AN OUTCAST;

OR, VIRTUE AND FAITH. 

BY

F. COLBURN ADAMS. 

"Be merciful to the erring. "

NEW YORK:PUBLISHED BY M. DOOLADY, 49 WALKER STREET. 1861. 

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1861, BY M. DOOLADY, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for theSouthern District of New York. 

PREFACE. 

When reason and conscience are a man's true guides to what heundertakes, and he acts strictly in obedience to them, he has little tofear from what the unthinking may say. You cannot, I hold, mistake a manintent only on doing good. You may differ with him on the means he callsto his aid; but having formed a distinct plan, and carried it out inobedience to truth and right, it will be difficult to impugn thesincerity of his motives. For myself, I care not what weapon a manchoose, so long as he wield it effectively, and in the cause of humanityand justice. We are a sensitive nation, prone to pass great moral evilsover in silence rather than expose them boldly, or trace them to theirtrue sources. I am not indifferent to the duty every writer owes topublic opinion, nor the penalties he incurs in running counter to it. But fear of public opinion, it seems to me, has been productive of muchevil, inasmuch as it prefers to let crime exist rather than engage inreforms. Taking this view of the matter, I hold fear of public opinionto be an evil much to be deplored. It aids in keeping out of sight thatwhich should be exposed to public view, and is satisfied to passunheeded the greatest of moral evils. Most writers touch these greatmoral evils with a timidity that amounts to fear, and in describingcrimes of the greatest magnitude, do it so daintily as to divest theirarguments of all force. The public cannot reasonably be expected toapply a remedy for an evil, unless the cause as well as the effect beexposed truthfully to its view. It is the knowledge of their existenceand the magnitude of their influence upon society, which no falsedelicacy should keep out of sight, that nerves the good and generous toaction. I am aware that in exciting this action, great care should betaken lest the young and weak-minded become fascinated with the gildingof the machinery called to the writer's aid. It is urged by many goodpeople, who take somewhat narrow views of this subject, that in dealingwith the mysteries of crime vice should only be described as an uglydame with most repulsive features. I differ with those persons. It wouldbe a violation of the truth to paint her thus, and few would read of herin such an unsightly dress. These persons do not, I think, take asufficiently clear view of the grades into which the vicious of ourcommunity are divided, and their different modes of living. They foundtheir opinions solely on the moral and physical condition of the mostwretched and abject class, whose sufferings they would have us hold upto public view, a warning to those who stand hesitating on the brinkbetween virtue and vice. I hold it better to expose the allurementsfirst, and then paint vice in her natural colors--a dame so gay andfascinating that it is difficult not to become enamored of her. The uglyand repulsive dame would have few followers, and no need of writers tocaution the unwary against her snares. And I cannot forget, that truthalways carries the more forcible lesson. But we must paint the road tovice as well as the castle, if we would give effect to our warning. Thatroad is too frequently strewn with the brightest of flowers, the thornsonly discovering themselves when the sweetness of the flowers hasdeparted. I have chosen, then, to describe things as they are. You, reader, must be the judge whether I have put too much gilding on thedecorations. 

I confess that the subject of this work was not congenial to myfeelings. I love to deal with the bright and cheerful of life; to leavethe dark and sorrowful to those whose love for them is stronger thanmine. Nor am I insensible to the liabilities incurred by a writer who, having found favor with the public, ventures upon so delicate andhazardous an undertaking. It matters not how carefully and discreetly heperform the task, there will always be persons enough to question hissincerity and cast suspicion upon his motives. What, I have already beenasked, was my motive for writing such a book as this? Why did I descendinto the repulsive haunts of the wretched and the gilded palaces of thevicious for the material of a novel? My answer is in my book. 

NEW YORK, _January 1st_, 1861. 

AN OUTCAST. 

CHAPTER I. 

CHARLESTON. 

This simple story commences on a November evening, in the autumn of185-. Charleston and New York furnish me with the scenes and characters. 

Our quaint old city has been in a disquiet mood for several weeks. Yellow fever has scourged us through the autumn, and we have again takento scourging ourselves with secession fancies. The city has not lookedup for a month. Fear had driven our best society into the North, intothe mountains, into all the high places. Business men had nothing to do;stately old mansions were in the care of faithful slaves, and there washigh carnival in the kitchen. Fear had shut up the churches, shut up thelaw-courts, shut up society generally. There was nothing for lawyers todo, and the buzzards found it lonely enough in the market-place. Theclergy were to be found at fashionable watering-places, and politiciansfound comfort in cards and the country. Timid doctors had taken to theirheels, and were not to be found. Book-keepers and bank-clerks were onSullivan's Island. The poor suffered in the city, and the rich had not athought to give them. Grave-looking men gathered into little knots, atstreet corners, and talked seriously of Death's banquet. Old negroesgathered about the kitchen-table, and terrified themselves with tales ofdeath: timid ones could not be got to pass through streets where thescourge raged fiercest. Mounted guardsmen patrolled the lonely streetsat night, their horses' hoofs sounding on the still air, like a solemnwarning through a deserted city. 

Sisters of Mercy, in deep, dark garments, moved noiselessly along thestreets, by day and by night, searching out and ministering to the sickand the dying. Like brave sentinels, they never deserted their posts. The city government was in a state of torpor. The city government didnot know what to do. The city government never did know what to do. Fourhundred sick and dying lay languishing in the hospital. The citygovernment was sorry for them, and resolved that Providence would be thebest doctor. The dead gave place to the dying by dozens, and there hasbeen high carnival down in the dead-yard. The quick succession offuneral trains has cast a shade of melancholy over the broad road thatleads to it. Old women are vending pies and cakes at the gates, andlittle boys are sporting over the newly-made graves, that the wind haslashed into furrows. Rude coffins stand about in piles, and tipsynegroes are making the very air jubilant with the songs they bury thedead to. 

A change has come over the scene now. There is no more singing down inthe dead-yard. A bright sun is shedding its cheerful rays over the broadlandscape, flowers deck the roadside, and the air comes balmy andinvigorating. There has been frost down in the lowlands. A solitarystranger paces listlessly along the walks of the dead-yard, searchingin vain for the grave of a departed friend. The scourge has left a sadvoid between friends living and friends gone to eternal rest. Familiarfaces pass us on the street, only to remind us of familiar faces passedaway forever. The city is astir again. Society is coming back to us. There is bustle in the churches, bustle in the law courts, bustle in thehotels, bustle along the streets, bustle everywhere. There is bustle atthe steamboat landings, bustle at the railway stations, bustle in allour high places. Vehicles piled with trunks are hurrying along thestreets; groups of well-dressed negroes are waiting their master'sreturn at the landings, or searching among piles of trunks for thefamily baggage. Other groups are giving Mas'r and Missus such a cordialgreeting. Society is out of an afternoon, on King street, airing itsdignity. There is Mr. Midshipman Button, in his best uniform, invitingthe admiration of the fair, and making such a bow to all distinguishedpersons. Midshipman Button, as he is commonly called, has come home tous, made known to us the pleasing fact that he is ready to command our"navy" for us, whenever we build it for him. There is Major Longstring, of the Infantry, as fine a man in his boots as woman would fancy, readyto fight any foe; and corporal Quod, of the same regiment, ready toshoulder his weapon and march at a moment. We have an immense admirationfor all these heroes, just now; it is only equalled by their admirationof themselves. The buzzards, too, have assumed an unusual air ofimportance--are busy again in the market; and long-bearded politiciansare back again, at their old business, getting us in a state ofdiscontent with the Union and everybody in general. 

There is a great opening of shutters among the old mansions. The musicof the organ resounds in the churches, and we are again in search of thehighest pinnacle to pin our dignity upon. Our best old families havebeen doing the North extensively, and come home to us resolved never togo North again. But it is fashionable to go North, and they will breakthis resolution when spring comes. Mamma, and Julia Matilda have broughthome an immense stock of Northern millinery, all paid for with thehardest of Southern money, which papa declares the greatest evil thestate suffers under. He has been down in the wilderness for the last tenyears, searching in vain for a remedy. The North is the hungry dog atthe door, and he will not be kicked away. So we have again mounted thatsame old hobby-horse. There was so much low-breeding at the North, landlords were so extortionate, vulgarity in fine clothes got in yourway wherever you went, servants were so impertinent, and the tradespeople were so given to cheating. We would shake our garments of theNorth, if only some one would tell us how to do it becomingly. 

Master Tom and Julia Matilda differ with the old folks on this greatquestion of bidding adieu to the North. Tom had a "high old timegenerally, " and is sorry the season closed so soon. Julia Matilda hasbeen in a pensive mood ever since she returned. That fancy ball was sobrilliant; those moonlight drives were so pleasant; those flirtationswere carried on with such charming grace! A dozen little love affairs, like pleasant dreams, are touching her heart with their sweetremembrance. The more she contemplates them the sadder she becomes. There are no drives on the beach now, no moonlight rambles, nopromenades down the great, gay verandah, no waltzing, no soul-stirringmusic, no tender love-tales told under the old oaks. But they brightenin her fancy, and she sighs for their return. She is a prisoner now, surrounded by luxury in the grim old mansion. Julia Matilda and MasterTom will return to the North when spring comes, and enjoy whatever thereis to be enjoyed, though Major Longstring and Mr. Midshipman Buttonshould get us safe out of the Union. 

Go back with us, reader, not to the dead-yard, but to the quiet walks ofMagnolia Cemetery, hard by. A broad avenue cuts through the centre, andstretches away to the west, down a gently undulating slope. Rows of tallpines stand on either side, their branches forming an arch overhead, andhung with long, trailing moss, moving and whispering mysteriously in thegentle wind. Solemn cypress trees mark the by-paths; delicate flowersbloom along their borders, and jessamine vines twine lovingly about thebranches of palmetto and magnolia trees. An air of enchanting harmonypervades the spot; the dead could repose in no prettier shade. Exquisitely chiselled marbles decorate the resting-places of the rich;plain slabs mark those of the poor. 

It is evening now. The shadows are deepening down the broad avenue, thewind sighs touchingly through the tall pines, and the sinking sun isshedding a deep purple hue over the broad landscape. A solitarymocking-bird has just tuned its last note, and sailed swiftly into thedark hedgerow, down in the dead-yard. 

A young girl, whose fair oval face the sun of eighteen summers haswarmed into exquisite beauty, sits musingly under a cypress tree. Hername is Anna Bonnard, and she is famous in all the city for her beauty, as well as the symmetry of her form. Her dress is snowy white, fastenedat the neck with a blue ribbon, and the skirts flowing. Her face islike chiselled marble, her eyes soft, black, and piercing, and deep, dark tresses of silky hair fall down her shoulders to her waist. Youth, beauty, and innocence are written in every feature of that fair face, over which a pensive smile now plays, then deepens into sadness. Hereshe has sat for several minutes, her head resting lightly on her righthand, and her broad sun-hat in her left, looking intently at a newlysodded grave with a plain white slab, on which is inscribed, in blackletters--"Poor Miranda. " This is all that betrays the sleeper beneath. 

"And this is where they have laid her, " she says, with a sigh. "PoorMiranda! like me, she was lost to this world. The world only knew theworst of her. " And the tears that steal from her eyes tell the tale ofher affection. "Heaven will deal kindly with the outcast, for Heavenonly knows her sorrows. " She rises quickly from her seat, casts a glanceover the avenue, then pats the sods with her hands, and strews cypressbranches and flowers over the grave, saying, "This is the last of poorMiranda. Some good friend has laid her here, and we are separatedforever. It was misfortune that made us friends. " She turns slowly fromthe spot, and walks down the avenue towards the great gate leading tothe city. A shadow crosses her path; she hesitates, and looks with anair of surprise as the tall figure of a man advances hastily, saying, "Welcome, sweet Anna--welcome home. "

He extends his gloved hand, which she receives with evident reluctance. "Pray what brought you here, Mr. Snivel?" she inquires, fixing her eyeson him, suspiciously. 

"If you would not take it impertinent, I might ask you the samequestion. No, I will not. It was your charms, sweetest Anna. Love candraw me--I am a worshipper at its fountain. And as for law, --you know Ilive by that. "

Mr. Snivel is what may be called a light comedy lawyer; ready to enterthe service of any friend in need. He is commonly called "Snivel thelawyer, " although the profession regard him with suspicion, and societykeeps him on its out skirts. He is, in a word, a sportsman of smallgame, ready to bring down any sort of bird that chances within reach ofhis fowling-piece. He is tall of figure and slender, a pink of fashionin dress, wears large diamonds, an eye-glass, and makes the most of alight, promising moustache. His face is small, sharp, and discoloredwith the sun, his eyes grey and restless, his hair fair, his mouth wideand characterless. Cunning and low intrigue are marked in every featureof his face; and you look in vain for the slightest evidence of a frankand manly nature. 

"Only heard you were home an hour ago. Set right off in pursuit of you. Cannot say exactly what impelled me. Love, perhaps, as I said before. "Mr. Snivel twirls his hat in the air, and condescends to say he feels inan exceedingly happy state of mind. "I knew you needed a protector, andcame to offer myself as your escort. I take this occasion to say, thatyou have always seen me in the false light my enemies magnify me in. "

"I have no need of your escort, Mr. Snivel; and your friendship I candispense with, since, up to this time, it has only increased mytrouble, " she interposes, continuing down the avenue. 

"We all need friends----"

"True friends, you mean, Mr. Snivel. "

"Well, then, have it so. You hold that all is false in men. I hold nosuch thing. Come, give me your confidence, Anna. Look on the brightside. Forget the past, and let the present serve. When you want afriend, or a job of law, call on me. " Mr. Snivel adjusts his eye-glass, and again twirls his hat. 

The fair girl shakes her head and says, "she hopes never to need either. But, tell me, Mr. Snivel, are you not the messenger of some one else?"she continues. 

"Well, I confess, " he replies, with a bow, "its partly so and partly notso. I came to put in one word for myself and two for the judge. Its nobreach of confidence to say he loves you to distraction. At home in anycourt, you know, and stands well with the bar----"

"Love for me! He can have no love for me. I am but an outcast, tossed onthe sea of uncertainty; all bright to-day, all darkness to-morrow. Ourlife is a stream of excitement, down which we sail quickly to amiserable death. I know the doom, and feel the pang. But men do not loveus, and the world never regrets us. Go, tell him to forget me. "

"Forget you? not he. Sent me to say he would meet you to-night. You areat the house of Madame Flamingo, eh?"

"I am; and sorry am I that I am. Necessity has no choice. "

"You have left Mulholland behind, eh? Never was a fit companion for you. Can say that without offence. He is a New York rough, you know. Charleston gentlemen have a holy dislike of such fellows. "

"He has been good to me. Why should I forsake him for one who affects tolove me to-day, and will loathe me to-morrow? He has been my only truefriend. Heaven may smile on us some day, and give us enough to live alife of virtue and love. As for the mystery that separates me from myparents, that had better remain unsolved forever. " As she says this, they pass out of the great gate, and are on the road to the city. 

A darker scene is being enacted in a different part of the city. A grimold prison, its walls, like the state's dignity, tumbling down and goingto decay; its roof black with vegetating moss, and in a state ofdilapidation generally, --stands, and has stood for a century or more, onthe western outskirts of the city. We have a strange veneration for thisdamp old prison, with its strange histories cut on its inner walls. Ithas been threatening to tumble down one of these days, and it does notsay much for our civilization that we have let it stand. But thequestion is asked, and by grave senators, if we pull it down, what shallwe do with our pick-pockets and poor debtors? We mix them nicely uphere, and throw in a thief for a messmate. What right has a poor debtorto demand that the sovereign state of South Carolina make a distinctionbetween poverty and crime? It pays fifteen cents a day for getting themall well starved; and there its humanity ends, as all state humanityshould end. 

The inner iron gate has just closed, and two sturdy constables havedragged into the corridor a man, or what liquor has left of a man, andleft him prostrate and apparently insensible on the floor. "Seventh timewe've bring'd him 'ere a thin two months. Had to get a cart, or Phin andme never'd a got him 'ere, " says one of the men, drawing a long breath, and dusting the sleeves of his coat with his hands. 

"An officer earns what money he gits a commitin' such a cove, " says theother, shaking his head, and looking down resentfully at the man on thefloor. "Life'll go out on him like a kan'l one of these days. " Officercontinues moralizing on the bad results of liquor, and deliberatelydraws a commitment from his breast pocket. "Committed by JusticeSnivel--breaking the peace at the house of Madame----" He cannot makeout the name. 

First officer interposes learnedly--"Madame Flamingo. " "Sure enuf, he'sbeen playin' his shines at the old woman's house again. Why, MasterJailer, Justice Snivel must a made fees enuf a this 'ere cove to make aman rich enough, " continues Mr. Constable Phin. 

"As unwelcome a guest as comes to this establishment, " rejoins thecorpulent old jailer, adjusting his spectacles, and reading thecommitment, a big key hanging from the middle finger of his left hand. "Used to be sent up here by his mother, to be starved into reform. He ispast reform. The poor-house is the place to send him to, 'tis. "

"Well, take good care on him, Master Jailer, now you've got him. Hecomes of a good enough family, " says the first officer. 

"He's bin in this condition more nor a week--layin' down yonder, in SnugHarbor. Liquor's drived all the sense out on him, " rejoins thesecond--and bidding the jailer good-morning, they retire. 

The forlorn man still lies prostrate on the floor, his tattered garmentsand besotted face presenting a picture of the most abject wretchedness. The old jailer looks down upon him with an air of sympathy, and shakeshis head. 

"The doctor that can cure you doesn't live in this establishment, " hesays. The sound of a voice singing a song is heard, and the figure of apowerfully framed man, dressed in a red shirt and grey homespuntrousers, advances, folds his arms deliberately, and contemplates withan air of contempt the prostrate man. His broad red face, flat nose, massive lips, and sharp grey eyes, his crispy red hair, bristling over alow narrow forehead, and two deep scars on the left side of his face, present a picture of repulsiveness not easily described. Silently andsullenly he contemplates the object before him for several minutes, thensays:

"Dogs take me, Mister Jailer! but he's what I calls run to the dogs. That's what whisky's did for him. "

"And what it will do for you one of these days, " interrupts the jailer, admonishingly. "Up for disturbing the peace at Madame Flamingo's. Committed by Justice Snivel. "

"Throwing stones by way of repentance, eh? Tom was, at one time, as gooda customer as that house had. A man's welcome at that house when he's upin the world. He's sure a gittin' kicked out when he is down. "

"He's here, and we must get him to a cell, " says the jailer, setting hiskey down and preparing to lift the man on his feet. 

