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MY LIFE:
Or
The Adventures of Geo. Thompson.
Being the Auto-Biography of an
Author. Written by Himself.
Why rove in _Fiction's_ shadowy land,
And seek for treasures there,
When _Truth's_ domain, so near at hand,
Is filled with things most rare--
When every day brings something new,
Some great, stupendous change,
Something exciting, wild and _true_,
Most wonderful and strange!
[ORIGINAL.]
{First published 1854}
[Illustration: Yellow Cover of Thompson's _My Life_. Original size 6 x
9-1/8". Courtesy, American Antiquarian Society.]
INTRODUCTION
_In which the author defineth his position._
It having become the fashion of distinguished novelists to write their
own lives--or, in other words, to blow their own trumpets,--the author
of these pages is induced, at the solicitation of numerous friends,
whose bumps of inquisitiveness are strongly developed, to present his
auto-biography to the public--in so doing which, he but follows the
example of Alexandre Dumas, the brilliant French novelist, and of the
world-renowned Dickens, both of whom are understood to be preparing
their personal histories for the press.
Now, in comparing myself with the above great worthies, who are so
deservedly distinguished in the world of literature, I shall be accused
of unpardonable presumption and ridiculous egotism--but I care not what
may be said of me, inasmuch as a total independence of the opinions,
feelings and prejudices of the world, has always been a prominent
characteristic of mine--and that portion of the world and the "rest of
mankind" which does not like me, has my full permission to go to the
devil as soon as it can make all the necessary arrangements for the
journey.
I shall be true and candid, in these pages. I shall not seek to conceal
one of my numerous faults which I acknowledge and deplore; and, if I
imagine that I possess one solitary merit, I shall not be backward in
making that merit known. Those who know me personally, will never accuse
me of entertaining one single atom of that despicable quality,
self-conceit; those who do not know me, are at liberty to think what
they please.--Heaven knows that had I possessed a higher estimation of
myself, a more complete reliance upon my own powers, and some of that
universal commodity known as "cheek," I should at this present moment
have been far better off in fame and fortune. But I have been
unobtrusive, unambitious, retiring--and my friends have blamed me for
this a thousand times. I have seen writers of no talent at all--petty
scribblers, wasters of ink and spoilers of paper, who could not write
six consecutive lines of English grammar, and whose short paragraphs for
the newspapers invariably had to undergo revision and correction--I have
seen such fellows causing themselves to be invited to public banquets
and other festivals, and forcing their unwelcome presence into the
society of the most distinguished men of the day.
I have spoken of my friends--now a word or two in regard to my enemies.
Like most men who have figured before the public, in whatever capacity,
I have secured the hatred of many persons, who, jealous of my humble
fame, have lost no opportunity of spitting out their malice and opposing
my progress. The friendship of such persons is a misfortune--their
enmity is a blessing.
I assure them that their hatred will never cause me to lose a fraction
of my appetite, or my nightly rest. They may consider themselves very
fortunate, if, in the following pages, they do not find themselves
immortalized by my notice, although they are certainly unworthy of so
great a distinction. I enjoy the friendship of men of letters, and am
therefore not to be put down by the opposition of a parcel of senseless
blockheads, without brain, or heart, or soul.
I shall doubtless find it necessary to make allusions to local places,
persons, incidents, &c. Those will add greatly to the interest of the
narrative. Many portraits will be readily recognized, especially those
whose originals reside in Boston, where the greater portion of my
literary career has been passed.
_The life of an author_, must necessarily be one of peculiar and
absorbing interest, for he dwells in a world of his own creation, and
his tastes, habits, and feelings are different from those of other
people. How little is he understood--how imperfectly is he appreciated,
by a cold, unsympathising world! his eccentricities are ridiculed--his
excesses are condemned by unthinking persons, who cannot comprehend the
fact that a writer, whose mind is weary, naturally longs for physical
excitement of some kind of other, and too often seeks for a temporary
mental oblivion in the intoxicating bowl. Under any and every
circumstance, the author is certainly deserving of some degree of
charitable consideration, because he labors hard for the public
entertainment, and draws heavily on the treasures of his imagination, in
order to supply the continual demands of the reading community. When the
author has led a life of stirring adventure, his history becomes one of
extraordinary and thrilling interest. I flatter myself that this
narrative will be found worthy of the reader's perusal.
