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 w