"Look a here, Tom Swiggs, --in here again, eh?" resumes the man in thered shirt. "Looks as if you liked the institution. Nice son of arespectable mother, you is!" He stoops down and shakes the prostrate manviolently. 

The man opens his eyes, and casts a wild glance on the group of wanfaces peering eagerly at him. "I am bad enough. You are no better thanme, " he whispers. "You are always here. "

"Not always. I am a nine months' guest. In for cribbing voters. Let outwhen election day comes round, and paid well for my services. Sent upwhen election is over, and friends get few. No moral harm in cribbingvoters. You wouldn't be worth cribbing, eh, Tom? There ain't nopolitician what do'nt take off his hat, and say--'Glad to see you, Mister Mingle, ' just afore election. " The man folds his arms and walkssullenly down the corridor, leaving the newcomer to his own reflections. There is a movement among the group looking on; and a man in the garb ofa sailor advances, presses his way through, and seizing the prostrate bythe hand, shakes it warmly and kindly. "Sorry to see you in here agin, Tom, " he says, his bronzed face lighting up with the fires of a generousheart. "There's no man in this jail shall say a word agin Tom Swiggs. Wehave sailed shipmates in this old craft afore. "

The man was a sailor, and the prisoner's called him Spunyarn, by way ofshortness. Indeed, he had became so familiarized to the name, that hewould answer to none other. His friendship for the inebriate was of themost sincere kind. He would watch over him, and nurse him into sobriety, with the care and tenderness of a brother. "Tom was good to me, when hehad it;" he says, with an air of sympathy. "And here goes for lendin' ahand to a shipmate in distress. " He takes one arm and the jailer theother, and together they support the inebriate to his cell. "Set me downfor a steady boarder, and have done with it, " the forlorn man mutters, as they lay him gently upon the hard cot. "Down for steady board, jailer--that's it. "

"Steady, steady now, " rejoins the old sailor, as the inebriate tosseshis arms over his head. "You see, there's a heavy ground swell on justnow, and a chap what don't mind his helm is sure to get his sparsshivered. " He addresses the the jailer, who stands looking with an airof commiseration on the prostrate man. "Take in head-sail--furltop-gallant-sails--reef topsails--haul aft main-sheet--put her helmhard down--bring her to the wind, and there let her lay until it comesclear weather. " The man writhes and turns his body uneasily. "There, there, " continues the old sailor, soothingly; "steady, steady, --keep heraway a little, then let her luff into a sound sleep. Old Spunyarn's theboy what'll stand watch. " A few minutes more and the man is in a deep, sound sleep, the old sailor keeping watch over him so kindly, so like atrue friend. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE HOUSE OF A VERY DISTINGUISHED LADY. 

The mansion of Madame Flamingo stands stately in Berresford street. Anair of mystery hangs over it by day, and it is there young Charlestonholds high carnival at night. It is a very distinguished house, andMadame Flamingo assures us she is a very distinguished lady, who meansto make her peace with heaven before she dies, and bestow largely on thepriests, who have promised to make her comfortable while on the roadthrough purgatory. The house is in high favor with young Charleston, andold Charleston looks in now and then. Our city fathers have greatsympathy for it, and protect it with their presence. Verily it is agreat gate on the road to ruin, and thousands pass heedlessly throughits decorated walks, quickly reaching the dark end. 

It is evening, and thin fleecy clouds flit along the heavens. The gassheds a pale light over the streets, and shadowy figures pass and repassus as we turn into the narrow street leading to the house of the oldhostess. We have reached the great arched door, and stand in the shadowof a gas-light, playing over its trap, its network of iron, and itsbright, silver plate. We pause and contemplate the massive walls, as thethought flashes upon us--How mighty is vice, that it has got such amansion dedicated to its uses! Even stranger thoughts than these flitthrough the mind as we hesitate, and touch the bell timidly. Now, wehave excited your curiosity, and shall not turn until we have shown youwhat there is within. 

We hear the bell faintly tinkle--now voices in loud conversation breakupon the ear--then all is silent. Our anxiety increases, and keepsincreasing, until a heavy footstep is heard advancing up the hall. Nowthere is a whispering within--then a spring clicks, and a small squarepanel opens and is filled with a broad fat face, with deep blue eyes anda profusion of small brown curls, all framed in a frosty cap-border. Itis the old hostess, done up in her best book muslin, and so wellpreserved. 

"Gentlemen, or ain't ye gentlemen?" inquires the old hostess, in a lowvoice. "This is a respectable house, I'd have you remember. Gentlemenwhat ain't gentlemen don't git no show in this house--no they don't. "She looks curiously at us, and pauses for a reply. The display of a kidglove and a few assuring words gain us admittance into the great hall, where a scene of barbaric splendor excites curious emotions. "Thereain't nothin' but gentlemen gets into this house--they don't! and whenthey are in they behaves like gentlemen, " says the hostess, bowinggracefully, and closing the door after us. 

The time prints of sixty summers have furrowed the old hostess' brow, and yet she seems not more than forty--is short of figure, and weighstwo hundred. Soft Persian carpets cover the floor, lounges, in carvedwalnut and satin, stand along the sides; marble busts on pedestals, andfull-length figures of statesmen and warriors are interspersed at shortintervals; and the ceiling is frescoed in uncouth and fierce-lookingfigures. Flowers hang from niches in the cornice; a marble group, representing St. George and the dragon, stands at the foot of a broadcircular stairs; tall mirrors reflect and magnify each object, and overall the gas from three chandeliers sheds a bewitching light. Such is thegaudy scene that excites the fancy, but leaves our admiration unmoved. 

"This is a castle, and a commonwealth, gentlemen. Cost me a deal ofmoney; might get ruined if gentlemen forgot how to conduct themselves. Ladies like me don't get much credit for the good they do. Gentlemenwill be introduced into the parlor when they are ready, " says the oldhostess, stepping briskly round us, and watching our every movement; weare new-comers, and her gaudy tabernacle is novel to us. 

"Have educated a dozen young men to the law, and made gentlemen of adozen more, excellent young men--fit for any society. Don't square myaccounts with the world, as the world squares its account with me, " shecontinues, with that air which vice affects while pleading its owncause. She cannot shield the war of conscience that is waging in herheart; but, unlike most of those engaged in her unnatural trade, thereis nothing in her face to indicate a heart naturally inclined to evil. It is indeed bright with smiles, and you see only the picture of a beingsailing calmly down the smooth sea of peace and contentment. Her dressis of black glossy satin, a cape of fine point lace covers her broadshoulders, and bright blue cap-ribbons stream down her back. 

"Listen, " says the old hostess--"there's a full house to-night. Bothparlors are full. All people of good society!" she continues, patronizingly. "Them what likes dancin' dances in the left-hand parlor. Them what prefers to sit and converse, converses in the right-handparlor. Some converses about religion, some converses aboutpolitics--(by way of lettin' you know my position, I may say that I gofor secession, out and out)--some converses about law, some conversesabout beauty. There isn't a lady in this house as can't converse onanything. " Madame places her ear to the door, and thrusts her fatjewelled fingers under her embroidered apron. 

"This is my best parlor, gentlemen, " she resumes; "only gentlemen ofdeportment are admitted--I might add, them what takes wine, and, if theydoes get a little in liquor, never loses their dignity. " Madame bows, and the door of her best parlor swings open, discovering a scene ofstill greater splendor. 

"Gentlemen as can't enjoy themselves in my house, don't know how toenjoy anything. Them is all gentlemen you see, and them is all ladiesyou see, " says the hostess, as we advance timidly into the room, the airof which is sickly of perfumes. The foot falls upon the softest ofcarpets; quaint shadows, from stained-glass windows are flitting anddancing on the frescoed ceiling; curtains of finest brocade, envelopedin lace, fall cloud-like down the windows. The borderings are ofamber-colored satin, and heavy cornices, over which eagles in gilt areperched, surmount the whole. Pictures no artist need be ashamed ofdecorate the walls, groups in bronze and Parian, stand on pedestalsbetween the windows, and there is a regal air about the furniture, whichis of the most elaborate workmanship. But the living figures moving toand fro, some in uncouth dresses and some scarce dressed at all, and allreflected in the great mirrors, excite the deepest interest. Truly it ishere that vice has arrayed itself in fascinating splendors, and theyoung and the old have met to pay it tribute. The reckless youth meetsthe man high in power here. The grave exchange salutations with the gay. Here the merchant too often meets his clerk, and the father his son. And before this promiscuous throng women in bright but scanty drapery, and wan faces, flaunt their charms. 

Sitting on a sofa, is the fair young girl we saw at the cemetery. By herside is a man of venerable presence, endeavoring to engage her inconversation. Her face is shadowed in a pensive smile;--she listens towhat falls from the lips of her companion, shakes her head negatively, and watches the movements of a slender, fair-haired young man, whosaunters alone on the opposite side of the room. He has a deep interestin the fair girl, and at every turn casts a look of hate and scorn ather companion, who is no less a person than Judge Sleepyhorn, of thishistory. 

"Hain't no better wine nowhere, than's got in this house, " ejaculatesthe old hostess, calling our attention to a massive side-board, coveredwith cut-glass of various kinds. "A gentleman what's a gentleman may geta little tipsy, providin' he do it on wine as is kept in this house, andcarry himself square. " Madame motions patronizingly with her hand, bowscondescendingly, and says, "Two bottles I think you ordered, gentlemen--what gentlemen generally call for. "

Having bowed assent, and glad to get off so cheaply, Manfredo, a slavein bright livery, is directed to bring it in. 

Mr. Snivel enters, to the great delight of the old hostess and variousfriends of the house. "Mr. Snivel is the spirit of this house, " resumesthe old hostess, by way of introduction; "a gentleman of distinction inthe law. " She turns to Mr. Snivel inquiringly. "You sent that ruffin, Tom Swiggs, up for me to-day?"

"Lord bless you, yes--gave him two months for contemplation. Get wellstarved at fifteen cents a day----"

"Sorry for the fellow, " interrupts the old hostess, sympathizingly. "That's what comes a drinkin' bad liquor. Tom used to be a first-ratefriend of this house--spent heaps of money, and we all liked him so. Tried hard to make a man of Tom. Couldn't do it. " Madame shakes her headin sadness. "Devil got into him, somehow. Ran down, as young men willwhen they gets in the way. I does my part to save them, God knows. " Atear almost steals into Madame's eyes. "When Tom used to come here, looking so down, I'd give him a few dollars, and get him to go somewhereelse. Had to keep up the dignity of the house, you know. A man as takeshis liquor as Tom does ain't fit company for my house. "

Mr. Snivel says: "As good advice, which I am bound to give his mother, Ishall say she'd better give him steady lodgings in jail. " He turns andrecognizes his friend, the judge, and advances towards him. As he doesso, Anna rises quickly to her feet, and with a look of contempt, addressing the judge, says, "Never, never. You deceived me once, younever shall again. You ask me to separate myself from him. No, never, never. " And as she turns to walk away the judge seizes her by the hand, and retains her. "You must not go yet, " he says. 

"She shall go!" exclaims the fair young man, who has been watching theirmovements. "Do you know me? I am the George Mulholland you are plottingto send to the whipping-post, --to accomplish your vile purposes. No, sir, I am not the man you took me for, as I would show you were it notfor your grey hairs. " He releases her from the judge's grasp, and standsmenacing that high old functionary with his finger. "I care not for yourpower. Take this girl from me, and you pay the penalty with your life. We are equals here. Release poor Langdon from prison, and go paypenance over the grave of his poor wife. It's the least you can do. Youruined her--you can't deny it. " Concluding, he clasps the girl in hisarms, to the surprise of all present, and rushes with her out of thehouse. 

The house of Madame Flamingo is in a very distinguished state ofcommotion. Men sensitive of their reputations, and fearing the presenceof the police, have mysteriously disappeared. Madame is in a faintingcondition, and several of her heroic damsels have gone screaming out ofthe parlor, and have not been seen since. 

Matters have quieted down now. Mr. Snivel consoles the judge for theloss of dignity he has suffered, Madame did not quite faint, and thereis peace in the house. 

Manfredo, his countenance sullen, brings in the wine. Manfredo is in badtemper to-night. He uncorks the bottles and lets the wine foam over thetable, the sight of which sends Madame into a state of distress. 

"This is all I gets for putting such good livery on you!" she says, pushing him aside with great force. "That's thirty-nine for you in themorning, well-laid on. You may prepare for it. Might have known better(Madame modifies her voice) than buy a nigger of a clergyman!" Shecommences filling the glasses herself, again addressing Manfredo, theslave: "Don't do no good to indulge you. This is the way you pay me forlettin' you go to church of a Sunday. Can't give a nigger religionwithout his gettin' a big devil in him at the same time. "

Manfredo passes the wine to her guests, in sullen silence, and theydrink to the prosperity of the house. 

And now it is past midnight; the music in the next parlor has ceased, St. Michael's clock has struck the hour of one, and business is at anend in the house of the old hostess. A few languid-looking guests stillremain, the old hostess is weary with the fatigues of the night, andeven the gas seems to burn dimmer. The judge and Mr. Snivel are the lastto take their departure, and bid the hostess good-night. "I could notcall the fellow out, " says the judge, as they wend their way into Kingstreet. "I can only effect my purpose by getting him into my power. Todo that you must give me your assistance. "

"Remain silent on that point, " returns the other. "You have only toleave its management to me. Nothing is easier than to get such a fellowinto the power of the law. "

On turning into King street they encounter a small, youthful lookingman, hatless and coatless, his figure clearly defined in the shadows ofthe gas-light, engaged in a desperate combat with the lamp-post. "Now, Sir, defend yourself, and do it like a man, for you have the reputationof being a craven coward, " says the man, cutting and thrusting furiouslyat the lamp-post; Snivel and Sleepyhorn pause, and look on astonished. "Truly the poor man's mad, " says Sleepyhorn, touching his companion onthe arm--"uncommonly mad for the season. "

Mr. Snivel whispers, "Not so mad. Only courageously tight. " "Gentlemen!"says the man, reproachfully, "I am neither mad nor drunk. " Here hestrikes an attitude of defence, cutting one, two, and three with hissmall sword. "I am Mister Midshipman Button--no madman, not a bit of it. As brave a man as South Carolina ever sent into the world. A man ofpluck, Sir, and genuine, at that. " Again he turns and makes severalthrusts at the lamp-post, demanding that it surrender and get down onits knees, in abject obedience to superior prowess. 

"Button, Button, my dear fellow, is it you? What strange freak is this?"inquires Mr. Snivel, extending his hand, which the little energetic manrefuses to take. 

"Mister Midshipman Button, if you please, gentlemen, " replies the man, with an air of offended dignity. "I'm a gentleman, a man of honor, andwhat's more, a Carolinian bred and born, or born and bred--cut it as youlike it. " He makes several powerful blows at the lamp-post, and succeedsonly in breaking his sword. 

"Poor man, " says the judge, kindly, "he is in need of friends to takecare of him, and advise him properly. He has not far to travel before hegets into the mad-house. "

The man overhears his remarks, and with a vehement gesture and flourishof his broken sword, says, "Do you not see, gentlemen, what work I havemade of this Northern aggressor, this huge enemy bringing oppression toour very doors?" He turns and addresses the lamp-post in a tone ofsuperiority. "Surrender like a man, and confess yourself vanquished, Northern aggressor that you are! You see, gentlemen, I have gained avictory--let all his bowels out. Honor all belongs to my native state--Ishall resign it all to her. " Here the man begins to talk in so wild astrain, and to make so many demands of his imaginary enemy, that theycalled a passing guardsman, who, seeing his strange condition, replacedhis hat, and assisted them in getting him to a place of safety for thenight, when sleep and time would restore him to a sound state of mind. 

CHAPTER III. 

IN WHICH THE READER IS PRESENTED WITH A VARIED PICTURE. 

Tom has passed a restless night in jail. He has dreamed of bottledsnakes, with eyes wickedly glaring at him; of fiery-tailed serpentscoiling all over him; of devils in shapes he has no language todescribe; of the waltz of death, in which he danced at the mansion ofMadame Flamingo; and of his mother, (a name ever dear in his thoughts, )who banished him to this region of vice, for what she esteemed a moralinfirmity. Further on in his dream he saw a vision, a horrible vision, which was no less than a dispute for his person between Madame Flamingo, a bishop, and the devil. But Madame Flamingo and the devil, who seemedto enjoy each other's company exceedingly, got the better of the bishop, who was scrupulous of his dignity, and not a little anxious about beingseen in such society. And from the horrors of this dream he wakes, surprised to find himself watched over by a kind friend--a young, comely-featured man, in whom he recognizes the earnest theologian, as heis plumed by the prisoners, whom he daily visits in his mission of good. There was something so frank and gentle in this young man'sdemeanor--something so manly and radiant in his countenance--somethingso disinterested and holy in his mission of love--something so oppositeto the coldness of the great world without--something so serene andelevated in his youth, that even the most inveterate criminal awaitedhis coming with emotions of joy, and gave a ready ear to his kindlyadvice. Indeed, the prisoners called him their child; and he seemed notdainty of their approach, but took them each by the hand, sat at theirside, addressed them as should one brother address another;--yea, hemade them to feel that what was their interest it was his joy topromote. 

The young theologian took him a seat close by the side of the dreaminginebriate; and as he woke convulsively, and turned towards him hisdistorted face, viewing with wild stare each object that met his sight, the young man met his recognition with a smile and a warm grasp of thehand. "I am sorry you find me here again--yes, I am. "

"Better men, perhaps, have been here--"

"I am ashamed of it, though; it isn't as it should be, you see, "interrupts Tom. 

"Never mind--(the young man checks himself)--I was going to say there isa chance for you yet; and there is a chance; and you must struggle; andI will help you to struggle; and your friends--"

Tom interrupts by saying, "I've no friends. "

"I will help you to struggle, and to overcome the destroyer. Never thinkyou are friendless, for then you are a certain victim in the hands ofthe ruthless enemy--"

"Well, well, " pauses Tom, casting a half-suspicious look at the youngman, "I forgot. There's you, and him they call old Spunyarn, arefriends, after all. You'll excuse me, but I didn't think of that;" and afeeling of satisfaction seemed to have come over him. "How grateful tohave friends when a body's in a place of this kind, " he muttersincoherently, as the tears gush from his distended eyes, and childlikehe grasps the hand of the young man. 