And now a few words concerning my personal identity. Many have insanely
supposed me to be George Thompson, the celebrated English abolitionist
and member of the British Parliament, but such cannot be the case, that
individual having returned to his own country. Again--others have taken
me for George Thompson, the pugilist; but by far the greater part of the
performers in this interesting "Comedy of Errors" have imagined me to be
no less a personage than the celebrated "_One-eyed Thompson_," and they
long continued in this belief, even after that talented but most
unfortunate man had committed suicide in New York, and in spite of the
fact that his name was William H., and not George. Two circumstances,
however, seemed to justify the belief before the man's death:--he, like
myself, had the great misfortune to be deprived of an eye. How the
misfortune happened to _me_, I shall relate in the proper place. I have
written many works of fiction, but I have passed through adventures
quite as extraordinary as any which I have drawn from the imagination.
In order to establish my claim to the title of "author," I will
enumerate a few of the works which I have written:--
Gay Girls of New York, Dissipation, The Housekeeper, Venus in Boston,
Jack Harold, Criminal, Outlaw, Road to Ruin, Brazen Star, Kate
Castleton, Redcliff, The Libertine, City Crimes, The Gay Deceiver, Twin
Brothers, Demon of Gold, Dashington, Lady's Garter, Harry Glindon,
Catharine and Clara.
In addition to these works--which have all met with a rapid sale and
most extensive circulation--I have written a sufficient quantity of
tales, sketches, poetry, essays and other literary stock of every
description, to constitute half a dozen cart loads. My adventures,
however, and not my productions must employ my pen; and begging the
reader's pardon for this rather lengthy, but very necessary,
introduction, I begin my task.
CHAPTER I
_In which I begin to Acquire a Knowledge of the World._
I have always thought, and still think, that it matters very little
where or when a man is born--it is sufficient for him to know that he is
_here_, and that he had better adapt himself, as far as possible, to the
circumstances by which he is surrounded, provided that he wishes to
toddle through the world with comfort and credit to himself and to the
approbation of others. But still, in order to please all classes of
readers, I will state that some thirty years ago a young stranger
struggled into existence in the city of New York; and I will just merely
hint that the twenty-eighth day of August, in the year of our Lord one
thousand eight hundred and twenty-three, should be inserted in the next
(comic) almanac as having been the birth-day of a great man--for when an
individual attains a bodily weight of two hundred pounds and over, may
he not be styled _great_?
My parents were certainly respectable people, but they both
inconsiderately died at a very early period of my life, leaving me a few
hundred dollars and a thickheaded uncle, to whom was attached an
objectionable aunt, the proprietress of a long nose and a shrewish
temper. The nose was adapted to the consumption of snuff, and the temper
was effective in the destruction of my happiness and peace of mind. The
worthy couple, with a prophetic eye, saw that I was destined to become,
in future years, somewhat of a _gourmand_, unless care should be taken
to prevent such a melancholy fate; therefore, actuated by the best
motives, and in order to teach me the luxury of abstinence, they began
by slow but sure degrees to starve me. Good people, how I reverence
their memory!
One night I committed burglary upon a closet, and feloniously carried
off a chunk of bread and meat, which I devoured in the cellar.
"Oh, my prophetic soul--_my uncle_!" That excellent man caught me in the
act of eating the provender, and--my bones ache at this very moment as I
think of the licking I got! I forgot to mention that I had a rather
insignificant brother, four years older than myself, who became my
uncle's apprentice, and who joined that gentleman in his persecutions
against me. My kind relatives were rather blissful people in the way of
ignorance, and they hated me because they imagined that I regarded
myself as their superior--a belief that was founded on the fact that I
shunned their society and passed the greater portion of my time in
reading and writing.
I lived at that time in Thomas street, very near the famous brothel of
Rosina Townsend, in whose house that dreadful murder was committed
which the New York public will still remember with a thrill of horror. I
allude to the murder of the celebrated courtezan Ellen Jewett. Her
lover, Richard P. Robinson, was tried and acquitted of the murder,
through the eloquence of his talented counsel, Ogden Hoffman, Esq. The
facts of the case are briefly these:--Robinson was a clerk in a
wholesale store, and was the paramour of Ellen, who was strongly
attached to him. Often have I seen them walking together, both dressed
in the height of fashion, the beautiful Ellen leaning upon the arm of
the dashing Dick, while their elegant appearance attracted universal
attention and admiration. But all this soon came to a bloody
termination. Dick was engaged to be married to a young lady of the
highest respectability, the heiress of wealth and the possessor of
surpassing loveliness. He informed Ellen that his connection with her
must cease in consequence of his matrimonial arrangements, whereupon
Ellen threatened to expose him to his "intended" if he abandoned her.
