_In which I set forth upon my travels, and met with a great misfortune._
Having plenty of means at my disposal, I determined to enjoy myself to
the full extent of my physical and intellectual capacity, for I
remembered the graceful words of the charming poet who sung--
"Go it while you're young:
For, when you get old, you can't!"
Behold me, at the age of fifteen, fairly launched upon all the
dissipations of a corrupt and licentious city! It is not without a
feeling of shame that I make these confessions; but truth compels me to
do so. I soon became thoroughly initiated into all the mysteries of high
and low life in New York. In my daily and nightly peregrinations I
frequently encountered my old friend Jack Slack; we never spoke, but on
the contrary regarded each other with looks of enmity and defiance.
Stronger and stronger within me grew the presentiment that this
mysterious youth was destined to become my evil genius and the cause of
a great misfortune. Therefore, whenever I met him, I could not help
shuddering with dread.
Three years passed away in this manner, and I had reached the age of
eighteen, with an unimpaired constitution and a firm belief that I was
destined to exist for ever. I had lived luxuriously upon the earnings of
my pen, for I was a regular contributor to the Knickerbroker Magazine
and other popular periodicals. Having accumulated considerable money,
notwithstanding my extravagance, I resolved to take a Southern tour,
visiting Philadelphia, Washington, and other cities of note.
Accordingly, one fine day, I found myself established in comfortable
quarters, at the most fashionable hotel in the "city of brotherly love."
I became a regular frequenter of the theatres and other places of
amusement, and formed the acquaintance of many actors and literary
people. It was here that I had the honor of being introduced to Booth,
the great tragedian, now dead; to "Ned Forrest," the American favorite;
to "Uncle" J.R. Scott, as fine a man as ever drank a noggin of ale or
ate a "dozen raw," and to Major Richardson, the author of "Wacousta,"
and the "Monk Knight of St. John," the latter being one of the most
voluptuous works ever written. Poor Major! his was a melancholy end. He
was formerly a Major in the British army, and was a gentleman by birth,
education and principle. Possessing a fine person, a generous heart and
the most winning manners, he was a general favorite with his associates.
He became the victim of rapacious publishers, and grew poor. Too proud
to accept of assistance from his friends, he retired to obscure lodgings
and there endeavored to support himself by the productions of his pen.
But his spirit was broken and his intellect crushed by the base
ingratitude of those who should have been his warmest friends. Often
have I visited him in his garret--for he actually occupied one; and,
with a bottle of whiskey before us, we have condemned the world as being
full of selfishness, ingratitude and villainy. Winter came on, and the
Major had no fuel, nor the means of procuring any. I have repeatedly
called upon him and found him sitting in the intensely cold atmosphere
of his miserable apartment, wrapped in a blanket and busily engaged in
writing with a hand that was blue and trembled with the cold. He firmly
refused to receive aid, in any shape, from his friends; and they were
obliged to witness his gradual decay with sad hearts. The gallant Major
always persisted in denying that he needed anything; he swore his garret
was the most comfortable place in the world, and that the introduction
of a fire would have been preposterous; he always affirmed with a round
military oath, that he "lived like a fighting-cock," and was never
without his bottle of wine at dinner; yet I once came upon him rather
unexpectedly, and found him dining upon a crust of bread and a red
herring. Sometimes, but rarely, he appeared at the theatres, and, upon
such occasions, he was always scrupulously well-dressed, for Major
Richardson would never appear abroad otherwise than as a gentleman.
Want, privation and disappointment finally conquered him; he grew thin,
and haggard, and melancholy, and reserved, and discouraged the visits of
his friends who used to love to assemble at his humble lodgings and
avail themselves of his splendid conversational powers, or listen to his
personal reminiscences and racy anecdotes of military life. One morning
he was found dead in his bed; and his death caused the most profound
grief in the breasts of all who knew him as he deserved to be known, and
who respected him for his many excellent qualities of head and heart.
His remains received a handsome and appropriate burial; and many a tear
was shed o'er the grave of him who had been a gallant soldier and a
celebrated author, but a truly wronged and most unfortunate man.
The reader will, I am sure, pardon this digression, for I was anxious to
do justice to the memory of a much-valued friend and literary brother. I
now resume the direct course of my narrative, and come to the darkest
portion of my career.
