THOMPSON***


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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 will be found worthy of the reader's perusal.

And now a few words concerning my personal identity. Many have insanely
supposed me to be George Thompson, the celebrated English abolitionist
and member of the British Parliament, but such cannot be the case, that
individual having returned to his own country. Again--others have taken
me for George Thompson, the pugilist; but by far the greater part of the
performers in this interesting "Comedy of Errors" have imagined me to be
no less a personage than the celebrated "_One-eyed Thompson_," and they
long continued in this belief, even after that talented but most
unfortunate man had committed suicide in New York, and in spite of the
fact that his name was William H., and not George. Two circumstances,
however, seemed to justify the belief before the man's death:--he, like
myself, had the great misfortune to be deprived of an eye. How the
misfortune happened to _me_, I shall relate in the proper place. I have
written many works of fiction, but I have passed through adventures
quite as extraordinary as any which I have drawn from the imagination.

In order to establish my claim to the title of "author," I will
enumerate a few of the works which I have written:--

Gay Girls of New York, Dissipation, The Housekeeper, Venus in Boston,
Jack Harold, Criminal, Outlaw, Road to Ruin, Brazen Star, Kate
Castleton, Redcliff, The Libertine, City Crimes, The Gay Deceiver, Twin
Brothers, Demon of Gold, Dashington, Lady's Garter, Harry Glindon,
Catharine and Clara.

In addition to these works--which have all met with a rapid sale and
most extensive circulation--I have written a sufficient quantity of
tales, sketches, poetry, essays and other literary stock of every
description, to constitute half a dozen cart loads. My adventures,
however, and not my productions must employ my pen; and begging the
reader's pardon for this rather lengthy, but very necessary,
introduction, I begin my task.




CHAPTER I

_In which I begin to Acquire a Knowledge of the World._


I have always thought, and still think, that it matters very little
where or when a man is born--it is sufficient for him to know that he is
_here_, and that he had better adapt himself, as far as possible, to the
circumstances by which he is surrounded, provided that he wishes to
toddle through the world with comfort and credit to himself and to the
approbation of others. But still, in order to please all classes of
readers, I will state that some thirty years ago a young stranger
struggled into existence in the city of New York; and I will just merely
hint that the twenty-eighth day of August, in the year of our Lord one
thousand eight hundred and twenty-three, should be inserted in the next
(comic) almanac as having been the birth-day of a great man--for when an
individual attains a bodily weight of two hundred pounds and over, may
he not be styled _great_?

My parents were certainly respectable people, but they both
inconsiderately died at a very early period of my life, leaving me a few
hundred dollars and a thickheaded uncle, to whom was attached an
objectionable aunt, the proprietress of a long nose and a shrewish
temper. The nose was adapted to the consumption of snuff, and the temper
was effective in the destruction of my happiness and peace of mind. The
worthy couple, with a prophetic eye, saw that I was destined to become,
in future years, somewhat of a _gourmand_, unless care should be taken
to prevent such a melancholy fate; therefore, actuated by the best
motives, and in order to teach me the luxury of abstinence, they began
by slow but sure degrees to starve me. Good people, how I reverence
their memory!

One night I committed burglary upon a closet, and feloniously carried
off a chunk of bread and meat, which I devoured in the cellar.

"Oh, my prophetic soul--_my uncle_!" That excellent man caught me in the
act of eating the provender, and--my bones ache at this very moment as I
think of the licking I got! I forgot to mention that I had a rather
insignificant brother, four years older than myself, who became my
uncle's apprentice, and who joined that gentleman in his persecutions
against me. My kind relatives were rather blissful people in the way of
ignorance, and they hated me because they imagined that I regarded
myself as their superior--a belief that was founded on the fact that I
shunned their society and passed the greater portion of my time in
reading and writing.

