LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume III, Issue 225, 27 February 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

CALIFORNIA JACKSON.

(From Belgravia.) I had just finished my day’s dis-section. While in the act of gathering my instruments together, previous to leaving the dissecting room, my attention was attracted to an adjoining table by hearing the exclamation, ‘ Guess I’ve done it now !’ On looking towards the speaker I discovered him to be a fellow student, who went by the nickname of ‘California J ackson, ’ He was a man past middle life ; of reserved manner, peculiar habits |and style of speech, but a wonderfully successful student ; plodding, dogged, and persevering to a degree. He made no friends or companions at college. His pipe seemed to meet all the requirements of his case. Except during class-hours he was continually smoking. No one seemed to know his history particularly, but a rumour was abroad to the effect that he was ‘an old miner’ of California; a man who had ‘ seen life,’ who had dared the savage and the wilderness, and who had made a very nice little pot of money. How or why he had become a student of medicine no one seemed to know. There was an air of mystery about the man which had long rendered him interesting to me. Many a time did I gaze on his wrinkled countenance, shaggy beard, and cold, steady gray-blue eye, with a desire to know what his life had been. An extensive scar, the mark of what must have been a ghastly wound, existed on one of his temples. It did not lessen my desire to be made acquainted with his history. The present occasion seemed a very favorable opportunity. I crossed over to the table where lay the ‘ subject,’ or dead body, which he had been dissecting, and found that my interesting friend had accidentally punctured the palm of his hand with the point of e his dissecting knife. This was a poisoned wound of the worst description, and Jackson knew that as well as I, yet he did not seem in the least alarmed. After having sucked the puncture thoroughly, he held his hand out for me to cauterise it with a point of nitrate of silver, which I held ready for use. The hand thus held forth was as cool and steady as possible, and when I grasped his wrist 1 felt his slow regular pulse. Although the caustic must have given him considerable pain, he did not wince in the least; and when I had finished, and we were leaving the room together, he gave a low harsh laugh and said, ‘ Guess I’ve had more than this before now !’ We walked along the streets together as far as our common road lay ; and my hope was, that when Jackson turned up the quiet side street where he lodged he would ask me to go up and see his ‘ diggings. ’ But to my great disappointment he only turned off with a * Good-night, mister, and thank you.’ Thus my hopes of penetrating the mystery of ‘California Jackson’ vanished like a dream, or the mist of the mountain. And as I walked slowly along the gas-lit streets of the city I occupied my mind with endless conjectures about the history of this man. I associated him with Indians, tomahawks, scalps, and scalping-knives ; silver mines in wild ravine defended by hired ruffians, who patrolled rifle in hand, night and day, to defend nature’s treasure cave. In short, I made my fellow-student the hero (?) of the wild life which is led on the Pacific slope even at the present time, Reaching my dingy lodgings, I let myself in with a latch; lit my gas, and called for tea. My frugal meal was brought in by the domestic; an ugly, shrivelled, lame old woman, who had that peculiar irresistible fascinating power over me possessed by all extremely hideous or disgusting objects. This old creature was a perfect study t in * the ugly. ’ I had a friend, a young artist, who was for ever raving about the study of ‘ the beautiful.’ The model which I studied did not present a feature nor a movement which was destitute of ugliness. Ido not know whether the contemplation of this specimen of humanity had a beneficial effect on me, or the contrary. Charlie, my young artist friend, used to dread paying me a visit. One glance at ‘ old Jenny’ was, to his critical artist’s eye, what a discord in music would be to a delicate and accurate ear.

‘ Gad,’ lie used to say when she left the room, ‘ can’t fancy how you stand that, old fellow. One advantage though,’ he would add as he lighted his pipe ; 1 there is certainly no danger of your virtue, which is a great consideration,’ On this particular evening I could not keep my eyes off the grim and grimy form of * old Jenny ’ as she moved about my room. An attempt at reading anatomy only seemed to call up the forms of vivisection practised by the Indians on their unhappy prisoners. So finding that no use, I threw my book aside, and gazed down into the dingy street, where the shop people were busy putting up the shutters, as the hour was late. I was restless and unsettled. My brain was teeming with strange fancies. I drank off my night-cap (a pewter tankard of stout), and then crept into my cold, humble, little bed. I fell asleep very soon, but such a feverish dream-laden sleep. During the whole of that ghastly night I led the life of a Californian rowdy. Now I was ‘ standing drinks ’ all round to a miscellaneous mob of miners, Indian fighters, gamblers, &c. at a public bar. In a moment I found myself to be in the centre of a * free fight ;’ revolvers were cracking right and left, like ‘ zigzags ’ on a Queen’s birthday ; bowie knives flashed here and there, like streaks of lightning; screams, howls, oaths, arose on every side. 1 had just succeeded in shooting a man through the head, after missing him five times, when suddenly a sharp pain darted through my neck. I felt the warm blood trickling down my breast ; I grew faint—l swooned. And so on during the night. No wonder then that, when I got up early next morning to dress by gaslight for my visit .to the hospital, I did uut feel much re-

