_Six weeks in Leverett Street Jail._
A popular actor who was a personal friend of mine[M] took a farewell
benefit at the National Theatre. At his invitation, and just before the
close of the evening's performances, I attempted to enter the stage door
for his purpose of seeing him in his dressing-room, as he intended to
sup with me and several friends. A half-drunken Irishman attached to the
stage department in some menial capacity, stopped me and insolently
ordered me out. I treated the Greek, of course, with the contempt which
he merited, whereupon he called another overgrown bog-trotter to his
assistance, and the twain forthwith attacked me with great fury. Finding
myself in danger of receiving rather rough treatment, I drew a small
pocket pistol and aimed at their shins, being determined that one of
them, at least, should hobble around upon crutches for a short time. The
cap on the pistol, however, refused to explode, and the two vagabonds
immediately caused me to be arrested, charging me with "assault and
battery with the intent to kill!" I was forthwith accommodated with a
private apartment in Leverett Street jail, where I remained six weeks,
during which time I enjoyed myself tolerably well, being amply provided
with good dinners, not prison fare, but from the outside, candles,
newspapers, books, writing materials, &c. During my imprisonment, I
wrote "The Gay Deceiver," and "Venus in Boston." My next door neighbor
was no less a personage than Dr. John W. Webster, who was afterwards
executed for the murder of Dr. Parkman. Webster was a great glutton, and
thought of nothing but his stomach, even up to the very hour of his
death. On account of his "position in society," (!) every officer of the
prison became his waiter; and a certain ruffianly turnkey, who was in
the habit of abusing poor prisoners in the most outrageous manner, would
fawn to the Doctor like a hungry dog to a benevolent butcher.
Webster was very polite to me, frequently sending me books and
newspapers--favors which I as often reciprocated. He once sent me a jar
of preserves, a box of sardines and a bottle of wine. The latter gift I
highly appreciated, wines and liquors of every kind being prohibited
luxuries. That night I became very happy and jovial; but I did not leave
the house.
Dr. Webster was confident of being acquitted; but the result proved how
terribly he was mistaken. Probably, in the annals of criminal
jurisprudence, there never was seen a more striking instance of equal
and exact justice, than was afforded by the trial, conviction and
execution of John W. Webster. Money, influential friends, able counsel,
prayers, petitions, the _prestige_ of a scientific reputation failed to
save him from that fate which he merited as well as if he had been the
most obscure individual in existence.
After six weeks imprisonment, I was brought to trial before Chief
Justice Wells. I was defended by a very tolerable lawyer, to whom I paid
twenty-five dollars in consideration of his conversing five minutes with
a jury of my peers, the said jury consisting of twelve hungry
individuals who wanted to go out to dinner. When my legal adviser had
made a few well-meaning remarks, the jury retired to talk the matter
over among themselves; and, after about fifteen minutes absence, they
returned and expressed their opinion that I was "not guilty." This
opinion induced me to believe that they were very sensible fellows
indeed. Not for a moment did I think of demanding a new trial; that
would have been impertinent, as doubting the sagacity of the jury. My
two Irish prosecutors left the court-room in a rage; and two more
chop-fallen disappointed and mortified Greeks were never seen. The Judge
took his departure, the spectators dispersed, and I crossed the street
and dined sumptuously at Parker's, with a large party of friends.
Very many of my Boston readers will remember a long series of articles
which I wrote and published about that time, in the columns of one of
the newspapers, entitled "Mysteries of Leverett Street Jail." In those
sketches I gave the arrangements of the Jail, and its officers,
"particular fits;" and the manner in which the fellows writhed under the
inflictions, was a caution to petty tyrants generally. The startling
revelations which I made created great excitement throughout the whole
community; and I have good reason to believe that those exposures were
the means of producing a far better state of affairs in the interior of
the "stone jug."
I have thus, very briefly, given the extent of my experience with
reference to the old Leverett Street Jail. Unlawful ladies and gentlemen
are now accommodated in an elegant establishment in Cambridge street,
for the old Jail has been levelled to the ground to make room for
"modern improvements."--I visited it just before the commencement of its
destruction, and gazed at my old apartment "more in sorrow than in
anger." There were my name and a few verses, which I had written upon
the wall. There was the rude table, upon which I had penned two novels,
which, from their tone, seem rather to have emanated from a gilded
_boudoir_. There, too, in the grated window, was a little flower-pot in
which I had cultivated a solitary plant. That poor plant had withered
and died long ago, for the prisoners who succeeded me probably had no
taste for such "trash." I took and carefully preserved the dead remains
of my floral favorite--"for," said I to myself--"they will serve to
remind me of a dark spot in my existence."
And now, with the reader's permission, I will turn to matters of a more
cheerful character.
FOOTNOTES:
[M] I allude to Mr. W.G. Jones, now deceased.