d away in this manner, and I had reached the age of
eighteen, with an unimpaired constitution and a firm belief that I was
destined to exist for ever. I had lived luxuriously upon the earnings of
my pen, for I was a regular contributor to the Knickerbroker Magazine
and other popular periodicals. Having accumulated considerable money,
notwithstanding my extravagance, I resolved to take a Southern tour,
visiting Philadelphia, Washington, and other cities of note.
Accordingly, one fine day, I found myself established in comfortable
quarters, at the most fashionable hotel in the "city of brotherly love."
I became a regular frequenter of the theatres and other places of
amusement, and formed the acquaintance of many actors and literary
people. It was here that I had the honor of being introduced to Booth,
the great tragedian, now dead; to "Ned Forrest," the American favorite;
to "Uncle" J.R. Scott, as fine a man as ever drank a noggin of ale or
ate a "dozen raw," and to Major Richardson, the author of "Wacousta,"
and the "Monk Knight of St. John," the latter being one of the most
voluptuous works ever written. Poor Major! his was a melancholy end. He
was formerly a Major in the British army, and was a gentleman by birth,
education and principle. Possessing a fine person, a generous heart and
the most winning manners, he was a general favorite with his associates.
He became the victim of rapacious publishers, and grew poor. Too proud
to accept of assistance from his friends, he retired to obscure lodgings
and there endeavored to support himself by the productions of his pen.
But his spirit was broken and his intellect crushed by the base
ingratitude of those who should have been his warmest friends. Often
have I visited him in his garret--for he actually occupied one; and,
with a bottle of whiskey before us, we have condemned the world as being
full of selfishness, ingratitude and villainy. Winter came on, and the
Major had no fuel, nor the means of procuring any. I have repeatedly
called upon him and found him sitting in the intensely cold atmosphere
of his miserable apartment, wrapped in a blanket and busily engaged in
writing with a hand that was blue and trembled with the cold. He firmly
refused to receive aid, in any shape, from his friends; and they were
obliged to witness his gradual decay with sad hearts. The gallant Major
always persisted in denying that he needed anything; he swore his garret
was the most comfortable