funeral 1" 
 
 ' " There's only one way to get out of the scrape, and you 
 may choose between that and cutting stones in Sing-Sing !" 
 replied M , sternly. 
 
 ' " Then spake it out, yer honer — an' it's myself, Terrence 
 O'Grady, that '11 do yer biddin' ony day, rather than look 
 inside o' the grey walls. Faith, the outside on 'em looks worse 
 'an the small-pox !' said Terrence, pale with fear. 
 
 ■ " You've got to tell me where this Genlis lives, and at the 
 3ame time say nothing to put him or your dirty- faced master 
 on their guard !" 
 
 ' " Faith, yer honer, that's all as asy as prayin' ; the ould 
 Gipsey don't live a dozen blocks from yer honer's office. It's 
 round in W Street !" 
 
 ' " Don't tell a falsehood ! Why did you drive so far, if the 
 place is so near !" 
 
 ' " 'Caze, it was orders. I druv around up one street and 
 down another, so's to make the visitors believe he lives in the 
 counthry. He has a man that meets 'em where I laves 'em, 
 an' walks 'em round his garden, an' all that, so the craturs git 
 turned round an' round, till they forgit everythin' !'' 
 
 ' But to make the story short, Annie, M and myself 
 
 found out all that we wanted from the hackman, and he is 
 
292 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 bribed and frightened completely into our service. To night 
 
 M will surround it with a party of policemen. You will 
 
 soon hear from your boy, I hope, for M , and I will force 
 
 the secret out of this villain, and see what his magic is made 
 of!" 
 
 ' But he might, in revenge, destroy our child, if he is yet 
 living !' 
 
 ' No ; hemp is too cheap here for him to dare that. Our 
 plan is well laid, and it cannot fail. But you will have to 
 take a share in it/ 
 
 ' What part, my husband?' asked the wife. 
 
 ' You will go to Julia, as you have done before, and tell her 
 that you must see Genlis again. Offer the usual fee, and the | 
 carriage will doubtless be sent as before. M and my- 
 self wish to catch this Genlis in his mummery, it may be of 
 use in recovering our Willie.' 
 
 4 But will you be near me % I should be afraid of that 
 Genlis, if 1 were alone with him, and he knew that 1 had told 
 of him !' . 
 
 ' You need not fear — I shall be near. Now go to Julia the 
 Indian woman, and tell her you must see Genlis again — that 
 you will pay his U3ual fee. We'll make him disgorge the 
 money soon enough.' 
 
 ' I will do as you wish, dear husband. Oh, I pray God that 
 we may get back our boy !' 
 
 ' I will, Annie, we will— be hopeful. I feel confident now 
 that we are on the right track !' 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The grey of twilight had deepened the shadows, and drawn 
 its misty veil over the city. The streets were crowded by 
 poor sewing and binding girls, who, having worked as long as 
 they could see, were now hurrying homeward, wearied in 
 body and spirit, for where the labour is ill paid for, the spirit 
 may not be glad. 
 
 At this hour, Charles Meadows, closely veiled and disguised 
 as a woman, passed out from the dwelling of Henry Carlton, 
 - and walked slowly along through back streets towards the 
 central part of the town. 
 
 In a few moments after, Mrs. Carlton left the same house, 
 and with a hurried, tremulous step, passed on up Broadway. 
 
 Her time and pace was so well suited with that of Meadows, 
 that when she passed the corner of the street which inter- 
 sected Broadway, near the place of Cooly, she saw the tall 
 figure of the disguised clerk cross the street before her, and 
 take up his appointed position in the shaded niche of a closed* 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 293 
 
 up door-way, a short distance down the cross street, to the 
 right. 
 
 Her duty had already been given to her. She passed on to 
 the saloon of the fated Cooly, and it seemed that he expected 
 her, for he stood at the door, whistling a careless air. 
 
 She beckoned him out to her, and he advanced to her side. 
 
 * Good evening, Hannah,' said he, in his usual tone. 1 Are 
 you well to night 1 You seem to be all in a tremble !' 
 
 1 1 have cause to tremble, Charles. I am sick at heart, and 
 wretched. Will you walk a little way with me ? I would 
 talk to you. 1 
 
 ' Yes ; but I cannot spare many minutes. I expect some 
 friends every moment, whom I promised to meet.' 
 
 ■ You need not spare many minutes — it will not take long [' 
 said the woman, in a deep, unnatural tone. ' I have only a 
 few questions to ask, and you can answer them as we walk on. 
 We'll just step round the corner of the next street. It i3 
 dark there now, and we can talk unobserved I* 
 
 That's true, my dear ; but what questions did you speak 
 of?' 
 
 ' The most important is this. Why have you deserted me 
 after blasting my name and rendering me an unhappy, wretch- 
 ed creature ?' 
 
 * Why, the fact is, Hannah, you know as well as I do, that; 
 we were doing wrong, and 1 thought the best way was to drop 
 our intimacy.' 
 
 ' Why did you not think of the wrong, before you drew me 
 away from my husband's side V exclaimed the woman bitterly. 
 
 ' Why, my dear, to tell the truth, I didn't think it was 
 wrong just then, myself.' 
 
 * No, not until you was tired of my society — satiated with, 
 my poor beauty. Like the ungrateful bee, you deserted the 
 flower as soon as it had lost the honey of novelty. And now 
 I suppose you'll seek some other helpless female, and damn 
 another soul into eternal misery and infamy I 1 
 
 * Poh, Hannah, you are running romance into the ground/ 
 
 * There is more reality in this business than romance, sir,' 
 said the woman sternly. 
 
 ' Very well, my dear, have it your own way : but if you 
 have anything more to say, be quick — I'vo no time to spare.' 
 
 * Very little, I acknowledge,' said Mrs. Carlton, stopping on 
 the side walk, in the dense shadow of the tall house before 
 them. In the deeper shadow of the old door-way, she could 
 see a dark object standing motionless. It was not five step3 
 from where she wa3 standing. Not a breath could be heard 
 from him, yet it was Charles Meadows, upon his post. 
 
 Mrs. C. had so arranged Cooly that his back was directly 
 
 T 
 
294 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 toward this spot, and she now paused to say a few words to 
 the victim, ere she gave the signal for his death. 
 
 'I have but little to say, Charles,' she continued, 'and 
 what I have to say, is the last I have to utter to you in this 
 world.' 
 
 'Then it'll be short and sweet,' said he laughingly. 
 
 1 Charles said Bhe in a solemn tone, ' this is no time for 
 
 you to jest /' 
 
 * Well, well. Go on, and say what you have to say quick !' 
 
 ' Then hear me. You won my love at a time wh' n I fan- 
 cied myself neglected by my husband. I gave you a fond and 
 disinterested love — would have died to save you from pain and 
 trouble.' 
 
 She paused a moment, but Cooly made no response, and she 
 went on. 
 
 1 When we separated the last time — I told you if you cast 
 Xny love from you to beware of my hate t* 
 
 'So you did ; but you needn't talk of hating me, Hannah, 
 after the happy hours we've spent together.' 
 
 ' Hush, sir, hush !' cried the woman huskily. 'Dare not to 
 speak of them. I now Kate you — stop, you must not move 
 yet. It is not quite time — I've a few more words to say.' 
 
 Unwillingly, Cooly paused and listened, and at the same 
 moment the dark shadow in the back ground slowly and cau- 
 tiously moved from its position. 
 
 The woman went on. 
 
 1 Yes, Charles Cooly, I have fondly, deeply, madly loved you, 
 and now, all as madly do I hate you. I have come here to 
 take my last farewell of you !' 
 
 ' Well, Hannah, I'm agreed — let's kiss, howe ver, and part 
 friends.' 
 
 ' Ha, ha !' she cried, with a wild laugh, ' Judas betrayed 
 with a kiss, so will I !' 
 
 The shadow of the murderer was over them, as the victim 
 bent down and met the woman's kiss; then in the very second 
 after, she sprung one step aside, and said : 
 
 ' It is time. Good bye, Charles Cooly !' 
 
 At the same instant, a blinding flash of light illumined the 
 darkness — a quick, sharp report was heard, and as she turned 
 and fled with bird-like speed down the street, Charles Cooly 
 tumbled forward upon the pavement, with a bullet in his 
 brain. The murderer, Charles Meadows dropped the pistol 
 beside the corpse, and with hurried steps crossed Broadway, 
 and dashed down the street beyond. 
 
 ' Go it, girl. Let your legs do their duty !' cried a couple of 
 careless persons, passing up Broadway, who saw as they sup- 
 posed, only some unhappy courtezan, who had got in a scrape. 
 
 They might easily have stopped him— but he rushed on, 
 leaving a terrible scene of excitement behind him, for in a 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 295 
 
 moment the body of Cooly was discovered by persons rushing 
 to the spot, attracted by the report of the pistol. 
 
 Meadows stopped at a little dark alley, a short distance 
 down the street, and quickly diverted himself of the female 
 apparel, which he hurriedly tied up in a fmall bundle. He 
 then passed rapidly down to the North River, and in ten 
 minutes from the moment when he fired the pistol, the female 
 dress was sunk in the muddy waters of the river. 
 
 One would think, that having done this muen towards his 
 security, and having been unfollowed, and passed unquestioned 
 so far, he would be less agitated than at first. But it was not 
 80. When he hurried along an unfrequented street, toward 
 his mother's house, his iimbs trembled beneath him — he was 
 ghastly pale, sick at heart and in body. The peculiar excite- 
 ment which had sustained him until the deed was done, had 
 now failed him, and a very hell of terror and remorse was 
 raging in his bosom. 
 
 As fast as he could, he rushed along till he reached his 
 mother's door, and just as his foot touched the door step, the 
 door opened, and a blaze of light, from the hall-lamp, almost 
 blinded him. 
 
 ' Here he is !' cried the voice of a man, in the entry, 'here 
 le is at last.' 
 
 Charles was so terrified, that he could not even fly, though 
 he thought that the officers of the law were before him. 
 "With a bitter groan of agony, he sunk fainting upon the 
 threshold. 
 
 ' What is the matter, my son V asked his mother, bending 
 over him, anxiously, then turning to the person who had 
 spoken first, she added : 
 
 ' Do help me in with him. The poor boy is sick — he nas a 
 fit or something/ 
 
 * Yes, ma'am— you jist stand aside a bit, I'll lift him up, and 
 tote him in ! Why, what's the matter, Charley 1 ?' cried the 
 young man. 
 
 'Who are you? Are you not an officer !' asked the clsrk, 
 raising up his head with a wild, quick glance. 
 
