_An accident--a suicide--and a change of residence._
A dreadful accident abruptly terminated Mrs. Raymond's brilliant
professional career. One night, while she was dressing in her private
room at the theatre, a camphene lamp exploded and her face was
shockingly burned. Her beauty was destroyed forever, and her career
upon the stage was ended. Thus was the public deprived of a most
delightful source of entertainment, and thus was a popular actress
thrown out of the profession just as she had reached the pinnacle of
fame, and just as she was in a fair way to acquire a handsome fortune.
It would be impossible for me to describe the grief, consternation and
horror of the unfortunate lady, on account of this melancholy accident.
In vain did I attempt to console her, she refused to be comforted. She
abandoned herself to despair; and I caused her to be closely and
constantly watched, fearing that she might attempt to commit suicide.
The play-going public soon found a new idol, and poor Mrs. Raymond was
forgotten. Her face was terribly disfigured, and it was very fortunate
that her sight was not destroyed. When she became well enough, she
endeavored to gain a situation as a teacher of music; but she was
unceremoniously rejected by every person to whom she applied, on account
of the repulsiveness of her countenance. This of course, still further
increased the dark despair that overshadowed her soul.
"My friend," said she to me one day, "I shall not long survive this
terrible misfortune. My heart is breaking, and death will ere long put
an end to my sufferings."
"Come, come," said I, "where is your philosophy? Have you not passed
through trials as great as this? While there is life, there is hope; and
you will be happy yet."
I uttered these commonplace expressions because I knew not what else to
say. Mrs. Raymond replied, with a mournful smile--
"Ah! with all your knowledge of the world, you know not how a woman
feels when she has been suddenly deprived of her beauty. The miser who
loses his wealth--the fond mother from whom death snatches away her
darling child; these bereaved ones do not feel their losses more acutely
than does a once lovely woman feel the loss of her charms. Do not talk
to me of philosophy, for such language is mockery."
I visited my unfortunate and no longer fair friend very often, but all
my attempts to cheer her up signally failed. She persisted in declaring
that she was not long for this world; and I began to believe so myself,
for she failed rapidly. I saw that she was provided with every comfort;
but alas! happiness was beyond her reach forever.
One evening I set out to pay her a visit. On my arrival at the house in
which she had taken apartments, the landlady informed me that she had
not seen Mrs. Raymond during the whole of that day.
"It is very singular," remarked the woman, "I knocked five or six times
at the door of her chamber, but she gave me no answer, although I know
she has not gone out."
These words caused a dreadful misgiving to seize me. Fearing that
something terrible had happened, I rushed up stairs, and knocked loudly
upon the door of Mrs. Raymond's chamber. No answer being returned, I
burst open the door, and my worst fears were realized, for there, upon
the floor lay the lifeless form of that most unfortunate woman. She had
committed suicide by taking arsenic.
This dreadful event afflicted me more deeply than any other occurrence
of my life. I had become attached to Mrs. Raymond on account of a
certain congeniality of disposition between us. We had travelled far
together, and shared great dangers. That was another link to bind us
together. Besides I admired her for her talent, and more particularly
for her heroic resolution. She was, altogether, a most extraordinary
woman, and, under the circumstances, it was no wonder that her tragical
end should have caused within me a feeling of the most profound sorrow.
Having followed her remains to their last resting-place, I did something
that I was very accustomed to do--I sat down to indulge in a little
serious reflection, the result of which was that I determined to go to
Boston, for New York had become wearisome to me. Besides, I knew that
Boston was the grand storehouse of American literature--the "Athens of
America," and I doubted not my ability to achieve both fame and money
there.
To Boston I accordingly went. On the first day of my arrival, I crossed
over to Charlestown for the purpose of viewing the Bunker Hill Monument.
Having satisfied my curiosity, I strolled into a printing office, fell
into conversation with the proprietor, and the result was that I found
myself engaged at a moderate salary to edit and take the entire charge
of a long-established weekly newspaper of limited circulation, entitled
the "Bunker Hill Aurora and Boston Mirror." This journal soon began to
increase both in reputation and circulation, for I filled it with good
original tales and with sprightly editorials. Yet no credit was awarded
to me, for my name never appeared in connection with my productions, and
people imagined that W----, the proprietor, was the author of the
improvements which had taken place.
"Egad!" the subscribers to the _Aurora_ would say--"old W---- has waked
up at last. His paper is now full of tip-top reading, whereas it was
formerly not worth house-room!"
How many instances of this kind have I seen--of writers toiling with
their pens and brains for the benefit and credit of ungrateful wretches
without intellect, or soul, or honor, or common humanity! Charlestown is
probably the meanest and most contemptible place in the whole
universe--totally unfit to be the dwelling-place of any man who calls
himself _white_. The inhabitants all belong to the _Paul Pry_ family. A
stranger goes among them, and forthwith inquisitive whispers concerning
him begin to float about like feathers in the air. "Who is he? What is
he? Where did he come from? What's his business? _Has he got any money?_
(Great emphasis is laid on this question.) Is he married, or single?
What are his habits? Is he a temperance man? Does he smoke--does he
drink--does he chew? Does he go to meeting on Sundays? What religious
denomination does he belong to? What are his politics? Does he use
profane language? What time does he go to bed--and what time does he get
up? Wonder what he had for dinner to-day?" &c., &c., &c.
During my residence in Charlestown, where I lived three years, I became
acquainted with the celebrated editor and wit, Corporal Streeter, who
was my next-door neighbor. I dwelt, by the way, in an old-fashioned
house situated on Wood street. Two ancient pear trees sadly waved their
branches in front of the house, and they are still there, unless some
despoiling hand has cut them down--which Heaven forbid! If ever I
re-visit that place, I shall gaze with reverence at the old house--for
in it I passed some of the happiest days of my life. The antique edifice
I christened "The Hermitage." The squalling cats of that neighborhood
afforded me a fine opportunity for pistol practice.
At the end of three years, I had a slight "misunderstanding" with Mr.
W----, the proprietor of the Aurora, one of the most stupendously mean
men it was ever my misfortune to encounter. He was worthy of being the
owner of the only newspaper in Charlestown, alias, "Hogtown." Having
civilly requested Mr. W---- to go to the devil at his earliest
convenience, I left him and his rookery in disgust, and shifted my
quarters over to Boston.
Here I engaged largely in literary pursuits, and began to write a series
of novels. These were well received by the public, as every Bostonian
will recollect.
In my next chapter, I shall tell the reader how a gentleman got into
difficulties.