THOMPSON***


E-text prepared by Matt Whittaker, Suzanne Shell, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)



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   * Transcriber's Note:                                                *
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   * Obvious typographical errors were corrected and the use of hyphens *
   * was made consistent throughout. All other spelling and punctuation *
   * was retained as it appeared in the original text.                  *
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MY LIFE:

Or

The Adventures of Geo. Thompson.
Being the Auto-Biography of an
Author. Written by Himself.


  Why rove in _Fiction's_ shadowy land,
    And seek for treasures there,
  When _Truth's_ domain, so near at hand,
    Is filled with things most rare--
  When every day brings something new,
  Some great, stupendous change,
  Something exciting, wild and _true_,
  Most wonderful and strange!

  [ORIGINAL.]







{First published 1854}


[Illustration: Yellow Cover of Thompson's _My Life_. Original size 6 x
9-1/8". Courtesy, American Antiquarian Society.]




INTRODUCTION

_In which the author defineth his position._


It having become the fashion of distinguished novelists to write their
own lives--or, in other words, to blow their own trumpets,--the author
of these pages is induced, at the solicitation of numerous friends,
whose bumps of inquisitiveness are strongly developed, to present his
auto-biography to the public--in so doing which, he but follows the
example of Alexandre Dumas, the brilliant French novelist, and of the
world-renowned Dickens, both of whom are understood to be preparing
their personal histories for the press.

Now, in comparing myself with the above great worthies, who are so
deservedly distinguished in the world of literature, I shall be accused
of unpardonable presumption and ridiculous egotism--but I care not what
may be said of me, inasmuch as a total independence of the opinions,
feelings and prejudices of the world, has always been a prominent
characteristic of mine--and that portion of the world and the "rest of
mankind" which does not like me, has my full permission to go to the
devil as soon as it can make all the necessary arrangements for the
journey.

I shall be true and candid, in these pages. I shall not seek to conceal
one of my numerous faults which I acknowledge and deplore; and, if I
imagine that I possess one solitary merit, I shall not be backward in
making that merit known. Those who know me personally, will never accuse
me of entertaining one single atom of that despicable quality,
self-conceit; those who do not know me, are at liberty to think what
they please.--Heaven knows that had I possessed a higher estimation of
myself, a more complete reliance upon my own powers, and some of that
universal commodity known as "cheek," I should at this present moment
have been far better off in fame and fortune. But I have been
unobtrusive, unambitious, retiring--and my friends have blamed me for
this a thousand times. I have seen writers of no talent at all--petty
scribblers, wasters of ink and spoilers of paper, who could not write
six consecutive lines of English grammar, and whose short paragraphs for
the newspapers invariably had to undergo revision and correction--I have
seen such fellows causing themselves to be invited to public banquets
and other festivals, and forcing their unwelcome presence into the
society of the most distinguished men of the day.

I have spoken of my friends--now a word or two in regard to my enemies.
Like most men who have figured before the public, in whatever capacity,
I have secured the hatred of many persons, who, jealous of my humble
fame, have lost no opportunity of spitting out their malice and opposing
my progress. The friendship of such persons is a misfortune--their
enmity is a blessing.

I assure them that their hatred will never cause me to lose a fraction
of my appetite, or my nightly rest. They may consider themselves very
fortunate, if, in the following pages, they do not find themselves
immortalized by my notice, although they are certainly unworthy of so
great a distinction. I enjoy the friendship of men of letters, and am
therefore not to be put down by the opposition of a parcel of senseless
blockheads, without brain, or heart, or soul.

I shall doubtless find it necessary to make allusions to local places,
persons, incidents, &c. Those will add greatly to the interest of the
narrative. Many portraits will be readily recognized, especially those
whose originals reside in Boston, where the greater portion of my
literary career has been passed.

_The life of an author_, must necessarily be one of peculiar and
absorbing interest, for he dwells in a world of his own creation, and
his tastes, habits, and feelings are different from those of other
people. How little is he understood--how imperfectly is he appreciated,
by a cold, unsympathising world! his eccentricities are ridiculed--his
excesses are condemned by unthinking persons, who cannot comprehend the
fact that a writer, whose mind is weary, naturally longs for physical
excitement of some kind of other, and too often seeks for a temporary
mental oblivion in the intoxicating bowl. Under any and every
circumstance, the author is certainly deserving of some degree of
charitable consideration, because he labors hard for the public
entertainment, and draws heavily on the treasures of his imagination, in
order to supply the continual demands of the reading community. When the
author has led a life of stirring adventure, his history becomes one of
extraordinary and thrilling interest. I flatter myself that this
narrative