ut them down--which Heaven forbid! If ever I
re-visit that place, I shall gaze with reverence at the old house--for
in it I passed some of the happiest days of my life. The antique edifice
I christened "The Hermitage." The squalling cats of that neighborhood
afforded me a fine opportunity for pistol practice.

At the end of three years, I had a slight "misunderstanding" with Mr.
W----, the proprietor of the Aurora, one of the most stupendously mean
men it was ever my misfortune to encounter. He was worthy of being the
owner of the only newspaper in Charlestown, alias, "Hogtown." Having
civilly requested Mr. W---- to go to the devil at his earliest
convenience, I left him and his rookery in disgust, and shifted my
quarters over to Boston.

Here I engaged largely in literary pursuits, and began to write a series
of novels. These were well received by the public, as every Bostonian
will recollect.

In my next chapter, I shall tell the reader how a gentleman got into
difficulties.

CHAPTER X

_Six weeks in Leverett Street Jail._

A popular actor who was a personal friend of mine[M] took a farewell
benefit at the National Theatre. At his invitation, and just before the
close of the evening's performances, I attempted to enter the stage door
for his purpose of seeing him in his dressing-room, as he intended to
sup with me and several friends. A half-drunken Irishman attached to the
stage department in some menial capacity, stopped me and insolently
ordered me out. I treated the Greek, of course, with the contempt which
he merited, whereupon he called another overgrown bog-trotter to his
assistance, and the twain forthwith attacked me with great fury. Finding
myself in danger of receiving rather rough treatment, I drew a small
pocket pistol and aimed at their shins, being determined that one of
them, at least, should hobble around upon crutches for a short time. The
cap on the pistol, however, refused to explode, and the two vagabonds
immediately caused me to be arrested, charging me with "assault and
battery with the intent to kill!" I was forthwith accommodated with a
private apartment in Leverett Street jail, where I remained six weeks,
during which time I enjoyed myself tolerably well, being amply provided
with good dinners, not prison fare, but from the outside, candles,
newspapers, books, writing materials, &c. During my imprisonment, I
wrote "The Gay Deceiver," and "Venus in Boston." My next door neighbor