ot 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 c