He regarded the cask for a moment, and then throwing his right leg over, he mounted it. Seating himself firmly, he looked briefly about him. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he very deliberately drew a large gimlet from his pocket, and commenced boring a hole in one of the staves, gazing over the river the while, as if attracted by some interesting object on the opposite shore. When the perforation was complete, he returned the instrument to his pocket, and took an additional survey of the premises. Seeing that he was not watched by any one, he produced the end of a tin tube—manufactured expressly for such occasions—from beneath his vest, and inserting it in the hole, applied his mouth to the other extremity of the conductor, which protruded from the upper part of the garment, and in this manner commenced extracting the contents of the cask. For the space of an hour, he remained in one position, not even stirring a limb. At length the curiosity of a passer-by was excited by his appearance; and going up to the cask, he was surprised to find a man, as he thought, asleep. The stranger shook him for a moment, as if to awaken him; and when he relaxed his grasp, our hero tumbled to the ground. Astonished that the fall did not rouse him, the stranger stooped down to examine his features. They were fixed and rigid. He took his hand; it was cold as marble. He felt for his pulse; but it had ceased for ever. To make use of a novel phrase, 'the vital spark was extinguished.' Mr. Tumbler had gone to a land of 'pure spirits;' a place which he often said he longed to visit; since the spirits he was in the habit of imbibing here were generally any thing but pure.
Thus died, in the prime of life, John Thomas Tumbler, Jr., a man whom nature had endowed with many excellent qualities, which were, however, all perverted by one vicious and unconquerable propensity. Under more favorable circumstances, he might have proved an ornament to society. Avoided, on all occasions, by the respectable of his species; treated with broad indifference, if not contumely; a subject of jest and ridicule for every body; how can we suppose he could burst these shackles, and soar to distinction? Emulation withered beneath the persecution which attended him through life, and which, we blush to say, did not cease with his death; for the papers, in noticing his demise, merely remarked, with cruel brevity: 'A loafer was found dead upon the wharf this morning.'
[DEATH-BED REMORSE.]
How awful is that hour, when conscience stings
The hoary wretch, who on his death-bed hears,
Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings,
In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years,
And screaming like a vulture in his ears,
Tells one by one his thoughts and deeds of shame;
How wild the fury of his soul careers!
His swart eye flashes with intensest flame,
And like the torture's rack, the wrestling of his frame!
J. G. Percival.
[LITERARY NOTICES.]
Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart. By J. G. Lockhart. Part Second. pp. 198. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea and Blanchard.