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The Vault at PfaffsAn Archive of Art and Literature by the Bohemians of Antebellum New York
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Text for Page 164 [10-15-1853]

              guilty; in proof of which he shows me a bit of paper, scrawled over with
villanously spelt, scarcey legible words, intimating that he, the writer
was the real murderer, �not Mr Price�.          Gaolbird sat awhile, talking
of his injuries, with those restless eyes of his moving uneasily about; and then
paying the host for his supper, set out for his night walk.        He being
gone, the host gave it as his opinion, that he�d broke prison, and was
after some rascality.   Also with choice reminescences of the man�s charac-
ter.     This set Kellam uneasy about the horses.    They paid �em a night
visit, but all was well.       Caughthrane, the host, was a burly, black
haired, rude spoken man, South Carolina born; just the most repulsive
landlord we encountered.         Abed by 10 or so, having with much diffi-
culty contrived to close the doors, both of which had a natural inclination
to fall inwards.   There were, as usual no windows, but plenty of venti-
lation tween the logs.
  16 15.  Sunday.  Up before day down.  And going out to wash in the
dank raw midnight like morning, I inadvertently gave great offence, by com-
mencing to wash on a ricketty table, instead of a post or stump, sacred
to such lavation.       A breezy breakfast in the usual spot, then after the
necessary paying and packing off we start.   (There was overcharging here
for horse provender, as at all the bad places.)       Those wretched risings be-
fore day-break, I shall hardly forget them!  The wet-blotches of light in
the east, the dank, raw, moist air, the wild country, the dirt, dis-
comfort and ruffian boorishness of the people.   The utter wont of any
desire for better things, the brutal parade of their disregard of common courtesy.
Why some of these people would be as little justified in claiming souls as
their own hogs!     /      Onwards we rode all that day, taking, I think, no
lunch.   Past a pretty house where a deer was feeding, and at sunset
drew rein at a roadside tavern, owned by a queer old fellow hight John
Warren.      He might have been 70, and his hard, long face, and stiff               
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