Note 11 — BIOGRAPHY GONE MAD.

On this subject the biography maintains, with one or two exceptions, a prudent reserve. One pathetic description is attempted of the old sinner, “as he stood in his editorial rooms in Nassau Street, while from his head was washed the blood that incarnadined the snows of fifty winters.” After the washing of his headpiece, the invincible editor coolly sat down to narrate the “assassination” in his own choice style for the benefit of his readers. The following may pass as a specimen of his manner. “James Watson Webb,” editor of the Courier and Enquirer, was an old comrade of the writer’s.

“As I was leisurely pursuing my business yesterday, in Wall Street, collecting the information which is daily disseminated in the Herald, James Watson Webb came up to me on the northern side of the street—said something which I could not hear distinctly, then pushed me down the stone steps leading to one of the broker’s offices, and commenced fighting with a species of brutal and demoniac desperation characteristic of a fury.

“My damage is a scratch, about three-quarters of an inch in length, on the third finger of the left hand, which I received from the iron railing I was forced against, and three buttons torn from my vest, which any tailor will reinstate for a sixpence. His loss is a rent from top to bottom of a very beautiful black coat, which cost the ruffian 40 dollars, and a blow in the face, which may have knocked down his throat some of his infernal teeth for anything I know. Balance in my favour, 39 dollars, 94 cents.”