 'An ossifer? Well, that's rich ! No; don't you know me, 
 Charley? I'm Mose — your old school-mate, Mose !' and as he 
 spoke, the young man lifted the clerk up, and helped him into 
 the house. 
 
 ' Did you hear of it so soon ?' continued the clerk, looking 
 stupidly at Mose. 
 
 'Hear of it? The poor creetur told me of it herself, this 
 mornin', and I've been a lookin' for you all day, to go with me, 
 and my crowd, to help her out o' the muss.' 
 
 'Her? What do you mean ? It was a man that I ' 
 
 4 A man P interrupted Mose — ' No, 'twas your own sister 
 
296 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 'Bell. I seen her this mornin' out o' old Ma'am Sweet's winder 
 — see here, she drapt this into my cart.' 
 
 Meadows looked at the paper which Isabella had written 
 that morning, and then while he grew more pale, if possible, 
 than before, he asked in a choked and husky voice : 
 
 ' Did you say you saw her V 
 
 * Yes,' replied Mose, ' and I told her to hold on till night, 
 that we'd be there— and now I'm ready to go in, Charley. Me 
 and Sikesey — he's jist round the corner, with four or five more 
 that runs with our machine. We've got a gallus machine now, 
 Charley— it's been to the shop, and looks jist like new.' 
 
 ' Do hurry off, and rescue your sister, from that dreadful 
 place, Charles !' cried Mrs. Meadows. ' My dream has come 
 true.' 
 
 ' Yes, both of them ! loth of them, mother !' cried the clerk, 
 wildly. 
 
 She gave one searching look at him — his very manner seem- 
 ed to answer her, and she screamed : 
 
 1 Oh, holy God of Heaven, if it is so, I shall go mad.' 
 
 She comprehended in a moment, why he had taken Mose for 
 an officer. 
 
 'Leave us alone, for one minute !' she cried, to Mose— 'leave 
 us alone for one minute — I must talk to him.' 
 
 ' Sartinly, ma'am !' said Mose, — ' he'll find me and Sikesey 
 at the corner, and I hope he'll not be long a comin'.' 
 
 ' No, I will be there in a minute,' said Meadows. 
 
 The next moment mother and son were alone. 
 
 ' What is it, Charles, you have to tell me? You said both 
 my dreams had come true !' 
 
 ' Yes, if my sister is ruined, they have !' said the young 
 man, hoarsely. ' It is not an hour since 1 killed a man !' 
 
 * Killed !' shrieked the mother. ' Oh, my God, what will 
 we come to 1 Was it this Whitmore V 
 
 'No, no ! I wish it was ! His time is yet to come — my 
 hand is in now, and there is no use for me to stop !' 
 
 ' God have mercy on me ! 1 shall go mad !' groaned the 
 mother. 
 
 ' You must keep still, mother ! If you hear of a man 
 being shot to-night, you must not say a word. No one knows 
 that / did it ! I did not mean to teil you — but I could not 
 help it !' 
 
 The mother was too much shocked to reply. She burst 
 into tears. Charles could not endure her misery. Begging 
 her, for his sake, to be calm and silent, he hurried out to seek 
 Mose and his party, and with them, to search after his ill-fated 
 sister. 
 
 One glance at Mrs. Carlton, before we close this chapter. 
 When she heard the report of Meadows' pistol, she did not 
 wait to see the wretched victim fall — she did not dare to turn 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 297 
 
 one glance that way, but rushed down the street and turned 
 the next corner, with all the speed which terror could give to 
 her agile limbs. Breathless, and trembling in every joint, she 
 reached the door of her husband's house. 
 
 He was there, awaiting her. 
 
 ' Is it done V he asked. 
 
 * Yes, oh, God, yes !' she gasped, and would have fallen upon 
 the threshold, had he not caught and steadied her. 
 
 ' Be calm, Hannah, be calm. Everything depends on our 
 mutual self-possession, now !' he said. ' I know we will be 
 suspected — the officers will doubtless soon be here— hurry up 
 and change your dress, hide your shoes, there is mud on them. 
 I must go into the faro-room. It will not do for me to be ab- 
 sent a moment !' 
 
 "With a strong effort, the wife recovered herself and hurried 
 to her room, when she instantly locked herself in, while Carl- 
 ton took his place at his faro-table again. 
 
 As he expected, in a few moments the police entered his 
 room, and he was told that he was a prisoner. 
 
 1 For what, gentlemen V he asked, in apparent surprise, 
 knowing of course, that here, in this most moral city (God 
 forgive me for that lie !) he never would be arrested for mere 
 gambling. 
 
 The officers would not tell, but closely searched his person, 
 and examined him from head to foot. He was unarmed. His 
 boots were clean, the blacking unsoiled and bright. He evi- 
 dently had not been out in the muddy streets. 
 
 'Have jou been here all the evening?' asked the magis- 
 trate, who headed the party. 
 
 ' Yes, sir. I believe I have not been out of the house since 
 dinner !' said the gambler, calmly. 
 
 ' What is the time V asked the same officer. 
 
 * Eight, nearly ; it wants eleven minutes, by the clock on St. 
 Paul's ; I noticed at seven, when the clock struck, that my 
 watch was ten minutes too slow. I remarked it, did I not, 
 Sam V 
 
 1 Yes, sir, I believe you did !' replied Selden, to whom Carl- 
 ton had spoken. 
 
 The magistrate eyed Selden very closely, but both these 
 persons were so perfectly calm, that his sagacity was put com- 
 pletely at fault. 
 
 ' Is your wife at home V asked the magistrate. 
 
 ' 1 presume so !' replied Carlton. ' She would not be likely 
 to go out on such an evening ! I will go and see, if you wish.' 
 
 4 No, sir, stay here for the present, under charge of one of 
 my officers. If you will call a servant, and permit me to be 
 shown to her rooms, I will be obliged to you !' said the ma- 
 gistrate. 
 
298 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Certainly, sir ; but this conduct is very singular,' replied 
 Carlton. 
 
 * It may be, but it is necessary !' replied the magistrate, 
 sternly. 
 
 Carlton sent a black waiter after Eliza, Mrs. C.'s waiting 
 woman. 
 
 ' Eliza,' said Carlton, when she made her appearance, ' is 
 your mistress in I* 
 
 ' Yes, sir, I s'pect so. She was unwell all the afternoon, and 
 has been locked in her room all the evening,' replied the mu- 
 latto woman. 
 
 ' Show me to her room, instantly !' said the magistrate, 
 sternly. 
 
 Then bidding two of his subordinates remain in charge of 
 Carlton, and not permit him to hold communication with any 
 one, the officer followed Elizi up stairs. 
 
 The door of Mrs. Carlton's room was locked, but after 
 some difficulty it was opened, and Mrs. C. appeared in a 
 loose undress, with no signs about her of having been in the 
 3treet. She was pale, and very much agitated, and when 
 asked what was the matter, only replied, that she was sick, 
 and had been so all day. She acted her part far less calmly 
 than her husband had done — but still she succeeded so far, aa 
 to put the officers of the law completely at fault. 
 
 They had already learned, that a woman had been seen 
 with Cooly but a moment before his body was found— they 
 had learned, that immediately after the report of the pistol 
 was heard, a woman was seen to cross Broadway very 
 hurriedly, and as it was publickly known that she had been 
 intimate with Cooly, and that her husband's jealousy and 
 anger had been aroused, suspicion at once pointed her out as 
 an accomplice in the murder, if not indeed the murderer. But 
 there was no sign to sustain the suspicion — no proof to fix 
 the crime upon her, or her husband. 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 It was an unfortunate thing for poor Isabella, that Mose turned 
 his cart around, and went back to ask her if she was not 
 * Bell Meadows.' He was seen and overheard, by Madame S. 
 
 'So, ho !' muttered the woman, after he had passed, 'the 
 bird thinks she can get out of the cage. I'll have to clip her 
 wings.' 
 
 The wretch instantly called her cook. 
 
 ' Make a nice breakfast for the girl in the garret,' said she. 
 ' Some strong coffee, mutton chops and the like, and bring it 
 to me, I'll carry it up myself.' 
 
 The breakfast was soon prepared, and brought up to the 
 
OF KRW YORK. 
 
 299 
 
 landlady, who went to a private cupboard, and brought a 
 phial, from which she poured a drug into the coffee. 
 
 Isabella was seated at the table reading the Bible, when 
 Madame S. went in. She shuddered, as she looked at the 
 hag, but did not move from her seat. 
 
 ' I've brought you some breakfast, my girl I* said the land- 
 lady, more kindly than she had spoken before. ' I'm sorry I 
 was so harsh just now, but I've such a set here, they'd put a 
 saint out of patience sometimes. Do eat a little, I know you 
 must be hungry. 
 
 'Thank you, I cannot eat !' replied Isabella, tearfully, 'but 
 if you'll give me a glass of water, I'll thank you.' 
 
 ' Wont coffee do as well — there's some that's nice and 
 strong !' said the woman. 
 
 1 1 could not Bwallow it — I only want a little water,' said 
 the young girl, who did not suspect that the coffee was 
 drugged. 
 
 'Well, I'll get you some!' said the old woman, and she 
 again left the room, locking it a3 usual behind her. 
 
 She again went to her cupboard, for she was prepared even 
 for this wish of Isabella's. She took a paper which contained 
 a small white powder, and putting about a teaspoonful into a 
 glass nearly full of water, added a little sugar, and then cut a 
 lemon, and squezed some of the juice into it. 
 
 ' That'll take away the taste !' she muttered, and hurried 
 again to the garret. 
 
 ' I made some nice lemonade — it's so cooling, and allaying 
 to thirst !' said she, as she entered. 
 
 Isabella's lips were parched with fever, and she drank it off 
 in a moment, without a thought of its contents. 
 
 ' I'll leave the breakfast— you may want it by and bye !' said 
 the woman, with a smile ; and then she left Isabella alone. 
 
 ' It will soon be night,' murmured the wretched girl, 'and 
 then I hope Bad pray God that I shall be rescued from here.' 
 
 She continued to read on — but she became sleepy in a little 
 while, and still without a thought of the cause of her sudden 
 drowsiness, she laid down upon the bed, and went into a sound 
 sleep. 
 
 In a few moments Madame S. returned, and smiled as she 
 saw how well her potion had operated. 
 
 Calling a servant, she and the negress lifted the poor girl 
 from the couch, and carried her down into a small cell in the 
 back part of the cellar of the house, which was sunk into the 
 ground beyond the regular cellar wall, and closed by a secret 
 door, which never would be observed by a careless searcher. 
 