Embarrassed by the critical nature of his situation, Dick, then, in an
evil hour, resolved to kill the courtezan who threatened to destroy his
anticipated happiness. One Saturday night he visited her as usual; and
after a splendid supper, they returned to her chamber. Upon that
occasion, as was afterwards proved on the trial, Dick wore an ample
cloak, and several persons noticed that he seemed to have something
concealed beneath it. His manner towards Ellen and also his words, were
that night unusually caressing and affectionate. What passed in that
chamber, and who perpetrated that murder the Almighty knows--_and,
perhaps, Dick Robinson, if he is still alive, also knows_![A] The next
morning (Sunday,) at a very early hour, smoke was seen to proceed from
Ellen's chamber, and the curtains of her bed were found to have been set
on fire. The flames were with difficulty extinguished, and there in the
half consumed bed, was found the mangled corpse of Ellen Jewett, having
on the side of her head an awful wound, which had evidently been
inflicted by a hatchet. Dick Robinson was nowhere to be found, but in
the garden, near a fence, were discovered his cloak and a bloody
hatchet. With many others, I entered the room in which lay the body of
Ellen, and never shall I forget the horrid spectacle that met my gaze!
There, upon that couch of sin, which had been scathed by fire, lay
blackened the half-burned remains of a once-beautiful woman, whose head
exhibited the dreadful wound which had caused her death. It had plainly
been the murderer's intention to burn down the house in order to destroy
the ghastly evidence of his crime; but fate ordained that the fire
should be discovered and extinguished before the _fatal wound_ became
obliterated. Robinson, as I said before, was tried and pronounced
guiltless of the crime, through the ingenuity of his counsel, who termed
him an "_innocent boy_." The public, however, firmly believed in his
guilt; and the question arises--"If Dick Robinson did not kill Ellen
Jewett, _who did_?" I do not believe that ever before was presented so
shameful an instance of perverted justice, or so striking an
illustration of the "glorious uncertainty of the law." It is rather
singular that Furlong, a grocer, who swore to an _alibi_ in favor of
Robinson, and who was the chief instrument employed to effect the
acquittal of that young man, some time afterwards committed suicide by
drowning, having first declared that his conscience reproached him for
the part which he played at the trial!
The Sabbath upon which this murder was brought to light was a dark,
stormy day, and I have reason to remember it well, for, in the
afternoon, that good old pilgrim--my uncle, of course,--discovered that
I had played truant from Sunday School in the morning, and for that
atrocious crime, he, in his holy zeal for my spiritual and temporal
welfare, resolved to bestow upon me a wholesome and severe flogging,
being aided and abetted in the formation of that laudable resolution by
my religious aunt and my sanctimonious brother, the latter of whom had
turned _informer_ against me. Sweet relatives? how I love to think of
them--and never do I fail to remember them in my prayers. Well, I was
lugged up into the garret, which was intended to be the scene of my
punishment. If I recollect rightly, I was then about twelve years of
age, and rather a stout youth considering my years. I determined to
rebel against the authority of my beloved kindred, assert my
independence, and defend myself to the best of my ability. "I have
suffered enough;" said I to myself, "and now I'm _going in_."
"Sabbath-breaker, strip off your jacket," mildly remarked by dear uncle
as he savagely flourished a cowhide of most formidable aspect and
alarming suppleness.
My reply was brief, but expressive:
"I'll see you d----d first," said I.
My uncle turned pale, my aunt screamed, and my brother rolled up the
white of his eyes and groaned.
"What, what did you say?" demanded my uncle, who could not believe the
evidence of his own senses, for up to that moment I had always tamely
submitted to the good man's amiable treatment of me, and he found it
impossible to imagine that I was capable of resisting him. Well, if
there ever _was_ an angel on earth, that uncle of mine was that
particular angel. Saints in general are provided with pinched noses,
green eyes, and voices like unto the wailings of a small pig, which is
suffering the agonies of death beneath a cart-wheel. And, if there ever
was a cherub, my brother _was_ certainly that individual cherub,
although, in truth, my pious recollections do not furnish me with the
statement that cherubs are remarkable for swelled heads and bandy legs.
"I say," was my reply to my uncle's astonished inquiry, "that I ain't
going to stand any more abuse and beatings. I've stood bad treatment
long enough from the whole pack of you. I'm almost starved, and I'm
kicked about like a dog. Let any of you three tyrants touch me, and I'll
show you what is to get desperate. I disown you all as relatives, and
hereafter I'm going to live where I please, and do as I please."