"Be comforted with the knowledge that you have friends, Tom. Oneall-important thing is wanted, and you are a man again. "

"As to that!" interrupts Tom, doubtingly, and laying his begrimed handon his burning forehead, while he alternately frets and frisks hisfingers through his matted hair. 

"Have no doubts, Tom--doubts are dangerous. "

"Well, say what it is, and I'll try what I can do. But you won't thinkI'm so bad as I seem, and'll forgive me? I know what you think of me, and that's what mortifies me; you think I'm an overdone specimen of ourchivalry--you do!"

"You must banish from your mind these despairing thoughts, " replies theyoung man, laying his right hand approvingly on Tom's head. "First, Tom, " he pursues, "be to yourself a friend; second, forget the error ofyour mother, and forgive her sending you here; and third, cut the houseof Madame Flamingo, in which our chivalry are sure to get a shattering. To be honest in temptation, Tom, is one of the noblest attributes of ournature; and to be capable of forming and maintaining a resolution toshake off the thraldom of vice, and to place oneself in the sereneratmosphere of good society, is equally worthy of the highestcommendation. "

Tom received this in silence, and seemed hesitating between what heconceived an imperative demand and the natural inclination of hispassions. 

"Give me your hand, and with it your honor--I know you yet retain thelatent spark--and promise me you will lock up the cup--"

"You'll give a body a furlough, by the way of blowing off the fuddle hehas on hand?"

"I do not withhold from you any discretionary indulgence that may bringrelief--"

Tom interrupts by saying, "My mother, you know!"

"I will see her, and plead with her on your behalf; and if she have amother's feelings I can overcome her prejudice. "

Tom says, despondingly, he has no home to go to. It's no use seeing hismother; she's all dignity, and won't let it up an inch. "If I could onlypersuade her--" Tom pauses here and shakes his head. 

"Pledge me your honor you'll from this day form a resolution to reform, Tom; and if I do not draw from your mother a reconciliation, I will seeka home for you elsewhere. "

"Well, there can't be much harm in an effort, at all events; and here'smy hand, in sincerity. But it won't do to shut down until I get overthis bit of a fog I'm now in. " With childlike simplicity, Tom gives hishand to the young man, who, as old Spunyarn enters the cell to, as hesays, get the latitude of his friend's nerves, departs in search of Mrs. Swiggs. 

Mrs. Swiggs is the stately old member of a crispy old family, that, likenumerous other families in the State, seem to have outlived twochivalrous generations, fed upon aristocracy, and are dying outcontemplating their own greatness. Indeed, the Swiggs family, while itlived and enjoyed the glory of its name, was very like the Barnwellfamily of this day, who, one by one, die off with the very pardonableand very harmless belief that the world never can get along without theaid of South Carolina, it being the parthenon from which the outsideworld gets all its greatness. Her leading and very warlike newspapers, (the people of these United States ought to know, if they do notalready, ) it was true, were editorialized, as it was politely called inthe little State-militant, by a species of unreputationized Jew andYankee; but this you should know--if you do not already, gentlereader--that it is only because such employments are regarded by thelofty-minded chivalry as of too vulgar a nature to claim a place intheir attention. 

The clock of old Saint Michaels, a clock so tenacious of its dignity asto go only when it pleases, and so aristocratic in its habits as not togo at all in rainy weather;--a clock held in great esteem by the "veryfirst families, " has just struck eleven. The young, pale-facedmissionary inquiringly hesitates before a small, two-story building ofwood, located on the upper side of Church street, and so crabbed inappearance that you might, without endangering your reputation, havesworn it had incorporated in its framework a portion of that chronicdisease for which the State has gained for itself an unenviablereputation. Jutting out of the black, moss-vegetating roof, is anold-maidish looking window, with a dowdy white curtain spitefully tuckedup at the side. The mischievous young negroes have pecked half thebricks out of the foundation, and with them made curious grottoes on thepavement. Disordered and unpainted clapboards spread over the dingyfront, which is set off with two upper and two lower windows, allblockaded with infirm, green shutters. Then there is a snuffy door, high and narrow (like the State's notions), and reached by six venerablesteps and a stoop, carefully guarded with a pine hand-rail, fashionablypainted in blue, and looking as dainty as the State's white glove. This, reader, is the abode of the testy but extremely dignified Mrs. Swiggs. If you would know how much dignity can be crowded into the smallestspace, you have only to look in here and be told (she closely patternsafter the State in all things!) that fifty-five summers of her crispylife have been spent here, reading Milton's Paradise Lost andcontemplating the greatness of her departed family. 

The old steps creak and complain as the young man ascends them, holdingnervously on at the blue hand-rail, and reaching in due time the stoop, the strength of which he successively tests with his right foot, andstands contemplating the snuffy door. A knocker painted in villanousgreen--a lion-headed knocker, of grave deportment, looking as savage aslion can well do in this chivalrous atmosphere, looks admonitiously athim. "Well!" he sighs as he raises it, "there's no knowing what sort ofa reception I may get. " He has raised the monster's head and given threegentle taps. Suddenly a frisking and whispering, shutting of doors andtripping of feet, is heard within; and after a lapse of several minutesthe door swings carefully open, and the dilapidated figure of an oldnegro woman, lean, shrunken, and black as Egyptian darkness--withserious face and hanging lip, the picture of piety and starvation, gruffly asks who he is and what he wants?

Having requested an interview with her mistress, this decrepit specimenof human infirmity half closes the door against him and doddles back. Aslight whispering, and Mrs. Swiggs is heard to say--"show him into thebest parlor. " And into the best parlor, and into the august presence ofMrs. Swiggs is he ushered. The best parlor is a little, dingy room, lowof ceiling, and skirted with a sombre-colored surbase, above which ispapering, the original color of which it would be difficult to discover. A listen carpet, much faded and patched, spreads over the floor, thewalls are hung with several small engravings, much valued for their ageand associations, but so crooked as to give one the idea of the househaving withstood a storm at sea; and the furniture is made up of a fewvenerable mahogany chairs, a small side-table, on which stands, muchdisordered, several well-worn books and papers, two patch-coveredfoot-stools, a straight-backed rocking-chair, in which the august womanrocks her straighter self, and a great tin cage, from between the barsof which an intelligent parrot chatters--"my lady, my lady, my lady!"There is a cavernous air about the place, which gives out a sickly odor, exciting the suggestion that it might at some time have served as areceptacle for those second-hand coffins the State buries its poor in. 

"Well! who are you? And what do you want? You have brought letters, Is'pose?" a sharp, squeaking voice, speaks rapidly. 

The young man, without waiting for an invitation to sit down, takesnervously a seat at the side-table, saying he has come on a mission oflove. 

"Love! love! eh? Young man--know that you have got into the wronghouse!" Mrs. Swiggs shakes her head, squeaking out with great animation. 

There she sits, Milton's "Paradise Lost" in her witch-like fingers, herself lean enough for the leanest of witches, and seeming to haveeither shrunk away from the faded black silk dress in which she is clad, or passed through half a century of starvation merely to bolster up herdignity. A sharp, hatchet-face, sallow and corrugated; two wicked grayeyes, set deep in bony sockets; a long, irregular nose, midway of whichis adjusted a pair of broad, brass-framed spectacles; a sunken, purse-drawn mouth, with two discolored teeth protruding from her upperlip; a high, narrow forehead, resembling somewhat crumpled parchment; adash of dry, brown hair relieving the ponderous border of hersteeple-crowned cap, which she seems to have thrown on her head in ahurry; a moth-eaten, red shawl thrown spitefully over her shoulders, disclosing a sinewy and sassafras-colored neck above, and the small endof a gold chain in front, and, reader, you have the august Mrs. Swiggs, looking as if she diets on chivalry and sour krout. She is indeed a niceembodiment of several of those qualities which the State clingstenaciously to, and calls its own, for she lives on the labor of elevenaged negroes, five of whom are cripples. 

The young man smiles, as Mrs. Swiggs increases the velocity of herrocking, lays her right hand on the table, rests her left on her Milton, and continues to reiterate that he has got into the wrong house. 

"I have no letter, Madam--"

"I never receive people without letters--never!" again she interrupts, testily. 

"But you see, Madam--"

"No I don't. I don't see anything about it!" again she interposes, adjusting her spectacles, and scanning him anxiously from head to foot. "Ah, yes (she twitches her head), I see what you are--"

"I was going to say, if you please, Madam, that my mission may serve asa passport--"

"I'm of a good family, you must know, young man. You could have learnedthat of anybody before seeking this sort of an introduction. Any of ourfirst families could have told you about me. You must go your way, youngman!" And she twitches her head, and pulls closer about her leanshoulders the old red shawl. 

"I (if you will permit me, Madam) am not ignorant of the very highstanding of your famous family--" Madam interposes by saying, everymuscle of her frigid face unmoved the while, she is glad he knowssomething, "having read of them in a celebrated work by one of our morecelebrated genealogists--"

"But you should have brought a letter from the Bishop! and upon thatbased your claims to a favorable reception. Then you have read of SirSunderland Swiggs, my ancestor? Ah! he was such a Baron, and owned suchestates in the days of Elizabeth. But you should have brought a letter, young man. " Mrs. Swiggs replies rapidly, alternately raising andlowering her squeaking voice, twitching her head, and grasping tighterher Milton. 

"Those are his arms and crest. " She points with her Milton to a singularhieroglyphic, in a wiry black frame, resting on the marble-paintedmantelpiece. "He was very distinguished in his time; and such anexcellent Christian. " She shakes her head and wipes the tears from herspectacles, as her face, which had before seemed carved in wormwood, slightly relaxes the hardness of its muscles. 

"I remember having seen favorable mention of Sir Sunderland's name inthe book I refer to--"

She again interposes. The young man watches her emotions with apenetrating eye, conscious that he has touched a chord in which all themilk of kindness is not dried up. 

"It's a true copy of the family arms. Everybody has got to having armsnow-a-days. (She points to the indescribable scrawl over themantelpiece. ) It was got through Herald King, of London, who they saykeeps her Majesty's slippers and the great seal of State. We were veryexact, you see. Yes, sir--we were very exact. Our vulgar people, yousee--I mean such as have got up by trade, and that sort of thing--wentto a vast expense in sending to England a man of great learning and muchaforethought, to ransack heraldry court and trace out their families. Well, he went, lived very expensively, spent several years abroad, andbeing very clever in his way, returned, bringing them all pedigrees ofthe very best kind. With only two exceptions, he traced them all downinto noble blood. These two, the cunning fellow had it, came of martyrs. And to have come of the blood of martyrs, when all the others, as wasshown, came of noble blood, so displeased--the most ingenious (the oldlady shakes her head regrettingly) can't please everybody--the livingmembers of these families, that they refused to pay the poor man for hisresearches, so he was forced to resort to a suit at law. And to this day(I don't say it disparagingly of them!) both families stubbornly refuseto accept the pedigree. They are both rich grocers, you see! and on thisaccount we were very particular about ours. "

The young man thought it well not to interrupt the old woman's displayof weakness, inasmuch as it might produce a favorable change in herfeelings. 

"And now, young man, what mission have you besides love?" she inquires, adding an encouraging look through her spectacles. 

"I am come to intercede--"

"You needn't talk of interceding with me; no you needn't! I've nothingto intercede about"--she twitches her head spitefully. 

"In behalf of your son. "

"There--there! I knew there was some mischief. You're a Catholic! I knewit. Never saw one of your black-coated flock about that there wasn'tmischief brewing--never! I can't read my Milton in peace for you--"

"But your son is in prison, Madam, among criminals, and subject to theinfluence of their habits--"

"Precisely where I put him--where he won't disgrace the family; yes, where he ought to be, and where he shall rot, for all me. Now, go yourway, young man; and read your Bible at home, and keep out of prisons;and don't be trying to make Jesuits of hardened scamps like that Tom ofmine. "

"I am a Christian: I would like to extend a Christian's hand to yourson. I may replace him on the holy pedestal he has fallen from--"

"You are very aggravating, young man. Do you live in South Carolina?"

The young man says he does. He is proud of the State that can boast somany excellent families. 

"I am glad of that, " she says, looking querulously over her spectacles, as she twitches her chin, and increases the velocity of her rocking. "Iwonder how folks can live out of it. "

"As to that, Madam, permit me to say, I am happy to see and appreciateyour patriotism; but if you will grant me an order of release--"

"I won't hear a word now! You're very aggravating, young man--very! Hehas disgraced the family; I have put him where he is seven times; heshall rot were he is! He never shall disgrace the family again. Think ofSir Sunderland Swiggs, and then think of him, and see what a prettylevel the family has come to! That's the place for him, I have told hima dozen times how I wished him gone. The quicker he is out of the way, the better for the name of the family. "

The young man waits the end of this colloquy with a smile on hiscountenance. "I have no doubt I can work your son's reform--perhaps makehim an honor to the family--"

"He honor the family!" she interrupts, twitches the shawl about hershoulders, and permits herself to get into a state of generalexcitement. "I should like to see one who has disgraced the family asmuch as he has think of honoring it--"

"Through kindness and forbearance, Madam, a great deal may be done, " theyoung man replies. 

"Now, you are very provoking, young man--very. Let other people alone;go your way home, and study your Bible. " And with this the old ladycalls Rebecca, the decrepit slave who opened the door, and directs herto show the young man out. "There now!" she says testily, turning to themarked page of her Milton. 

The young man contemplates her for a few moments, but, having noalternative, leaves reluctantly. 

On reaching the stoop he encounters the tall, handsome figure of a man, whose face is radiant with smiles, and his features ornamented withneatly-combed Saxon hair and beard, and who taps the old negress underthe chin playfully, as she says, "Missus will be right glad to see you, Mr. Snivel--that she will. " And he bustles his way laughing into thepresence of the old lady, as if he had news of great importance forher. 

CHAPTER IV. 

A FEW REFLECTIONS ON THE CURE OF VICE. 

Disappointed, and not a little chagrined, at the failure of his mission, the young man muses over the next best course to pursue. He has theinebriate's welfare at heart; he knows there is no state of degradationso low that the victim cannot, under proper care, be reclaimed from it;and he feels duty calling loudly to him not to stand trembling on thebrink, but to enter the abode of the victim, and struggle to make cleanthe polluted. Vice, he says to himself, is not entailed in the heart;and if you would modify and correct the feelings inclined to evil, youmust first feed the body, then stimulate the ambition; and when you havegot the ambition right, seek a knowledge of the heart, and apply to itthose mild and judicious remedies which soften its action, and give lifeto new thoughts and a higher state of existence. Once create the vine ofmoral rectitude, and its branches will soon get where they can take careof themselves. But to give the vine creation in poor soil, your watchingmust exhibit forbearance, and your care a delicate hand. Thestubbornly-inclined nature, when coupled with ignorance, is that inwhich vice takes deepest root, as it is, when educated, that againstwhich vice is least effectual. To think of changing the naturalinclination of such natures with punishment, or harsh correctives, is asuseless as would be an attempt to stop the ebbing and flowing of thetide. You must nurture the feelings, he thought, create asusceptibility, get the heart right, by holding out the value of abetter state of things, and make the head to feel that you are sincerein your work of love; and, above all, you must not forget the stomach, for if that go empty crime will surely creep into the head. You cannotcorrect moral infirmity by confining the victim of it among criminals, for no greater punishment can be inflicted on the feelings of man; andpunishment destroys rather than encourages the latent susceptibility ofour better nature. In nine cases out of ten, improper punishment makesthe hardened criminals with which your prisons are filled, destroyingforever that spark of ambition which might have been fostered into ameans to higher ends. 

And as the young man thus muses, there recurs to his mind the picture ofold Absalom McArthur, a curious old man, but excessively kind, andalways ready to do "a bit of a good turn for one in need, " as he wouldsay when a needy friend sought his assistance. McArthur is a dealer incuriosities, is a venerable curiosity himself, and has always somethingon hand to meet the wants of a community much given to antiquity andbroken reputations. 

The young theologian will seek this good old man. He feels that timewill work a favorable revolution in the feelings of Tom's mother; and tobe prepared for that happy event he will plead a shelter for him underMcArthur's roof. 

And now, generous reader, we will, with your permission, permit him togo on his errand of mercy, while we go back and see how Tom prospers atthe old prison. You, we well know, have not much love of prisons. Butunless we do now and then enter them, our conceptions of how much miseryman can inflict upon man will be small indeed. 

The man of sailor-like deportment, and whom the prisoners salute withthe sobriquet of "Old Spunyarn, " entered, you will please remember, thecell, as the young theologian left in search of Mrs. Swiggs, "I thoughtI'd just haul my tacks aboard, run up a bit, and see what sort ofweather you were making, Tom, " says he, touching clumsily hissmall-brimmed, plait hat, as he recognizes the young man, whom hesalutes in that style so frank and characteristic of the craft. "He's abit better, sir--isn't he?" inquires Spunyarn, his broad, honest face, well browned and whiskered, warming with a glow of satisfaction. 

Receiving an answer in the affirmative, he replies he is right glad ofit, not liking to see a shipmate in a drift. And he gives his quid alurch aside, throws his hat carelessly upon the floor, shrugs hisshoulders, and as he styles it, nimbly brings himself to a mooring, atTom's side. "It's a hard comforter, this state. I don't begrudge yourmother the satisfaction she gets of sending you here. In her eyes, yesee, yeer fit only to make fees out on, for them ar lawyer chaps. They'dkeep puttin' a body in an' out here during his natural life, just forthe sake of gettin', the fees. They don't care for such things as youand I. We hain't no rights; and if we had, why we hain't no power. Thiscarry in' too much head sail, Tom, won't do--'twon't!" Spunyarn shakeshis head reprovingly, fusses over Tom, turns him over on his wales, ashe has it, and finally gets him on his beam's ends, a besotted wreckunable to carry his canvas. "Lost yeer reckoning eh, Tom?" he continuesas that bewildered individual stares vacantly at him. The inebriatecontorts painfully his face, presses and presses his hands to hisburning forehead, and says they are firing a salute in his head, usinghis brains for ammunition. 

"Well, now Tom, seein' as how I'm a friend of yourn--"

"Friend of mine?" interrupts Tom, shaking his head, and peering throughhis fingers mistrustfully. 