 ' The devil couldn't find her, now,' said the landlady, with a 
 satisfied tone ; 1 her friends may come as soon as they like !' 
 
 Isabella was indeed in a dangerous situation now. She was 
 beyond the aid which she had solicited, and which had been 
 
soo 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 promised her — Bhe was entirely in the power of one who would 
 sell her own soul for gold, and who cared less for the virtue of 
 her sex, except as a matter of trade, than Bhe did for the clouds 
 that swept across the sky. 
 
 We will at once pass over the time intervening between that 
 hour and night, and introduce a new scene to our readers. 
 
 Maddened by his own remorse, as well as the thought that 
 his sister was in a den of prostitution, and had probably been 
 ruined, Charles Meadows, with Mose and his party, reached 
 the door of the house where she was confined. 
 
 The first intimation Madame S. got of their arrival was by 
 the ringing of the bell, and the voice of Mose. She hurried 
 to the door, and asked in her usual tone, what was wanted. 
 
 ' We're jist payin' you a friendly wisit, Ma'am, that's all ; 
 let's in, will ye V said Mose. 
 
 * Certainly,' replied the ' she boss,' opening the door readily ; 
 ' what can 1 do for you, gentlemen V 
 
 ' You can jist show us the way up to your upper story with 
 a candle, and be hasty about it, you thievin' old catamaran Y, 
 replied Mose, planting himself firmly in the hall. 
 
 * I'd like to know what you want to do in my fourth story, 
 or garret V said Ma'am S. 
 
 * We only want a gal that you've got stowed away there, 
 you everlastin' lump o' sin !' 
 
 ' There's no one there !' said the woman, quietly. 
 ' What ! D'you go for to say that 'Bell Meadows, Charley 
 Meadows' sister, he that's here alongside o' me, aint up there V 
 
 * There was a Miss Meadows slept there with her beau last 
 night, but she's gone away with him to-day !' replied the har- 
 ridan. 
 
 ' Lookee, old woman, that's gass, !' cried Mose. * We've come 
 here after that same little gal, and you've got to show her up, 
 or we'll down with your rascally old crib, that's all !' 
 
 ' You may look the house over, from top to bottom !' replied 
 the landlady, indignantly. ' As I said before, there was a Miss 
 Meadows slept here last night with her beau, but they both 
 went away, about dinner time !' 
 
 ' Gas ! Let's search the house V cried Mose, and in a mo- 
 ment, all of his party, except two, whom he told to look out 
 for the door, were scattered about the house, searching every 
 apartment. The garret was found empty, and of course the 
 search was in vain, though they looked from the roof to the 
 cellar. 
 
 Charles Meadows was fearfully excited. He knew that his 
 sister had been there — the note which Mose had received told 
 how unwillingly — and now he knew not where to look for her. 
 His imagination painted her agonizing misery — hia heart was 
 full of remorse and wretchedness— it was a burning hell 
 ivithin a hell. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 301 
 
 'What was the name of the man that brought her here?' 
 he asked, as, after the vain search, he confronted the wretch 
 who kept the house. 
 
 ' He didn't give any name— he was a foreigner !' replied the 
 woman, boldly. 
 
 'Are you sure it was not Whitmore or Livingston 1 Speak, 
 you hag, or I'll murder you !' 
 
 ' No ; he was not an American, he was a Spaniard, I think P 
 replied the woman, undaunted by his wild and haggard looks 
 and threatening tone. 
 
 1 Where did they go to ? — Did she go unwillingly V con- 
 tinued the wretched brother. 
 
 * I don't know where they went. She went away willingly 
 enough, more willing than she came !' 
 
 ' God of Heaven, she is ruined !' moaned the brother. 
 
 'Then the old crib shall pay for it !' shouted Mose, and as 
 he spoke, he raised a mahogany chair and dashed it into a 
 large pier glass which fronted the parlour. 
 
 • Go in, boys— let the she boss suffer ; but don't hurt the 
 gals !' he continued. ' Go in, Sikesey, don't be afeard !' 
 
 ' Watch, murder ! help !' shouted the landlady, as she saw 
 her best furniture dashed into pieces. But no watch came ; 
 rows were too common in that neighbourhood for them to 
 notice, and in less than the time we take to tell the story, 
 Ma'am S. saw every window in her rooms broken — her sofa- 
 cushions cut up — chandeliers dashed into atoms, chairs 
 crushed down in a heap in the middle of the floor. 
 
 ' There's no use in stayin' here, Charley !' said Mose, when 
 the furniture was nearly all demolished — ' your poor sister 
 aint here— but we'll look round the whole row of wimmen 
 shops, till we find her !' 
 
 Meadows was nearly delirous. He was fit then for any 
 deed. Murder would have been but pastime to him. 
 
 ' Have you any idea who it was that took her there ]' asked 
 Mose, when he stood in the street once more. 
 
 ' No, not without it was one Whitmore — but I heard he 
 was laid up with a broken arm and head — he got into a row 
 in Broadway last night !' 
 
 ' Maybe 'twas him that I lammed !' said Mose. ' I gave 
 some dandy chap thunder over the cocoa-nut, last night !' 
 
 'I must see him !' said Charley, 'he must know how my 
 sister came to leave his sister's house !' 
 
 'Sartin. Let's go and see what he's got to say about it !' 
 cried Mose. ' Come along, Sikesey — b'hoys, come alo-o-ong !' 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 At last the hole in the cellar wall was large enough for Lizo 
 to creep through it. But it was very late before the work was 
 
302 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 accomplished. It seemed to Lize, that she had been hours, 
 long weary hours in getting out the Lait stone — yet it was not 
 quite midnight, when she passed through the aperture, and 
 stood in the outer cellar. She paused here, and took the 
 last sup of liquor which was left in her bottle, and rested a 
 moment to collect her energies for a bold and desperate 
 attempt to escape. 
 
 By the noise above her, she knew that were there plenty of 
 old Jack's peculiar customers in the bar- room, and as she 
 must pass through it, this added to her danger. But she felt 
 confident that if she could once gain the street, she would be 
 safe, for they would not dare to pursue her, and even if they 
 did she was as speedy as she was nettleeome. 
 
 For a moment she paused to listen, and then ascended the 
 stair-case or ladder, and put her broad shoulders against the 
 trap door. Something heavy was upon it — but she gave a 
 sudden heave; it yielded, and the next moment she was up 
 in the liquor shop. Without waiting an instant, she leaped 
 over the bar, and before any one could stir to intercept her, she 
 was in the street, running with her utmost speed toward the 
 house of Mr. Precise. 
 
 The people in the bar-room were struck perfectly dumb 
 with surprise. This was a performance 'not down in the 
 bill,' and they couldn't comprehend it. 
 
 ''Arriet' had been standing upon the trap, when Lize 
 hove it up, and in so doing capsized her entirely over the bar, 
 leaving her upon the floor, head down, displaying to an 
 admiring set of thieves and topers, a pair of red and dumpy 
 limbs, which, like her face, appeared to be decidedly opposed 
 to the ' water cure ' system. 
 
 Old Jack was in the back room, but startled by the outcry 
 and crash, he rushed into the bar-room only in time to pick 
 up his daughter, and learn that a ghost in petticoats, or some- 
 thing else had pitched ' 'Arriet ' over the counter, and then 
 tf sloped' through the front door. 
 
 He quickly stepped behind the bar, and seeing that the trap 
 was open, took a light, and descending, soon discovered the 
 state of affairs. 
 
 ' Blast the bloody fool !' he cried, as he emerged from the 
 cellar, 'I vos agoin' to let 'er hout in the mornin' ! But it 
 vont make much hodds, I reckon — for Jack Murphy, Bill, and 
 the rest of 'em 'ave cleaned hout the hold un's crib afore 
 this !? 
 
 Then he took a huge and ancient looking silver watch from 
 his pocket, and glancing around his customers!, said : 
 
 ' It's arter twelve, my chums, jist a minnit, and that's 
 shuttin' hup time, you know. Take vot you want and be 
 ofif !' 
 
 Some of the topers who were possessed of the 'ready' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 303 
 
 took something more to drink, and made their exits ; others, 
 who were leas tortunate, quietly dropped off, alter taking a 
 last lingering glance at the bar and its charms. 
 
 When Liz8 got into the street, she did not stop to learn 
 what damage she had done, either to Miss ' 'Arriet' or to the 
 establishment — she did not even pause to listen whether she 
 was pursued or not, but hearing the sound of some distant 
 church-clock striking twelve, she rushed wildly on toward the 
 street where Mr. Precise dwelt. Once a watchman attempted 
 to stop her, but she had no time to explain, and settled his 
 anxiety with a blow between the eyes, which left him in a 
 pleasant state of unconsciousness, reposing in the gutter, until 
 she was a long way beyond his precinct. 
 
 It seemed as if she could not get along fast enough, though 
 she ran with all her syeed, but at last she reached the house 
 of Mr. Precise. 
 
 She was about to rush up the steps and ring the bell, when, 
 she saw that a basement window was open, and she determined 
 to enter quietly in that way, and if possible to alarm the 
 house, and prevent the thieves, whom she supposed to be 
 inside, from carrying off their plunder. 
 
 She quickly entered the window. All was dark and silent 
 within, but having once passed in by the basement, she 
 remembered the course which would lead to the room of Mr. 
 Precise, and silently, breathlessly, hurried on up the first 
 stair-case. But at the head of it she unfortunately stumbled, 
 and in trying to save herself from falling, caught at the 
 baluster of the stair-way, which gave way with a loud crash. 
 
 • Damnation — we're nabbed !' cried a hoarse voice, and at 
 the same time a blaze of light from the opened lens of a dark 
 lantern almost blinded her, and she saw by its light four men 
 with black silk handkerchiefs drawn over their faces, who 
 were coming from the back parlour, loaded with plunder. 
 
 She could not recognize them, but they knew her, for they 
 all cried out, 
 
 1 It's big Lize — she's blowed on U3 !' 
 
 Lize screamed loudly for help, and tearing out one of the 
 rounds from the broken baluster, attempted to prevent them 
 from escaping, but the foremost villain, with a bitter curse, 
 rushed upon her, and broke down her guard with a short iron 
 crow-bar, or ' billy,' as the burglars term it, and struck her 
 another terrible blow over the shoulder. 
 
 But the heroic girl grappled with him in an instant, and 
 screamed still louder for help. Lights were now seen flashing 
 from above — the house was alarmed, and the villain whom 
 she had grappled with drew a short, heavy bowie knife, and 
 drove it home to the very hilt in her breast, shouting to the 
 rest. 
 
