CHAPTER XIII.

THE REVEREND VOLUPTUARIES.

As the REV. HERMAN BARNHURST passed from the hall-door of the palace of the merchant prince, and descended the marble steps, his thoughts were by no means of a pleasant character. The image of Alice, for the moment forgotten, the thoughts of Herman were occupied with the scene which he had just witnessed,--the hopeless death-bed of the merchant prince.

"The fool!" muttered Herman, drawing his cloak around him, and pulling his hat over his brows, "The miserable fool! To die without making a will, when he has no heirs and the church has done so much for him. Why (in his own phrase) it has been _capital_ to him, in the way of reputation; he has grown rich by that reputation; and now he dies, leaving the church and her ministers,--not a single copper, not a single copper."

It was too early for Herman to return to his home,--so he thought,--therefore, he directed his steps toward Broadway, resolving, in spite of the late hour of the night, to pay a visit to one of his most intimate friends.

But, as he left the palace of the merchant prince, a MAN wrapped also in a cloak, and with a cap over his eyes, rose from the shadows behind the marble steps, and walked with an almost noiseless pace in the footsteps of the young clergyman.

This man had seen Herman enter the house of the merchant prince. Standing himself in the darkness behind the steps, he had waited patiently until Herman again appeared. In fact, he had followed the steps of the clergyman for at least three hours previous to the moment when he came to the residence of Evelyn Somers, Sr.; followed him from street to street, from house to house, walking fast or slow, as Herman quickened or moderated his pace; stopping when Herman stopped; and thus, for three long hours, he had dogged the steps of the clergyman with a patience and perseverance, that must certainly have been the result of some powerful motive.

And now, as the Rev. Herman Barnhurst left the house where the merchant prince lay dead, the MAN in cap and cloak, quietly resumed his march, like a veteran at the tap of the drum.

At the moment when Herman reached a dark point of the street near Broadway, the MAN stole noiselessly to his side and tapped him on the shoulder.

Herman turned with an ejaculation,--half fear, half wonder. The street was dark and deserted; the lights of Broadway shone two hundred yards ahead. Herman, at a glance, saw that himself and the MAN were the only persons visible.

"It's a thief," he thought,--and then, said aloud, in his sweetest voice: "What do you want, my friend?"

"_The twenty-fifth of December is near,_" said the MAN, in a slow and significant voice: "I have important information to communicate to you, in relation to the _Van Huyden estate_."

Herman was, of course, interested in the great estate, as one of the SEVEN; but he had a deeper interest in it, than the reader,--at present, can imagine. The words of the MAN, therefore, agitated him deeply.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"That I will tell you, when you have taken me to a place, where we can converse freely together."

Herman hesitated.

"Well, as you will," said the MAN--"It concerns you as much as it does me. You are afraid to grant me an interview. Good night--"

Thus speaking, he carelessly turned away.

Now Herman was afraid of the MAN, but there were other Men of whom he was more afraid. So balancing one fear against another, he came to this conclusion, that the MAN might communicate something, which would save him from the _other Men_, and so he called the stranger back.

"Why this concealment?" he asked.

"You will confess, after we have talked together, that I have good reasons for this concealment," was the answer of the MAN.

"Come, then, with me," said Herman, "I will not take you to my own rooms, but I will take you to the rooms of a friend. He is out of town and we can converse at our ease."

He led the way toward the room of the Rev. Dr. Bulgin, whom the profane sometimes called Bulgin_e_, which, as the learned know, is good Ethiopian for Steam Engine. This seemed to imply that the Rev. Dr. was a perfect Locomotive in his way.

"My friend Bulgin," said Herman, as they arrived in front of a massive four story building, on a cross street, not more than a quarter of a mile from the head of Broadway, "occupies the entire upper floor of this house, as a study. There he secludes himself while engaged in the composition of his more elaborate works. He has a body servant and a maid servant to wait upon him; and a parlor down stairs, for the reception of his visitors; but he has no communication with the other part of the house. In fact, he never sees the occupants of the boarding-house beneath his study. He rents his rooms of the lady who keeps the boarding-house,--Mrs. Smelgin,--who supplies his meals. Thus, he has the upper part of the house all to himself; and as I have a key to his rooms, we can go up there and talk at our ease."

"But, is not Dr. Bulgin married?" asked the MAN.

"He is. But his lady, on account of her health (she cannot bear the noise of the city), is forced to reside in the country with her father."

"Ah!" said the man.

Herman opened the front door with a night key, and led the way along a hall and up three ranges of stairs, until he came to a door. This door he opened with another key, and followed by the MAN, he entered Dr. Bulgin's study. He then locked the door, and they found themselves enveloped in Egyptian darkness.

"This may be Dr. Bulgin's study, but it strikes me, a little light would not do it much harm."

"Wait a moment," said Barnhurst,--"I'll light the lamp." And presently, by the aid of matches, he lighted a lamp which stood on a table of variegated marble. A globular shade of an exquisite pattern tempered the rays of the lamp, and filled the place with a light that was eminently soft and luxurious.

"Be seated," said Barnhurst, but the _stranger_ remained standing, with his cloak wound about him and his cap drawn over his brows. He was evidently examining the details of the study with an attentive,--may be--an astonished gaze.

Dr. Bulgin's study was worthy of examination.

It was composed of the upper floor of Mrs. Smelgin's boarding-house, and was, therefore, a vast room, its depth and breadth corresponding to the depth and breadth of the house.