Furious with rage, my sweet-tempered uncle raised the cowhide and with
it struck me across the face. I immediately pitched into that portion of
his person where he was accustomed to stow away his Sabbath beans, and
the excellent man fell head over heels down the garret stairs, landing
securely at the bottom and failing to pick himself up, for the simple
reason that he had broken his leg. What a pity it would have been, and
what a loss society would have sustained, if, instead of his leg, the
holy man had broken his _neck_!
My dear brother, accompanied by my affectionate aunt, now choked me, but
I was not to be conquered just then, for "thrice is he armed who hath
his quarrel just." The lady I landed in a tub of impure water that
happened to be standing near; and she presented quite an interesting
appearance, kicking up her heels and squalling like a cat in
difficulties. My other assailant I hurled into a heap of ashes, and the
way he blubbered was a caution to a Nantucket whaleman. Rushing down the
stairs, I passed over the prostrate form of my crippled uncle, who
requested me to come back, so that he might kick me with his serviceable
foot; but, brute that I was, I disregarded him--requested him to go to a
place which shall be nameless--and then left the house as expeditiously
as possible, fully determined never to return, whatever might be the
consequences.
"I am now old enough, and big enough," I mentally reflected, "to take
care of myself; and to-morrow I'll look for work, and try to get a
chance to learn a trade. Where shall I sleep to-night? It's easy enough
to ask that question, but deuced hard to answer it. I wish to-day wasn't
Sunday!"
Rather an impious wish, but quite natural under the circumstances. I
felt in my pockets, to see if I was the proprietor of any loose change;
my search was magnificently successful, for I discovered that I had a
sixpence!
Yes, reader, a new silver sixpence, that glittered in my hand like a
bright star of hope, urging me on to enterprise--to exertions. So
fearful was I of losing the precious coin, that I continued to grasp it
tightly in my hand. I never had been allowed any pocket money, even on
the Fourth of July; and this large sum had come into my possession
through the munificence of a neighbor, as a reward for performing an
errand.
Not knowing where else to go, I went down on the Battery, and sheltered
myself under a tree from the rain, which fell in torrents. Rather an
interesting situation for a youth of twelve--homeless, friendless,
almost penniless! I was wet through to the skin, and as night came on, I
became desperately hungry, for I had eaten no dinner that day, and even
my breakfast had been of the _phantom_ order--something like the
pasteboard meals which are displayed upon the stage of the theatre.
However, I did not despair, for I was young and active, full of the hope
so natural to a youth ere rough contact with the world has crushed his
spirit. I was well aware of the fact that I was no fool, although I had
often been called one by my hostile and unappreciating relatives, whose
opinions I had ever held in most supreme contempt. As I stood under that
tree to shelter myself from the rain, I felt quite happy, for a feeling
of independence had arisen within me. I was now my own master, and the
consciousness that I must solely rely upon myself, was to me a source of
gratification and pride. I had not the slightest doubt of being able to
dig my way through the world in some way or other.
Night came on at last, black as the brow of a Congo nigger, and starless
as a company of travelling actors. I could not remain under the tree all
night, that was certain; and so I left it, although I could scarcely see
my hand before me. That hand, by the way, still tenaciously grasped the
invaluable sixpence. Groping my way out of the Battery, and guided by a
light, I entered the bar-room of a respectable hotel, where a large
number of well-dressed gentlemen were assembled, who were seeking
shelter from the storm, and at the same time indulging their convivial
propensities. Much noise and confusion prevailed; and two gentlemen,
who, as I afterwards learned, were officers belonging to a Spanish
vessel then in port, fell into a dispute and got into a fight, during
which one of them stabbed the other with a dirk-knife, inflicting a
mortal wound.
Officers were sent for, the murderer and his victim were removed, and
comparative quiet prevailed. I was seated in an obscure corner of the
bar-room, wondering how I should get through the night, when I was
unceremoniously accosted by a lad of about my own age. He was a rakish
looking youth, quite handsome withal, dressed in the height of fashion,
and was smoking a cigar with great vigor and apparent relish. It will be
seen hereafter that I have reason to remember this individual to the
very last day of my life. Would to heaven that I had never met him!
This youth slapped me familiarly on the shoulder, and said--
"Hallo, bub! why, you're wet as a drowned rat! Come and take a brandy
cocktail--it will warm you up!"
I had never drank a drop of liquor in my life, and I hadn't the faintest
idea of what a brandy cocktail was, and so I told my new friend, who
laughed immoderately as he exclaimed--
"How jolly green you are, to be sure; why, you're a regular _greenhorn_,
and I'm going to call you by that name hereafter. Have you got any tin?"
