prevailed, and I was saved from a felon’s doom. In those days, debtors were incarcerated, and I was confined in a dark cell, by locks, and bars, and bolts, as all Providence feared I would escape, and kill my father and father-in-law, and perhaps others. Their fears were supremely ridiculous, as, if I had seriously contemplated their death, I would not have told them where I was in Scituate, nor the precise period that I should come to Providence and dispatch them. But my object was attained. I meant to have a crisis, and I got it with a vengeance on all sides. The night I entered my cell was the happiest of my life. My bed was on the floor, and rats and bugs crawled over me to their hearts’ content. I never slept more sweetly, though occasionally aroused by the enormous rats squealing and nibbling at my nose. The privy of the prisoners in the large debtors’ apartment joined my cell, and the stench was almost intolerable, and yet I soon became accustomed even to that, and for days I laughed and danced and sang as never, for I had emerged from anxiety and torture approximating purgatory itself. Mr. Parker, a debtor, soon joined me in my cell, and we played cards, and narrated our curious experience, and had a merry time; but Parker obtained his liberty, and I was again alone, and I soon got melancholy, and I wept bitterly over the calamities of my beloved wife, through her penurious and demon father. In three weeks I was permitted the freedom of the jail, which imparted perfect bliss to my disconsolate mind. I reviewed my classics and mathematics in prison, and some faithful companions called, and time again passed merrily. In six weeks my father came, and (as my only complainant) effected my discharge, by withdrawing his fictitious suit for debt against me. He accompanied me in a carriage to the steamboat, and gave me money, with his most affectionate blessing, and I departed for New York, an outcast, in company with a dear relative named Franklin Cooley, who had been very kind to me during my entire confinement, and through all my days. I left my benefactor in New York, and departed for Albany, and went to my Aunt Lucy’s, whom I had not seen for ten years, who resided in the town of Groveland, near Geneseo, in Livingston County, in the State of New York. My grandfather, on the mother’s side, left Connecticut forty years ago, in consequence of extreme melancholy, after his wife’s demise, and buried himself in the wilderness of Groveland, and wrote to none of his kindred for twenty years. He first worked on a farm, and as the country became more populous, he taught school and realized enough to buy him a farm from the famous Mr. Wadsworth, whom he knew in youth in Connecticut. At the expiration of twenty years, he wrote to East Hartford, Ct., and his surviving daughter, Lucy, with her husband, a drunken and cruel vagabond, went to Groveland, and in about five years after their arrival, my grandfather died, and Aunt Lucy and her husband coaxed him in his closing hours to leave his farm to them, which was worth about twenty thousand dollars, one-half of which should have reverted to my mother’s children, who were allowed one dollar each, so that they could not break the will. On my arrival, I found my aunt’s husband drunk, and she told me that he had involved the farm in debt, which was mortgaged for a large amount, and that he treated her like a brute. They lived in a one-story hut, consisting of one room, and a pigeon-house in the roof. I arrived at midnight, in a stage coach, and as there was no house within a mile, I was compelled to stop all night, but where I was to sleep I could not divine. Aunt Lucy asked me if I was prepared to retire, and responding yes, she lit a cheap candle, and led me to the rear of the hovel, and up she went a ladder, like a squirrel, and bade me follow. On arriving at the door of the pigeon-house, she suspended one leg to enable me to pass her, and then gave me the candle, and we bade each other good night, and I crawled in, passing through dense partitions of cobwebs, and battalions of spiders and rats, and down I lay for the night, and counted minutes until the morning’s dawn, when I emerged from the hideous hole, in which I had nearly suffocated. I took breakfast, consisting of pork and herring, and visited my grandfather’s grave in a distant field, and departed for Geneseo in the mail coach, where I examined my grandfather’s Will, and found that my mother’s children could never obtain their share of his beautiful estate. I left for Rochester, and departed for Albany in a canal boat, and worked a short time in a printing office at Utica. I left for New York, and worked a brief period in the job office of William A. Mercein, and went to Philadelphia, where I worked a week, and left for Baltimore, where I found my brother Albert, who was a compositor in the printing office of the Baltimore Sun, just started by Mr. Abel, (an old friend of mine,) whose editor and subsequent famous Washington correspondent was Sylvester S. Southworth. [Mr. Abel is a native of Warren, Rhode Island, and established the Philadelphia Ledger after the Baltimore Sun. In earlier years, Mr. Abel and myself often worked side by side as compositors in Providence, Boston, and New York.] I worked a few days in Baltimore, and arrived in Washington just prior to the extra Session of Congress in 1837, and obtained a situation in the job office of Gales & Seaton, through the influence of their bookkeeper, Levi Boots, who was a room-mate of mine when I worked and boarded with Wm. Greer, of the Washington Globe, during my residence in Washington in 1830. I got $10 a week at Gales & Seaton’s, and soon entered Columbian College, which was located nearly two miles from Washington, whose worthy President was Mr. Chapin. I studied nights, and recited privately with Professors Ruggles and Chaplin, at daylight, and took breakfast with the students, and left for Gales & Seaton’s with bread and cold meat, in a little basket, for my dinner, and, after working all day, returned to Columbian College at sunset. These were the glorious days of the American Senate, and I was enchanted with Clay, Calhoun, Webster, Benton, Preston, Crittenden, Buchanan, and others, whose eloquence and anathema against the public robbers, were equal to the philippics of Cicero and Demosthenes against the scoundrels of their respective countries. The House of Representatives was full of duelists, tigers, monkeys, screech-owls, and wild-cats, who formed a perfect menagerie. I heard the exciting debate that led to poor Cilley’s immolation, and attended his funeral, whose exercises were the most imposing I ever witnessed. I saw the unearthly Calhoun in the mournful procession, as it moved from the Capitol, whose brilliant eyes reflected the profoundest sorrow. I studiously avoided my old friend Causin, as I did not wish to see him after my terrible reversion of fortune. But we met by chance in the Rotunda of the Capitol, and when I related my sad story, he was deeply affected. We met again, and he seemed quite friendly, but the charm was broken, and our enthusiastic friendship soon became a matter of oblivion. I now receive a letter from William Augustus White, (dated Burlington, Vt.,) with whom I was intimate in Andover, while I was a member of Phillips’ Academy, and while I studied under private teachers. Young White wrote me that the Massachusetts Education Society undertook his education, but it had failed during the bankruptcy of 1837, and he was at the College at Burlington, Vt., and knew not what to do, and solicited funds to enable him to join me in Washington. I told his story to the President and Professors and students of Columbian College, and to Gales & Seaton, and to Mr. Gronard, the generous foreman of the job office, and other liberal gentlemen, who contributed money that I forwarded to White, and he came to Washington, where I obtained him a situation with Mr. Abbott, who had a