It was, at least, thirty yards in length and twenty in breadth, and the ceiling was of corresponding height. Four huge windows faced the east, and four the west.

Thus, vast and roomy, the apartment was furnished in a style which might well excite the attentive gaze of the stranger.

In the center of the southern wall, stood the bookcase, an elegant fabric of rosewood, surmounted by richly-carved work, and crowned with an alabaster bust of Leo the Tenth; the voluptuous Pope who drank his wine, while poor Martin Luther was overturning the world.

The shelves of this bookcase were stored with the choicest books of five languages; some glittering in splendid binding, and others looking ancient and venerable in their faded covers. There were the most recondite works in English, French, German, Spanish; and there were also the most popular works in as many languages. Theology, metaphysics, mathematics, geometry, poetry, the drama, history, fact, fiction,--all were there, and of all manner of shapes, styles and ages. It was a very Noah's Ark of literature, into which seemed to have been admitted _one_ specimen, at least, of every book in the universe.

On the right of the bookcase was a sofa that made you sleepy just to look at it; it was so roomy, and its red-velvet cushioning looked so soft and tempting. This sofa was framed in rosewood, with little rosewood cupids wreathed around its legs.

And on the left of the bookcase was another sofa of a richer style, and of a more sleep-impelling exterior.

Above each sofa hung a picture, concealed by a thick curtain.

Along the northern wall of the study were disposed a sofa as magnificent as the others, and a series of marble pedestals and red-velvet arm-chairs. Every pedestal was crowned by an alabaster vase or statue of white marble. There were Eve, Apollo, Canova's Venus, and the Three Graces,--all exquisite originals or exquisite copies, in snowy marble.

The arm-chairs were arm-chairs indeed. Red-velvet cushions and high backs and great broad arms; they were the idea of a happy brain, impregnated with belief in Sancho's "Blessed be the man that invented sleep."

And this northern wall was hung with pictures in massive frames, richly gilt; the frames were exposed, but the pictures were vailed.

In the intervals between the western windows were pedestals crowned with vases, and mosaic tables loaded with objects of _virtu_: exquisite trifles of all sorts, gleaned from the Old World.

And in the intervals between the eastern windows were recesses, covered with hangings of pale crimson. What is concealed in those recesses, doth not yet appear. Both eastern and western windows were curtained with folds of intermingled white and damask, floating luxuriantly from the ceiling to the floor.

The floor was covered with an Axminster carpet of the richest dyes.

Gilt mouldings ran around the ceiling, and in the center thereof, was a cupid, encircled by a huge wreath of roses, and reposing on a day-break cloud.

The table, of variegated marble, which stood in the center of the study, was surrounded by three arm-chairs of the same style as those which lined the wall. It was circular in form, and upon it, appeared an elegant alabaster inkstand, gold pens with pearl handles, gilt-edged paper touched with perfume, a few choice books, and an exquisite "Venus in the Shell," done in alabaster. One of these books was a modern edition of the Golden Ass of Apuleius; and the other was a choice translation of Rabelais.

Altogether, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin's room was one of those rooms worthy of a place in history; and which, may be, could tell strange histories, were its chairs and tables gifted with the power of speech.

"And this is the study of the Rev. Dr. Bulgin!" ejaculated the MAN.

"It is," replied Herman, flinging himself into an arm-chair; "here he composes his most elaborate theological works."

"Why is his library crowned with that bust of Leo the Tenth, the Atheist and Sensualist?"

"He is writing a work on the age of Luther," replied Herman.

"Oh!" responded the MAN.

"And this!" the MAN drew the vail and bore one of the pictures to the light: "and this! what does it mean?"

"You are inquisitive, sir," replied Herman, somewhat confounded by the sudden disclosure of this singular picture, "why, in fact, Dr. Bulgin is writing a tract _against_ immoral pictures."

"A-h!" responded the MAN, and picked from the table the Golden Ass of Apuleius, illustrated with plates, "what does this do here? Are these plates to be understood in a theological sense?"

"Dr. Bulgin is getting up a treatise upon the subject of immoral literature. He has that book as an example."

"And when he writes a treatise on the infernal regions, he'd send there for a piece of the brimstone as an example?"

"You are profane," said Herman, tartly; "let me hope that you will proceed to business."

The MAN placed his cloak on a chair, and his cap on the table. Then seating himself opposite the minister, he gazed steadily in his face. Herman grew red in the face, and felt as though he had suddenly been plunged into an oven.

"Your name is,--is,"--he hesitated.

"Don't _you_ know me?" said the MAN.

"I,--I,--why,--I,--let me see."

Herman shaded his eyes with his hand, and steadily perused the face of the STRANGER, as though, in the effort, to recognize him.

He was a young man of a muscular frame, clad in a single-breasted blue coat, which was buttoned over a broad chest. He was of the medium height. His forehead was broad; his eyes clear gray; his lips wide and firm; his nose inclining to the aquiline; his chin round and solid. The general expression of his features was that of straightforwardness and energy of character. There was the freshness and the warmth of youth upon his face, and his forehead was stamped with the ideality of genius. As he wore his brown hair in short, thick curls, it marked the outline of his head, and threw his forehead distinctly into view.

"You are,--you are,--where did I see you?" hesitated Herman.

"I am Arthur Dermoyne," was the reply, in an even, but emphatic voice.

Then there was an embarrassing pause.

"Where have I met you?" said Herman, as if in the painful effort to recollect.

"At the house of Mr. Burney, in the city of Philadelphia," was the answer.