I knew that he meant money, and so I told him that I had but a sixpence
in the world.
"Bah!" cried my friend, as he drew his cigar from his mouth and
salivated in the most fashionable manner, "who are you, what are you and
what are you doing here? Come, tell me all about yourself, and it may
perhaps be in my power to do you a service."
His frank, off-hand manner won my confidence. I told him my whole story,
without any reserve; and he laughed uproariously when I told him how I
had pitched my tyrannical uncle down stairs.
"It served the old chap right," said he approvingly--"you are a fellow
of some spirit, and I like you. Come take a drink, and we can afterwards
talk over what is best to be done."
I objected to drink, because I had formed a strong prejudice against
ardent spirits, having often been a witness of its deplorable effects in
depriving men--and women, too--of their reason, and reducing them to the
condition of brute beasts. So, in declining my friend's invitation, I
told him my reasons for so doing, whereupon he laughed louder than ever,
as he remarked--
"Why, _Greenhorn_, you'd make an excellent temperance lecturer. But
perhaps you think I haven't got any money to pay the rum. Look
here--what do you think of _that_?"
He displayed a large roll of bank bills, and flourished them
triumphantly. I had never before seen so much money, except in the
broker's windows; and my friend was immediately established in my mind
as a _millionaire_, whose wealth was inexhaustible. I suddenly conceived
for him the most profound respect, and would not have offended him for
the world. How could I persist in refusing to drink with a young
gentleman of such wealth, and (as a necessary consequence) such
distinction? Besides, I suddenly felt quite a curiosity to drink some
liquor, just to see how it tasted. After all, it was only very low
people who got drunk and wallowed in the mire. _Gentlemen_ (I thought)
never get drunk, and they always seem so happy and joyous after they
have been drinking! How they shake hands, and swear eternal friendship,
and seem generously willing to lend or give away all they have in the
world! So thought I, as my mind was made up to accept the invitation of
my friend. It is singular that I had forgotten all about the murder
which had just taken place in that bar-room, and which had been directly
produced by intemperance.
"The fact is, my dear _Greenhorn_," said my friend, impressively, as he
flourished his hand after the manner of some aged, experienced and
eloquent orator, "the fact is, the _use_ of liquor, and its _abuse_, are
two very different things. A man (here he drew himself up) can drink
like a gentleman, or he can swill like a loafer, or a beast. Now _I_
prefer the gentlemanly portion of the argument, and therefore we'll go
up and take a gentlemanly drink. I shall be happy, young man, to
initiate you into the divine joys and mysteries of Bacchus--ahem!"
I looked at my friend with increased wonder, for he displayed an
assurance, a self-possession, an elegant _nonchalance_, that were far
beyond his years, for he was only about twelve years old--my own age
exactly. And then what language he used--so refined, glowing, and
indicative of a knowledge of the world! I longed to be like him--to
equal him in his many perfections--to sport as much money as he did, and
to wear as good "_harness_." I forgot to mention that he carried a
splendid gold watch, and that several glittering rings adorned his
fingers. "Who can he be?" was the question which I asked myself; and of
course, I could not find an answer.
"Felix," said my friend, addressing the bar-keeper in a style of
patronizing condescension, as we approached the bar, "Felix, my good
fellow, just mix us a couple of brandy cocktails, will you, and make
them _strong_, d'ye hear, for the night is wet, and I and my verdant
friend here, are about to travel in search of amusement, even as the
Caliph and his Vizier used to perambulate the streets of Baghdad. Come,
hurry up!"
The bar-keeper grinned, mixed the liquor, and handed us the tumblers. My
friend knocked his glass against mine, and remarked "here's luck," a
ceremony and an observation which both somewhat surprised me at the
time, although I have long since become thoroughly acquainted with what
was then a mystery. Many of my readers--indeed, I may say the greater
portion of them--will require no explanation of this matter; and as for
those who are in ignorance of it, I will simply say, long may they keep
so!
My friend tossed off his cocktail with the air of one who is used to it,
and rather liked it than otherwise; but I was not quite so successful,
for being wholly unacquainted with the science of drinking, the strength
of the liquor nearly choked me, to the intense amusement of my more
experienced friend, who advised me to try again. I _did_ try again, and
more successfully, the liquor went the way of all rum, and soon produced
the usual effects. Of course its influence on me was exceedingly
powerful, I being entirely unaccustomed to its use. A very agreeable
feeling of exhilaration stole over me--I thought I was worth just one
hundred thousand dollars--I embraced my friend and swore he was a
"trump"--I then noticed, with mild surprise, that he had been multiplied
into two individuals--there were two barkeepers now, although just
before I drank, there was but one--an additional chandelier had just
stepped in to visit the solitary one which had lighted the room--to
speak plainly, I saw double; and to sum the whole matter up in a few
words, I was, for the first time in my life, most decidedly and
incontestably _drunk_.
