riting my own history, and
not an effusion of my imagination, which seems to be a prolific mother,
for it hath produced many children, and (if I live) may produce many
more.

While I now write, the Sabbath bells are ringing in sweet harmony, and
through my open window comes the cool but mild breath of an autumnal
morning. Yes, it is Sunday, and all the holy associations of the sacred
day crowd upon me. I can almost see the village church, and the throng
of worshippers within it, listening to the fervent remarks and
exhortations of their pastor. Then I can fancy the gorgeous cathedral,
with its stained windows, its elaborate carvings, its pealing organs,
and its fashionable assembly of superficial worshippers. While others
are praying, pleasuring and sleeping, I am rushing my iron pen over the
spotless paper, and wishing that my penmanship could keep pace with my
thought.--This is a digression; but the reader will pardon it. There is
_one_ dear creature, I know, who, when her eyes scan these pages, will
understand me. But she, alas! is far away.

Where was I? Oh, speaking of Jack Slack. How well do I remember the
night upon which first I met him! I can see him now, with his
mischievous smiles, his eyes full of deviltry--his scornful lips--I can
almost hear his mocking laugh. Yes, although eighteen years have passed
since then, the remembrance of that night is fresh within me, as if its
occurrence were but things of yesterday.

May perdition seize the circumstances which led me to encounter him! He
was the foundation of my misfortunes in life. But for him, I might have
led a happy, tranquil life; unknown, it is true, but still happy. But,
poor fellow! he is dead now. He died by my hand, and I do not regret the
act, nor would I recall it, had I the power. But of this the reader
shall know hereafter.

That was my first night of dissipation--that was the occasion of my
initiation into the mysteries of debauchery. I had previously led a
necessarily regular and abstemious life--to bed at eight, up at six, at
school by nine, and so on. (By the way, I never learned any thing at
school--the master pronounced me the most stupid rascal in the concern;
and flogged me accordingly--good old man! All I ever learned was
acquired in a _printing office_.) Well, here was I at the age of twelve,
fairly launched upon the sea of city life, without a guide, protector,
or friend. What wonder is it that I became a reckless, dissipated
indiv