"Ah! now I remember!" ejaculated Herman; "Poor, poor Mr. Burney! You have heard of the sad accident which took place last night, ah--ah--?"

Herman buried his face in his hands, and seemed profoundly affected.

"I saw his mangled body at the house half way between New York and Philadelphia, only a few hours ago," the young man's voice was cold and stern, "and now I am in New York, endeavoring to find the scoundrel who abducted his only daughter."

Herman looked at cupid in the ceiling and pretended to brush a hair from his nose--

"Ah, I remember, poor Mr. Burney told me last night, that his child had been abducted. Yes,--" Herman looked at the hair, and held it between his eyes and the light, "he told me about it just before the accident occurred. Poor girl! Poor girl! Oh, by-the-bye," turning suddenly in his arm-chair, but without looking into the face of Dermoyne, "you take an interest in the Burney family. Are you a relative?"

"I have visited the house of Mr. Burney, from time to time, and have seen Alice, his only daughter. You may think me romantic, but to see that girl, so pure, so innocent, so beautiful, was to love her. I will confess that had it not been for a disparity of fortune, and a difference in regard to religious views, between her father and myself, I would have been most happy to have made her my wife."

The tone of the young man was somewhat agitated; he was endeavoring to suppress his emotions.

"Courage! He does not _know_," muttered Herman to himself, and then assuming a calm look, he continued, aloud: "And she would have made you a noble wife. By-the-bye, you spoke of your profession. A merchant, I suppose?"

"No, sir."

"A lawyer?"

"No, sir."

"A medical gentleman?"

"No, sir."

"You are then--"

"A shoemaker."

"A WHAT," ejaculated Herman, jumping from his chair.

"A shoemaker," repeated Arthur Dermoyne. "I gain my bread by the work of my hands, and by the hardest of all kinds of work. I am not only a mechanic, but a shoemaker."

Herman could not repress a burst of laughter.

"Excuse me, but, ha, ha, ha! You are a shoemaker? And you visited the house of the wealthy Burney, and aspired to his daughter's hand? You will excuse me, ha, ha, ha!--but it is so very odd."

Dermoyne's forehead grew dark.

"Yes, I am a shoemaker. I earn my bread by the work of my hands. But before you despise me, you will hear why I am a shoemaker. As an orphaned child, without father or mother, there was no other career before me, than the pauperism of the outcast or the slavery of an apprentice. I chose the latter. The overseers of the poor bound me out to a trade. I grew up without hope, education, or home. In the day-time I worked at an occupation which is work without exercise, and which continued ten years, at ten hours a day, will destroy the constitution of the strongest man. From this hopeless apprenticeship, I passed into the life of a journeyman, and knew what it was to battle with the world for myself. How I worked, starved and worked, matters not, for we folks are born for that kind of thing. But as I sat upon my work-bench, listening to a book which was read by one of my own brother workmen, I became aware that I was not only poor, but ignorant; that my body was not only enslaved, but also my soul.--Therefore, I taught myself to read; to write; and for three years I have devoted five hours of every night to study."

"And are still a shoemaker?" Herman's smooth face was full of quiet scorn and laughter.

"I am still a shoemaker--a workman at the bench--because I cannot, in _conscience_, enter one of the professions called learned.--I cannot separate myself from that nine-tenths of the human family, who seem to have been only born to work and die--die in mind, as well as body--in order to supply the _idle_ tenth with superfluities. Oh! sir, you, who are so learned and eloquent, could you but read the thoughts which enter the heart of the poor shoemaker, who, sitting at his work-bench, in a cramped position, is forced sometimes to reflect upon his fate!--He beholds the lawyer, with a conscience distinct from that given to him by God; a conscience that makes him believe that it is right to grow rich by the tricks and frauds of law. He beholds the doctor, also with the conscience of his class, sending human beings to death by system, and filling graveyards by the exact rule of the schools. He beholds the minister, too often also with but the _conscience_ of a class, preaching the thoughts of those who do not work, and failing to give utterance to the agonies of those who do work--who do all the labor, and suffer all the misery in the world. And these classes are respected; honored. They are the true noblemen! Their respectability is shared by the merchant, who grows rich by distributing the products of labor. But as for the shoemaker--nay, the workman, of whatever trade--whose labor produces all the physical _wealth of the world_--who works all life long, and only rests when his head is in the cold grave,--what of him? He is a serf, a slave, a Pariah. On the stage no joke is so piquant as the one which is leveled at the 'tailor,' or the 'cobbler;' in literature, the attempt of an unknown to elevate himself, is matter for a brutal laugh; and even grave men like you, when addressed by a man who, like myself, confesses that he is a--shoemaker! you burst into laughter, as though the master you profess to serve, was not himself, one day, a workman at the carpenter's bench."

"These words are of the French school." Herman gave the word "French" a withering accent.

"Did the French school produce the New Testament?"

Herman did not answer, but fixed his glance upon cupid in the ceiling.

"But you are educated--why not devote yourself to one of the professions?" and Herman turned his eyes from cupid in the ceiling, to Venus in the Shell.

Dermoyne's face gleamed with a calm seriousness, a deep enthusiasm, which imparted a new life to every lineament.

"Because I do not wish to separate myself from the largest portion of humanity. No, no,--had I the intellect of a Shakspeare, or the religion of a St. Paul, I would not wish to separate myself from the greater portion of God's family--those who are born, who work, who die. No, no! I am waiting--I am waiting!"

"Waiting?" echoed Herman.