 ' It's no time for play, grab all you can and run for it 1' 
 
304 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 Lize felt the keen weapon as it clashed into her very vitals, 
 and with a piercing scream let go her hold, and fell to the 
 bottom of the stairs. The burglars rushed out, trampling 
 upon her as they passed over her form, and in a few moments 
 had fled far away from the spot. Meantime Mr. Precise and 
 Jenny hurried down the stairs, the former carrying a large pis- 
 tol, which he always kept in his bed-room, though it had never 
 been loaded since he possessed it, and Jenny, armed with the 
 poker, both screaming watch, and robbers ! 
 
 By the time they had got to poor Lize, a violent ringing 
 was heard at the front door, which proved to be the watch- 
 man, who, as is customary in such cases, had arrived a mo- 
 ment too late to do any good. Letting him in, Mr. Precise 
 hurried to the side of poor Lize, and raised her partly up. 
 
 ' I'm done for/ she muttered, 1 but 1 tried my best to save 
 you !' 
 
 'What is it? why you're dreadfully wounded ! what is the 
 matter !' cried Mr. Precise, nervously, not being able to com- 
 prehend the nature of things at all, but seeing that she was 
 bleeding terribly. 
 
 'Run for a doctor,' he added, to the watchman — ' run as 
 hard as you can !' 
 
 1 But haven't you been robbed ? Isn't she one of the rob- 
 bers ?' urged the official, who of ' course,' thought if she was a 
 criminal, that the getting a surgeon would be unnecessary 
 trouble. 
 
 'Never mind what she is, go for a doctor — I don't care if I 
 have been robbed, run for a doctor !' cried Mr. Precise, very 
 impatiently. 
 
 ' You'd better go yourself, sir !' said the watchman, I'll 
 stay here to guard the prisoner !' 
 
 ' To guard one that's dying ! You're a rum copper, you 
 are,' said Lize, faintly, casting a look of scorn upon the officer. 
 Then looking at Mr. Precise, she said : 
 
 ' You needn't send for any doctor for me. It's all over. 
 "When the knife's pulled out, I shall go off ! Do take me up 
 to Angelina, if she's alive yet !' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, and she's very bad off— but I'd a'most forgotten 
 her in this new troulfle,' cried Mr. Precise. 'Oh, dear me, 
 what a terrible time I do have. One poor angel of a creetur 
 dyin' up stairs, and another down here, what shall I do ! 
 Jenny run for a doctor !' 
 
 ' And call two or three of my mates here ; holler like mad 
 when you git to the corner, and when they come arter you, 
 send 'em here,' added the watchman to the girl, who speedily 
 started upon her errand. 
 
 With the aid of the watchman, Mr. Precise now carried 
 poor Lize up stairs, and at her earnest prayer bore her into 
 the room where Angelina was laying. He saw the handle of 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 305 
 
 the knife which was in her breast, and was about to draw it 
 out, when she cried : 
 
 * No, don't take it out yet, my life will go with it, and I'm 
 dying fast enough now ! liaise me up so that I can see my 
 cousin.' 
 
 * They did so. There lay the poor sewing-girl, pale as snow, 
 and alas, full as cold. Her eyes were unclosed — but with a 
 dim glare they were turned toward the door-way, as if she 
 had been looking for some one to enter. Her hands were 
 crossed upon her breaBt, and that breast was motionless. 
 
 ' My God, she is dead !' groaned Mr. Precise, reaching for- 
 ward and taking hold of one of her small, thin hands. 
 
 'Dead!' shrieked Lize, ' Dead ! Without one parting 
 look or one word for me ! Oh, God, I could have died easier to 
 have spoken one word to the blessed angel !' 
 
 ' She was living when I went down stairs !' said the old man, 
 while the hot tears rained down his cheeks. ' I didn't think she 
 could go off so soon. Jenny and me were sitting by her, talk- 
 ing to her, when we heard you ecream !' 
 
 The watchman turned his face away from the scene — but 
 it was only to hide the tears which also coursed down his 
 weather-beaten cheeks; 
 
 ' Raise me up — lay me on the bed by her side — she's dead 
 now and won't mind the blood,' said Lize faintly, ' I want to 
 kiss her — oh, God, why couldn't she be spared when there's 
 so many sinners on earth !' 
 
 They laid the wounded woman upon the same bed. How 
 could they refuse her dying request. In a few moments more 
 the doctor and other watchmen came. While the police 
 were engaged in looking at the damage below, and were seeing 
 what the robbers had done, the doctor looked at the wound 
 of Lize. He saw in a moment that she could not live, and 
 told her so, adding that her time was very brief. 
 
 'I'm contented to go,' she murmured, ' now that poor 
 Angy has gone— but there's one thing that troubles me very 
 much.' 
 
 'What is it?' cried Mr. Precise. 'Anything I can do for 
 you I will !' 
 
 ' That I might go to heaven with Angy !' groaned Lize, 
 bursting into tears ; 1 but I know it's no use for me to think 
 of that — I've been too bad — too hellish bad ! Oh, God, have 
 mercy on me !' 
 
 Both Mr. Precise and the doctor wept, and the latter in a 
 kindly tone said, 
 
 ' A death-bed is a bad place for repentance, my poor woman ; 
 yet with our merciful God there is forgiveness even at this 
 hour !' 
 
 'Oh, God, no! None for me— such a miserable sinner!' 
 groaned the wretched creature. 
 
306 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ' Christ forgave the dying thief upon the cross !' urged the 
 good-hearted physician. 
 
 The woman shook her head hopelessly, and then bidding Mr. 
 Precise listen to her, told him of the plan for the robbery, 
 how she had been confined, had dug her way out of the cel- 
 lar, and then had reached his house, not in time to prevent 
 the robbery, but only to meet her death in the attempt. 
 
 The old man listened in silent surprise. 
 
 * Francis didn't come home last night — all must be true !' 
 he muttered, when she had finished ; 'and yet I thought he 
 "was such a good boy and loved his mother so !' 
 
 The watchman now came up and begged Mr. Precise to go 
 down and see what he had lost, and leaving the doctor with 
 the wounded woman for a moment, he did so. His little safe 
 had been broken open, it contents were gone, as also sundry 
 articles of plate, wearing apparel, &c. The thieves, however, 
 had been hurried off too soon to make as large a collection as 
 they intended. 
 
 But Mr. Precise seemed to care very little for his pecuniary 
 losses. His troubles up stairs called him back, and he again 
 hurried to the side of the dead and dying. 
 
 Poor Lize was writhing in the last agony of her wound, list- 
 ening to a few hasty words of instruction and comfort from the 
 lips of the excellent doctor, who seemed, unlike too many of 
 his profession, to think the soul worth caring for, as well as 
 the body. 
 
 Who have better chances for doing moral good? — what class 
 of men is there who can do more good with true piety, than 
 the medical profession ? — men who are daily and nightly called 
 to the bedside of the sick and dying ; who meet their fellow- 
 mortals in those hours, when deith and a future world being 
 close before them, they must think of their soul's welfare. 
 
 When Mr. Precise again took the hand of Lize, she was 
 weakening very fast. 
 
 ' Kaise me up once more,' she said, ' I must bend over and 
 kiss poor Angy's lips again. She is an angel — oh, God, if I 
 could but hope to see her in another world !' 
 
 It was a piteous sight to see that dying woman cling to the 
 dead girl's form, and press her lips upon the pale, cold brow. 
 
 ' I wish I could be laid in the same grave !' she murmured. 
 
 * You shall — you have been a brave, noble friend to her and 
 me !' said Mr. Precise, in broken sobs. 
 
 'No, no !' murmured the poor woman — 'you must not do 
 it. She is too good and pure. Bury me near her, but not 
 with her; she is an angel— and I — oh, God, what a sinner I 
 am !' 
 
 Neither Mr. Precise nor the doctor could speak. The scene 
 Was too affecting. 
 ' Bury her and me in the lower corner, back from the street 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 307 
 
 of church -yard. My mother is buried there — her aunt. 
 
 I was there yesterday — no, it was the day before, I believe. — 
 Bury us there, but do not put us in one grave— poor Angy 
 is too good to l;iy alongside of me !' 
 
 ' Everything you wish shall be done,' sobbed Mr. Precise. 
 
 ' Then I've no more to ask. One kiss more, dear Angy !' 
 
 She raised herself alone with a convulsive effort, and again 
 kissed the brow of her dead cousin, and took a long look at 
 her thin but beautiful features. 
 
 ' Do shut up her eyes !' she murmured. * Let me see them 
 closed before I go off !' 
 
 The doctor complied with her request, and then the woman 
 kissed her lip?, ice cold as they were, once again, passionately. 
 She then turned her eyes to Mr. Precise, and in a low tone P 
 said, 
 
 ' God bless you, sir, you was very good to her. She'll say a 
 good word for you up above — I know she will !' 
 
 Mr. Precise sobbed all the harder while she spoke. 
 
 'Do not cry, sir,' she said, ' it is no use. It won't call her 
 back, and it won't stop me from — ' 
 
 A groan burst from her lips, and stopped her utterance, for 
 the death pangs were upon her. 
 
 1 Good bye !' she murmured, to Mr. Precise and the doctor, 
 'good-bye, gal,' she added, to Jenny, who stood sobbing at 
 the foot of the bed, ' good bye, and don't lead sich a life as I 
 have !' 
 
 Then she seized the hilt of the knife which still remained 
 in her side, and murmuring, 'God have mercy on my soul V 
 drew it out, and died in an instant. 
 
 Her last breath was a prayer for mercy. She was a repen- 
 tant, despairing, yet a pleading sinner. May we not hope for 
 a better late than eternal misery for her? She had many and 
 grievous faults ; yet she had virtues, warm and noble impulses. 
 
 Mr. Precise caused their graves to be inclosed carefully with 
 an iron railing. Above the grave of Angelina he had a plain 
 white marble Btone raised, with no name upon it, but a 
 winged and smiling angel was sculptured on the snow-white 
 stone. And while he shed tears over her grave, he gave the 
 old sexton some money, and told him to plant flowers there as 
 soon as the spring time came on. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Mrs. Abingdon made her arrangements for another visit to 
 Genlis, according to the directions of her husband, and after 
 night-fall, at the usual hour, proceeded to Julia's to meet the 
 carriage. 
 
 Mr. Abingdon had already started for the same place, in 
 company with his friend M and a large posse of police* 
 
308 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 men, who were to be secreted in the neighbourhood, ready to 
 act when called upon. 
 
 This time the driver of the hack occupied but a few mo< 
 ments in taking her to her destination— not necessitated to use 
 the 1 round about' method any more. 
 
