place in the world, and that the introduction
of a fire would have been preposterous; he always affirmed with a round
military oath, that he "lived like a fighting-cock," and was never
without his bottle of wine at dinner; yet I once came upon him rather
unexpectedly, and found him dining upon a crust of bread and a red
herring. Sometimes, but rarely, he appeared at the theatres, and, upon
such occasions, he was always scrupulously well-dressed, for Major
Richardson would never appear abroad otherwise than as a gentleman.
Want, privation and disappointment finally conquered him; he grew thin,
and haggard, and melancholy, and reserved, and discouraged the visits of
his friends who used to love to assemble at his humble lodgings and
avail themselves of his splendid conversational powers, or listen to his
personal reminiscences and racy anecdotes of military life. One morning
he was found dead in his bed; and his death caused the most profound
grief in the breasts of all who knew him as he deserved to be known, and
who respected him for his many excellent qualities of head and heart.
His remains received a handsome and appropriate burial; and many a tear
was shed o'er the grave of him who had been a gallant soldier and a
celebrated author, but a truly wronged and most unfortunate man.

The reader will, I am sure, pardon this digression, for I was anxious to
do justice to the memory of a much-valued friend and literary brother. I
now resume the direct course of my narrative, and come to the darkest
portion of my career.

One night, in a billiard room, I had a very unpleasant encounter with an
old acquaintance. I observed, at one of the tables, a young man whose
countenance seemed strangely familiar to me, although I did not
immediately recognize him. He was dressed in the extreme of fashion, and
his upper lip was darkened by an incipient moustache--the result,
doubtless, of many months of industrious cultivation. A cigar was in his
mouth, and a billiard-cue was in his hand; and he profusely adorned his
conversation with the most extravagant oaths. Altogether, he seemed to
be a very "fast" young man; and I puzzled my brain in endeavoring to
remember where I had met him before.

Suddenly, he raised his eyes, and their gaze encountered mine; then I
wondered that I had not before recognized "my old friend," Jack Slack!

"This fellow is my evil genius; he follows me everywhere," thought I,
turning to leave the saloon. Would t