"And this is a hard lee shore you've beached upon; I'll lend ye a handto get in the head sail, and get the craft trimmed up a little. A dashof the same brine will help keep the ballast right, then a skysail-yardbreakfast must be carefully stowed away, in order to give a firmness tothe timbers, and on the strength of these two blocks for shoring up thehull, you must begin little by little, and keep on brightening up untilyou have got the craft all right again. And when you have got her rightyou must keep her right. I say, Tom!--it won't do. You must reef down, or the devil'll seize the helm in one of these blows, and run you into aport too warm for pea-jackets. " For a moment, Spunyarn seems halfinclined to grasp Tom by his collarless coat and shake the hydrophobia, as he calls it, out of him; then, as if incited by a second thought, hedraws from his shirt-bosom a large, wooden comb, and humming a tunecommences combing and fussing over Tom's hair, which stands erect overhis head like marlinspikes. At length he gets a craft-like set upon hisforetop, and turning his head first to the right, then to the left, as achild does a doll, he views him with an air of exultation. "I tell youwhat it is, Tom, " he continues, relieving him of the old coat, "thebright begins to come! There's three points of weather made already. "

"God bless you, Spunyarn, " replies Tom, evidently touched by thefrankness and generosity of the old sailor. Indeed there was somethingso whole-hearted about old Spunyarn, that he was held in universalesteem by every one in jail, with the single exception of Milman Mingle, the vote-cribber. 

"Just think of yourself, Tom--don't mind me, " pursues the sailor as Tomsqueezes firmly his hand. "You've had a hard enough time of it--" Tominterrupts by saying, as he lays his hands upon his sides, he is sorefrom head to foot. 

"Don't wonder, " returns the sailor. "It's a great State, this SouthCarolina. It seems swarming with poor and powerless folks. Everybody haspower to put everybody in jail, where the State gives a body twodog's-hair and rope-yarn blankets to lay upon, and grants the sheriff, Mr. Hardscrable, full license to starve us, and put the thirty cents aday it provides for our living into his breeches pockets. Say what youwill about it, old fellow, it's a brief way of doing a little profit inthe business of starvation. I don't say this with any ill-will to theState that regards its powerless and destitute with such criminalcontempt--I don't. " And he brings water, gets Tom upon his feet, forceshim into a clean shirt, and regards him in the light of a child whosereformation he is determined on perfecting. He sees that in the fallenman which implies a hope of ultimate usefulness, notwithstanding thesullen silence, the gloomy frown on his knitted brow, and the generalair of despair that pervades the external man. 

"There!" he exclaims, having improved the personal of the inebriate, andfolding his arms as he steps back apace to have a better view of hispupil--"now, don't think of being triced up in this dreary vault. Becheerful, brace up your resolution--never let the devil think you knowhe is trying to put the last seal on your fate--never!" Having slippedthe black kerchief from his own neck, he secures it about Tom's, adjuststhe shark's bone at the throat, and mounts the braid hat upon his headwith a hearty blow on the crown. "Look at yourself! They'd mistake youfor a captain of the foretop, " he pursues, and good-naturedly he layshis broad, browned hands upon Tom's shoulders, and forces him up to atriangular bit of glass secured with three tacks to the wall. 

Tom's hands wander down his sides as he contemplates himself in theglass, saying: "I look a shade up, I reckon! And I feel--I have to thankyou for it, Spunyarn--something different all over me. God bless you! Iwon't forget you. But I'm hungry; that's all that ails me now. 

"I may thank my mother--"

"Thank yourself, Tom, " interposes the sailor. 

"For all this. She has driven me to this; yes, she has made my soul deadwith despair!" And he bursts into a wild, fierce laugh. A moment'spause, and he says, in a subdued voice, "I'm a slave, a fool, a wandererin search of his own distress. "

The kind-hearted sailor seats his pupil upon a board bench, and proceedsdown stairs, where, with the bribe of a glass of whiskey, he induces thenegro cook to prepare for Tom a bowl of coffee and a biscuit. In truth, we must confess, that Spunyarn was so exceedingly liberal of hisfriendship that he would at times appropriate to himself the personaleffects of his neighbors. But we must do him justice by saying that thiswas only when a friend in need claimed his attention. And this generouspropensity he the more frequently exercised upon the effects--whiskey, cold ham, crackers and cheese--of the vote-cribber, whom he regards as asort of cold-hearted land-lubber, whose political friends outside werenot what they should be. If the vote-cribber's aristocratic friends (andSouth Carolina politicians were much given to dignity and bad whiskey)sent him luxuries that tantalized the appetites of poverty-oppresseddebtors, and poor prisoners starving on a pound of bread a-day, Spunyarnheld this a legitimate plea for holding in utter contempt the right tosuch gifts. And what was more singular of this man was, that he alwaysknew the latitude and longitude of the vote-cribber's bottle, and whatamount of water was necessary to keep up the gauge he had reduced insupplying his flask. 

And now that Tom's almost hopeless condition presents a warrantableexcuse, (the vote-cribber has this moment passed into the cell to take acursory glance at Tom, ) Spunyarn slips nimbly into the vote-cribber'scell, withdraws a brick from the old chimney, and seizing the black neckof a blacker bottle, drags it forth, holds it in the shadow of thedoorway, squints exultingly at the contents, shrugs his stalwartshoulders, and empties a third of the liquid, which he replaces withwater from a bucket near by, into his tin-topped flask. This done, heingeniously replaces the bottle, slides the flask suspiciously into hisbosom, saying, "It'll taste just as strong to a vote-cribber, " and seeksthat greasy potentate, the prison cook. This dignitary has always laidsomething aside for Spunyarn; he knows Spunyarn has something laid asidefor him, which makes the condition mutual. 

"A new loafer let loose on the world!" says the vote-cribber, enteringthe domain of the inebriate with a look of fierce scorn. "The State ispestered to death with such things as you. What do they send you herefor?--disturbing the quiet and respectability of the prison! You're onlyfit to enrich the bone-yard--hardly that; perhaps only for lawyers toget fees of. The State'll starve you, old Hardscrabble'll make a fewdollars out of your feed--but what of that? We don't want you here. "There was something so sullen and mysterious in the coarse features ofthis stalwart man--something so revolting in his profession, though itwas esteemed necessary to the elevation of men seeking politicalpopularity--something so at variance with common sense in the punishmentmeted out to him who followed it, as to create a deep interest in hishistory, notwithstanding his coldness towards the inebriate. And yet yousought in vain for one congenial or redeeming trait in the character ofthis man. 

"I always find you here; you're a fixture, I take it--"

The vote-cribber interrupts the inebriate--"Better have said a patriot!"

"Well, " returns the inebriate, "a patriot then; have it as you like it. I'm not over-sensitive of the distinction. " The fallen man drops hishead into his hands, stabbed with remorse, while the vote-cribber foldshis brawny arms leisurely, paces to and fro before him, and scans himwith his keen, gray eyes, after the manner of one mutely contemplatingan imprisoned animal. 

"You need not give yourself so much concern about me--"

"I was only thinking over in my head what a good subject to crib, a weekor two before fall election, you'd be. You've a vote?"

Tom good-naturedly says he has. He always throws it for the "oldCharleston" party, being sure of a release, as are some dozen cagedbirds, just before election. 

"I have declared eternal hatred against that party; never pays itscribbers!" Mingle scornfully retorts; and having lighted his pipe, continues his pacing. "As for this jail, " he mutters to himself, "I'veno great respect for it; but there is a wide difference between a manwho they put in here for sinning against himself, and one who onlyviolates a law of the State, passed in opposition to popular opinion. However, you seem brightened up a few pegs, and, only let whiskey alone, you may be something yet. Keep up an acquaintance with the pump, and becivil to respectable prisoners, that's all. "

This admonition of the vote-cribber had a deeper effect on the feelingsof the inebriate than was indicated by his outward manner. He hadcommitted no crime, and yet he found himself among criminals of everykind; and what was worse, they affected to look down upon him. Had hereached a state of degradation so low that even the felon loathed hispresence? Was he an outcast, stripped of every means of reform--ofmaking himself a man? Oh no! The knife of the destroyer had plungeddeep--disappointment had tortured his brain--he was drawn deeper intothe pool of misery by the fatal fascinations of the house of MadameFlamingo, where, shunned by society, he had sought relief--but there wasyet one spark of pride lingering in his heart. That spark thevote-cribber had touched; and with that spark Tom resolved to kindle forhimself a new existence. He had pledged his honor to the youngtheologian; he would not violate it. 

The old sailor, with elated feelings, and bearing in his hands a bowl ofcoffee and two slices of toasted bread, is accosted by severalsuspicious-looking prisoners, who have assembled in the corridor for thepurpose of scenting fresh air, with sundry questions concerning thestate of his pupil's health. 

"He has had a rough night, " the sailor answers, "but is now a bit calm. In truth, he only wants a bit of good steering to get him into smoothweather again. " Thus satisfying the inquirers, he hurries up stairs asthe vote-cribber hurries down, and setting his offering on thewindow-sill, draws from his bosom the concealed flask. "There, Tom!" hesays, with childlike satisfaction, holding the flask before him--"onlytwo pulls. To-morrow reef down to one; and the day after swear adissolution of copartnership, for this chap (he points to the whiskey)is too mighty for you. "

Tom hesitates, as if questioning the quality of the drug he is about toadminister. 

"Only two!" interrupts the sailor. "It will reduce the ground-swell abit. " The outcast places the flask to his lips, and having drank withcontorted face passes it back with a sigh, and extends his right hand. "My honor is nothing to the world, Spunyarn, but it is yet something tome; and by it I swear (here he grasps tighter the hand of the oldsailor, as a tear moistens his suffused cheeks) never to touch thepoison again. It has grappled me like a fierce animal I could not shakeoff; it has made me the scoffed of felons--I will cease to be itsvictim; and having gained the victory, be hereafter a friend to myself. "

"God bless you--may you never want a friend, Tom--and may He give youstrength to keep the resolution. That's my wish. " And the old sailorshook Tom's hand fervently, in pledge of his sincerity. 

CHAPTER V. 

IN WHICH MR. SNIVEL, COMMONLY CALLED THE ACCOMMODATION MAN, ISINTRODUCED, AND WHAT TAKES PLACE BETWEEN HIM AND MRS. SWIGGS. 

Reader! have you ever witnessed how cleverly one of our mob-politicianscan, through the all-soothing medium of a mint-julep, transpose himselffrom a mass of passion and bad English into a child of perfectequanimity? If not, perhaps you have witnessed in our halls of Congressthe sudden transition through which some of our Carolina members passfrom a state of stupidity to a state of pugnacity? (We refer only tothose members who do their own "stumping, " and as a natural consequence, get into Congress through abuse of the North, bad whiskey, and aprofusion of promises to dissolve the Union. ) And if you have, you mayform some idea of the suddenness with which Lady Swiggs, as she delightsin having her friends call her, transposes herself from the incarnationof a viper into a creature of gentleness, on hearing announced the nameof Mr. Soloman Snivel. 

"What!--my old friend! I wish I had words to say how glad I am to seeyou, Lady Swiggs!" exclaims a tall, well-proportioned andhandsome-limbed man, to whose figure a fashionable claret-colored frockcoat, white vest, neatly-fitting dark-brown trowsers, highly-polishedboots, a cluster of diamonds set in an avalanche of corded shirt-bosom, and carelessly-tied green cravat, lend a respectability better imaginedthan described. A certain reckless dash about him, not common to arefined gentleman, forces us to set him down as one of those individualswho hold an uncertain position in society; and though they may now andthen mingle with men of refinement, have their more legitimate sphere ina fashionable world of doubtful character. 

"Why!--Mr. Snivel. Is it you?" responds the old woman, reciprocating hiswarm shake of the hand, and getting her hard face into a smile. 

"I am so glad--But (Mr. Snivel interrupts himself) never mind that!"

"You have some important news?" hastily inquires Mrs. Swiggs, laying abit of muslin carefully between the pages of her Milton, and returningit to the table, saying she has just been grievously provoked by one ofthat black-coated flock who go about the city in search of lambs. Theyalways remind her of light-houses pointing the road to the dominions ofthe gentleman in black. 

"Something very important!" parenthesises Soloman--"very. " And he shakeshis head, touches her significantly on the arm with his orange-coloredglove, --he smiles insidiously. 

"Pray be seated, Mr. Snivel. Rebecca!--bring Mr. Snivel therocking-chair. "

"You see, my good Madam, there's such a rumor about town this morning!(Soloman again taps her on the arm with his glove. ) The cat has got outof the bag--it's all up with the St. Cecilia!--"

"Do, Rebecca, make haste with the rocking-chair!" eagerly interruptsthe old woman, addressing herself to the negress, who fusses her wayinto the room with a great old-fashioned rocking-chair. "I am sosensitive of the character of that society, " she continues with a sigh, and wipes and rubs her spectacles, gets up and views herself in theglass, frills over her cap border, and becomes very generally anxious. Mrs. Swiggs is herself again. She nervously adjusts the venerable redshawl about her shoulders, draws the newly-introduced arm-chair near herown, ("I'm not so old, but am getting a little deaf, " she says), andbegs her visitor will be seated. 

Mr. Soloman, having paced twice or thrice up and down the little room, contemplating himself in the glass at each turn, now touching hisneatly-trimmed Saxon mustache and whiskers, then frisking his fingersthrough his candy-colored hair, brings his dignity into the chair. 

"I said it was all up with the St. Cecilia--"

"Yes!" interrupts Mrs. Swiggs, her eyes glistening like balls of fire, her lower jaw falling with the weight of anxiety, and fretting rapidlyher bony hands. 

Soloman suddenly pauses, says that was a glorious bottle of old Madeirawith which he enjoyed her hospitality on his last visit. The flavor ofit is yet fresh in his mouth. 

"Thank you--thank you! Mr. Soloman. I've a few more left. But pray loseno time in disclosing to me what hath befallen the St. Cecilia. "

"Well then--but what I say must be in confidence. (The old woman says itnever shall get beyond her lips--never!) An Englishman of goodly looks, fashion, and money--and, what is more in favor with our first families, a Sir attached to his name, being of handsome person and accomplishedmanners, and travelling and living after the manner of a nobleman, (someof our first families are simple enough to identify a Baronet withnobility!) was foully set upon by the fairest and most marriageablebelles of the St. Cecilia. If he had possessed a dozen hearts, he couldhave had good markets for them all. There was such a getting up ofattentions! Our fashionable mothers did their very best in arraying themany accomplishments of their consignable daughters, setting forth inthe most foreign but not over-refined phraseology, their extensivetravels abroad--"

"Yes!" interrupts Mrs. Swiggs, nervously--"I know how they do it. It's apardonable weakness. " And she reaches out her hand and takes to her lapher inseparable Milton. 

"And the many marked attentions--offers, in fact--they have received atthe hands of Counts and Earls, with names so unpronounceable that theyhave outlived memory--"

"Perhaps I have them in my book of autographs!" interrupts the credulousold woman, making an effort to rise and proceed to an antique side-boardcovered with grotesque-looking papers. 

Mr. Soloman urbanely touches her on the arm--begs she will keep herseat. The names only apply to things of the past. He proceeds, "Well--being a dashing fellow, as I have said--he played his gamecharmingly. Now he flirted with this one, and then with that one, andfinally with the whole society, not excepting the very flirtable marriedladies;--that is, I mean those whose husbands were simple enough to lethim. Mothers were in a great flutter generally, and not a day passed butthere was a dispute as to which of their daughters he would link hisfortunes with and raise to that state so desirable in the eyes of ourvery republican first families--the State-Militant of nobility--"

"I think none the worse of 'em for that, " says the old woman, twitchingher wizard-like head in confirmation of her assertion. "My word for it, Mr. Soloman, to get up in the world, and to be above the common herd, isthe grand ambition of our people; and our State has got the grandposition it now holds before the world through the influence of thisambition. "

"True!--you are right there, my dear friend. You may remember, I havealways said you had the penetration of a statesman, (Mrs. Swiggs makes acurt bow, as a great gray cat springs into her lap and curls himselfdown on her Milton;) and, as I was going on to say of this dashingBaronet, he played our damsels about in agony, as an old sportsman doesa covey of ducks, wounding more in the head than in the heart, andfinally creating no end of a demand for matrimony. To-day, all the townwas positive, he would marry the beautiful Miss Boggs; to-morrow it wasnot so certain that he would not marry the brilliant andall-accomplished Miss Noggs; and the next day he was certain of marryingthe talented and very wealthy heiress, Miss Robbs. Mrs. Stepfast, highlyesteemed in fashionable society, and the very best gossip-monger in thecity, had confidentially spread it all over the neighborhood that Mr. Stepfast told her the young Baronet told him (and he verily believed hewas head and ears in love with her!) Miss Robbs was the most lovelycreature he had seen since he left Belgravia. And then he went into aperfect rhapsody of excitement while praising the poetry of her motion, the grace with which she performed the smallest offices of thedrawing-room, her queenly figure, her round, alabaster arms, her smooth, tapering hands, (so chastely set off with two small diamonds, and sounlike the butchers' wives of this day, who bedazzle themselves all theday long with cheap jewelry, )--the beautiful swell of her marble bust, the sweet smile ever playing over her thoughtful face, the regularity ofher Grecian features, and those great, languishing eyes, constantlyflashing with the light of irresistible love. Quoth ye! according towhat Mr. Stepfast told Mrs. Stepfast, the young Baronet would, with theideal of a real poet, as was he, have gone on recounting her charmsuntil sundown, had not Mr. Stepfast invited him to a quiet familydinner. And to confirm what Mr. Stepfast said, Miss Robbs had been seenby Mrs. Windspin looking in at Mrs. Stebbins', the fashionabledress-maker, while the young Baronet had twice been at Spears', in KingStreet, to select a diamond necklace of great value, which he leftsubject to the taste of Miss Robbs. And putting them two and them twotogether there was something in it!"

"I am truly glad it's nothing worse. There has been so much scandal gotup by vulgar people against our St. Cecilia. "

"Worse, Madam?" interpolates our hero, ere she has time to conclude hersentence, "the worst is to come yet. "

"And I'm a member of the society!" Mrs. Swiggs replies with alanguishing sigh, mistaking the head of the cat for her Milton, andapologizing for her error as that venerable animal, having got wellsqueezed, sputters and springs from her grasp, shaking his head, "elected solely on the respectability of my family. "

Rather a collapsed member, by the way, Mr. Soloman thinks, contemplatingher facetiously. 

"Kindly proceed--proceed, " she says, twitching at her cap strings, as ifimpatient to get the sequel. 

