IN the course of my stay in Louisville, I had the pleasure of an introduction to George D. Prentice, Esquire, the well-known editor of the Louisville Journal; and I found him as agreeable and good-natured as he is witty. He was engaged in writing a scathing article denunciatory of Parson Brownlow, at the time my friend and I entered his sanctum, and was in excellent spirits.

Perhaps no one of the many who have heard of the witty journalist, and read his writings, but have never seen him, has ever formed any correct impression of his personal appearance. He is quite homely, does not look half as bright as he really is, is noble-hearted, kind, affable, polite, and exhibits a partiality for grain products in a liquid form, at all seasons of the year. But this is nobody’s business but his own.

About the middle of May, or a little later, perhaps, I took passage on the steamer Nightingale, for Saint Louis. The steamer was a stern-wheel one, pretty well loaded, and did not make very fast time; but the weather was delightful, every thing on board was comfortable and pleasant, and, as I was in no hurry, I could not have complained if the journey had occupied a week.

Fellow passengers on board a steamer soon make themselves acquainted with each other, and I had not been aboard twenty-four hours before the faces of all were as familiar to me as though I had known them for years. With but few exceptions they were agreeable persons. The captain was a handsome man of twenty-eight or thirty, and one glance at him was enough to convince any one that he was a true gentleman. All the attaches of the boat, including the bartender and porter, were just what they should be.

Among the passengers was a fellow of twenty-seven or twenty-eight, who called himself a Doctor. He told me he was from New York, and was going to Saint Louis to establish a practice for himself.

“I don’t care,” said he, “whether I am successful at first or not. I have five thousand dollars in my pocket, and that will keep me a year or so without my doing much. By that time, I’ll get myself worked into a practice, no doubt.”

“Certainly,” I agreed.

He was not a fine-looking man, but he was obviously a vain fool, and one whom I thought I should not like to trust further than I could throw a comet by the tail. Every one called him “Doctor,” and he seemed to like it. I will say more of him by and by.

The sharer of my state-room—he occupied the lower berth—was a venerable man of eighty years, a native of Missouri. He was a man of finished education, and, by profession, a physician. He and I were so much pleased with each other, that we have since corresponded; and I have found his acquaintance truly edifying, as well as agreeable. His name was Crele.

Dr. Crele told me a sad tale of his troubles in Missouri during the war. He resided in Lafayette county, of that State, where old feuds held carnival during the desolating civil war. He had taken no part in the contest, in any way, he told me; and he said that his nearest and best friend on earth had lately been an only son of thirty years—whom he pictured to me as all that was manly, noble, pure, honorable, and worthy of a parent’s fond affection. This son, he said, had studied for the ministry, had acquired a rare education, and, like himself, had taken no part in the war. But one bitter night, when he himself was seriously ill, and his son was sitting by his bedside, a party of armed men, headed by an old enemy of his family, abruptly burst into his house, and shot down that son—the last prop of his old age. One of the reckless and deluded men was going to shoot him, as he lay in bed, but another interrupted him, saying:

“Never mind the old white-headed reprobate. It isn’t worth while. He’ll soon die, anyhow.”

So, sparing him a few dim years of bitterness, they ransacked the house, carried off all the valuables they could find, damaged much of the furniture, set the building on fire, and departed. The flames were extinguished by friendly neighbors, who came to his assistance, and who lifted up from a pool of blood the lifeless form of his son.

There were tears in the old man’s eyes as he told me this; and no wonder. His hair was white, his hand trembled, and his step was unsteady with age. He must have felt alone in the world.

I will not state which cause the villains professed to be attached to, who murdered the Doctor’s son, and left him a blank and desolate old age. There were wrongs and outrages committed on both sides during the war. No reasonable person will fail to admit this. A civil war gives a horrible license to bad men; and God forbid that our land should ever be blighted by another.