I lived at that time in Thomas street, very near the famous brothel of
Rosina Townsend, in whose house that dreadful murder was committed
which the New York public will still remember with a thrill of horror. I
allude to the murder of the celebrated courtezan Ellen Jewett. Her
lover, Richard P. Robinson, was tried and acquitted of the murder,
through the eloquence of his talented counsel, Ogden Hoffman, Esq. The
facts of the case are briefly these:--Robinson was a clerk in a
wholesale store, and was the paramour of Ellen, who was strongly
attached to him. Often have I seen them walking together, both dressed
in the height of fashion, the beautiful Ellen leaning upon the arm of
the dashing Dick, while their elegant appearance attracted universal
attention and admiration. But all this soon came to a bloody
termination. Dick was engaged to be married to a young lady of the
highest respectability, the heiress of wealth and the possessor of
surpassing loveliness. He informed Ellen that his connection with her
must cease in consequence of his matrimonial arrangements, whereupon
Ellen threatened to expose him to his "intended" if he abandoned her.
Embarrassed by the critical nature of his situation, Dick, then, in an
evil hour, resolved to kill the courtezan who threatened to destroy his
anticipated happiness. One Saturday night he visited her as usual; and
after a splendid supper, they returned to her chamber. Upon that
occasion, as was afterwards proved on the trial, Dick wore an ample
cloak, and several persons noticed that he seemed to have something
concealed beneath it. His manner towards Ellen and also his words, were
that night unusually caressing and affectionate. What passed in that
chamber, and who perpetrated that murder the Almighty knows--_and,
perhaps, Dick Robinson, if he is still alive, also knows_![A] The next
morning (Sunday,) at a very early hour, smoke was seen to proceed from
Ellen's chamber, and the curtains of her bed were found to have been set
on fire. The flames were with difficulty extinguished, and there in the
half consumed bed, was found the mangled corpse of Ellen Jewett, having
on the side of her head an awful wound, which had evidently been
inflicted by a hatchet. Dick Robinson was nowhere to be found, but in
the garden, near a fence, were discovered his cloak and a bloody
hatchet. With many others, I entered the room in which lay the body of
Ellen, and never shall I forget the horrid spectacle that met my gaze!
There, upon that couch of sin, which had been scathed by fire, lay
blackened the half-burned remains of a once-beautiful woman, whose head
exhibited the dreadful wound which had caused her death. It had plainly
been the murderer's intention to burn down the house in order to destroy
the ghastly evidence of his crime; but fate ordained that the fire
should be discovered and extinguished before the _fatal wound_ became
obliterated. Robinson, as I said before, was tried and pronounced
guiltless of the crime, through the ingenuity of his counsel, who termed
him an "_innocent boy_." The public, however, firmly believed in his
guilt; and the question arises--"If Dick Robinson did not kill Ellen
Jewett, _who did_?" I do not believe that ever before was presented so
shameful an instance of perverted justice, or so striking an
illustration of the "glorious uncertainty of the law." It is rather
singular that Furlong, a grocer, who swore to an _alibi_ in favor of
Robinson, and who was the chief instrument employed to effect the
acquittal of that young man, some time afterwards committed suicide by
drowning, having first declared that his conscience reproached him for
the part which he played at the trial!

The Sabbath upon which this murder was brought to light was a dark,
stormy day, and I have reason to remember it well, for, in the
afternoon, that good old pilgrim--my uncle, of course,--discovered that
I had played truant from Sunday School in the morning, and for that
atrocious crime, he, in his holy zeal for my spiritual and temporal
welfare, resolved to bestow upon me a wholesome and severe flogging,
being aided and abetted in the formation of that laudable resolution by
my religious aunt and my sanctimonious brother, the latter of whom had
turned _informer_ against me. Sweet relatives? how I love to think of
them--and never do I fail to remember them in my prayers. Well, I was
lugged up into the garret, which was intended to be the scene of my
punishment. If I recollect rightly, I was then about twelve years of
age, and rather a stout youth considering my years. I determined to
rebel against the authority of my beloved kindred, assert my
independence, and defend myself to the best of my ability. "I have
suffered enough;" said I to myself, "and now I'm _going in_."

"Sabbath-breaker, strip off your jacket," mildly remarked by dear uncle
as he savagely flourished a cowhide of most formidable aspect and
alarming suppleness.

My reply was brief, but expressive:

"I'll see you d----d first," said I.

My uncle turned pale, my aunt screamed, and my brother rolled up the
white of his eyes and groaned.

"What, what did you say?" demanded my uncle, who could not believe the
evidence of his own senses, for up to that moment I had always tamely
submitted to the good man's amiable treatment of me, and he found it
impossible to imagine that I was capable of resisting him. Well, if
there ever _was_ an angel on earth, that uncle of mine was that
particular angel. Saints in general are provided with pinched noses,
green eyes, and voices like unto the wailings of a small pig, which is
suffering the agonies of death beneath a cart-wheel. And, if there ever
was a cherub, my brother _was_ certainly that individual cherub,
although, in truth, my pious recollections do not furnish me with the
statement that cherubs are remarkable for swelled heads and bandy legs.