"Well, as to that, being a member of the St. Cecilia myself, you see, and always--(I go in for a man keeping up in the world)--maintaining ahigh position among its most distinguished members, who, I assure you, respect me far above my real merits, (Mrs. Swiggs says we won't sayanything about that now!) and honor me with all its secrets, I may, evenin your presence, be permitted to say, that I never heard a member whodidn't speak in high praise of you and the family of which you are soexcellent a representative. "

"Thank you--thank you. O thank you, Mr. Soloman!" she rejoins. 

"Why, Madam, I feel all my veneration getting into my head at once whenI refer to the name of Sir Sunderland Swiggs. "

"But pray what came of the young Baronet?"

"Oh!--as to him, why, you see, he was what we call--it isn't a politeword, I confess--a humbug. "

"A Baronet a humbug!" she exclaims, fretting her hands and commencing torock herself in the chair. 

"Well, as to that, as I was going on to say, after he had beat the bushall around among the young birds, leaving several of them wounded on theground--you understand this sort of thing--he took to the older ones, and set them polishing up their feathers. And having set several veryrespectable families by the ears, and created a terrible flutter among anumber of married dames--he was an adept in this sort of diplomacy, yousee--it was discovered that one very distinguished Mrs. Constance, leader of fashion to the St. Cecilia, (and on that account on no verygood terms with the vulgar world, that was forever getting up scandal tohurl at the society that would not permit it to soil, with its commonmuslin, the fragrant atmosphere of its satin and tulle), had beencarrying on a villanous intrigue--yes, Madam! villanous intrigue! I saiddiscovered: the fact was, this gallant Baronet, with one servant and noestablishment, was feted and fooled for a month, until he came to thevery natural and sensible conclusion, that we were all snobbs--yes, snobbs of the very worst kind. But there was no one who fawned over andflattered the vanity of this vain man more than the husband of Mrs. Constance. This poor man idolized his wife, whom he regarded as the verydiamond light of purity, nor ever mistrusted that the Baronet'sattentions were bestowed with any other than the best of motives. Indeed, he held it extremely condescending on the part of the Baronet tothus honor the family with his presence. 

"And the Baronet, you see, with that folly so characteristic ofBaronets, was so flushed with his success in this little intrigue withMadame Constance--the affair was too good for him to keep!--that he wentall over town showing her letters. Such nice letters as they were--brimfull of repentance, love, and appointments. The Baronet read them to Mr. Barrows, laughing mischievously, and saying what a fool the woman mustbe. Mr. Barrows couldn't keep it from Mrs. Barrows, Mrs. Barrows let thecat out of the bag to Mrs. Simpson, and Mrs. Simpson would let Mr. Simpson have no peace till he got on the soft side of the Baronet, and, what was not a difficult matter, got two of the letters for her to havea peep into. Mrs. Simpson having feasted her eyes on the two Mr. Simpsongot of the Baronet, and being exceedingly fond of such wares as theycontained, must needs--albeit, in strict confidence--whisper it to Mrs. Fountain, who was a very fashionable lady, but unfortunately had a headvery like a fountain, with the exception that it ejected out double theamount it took in. Mrs. Fountain--as anybody might have known--let itget all over town. And then the vulgar herd took it up, as if it wereassafoetida, only needing a little stirring up, and hurled it back atthe St. Cecilia, the character of which it would damage without a pangof remorse. 

"Then the thing got to Constance's ears; and getting into a terriblepassion, poor Constance swore nothing would satisfy him but theBaronet's life. But the Baronet--"

"A sorry Baronet was he--not a bit like my dear ancestor, SirSunderland, " Mrs. Swiggs interposes. 

"Not a bit, Madam, " bows our hero. "Like a sensible gentleman, as I wasabout to say, finding it getting too hot for him, packed up his alls, and in the company of his unpaid servant, left for parts westward ofthis. I had a suspicion the fellow was not what he should be; and I madeit known to my select friends of the St. Cecilia, who generallypooh-poohed me. A nobleman, they said, should receive every attention. And to show that he wasn't what he should be, when he got to Augusta hisservant sued him for his wages; and having nothing but his chivalry, which the servant very sensibly declined to accept for payment, he cameout like a man, and declared himself nothing but a poor player. 

"But this neither satisfied Constance nor stayed the drifting current ofslander--"

"Oh! I am so glad it was no worse, " Mrs. Swiggs interrupts again. 

"True!" Mr. Soloman responds, laughing heartily, as he taps her on thearm. "It might have been worse, though. Well, I am, as you know, alwaysready to do a bit of a good turn for a friend in need, and pitying poorConstance as I did, I suggested a committee of four most respectablegentlemen, and myself, to investigate the matter. The thing struckConstance favorably, you see. So we got ourselves together, agreed toconsider ourselves a Congress, talked over the affairs of the nation, carried a vote to dissolve the Union, drank sundry bottles of Champagne, (I longed for a taste of your old Madeira, Mrs. Swiggs, ) and brought ina verdict that pleased Mrs. Constance wonderfully--and so it ought. Wewere, after the most careful examination, satisfied that the reportsprejudicial to the character and standing of Mrs. Constance had nofoundation in truth, being the base fabrications of evil-minded persons, who sought, while injuring an innocent lady, to damage the reputation ofthe St. Cecilia Society. Mr. Constance was highly pleased with thefinding; and finally it proved the sovereign balm that healed all theirwounds. Of course, the Knight, having departed, was spared his blood. "

Here Mr. Soloman makes a pause. Mrs. Swiggs, with a sigh, says, "Is thatall?"

"Quite enough for once, my good Madam, " Mr. Soloman bows in return. 

"Oh! I am so glad the St. Cecilia is yet spared to us. You said, youknow, it was all up with it--"

"Up? up?--so it is! That is, it won't break it up, you know. Why--oh, Isee where the mistake is--it isn't all over, you know, seeing how thesociety can live through a score of nine-months scandals. But thething's in every vulgar fellow's lips--that is the worst of it. "

Mrs. Swiggs relishes this bit of gossip as if it were a dainty morsel;and calling Rebecca, she commands her to forthwith proceed into thecellar and bring a bottle of the old Madeira--she has only fiveleft--for Mr. Soloman. And to Mr. Soloman's great delight, the oldnegress hastily obeys the summons; brings forth a mass of cobweb anddust, from which a venerable black bottle is disinterred, uncorked, andpresented to the guest, who drinks the health of Mrs. Swiggs in sundrywell-filled glasses, which he declares choice, adding, that it alwaysreminds him of the age and dignity of the family. Like the State, dignity is Mrs. Swiggs' weakness--her besetting sin. Mr. Soloman, havingfound the key to this vain woman's generosity, turns it when it suitshis own convenience. 

"By-the-bye, " he suddenly exclaims, "you've got Tom locked up again. "

"As safe as he ever was, I warrant ye!" Mrs. Swiggs replies, resumingher Milton and rocking-chair. 

"Upon my faith I agree with you. Never let him get out, for he is sureto disgrace the family when he does--"

"I've said he shall rot there, and he shall rot! He never shall get outto disgrace the family--no, not if I live to be as gray as Methuselah, Iwarrant you!" And Mr. Soloman, having made his compliments to the sixthglass, draws from his breast pocket a legal-looking paper, which hepasses to Mrs. Swiggs, as she ejaculates, "Oh! I am glad you thought ofthat. "

Mr. Soloman, watching intently the changes of her face, says, "You willobserve, Madam, I have mentioned the cripples. There are five of them. We are good friends, you see; and it is always better to be precise inthose things. It preserves friendship. This is merely a bit of a goodturn I do for you. " Mr. Soloman bows, makes an approving motion with hishands, and lays at her disposal on the table, a small roll of bills. "You will find two hundred dollars there, " he adds, modulating hisvoice. "You will find it all right; I got it for you of Keepum. We do alittle in that way; he is very exact, you see--"

"Honor is the best security between people of our standing, " sherejoins, taking up a pen and signing the instrument, which her guestdeposits snugly in his pocket, and takes his departure for the house ofMadame Flamingo. 

CHAPTER VI. 

CONTAINING SUNDRY MATTERS APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY. 

If, generous reader, you had lived in Charleston, we would take it forgranted that you need no further enlightening on any of our very selectsocieties, especially the St. Cecilia; but you may not have enjoyed aresidence so distinguished, rendering unnecessary a few explanatoryremarks. You must know that we not only esteem ourselves thequintessence of refinement, as we have an undisputed right to do, butregard the world outside as exceedingly stupid in not knowing as much ofus as we profess to know of ourselves. Abroad, we wonder we are not atonce recognized as Carolinians; at home, we let the vulgar world knowwho we are. Indeed, we regard the outside world--of these States wemean--very much in that light which the Greeks of old were wont to viewthe Romans in. Did we but stop here, the weakness might be pardonable. But we lay claim to Grecian refinement of manners, while pluming all ourmob-politicians Roman orators. There is a profanity about this weconfess not to like; not that danger can befall it, but because it hathabout it that which reminds us of the oyster found in the shell of gold. Condescending, then, to believe there exists outside of our State a fewpersons silly enough to read books, we will take it for granted, reader, that you are one of them, straightway proceeding with you to the St. Cecilia. 

You have been a fashionable traveller in Europe? You say--yes! rummagedall the feudal castles of England, sought out the resting places of herkings, heard some one say "that is poet's corner, " as we passed intoWestminster Abbey, thought they couldn't be much to have such acorner, --"went to look" where Byron was buried, moistened the marblewith a tear ere we were conscious of it, and saw open to us the gulf ofdeath as we contemplated how greedy graveyard worms were banqueting onhis greatness. A world of strange fancies came over us as we mused onEngland's poets. And we dined with several Dukes and a great many moreEarls, declining no end of invitations of commoners. Very well! wereply, adding a sigh. And on your return to your home, that you may notbe behind the fashion, you compare disparagingly everything that meetsyour eye. Nothing comes up to what you saw in Europe. A servant doesn'tknow how to be a servant here; and were we to see the opera at CoventGarden, we would be sure to stare our eyes out. It is become habitual tointroduce your conversation with, "when I was in Europe. " And you knowyou never write a letter that you don't in some way bring in thedistinguished persons you met abroad. There is something (no matter whatit is) that forcibly reminds you of what occurred at the table of myLady Clarendon, with whom you twice had the pleasure and rare honor ofdining. And by implication, you always give us a sort of lavender-waterdescription of the very excellent persons you met there, and what theywere kind enough to say of America, and how they complimented you, andmade you the centre and all-absorbing object of attraction--in a word, atruly wonderful person. And you will not fail, now that it is becomefashionable, to extol with fulsome breath the greatness of everyEuropean despot it hath been your good fortune to get a bow from. Andyou are just vain enough to forever keep this before your up-countrycousins. You say, too, that you have looked in at Almacks. Almacks!alas! departed greatness. With the rise of the Casino hath it lain itsaristocratic head in the dust. 

Well!--the St. Cecilia you must know (its counterparts are to be foundin all our great cities) is a miniature Almacks--a sort of leach-cloth, through which certain very respectable individuals must pass ere theycan become the elite of our fashionable world. To become a member of theSt. Cecilia--to enjoy its recherché assemblies--to luxuriate in thedelicate perfumes of its votaries, is the besetting sin of a great manyotherwise very sensible people. And to avenge their disappointment atnot being admitted to its precious precincts, they are sure to be foundin the front rank of scandal-mongers when anything in their line is upwith a member. And it is seldom something is not up, for the societywould seem to live and get lusty in an atmosphere of perpetual scandal. Any amount of duels have come of it; it hath made rich no end ofmilliners; it hath made bankrupt husbands by the dozen; it hath been thetheatre of several distinguished romances; it hath witnessed the firstthrobbings of sundry hearts, since made happy in wedlock; it hath beenthe _shibolath_ of sins that shall be nameless here. The reigning bellesare all members (provided they belong to our first families) of the St. Cecilia, as is also the prettiest and most popular unmarried parson. Andthe parson being excellent material for scandal, Mother Rumor is sure tohave a dash at him. Nor does this very busy old lady seem over-delicateabout which of the belles she associates with the parson, so long as thescandal be fashionable enough to afford her a good traffic. 

There is continually coming along some unknown but very distinguishedforeigner, whom the society adopts as its own, flutters over, andsmothers with attentions, and drops only when it is discovered he is anescaped convict. This, in deference to the reputation of the St. Cecilia, we acknowledge has only happened twice. It has been said withmuch truth that the St. Cecilia's worst sin, like the sins of its sistersocieties of New York, is a passion for smothering with the satin andHoniton of its assemblies a certain supercilious species of snobbyEnglishmen, who come over here, as they have it (gun and fishing-rod inhand), merely to get right into the woods where they can have plenty ofbear-hunting, confidently believing New York a forest inhabited by suchanimals. As for our squaws, as Mr. Tom Toddleworth would say, (we shallspeak more at length of Tom!) why! they have no very bad opinion ofthem, seeing that they belong to a race of semi-barbarians, whosesayings they delight to note down. Having no society at home, thisspecies of gentry the more readily find themselves in high favor withours. They are always Oxonians, as the sons of green grocers andfishmongers are sure to be when they come over here (so Mr. Toddleworthhas it, and he is good authority), and we being an exceedinglyimpressible people, they kindly condescend to instruct us in all thehigh arts, now and then correcting our very bad English. They are cleverfellows generally, being sure to get on the kind side of credulousmothers with very impressible-headed daughters. 

There was, however, always a distinguished member of the St. Ceciliasociety who let out all that took place at its assemblies. The vulgaralways knew what General danced with the lovely Miss A. , and how theylooked, and what they said to each other; how many jewels Miss A. Wore, and the material her dress was made of; they knew who polkaed with theaccomplished Miss B. , and how like a duchess she bore herself; they hadthe exact name of the colonel who dashed along so like a knight with thegraceful and much-admired Mrs. D. , whose husband was abroad serving hiscountry; what gallant captain of dragoons (captains of infantry werelooked upon as not what they might be) promenaded so imperiously withthe vivacious Miss E. ; and what distinguished foreigner sat all night inthe corner holding a suspicious and very improper conversation with MissF. , whose skirts never were free of scandal, and who had twice got thepretty parson into difficulty with his church. Hence there was aperpetual outgoing of scandal on the one side, and pelting of dirt onthe other. 

When Mr. Soloman sought the presence of Mrs. Swiggs and told her it wasall up with the St. Cecilia, and when that august member of the societywas so happily disappointed by his concluding with leaving it anundamaged reputation, the whole story was not let out. In truth thesociety was at that moment in a state of indignation, and its reputationas well-nigh the last stage of disgrace as it were possible to bring itwithout being entirely absorbed. The Baronet, who enjoyed a good joke, and was not over-scrupulous in measuring the latitude of our credulity, had, it seems, in addition to the little affair with Mrs. Constance, been imprudent enough to introduce at one of the assemblies of the St. Cecilia, a lady of exceedingly fair but frail import: this loveliest ofcreatures--this angel of fallen fame--this jewel, so much sought afterin her own casket--this child of gentleness and beauty, before whom adozen gallant knights were paying homage, and claiming her hand for thenext waltz, turned out to be none other than the Anna Bonard we havedescribed at the house of Madame Flamingo. The discovery sent the wholeassembly into a fainting fit, and caused such a fluttering in the campof fashion. Reader! you may rest assured back-doors and smelling-bottleswere in great demand. 

The Baronet had introduced her as his cousin; just arrived, he said, inthe care of her father--the cousin whose beauty he had so often referredto. So complete was her toilet and disguise, that none but the mostintimate associate could have detected the fraud. Do you ask us who wasthe betrayer, reader? We answer, --

One whose highest ambition did seem that of getting her from herparamour, George Mullholland. It was Judge Sleepyhorn. Reader! you willremember him--the venerable, snowy-haired man, sitting on the lounge atthe house of Madame Flamingo, and on whom George Mullholland swore tohave revenge. The judge of a criminal court, the admonisher of theerring, the sentencer of felons, the _habitue_ of the house of MadameFlamingo--no libertine in disguise could be more scrupulous of hisstanding in society, or so sensitive of the opinion held of him by thevirtuous fair, than was this daylight guardian of public morals. 

The Baronet got himself nicely out of the affair, and Mr. SolomanSnivel, commonly called Mr. Soloman, the accommodation man, is at thehouse of Madame Flamingo, endeavoring to effect a reconciliation betweenthe Judge and George Mullholland. 

CHAPTER VII. 

IN WHICH IS SEEN A COMMINGLING OF CITIZENS. 

Night has thrown her mantle over the city. There is a great gathering ofdenizens at the house of Madame Flamingo. She has a _bal-masque_to-night. Her door is beset with richly-caparisoned equipages. The townis on tip-toe to be there; we reluctantly follow it. An hundredgaudily-decorated drinking saloon are filled with gaudier-dressed men. In loudest accent rings the question--"Do you go to Madame Flamingo'sto-night?" Gentlemen of the genteel world, in shining broadcloth, touchglasses and answer--"yes!" It is a wonderful city--this of ours. Viceknows no restraint, poverty hath no friends here. We bow before theshrine of midnight revelry; we bring licentiousness to our homes, but weturn a deaf ear to the cries of poverty, and we gloat over the sale ofmen. 

The sickly gas-light throws a sicklier glare over the narrow, unpavedstreets. The city is on a frolic, a thing not uncommon with it. Litheand portly-figured men, bearing dominos in their hands, saunter alongthe sidewalk, now dangling ponderous watch-chains, then flauntinghighly-perfumed cambrics--all puffing the fumes of choice cigars. Ifaccosted by a grave wayfarer--they are going to the opera! They aredressed in the style of opera-goers. And the road to the opera seems thesame as that leading to the house of the old hostess. A gaily-equippedcarriage approaches. We hear the loud, coarse laughing of those it sobuoyantly bears, then there comes full to view the glare of yellow silksand red satins, and doubtful jewels--worn by denizens from whose fadedbrows the laurel wreath hath fallen. How shrunken with the sorrow oftheir wretched lives, and yet how sportive they seem! The pale gas-lightthrows a spectre-like hue over their paler features; the artificialcrimson with which they would adorn the withered cheek refuses to lend acharm to features wan and ghastly. The very air is sickly with the odorof their cosmetics. And with flaunting cambrics they bend over carriagesides, salute each and every pedestrian, and receive in return answersunsuited to refined ears. They pass into the dim vista, but we see withthe aid of that flickering gas, the shadow of that polluting hand whichhastens life into death. 

Old Mr. McArthur, who sits smoking his long pipe in the door of hiscrazy-looking curiosity shop, (he has just parted company with the youngtheologian, having assured him he would find a place to stow Tom Swiggsin, ) wonders where the fashionable world of Charleston can be going? Itis going to the house of the Flamingo. The St. Cecilia were to have hada ball to-night; scandal and the greater attractions here have closedits doors. 