 Upon her arrival, he gave the usual signal, and she wa3 led 
 through the same winding ways as before, and finally seated, 
 as she supposed, in the room where she had before met Genlis, 
 
 She heard his voice a moment afterward, close by her side. 
 
 * For what have you again come to us V he asked. ' Have 
 you determined to pay the sum I demanded ? Am I to take 
 the journey for the child !' 
 
 'I know not what to say or do !' replied Mrs. A. 'If you 
 would let me tell my husband ' 
 
 * Why, he'd go and consult with some magistrate, and try 
 to get me in trouble ! I know what men are, well enough. 
 No, no, you must keep my secret to yourself !' replied the 
 Gipsey. 
 
 ' Bat you will let me see the picture once more, will you 
 
 not V 
 
 * Yes, if you so desire it. But "Us of little use, you have 
 •seen it once, and we can show you no more !' 
 
 * Then let me once more look upon the same scene !' said 
 lira. A. ' You cannot dream how I love that boy — he was 
 named after a dear and noble brother of mine, who is 
 seeking fame and fortune far beyond the ever-heaving sea ; — 
 do let me again look upon the picture !' 
 
 ' You shall,' said the Gipsey. 
 
 He then left her for a few moments, and she plainly heard 
 whispering in the upper end of the room. He soon returned, 
 and saying to her : 
 
 ' Be silent and behold !' took off the shawl which had been 
 bound over her eyes. 
 
 The same beautiful figure was kneeling by the curtain, and 
 when Genlis waved his wand the curtain rose, as if moved 
 by magic, and the mirror, with its rolling mists, appeared as 
 before. 
 
 When the mists cleared away, Mrs. A. again saw her child, 
 but onco more the picture was changed. The child was in a 
 kneeling posture, his little hands crossed upon his bosom, and 
 his sweet face turned toward a clowded and troubled sky. 
 
 The back ground was dim and misty ; the boy was sur- 
 rounded by a kind of fog, which rendered even his figure dim 
 and vague. 
 
 The curtain had been up scarce a moment, when a slight 
 noise behind him caused Genlis to turn quickly, and he beheld 
 the magistrate and Mr. Abingdon enter the room. 
 
 1 Curse you, you have betrayed me ! You shall never see 
 your child again !' he cried, bitterly, darting a fiery look at 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 309 
 
 Mrs. A. Then rushing toward the curtain, which dropped 
 instantly, he cried to the person who knelt by it, 
 * Bick, Inez, back to the trap — quick, or we'll be nabbed !' 
 Both himself and the woman sprung behind the curtain, 
 
 and though Mr. M and Mr. Abingdon hurried to the 
 
 Bpot and tore down the curtain in a moment, Genlis and his 
 wife had disappeared. Word was quickly passed to the police 
 outside, and a careful watch kept, but no more was seen of 
 Genlis or his wife. 
 
 The magic of their operations, however, was at once dis- 
 covered. The mirror, a large plate of glass lined on the inner 
 side with a thin sheet of common white wax, was connected 
 with a very ingenious contrivance, which consisted of a small 
 steam boiler, set in the cellar below, which could convey a 
 current of steam or heated air to the wax in the back of the 
 mirror, rendering it transparent. Through this, whatever 
 pictures, or figures they chose to introduce behind the glass 
 could be seen, and when they wished to dim, or destroy the 
 effect, they had only to apply a current of cold air, blown by 
 a large bellows from an ice-chest also placed in the cellar. 
 
 The contrivance was very ingenious, as figures seen through 
 the glass, looked precisely as if they were shown upon the 
 face of a mirror, and the distance at which the deluded visi- 
 tors were kept, of course prevented them from seeing any 
 small inaccuracies. 
 
 Mr. Genlis had apparently done a very large business, for 
 the police found an immense number of lay figures, masks, 
 wigs, dresses and paintings, which had undoubtedly been used 
 to dupe different customers, who came to read their fortunes 
 in the 1 Magic glass.' 
 
 The magistrate and Mr. Abingdon were soon satisfied that 
 Genli3 had either stolen, or been connected with the thieves 
 ■who stole little Willie, for the child's clothes were discovered 
 upon a little lay figure, which was faced with a mask painted 
 to resemble him, and surmounted by curls of the same colour 
 as his own hair. It was no wonder then that at a distance, 
 through thick plate glass, and the transparent wax, the ex- 
 cited mother should think that she recognized her child. The 
 clothes were the same he had worn at his disappearance. 
 
 Though they soon discovered how Genlis, his wife and their 
 assistants had escaped, they could learn nothing of the child. 
 The fortune-telling gang had been prepared for any inter- 
 ruption, for a passage from their cellar was opened through 
 into a little shop in the street back of their house, which was 
 kept by one of their gang, and all easily made their eseape 
 before any efforts could be used to intercept them. Even the 
 erson of whom they rented the house had not known their 
 usiness or arrangements, so quietly and secretly had all been 
 conducted. 
 
 
310 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. fthinjpfltn were now in a worse fix than ever. 
 They knew that their child, if still living, was in the power of 
 a desperate and proliigate crew, and they had good reason to 
 fear that it might now be killed in revenge. The warm- 
 hearted and excellent magistrate could do no more for them 
 than he had ; they had no remedy or hope, except to con- 
 tinue in the search for their child ; or to recover him by the 
 offer of a large reward. 
 
 They took possession of the picture of the school room, and 
 the little village, in hopes that it might lead them upon some 
 clue to their child ; and Mr. A. also determined to give up 
 house-keeping, and to commence travelling through the coun- 
 try in search of the boy. 
 
 On the very same night that the house of Genlis wa3 
 broken up, the dwelling of Mr. A. was entered by burglars, 
 and every dollar of ready money, all his plate, fee. carried 
 away. The robbers did their job so neatly and well, that they 
 did not even disturb Mr. A. and his wife, or the servants, 
 though they had to open an iron safe, and several doors, 
 which had been left locked and bolted when the family 
 retired to rest. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 It was not late — not more than nine in the evening, when 
 Charles Meadows started to go to the room of Harry Whit- 
 more, attended by Mose and his party. But as they came 
 
 near the C House, they observed a large crowd was 
 
 assembled around it. 
 
 * Wonder if it's a tire ! ' said Mose—' the old bell aint a 
 chimin', and I don't hear the forty's out !' 
 
 ' No, it's no fire !' said Meadows, with a shudder. 1 There's 
 not enough noise about it !' 
 
 He knew but too well the cause of that collection of people, 
 and we can only wonder that he dared to approach that spot 
 —that he had the hardihood, as he did, to enter _ the very 
 room where the dead man lay, and to look upon his ghastly 
 face. And that was the first time he had ever seen it. 
 Carlton had not told him who was the man that he wished 
 killed— the victim had been led to him in the dark, and, 
 blindly, madly, he had slain him. 
 
 Mose had entered with Charles, anxious to know what the 
 muss was. • . . 
 
 'Why, Charley!' he cried, as soon as he looked at the 
 corpse, ' darned it this 'ere isn't Charley Cooly, our old 
 school mate !' 
 
 Meadows gazed one moment, then hiding the horrible sight 
 from hi* eyes with his hands, heaved a deep and heavy groan, 
 one that fairly startled the bystanders. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 311 
 
 1 Poor feller ! Charley's mighty sorry an' so 'm I ! If I 
 know'd who did this, I'd lam him — I'd lam him 'till he 
 couldn't say a prayer !' cried Mose. 
 
 Meadows turned away — he could not bear to take another 
 glance at the corpse— one who in boyhood had joined in the 
 same sports, and had even helped him to learn his hard lea- 
 sons; for Cooly was several years his senior. 
 
 As he turned away, he said to Mose, ' Stay down here, or 
 out at the door, till 1 go up and see this Whitmore.' 
 
 ' No, can't stand that, no way !' said the warm-hearted fel- 
 low ; ' 'S'pose you should get inter a muss up there ! I must 
 go alo— ong !' 
 
 1 Well, have it so, if you will ; but don't bring the whole 
 party.' 
 
 ' No, I wont,' replied Mose. 1 Sykesey, stan* to the door, 
 you an' the rest o' the b'hoys, till me and Charley comes down ; 
 but mind, if you hear me yelp, you jist come right in !' 
 
 ' We wont do nothin' shorter, hoss !' replied Sykesey, and 
 with this assurance, Mose and the clerk went up stairs to the 
 room of Livingston, where, as the reader is already aware, 
 Whitmore lay. 
 
 There was a party of young men in the room. They were 
 •seated around a centre-table, upon which stood sundry bottles 
 of wine. The young gentlemen were engaged in ' a friendly 
 game of poker,' which did not appear to be ' entirely for 
 amusement,' as considerable change lay in small heaps around 
 the board. 
 
 On a couch, or French sofa, near the table, engaged in 
 watching the players, lay Whitmore. His head was still 
 bound up, and his arm was in splints, so that he could not join 
 in the amusement. Livingston was amongst the players, as 
 also a hungry-looking, hatchet-faced individual, whose coun- 
 tenance resembled that of a young oppossum very much, who 
 was known to his comrades as the 1 Count 'Lijah.' 
 
 The gentlemen started to their feet, as Meadows and Mose 
 entered, and stared strangely, especially at the latter, not 
 knowing what to make of the intrusion. 
 
 Whitmore turned slightly pale for a moment, but quickly 
 recovered his self-possession, and said, with a smile, 
 
 ' Ah, how d'ye do, Charley 1 Glad to see you P Gentlemen, 
 my friend, Mr. Meadows !' 
 
 ' I wish to have a moment's private conversation with you, 
 air, before I permit you to use the title of "friend to me !" ' said 
 the clerk sternly. 
 
 * Certainly, sir, certainly ! Mr. Livingston just take your 
 party out into the next room, for a moment, if you please. 
 Charley has some business with me !' replied Whitmore, per- 
 fectly calm in outward looks, though his very heart was frozen 
 as he faced the injured brother, who looked so changed, so 
 
312 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 ghastly pale, from the excitement through which he had passed 
 that evening. 
 
 ' By the piper what played afore Moses and the bull- rushes 
 — that's the feller I gived jetty to, last night !' said Mose, 
 aside. ' He will not want to stick a B'howery b'hoy, afore 
 goon agin !' 
 
 The young gentlemen left the room, as requested by Whit- 
 more, who looked at Mose after they had left, and then, glanc- 
 ing at Meadows, asked : 
 
 4 Do you wish that young man to remain V 
 
 * He don't want nothin' else !' said Mose, gruffly : ' an' if he 
 did, he couldn't help his self.' 
 