"I say," was my reply to my uncle's astonished inquiry, "that I ain't
going to stand any more abuse and beatings. I've stood bad treatment
long enough from the whole pack of you. I'm almost starved, and I'm
kicked about like a dog. Let any of you three tyrants touch me, and I'll
show you what is to get desperate. I disown you all as relatives, and
hereafter I'm going to live where I please, and do as I please."

Furious with rage, my sweet-tempered uncle raised the cowhide and with
it struck me across the face. I immediately pitched into that portion of
his person where he was accustomed to stow away his Sabbath beans, and
the excellent man fell head over heels down the garret stairs, landing
securely at the bottom and failing to pick himself up, for the simple
reason that he had broken his leg. What a pity it would have been, and
what a loss society would have sustained, if, instead of his leg, the
holy man had broken his _neck_!

My dear brother, accompanied by my affectionate aunt, now choked me, but
I was not to be conquered just then, for "thrice is he armed who hath
his quarrel just." The lady I landed in a tub of impure water that
happened to be standing near; and she presented quite an interesting
appearance, kicking up her heels and squalling like a cat in
difficulties. My other assailant I hurled into a heap of ashes, and the
way he blubbered was a caution to a Nantucket whaleman. Rushing down the
stairs, I passed over the prostrate form of my crippled uncle, who
requested me to come back, so that he might kick me with his serviceable
foot; but, brute that I was, I disregarded him--requested him to go to a
place which shall be nameless--and then left the house as expeditiously
as possible, fully determined never to return, whatever might be the
consequences.

"I am now old enough, and big enough," I mentally reflected, "to take
care of myself; and to-morrow I'll look for work, and try to get a
chance to learn a trade. Where shall I sleep to-night? It's easy enough
to ask that question, but deuced hard to answer it. I wish to-day wasn't
Sunday!"

Rather an impious wish, but quite natural under the circumstances. I
felt in my pockets, to see if I was the proprietor of any loose change;
my search was magnificently successful, for I discovered that I had a
sixpence!

Yes, reader, a new silver sixpence, that glittered in my hand like a
bright star of hope, urging me on to enterprise--to exertions. So
fearful was I of losing the precious coin, that I continued to grasp it
tightly in my hand. I never had been allowed any pocket money, even on
the Fourth of July; and this large sum had come into my possession
through the munificence of a neighbor, as a reward for performing an
errand.

Not knowing where else to go, I went down on the Battery, and sheltered
myself under a tree from the rain, which fell in torrents. Rather an
interesting situation for a youth of twelve--homeless, friendless,
almost penniless! I was wet through to the skin, and as night came on, I
became desperately hungry, for I had eaten no dinner that day, and even
my breakfast had been of the _phantom_ order--something like the
pasteboard meals which are displayed upon the stage of the theatre.
However, I did not despair, for I was young and active, full of the hope
so natural to a youth ere rough contact with the world has crushed his
spirit. I was well aware of the fact that I was no fool, although I had
often been called one by my hostile and unappreciating relatives, whose
opinions I had ever held in most supreme contempt. As I stood under that
tree to shelter myself from the rain, I felt quite happy, for a feeling
of independence had arisen within me. I was now my own master, and the
consciousness that I must solely rely upon myself, was to me a source of
gratification and pride. I had not the slightest doubt of being able to
dig my way through the world in some way or other.

Night came on at last, black as the brow of a Congo <DW65>, and starless
as a company of travelling actors. I could not remain under the tree all
night, that was certain; and so I left it, although I could scarcely see
my hand before me. That hand, by the way, still tenaciously grasped the
invaluable sixpence. Groping my way out of the Battery, and guided by a
light, I entered the bar-room of a respectable hotel, where a large
number of well-dressed gentlemen were assembled, who were seeking
shelter from the storm, and at the same time indulging their convivial
propensities. Much noise and confusion prevailed; and two gentlemen,
who, as I afterwards learned, were officers belonging to a Spanish
vessel then in port, fell into a dispute and got into a fight, during
which one of them stabbed the other with a dirk-knife, inflicting a
mortal wound.

Officers were sent for, the murderer and his victim were removed, and
comparative quiet prevailed. I was seated in an obscure corner of the
bar-room, wondering how I should get through the night, when I was
unceremoniously accosted by a lad of about my own age. He was a rakish
looking youth, quite handsome withal, dressed in the height of fashion,
and was smoking a cigar with great vigor and apparent relish. It will be
seen hereafter that I have reason to remember this individual to the
very last day of my life. Would to heaven that I had never met him!

This youth slapped me familiarly on the shoulder, and said--

"Hallo, bub! why, you're wet as a drowned rat! Come and take a brandy
cocktail--it will warm you up!"