A long line of carriages files past the door of the old hostess. Anincessant tripping of feet, delicately encased in bright-coloredslippers; an ominous fluttering of gaudy silks and satins; an incitingglare of borrowed jewelry, mingling with second-hand lace; anheterogeneous gleaming of bare, brawny arms, and distended busts, alllend a sort of barbaric splendor to that mysterious group floating, asit were, into a hall in one blaze of light. A soft carpet, overlainwith brown linen, is spread from the curbstone into the hall. Twowell-developed policemen guard the entrance, take tickets of those whopass in, and then exchange smiles of recognition with venerable lookinggentlemen in masks. The hostess, a clever "business man" in her way, hasmade the admission fee one dollar. Having paid the authorities tendollars, and honored every Alderman with a complimentary ticket, who hasa better right? No one has a nicer regard for the Board of Aldermen thanMadame Flamingo; no one can reciprocate this regard more condescendinglythan the honorable Board of Aldermen do. Having got herself arrayed in adress of sky-blue satin, that ever and anon streams, cloud-like, behindher, and a lace cap of approved fashion, with pink strings nicelybordered in gimp, and a rich Honiton cape, jauntily thrown over hershoulders, and secured under the chin with a great cluster of blazingdiamonds, and rows of unpolished pearls at her wrists, which areimmersed in crimped ruffles, she doddles up and down the hall in a stateof general excitement. A corpulent colored man, dressed in the garb of abeadle, --a large staff in his right hand, a cocked hat on his head, andbroad white stripes down his flowing coat, stands midway between theparlor doors. He is fussy enough, and stupid enough, for a Paddingtonbeadle. Now Madame Flamingo looks scornfully at him, scolds him, pusheshim aside; he is only a slave she purchased for the purpose; shecommands that he gracefully touch his hat (she snatches it from hishead, and having elevated it over her own, performs the delicate motionshe would have him imitate) to every visitor. The least neglect of dutywill incur (she tells him in language he cannot mistake) the penalty ofthirty-nine well laid on in the morning. In another minute her fat, chubby-face glows with smiles, her whole soul seems lighted up withchildlike enthusiasm; she has a warm welcome for each new comer, retortssaliently upon her old friends, and says--"you know how welcome you allare!" Then she curtsies with such becoming grace. "The house, you know, gentlemen, is a commonwealth to-night. " Ah! she recognizes the tall, comely figure of Mr. Soloman, the accommodation man. He did not springfrom among the bevy of coat-takers, and hood-retainers, at the extremeend of the great hall, nor from among the heap of promiscuous garmentspiled in one corner; and yet he is here, looking as if some magicprocess had brought him from a mysterious labyrinth. "Couldn't get alongwithout me, you see. It's an ambition with me to befriend everybody. IfI can do a bit of a good turn for a friend, so much the better!" And hegrasps the old hostess by the hand with a self-satisfaction he ratherimproves by tapping her encouragingly on the shoulder. "You'll make aright good thing of this!--a clear thousand, eh?"

"The fates have so ordained it, " smiles naively the old woman. 

"Of course the fates could not ordain otherwise--"

"As to that, Mr. Soloman, I sometimes think the gods are with me, andthen again I think they are against me. The witches--they have done myfortune a dozen times or more--always predict evil (I consult themwhenever a sad fit comes over me), but witches are not to be dependedupon! I am sure I think what a fool I am for consulting them at all. "She espies, for her trade of sin hath made keen her eye, the venerablefigure of Judge Sleepyhorn advancing up the hall, masked. "Couldn't getalong without you, " she lisps, tripping towards him, and greeting himwith the familiarity of an intimate friend. "I'm rather aristocratic, you'll say!--and I confess I am, though a democrat in principle!" AndMadame Flamingo confirms what she says with two very dignified nods. Asthe Judge passes silently in she pats him encouragingly on the back, saying, --"There ain't no one in this house what'll hurt a hair on yourhead. " The Judge heeds not what she says. 

"My honor for it, Madame, but I think your guests highly favored, altogether! Fine weather, and the prospect of a _bal-masque_ of Pompeiansplendor. The old Judge, eh?"

"The gods smile--the gods smile, Mr. Soloman!" interrupts the hostess, bowing and swaying her head in rapid succession. 

"The gods have their eye on him to-night--he's a marked man! A jolly oldcove of a Judge, he is! Cares no more about rules and precedents, on thebench, than he does for the rights and precedents some persons professto have in this house. A high old blade to administer justice, eh?"

"But, you see, Mr. Soloman, " the hostess interrupts, a gracious bowkeeping time with the motion of her hand, "he is such an aristocraticprop in the character of my house. "

"I rather like that, I confess, Madame. You have grown rich off thearistocracy. Now, don't get into a state of excitement!" says Mr. Soloman, fingering his long Saxon beard, and eyeing her mischievously. She sees a bevy of richly-dressed persons advancing up the hall in highglee. Indeed her house is rapidly filling to the fourth story. And yetthey come! she says. "The gods are in for a time. I love to make thegods happy. "

Mr. Soloman has lain his hand upon her arm retentively. 

"It is not that the aristocracy and such good persons as the Judge spendso much here. But they give _eclat_ to the house, and _eclat_ is money. That's it, sir! Gold is the deity of _our_ pantheon! Bless you (thehostess evinces the enthusiasm of a politician), what better evidence ofthe reputation of my house than is before you, do you want? I've shut upthe great Italian opera, with its three squalling prima donnas, which inturn has shut up the poor, silly _Empresario_ as they call him; and theSt. Cecilia I have just used up. I'm a team in my way, you see;--run allthese fashionable oppositions right into bankruptcy. " Never were wordsspoken with more truth. Want of patronage found all places of rationalamusement closed. Societies for intellectual improvement, one afteranother, died of poverty. Fashionable lectures had attendance only whenfashionable lecturers came from the North; and the Northman was sure toregard our taste through the standard of what he saw before him. 

The house of the hostess triumphs, and is corpulent of wealth andsplendor. To-morrow she will feed with the rich crumbs that fall fromher table the starving poor. And although she holds poor virtue in uttercontempt, feeding the poor she regards a large score on the passport toa better world. A great marble stairway winds its way upward at thefarther end of the hall, and near it are two small balconies, one oneach side, presenting barricades of millinery surmounted with thepicturesque faces of some two dozen denizens, who keep up an incessantgabbling, interspersed here and there with jeers directed at Mr. Soloman. "Who is he seeking to accommodate to-night?" they inquire, laughing merrily. 

The house is full, the hostess has not space for one friend more; shecommands the policemen to close doors. An Alderman is the only exceptionto her _fiat_. "You see, " she says, addressing herself to a courtlyindividual who has just saluted her with urbane deportment, "I mustpreserve the _otium cum dignitate_ of my (did I get it right?) standingin society. I don't always get these Latin sayings right. OurCongressmen don't. And, you see, like them, I ain't a Latin scholar, andmay be excused for any little slips. Politics and larnin' don't getalong well together. Speaking of politics, I confess I rather belong tothe Commander and Quabblebum school--I do!"

At this moment (a tuning of instruments is heard in the dancing-hall)the tall figure of the accommodation man is seen, in company of thevenerable Judge, passing hurriedly into a room on the right of thewinding stairs before described. "Judge!" he exclaims, closing the doorquickly after him, "you will be discovered and exposed. I am notsurprised at your passion for her, nor the means by which you seek todestroy the relations existing between her and George Mullholland. It isan evidence of taste in you. But she is proud to a fault, and, this Isay in friendship, you so wounded her feelings, when you betrayed her tothe St. Cecilia, that she has sworn to have revenge on you. GeorgeMullholland, too, has sworn to have your life. 

"I tell you what it is, Judge, (the accommodation man assumes the air ofa bank director, ) I have just conceived--you will admit I have aninventive mind!--a plot that will carry you clean through the wholeaffair. Your ambition is divided between a passion for this charmingcreature and the good opinion of better society. The resolution toretain the good opinion of society is doing noble battle in your heart;but it is the weaker vessel, and it always will be so with a man of yourmould, inasmuch as such resolutions are backed up by the less fierceelements of our nature. Put this down as an established principle. Well, then, I will take upon myself the betrayal. I will plead you ignorant ofthe charge, procure her forgiveness, and reconcile the matter with thisMullholland. It's worth an hundred or more, eh?"

The venerable man smiles, shakes his head as if heedless of theadmonition, and again covers his face with his domino. 

The accommodation man, calling him by his judicial title, says he willyet repent the refusal!

It is ten o'clock. The gentleman slightly colored, who represents afussy beadle, makes a flourish with his great staff. The doors of thedancing hall are thrown open. Like the rushing of the gulf stream therefloods in a motley procession of painted females and masked men--theformer in dresses as varied in hue as the fires of remorse burning outtheir unuttered thoughts. Two and two they jeer and crowd their wayalong into the spacious hall, the walls of which are frescoed inextravagant mythological designs, the roof painted in fret work, and thecornices interspersed with seraphs in stucco and gilt. The lights of twomassive chandeliers throw a bewitching refulgence over a scene at oncepicturesque and mysterious; and from four tall mirrors secured betweenthe windows, is reflected the forms and movements of the masquers. 

Reader! you have nothing in this democratic country with which tosuccessfully compare it. And to seek a comparison in the old world, where vice, as in this city of chivalry, hath a license, serves not ouroffice. 

Madame Flamingo, flanked right and left by twelve colored gentlemen, who, their collars decorated with white and pink rosettes, officiate asmasters of ceremony, and form a crescent in front of the throngingprocession, steps gradually backward, curtsying and bowing, andspreading her hands to her guests, after the manner of my LordChamberlain. 

Eight colored musicians, (everything is colored here, ) perched on araised platform covered with maroon-colored plush, at the signal of alusty-tongued call-master, strike up a march, to which the motley throngattempt to keep time. It is martial enough; and discordant enough foranything but keeping time to. 

The plush-covered benches filing along the sides and ends of the hallare eagerly sought after and occupied by a strange mixture of lookers onin Vienna. Here the hoary-headed father sits beside a newly-initiatedyouth who is receiving his first lesson of dissipation. There the graveand chivalric planter sports with the nice young man, who is cultivatinga beard and his way into the by-ways. A little further on the suspiciouslooking gambler sits freely conversing with the man whom a degradingpublic opinion has raised to the dignity of the judicial bench. Yonderis seen the man who has eaten his way into fashionable society, (and byfashionable society very much caressed in return, ) the bosom companionof the man whose crimes have made him an outcast. 

Generous reader! contemplate this grotesque assembly; study the objectMadame Flamingo has in gathering it to her fold. Does it not present theaccessories to wrong doing? Does it not show that the wrong-doer and thecriminally inclined, too often receive encouragement by the example ofthose whoso duty it is to protect society? The spread of crime, alas!for the profession, is too often regarded by the lawyer as rather adesirable means of increasing his trade. 

Quadrille follows quadrille, the waltz succeeds the schottish, the scenepresents one bewildering maze of flaunting gossamers and giratingbodies, now floating sylph-like into the foreground, then whirlingseductively into the shadowy vista, where the joyous laugh dies out inthe din of voices. The excitement has seized upon the head and heart ofthe young, --the child who stood trembling between the first and seconddownward step finds her reeling brain a captive in this snare set toseal her ruin. 

Now the music ceases, the lusty-tongued call-master stands surveyingwhat he is pleased to call the oriental splendor of this grotesqueassembly. He doesn't know who wouldn't patronize such a house! Itsuddenly forms in platoon, and marshalled by slightly-colored masters ofceremony, promenades in an oblong figure. 

Here, leaning modestly on the arm of a tall figure in military uniform, and advancing slowly up the hall, is a girl of some sixteen summers. Herfinely-rounded form is in harmony with the ravishing vivacity of herface, which is beautifully oval. Seen by the glaring gas-light hercomplexion is singularly clear and pale. But that freshness which hadgained her many an admirer, and which gave such a charm to the roundnessof early youth, we look for in vain. And yet there is a softness anddelicacy about her well-cut and womanly features--a childlike sweetnessin her smile--a glow of thoughtfulness in those great, flashing blackeyes--an expression of melancholy in which at short intervals we readher thoughts--an incessant playing of those long dark eyelashes, thatclothes her charms with an irresistible, a soul-inspiring seductiveness. Her dress, of moire antique, is chasteness itself; her bust exquisitesymmetry; it heaves as softly as if touched by some gentle zephyr. Froman Haidean brow falls and floats undulating over her marble-likeshoulders, the massive folds of her glossy black hair. Nature had indeedbeen lavish of her gifts on this fair creature, to whose charms nopainter could give a touch more fascinating. This girl, whose elasticstep and erect carriage contrasts strangely with the languid forms abouther, is Anna Bonard, the neglected, the betrayed. There passes andrepasses her, now contemplating her with a curious stare, then mutteringinaudibly, a man of portly figure, in mask and cowl. He touches with adelicate hand his watch-guard, we see two sharp, lecherous eyes peeringthrough the domino; he folds his arms and pauses a few seconds, as if tosurvey the metal of her companion, then crosses and recrosses her path. Presently his singular demeanor attracts her attention, a curl ofsarcasm is seen on her lip, her brow darkens, her dark orbs flash as offire, --all the heart-burnings of a soul stung with shame are seen toquicken and make ghastly those features that but a moment before shonelambent as summer lightning. He pauses as with a look of withering scornshe scans him from head to foot, raises covertly her left hand, tossingcarelessly her glossy hair on her shoulder, and with lightning quicknesssnatches with her right the domino from his face. "Hypocrite!" sheexclaims, dashing it to the ground, and with her foot placed defiantlyupon the domino, assumes a tragic attitude, her right arm extended, andthe forefinger of her hand pointing in his face, "Ah!" she continues, inbiting accents, "it is against the perfidy of such as you. I havestruggled. Your false face, like your heart, needed a disguise. But Ihave dragged it away, that you may be judged as you are. This is mysatisfaction for your betrayal. Oh that I could have deeper revenge!"She has unmasked Judge Sleepyhorn, who stands before the anxious gaze ofan hundred night revellers, pressing eagerly to the scene of confusion. Madame Flamingo's house, as you may judge, is much out in its dignity, and in a general uproar. There was something touching--something thatthe graver head might ponder over, in the words of this unfortunategirl--"I have struggled!" A heedless and gold-getting world seldomenters upon the mystery of its meaning. But it hath a meaning deep andpowerful in its appeal to society--one that might serve the good of acommonwealth did society stoop and take it by the hand. 

So sudden was the motion with which this girl snatched the mask from theface of the Judge, (he stood as if appalled, ) that, ere he had gainedhis self-possession, she drew from her girdle a pearl-hilted stiletto, and in attempting to ward off the dreadful lunge, he struck it from herhand, and into her own bosom. The weapon fell gory to the floor--theblood trickled down her bodice--a cry of "murder" resounded through thehall! The administrator of justice rushed out of the door as the unhappygirl swooned in the arms of her partner. A scene so confused and wildthat it bewilders the brain, now ensued. Madame Flamingo calls loudlyfor Mr. Soloman; and as the reputation of her house is uppermost in herthoughts, she atones for its imperiled condition by fainting in the armsof a grave old gentleman, who was beating a hasty retreat, and whoserespectability she may compromise through this uncalled-for act. 

A young man of slender form, and pale, sandy features, makes his waythrough the crowd, clasps Anna affectionately in his arms, imprints akiss on her pallid brow, and bears her out of the hall. 

By the aid of hartshorn and a few dashes of cold water, the old hostessis pleased to come to, as we say, and set about putting her house inorder. Mr. Soloman, to the great joy of those who did not deem itprudent to make their escape, steps in to negotiate for the peace of thehouse and the restoration of order. "It is all the result of a mistake, "he says laughingly, and good-naturedly, patting every one he meets onthe shoulder. "A little bit of jealousy on the part of the girl. It allhad its origin in an error that can be easily rectified. In a word, there's much ado about nothing in the whole of it. Little affairs ofthis kind are incident to fashionable society all over the world! Thelady being only scratched, is more frightened than hurt. Nobody iskilled; and if there were, why killings are become so fashionable, thatif the killed be not a gentleman, nobody thinks anything of it, " hecontinues. And Mr. Soloman being an excellent diplomatist, does, withthe aid of the hostess, her twelve masters of ceremony, her beadle, andtwo policemen, forthwith bring the house to a more orderly condition. But night has rolled into the page of the past, the gray dawn of morningis peeping in at the half-closed windows, the lights burning in thechandeliers shed a pale glow over the wearied features of those whodrag, as it were, their languid bodies to the stifled music of unwillingslaves. And while daylight seems modestly contending with the vulgarglare within, there appears among the pale revellers a paler ghost, who, having stalked thrice up and down the hall, preserving the frigidity andghostliness of the tomb, answering not the questions that are put tohim, and otherwise deporting himself as becometh a ghost of good metal, is being taken for a demon of wicked import. Now he pauses at the end ofthe hall, faces with spectre-like stare the alarmed group at theopposite end, rests his left elbow on his scythe-staff, and having sethis glass on the floor, points to its running sands warningly with hisright forefinger. Not a muscle does he move. "Truly a ghost!" exclaimsone. "A ghost would have vanished before this, " whispers another. "Speakto him, " a third responds, as the musicians are seen to pale and leavetheir benches. Madame Flamingo, pale and weary, is first to rush for thedoor, shrieking as his ghostship turns his grim face upon her. Shriekfollows shriek, the lights are put out, the gray dawn plays upon andmakes doubly frightful the spectre. A Pandemonium of shriekings andbeseechings is succeeded by a stillness as of the tomb. Our ghost isvictor. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

WHAT TAKES PLACE BETWEEN GEORGE MULLHOLLAND AND MR. SNIVEL. 

The man who kissed and bore away the prostrate girl was GeorgeMullholland. 

"Oh! George--George!" she whispers imploringly, as her eyes meet his;and turning upon the couch of her chamber, where he hath lain her, awakes to consciousness, and finds him watching over her with a lover'ssolicitude. "I was not cold because I loved you less--oh no! It was topropitiate my ambition--to be free of the bondage of this house--topurge myself of the past--to better my future!" And she lays her pale, nervous hand gently on his arm--then grasps his hand and presses itfervently to her lips. 