Gambling was not allowed on board the Nightingale, but there was a good deal of euchre-playing, for amusement, during the voyage. At Evansville, Indiana, a flourishing town of eight thousand inhabitants, we landed for half-an-hour, and, while there, several passengers came aboard; among them was a well-dressed young man, with what I considered a bad countenance. He had cold, gray, almost expressionless “windows” for his “soul,” to look out at, a smooth, beardless face, and a mouth with an unusually crescent-like shape.

This person had not been aboard very long—in fact, the boat had barely backed away from the landing and begun to move on down the river, when he suggested to a green-looking fellow that they should get up “a little four-handed game of euchre—just for amusement.” Mr. Greeney assented; and inducing two other passengers to join them, they began to while away the time, as we glided down the river, “passing,” “taking it up,” “turning it down,” “ordering it up,” “assisting”, “making it,” “going it alone,” and the like. If I remember correctly, Mr. Greeney and Mr. Sharper—I take the liberty of providing these names for them—were “partners.”

Well, a game was played through, pleasantly enough, and another commenced: and, by and by, it was Mr. Sharper’s deal, for the third time. There is something magical about that number three. “The third time is the charm,” it is said. The third time a man does any particular thing, something unusual is sure to happen. This was no exception.

“My hand would be a good one if we were playing poker,” observed Mr. Sharper, carelessly, as he took up his cards.

I chanced to be standing behind Mr. Greeney at the moment, and lo! as he picked up his cards, he, too, held no trifling poker hand: four kings and a seven spot.

“I myself,” said Mr. Greeney, “haven’t a bad hand on poker.”

“A pity we’re not playing it then,” Mr. Sharper lazily rejoined. “Well, what will you do?” He addressed this pointed inquiry to the player on his left.

“I pass,” replied the latter.

“I pass.” said Mr. Greeney.

“I pass,” repeated the player on Mr. Greeney’s left and Mr. Sharper’s right.

“I turn it down,” said Mr. Sharper, adroitly whirling the face of the trump card downward. “Who will make it?”

“I won’t,” said the player on his left.

“I won’t,” said Mr. Greeney. “But—but—”

“Well, what is it?” said Mr. Sharper, in a tone barely tinged with impatience.

“Why,” rejoined Mr. Greeney, with a frankness that spoke better for his heart than his head, “I just wish it was poker!”

“Why?” asked Mr. Sharper.

“Because, I’d bet some—”

“Well,” suggested Mr. Sharper, with a careless yawn, “we might get up a little bet on our hands, anyhow, just to pass away the time. I’ve felt dull for the last half-hour, I’d risk something on my hand, if I were sure of losing. But I warn you, it is not a bad hand. Have you all any thing like poker hands? Come: a pair of deuces——”

“I haven’t,” said his left-hand man, interrupting him.

“Nor I,” said his left-hand-man’s partner, who sat on his right.

“Well, darned if I haven’t, though,” said Mr. Greeney.

“Have you, really?” responded Mr. Sharper. “Well, I’ll bet five dollars on my hand, win or lose.” And he carelessly threw upon the table a crumpled five-dollar bill, which he took from his vest pocket.

Mr. Greeney got a little excited at this demonstration, laid his cards on the table, faces downwards, of course, thrust his hand deep into his right-hand trousers pocket, and nervously drew forth his pocketbook.

“I’ll cover your five dollars, and go five dollars better,” he said, with firmness, as he laid down a ten-dollar bill.

Who wouldn’t have ventured something on four kings—next to the best hand in the pack—that had thus come out by chance, while playing euchre for amusement?

“You do?” said Mr. Sharper, glancing up and down the cabin. “Now, the captain wouldn’t allow—however, he isn’t about. I didn’t think of risking more than five dollars, but I guess you are trying to bluff me. I’ll not back out. Here’s fifteen dollars more, and that makes the bet twenty.” And he produced the amount specified.

“Ten dollars better still,” said Mr. Greeney, promptly, as he laid down twenty dollars. It was quite clear he had played poker before.

