Keowee Courier

MISCELLANY.

An Epistle from John Bolivar.

Room 1776, St. Nicholas Hotel,
New York, June 1. '58.

Editors Boston Evening Gazette:-

Only think of it—Summer again! What
a world of enjoyment is wrapped up in that
little word! How pregnant with fun, love
and sunshine it is! How it whispers of
meadow larks, pure milk, and morning glories! and tells wild tales of green fields,
white trousers, and sherry cobblers! Palpitating hearts beneath silk bodices and
cherry-colored vest patterns will welcome
it with open arms, for to them it seemingly
places such a halo of glory around the brow
of Wednesday night! There's no such
summer here. In New York, summer is
an abortion. We lack the Common, with
its chirping squirrels, frog ponds, and lovely dimity.

Strange ideas of fun here, too. (Got three
comic papers—"Police Gazette," "Coroner's Vindicator," and "Doctor Dixon's
Scalpel." First rate to read when you've
got the jumping toothache, lost money, or
are momentarily in expectation of a visit
from the sheriff. Keep your spirits up
beautifully.

Since my last, I have had two or three
invitations to visit well-known and popular
New York institutions, including Tombs,
small-pox hospital, and Brown's coffin warehouse on a rainy day when the proprietor
was sick. New Yorkers deem Boston dismal, but here eminent strangers, guests of
the city, are first conducted by the authorities to Potter's Field, dead-house, lunatic
asylum, and similar places of amusement,
sometimes in company with three or four
coroners keeping up a lively and agreeable
conversation about "stiffs." I don't like
it. I'm fond of crickets, old cheese, fireworks, children, and other Boston institutions displaying signs of life. My head is
full of life. I believe I wouldn't live if it
wasn't for life.

Well, I went to the City Prison yesterday. It wasn't dressed in mourning, so
didn't visit the Tombs until afternoon. To
visit the Tombs is a grave affair for the undertaker. It's a dismal looking edifice,
built of queer material. Man told me 'twas
built of Tombs stone. Keepers careful
whom they admit. Must generally get an
endorsement from the judge that you are
a thief, or such like. I got in as a reporter. Just as good. Searched me though—
might be a confederate. Found comb,
tooth-pick, three cents, and a free pass on
railroad. "All right. Member of the press.
Introduced (a rare compliment extended
only to the press) to the favorite murderer.
Embraced him. Promised me his life for
the Gazette. Introduced to the confidence
man. Hugged him. Run against forger.
Squeezed his hand. Kissed female horse
thief. and indulged in various other reporterial luxuries for an hour. In an old,
damp cell, saw young damsel—a sad picture, which put me in a bad frame of mind.
Women are there confined without sun or
air—a curious berth for them, Here they
are made to lie because they have stolen.
Saw thieves of all descriptions, representing the industry of all nations. Some were
there for taking photographs; others for
hooking fish; and one for stealing a sewing machine and so on. Gamblers there
in scores. One gave me his card. He
was a trump. Would never forget that
spot. His character had been traduced.—
Was no better since had been in. Plenty
of drunkards there. Satisfied that people
who get high are generally low characters.
One of these chaps was once a superior
judge—of Otard. But he had fallen!-
Prisoners behave rudely sometimes. Have
standing rules set down for their regulation.
Complain of bad air, close and confining.—
That which the prisoners fear at most is
the at-mos-phere. Try to break out some-
times. (Happen to get the small-pox,
break out very easy.) Prisoners have three
meals a day—principally Indian meal.
Never allowed fowl for their fare. Coffee
very weak, and when it stands too long
there are plenty of grounds for complaint.
Can't say it is troubled with consumption,
though. On Sundays and other holidays
have enormous dumplings. Taste as if they
were moulded gutta percha and stuffed with

beds, even for favorites, full of writing
materials, etc. This is true. for it is hard
to lie on them. One was dissected by a
committee, in my presence, and found to
contain ten quills, seventeen plucked roosters, three geese, one feather, and a straw.
I got disgusted, and left, which was right.
Let New Yorkers try Boston jail, if they
want good accommodations.

I must close. Several in my room insisting on my visiting Potter's Field, New
York Hospital, etc. Will have to go.—
"When you are in Rome," etc. "Country
Greens" just passing by hotel—band playing "Dead March;" organ grinder murdering "Poor Old Slave" right under
my window, and room-mate is reading aloud
about shocking suicide.

Never mind—withal, I am still yours,
Jolly and contented,

JOHN BOLIVAR.