"Maybe the day will come, when, gifted with wealth, I can enter the workshops of Philadelphia, and say to the workmen, 'Come, brothers. Here is CAPITAL. Let us go to the west. Let us find a spot of God's earth unpolluted by white or black slavery. Let us build a community where every man shall work with his hands, and where every man will also have the opportunity to cultivate his mind--to work with his brain.--There every one will have a place to work, and every one will receive the fruits of his work. And there,--oh, my God!--there will we, without priest, or monopolist, or slaveholder, establish in the midst of a band of brothers, the worship of that Christ who was himself a workman, even as he is now, the workman's God.'"

Arthur Dermoyne had started from his chair; his hands were clasped; his gray eyes were filled with tears.

"French ideas--French ideas," cried Herman. "You have been reading French books, young man!"

Arthur looked at the clergyman, and said quietly:

"These ideas were held by the German race who settled in Pennsylvania, in the time of William Penn. Driven, from Germany by the hands of Protestant priests, they brought with them to the New World, the '_French ideas_' of the New Testament."

"The Germans who settled Pennsylvania--a stupid race," observed Herman, in calm derision; "Look at some of their descendants."

"The Germans of the present day--or, to speak more distinctly,--the Pennsylvania Germans, descendants of the old stock, who came over about the time of Penn, are a _conquered_ race!--"

"A _conquered_ race?" echoed Herman.

"_Conquered_ by the English language," continued Dermoyne. "As a mass, they are not well instructed either in English or in German, and therefore have no chance to develop, to its fullest extent, the stamina of their race. They know but little of the real history of their ancestors, who first brought to Pennsylvania the great truth, that God is not a God of hatred, pleased with blood, but a God of love, whose great law is the PROGRESS of all his children,--that is, the entire family of man, both HERE and HEREAFTER. And the Pennsylvanian Germans are the scoff and sneer of Yankee swindler and southern braggart; but the day will come, when the descendants of that race will rise to their destiny, and even as the farms of Pennsylvania now show their _physical_ progress, so will the entire American continent bear witness to their _intellectual_ power. They are of the race of Luther, of Goethe, and of Schiller,--hard to kill,--the men who can work, and the men whose work will make a people strong, a nation great and noble."

"You are of this race?" asked Herman, pulling his cloak gently with his delicate hand.

"My father, (I am told, for he died when I was a child,) was a wealthy farmer, whose wealth was swallowed up by an unjust lawsuit and a fraudulent bank. My grandfather was a wheelwright; my great-grandfather a cobbler; my great-great-grandfather a carpenter; and his father, was a tiller of the field. So you see, I am _nobly_ descended," and a smile crossed the lips of Dermoyne. "Not a single idler or vagabond in our family,--all workers, like their Savior,--all men who eat the bread of honest labor. Ah! I forgot;" he passed his hand over his forehead--"there was a count in our family. This, I confess, is a blot upon us; but when you remember that he forsook his countship in Germany, to become a tiller of the fields in Pennsylvania--about the year 1680--you will look over the fault of his title."

Herman burst into a fit of pleasant laughter.

"You have odd ideas of nobility!" he ejaculated.

"Odd as the New Testament," said Dermoyne; "and as old. By-the-bye, this count in our family, was related to the Van Huyden family. (You, also, are one of the seven?--Yes, your name is among the others.) Ah! should the 25th of December give into my hands but a few thousand dollars, I will try and show the world how workmen, united for the common good, can live and work together."

"A few thousands!" laughed Herman, displaying himself at full length on the capacious chair; "why, in case the Seven receive the estate at all, they will divide among them some twenty, perhaps, forty millions of dollars!"

"Forty millions of dollars!" Dermoyne was thunderstruck. He folded his arms, and gazed upon vacancy with fixed eyes. "My God! what might not be done with forty millions!"--he paused and stretched forth his hand, as though a vision of the future dawned upon him.

"Did Mr. Burney--poor friend!--know that you were a--shoemaker?" Once more Herman shaded his eyes with his hand, and regarded the young man with a pleasant smile.

"He did not," answered Dermoyne. "I became acquainted with him,--it matters not how,--and visited his house, where, more than once, I have conversed with his daughter Alice. No, Mr. Burney did me wrong; for while I was a shoemaker, he persisted, (in ignorance of my character,) in thinking me--_a gentleman_! A _gentleman_--an idle vagabond, whose gentility is supported by the labor of honest men.--Faugh!"

"Well, I must confess," Herman said with a wave of the hand and a patronizing tone, "that from your manner, gestures, accent, et cetera, I have always taken you for an educated gentleman. But your principles are decidedly ungenteel,--allow me the remark."

Herman began to feel much more at ease. "He does not dream I have any share in the abduction of Alice!" This thought was comfort and repose to his mind.

But Arthur Dermoyne changed the tone of this pleasant dream by a single question: "Do _you_,--" he fixed his eyes sternly upon the young minister: "Do YOU know anything of the retreat of Alice Burney?"

"Do I know anything of the retreat--of--Alice--Burney!" he echoed: "What a question to ask a man of my cloth!"

Dermoyne placed his hand within the breast of his coat, and drew forth ten gold pieces, which he held in the light, in the palm of his hand.

"Every coin gained by days and nights of work--hard work," he said. "It has taken me three years to save that sum. When I thought of Alice as a wife, this little hoard, (such was my fancy,) might enable me to furnish a good home. Do you understand me, sir? You who receive five thousand dollars per year for preaching the gospel of your church, can you comprehend how precious is this fortune of one hundred dollars, to a poor workman, who earns his bread by sitting in a cramped position, fourteen hours a day, making shoes?"

