Sheppard Lee :: :: University of Virginia Library

My benevolent friend, leaving his horse standing
at the door, led the way into the hovel, the interior
of which was still more ruinous than the outside.
It consisted of but a single room below, with a garret
above. A meager fire, which furnished the
only light, was burning on the hearth, to supply
which the planks had been torn from the floor,
leaving the earth below almost bare. There was
not a single article of furniture visible, save an old
deal table without leaves, a broken chair, and a tattered
scrap of carpet lying near the fire, which
seemed to have served as both bed and blanket to
the wretched tenant.

“How is this?” said the Friend, in surprise.
“Verily I did direct my man Abel to carry divers
small comforts hither, which have vanished, as well
as the poor man, John Smith.”

John Smith, it seems, was the name of the beneficiary,
and that convinced me he was a rogue. I
ventured to hint to our common friend, that John
Smith, having disposed of those “small comforts”
he spoke of to the best advantage, was now engaged
seeking others in some of our neighbours'
houses; and that the wisest thing we could do in
such a case would be to take our departure.

“Verily,” said my deliverer, with suavity, “it is
not possible John can do the wicked things thou
thinkest of; for, first, it is but three days since he
left the penitentiary, and secondly, I sent him by
my helper and friend, Abel Snipe, sufficient eatables
to supply him a week; so that he could have
no inducement to do a wicked thing. Still it doth
surprise me that he is absent; nevertheless, we will
tarry a little while, lest peradventure he should return,
and be in trouble, with none to relieve him.
It wants yet ten minutes to midnight,” continued
the benevolent man, drawing out a handsome gold
watch, “and five of these at least we can devote
to the poor creature.”

I was about to remonstrate a second time, when
a step was heard approaching at a distance in the
street.

“Peradventure it is John himself,” said my
friend; “and peradventure it will be better thou
shouldst step aside into yonder dark corner for an
instant, that thou mayst witness, without restraining
by thy presence, the feelings of virtue that remain
in the spirit, even when tainted and hardened
by depravity.”

I crept away, as I was directed, to a corner,
where I might easily remain unobserved, the room
being illumined only by the fire, and that consisting
of little besides embers and ashes. From this
place I saw Mr. John Smith as he entered, which
he declined doing until after he had peeped suspiciously
into the apartment, and been summoned by
the voice of his benefactor.

He was as ill-looking a dog as I had ever laid
eyes on, and his appearance was in strange contrast
with that of his benevolent patron. The latter was
a tall and rawboned man of fifty, with an uncommonly
prepossessing visage; rather lantern-jawed,
perhaps, but handsome and good-natured. The
other was a slouch of a fellow, short of stature, but
full of fat and brawn, with bow legs, gibbon arms,
and a hang-dog visage. He sidled up to the fire
hesitatingly, and, indeed, with an air of shame and
humility; while the philanthropist, laying his watch
upon the table, extended his hand towards him.

“Be of good heart, friend John,” he said; “I
come, not to reproach thee for thy misdeeds, but to
counsel thee how thou shalt amend them, and restore
thyself again to the society of the virtuous.”

“'Es, sir,” grumbled John Smith, dodging his
head in humble acknowledgment, rubbing his hands
for warmth over the fire, and casting a sidelong
look at his benefactor. “Werry good of you, sir;
shall ever be beholden. Werry hard times for one
what's been in the penitentiary—takes away all
one's repurtation; and, Lord bless us, sir, a man's
but a ruined man when a man hasn't no repurtation.”

And with that worthy John drew his sleeve over
his nose, which convinced me he was not so much
of a rascal as I thought him.

“John, thou hast been but as a sinner and a foolish
man.”

“'Es, sir,” said John, with another rub of his
sleeve at his nose; “but hard times makes hard

work of a poor man. Always hoped to mend and
be wirtuous; but, Lord bless us, Mr. Longstraw
(beg pardon—can't think of making so free to say
friend to such a great gentleman), one can't be
wirtuous with nothing to live on.”

“Verily, thou speakest, in a measure, the truth,”
said my friend; “and I intend thou shalt now be
put in some way of earning an honest livelihood.”

“'Es, sir,” said John; “and sure I shall be werry
much beholden.”

But it is not my intention to record the conversation
of the worthy pair. I am writing a history
of myself, and not of other people; and I therefore
think it proper to pursue no discourses in which
I did not myself bear a part. It is sufficient to
say, that my deliverer said a thousand excellent
things in the way of counsel, which the other received
very well, and many indicative of a disposition
to be charitable, which Mr. John Smith received
still better; and in the end, to relieve the
pressing wants of the sufferer, which Mr. John
Smith feelingly represented, drew forth a pocketbook,
and took therefrom a silver dollar; at the
sight of which, I thought, Mr. John Smith looked
a little disappointed. Nay, it struck me that the
appearance of the pocketbook, ancient and ill-looking
as it was, had captivated his imagination in
a greater degree than the coin. I had before observed
him steal several affectionate looks towards
the gold watch lying on the table, which now, however,
the sight of the well-thumbed wallet seemed

to have driven from his thoughts entirely. Nevertheless,
he received the silver dollar with many
thanks, and with still more the assurance that the
philanthropist would procure him employment on
the morrow; and Mr. Longstraw's eyes, as he turned
to beckon me from the corner, began to twinkle
with the delight of self-approbation.

I was myself beginning to feel a sentiment of
pleasure, and to picture to my mind the unfortunate
felon, converted, by a few words of counsel, and
still fewer dollars of charity, into an honest and
worthy member of society, when—oh horror of
horrors!—the repenting convict suddenly snatched
up a brand from the fire, and discharged it, with
a violence that would have felled an ox, full upon
the head of his patron.

The sparks flew from the brand over the whole
room, and my friend dropped upon the floor on his
face, followed by the striker, who, seizing upon his
cravat, twisted it tightly round the unfortunate man's
throat, thus completing by strangulation the murder
more than half accomplished by the below.

The whole affair was the work of an instant;
and had I possessed the will or courage to interfere,
I could not have done so in time to arrest the
mischief. But, in truth, I had not the power to
stir; horror and astonishment chained me to the
corner, where I stood as if transformed to stone,
unable even to vent my feelings in a cry. I was
seized with a terrible apprehension on my own account;
for I could not doubt that the wretch who

would thus murder a benefactor for a few dollars,
would have as little hesitation to despatch me, who
had witnessed the deed. I feared every moment
lest the villain should direct his eye to the corner
in which I stood, separated from him only a few
yards; but he was too busy with his horrid work to
regard me; and, terrified as I was, I looked on in
safety while my deliverer was murdered before my
eyes.

How long Mr. John Smith was at his dreadful
work I cannot say; but I saw him, after a while,
relax his grasp from his victim's throat, and fall to
rummaging his pockets. Then, leaping up, he
seized upon the watch, and clapped it into his bosom,
saying, with a most devilish chuckle and grin,

“Damn them 'ere old fellers what gives a man
a dollar, and preaches about wirtue! I reckon,
old Slabsides, there's none on your people will
hang me for the smash. Much beholden to you
for leaving the horse and chair; it makes all safer.”

With these words the wretch slipped out of the
hovel, and a moment after I heard the smothered
roll of the vehicle as it swept from the door.