Mr. Sharper hesitated. “Thirty dollars,” said he. “I—no, confound it!—I’ll put fifty on the top of it, and that’s all I will risk!—No—or, yes; I’ve said it now, and will stick to it. It won’t make me a bankrupt, if I do lose.” Thereupon, he produced three twenty-dollar bills and laid them on the table—making the bet eighty dollars.

“I call you,” said Mr. Greeney, eagerly, as he counted out five ten-dollar bills and threw them down upon the table.

“Four aces,” said Mr. Sharper, as he smilingly displayed the hateful four that can’t be beat. “What have you?”

What could he have, in a case of that kind?

“Only four kings! Darn the luck!” poor Mr. Greeney exclaimed, in unfeigned vexation. Then he said, “Pshaw!” “The deuce on it!” “I’ll be!——” and several other words, better and worse; while Mr. Sharper, with a calmness, complacence and benignity that one could not but admire, raked down the “pile,” and stowed it away in his pocket.

“Well, whose deal is it?” said Mr. Sharper, who seemed to devote no further thought to the trifle he had won.

They finished that game of euchre—for amusement—then Mr. Greeney, with a most extraordinary expression of countenance, arose from his seat at the table, and, in a rather husky voice, said he believed he wouldn’t play any more: he seemed to have lost all interest in the game: and he walked away whistling.

Whistling? Yes. But, O, what a dull, dry sort of a whistle he made of it! The sudden loss of eighty dollars is not very elevating to the spirits of a person in moderate circumstances; and who can say what the poor dupe suffered? Notwithstanding all his attempts to appear unconcerned, and to emit a forced whistle, it was plain that he was suffering no ordinary mental torture.

How remarkable it is, that when a man feels right bad, and don’t want the fact made public, he tries to turn it off with whistling! There seems to be something soothing in a strain or two of this species of music, if only executed with any skill; but a man who is suffering inward “pangs” can rarely get the right “pucker” on his lips. Poor Mr. Greeney made a miserable whistle of it, and if he had wept aloud for his lost cash, he could not have more clearly exhibited his anguish to the unsympathizing spectators.

The game being ended, Mr. Sharper purchased a good cigar at the bar, lighted it, and, taking an armchair out upon the cabin deck, seated himself, rested his polished boots on the railing, and laid back in his chair, quietly smoking, and at the same time regarding the picturesque shores of the river, with a calmness and self-satisfaction that must have been agonizing for poor Mr. Greeney to look at.

When the Captain learned what had happened in the cabin, he went to Mr. Sharper, and told him he must leave the boat at Cairo, as soon as a landing could be conveniently effected, as he could not tolerate a gambler on his boat.

Mr. Sharper coolly replied that he had not intended to go further than Cairo, anyhow; but, if he had——

The Captain interrupted him with a friendly warning against any thing bordering on defiance or insolence. He remarked that he had not picked a blackleg or thief up by the neck and heels, and pitched him into the river, for nearly a year, and that he was beginning to feel marvelously like taking a bit of such exercise; and that he would assuredly do so, if so much as one more articulate sound should escape him (Mr. Sharper). The latter appreciated the warning, and during the remainder of his stay on board the Nightingale, maintained a commendable silence.

At Cairo, where the Ohio river empties into the Mississippi, we landed, and laid for a couple of hours before proceeding up the broad Mississippi; and Mr. Sharper promptly left us.

Cairo is a city of about twelve thousand inhabitants, and but for the unhealthy nature of the low country surrounding, it would eventually become one of the greatest cities of the Mississippi Valley. Its geographic location is one of the best in the country, being, as it is, at the junction of two noble rivers. But in that vicinity, the land is so low that it becomes inundated for many miles around; so that the air, especially in the summer season, becomes fraught with miasma. Cairo itself is built on very low ground, and but for the high levee, that stands as a perpetual sentinel before the gates of the city, the river would be continually staring in at all the doors and windows in the place. Even the levee is overflowed sometimes, and the streets become navigable for boats of moderate size.