"Well, what have I to do with this money?"

"You comprehend that these ten gold pieces are as much to me, as a ten hundred would be to you? These gold pieces will buy books which I earnestly desire; they will help me to relieve a brother workman who happens to be poorer than myself; they will help me to go to the far west, where there is land and home for all. Well, this fortune, I have dedicated to one purpose: To support me, here in New York, on bread and water, until I can discover the hiding-place of Alice Burney, and meet her seducer face to face. How long do you think my gold will furnish me with bread, while I devote day and night to this purpose?"

The iron resolution of the young man's face, made the clergyman feel afraid.

"You will remark," he exclaimed, stretching himself in his chair, and contemplating the whiteness of his nails, "that a witness of our conversation might infer, from the tenor of your discourse, that you have an idea--an idea--" he hesitated, "that I have something to do with the abduction of this young lady. Doubtless you do not mean to convey this impression, and therefore I will thank you to correct the tone of your remarks."

Herman was quite lordly.

"Then you know nothing of the retreat of Alice Burney?"

"The question is an insult--"

"Nothing of her seducer?"

"I repeat it; the question is an insult," and Herman started up in his chair, with flashing eyes and corrugated brow.

"Will you swear that you are ignorant of her retreat, and of the name of her seducer?" coolly continued Dermoyne.

"Men of my cloth do not swear," as coolly returned Herman.

"Allow me to congratulate you upon your ignorance," replied Dermoyne, "for--for;--will you have the goodness to observe me for a moment?"

While Herman watched him with a wondering eye, the young man replaced the gold pieces in his pocket, and rising from his chair, surveyed the room with an attentive gaze. His eye rested at length upon an iron candlestick, which stood upon a shelf of the library; it was evidently out of place in that luxurious room; and had been left there through the forgetfulness of the servant who took care of the Rev. Dr. Bulgin's study. Dermoyne took this candlestick from the shelf, and then returned to the light.

"Do you see this? It is about six inches long and one inch in diameter. Would it not take a strong man to break that in twain with both hands?"

Herman took the candlestick; examined it attentively: "It would take a Sampson," he said.

"Now look at my hand." Dermoyne extended a hand which, hardened by labor in the palm, was not so large as it was muscular and bony.

"What have I to do with your hand?" exclaimed Herman, in evident disgust.

"Watch me," said Dermoyne; and, resting the candlestick on his right hand, he closed his fingers, and pressed his thumb against it. After an instant he opened his hand again. The iron candlestick was bent nearly double. Dermoyne had accomplished this feat without the appearance of exertion.

"Why, you are a very Hercules!" ejaculated Herman,--"and yet, you are not above the medium height. You do not look like a strong man."

"God has invested me with almost superhuman strength," replied Dermoyne, as he stood erect before the minister, resting one hand upon the table: "had it not been for that, hard work would have killed me long ago. I can lift with one hand, a weight, which would task the strength of almost any two men but to budge; I can strike a blow, which, properly planted, would fell an ox; I can--"

"You needn't dilate," interrupted Herman, "the study of the Rev. Dr. Bulgin is not exactly the place for gymnastic experiments--"

"Well, you'll see my drift directly," calmly continued Dermoyne--"I have never dared to use this strength, save in the way of work or occasional exercise. I regard it as a kind of trust, given to me by Providence for a good purpose."

"What purpose, pray?" said Herman, opening his eyes.

"To punish those criminals whom the law does not punish; to protect those victims it does not protect," answered Dermoyne, steadily. "Now, for instance, were I to encounter the seducer of Alice Burney,--were I to stand face to face with him, as I do with you,--were I to place my thumb upon his right temple and my fingers upon his left temple,--thus--"

"You,--you,--" gasped the minister, who suddenly felt the hand of Arthur Dermoyne upon his forehead; the thumb pressed gently upon the right temple and the fingers upon his left--"you,--would,--what?"

"I would, quietly, without a word, crush his skull as you might crush an egg-shell," slowly answered Dermoyne.

He took his hand away. The face of Herman was white as a sheet. He shook in his velvet chair. For a moment he could not speak.

"I, therefore, congratulate you, that you know nothing of the matter," calmly continued Dermoyne, not seeming to notice the fright of the minister; "for, with a villain like this unknown seducer before me, I would lose all control over myself, and (ere I was aware of it) I would have wiped him out of existence. This would be murder, you are about to remark! So it would. But, is not this seducer a murderer in a three fold sense? First, he has murdered the chastity of this poor girl; and second, in the attempt to get rid of the proof of his guilt, he _may_ (who knows?) murder her body and the body of her unborn child."

The room was still as the grave, as Dermoyne concluded the last sentence.

Barnhurst sank back in the chair, helpless as a child. For a moment his self-possession deserted him. His guilt was stamped upon his face.

"Here you can count three murders," continued Dermoyne, not seeming to notice the dismay of the minister,--"the murder of a woman's purity,--the murder of her body--the murder of her babe. Now, I don't pretend to say, that it would be RIGHT for me to kill the three fold murderer, but I do say, that, were I to meet him, and _know_ his guilt, that my blood would boil,--my eyes would grow dim,--my hand would be extended, and in an instant, would hold his mangled skull, between the thumb and fingers."

Herman's arms dropped helplessly by his side. He was extended in the capacious chair, a vivid picture of helpless fright.