One night, in a billiard room, I had a very unpleasant encounter with an
old acquaintance. I observed, at one of the tables, a young man whose
countenance seemed strangely familiar to me, although I did not
immediately recognize him. He was dressed in the extreme of fashion, and
his upper lip was darkened by an incipient moustache--the result,
doubtless, of many months of industrious cultivation. A cigar was in his
mouth, and a billiard-cue was in his hand; and he profusely adorned his
conversation with the most extravagant oaths. Altogether, he seemed to
be a very "fast" young man; and I puzzled my brain in endeavoring to
remember where I had met him before.
Suddenly, he raised his eyes, and their gaze encountered mine; then I
wondered that I had not before recognized "my old friend," Jack Slack!
"This fellow is my evil genius; he follows me everywhere," thought I,
turning to leave the saloon. Would to heaven that I had never entered
it! But regrets are useless now.
Jack stepped after me, and detained me. I instantly saw that trouble was
about to come.
"Greenhorn," said Jack, with an air of angry reproach, as he laid his
hand upon my shoulder--"why do you so continually avoid me? What in the
devil's name have I ever done to deserve this treatment? Have I ever
injured you in any way? Damn it, we are equal in age, and in
disposition--let us be friends. I can put you in a way, in this city, to
enjoy the tallest kind of sport. Give me your hand, and let's go up to
the bar and take a social drink."
"Jack," said I, seriously and very calmly--"I will shake hands with you
in friendship, but I candidly confess that I do not like you; and I
believe that it will be better for us both not to associate together at
all. Observe me!--I have no hard feelings against you;--you are a clever
fellow, and generous to a fault; but something whispers to me that we
must not be companions, and I therefore respectfully desire you not to
speak to me again. Good night."[E]
I turned to go, but Jack placed himself directly in my path, and said,
in a voice that was hoarse with passion--
"Stay and hear me. We must not part in this way. Do you think that I
will tamely submit to be _cut_ in a manner so disgraceful? Do you think
that I am going to remain the object of an unfounded and ridiculous
prejudice? Explain yourself, and apologize, or by G----, it will be the
worse for you!"
"Explain myself--apologize!" I scornfully repeated--"you are a fool, and
don't know to whom you are talking. Let me go."
"No!" passionately screamed my enraged antagonist, who was somewhat
intoxicated--"you must stay and hear me out. I may as well throw off the
mask at once. Know, then, that I hate you like hell-fire, and that, the
very first time I saw you, I resolved to make you as bad as myself.
Therefore did I induce you to drink, and visit disreputable places. The
cool contempt with which you have always treated me, had increased my
hatred ten-fold. I thirst for vengeance, and _I'll fix you yet_!"
"Do your worst," said I, contemptuously; and again did I essay to take
my departure. Meanwhile, during the quarrel, the frequents of the saloon
had gathered around and appeared to enjoy the scene highly.
"If he has given you any cause of offence, Jack, why don't you pitch
into him?" suggested a half-drunken fellow who bore the enviable
reputation of being a most expert pickpocket.
Jack unfortunately adopted the suggestion, and struck me with all his
force. I of course returned the blow, with very tolerable effect.--Had
the row commenced and terminated in mere _fisticuffs_ all would have
been well, and I should not now be called upon to write down the details
of a bloody tragedy.
Drawing a dirk-knife from his breast, Jack attacked me with the utmost
fury. I then did what any other person, situated as I was, would have
done--I acted in my own defence. "Self-defence" is universally
acknowledged to be the "first law of nature." There was I, a stranger,
savagely attacked by a young man armed with a dangerous weapon, and
surrounded by his friends and associates--a desperate set, who seemed
disposed to assist in the task of demolishing me.
I quickly drew from my pocket a pistol, without which, at that time, I
never travelled. Before, however, I could cock and level it, my
infuriated enemy dashed his dirk-knife into my face, and the point
entered my right eye. It was fortunate that the weapon did not penetrate
the brain, and cause my instant death.
Maddened by the horrible pain which I suffered, and believing myself to
be mortally wounded, I raised the pistol and discharged it. Jack Slack
fell to the floor, a corpse, his head being shattered to pieces. _I
never regretted the act._
A cry of horror and dismay burst from the lips of all present, on
witnessing this dreadful but justifiable deed of retribution.
"Gentlemen," said I, as the blood was trickling down my face--"I call
upon you all to witness that I slew this young man in self-defence. He
drove me to commit the deed, and I could not avoid it. I am willing and
anxious to abide the decision of a jury of my countrymen; therefore,
send for an officer, and I will voluntarily surrender myself into his
custody."