Though placed beyond the pale of society--though envied by one extremeand shunned by the other--she finds George her only true friend. Heparts and smooths gently over her polished shoulders her dishevelledhair; he watches over her with the tenderness of a brother; he quenchesand wipes away the blood oozing from her wounded breast; he kisses andkisses her flushed cheek, and bathes her Ion-like brow. He forgives all. His heart would speak if his tongue had words to represent it. He wouldthe past were buried--the thought of having wronged him forgotten. Sherecognizes in his solicitude for her the sincerity of his heart. Ittouches like sweet music the tenderest chords of her own; and likegushing fountains her great black eyes fill with tears. She buries herface in her hands, crying, "Never, never, George, (I swear it before theGod I have wronged, but whose forgiveness I still pray, ) will I againforget my obligation to you! I care not how high in station he who seeksme maybe. Ambitious!--I was misled. His money lured me away, but hebetrayed me in the face of his promises. Henceforth I have nothing forthis deceptive world; I receive of it nothing but betrayal--"

"The world wants nothing more of either of us, " interrupts George. 

More wounded in her feelings than in her flesh, she sobs and wrings herhands like one in despair. 

"You have ambition. I am too poor to serve your ambition!"

That word, too "poor, " is more than her already distracted brain canbear up under. It brings back the terrible picture of their pasthistory; it goads and agonizes her very soul. She throws her armsfrantically about his neck; presses him to her bosom; kisses him withthe fervor of a child. Having pledged his forgiveness with a kiss, andsealed it by calling in a witness too often profaned on such occasions, George calms her feelings as best he can; then he smooths with a gentlehand the folds of her uplifted dress, and with them curtains the satinslippers that so delicately encase her small feet. This done, he spreadsover her the richly-lined India morning-gown presented to her a few daysago by the Judge, who, as she says, so wantonly betrayed her, and onwhom she sought revenge. Like a Delian maid, surrounded with Orientalluxury, and reclining on satin and velvet, she flings her flowing hairover her shoulders, nestles her weary head in the embroidered cushion, and with the hand of her only true friend firmly grasped in her own, soothes away into a calm sleep--that sovereign but too transient balmfor sorrowing hearts. 

Our scene changes. The ghost hath taken himself to the graveyard; themorning dawns soft and sunny on what we harmlessly style the sunny cityof the sunny South. Madame Flamingo hath resolved to nail anotherhorse-shoe over her door. She will propitiate (so she hath it) the godof ghosts. 

George Mullholland, having neither visible means of gaining a livelihoodnor a settled home, may be seen in a solitary box at Baker's, (acoffee-house at the corner of Meeting and Market streets, ) eating anhumble breakfast. About him there is a forlornness that the quick eyenever fails to discover in the manners of the homeless man. "Cleverlydone, " he says, laying down the _Mercury_ newspaper, in which it is setforth that "the St. Cecilia, in consequence of an affliction in thefamily of one of its principal members, postponed its assembly lastnight. The theatre, in consequence of a misunderstanding between themanager and his people, was also closed. The lecture on comparativeanatomy, by Professor Bones, which was to have been delivered atHibernian Hall, is, in consequence of the indisposition of the learnedProfessor, put off to Tuesday evening next, when he will have, as hedeserves, an overflowing house. Tickets, as before, may be had at allthe music and bookstores. " The said facetious journal was silent on thesuperior attractions at the house of the old hostess; nor did it deem itprudent to let drop a word on the misunderstanding between the patronsof the drama and the said theatrical manager, inasmuch as it was one ofthose that are sure to give rise to a very serious misunderstandingbetween that functionary and his poor people. 

In another column the short but potent line met his eye: "An overflowingand exceedingly fashionable house greeted the Negro Minstrels lastnight. First-rate talent never goes begging in our city. " George sipshis coffee and smiles. Wonderfully clever these editors are, he thinks. They have nice apologies for public taste always on hand; set thecountry by the ears now and then; and amuse themselves with carrying onthe most prudent description of wars. 

His own isolated condition, however, is uppermost in his mind. Povertyand wretchedness stare him in the face on one side; chivalry, on theother, has no bows for him while daylight lasts. Instinct whispers inhis ear--where one exists the other is sure to be. 

To the end that this young man will perform a somewhat important part inthe by-ways of this history, some further description of him may benecessary. George Mullholland stands some five feet nine, iswiry-limbed, and slender and erect of person. Of light complexion, hisfeatures, are sharp and irregular, his face narrow and freckled, hisforehead small and retreating, his hair sandy and short-cropped. Add tothese two small, dull, gray eyes, and you have features not easilydescribed. Nevertheless, there are moments when his countenance wears anexpression of mildness--one in which the quick eye may read a charactermore inoffensive than intrusive. A swallow-tail blue coat, of ampleskirts, and brass buttons; a bright-colored waistcoat, opening anavalanche of shirt-bosom, blossoming with cheap jewelry; a broad, rolling shirt-collar, tied carelessly with a blue ribbon; asteeple-crowned hat, set on the side of his head with a challenging air;and a pair of broadly-striped and puckered trowsers, reaching well overa small-toed and highly-glazed boot, constitutes his dress. For theexact set of those two last-named articles of his wardrobe he maintainsa scrupulous regard. We are compelled to acknowledge George animportation from New York, where he would be the more readily recognizedby that vulgar epithet, too frequently used by the self-styledrefined--"a swell. "

Life with George is a mere drift of uncertainty. As for aims and ends, why he sees the safer thing in having nothing to do with them. Mr. TomToddleworth once advised this course, and Tom was esteemed goodauthority in such matters. Like many others, his character is made up ofthose yielding qualities which the teachings of good men may elevate tousefulness, or bad men corrupt by their examples. There is a stage inthe early youth of such persons when we find their minds singularlysusceptible, and ready to give rapid growth to all the vices of depravedmen; while they are equally apt in receiving good, if good men but takethe trouble to care for them, and inculcate lessons of morality. 

Not having a recognized home, we may add, in resuming our story, thatGeorge makes Baker's his accustomed haunt during the day, as do alsonumerous others of his class--a class recognized and made use of by menin the higher walks of life only at night. 

"Ah! ha, ha! into a tight place this time, George, " laughs out Mr. Soloman, the accommodation man, as he hastens into the room, seatshimself in the box with George, and seizes his hand with theearnestness of a true friend. Mr. Soloman can deport himself on alloccasions with becoming good nature. "It's got out, you see. "

"What has got out?" interrupts George, maintaining a carelessindifference. 

"Come now! none of that, old fellow. "

"If I understood you--"

"That affair last night, " pursues Mr. Soloman, his delicate fingerswandering into his more delicately-combed beard. "It'll go hard withyou. He's a stubborn old cove, that Sleepyhorn; administers the law asCæsar was wont to. Yesterday he sent seven to the whipping-post; to-dayhe hangs two 'niggers' and a white man. There is a consolation ingetting rid of the white. I say this because no one loses a dollar byit. "

George, continuing to masticate his bread, says it has nothing to dowith him. He may hang the town. 

"If I can do you a bit of a good turn, why here's your man. But you mustnot talk that way--you must not, George, I assure you!" Mr. Solomanassumes great seriousness of countenance, and again, in a friendly way, takes George by the hand. "That poignard, George, was yours. It waspicked up by myself when it fell from your hand--"

"My hand! my hand!" George quietly interposes, his countenance paling, and his eyes wandering in excitement. 

"Now don't attempt to disguise the matter, you know! Come out on thesquare--own up! Jealousy plays the devil with one now and then. Iknow--I have had a touch of it; had many a little love affair in mytime--"

George again interrupts by inquiring to what he is coming. 

"To the attempt (the accommodation man assumes an air of sternness) youmade last night on the life of that unhappy girl. It is needless, " headds, "to plead ignorance. The Judge has the poignard; and what's more, there are four witnesses ready to testify. It'll go hard with you, myboy. " He shakes his head warningly. 

"I swear before God and man I am as innocent as ignorant of the charge. The poignard I confess is mine; but I had no part in the act of lastnight, save to carry the prostrate girl--the girl I dearly love--away. This I can prove by her own lips. "

Mr. Soloman, with an air of legal profundity, says: "This is all verywell in its way, George, but it won't stand in law. The law is what youhave got to get at. And when you have got at it, you must get round it;and then you must twist it and work it every which way--only be carefulnot to turn its points against yourself; that, you know, is the way welawyers do the thing. You'll think we're a sharp lot; and we have to besharp, as times are. "

"It is not surprising, " replies George, as if waking from a fit ofabstraction, "that she should have sought revenge of one who so baselybetrayed her at the St. Cecilia--"

"There, there!" Mr. Soloman interrupts, changing entirely the expressionof his countenance, "the whole thing is out! I said there was anunexplained mystery somewhere. It was not the Judge, but me who betrayedher to the assembly. Bless you, (he smiles, and crooking his finger, beckons a servant, whom he orders to bring a julep, ) I was bound to doit, being the guardian of the Society's dignity, which office I haveheld for years. But you don't mean to have it that the girlattempted--(he suddenly corrects himself)--Ah, that won't do, George. Present my compliments to Anna--I wouldn't for the world do aught tohurt her feelings, you know that--and say I am ready to get on my kneesto her to confess myself a penitent for having injured her feelings. Yes, I am ready to do anything that will procure her forgiveness. Iplead guilty. But she must in return forgive the Judge. He is hard inlaw matters--that is, we of the law consider him so--now and then; butlaying that aside, he is one of the best old fellows in the world, lovesAnna to distraction; nor has he the worst opinion in the world of you, George. Fact is, I have several times heard him refer to you in terms ofpraise. As I said before, being the man to do you a bit of a good turn, take my advice as a friend. The Judge has got you in his grasp, according to every established principle of law; and having four goodand competent witnesses, (You have no voice in law, and Anna's won'tstand before a jury, ) will send you up for a twelve-months' residence inMount Rascal. "

It will be almost needless here to add, that Mr. Soloman had, in aninterview with the Judge, arranged, in consideration of a goodly fee, toassume the responsibility of the betrayal at the St. Cecilia; and alsoto bring about a reconciliation between him and the girl he sopassionately sought. 

Keep out of the way a few days, and everything will blow over and comeright. I will procure you the Judge's friendship--yes, his money, if youwant. More than that, I will acknowledge my guilt to Anna; and being asgenerous of heart as she is beautiful, she will, having discovered themistake, forgive me and make amends to the Judge for her foolish act. 

It is almost superfluous to add, that the apparent sincerity with whichthe accommodation man pleaded, had its effect on the weak-minded man. Heloved dearly the girl, but poverty hung like a leaden cloud over him. Poverty stripped him of the means of gratifying her ambition; povertyheld him fast locked in its blighting chains; poverty forbid hisrescuing her from the condition necessity had imposed upon her; povertywas goading him into crime; and through crime only did he see the meansof securing to himself the cherished object of his love. 

"I am not dead to your friendship, but I am too sad at heart to make anypledge that involves Anna, at this moment. We met in wretchedness, cameup in neglect and crime, sealed our love with the hard seal ofsuffering. Oh! what a history of misery my heart could unfold, if it hadbut a tongue!" George replies, in subdued accents, as a tear coursesdown his cheek. 

Extending his hand, with an air of encouragement, Mr. Soloman saysnothing in the world would so much interest him as a history of therelations existing between George and Anna. Their tastes, aims, and verynatures, are different. To him their connection is clothed in mystery. 

CHAPTER IX. 

IN WHICH A GLEAM OF LIGHT IS SHED ON THE HISTORY OF ANNA BONARD. 

A bottle of wine, and the mild, persuasive manner of Mr. Snivel, socompletely won over George's confidence, that, like one of that classalways too ready to give out their heart-achings at the touch ofsympathy, and too easily betrayed through misplaced confidence, hecommences relating his history. That of Anna is identified with it. "Wewill together proceed to New York, for it is there, among haunts of viceand depravity--"

"In depth of degradation they have no counterpart on our globe, " Mr. Soloman interrupts, filling his glass. 

"We came up together--knew each other, but not ourselves. That was ourdark age. " George pauses for a moment. 

"Bless you, " again interrupts Mr. Soloman, tipping his glass verypolitely, "I never--that is, when I hear our people who get themselveslaced into narrow-stringed Calvinism, and long-founded foreign missions, talk--think much could have come of the dark ages. I speak after themanner of an attorney, when I say this. We hear a deal of the dark ages, the crimes of the dark ages, the dark idolatry of darker Africa. My wordfor it, and it's something, if they had anything darker in Sodom; ifthey had in Babylon a state of degradation more hardened of crime; ifin Egypt there existed a benightedness more stubbornly opposed to thelaws of God--than is to be found in that New York; that city of merchantprinces with princely palaces; that modern Pompeii into which a mightycommerce teems its mightier gold, where a coarse throng revel in coarserluxury, where a thousand gaudy churches rear heavenward their gaudiersteeples, then I have no pity for Sodom, not a tear to shed over fallenBabylon, and very little love for Egypt. " Mr. Snivel concludes, saying--"proceed, young man. "

"Of my mother I know nothing. My father (I mean the man I called father, but who they said was not my father, though he was the only one thatcared anything for me) was Tom English, who used to live here and therewith me about the Points. He was always looking in at Paddy Pie's, inOrange street, and Paddy Pie got all his money, and then Paddy Pie andhim quarrelled, and we were turned out of Paddy Pie's house. So we usedto lodge here and there, in the cellars about the Points, in 'Cut ThroatAlley, ' or 'Cow Bay, ' or 'Murderer's Alley, ' or in 'The House of theNine Nations, ' or wherever we could get a sixpenny rag to lay down upon. Nobody but English seemed to care for me, and English cared for nobodybut me. And English got thick with Mrs. McCarty and her threedaughters--they kept the Rookery in 'Cow Bay, ' which we used to get toup a long pair of stairs outside, and which God knows I never want tothink of again, --where sometimes fourteen or fifteen of us, men andwomen, used to sleep in a little room Mrs. McCarty paid eight dollars amonth for. And Mr. Crown, who always seemed a cross sort of man, and wasagent for all the houses on the Points I thought, used to say she had ittoo cheap. And English got to thinking a good deal of Mrs. McCarty, andMrs. McCarty's daughters got to thinking a good deal of him. AndBoatswain Bill, who lived at the house of the 'Nine Nations'--the housethey said had a bottomless pit--and English used to fight a deal aboutthe Miss McCartys, and Bill one night threw English over the high stoop, down upon the pavement, and broke his arms. They said it was a wonder ithadn't a broken his neck. Fighting Mary (Mary didn't go by that namethen) came up and took English's part, and whipped Boatswain Bill, andsaid she'd whip the whole house of the 'Nine Nations' if it had spunkenough in it to come on. But no one dare have a set-to with Mary. Maryused to drink a deal of gin, and say--'this gin and the devil'll get usall one of these days. I wonder if Mr. Crown'll sell bad gin to hishighness when he gets him?' Well, Bill was sent up for six months, sothe McCartys had peace in the house, and Mrs. McCarty got him littlethings, and did for English until his arms got well. Then he got alittle money, (I don't know how he got it, ) and Paddy Pie made goodfriends with him, and got him from the Rookery, and then all his money. I used to think all the money in the Points found its way either to thehouse of Paddy Pie, or the Bottomless Pit at the house of the 'NineNations, ' and all the clothes to the sign of the 'Three Martyrs, ' whichthe man with the eagle face kept round the corner. 

"English used to say in one of his troubled fits, 'I'd like to be arespectable man, and get out of this, if there was a chance, and dosomething for you, George. There's no chance, you see. ' And when we wentinto Broadway, which we did now and then, and saw what another world itwas, and how rich everything looked, English used to shake his head andsay, 'they don't know how we live, George. '

"Paddy Pie soon quarrelled with English, and being penniless again wehad to shift for ourselves. English didn't like to go back to Mrs. McCarty, so we used to sleep at Mrs. Sullivan's cellar in 'Cut ThroatAlley. ' And Mrs. Sullivan's cellar was only about twelve feet by twenty, and high enough to stand up in, and wet enough for anything, and sooverrun with rats and vermin that we couldn't sleep. There were ninerag-beds in the cellar, which as many as twenty-three would sometimessleep on, or, if they were not too tipsy, try to sleep on. And folksused to come into the cellar at night, and be found dead in the morning. This made such a fuss in the neighborhood (there was always a fuss whenOld Bones, the coroner, was about), and frightened so many, that Mrs. Sullivan couldn't get lodgers for weeks. She used to nail no end ofhorse-shoes over the door to keep out the ghosts of them that died last. But it was a long while before her lodgers got courage enough to comeback. Then we went to the house of the Blazers, in 'Cow Bay, ' and usedto lodge there with Yellow Bill. They said Bill was a thief byprofession; but I wasn't old enough to be a judge. Little Lizza Rock, the nondescript, as people called her, used to live at the Blazers. PoorLizza had a hard time of it, and used to sigh and say she wished she wasdead. Nobody thought of her, she said, and she was nothing because shewas deformed, and a cripple. She was about four feet high, had a facelike a bull-dog, and a swollen chest, and a hunchback, a deformed leg, and went with a crutch. She never combed her hair, and what few rags shehad on her back hung in filth. What few shillings she got were sure tofind their way either into Bill's pocket, or send her tipsy into the'Bottomless Pit' of the house of the 'Nine Nations. ' There was in theBottomless Pit a never-ending stream of gin that sent everybody to theTombs, and from the Tombs to the grave. But Lizza was good to me, andused to take care of me, and steal little things for me from old DanSullivan, who begged in Broadway, and let Yellow Bill get his money, bygetting him tipsy. And I got to liking Lizza, for we both seemed to haveno one in the world who cared for us but English. And there was alwayssome trouble between the Blazers and the people at the house of the'Nine Nations. '

"Well, English was hard to do for some time, and through necessity, which he said a deal about, we were driven out of every place we hadsought shelter in. And English did something they sent him up for atwelve-month for, and I was left to get on as I could. I was took in by'Hard-Fisted Sall, ' who always wore a knuckle-duster, and used to knockeverybody down she met, and threatened a dozen times to whip Mr. Fitzgerald, the detective, and used to rob every one she took in tow, and said if she could only knock down and rob the whole pumpkin-headedcorporation she should die easy, for then she would know she had done agood thing for the public, whose money they were squandering withoutonce thinking how the condition of such wretches as herself could bebettered. 