Dermoyne, whose broad chest and bold features, caught on one side the glow of the light, as he stood erect by the table, gazed upon the minister with a calm look, and continued--

"So, you see, I congratulate you, that you know nothing of the matter--"

"Oh, I am shocked, shocked," and Herman made out to cover his face with his hands, "I am shocked, at the vivid, viv-id," he stammered,--"vivid picture which you have drawn of the crimes of this seducer."

Dermoyne sank quietly into the chair on the opposite side of the table, and shaded his eyes with his right hand. He also was _thinking_.

For a long pause, there was profound stillness. The lamp on the table shed its luxurious light over the vast room, peopled as it was, with images of wealth, ease and voluptuousness, and upon the figures of these men, seated opposite to each other, and each with his eyes shaded by his hand.

At length, Herman recovering a portion of his self-possession, exclaimed without raising his hands from his face:

"I trust you will end this interview at once. You have given my nerves a severe shock. To-morrow,--to-morrow,--I will talk to you about the Van Huyden estate, about which, I presume, you asked this interview."

Dermoyne raised his hand to his forehead,--somewhat after the manner of Herman,--and surveyed the clergyman with a keen, searching gaze. Gradually a smile, so faint as to be scarcely perceptible, stole over his features.

Herman felt the force of that gaze and his smooth complexion turned from deathly white to scarlet, and from scarlet to deathly white again.

"What next?" he muttered to himself, "does _he_ know? Had I better call for assistance?"

Dermoyne, quietly left his seat, and advancing until he confronted Herman, placed a small piece of paper on the table, and held it firmly under his thumb, so that the words written upon it, were legible in the lamp-light.

"Read that," he said, and his flashing eye was fixed on Barnhurst's face.

Half wondering, half stupefied, Barnhurst bent forward and read:--

_Dec_. 24, 1844.

MADAM:--Your _patient_ will come to-night.

HERMAN BARNHURST.

As he read, Herman looked like a man who has received his death-warrant. The very effort,--and it was a mortal one,--which he made to control himself, only gave a stronger agitation to his quivering lineaments.

"Can you tell where I found this?" whispered Dermoyne. "Near the mangled body of the father of Alice,--at sunset, but a few hours ago, and at the house half-way between New York and Philadelphia,--there among the ashes, and half consumed by fire, I discovered this precious document. Did you drop this paper from your pocket, my friend, when you sought shelter in the house, after the accident on the railroad, last night?"

Herman had not the power to reply. His eyes were riveted by the half-burned fragment.

"What has the Rev. Herman Barnhurst, the clergyman, to do with MADAM RESIMER, _the murderess of unborn children_?" continued Dermoyne; "and the _patient_,--who is the _patient_? Is it Alice? This letter is dated the 24th, and to-morrow night, Alice will cross the threshold of that hell, where THE MADAM rules, as the presiding Devil!"

A gleam of hope shot across Herman's soul. "He does not know, that Alice is already in the care of Madam Resimer. Courage,--courage!"

"Have you no answer?" Dermoyne's eye gleamed with deadly light; still holding the paper, he advanced a step nearer to the clergyman.

"Yes, I have an answer!" exclaimed Herman, sinking back in the chair: "that letter is a forgery."

Dermoyne was astonished.

"You never wrote it?"

"Never,--never!" Herman raised his hands to Heaven,--"it is the work of some mortal enemy. Beside, were I guilty, is it reasonable to suppose, that I, a clergyman, would sign my own name to a letter addressed to Madam Resimer?"

Dermoyne was puzzled; he glanced from the letter to Barnhurst's face, and a look of doubt clouded his features.

"A forgery?" he asked.

"An infamous forgery!" cried Barnhurst, resuming his dignity. "Now, that you have wrung my very soul, by an accusation so utterly infamous, so thoroughly improbable, let me hope that you will--" he pointed to the door.

Dermoyne resumed his cap and cloak, first, carefully replacing the letter in his vest pocket.

"By to-morrow," he said, in a voice which rang low and distinct through the apartment, "by to-morrow, I will know the truth of this matter; and if I discover that this is, indeed, your letter,--if you have, indeed, dishonored poor Alice, and consigned herself and unborn babe, to the infernal mercies of Madam Resimer, why then,"--he moved toward the door, "then there will be one man the less, on the 25th of December."

He opened the door, and was gone ere his words had ceased to echo on the air.

His parting words rung in the very soul of the clergymen, as his footsteps died away on the stairs.

"What an abyss have I escaped!" ejaculated Herman, "exposure, disgrace and death!" He pressed his scented kerchief over his forehead, and wiped away the cold sweat which moistened it. "Fool! he little knows that Alice is already _there_. The Madam is a shrewd woman. Her rooms are dark, her doors secured by double bolts; her secrets are given to the keeping of the grave. This miserable idiot, this cobbler, cannot possibly gain admittance into her mansion? No, no, this thought is idle. And Alice, poor child, why can't I marry her? Her father's death will leave her in possession of a handsome fortune,--why can't I marry her?"

Too well he knew the _only_ answer to this question.

"We are all but mortal; she may _die_!" and an expression of remarkable complacency came over his face. Joining his thumbs and fingers in front of his breast, he reflected deeply. "But if she survives?"

His brow became clouded, his lips compressed; all the _vulture_ of his soul was written on his vulture-like countenance.

"If she survives!"