As nearly as I can remember, my friend linked his arm within mine, and
we passed out into the street--he partially supporting me, and keeping
me from falling. Two precious youths, of twelve years of age, we
certainly were--one staggering and trying to fall down, and the other
laughing, and holding him up!
The rain had ceased falling, and the stars were shining as if nothing
had happened. The cool air sobered me, and my friend congratulated me on
my recovery from a state of inebriety.
"After a little practice at the bar," said he--"it will take a good many
_tods_ to _floor_ you. Let me give you a few hints as regards drinking.
Never mix your liquor--always stick to one kind. After every glass, eat
a cracker--or, what is better, a pickle. Plain drinks are always the
best--far preferable to fancy drinks, which contain sugar, and lemons,
and mint, and other trash; although a mixed drink may be taken on a
stormy night, such as this has been. Drink ale, or beer, sparingly, and
only after dinner--for, taken in large quantities, it is apt to bloat a
person, and it plays the very devil with his internal arrangements.
Besides, it is filthy stuff, at best, being made of the most repulsive
materials and in the dirtiest manner. Always drink _good liquor_, which
will not hurt you, while the vile stuff which is sold in the different
bar-rooms will soon send you to your grave. If you pass a day or two in
drinking freely, do not miss eating a single meal, and if you do not
feel inclined to eat, _force_ yourself to do it; for, if you neglect
your food, that terrible fiend, _Delirium Tremens_, will have you in his
savage grasp before you know it. Every morning after a _spree_, take a
good stiff horn of brandy, and soon afterwards a glass of plain soda,
which will cool you off. Never drink gin--it is vulgar stuff, not fit to
be used by gentlemen.--When you desire to reform from drinking, never
break off abruptly, which is dangerous; but _taper off_ gradually--three
glasses to-day, two to-morrow, and one the next day. Never drink with
low people, under any circumstances, for it brings you down to their
level. When you go to a drinking party, or to a fashionable dinner, sit
with your back toward the sun--confine yourself to one kind of
liquor--take an occasional sip of vinegar--and the very devil himself
cannot drink you under the table! Now do you understand me, my dear
_greenhorn_?"
Such language and advice, emanating from a boy of twelve, astonished me,
and hurried me to the conclusion that he must be a very "_fast_" youth
indeed. I took a more particular survey of my new friend. He was not
remarkable handsome, but his face was flushing not with health, but
with drinking. A rosy tint suffused his full cheeks, and a delicate
vermillion colored the top of his well-formed nose. His form was
somewhat slighter than mine, but he looked vigorous and active. His
closely buttoned jacket developed a full breast, and a pair of muscular
arms. His small feet were encased in patent-leather boots. Upon his head
was a jaunty cloth cap, from beneath which flowed a quantity of fine,
curly hair. I really envied him his good looks, as also his mental
endowments. He saw that I admired him; and he liked me for it.
Such was _Jack Slack_, I may as well give his name at once, for I hate
the trickery of authors who keep the curiosity of their readers
painfully excited to the end of their narratives for the purpose of
producing an _effect_. My professional habits as a writer prompt me to
do the same; but I must not forget that I am writing my own history, and
not an effusion of my imagination, which seems to be a prolific mother,
for it hath produced many children, and (if I live) may produce many
more.
While I now write, the Sabbath bells are ringing in sweet harmony, and
through my open window comes the cool but mild breath of an autumnal
morning. Yes, it is Sunday, and all the holy associations of the sacred
day crowd upon me. I can almost see the village church, and the throng
of worshippers within it, listening to the fervent remarks and
exhortations of their pastor. Then I can fancy the gorgeous cathedral,
with its stained windows, its elaborate carvings, its pealing organs,
and its fashionable assembly of superficial worshippers. While others
are praying, pleasuring and sleeping, I am rushing my iron pen over the
spotless paper, and wishing that my penmanship could keep pace with my
thought.--This is a digression; but the reader will pardon it. There is
_one_ dear creature, I know, who, when her eyes scan these pages, will
understand me. But she, alas! is far away.