freshed by my slumbers. It was a cqlcL dreary, wet winter morning. I sw*Ud#feS a cup of coffee, could not eat anything, ifld with this preparation I dragged my unnappy carcass to the infirmary, stood in the waftu taking notes while the professor explained the nature of the cases which came under our observation; finally repaired to the operating theatre with the rest of my fellow students. When seated in the gallery (an amphitheatre of seats), I observed ‘ California Jackson’ below me, and therefore nearer to the area where the operations were performed. He always seemed to take operations very coolly; this morning he looked as imperturbable as usual. Suddenly the patient who was to be operated on entered the theatre from behind the hanging curtains which guarded the passage to the wards. I Was Startled by her appearance, never having seen her before. Ta I and ladylike, she presented a countenance of great beauty, although it bore unmistakable signs of prolonged physical suffering. Her beauty was of the Spanish type—olive complexion, large dark eyes, long black silky eyelashes, coal-black luxuriant locks. One of her hands required to be amputated, owing, as the surgeon explained, to disease, which had developed in that member. Although evidently very nervous, the patient behaved most admirably. She lay down on the operating table, and the administration of chloroform was proceeded with. She struggled a little while this was progressing. My eye accidentally lighted on ‘ California Jackson,’ and to my intense surprise I saw his iron features working in a most extraordinary way. At first I thought that I must be dreaming. What, * California Jackson’ moved by the struggles of a patient going under chloroform ? Impossible J Ho clasped his muscular hands over his face. At length the chloroformist pronounced tha woman quite under the influence of the anaesthetic, and the surgeon, having arranged his assistants, advanced knife in hand. Just as he was in the act of making the first incision, ‘ California Jackson’ rose and hastily left the theatre. His departure gave rise to quite a sensation; but it was only momentary, and subsided so soon as the surgeon raised his head to learn the meaning of the disturbance. When the operation was over, I repaired to the college to attend lectures as usual. X found ‘California Jackson’ standing by the gateway smoking gloomily. I saluted him. and passed in. Next day Jackson appeared with his hand bound in a napkin, and he seemed fond of thrusting it into his bosom. Next day ho seemed restless; his hand was still wrapped up. I inquired frequently how the wound was getting on warning him of the danger of tampering with such injuries. He always said that it was getting all right, he thought. Next day I did not see him at hospital or college. Next day, still no Jackson. That evening, as I was returning to my lodgings when my day’s work was over, I resolved to look him up, whether I was welcome or not. I knew his number in the dreary street where he lived. I climbed the stairs, arrived at a door bearing a brass plate with the inscription: Miss Vinegar, Dressmaker. I pulled the bell—no sound. Pulled harder —a terrific clatter resulted. In a short time the door was opened by Miss Vinegar herself in a towering passion. She asked me if I knew that there was a sick person in the house. I apologised humbly. That and my raven moustache and general distinguished bearing mollified the dear creature, whose appearance was quite in keeping with her name. Learned from her that my fel-low-student was half-delirious, that his hand .was frightfully bad, and that she had sent for a doctor. Found, matters just as she had stated. Jackson lay tossing about on a sofa, dressed, with the exception of his coat. The injured hand was dreadfully swollen and inflamed, and at the centre of the palm, where the wound had been inflicted, there was a small black spot. I could also observe red lines lines and streaks running up his forearm. His face was flushed, and he only seemed half-conscious. The doctor arrived, and after learning the nature of the case, lanced the hand freely to liberate the pent up matter. He then gave directions, wrote a prescription, and left me in charge of the case for the night—poor Miss Vinegar being quite knocked up by previous nursing. Well, I knew that I had a dreary night of it before me. The room was shabbily furnished and frightfully stuffy. Everything in it smelt rankly of strong tobacco. I got hold of a rather interesting volume, and sat reading while the slow, dreary, heavy * ticktock’ of the large clock in the lobby sounded, and the gas kept flaring up and singing in a most extraordinary way. Every one knows this sort of thing. About 1 a.m. Jackson woke up and asked for a drink; then fell back into a feverish sleep. As he threw himself heavily down on his pillow, a large locket sprang out from his breast, and in doing so the lid flew open, and at a moment’s glance I saw a miniature portrait of the face and bust of a most beautiful woman. Delighted by the vision, I gazed on it intently for some minutes in simple admiration. The lady was evidently of Spanish, or at least Southern, birth or extraction. Surely I had seen such a face before recently. Yes, of course, the woman who was operated on when Jackson acted in so singular a maimer. But although there was a considerable resemblance, there was a very great difference; in shorty the portrait was not that of the poor patient. And who could this beautiful creature be? Surely a near and dear friend to my stern rugged fellowstudent, who had her likeness thus chained to his neck. Was she a sister ? No ; the»e was not one feature in common between them. Evidently no very near blood-relation. His wife ? Surely ‘ California Jackson ’ never had it in him to win such a glorious creature. Still women are queer in their choice sometimes. Closing the locket, I tried to dismiss the subject from my mind. To be continued.