While the light disclosed his slender figure, centered in the scarlet cushions of the arm-chair, and fell upon his countenance, revealing the purpose which was written there, Herman still muttered between his set teeth, the question, "IF she survives?" To him, it was a question of life and death.

But his meditations were interrupted by a burst of boisterous laughter.

"Why Barnhurst! you are grave as an owl. What's the matter, my dear?"

Herman looked up with a start, and a half-muttered ejaculation. The Rev. Dr. Bulgin stood before him, his cloak on his arm, and a cap in his hand.

"I thought you was out of town?" cried Herman.

"So I was; a convention of divines, speeches, resolutions, and so forth, you know. But now I'm in town, and,--such an adventure, my dear boy! I must tell you of it."

Before Bulgin tells his adventure, we must look at him. A man of thirty-five years, with broad shoulders, heavy chest and unwieldy limbs; a portly man, some would call him, dressed in black, of course, and with a white cravat about his neck, which was short and fat. Draggled masses of brownish hair stray, in uneven ends, about Bulgin's face and ears; that face is round and shiny,--its hue, a greasy florid,--its brow, broad and low; its eyes large, moist and oyster-like. In a word, the upper part of Bulgin's head indicates the man of intellect; the face, the eyes, mouth, nose and all, tell the story of a nature thoroughly animal,--bestial, would be a truer word.

That head and face were but too true in their indications.

Bulgin was, in intellect, something of a god; in real life; in the gratification of appetite; in habits, strengthened by the growth of years, he was a beast. It may seem a harsh word, but it is the only one that suits Bulgin's case. He was a beast. Not a quiet ox, cropping clover at his ease, nor yet a lordly bull, madly tossing his horns in the center of a grassy field,--of course, we mean nothing of the kind,--but a beast on two legs, gifted with a strong intellect and an immortal soul, and devoting intellect and soul to the full gratification of his beastly nature. He was, withal, a good-humored beast. He enjoyed a joke. His laugh was jovial; reminding you of goblets of wine and suppers of terrapin. His manner was off-hand, free and easy--out of the pulpit, of course; in the pulpit, no one so demure, so zealous and pathetic as the Rev. Dr. Bulgin.

He regarded his ministerial office as a piece of convenient clock-work, invented some years ago, for the purpose of supplying the masses with _something to believe_; and men like himself, with a good salary, a fine house, plenty to eat and drink, fair social position, and free opportunity for the gratification of every appetite.

His creed was a part of this clock-work. It was his living. Therefore, everything that he wrote or uttered, in regard to religion, was true to his creed; true, eloquent, and breathing the loftiest enthusiasm. To doubt his creed, was to doubt his living. Therefore, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin did not doubt his creed, but took it as he found it, and advocated it with all the energy of his intellectual nature.

As to any possible appreciation of the Bible, or of that Savior who, emerging from the shop of a carpenter, came to speak words of hope to all mankind, and, in especial, to that portion who bear all the slavery, and do all the work of the world, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin never troubled himself with thoughts like these; he was above and beyond them; the Bible and the Savior were, in his estimation, convenient parts of that convenient clock-work which afforded him the pleasant sum of five thousand dollars per year.

To look at the Rev. Dr. Bulgin; to see him stand there, with his sensual form and swinish face, you would not think that he was the author of one of the most spiritual works in the world, entitled "Our Communion with the Spirit."

To _know_ the Rev. Dr. Bulgin,--to know him when, his stage drapery laid aside, he appeared the thing he was,--you could, by no means, imagine that he was the author of an excellent work on "Private Prayer."

And yet he was no hypocrite; not, at least, in the common sense of the word. He was an intellectual animal whose utmost hopes were bounded by the horizon of this world. Beyond this world there was NOTHING. He was an Atheist. Not an Atheist publishing a paper advocating Atheistic principles, but an Atheist in the pulpit, professing to preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ. You may shudder at the thought, but the Reverend Doctor Bulgin was such a man.

And just such men, in churches of all kinds,--Protestants and Catholics, Orthodox and Heterodox,--have these eighteen hundred years been preaching a clock-work Gospel, leaving unsaid, uncared for, the true Word of the Master--a Word which says, in one breath, temporal and spiritual prayers--a Word which enjoins the establishment of the kingdom of God, _on earth_, in the physical and intellectual welfare of the greatest portion of mankind.

Too well these Atheists know that were that Word once boldly uttered, their high pulpits and magnificent livings would vanish like cobwebs before the sweeper's broom.

How much evil have such Atheists accomplished in the course of eighteen hundred years?

It will do no harm to think upon this subject, just a little.

"Herman, my boy, I must tell you of my last adventure," said Bulgin, dropping into the seat which Dermoyne had lately occupied; "it will make your mouth water!" He smacked his lips and clapped his hands; the lips were _oily_, and the hands fat and dumpy. "But, first, you must tell me what's the matter with you? Anything wrong in your church?"

"That doesn't trouble me," responded Herman. "True, there is the trial of the Bishop, and the wrangling of these Low Church fellows, about our gowns and altars; our views of the sacrament, and our high notions of the priesthood. These Low Church people are actually _Methodists_. They would rob the church of all dignity, and turn the priest of the altar into the ranter of the conventicle,--"

"We are not troubled with bishops, nor apostolic successions," interrupted Bulgin: "High and Low Church don't trouble us.--Our deacons want a minister; they _call_ him and _pay_ him. Now, if our church admitted of a bishop, I think that--" he put his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, and surveyed his heavy limbs with great complacency, "that your humble servant would make a--"

"Bishop?" cried Herman, with a laugh.