Where was I? Oh, speaking of Jack Slack. How well do I remember the
night upon which first I met him! I can see him now, with his
mischievous smiles, his eyes full of deviltry--his scornful lips--I can
almost hear his mocking laugh. Yes, although eighteen years have passed
since then, the remembrance of that night is fresh within me, as if its
occurrence were but things of yesterday.
May perdition seize the circumstances which led me to encounter him! He
was the foundation of my misfortunes in life. But for him, I might have
led a happy, tranquil life; unknown, it is true, but still happy. But,
poor fellow! he is dead now. He died by my hand, and I do not regret the
act, nor would I recall it, had I the power. But of this the reader
shall know hereafter.
That was my first night of dissipation--that was the occasion of my
initiation into the mysteries of debauchery. I had previously led a
necessarily regular and abstemious life--to bed at eight, up at six, at
school by nine, and so on. (By the way, I never learned any thing at
school--the master pronounced me the most stupid rascal in the concern;
and flogged me accordingly--good old man! All I ever learned was
acquired in a _printing office_.) Well, here was I at the age of twelve,
fairly launched upon the sea of city life, without a guide, protector,
or friend. What wonder is it that I became a reckless, dissipated
individual, careless of myself, my interests, my fame and fortune?
Jack Slack and I, arm-in-arm, entered Broadway, and proceeded at a
leisurely pace up that noble avenue. Many a courtezan did we meet, and
many a watchman did we salute with the compliments of the season. (There
were no _Brazen Stars_,[B] nor _M.P.'s_, then.) One lady of the pave,
whom my companion addressed in terms of complimentary gallantry,
said--"Little boy, go home to your mother and tell her she wants you!"
I am now about to make a humiliating confession, but I must not shrink
from it, inasmuch as I sat down with the determination of writing "the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." I allowed Jack to
persuade me to accompany him on a visit to a celebrated establishment in
Leonard street--a house occupied by accommodating ladies of great
personal attractions, who were not especially virtuous. That was of
course my first visit to a house of ill-fame; and without exactly
comprehending the nature of the place and its arrangements, I was deeply
impressed with the strangeness and novelty of everything that surrounded
me. The costly and elegant furniture--the brilliant chandeliers--the
magnificent but rather _loose_ French prints and paintings--the
universal luxury that prevailed--the voluptuous ladies, with their bare
shoulders, painted cheeks, and free-and-easy manners--the buxom,
bustling landlady, who was dressed with almost regal splendor and wore a
profusion of jewelry--the crowd of half-drunken gentlemen who were
drinking wine and laughing uproariously--all these things astonished and
bewildered me. My friend Jack appeared to be well known to the inmates
of the house, with whom he seemed to be an immense favorite.
Having--much to my dissatisfaction and disgust--introduced me to a lady,
he took possession of another one, and called for a couple of bottles of
wine. Jack and his lady were evidently upon the most intimate and
affectionate terms, while my female companion seemed inclined to be very
loving, but I did not appreciate her advances, being altogether
unaccustomed to such things. The champagne was brought, and I was
persuaded to drink freely of it. The consequence was that I soon became
helplessly intoxicated. I can indistinctly remember the dancing lights,
the popping of champagne corks--the noise, the confusion, the thrumming
of a piano, and the boisterous laughter--and then I fell into a
condition of complete insensibility.
When I awoke, I was astonished at my situation and naturally enough, for
I was in a strange apartment and snugly stowed away in a strange but
decidedly luxuriant bed. The room was handsomely furnished, but to my
additional surprise, many female garments were scattered about,
indicating that the regular inhabitant of the place was a lady. This
mystery was soon solved, for I was not the only inmate of the couch. My
companion was the lady to whom I had been introduced by Jack Slack.
Pitying my helpless condition--and, doubtless, prompted by the
mischievous Jack--she had carried me to bed, and had also retired
herself, being actuated by a benevolent anxiety for my safety. What a
delicate situation for a modest youth to be placed in! Having, to my no
small satisfaction, ascertained that the lady was fast asleep, I arose
so carefully and noiselessly as not to awaken her. In truth, I was
disgusted with the whole concern, and determined to leave it as speedily
as possible. A light was fortunately burning in the room, which enabled
me to move about with safety. A gold watch which lay upon the table
informed me that it was nearly midnight.--Leaving the chamber and its
sleeping inmate, I crept down stairs, and, on passing the door of the
principal sitting-room, the voice of Jack Slack, who was singing a comic
song amid the most enthusiastic applause, convinced me that my
interesting friend was still rendering himself a source of amusement and
an object of admiration. Without stopping to compliment him upon the
excellence of his performance, I approached the front door, turned the
key which was in the lock, unfastened the chain, and passed out into the
street, just as the clock of a neighboring steeple was proclaiming the
hour of twelve.