Scarcely had I uttered these words, when the excruciating torment which
I suffered caused me to faint away. When I recovered, I found myself in
a prison-cell, with a bandage over my damaged optic, and a physician
feeling my pulse.
"Ah!" said I, looking around, "I am in _limbo_, I see. Well, I do not
fear the result. But, doctor, am I seriously injured--am I likely to
kick the bucket?"
"Not at all," was the doctor's encouraging reply--"but you have lost the
sight of your eye."
"Oh, is _that_ all?" said I with a laugh--"well, I believe that it is
said in the Bible somewhere, that it is better to enter the kingdom of
heaven with one eye than to go to the devil with two."
The physician departed for his home, and I departed for the land of
dreams. The pain of my wound had considerably mitigated, and I slept
quite comfortably.
I have always been somewhat of a philosopher in the way of enduring the
ills of life, and I tried to reconcile myself to my misfortune and
situation with as good a grace as possible. In this I succeeded much
better than might have been expected. When a person loses an eye and is
at the same time imprisoned for killing another individual, it is
certainly natural for that unfortunate person to yield to despair; but,
seeing the uselessness of grief, I resolved to "face the music" with all
the courage of which I was possessed.
Two or three days passed away, and I became almost well--for, to use a
common expression, I owned the constitution of a horse. The newspapers
which I was allowed to send out and purchase, made me acquainted with
something that rather surprised me, for they communicated to me the
information that Jack Slack, the young gentleman to whom I had presented
a ticket of admission to the other world, was a person whose _real_ name
was John Shaffer, _alias_ Slippery Jack, _alias_ Jack Slack. His
profession was that of a pickpocket, in which avocation he had always
been singularly expert. He was well known to the police, and had been
frequently imprisoned. I was gratified to see that the newspapers all
justified me in what I had done, and predicted my honorable discharge
from custody. That prediction proved correct; for, after I had been in
confinement a week, the Grand Jury failed to bring a bill of indictment
against me, and I was consequently set at liberty.
Tired of Philadelphia, I went to Washington. A New York member of
Congress, with whom I was well acquainted, volunteered to show me the
"lions;" and I had the honor of a personal introduction to Mr. Van Buren
and other distinguished official personages. Some people would be
surprised if they did but know of the splendid dissipation that prevails
among the "dignitaries of the nation" at Washington.
I have seen more than one member of the United States Senate staggering
through the streets, from what cause the reader will have no difficulty
in judging. I have seen a great statesman, since deceased, carried from
an after-dinner table to his chamber. I have seen the honorable
Secretary of one of the National departments engaged in a brawl in a
brothel. I have seen Representatives fighting in a bar-room like so many
rowdies, and I have heard them use language that would disgrace a beggar
in his drink. I need not allude to the many outrageous scenes which have
been enacted in the councils of the nation; for the newspapers have
already given them sufficient publicity.
Leaving Washington, I journeyed South, and, after many adventures which
the limits of this work will not permit me to describe, I arrived in the
City of New Orleans. I had no difficulty in procuring a lucrative
situation as reporter on a popular daily newspaper; and enjoyed free
access to all the theatres and other places of amusement.--I remained in
New Orleans just one year; but, not liking the climate,--and finding,
moreover, that I was living too "_fast_," and accumulating no money,--I
resolved to "pull up stakes" and start in a Northerly direction.
Accordingly, I returned to Philadelphia.
It would have been much better for me had I remained in New Orleans, for
the hardest kind of times prevailed in the "Quaker City," on my arrival
there. It was almost impossible to obtain employment of any description;
and many actors, authors and artists, as well as mechanics, were most
confoundedly "hard up." I soon exhausted the contents of my purse; and,
like the Prodigal Son, "began to be in want."
One fine day, in a very disconsolate mood, I was wandering through an
obscure street, when I encountered a former lady acquaintance, whom, I
trust, the reader has not forgotten.
But the particulars of that unexpected encounter, and the details of
what subsequently transpired, are worthy of a separate chapter.
FOOTNOTES:
[E] It is singular, but it is true, that a few nights prior to the
tragical occurrences which I am about to relate, I saw, in a dream, a
perfect and exact fore-shadow of the whole melancholy affair! Who can
explain this mystery?