I had never drank a drop of liquor in my life, and I hadn't the faintest
idea of what a brandy cocktail was, and so I told my new friend, who
laughed immoderately as he exclaimed--

"How jolly green you are, to be sure; why, you're a regular _greenhorn_,
and I'm going to call you by that name hereafter. Have you got any tin?"

I knew that he meant money, and so I told him that I had but a sixpence
in the world.

"Bah!" cried my friend, as he drew his cigar from his mouth and
salivated in the most fashionable manner, "who are you, what are you and
what are you doing here? Come, tell me all about yourself, and it may
perhaps be in my power to do you a service."

His frank, off-hand manner won my confidence. I told him my whole story,
without any reserve; and he laughed uproariously when I told him how I
had pitched my tyrannical uncle down stairs.

"It served the old chap right," said he approvingly--"you are a fellow
of some spirit, and I like you. Come take a drink, and we can afterwards
talk over what is best to be done."

I objected to drink, because I had formed a strong prejudice against
ardent spirits, having often been a witness of its deplorable effects in
depriving men--and women, too--of their reason, and reducing them to the
condition of brute beasts. So, in declining my friend's invitation, I
told him my reasons for so doing, whereupon he laughed louder than ever,
as he remarked--

"Why, _Greenhorn_, you'd make an excellent temperance lecturer. But
perhaps you think I haven't got any money to pay the rum. Look
here--what do you think of _that_?"

He displayed a large roll of bank bills, and flourished them
triumphantly. I had never before seen so much money, except in the
broker's windows; and my friend was immediately established in my mind
as a _millionaire_, whose wealth was inexhaustible. I suddenly conceived
for him the most profound respect, and would not have offended him for
the world. How could I persist in refusing to drink with a young
gentleman of such wealth, and (as a necessary consequence) such
distinction? Besides, I suddenly felt quite a curiosity to drink some
liquor, just to see how it tasted. After all, it was only very low
people who got drunk and wallowed in the mire. _Gentlemen_ (I thought)
never get drunk, and they always seem so happy and joyous after they
have been drinking! How they shake hands, and swear eternal friendship,
and seem generously willing to lend or give away all they have in the
world! So thought I, as my mind was made up to accept the invitation of
my friend. It is singular that I had forgotten all about the murder
which had just taken place in that bar-room, and which had been directly
produced by intemperance.

"The fact is, my dear _Greenhorn_," said my friend, impressively, as he
flourished his hand after the manner of some aged, experienced and
eloquent orator, "the fact is, the _use_ of liquor, and its _abuse_, are
two very different things. A man (here he drew himself up) can drink
like a gentleman, or he can swill like a loafer, or a beast. Now _I_
prefer the gentlemanly portion of the argument, and therefore we'll go
up and take a gentlemanly drink. I shall be happy, young man, to
initiate you into the divine joys and mysteries of Bacchus--ahem!"

I looked at my friend with increased wonder, for he displayed an
assurance, a self-possession, an elegant _nonchalance_, that were far
beyond his years, for he was only about twelve years old--my own age
exactly. And then what language he used--so refined, glowing, and
indicative of a knowledge of the world! I longed to be like him--to
equal him in his many perfections--to sport as much money as he did, and
to wear as good "_harness_." I forgot to mention that he carried a
splendid gold watch, and that several glittering rings adorned his
fingers. "Who can he be?" was the question which I asked myself; and of
course, I could not find an answer.

"Felix," said my friend, addressing the bar-keeper in a style of
patronizing condescension, as we approached the bar, "Felix, my good
fellow, just mix us a couple of brandy cocktails, will you, and make
them _strong_, d'ye hear, for the night is wet, and I and my verdant
friend here, are about to travel in search of amusement, even as the
Caliph and his Vizier used to perambulate the streets of Baghdad. Come,
hurry up!"

The bar-keeper grinned, mixed the liquor, and handed us the tumblers. My
friend knocked his glass against mine, and remarked "here's luck," a
ceremony and an observation which both somewhat surprised me at the
time, although I have long since become thoroughly acquainted with what
was then a mystery. Many of my readers--indeed, I may say the greater
portion of them--will require no explanation of this matter; and as for
those who are in ignorance of it, I will simply say, long may they keep
so!

My friend tossed off his cocktail with the air of one who is used to it,
and rather liked it than otherwise; but I was not quite so successful,
for being wholly unacquainted with the science of drinking, the strength
of the liquor nearly choked me, to the intense amusement of my more
experienced friend, who advised me to try again. I _did_ try again, and
more successfully, the liquor went the way