My head ached terribly after the champagne which I had so profusely
drank, and besides, I felt heavy and sleepy to an extraordinary degree.
Unable to resist the overpowering influence of my feelings, I sat down
upon the steps of a house and was fast asleep in less than a minute.
Then I dreamed of being seized in the powerful grasp of some gigantic
demon, and hurried away to the bottomless pit. I certainly felt
conscious of being moved about, but my oblivious condition would not
admit of arriving at any definite understanding of what was happening to
me. When I finally awoke, I found myself in an apartment that was far
different in its aspect from the luxurious chamber I had just quitted.
The floor, walls and ceiling of the apartment were of stone; there were
no windows, but a narrow aperture, high up in the wall, admitted the
feeble glimmer of daylight. There was an iron door, and a water-pipe,
and platform on which I lay, and on which reposed several gentlemen of
seedy raiment and unwholesome appearance. The place and the company, as
dimly revealed by the uncertain morning light, inspired me with emotions
of horror; and in my inexperience and ignorance, I said to myself--
"I must leave this place at once. How I came here is a mystery, but it
is certain that I cannot remain."
I arose from my hard couch, and approached the iron door with the
confident expectation of being able to pass out without any difficulty,
for I imagined that I had fallen into one of those cheap and wretched
lodging houses with which the city abounds. (By the way, I may hereafter
have something to say with reference to these cheap lodging-houses. Some
rich development may be made, which will rather astonish the
unsophisticated reader.)
To my surprise, I found that the door could not be opened; and then one
of my fellow-lodgers, who had been observing my movements, exclaimed:
"Are you going to leave us, my lad? Then leave us your card, or a lock
of your hair to remember you by."
"Will you be kind enough to tell me what place this is?" said I.
The man laughed loudly, as he replied--
"Why, don't you know? What an innocent youth you are, to be sure! How
the devil could you come here, without knowing anything about it? But I
suppose that you were drunk, which is a great pity for a boy like you.
Well, not to keep you in suspense, I must inform you that you are in the
_watch-house of the Tombs_!"
This information appalled me. To be in confinement--to be a prisoner--to
be associated with a company of outcasts, thieves and perhaps
murderers--was to me the height of horror. I looked particularly at the
man with whom I had been conversing. He was a savage-looking individual,
with a beard like that of a pirate, and an eye that spoke of blood and
outrage. He was roughly dressed, in a garb that announced him to be a
mariner.
In the course of a conversation that we fell into, he informed me that
he had committed a murder on the preceding evening, and that he expected
to be hung.
"We quarrelled at cards," said he, "and he gave me the lie--whereupon I
drew my death-knife and stabbed him to the heart. He died instantly; the
police rushed in, and here I am. My neck will be stretched, but I don't
care. What matters it how a man dies? When my time comes, I shall go
forth as readily and as cheerfully as if I were going to take a drink."
(I will here remark that I afterwards saw this man hung in the yard of
the _Tombs_. His history is in my possession, and I shall hereafter
write it.)[C]
At nine o'clock I was taken before the magistrate, who, after severely
reprimanding me for my misconduct, discharged me from custody, with the
remark that if I were brought there again he would be obliged to commit
me to the Tombs for the term of five days. Delighted at having obtained
my liberty, I posted out of the court room and found myself in Centre
street. My debauch of the preceding night had not spoiled my appetite,
by any means; and, as I still had in my possession the sixpence alluded
to before, I resolved to produce some breakfast forthwith. Aware that my
limited finances would not admit of my obtaining a very sumptuous
repast, and fully appreciating the necessity of economy, I entered the
shop of a baker and purchased three rolls at the rate of one cent per
copy. Thus provided, I repaired to a neighboring street pump, and made a
light but wholesome breakfast.
It was thus, reader, that your humble servant began to acquire a
knowledge of the world.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] The last that was heard of Robinson, he was in Texas, and it was
reported that he was married and wealthy, his right arm he had lost in
some battle, the name of which I do not remember.
[B] I have just written a story under this title, full of fact and fun,
and containing more truth than poetry. The reader can have it by
applying to the publisher of this work. It is well worthy of perusal.
[C] This work is now in active course of preparation. To the lovers of
exciting tales, this story will be one of particular attraction. It will
be issued by the publisher of this narrative.