 ' Well, sir, I will hear your lusiness, if business has brought 
 you here. I thought you'd come to see a sick friend, merely. 
 I was knocked into a cocked hat by some infernal rascal last 
 night !' 
 
 ' Lookee here, hoss-fiy, if you say that 'ere agin, I'll have to 
 do su'thin' that goes aginst my grain ; I'll have to lam a man 
 that's on his back a'ready ! I lammed you last night — an' I 
 aint no rascal, and that's more'n you can say for yourself ? 
 cried Mose, starting forward to the bed side of Whitmore, and 
 shaking his huge fist in the invalid's face. 
 
 ' Do not strike him, Mose, he has got some questions to an- 
 swer to me !' said Meadows, drawing back the young butcher. 
 
 1 1 aint agoin' to hit him, Charley !' replied the latter, ' but 
 I don't like to be called hard name3 by nobody, and it makes 
 me mussy /' 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Meadows, what questions have you to ask? said 
 Whitmore, who had begun to flush up a little, at the rather 
 uncomplimentary language of honest Mose. 
 
 ' Where is my sister ?' asked Meadows, sternly eyeing the 
 young man. 
 
 ' Your sister !' echoed Whitmore ; ' is she not at home V 
 ' No, sir, you know she is not !' said Meadows, sternly. 
 ' I do not know any such thing !' replied Whitmore ; ' I got 
 a message from my sister early this morning, saying that her 
 aunt had sent for her up the river, being suddenly taken ill, 
 ■and that she had to start off in the morning boat. She said 
 your siiter had gone home. I hope nothing has happened to 
 her !' 
 
 * Gass ! He is a stufnn' you, Charley !' said Mose, indignantly. 
 
 * Then you say you know nothing of my sister's whereabouts. 
 Will you swear itV asked Meadows. 
 
 ' I will — so help me God, I have not seen her since early last 
 evening, just before I met you, and I got into the difficulty soon 
 after, which has left me here helpless, as you see me !' replied 
 Whitmore, earnestly. 
 
 ' My God ! I know not what to do, or what to make of this 
 affair !' groaned Meadows. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 313 
 
 c What i3 the matter, Meadows, do tell me V said Whitmore, 
 in an earnest tone. ' Has anything happened to Miss Mea- 
 dows 1 For God's sake tell me !' 
 
 1 He cannot know anything of it,' muttered the clerk, com- 
 pletely deceived by the dissembling villain. 
 
 ' Speak — for Heaven's sake, tell me, has any harm befallen 
 her 1 ?' continued Whitmore, still more earnestly. ' If there 
 has, tell me — I claim a right to know, even by the feelings 
 which she and I have entertained for each other.' 
 
 1 He cannot know it — he cannot be guilty I* again muttered 
 Meadows to himself, and then he replied to the young man. 
 
 1 She has not come home yet, and we are very much alarmed 
 for her safety !' said Charles, unwilling to let Whitmore know 
 the extent of his fears, and fully satisfied that he at least was 
 innocent. 
 
 * My God, what can have detained her. This is such a vil* 
 lanous place— I wish that 1 could get about to aid you in your 
 search for her — your friend there did a bad job when he laid, 
 me out,' said Whitmore, in a kind and feeling tone. 
 
 ' Maybe, I did !' said Mose. ' But you shouldn't ha' drawn 
 your sticker on me. If you'd hit me with your list like a man, 
 I'd sarved you out with the same tools, and you'd got off with 
 a black eye, or some other little peculiar mark o' mine; but 
 when youdrawed your weapon, I was bound to haul out mine, 
 you know. Bat if Charley here's satisfied that you ha'n't done 
 nuthin' wrong, I don't mind sayin' I'm sorry, an' makin' on it 
 up with you. Will you gi's your hand V 
 
 1 Yes, certainly. 1 have good reasons on my side, for saying 
 that I'm sorry for our difficulty !' replied Whitmore, shaking 
 the hand of Mose, and at the same time glancing at his own 
 splintered arm. 
 
 ' Well, better luck next time, as the gal said when she got 
 a bad husband !' replied Mose, then turning to Meadows, he 
 added : 
 
 'I say Charley, ha'n't you got nothin' agin them fellers that 
 sloped into t'other room V 
 
 ' No,' replied Meadows, 1 1 have not.' 
 
 1 Then aren't we agoin' to have a muss after all? 
 
 * No,' said the clerk. ' There is no necessity for it.' 
 
 ' Then I'm mighty sorry —ha'n't had no muss, 'cept a little 
 blow out last night, for ever so long— a'most a whole week. 
 An' fires is so uncommon scarce, jist now — a plug muss is rich 
 — I like to go in when I'm at a fire, jist to keep cool.' 
 
 1 Let us go. I must continue the search,' said Meadows. 
 
 1 Well, I'll go lo ng ; but I'm so sorry we can't git a mu3S 1' 
 said Mose. ' There was one of them ar fellers what went into 
 t'other room, look sarcy at me, jist as if he thought I'd buy 
 dead hogs and sell 'em, for fresh pork, when they'd died 
 'cordin' to onnateral nater, without being stuck, and hung up 
 
314 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 like decent pigs is ! I wonder if he didn't want a muss, if he 
 did, he'd only have to say so.' 
 
 ' Oh, they were all peaceable. They didn't mean to look 
 saucy at you !' said Whitmore. 
 
 1 Well, if so be you say so, since we're friends, FH let it 
 slide P said Mose, 1 but how I could lam him, or any other he 
 to-night. Charley if we don't find 'Bell to-night, I'm bound to 
 raise a muss somewhere.' 
 
 ' Then I expect, you'll have to raise a muss,' said Whitmore, 
 as the two disappeared, 'for my plans are laid a little to well, 
 to be foiled easily. ' Old ma'am S. knows her business well — 
 and in a few days, I shall be about. I wont be caught quite 
 as easy as that fool Cooly, who lie3 below stairs now, a vic- 
 tim to his own carelessness. I don't blame a man half so 
 much fur getting into a love scrape, as I do for getting caught 
 at it.' 
 
 ' Have you got clear of him V asked Livingston, entering the 
 room. 
 
 ' Of course I have !' said Whitmore, proud of his success. 
 
 * But didn't he suspect youV 
 
 * No, devil the bit. I came the sympathetic and all that 
 over him, and he has gone away to look for his sister, con- 
 vinced that I know nothing about her. But I'll tell you what 
 I wish you'd do for me, Gas. !' 
 
 ' What !' 
 
 ' Why, go 'round to the old woman's in Church street and 
 see how the girl gets along.' 
 
 * I've just come from there — I ran around while they were 
 talking to you, and found out that they'd been there already. 
 But they couldn't make anything out of the old woman, she 
 was too keen for them.' 
 
 ' But where was the girl. Didn't they search the house V 
 
 * Yes, but Ma'am S. had found out that they were coming, 
 and stowed her away in the vault or coal-hole, I believe.' 
 
 * Good ! But what did she tell them V 
 
 1 Why, she said that a Miss Meadows had been there with a 
 foreigner — a Spaniard or a Frenchman, she thought, and that 
 she went away with him again about noon to day.' 
 
 1 Better yet ! why, the old woman is a regular trump. I'll 
 give her an extra hundred for that. She must manage to get 
 the girl to her up town private house for me now, there'll be 
 no danger there, for the house is not much known ; and, be- 
 sides, it is well arranged for such matters. She's told me 
 some strange yarns about the house ; and if the back yard was 
 dug into a little ways, it's my private opinion that something 
 strange would be found. She didn't exactly tell me so, but 1 
 found it out, and I don't believe she'd like to see a spade put 
 into ground there.' 
 
 ' Why, what do you mean ?' 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 315 
 
 Oh, nothing much. But there are easy ways of getting 
 money, you know — and the ground is very convenient some- 
 times to put meat under, which might smell bad if kept above 
 it — but, hush, there comes the count and the rest of 'em. 
 ]Sever say anything about this matter — I got it from one of 
 her girls when she was drunk P 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 Another day had dawned. Mr. Shirley sat at his breakfast 
 table with their young and beautiful daughter, Constance. 
 
 The latter looked unusually well — her cheeks were as rosy 
 as ever, her eyes as bright, but she noticed that both her 
 parents looked pale, sick and care-worn. 
 
 She asked them repeatedly, if they were ill, but they told 
 her they were not, and she was left to wonder what could be 
 the matter. 
 
 Her father did not even take the Herald up, which the ser- 
 vant had laid beside his plate, though it had formerly been 
 his habit to read the paper always at the breakfast table. 
 
 On this morning it was laid within the reach of Constance, 
 and seeing that her father did not touch it, she took it up and 
 commenced reading. 
 
 The mother saw her daughter's cheeks flush up a moment 
 after she took up the paper, and noticed that while she read 
 eagerly on, her hand trembled with the paper, and her quick 
 breathing denoted an unusual excitement. 
 
 1 What is the matter, my child F she asked — 1 what excites 
 you so V 
 
 1 Oh, mother, here is an account of such a horrible affair !' 
 replied the girl. 1 It makes my blood run cold to read it ! — 
 What dreadful fiends there are upon this earth !' 
 
 1 What is it f asked the mother. 
 
 * Why, mother, a poor girl's body has been found in the 
 water, and some of her clothes and marks of a struggle have 
 been found close by the spot at Hoboken, and the paper says 
 some rufiian8 ruined her there by cruel force, and then threw 
 her in the water ! Oh, how horrible — how she must have 
 suffered— I can't bear to think of it ; and then her lover, a 
 worthy young mechanic, has committed suicide ! Oh, mercy, 
 it is too horrible !' 
 
 The young girl burst into tears. Her warm young heart 
 was full of sympathy, and as her imagination painted th'j 
 Bufferings of such a horrible death, her tears would come. 
 
 'Let me see the paper !' said Mr. Siiirley. 
 
 He took it from his weeping child, and as his eye fell upon 
 the paragraph, he started, and then turned pale as if death 
 had stricken him. It was well his daughter was sobbing, and 
 had bowed her head down upon the table, else she could not 
 
316 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 have failed to notice his agitation. His wife saw it, and 
 silently reached over for the paper. He handed it to her, 
 and she glanced at the paragraph. 
 
 It was too much for her. She felt that she could not com- 
 mand her feelings as he had done, and she rose and left the 
 room. She did not say one word— yet there were volumes of 
 reproach in her look as she turned to go from the room, and 
 her glance from him to their daughter, told him that for her 
 alone, the young, pure and beautiful pledge of their early 
 love, she bore with his crime, his terrible wrong. 
 
 The paragraph which he had glanced at, was a long ac- 
 count, detailing the finding the body of Mary Sheffield, the 
 beautiful 'Cigar Girl,' and of her supposed ill-treatment and 
 murder by a gang of rowdies at Hoboken. 
 