I went up to a periodical store, on the principal street, and purchased several newspapers of a late date. Among them was a Louisville Journal; and, on casting my eye over it, what was my astonishment to run across a very flattering notice of myself, which Mr. Prentice had inserted. It stated that “J. Smith, Esquire, the celebrated author and poet, who had lost a limb in the civil war, was making a tour of the Western States; had honored both him and the Mammoth Cave with a visit, and had just departed for Saint Louis, on board the steamer Nightingale!!!”

This really alarmed me, and I fancied that every one who looked at me recognized me as the redoubtable John Smith, the “celebrated author and poet,” who was “making a tour of the Western States.”

Fearing that some enthusiastic demonstration might be made by the citizens of Cairo, who had probably read of my approach, and that I might be called upon for a speech—and I hadn’t as much as the framework of one ready—I hastily returned to the boat, and shut myself up in my stateroom, and did not sally forth again till the Nightingale was steaming gallantly up the Mississippi.

Nothing worthy of note occurred during our voyage up the river, except that the mosquitoes tormented us in a style entirely new to me. They were about the first crop of the season, fresh and vigorous, and they attacked the boat in numbers amounting to millions of millions. O, the misery of that night! How the little fiends tormented me! Warm as it was, I shut myself up almost air-tight in my stateroom and tried to defy them. I thought I would rather be smothered to death than eaten up alive. But even there, they found me. They came in through the keyhole, in two ranks, military order, and at once began the attack. I fought bravely, but it was of no use. Faster than I could cut them down, they received reinforcements through the keyhole—while, to utterly dishearten me, and drive me to despair, I could hear myriads of them still without, knocking at the door, and impatiently waiting their respective turns to file in at the key-hole and drink some of me.

I could not stand it. I opened the back door and fled—fled to the cabin deck—to the hurricane deck—to the boiler deck—up stairs and down—and down and up—and back and forth, and forth and back half crazed—I knew not, cared not, where! I had half a mind to jump into the river, and take refuge from these and my other woes in the bosom of the Father of Waters—but didn’t.

They pursued me everywhere; some of them, I believe, went in advance of me, to be ready to meet me at any new point I should flee to. My eyes, ears, mouth, nose, cheeks, chin, neck, hands and wrists were covered with them; and, while thus tormenting me, they sang musically in my ears, even as Nero played “Hail Columbia, happy land!” on a banjo, while Rome was burning. O, the agonies of that night! The thundering cannon of battle, the shrieking shell, the hissing bullet, and glistening bayonet, are mere toys compared with these fiendish tormentors! How I ever got through the night I cannot remember distinctly. It seems like a kind of long-continued dream to me. I have a vague recollection of standing at the bar and asking the bar-tender if he had “anything calculated to keep the mosquitoes away?” This scene recurs to me as having been repeated several times that night; but I think it only originated in the imagery of delirium—for I must have grown delirious.

The next night, for some reason, they “let up” on us a little, and I got some sleep; and early on the second morning after leaving Cairo, we arrived at the “Mound City,” Saint Louis, the chief city of the Mississippi Valley. It was a charming morning, not too warm, and leaving my trunk on board, I walked up into the city for the purpose of securing lodgings for a month. Before I did so, the passengers had all bid each other good-by, and were beginning to go their different ways, wondering if any two of us should ever meet again.

My aged companion bade me a cordial farewell, and took passage on the steamer “Post Boy,” bound up the Missouri river.

The vain young “Doctor,” whom I have mentioned, went to the Southern Hotel—one of the grandest and most aristocratic in the country—and registered his name, stating that he would remain a couple of weeks. That I may not be troubled to speak again of so worthless a fellow, I will here state, that, a week after, I met another fellow-passenger in Saint Louis, who told me that the “Doctor” had stayed four days at the Southern Hotel, and then absconded without paying his bill. This most pretentious and presumptuous of the passengers of the Nightingale, proved to be an unworthy loafer and a base fraud. Such is life!