"Ay, and a capital bishop, too, if all be true that these Low Church fellows say of the Bishop of your church. I am a man of _feeling_, eh, my boy?"

This was a home thrust. Notwithstanding his intimacy with Bulgin, Herman did not regard him as a _real_ priest of _the_ church, but only as the called teacher of a congregation. Therefore, he felt the allusion to his bishop the more heavily.

"You were speaking of an adventure?" suggested Herman, anxious to change the subject: "What about it?"

Bulgin flung back his head, and burst into a roar of laughter.

"I'm laughing at my adventure, not at you, my dear Herman. Just imagine my case. I have a patient on my hands, who is rich, crippled with a dozen diseases, and troubled in his mind on some _doctrinal_ point. In the morning I visit the old gentleman, and after hearing afresh the list of his diseases, I _soothe_ him on the doctrinal point.--Soothe him, and quote the Fathers, and fire him up with a word or two about the Pope. And in the afternoon--" he closed one eye, and looked at Herman in such a manner, that the latter could not avoid a burst of laughter, "in the afternoon, while the old man is asleep, I visit his wife,--young and handsome, and such a love of a woman--and soothe her mind on another doctrinal point. Sometimes my lessons are prolonged until evening, and--ha, ha!--I have my hands full, I assure you."

"You called there to-night, on your way home?" asked Herman, with a smile.

"Just to see if the old gentleman was better, and,--but wait a moment," he rose from his chair, and hurried into the shadows of the room, turned one of the recesses, between the western windows. There he remained, until Herman grew impatient.

"What are you doing," he exclaimed, and as he spoke, Bulgin returned toward the light, "what is this!" and his eyes opened with a wondering stare.

"I'm a cardinal; that is all. The dress of Leo the Tenth, before he became Pope. Don't you think I _look_ the character?"

He was attired in a robe of scarlet velvet, which covered his unwieldy form from the neck to the feet, and enveloped his arms in its voluminous sleeves. His florid face appeared beneath the broad rim of a red hat, and upon his broad chest hung a golden chain, to which was appended a huge golden cross. The costume was of the richest texture, and gave something of a lordly appearance to the bulky form of the reverend doctor.

"I'm a cardinal," said Bulgin with a wink; "There is a nice party of us, who meet to-night, between twelve and one, to confer upon _grave_ matters. Every one wears a mask and costume. Will you go with me? There is the robe of a Jesuit yonder, which will fit you to a hair."

Herman's eyes flashed, and he started from his chair.

"The wife of your old _patient_,"--he began.

"Goes as the cardinal's niece, you know! we didn't know the costume of a cardinal's niece, and so I told her to wear a dress-coat and pantaloons. Will you go?"

Herman's face glowed with the full force of his MONOMANIA.

"For wine and feasting, I care not," he cried, "but a scene where beautiful women--" he paused, and fixed his eyes on vacancy, while that singular monomania shone from his humid eyes, and fired his cheeks with a vivid glow. "Where are we to go?" he asked.

"To the TEMPLE," said the Rev. Dr. Bulgin, with his finger on his light: "You remember the night when we were there?"

"Remember?" echoed the Rev. Herman Barnhurst, with an accent of inexpressible rapture: "Can I ever forget?" He strode hastily toward the recess. "Where is the Jesuit robe?"

But as he touched the curtain of the recess, he was palsied by a sudden thought.

"Ah, this cobbler, this Dermoyne! He will go to Madame Resimer's with my note in his hand, and pretend to come in my name. He will, at least, induce her to open the doors, and then force his way into her house. If he enters there, I am lost."

Turning to Bulgin, he flung his cloak around him, and took up his cap. "No, sir, I cannot go with you. Excuse me--I am in a great hurry."

He hurried to the door, and disappeared ere Bulgin could answer him with a word.

"Dermoyne has a half an hour's start of me," muttered Herman, as he disappeared, "I must be quick, or I am lost."

"That is cool!" soliloquized Bulgin: "some difficulty about a woman, I suppose: our young friend must be cautious: _exposure_ in these matters is fatal."

Without bestowing another word upon his friend, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin, attired in the cardinal's hat and robe, sank in the arm-chair, and put his feet upon the table, and flung back his head, thus presenting one of the finest pictures of ecclesiastical ease, that ever gratified the eyes of mortal man.

He suffered himself to be seduced into the mazes of an enchanting reverie:

"Ah, that's my ideal of a man," he suffered his eye to rest upon the head of Leo the Tenth: "Without a particle of religion to trouble him, he took care of the spiritual destinies of the world, and at the same time enjoyed his palace, where the wine was of the choicest, and the women of the youngest and most beautiful. He _was_ a gentleman. While poor Martin Luther was giving himself a great deal of trouble about this worthless world, Leo had a world of his own, within the Vatican, a world of wit, of wine and beauty. That's my ideal of an ecclesiastic. Religion, its machinery, and its terrors for the masses,--for ourselves," he glanced around his splendid room, "something like _this_, and five thousand a year."

And the good man shook with laughter.

"I must be going,"--he rose to his feet--"It's after twelve now, and before one, I must be at THE TEMPLE."

* * * * *

And while Barnhurst, Bulgin and Dermoyne go forth on their respective ways, let us--although the TEMPLE is very near--gaze upon a scene, by no means lighted by festal lamps, or perfumed with voluptuous flowers. Let us descend into the subterranean world, sunken somewhere in the vicinity of Five Points and the Tombs.