 The story seemed very probable. A place was described 
 where some of her torn garments were found, and where 
 broken bushes, kc. bore the marks of a struggle having taken 
 place; and then in a little slack eddy of the river, close by, 
 her body was found, bearing the marks of violence. 
 
 There were marks of violence upon her, not inflicted by a 
 ' gang of rowdies,' but by a hag, a she-devil, an abortion of 
 her own sex, one whom it would be blasphemy to call a 
 woman, Caroline L. Sitstill. 
 
 Her plan was perfectly arranged. Everything appeared to 
 have happened just as the paper stated — but never could the 
 law or its keen-sighted officers find one out of 4 the rowdies/ 
 who were supposed to have performed the horrible deed. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The continued search for Isabella waa in vain. Charles 
 Meadows returned to his mother's house at a very late hour, 
 almost delirious with excitement, and found her sick in bed, 
 with a burning fever, raving about her children and the 
 misery which seemed all at once to be settling down upon her 
 hitherto happy household. 
 
 When Charles came in and found her thus, he would have 
 instantly gone for a doctor, but he dared not, for her ravings 
 were of the murder, as well as her daughter's supposed ab- 
 duction and disgrace, and he feared that his own crime might 
 be exposed. 
 
 When she saw him, her first inquiry wa3 for her daughter. 
 
 ' Have you found poor 'Bell V she asked in a tone of blended 
 anxiety and agony of s>uspense. 
 
 ' No, no ! I have heard of her, but cannot find her !' said 
 the wretched brother. 
 
 1 Had she been there in that terrible house, as the young 
 man said V 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 317 
 
 1 Yes, and went away with her seducer willingly, I heard V 
 groaned the clerk. 
 
 ' Then may God curse her !' shrieked the mother, ' if she ha3 
 brought disgrace upon my grey hairs, if she has forgotten the 
 lessons which I have taught her, may God Almighty bend 
 down in his wrath and curse her !' 
 
 'Mother ! mother do not rave so wildly. I do not know 
 this, I only fear it. I heard it from a thing who trades in the 
 virtue, not in the vice of her sex, as butchers deal in meat, 
 and regards women according to their youth and fat, alone, 
 as a butcher does the drove which he buys for his slaughter* 
 house.' 
 
 ' And she — my daughter, has been there in the power of this 
 woman V 
 
 ' Ye3, yes !' rejoined the clerk, with a groan. 
 
 ' Then she is blasted for ever ! Now for you V rejoined the 
 mother, sitting up in her bed, and glaring at him with strange 
 looks, such as she never had given him before. 1 You, Charle3, 
 are a murderer ? Speak ! is it not soV 
 
 The young man blanched before her steady gaze. His lips 
 quivered — his form shook, cold drops of clammy sweet oozed 
 out upon his brow. 
 
 'I was a fool to tell you !' he muttered — 'I ought to have 
 kept it to myself ! 
 
 ' Could you have kept from God ?■ she shrieked, ' No, no ! 
 Your hand is red with the blood of your fellow-man — go forth 
 — go forth, I say, and leave the widow desolate ! Son, 
 daughter, both gone— for ever gone ! 
 
 ' Mother, for Heaven's sake calm yourself !' implored the 
 son. 1 You'll rouse the neighbours — they will know our dis« 
 grace ; for God's sake be calm !' 
 
 ■ Yes, I'll be calm, very calm ! I'm going to die — I'm going 
 np to God, where you may never come !' continued the mother, 
 in the same wild tone. And then she added : 
 
 " Don't you bury me, Charles, your hand is red ; and don't 
 let 'Bella come and weep over my grave, for her soul is dark 
 now !' 
 
 'Mother, Mother, don't talk so, or I shall go mad !' groaned 
 the clerk. 
 
 ' Go mad V she shrieked, ' and wherefore not ! Murder is 
 madness, and you're a murderer !' 
 
 With a prolonged and terrible shriek, the wretched widow 
 fell back senseless on her bed. Charles thought she was dead. 
 He could not revive her, and careless of risk hastened out for 
 a doctor. 
 
 The doctor came, and after hours of exertion, brought her 
 back to consciousness. But Charles had now no reason to fear 
 that she would divulge his dreadful secret. She was a moping, 
 
318 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 speechless idiot. Her reason had fled for ever. Her troubles 
 had been too heavy for her strength of mind. 
 
 Oh, who can picture the remorse of that son, -when he saw 
 the wretch before him. This living murder sunk his last 
 crime into insignificance, his heart was a very hell of re- 
 morse ! Why did he live — why did he not now try the 
 poison, or the deadly steel? Crime had made him a coward, 
 and he dared not ! He feared to face the unknown terrors of 
 another world. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 "When Charles Meadows found that his mother's case was 
 hopeless, and that his sister's fate could not be ascertained, he 
 determined to leave the country. On a plea of the sickness 
 of his mother, he had managed for two days to be excused 
 from attendance at his employer's store, and now on the second 
 night alter the murder, he repaired to Carlton's house to see 
 him. 
 
 What was his astonishment upon meeting the gambler to 
 find himself treated very coldly. 
 
 '/What is your wish, Mr. Meadows — what can 1 do for you 
 this evening ?' said the gambler, who received the clerk in his 
 private room. 
 
 'Money — sir ! Money to leave this cursed town !' 
 
 ' How much, sir; we are very short just now ; how much do 
 you want V 
 
 * All you promised me !' replied the clerk, gruffly. 
 
 ' My promise was made at a moment of great excitement, 
 Mr. Meadows,' said the gambler, coolly, ' and I am now very 
 short of funds — if five hundred dollars will be of any use to 
 you, why I have it at your service.' 
 
 ' Five hundred devils !' shouted the clerk. ' Scoundrel do 
 you mean to insult me V 
 
 * No, not at all, Mr. Meadows, but you use harsh terms in 
 addressing a gentleman !' 
 
 'Do you mean to pay my demands? I want all — every 
 cent you promised me !' 
 
 ' You cannot have it, sir. I have already given you seven* 
 teen thousand, eight hundred and fifty dollars !' 
 
 'Liar ! You, yourself told me that the money you gave me 
 was counterfeit !' cried the clerk. 
 
 ' Yes, I told you so, but it was to keep you in hand while I 
 
 wanted you. The money was good, or old S would have 
 
 found it out before now.' 
 
 ' Villain ! Had I known that before, I would have cut my 
 right hand off before I would have done what I have for you !* 
 
 ' Knowing that, of course, I was bound not to tell you !' said 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 319 
 
 the gambler, with a sneer, and then he added, ' if you have 
 any more to say, say it quick, I am waited for below.' 1 
 
 * I want five thousand dollars, to-night,' said the clerk. 
 
 * You can't have it !' replied Carlton, firmly. 
 
 1 Then, by heaven, I'll expose you — I'll let out the whole 
 affair of the murder !' 
 
 ' Thereby putting your own neck into the halter, without 
 endangering me in the least ; for you cannot prove anything 
 against me, you could not be a witness, and there is no other t 
 
 1 Your wife, sir !' 
 
 * My wife !' laughed the gambler. * Are you such an ignor» 
 amus as not to know that a wife cannot be a witness against 
 her husband ? Go ahead, hang yourself, if you will, but you 
 can't hurt me — I defy you !' 
 
 The maddened clerk knew that this was but too true. He 
 groaned in his misery, and dashed his clenched hand against 
 his burning brow. 
 
 1 Curse you ! Curse you !' he cried, ' you have damned me 
 for ever, and now you glory in it. If I could draw you into the 
 same disgrace and destruction, I'd die a felon's death with joy I* 
 
 * Fortunately, you cannot f said the gambler, with a sneer, 
 ' But dropping that unpleasant subject, do you not intend to 
 
 retain your situation with S 1 You are square with him 
 
 now, you can turn honest, and I advice you not to play any 
 more. You're bound to lose if you play with sporting men> 
 Luck is all gammon, where they're in the game 1' 
 
 'I shall go there no more — I dare not !' groaned the clerk, 
 ' For God's sake, Carlton, give me five thousand and let me 
 leave the country.' 
 
 ' I'm sorry, but on my honour I haven't the amount,' replied 
 the gambler. ' As I said before, I can spare five hundred, but 
 I cannot do more !' 
 
 ' Give it to me !' gasped the clerk. I cannot leave the 
 country with it, but I can live upon it for » while, till I can 
 get another place, for I will not go back to S.' 
 
 The gambler counted out the money. 
 
 ' There,' said he, handing it to the clerk, ' there is the 
 amount. Now, let me caution you not to bet at faro any 
 more, or you will lose it. You cannot win — 1 tell you as a 
 friend, you cannot win !' 
 
 'As a friend.' God save men from such friends as 
 Henry Carlton— God save them from any of his fiendish 
 unprincipled clan ! 
 
 Meadows took the money, and left the house of the wretch 
 who had ruined him — left it a desperate, remorseful, almost 
 broken hearted man. 
 
 He had been deceived by his betrayer — he had felt the keen 
 sting of base ingratitude lrom the very man who had driven 
 him to the most fearlul of all crimes. He had learned a com* 
 
320 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 mon lesson — that to win a man's enmity and hate, you must 
 do him every favour in your power, peril your life, and blast 
 your very soul for him. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 A month passes away very quickly — doesn't it, reader ]— espe- 
 cially if you are happy, or if you have a great deal of work to 
 do, which must be finished in a limited time— for instance, a 
 long tale to write at a day's notice, or eome other labour 
 wherein you are expected to do both yourself and your em- 
 ployer justice, without a moment for thought, study, or pre- 
 paration. 
 
 But if you are on a tick-bed, how clogged are the wheels of 
 time, how the minutes drag their 'slow lengths' along. 
 
 How long must a month seem to a prisoner who is barred 
 from the glad sunlight, whose very existence is wrapped in a 
 cloud. Yet, if he be condemned to a felon's death, the mo- 
 ments must fiy to him— they cannot, will not be tardy enough 
 for his satisfaction. 
 
 If one has a note out, payable at thirty days from date, and 
 money is scarce, time seems to work on the ' telegraph' prin- 
 ciple ; if he has money due to him, the contrary old wretch 
 crawls along, as if he »?as trying not to beat a snail as fast as 
 he could. 
 
 For myself (not that I have had notes out, or been so exceed- 
 ingly happy), my whole life-time has been but as a short and 
 fleeting dream; not one of sunshine and flowers, of music or 
 of gladness, but of storm and tempest — of passion and excite- 
 ment — wild, and rapid, and lonely as the single cloud, which 
 by itself is borne along amidst the red lightning on the 
 winged gale, where the elements all meet and war with each 
 other. 
 
 Forgive this self-allusion, friendly reader ; it came all uncon- 
 sciously out, like the Irishman's joke, and now that it i3 on 
 paper, it would be a waste of ink to blot it out— the reader 
 who must be witty at my expense, will add that 'twas a waste 
 of ink to put it there. 
 
 A month has passed in our history — a month since we left 
 one of the purest and most interesting of all our characters, 
 in peril and darkness. Would to God that we might record 
 that she then and there had died, rather than be forced, as we 
 are, to tell a history of misery and shame. We cannot tell it 
 — our pen cannot trace the burning record of foul wrong. We 
 can only hint at vile drags, at the foul and villanous wrong of 
 a wretch, who laid desolate as fair a flower of pure nature as. 
 ever was born upon earth. 
 
 We must in these vague terms pass over the events of a 
 month, and come to the following scene. 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 .321 
 
 It is laid in the second story back-chamber of a house up- 
 town — a fine-looking dwelling, in the very centre of an aristo- 
 cratic tow of buildings in the most fashionable quarter of the 
 city. 
 
 A female is seated on an elegant sofa in this chamber, 
 gazing sadly, but quietly, out of the window, into a little 
 flower-garden which is back of the house. Now and then, 
 through the space, left by an open lot, she looks over into a 
 street beyond and notes the various passengers, and watches 
 the gambols of sundry little children, who are rejoicing in 
 the soft and balmy spring air. 
 
 Her cheek is pale and thin, and her eyes are red with con- 
 tinuous weeping, and even yet she is beautiful. A loose role 
 tie nuit does not conceal the beauties of her voluptuous form. 
 The very carelessness with which her luxuriant, dark brown 
 curls, fall upon her neck, adds to their rich loveliness, and 
 aids well to contrast the snowy whiteness of her neck. 
 
 She was alone in the elegantly furnished room. A guitar 
 was cast down upon one end of the sofa : books lay scattered 
 round ; a toilet table, with its many luxuries, occupied a corner 
 of the room. 
 
 To judge from appearances, she could not be in want of 
 anything which art could devise, or wealth command. 
 
 And this was Isabella Meadows — no longer the pure-souled, 
 high-principled incarnation of living virtue — but a lost and 
 ruined girl. The house where we now exhit her, was only a 
 private palace of infamy, kept for a select lew, by the wealthy 
 hag, in whose den we last left the unfortunate girl. 
 
 We will not detail hov: poor Isabella became the tainted 
 and blasted creature we now find her — it is enough — too 
 much that we find her so. 
 
 We do not know what her thoughts were, as she sat there 
 and gazed out of the window, but whatever they were, their 
 chain was broken by the opening of the chamber door and 
 the entrance of another of our well-known characters. He 
 came in with a smile, — he, the destroyer of that hapless 
 creature, Henry Whitmore, entered with a smile. 
 
 His arm is yet in a sling, and he is slightly pale from his 
 recent confinement. 
 
 And Isabella Meadows turns her eyes toward him, and 
 with a sad smile greets him. Poor thing, she is endeavouring 
 to bear up as well as she can— like the poor girl who wa3 
 confined in the garret with her, she knows that she is ruined 
 and cannot help herself. 
 
 'Well 'Bella, how d'you get along? said the young man, 
 carelessly seating himself by her side, and throwing his arm 
 over her lovely shoulder. 
 
 ' Sadly, Harry,' she replied ; 1 I'm very lonesome and un* 
 happy when yon are not here !' 
 
322 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES 
 
 I Then, why don't you seek the society of the other girls V 
 
 * Oh, Harry, they are so coarse in their remarks. They are 
 very vulgar and swear at every tenth word, almost !' 
 
 ' Well, that's nothing. You'll get into it yourself, bye and 
 bye V replied the unfeeling wretch. 
 
 'Oh, God, no, I hope not!' said the girl, tearfully. 'I 
 know I am a lost and ruined creature, but I will not descend 
 to blasphemy — I will not go deeper into sin than I am !' 
 
 ' That be d d. You'll soon be like all the rest — for 
 
 all your preaching and soft talk now !' 
 
 ' Harry, do not say that. You ought to pity me — for you 
 have made me what I am ! 
 
 ' There you are again, with your eternal rant about my 
 ruining you, I do wish you'd sometimes change the subject !' 
 
 Isabella's eyes flashed for a moment with the fire of anger. 
 
 * You do not like to hear the truth, sir !' she said, bitterly. 
 You do not like to have me recall your base and unmanly 
 
 villany.' 
 
 * Come, come, Bell, don't let's have another scene !' said 
 the young man, a little more kindly. 
 
 I I did not wish to have a scene, a3 you call it, Henry, but 
 by your unkindness you forced it upon me !' 
 
 ' Well then, pass it over, I am sorry if I wa3 rough,' said 
 Whitmore. 
 
 The kindly tone with which he muttered this, operated in a 
 moment upon Isabella, and while tears came in her eyes, she 
 said, 
 
 'Thank you — thank you, Harry, for that kind word. I 
 never expect to be happy, but when you are unkind I grow 
 desperate. Do not drive me to drink, do not force me into 
 the vice and dissipation which I see around me. If I cannot 
 be your wife, at least let me be as decent as I can.' 
 
 1 Certainly, Bell ; you are the prettiest woman in town, and 
 I do not wonder that you wish to be exclusive. By the way, 
 I owe some of my friends a supper party, I hope you will nob 
 object to be present and do the honours.' 
 
 ' Oh, Harry, do excuse me. Is it not enough that you 
 should know my degradation 1 ? Do not make me a spectacle 
 to your loose companions.' 
 
 'I don't wish to make you a spectacle, Bell; they'd not 
 know you, and a supper party without a woman or two to en- 
 liven the scene is a dull affair. You'll really do me a great 
 favour if you'll attend this !' 
 
 1 You shall have your way, Harry — but I shall be very un« 
 happy when the eyes of strangers are upon me !' 
 
 'Oh, nonsense, Bell. You'll not feel it after the first 
 glance, and you are introduced to the company.' 
 
 / What note is that in your pocket V asked Isabella, glanc- 
 ing at a letter which had been carelessly thrust into hw Test* 
 
OF NEW YORK. 
 
 323 
 
 ' Duly an invitation to a party at a Mr. Shirley's,' replied 
 the young man. 
 
 * What, the father of that beautiful young girl I met you 
 walking with one day when we were first acquainted V asked 
 the girl, flushing up a little. 
 
 ' Yes, he's a merchant, and very well off !' 
 
 1 Then you intend going to hi3 party V continued Isabella. 
 
 1 Yes — I can't well get off. He's such a particular friend !' 
 
 A pang of jealousy shot through the unuappy girl's breast. 
 She began to fear that he soon would desert her, even as a 
 mistress, and she shuddered then at the dark and dreadful 
 fate which awaited her— the life which she felt that she 
 could not escape from. 
 
 ' Have you seen my brother, to-day V she continued, chang- 
 ing the subject of conversation. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Whitmore, 1 1 saw him, but he was very much 
 ushed with liquor. 
 
 ' Alas, I am the cause of it !' said the unhappy girl. 
 ' Oh, no, you are not. He has been dissipated for months. 
 ' Bafore I knew you, he was at the gambling table every 
 night. I was introduced to him at a place of that kind !' 
 
 * That was what kept him out so late, then V 
 « Yes.' 
 
 ' And my mother — have you seen or heard of her?' 
 
 'She is up the river, with some friends, 1 hear, and is very 
 comfortable, I believe !' replied the deceiver. 
 
 'Oh, I'm so glad of that. I expect she's with our relations 
 in Hudson !' said the poor girl, little dreaming where and 
 how her wretched mother really was. 
 
 4 Does my brother suspect where I am, or how I'm living V 
 3he continued. 
 
 ' No, not where you are — but he thinks you've turned out, 
 and are living with a Spaniard out of the city. Some one 
 told him so. He has sworn to kill you, if he ever meets you !' 
 
 1 Three weeks ago, I would have blessed him for the deed !' 
 said she, with a sigh. 
 
 1 And I would not only have cursed, but would have shot 
 him for it !' said Whitmore. ' You were made for a better 
 fate, 'Bell !' 
 
 ' For a better fate !' she replied, in a sarcastic tone ; * do you 
 call the life I am leading now, a better fate ? Henry Whitmore, 
 so help me God ; if I could recall the hour before I uncon- 
 sciously took the draught which left me helpless, and in your 
 power, and enabled you to make me what I am, I would destroy 
 my own life, rather than live to be what I am. If I could 
 be pure again, I would rather die than live !' 
 
 i Don't talk so, Bell. It's all very well for old maids to 
 preach up such nonsense— but for you, who are so beautiful 
 and so young, it is folly !' 
 
324 
 
 MYSTERIES AND MISERIES, ETC. 
 
 * Folly or no folly, Harry, it is just as I feel. But I am 
 what 1 am, now, and I cannot help it, only I pray you for my 
 sake, aye, and for your own, not to do anything which will 
 sink me deeper into degradation ! If I ever should get 
 desperate, you would have to beware of me. There is a fiend 
 in me, which must not be aroused !' 
 
 ' Poh, Bell ! There's more of the angel in you, than the 
 devil, a great deal !' 
 
 * No, Harry, all of the angel is fallen. I feel what I am — 
 I tremble when I think what I may be !' 
 
 Reader, with this chapter, we shall close this work. If you 
 would follow the fate of Isabella Meadows, and see what a 
 desperate, crime-hardened being a once pure and virtuous 
 maiden may become, when driven to the very verge of mad- 
 ness, by ruin and wrong; and if you would see the terrible 
 retribution which followed the crime of Albert Shirley, and 
 read a new and strange history in the fate of Constance, his 
 lovely daughter, you must read 
 
 "THE B'HOYS OF NEW FORK," 
 a work which will soon follow this, and which will also follow 
 up the strange career of the two Carltons, Sam Selden, and 
 other characters whom we have not disposed of in this 
 work. 
 
 The work we can safely promise will be quite as thrilling, 
 if not more so, than this, ior we have wilder incidents, and 
 stranger tales to tell, than the reader yet has seen. 
 
 The search of the Abingdons after their child — after great 
 expense and trouble, was at last rewarded with success. They 
 found him at a village school, near Troy, where he had been 
 placed by Genlis, who gave them information of his where- 
 abouts, through an agent whom they paid handsomely for the 
 service. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 D. Sullivan, Printer, Dublin, 
 
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