"English died before he had been up two months. And death reconciled thelittle difficulty between him and the McCartys; and old Mrs. McCarty'sliking for him came back, and she went crying to the Bellevue and beggedthem, saying she was his mother, to let her take his body away and buryit. They let her have it, and she brought it away to the rookery, in ared coffin, and got a clean sheet of the Blazers, and hung it up besidethe coffin, and set four candles on a table, and a little cross betweenthem, and then borrowed a Bible with a cross on it, and laid it upon thecoffin. Then they sent for me. I cried and kissed poor English, for poorEnglish was the only father I knew, and he was good to me. I never shallforget what I saw in that little room that night. I found a dozenfriends and the McCartys there, forming a half-circle of curious anddemoniacal faces, peering over the body of English, whose face, Ithought, formed the only repose in the picture. There were two smallpictures--one of the Saviour, and the other of Kossuth--hung at the headand feet of the corpse; and the light shed a lurid paleness over theliving and the dead. And detective Fitzgerald and another gentlemanlooked in. 

"'Who's here to-night?' says Fitzgerald, in a friendly sort of way. 

"'God love ye, Mr. Fitzgerald, poor English is gone! Indeed, then, itwas the will of the Lord, and He's taken him from us--poor English!'says Mrs. McCarty. And Fitzgerald, and the gentleman with him, enteredthe den, and they shuddered and sat down at the sight of the face in thecoffin. 'Sit down, Mr. Fitzgerald, do!--and may the Lord love ye! Therewas a deal of good in poor English. He's gone--so he is!' said Mrs. McCarty, begging them to sit down, and excuse the disordered state ofher few rags. She had a hard struggle to live, God knows. They took offtheir hats, and sat a few minutes in solemn silence. The rags moved atthe gentleman's side, which made him move towards the door. 'What isthere, my good woman?' he inquired. 'She's a blessed child, Mr. Fitzgerald knows that same:' says Mrs. McCarty, turning down the ragsand revealing the wasted features of her youngest girl, a child elevenyears old, sinking in death. 'God knows she'll be better in heaven, andherself won't be long out of it, ' Mrs. McCarty twice repeated, maintaining a singular indifference to the hand of death, already uponthe child. The gentleman left some money to buy candles for poorEnglish, and with Mr. Fitzgerald took himself away. 

"Near midnight, the tall black figure of solemn-faced Father Flahertystalked in. He was not pleased with the McCartys, but went to the sideof the dying child, fondled her little wasted hand in his own, andwhispered a prayer for her soul. Never shall I forget how innocently shelooked in his face while he parted the little ringlets that curled overher brow, and told her she would soon have a better home in a betterworld. Then he turned to poor English, and the cross, and the candles, and the pictures, and the living faces that gave such a ghastliness tothe picture. Mrs. McCarty brought him a basin of water, over which hemuttered, and made it holy. Then he again muttered some unintelligiblesentences, and sprinkled the water over the dying child, over the bodyof poor English, and over the living--warning Mrs. McCarty and herdaughters, as he pointed to the coffin. Then he knelt down, and they allknelt down, and he prayed for the soul of poor English, and left. Whatholy water then was left, Mrs. McCarty placed near the door, to keep theghosts out. 

"The neighbors at the Blazers took a look in, and a few friends at thehouse of the 'Nine Nations' took a look in, and 'Fighting Mary, ' ofMurderer's Alley, took a look in, and before Father Flaherty had gotwell out of 'Cow Bay, ' it got to be thought a trifle of a wake wouldconsole Mrs. McCarty's distracted feelings. 'Hard-fisted Sall' came totake a last look at poor English; and she said she would spend her lastshilling over poor English, and having one, it would get a drop, and adrop dropped into the right place would do Mrs. McCarty a deal of good. 

"And Mrs. McCarty agreed that it wouldn't be amiss, and putting withSall's shilling the money that was to get the candles, I was sent to the'Bottomless Pit' at the house of the 'Nine Nations, ' where Mr. Crown hada score with the old woman, and fetched away a quart of his gin, whichthey said was getting the whole of them. The McCartys took a drop, andthe girls took a drop, and the neighbors took a drop, and they all kepttaking drops, and the drops got the better of them all. One of the MissMcCartys got to having words with 'Fighting Mary, ' about an old affairin which poor English was concerned, and the words got to blows, whenMr. Flanegan at the Blazers stepped in to make peace. But the wholehouse got into a fight, and the lights were put out, the corpse knockedover, and the child (it was found dead in the morning) suffocated withthe weight of bodies felled in the melee. The noise and cries of murderbrought the police rushing in, and most of them were dragged off to theStation; and the next day being Sunday, I wandered homeless andfriendless into Sheriff street. Poor English was taken in charge by theofficers. They kept him over Monday to see if any one would come up andclaim him. No one came for him; no one knew more of him than that hewent by the name of English; no one ever heard him say where he camefrom--he never said a word about my mother, or whether he had a relationin the world. He was carted off to Potter's Field and buried. That wasthe last of poor English. 

"We seldom got much to eat in the Points, and I had not tasted food fortwenty-four hours. I sat down on the steps of a German grocery, and wassoon ordered away by the keeper. Then I wandered into a place theycalled Nightmare's Alley, where three old wooden buildings withbroken-down verandas stood, and were inhabited principally by butchers. I sat down on the steps of one, and thought if I only had a mother, orsome one to care for me, and give me something to eat, how happy Ishould be. And I cried. And a great red-faced man came out of the house, and took me in, and gave me something to eat. His name was MikeMullholland, and he was good to me, and I liked him, and took his name. And he lived with a repulsive looking woman, in a little room he paidten dollars a month for. He had two big dogs, and worked at day work, ina slaughter-house in Staunton street. The dogs were known in theneighborhood as Mullholland's dogs, and with them I used to sleep on therags of carpet spread for us in the room with Mullholland and his wife, who I got to calling mother. This is how I took the name of Mullholland. I was glad to leave the Points, and felt as if I had a home. But therewas a 'Bottomless Pit' in Sheriff street, and though not so bad as theone at the house of the 'Nine Nations, ' it gave out a deal of gin thatthe Mullhollands had a liking for. I was continually going for it, andthe Mullhollands were continually drinking it; and the wholeneighborhood liked it, and in 'Nightmare's Alley' the undertaker found aprofitable business. 

"In the morning I went with the dogs to the slaughter-house, and therefed them, and took care of the fighting cocks, and brought gin for themen who worked there. In the afternoon I joined the newsboys, as raggedand neglected as myself, gambled for cents, and watched the policemen, whom we called the Charleys. I lived with Mullholland two years, and sawand felt enough to make hardened any one of my age. One morning therecame a loud knocking at the door, which was followed by the entrance oftwo officers. The dogs had got out and bitten a child, and the officers, knowing who owned them, had come to arrest Mullholland. We were allsurprised, for the officers recognized in Mullholland and the woman twoold offenders. And while they were dragged off to the Tombs, I was leftto prey upon the world as best I could. Again homeless, I wandered aboutwith urchins as ragged and destitute as myself. It seemed to me thateverybody viewed me as an object of suspicion, for I sought in vain foremployment that would give me bread and clothing. I wanted to be honest, and would have lived honest; but I could not make people believe mehonest. And when I told who I was, and where I sheltered myself, I wasordered away. Everybody judged me by the filthy shreds on my back;nobody had anything for me to do. 

"I applied at a grocer's, to sweep his store and go errands. When I toldhim where I had lived, he shook his head and ordered me away. Knowing Icould fill a place not unknown to me, I applied at a butcher's in Mottstreet; but he pointed his knife--which left a wound in my feelings--andordered me away. And I was ordered away wherever I went. The doors ofthe Chatham theatre looked too fine for me. My ragged condition rebukedme wherever I went, and for more than a week I slept under a cart thatstood in Mott street. Then Tom Farley found me, and took me with him tohis cellar, in Elizabeth street, where we had what I thought a good bedof shavings. Tom sold _Heralds_, gambled for cents, and shared with me, and we got along. Then Tom stole a dog, and the dog got us into a dealof trouble, which ended with getting us both into the Tombs, where Tomwas locked up. I was again adrift, as we used to call it, and thought ofpoor Tom a deal. Every one I met seemed higher up in the world than Iwas. But I got into Centre Market, carried baskets, and did what I couldto earn a shilling, and slept in Tom's bed, where there was some nightsfifteen and twenty like myself. 

"One morning, while waiting a job, my feet and hands benumbed with thecold, a beautiful lady slipped a shilling into my hand and passed on. Toone penniless and hungry, it seemed a deal of money. Necessity hadalmost driven me to the sign of the 'Three Martyrs, ' to see what the manof the eagle face would give me on my cap, for they said the man at the'Three Martyrs' lent money on rags such as I had. I followed the woman, for there was something so good in the act that I could not resist it. She entered a fine house in Leonard street. 

"You must now go with me into the den of Hag Zogbaum, in 'ScorpionCove;' and 'Scorpion Cove' is in Pell street. Necessity next drove methere. It is early spring, we will suppose; and being in the Bowery, wefind the streets in its vicinity reeking with putrid matter, hurlingpestilence into the dark dwellings of the unknown poor, and makingthankful the coffin-maker, who in turn thanks a nonundertakingcorporation for the rich harvest. The muck is everywhere deep enoughfor hogs and fat aldermen to wallow in, and would serve well thepurposes of a supper-eating corporation, whose chief business it was tofatten turtles and make Presidents. 

"We have got through the muck of the mucky Bowery. Let us turn to theleft as we ascend the hill from Chatham street, and into a narrow, winding way, called Doyer's street. Dutch Sophy, then, as now, sits inall the good nature of her short, fat figure, serving her customers withices, at three cents. Her cunning black eyes and cheerful, ruddy face, enhance the air of pertness that has made her a favorite with hercustomers. We will pass the little wooden shop, where Mr. Saunders makesboots of the latest style, and where old lapstone, with curious framedspectacles tied over his bleared eyes, has for the last forty years beenseen at the window trimming welts, and mending every one's sole but hisown; we will pass the four story wooden house that the landlord neverpaints--that has the little square windows, and the little square door, and the two little iron hand rails that curl so crabbedly at the ends, and guard four crabbeder steps that give ingress and egress to its swarmof poor but honest tenants; we will pass the shop where a short, stylishsign tells us Mr. Robertson makes bedsteads; and the little, slantinghouse a line of yellow letters on a square of black tin tells us is aselect school for young ladies, and the bright, dainty looking housewith the green shutters, where lives Mr. Vredenburg the carpenter, who, the neighbors say, has got up in the world, and paints his house to showthat he feels above poor folks--and find we have reached the sooty andgin-reeking grocery of Mr. Korner, who sells the _devil's elixir_ to thesootier devils that swarm the cellars of his neighbors. The faded blueletters, on a strip of wood nailed to the bricks over his door, tell ushe is a dealer in 'Imported and other liquors. ' Next door to Mr. Korner's tipsy looking grocery lives Mr. Muffin, the coffin-maker, whohas a large business with the disciples who look in at Korner's. Mrs. Downey, a decent sort of body, who lives up the alley, and takessixpenny lodgers by the dozen, may be seen in great tribulation with herpet pig, who, every day, much to the annoyance of Mr. Korner, manages toget out, and into the pool of decaying matter opposite his door, wherehe is sure to get stuck, and with his natural propensity, squealslustily for assistance. Mrs. Downey, as is her habit, gets distracted;and having well abused Mr. Korner for his interference in a matter thatcan only concern herself and the animal, ventures to her knees in themire, and having seized her darling pig by the two ears, does, with theassistance of a policeman, who kindly takes him by the tail, extricatehis porkship, to the great joy of herself. The animal scampers, grunting, up the alley, as Mr. Korner, in his shirt sleeves, throws hisbroom after him, and the policeman surlily says he wishes it was thestreet commissioner. 

"We have made the circle of Doyer's street, and find it fortified onPell street, with two decrepit wooden buildings, that the demand for the'devil's elixir, ' has converted into Dutch groceries, their exteriorspresenting the appearance of having withstood a storm of dilapidatedclapboards, broken shutters, red herrings, and onions. Mr. Voss lookssuspiciously through the broken shutters of his Gibraltar, at hisneighbor of the opposite Gibraltar, and is heard to say of his waresthat they are none of the best, and that while he sells sixpence a pintless, the article is a shilling a pint better. And there the twoGibraltars stand, apparently infirm, hurling their unerring missiles, and making wreck of everything in the neighborhood. 

"We have turned down Pell street toward Mott, and on the north side alight-colored sign, representing a smith in the act of shoeing a horse, attracts the eye, and tells us the old cavern-like building over whichit swings, is where Mr. Mooney does smithwork and shoeing. And a littlefurther on, a dash of yellow and white paint on a little sign-board atthe entrance of an alley, guarded on one side by a broken-down shed, andon the other, by a three-story, narrow, brick building (from the windowsof which trail long water-stains, and from the broken panes a dozencurious black heads, of as many curious eyed negroes protrude), tells ussomewhat indefinitely, that Mister Mills, white-washer and wall-colorer, may be found in the neighborhood, which, judging from outwardappearances, stands much in need of this good man's services. Just keepyour eye on the sign of the white-washer and wall-colorer, and passingup the sickly alley it tells you Mister Mills maybe found in, you willfind yourself (having picked your way over putrid matter, and placedyour perfumed cambric where it will protect your lungs from theinhalation of pestilential air, ) in the cozy area of 'Scorpion Cove. 'Scorpion Cove is bounded at one end by a two-story wooden house, withtwo decayed and broken verandas in front, and rickety steps leading hereand there to suspicious looking passages, into which, and out of which anever-ending platoon of the rising generation crawl and toddle, keep upa cheap serenade, and like rats, scamper away at the sight of astranger; and on the other, by the back of the brick house with thenegro-headed front. At the sides are two broken-down board fences, andforming a sort of network across the cove, are an innumerable quantityof unoccupied clothes-lines, which would seem only to serve themischievous propensities of young negroes and the rats. There is anyquantity of rubbish in 'Scorpion Cove, ' and any amount ofdisease-breeding cesspools; but the corporation never heard of 'ScorpionCove, ' and wouldn't look into it if it had. If you ask me how it came tobe called 'Scorpion Cove, ' I will tell you. The brick house at one endwas occupied by negroes; and the progeny of these negroes swarmed overthe cove, and were called scorpions. The old house of the verandas atthe other end, and which had an air of being propped up after a shock ofparalysis, was inhabited by twenty or more families, of the Teutonicrace, whose numerous progeny, called the hedge-hogs, were more than amatch for the scorpions, and with that jealousy of each other whichanimates these races did the scorpions and hedge-hogs get at war. In themorning the scorpions would crawl up through holes in the cellar, through broken windows, through the trap-doors, down the long stairwaythat wound from the second and third stories over the broken pavilion, and from nobody could tell where--for they came, it seems, from everyrat-hole, and with rolling white eyes, marshalled themselves for battle. The hedge-hogs mustering in similar strength, and springing up from noone could tell where, would set upon the scorpions, and after a goodlyamount of wallowing in the mire, pulling hair and wool, scratching facesand pommeling noses, the scorpions being alternately the victors andvanquished, the war would end at the appearance of Hag Zogbaum, who, with her broom, would cause the scorpions to beat a hasty retreat. Thehedge-hogs generally came off victorious, for they were the strongerrace. But the old hedge-hogs got much shattered in time by thebroadsides of the two Gibraltars, which sent them broadside on into theTombs. And this passion of the elder hedge-hogs for getting into theTombs, caused by degrees a curtailing of the younger hedge-hogs. Andthis falling off in the forces of the foe, singularly inspirited thescorpions, who mustered courage, and after a series of savage battles, in which there was a notorious amount of wool-pulling, gained the day. And this is how 'Scorpion Cove' got its name. 

"Hag Zogbaum lived in the cellar of the house with the verandas; and oldDan Sullivan and the rats had possession of the garret. In the cellar ofthis woman, whose trade was the fostering of crime in children asdestitute as myself, there was a bar and a back cellar, where as many astwenty boys and girls slept on straw and were educated in vice. She tookme into her nursery, and I was glad to get there, for I had no otherplace to go. 

"In the morning we were sent out to pilfer, to deceive the credulous, and to decoy others to the den. Some were instructed by Hag Zogbaum toaffect deaf and dumb, to plead the starving condition of our parents, to, in a word, enlist the sympathies of the credulous with an hundreddifferent stories. We were all stimulated by a premium being held out tothe most successful. Some were sent out to steal pieces of iron, brass, copper, and old junk; and these Hag Zogbaum would sell or give to theman who kept the junk-shop in Stanton street, known as the rookery atthe corner. (This man lived with Hag Zogbaum. ) We returned at night withour booty, and received our wages in gin or beer. The unsuccessful wereset down as victims of bad luck. Now and then the old woman would callus a miserable lot of wretches she was pestered to take care of. At onetime there were in this den of wretchedness fifteen girls from seven toeleven years old, and seven boys under eleven--all being initiated intothe by-ways of vice and crime. Among the girls were Italians, Germans, Irish, and--shall I say it?--Americans! It was curious to see what meansthe old hag would resort to for the purpose of improving their featuresafter they had arrived at a certain age. She had a purpose in this; andthat purpose sprang from that traffic in depravity caused by the demandsof a depraved society, a theme on her lips continually. "

CHAPTER X. 

A CONTINUATION OF GEORGE MULLHOLLAND'S HISTORY. 

"Having served well the offices of felons and impostors, Hag Zogbaumwould instruct her girls in the mysteries of licentiousness. When theyreached a certain age, their personal appearance was improved, and oneby one they were passed into the hands of splendidly-dressed ladies, aswe then took them to be, who paid a sum for them to Hag Zogbaum, andtook them away; and that was the last we saw of them. They had no desireto remain in their miserable abode, and were only too glad to get awayfrom it. In most cases they were homeless and neglected orphans; andknowing no better condition, fell easy victims to the snares set forthem. 

"It was in this dark, cavern-like den--in this mysterious caldron ofprecocious depravity, rioting unheeded in the very centre of a greatcity, whose boasted wealth and civilization it might put to shame, ifindeed it were capable of shame, I first met the child of beauty, AnnaBonard. Yes!--the Anna Bonard you now see at the house of MadameFlamingo. At that time she was but seven years old--a child of uncommonbeauty and aptness, of delicate but well-proportioned features, ofmiddle stature, and a face that care might have made charming beyondcomparison. But vice hardens, corrodes, and gives a false hue to thefeatures. Anna said she was an orphan. How far this was true I knownot. A mystery shrouded the way in which she fell into the hands of HagZogbaum. Hag Zogbaum said she got her of an apple-woman; and theapple-woman kept a stand in West street, but never would disclose howshe came by Anna. And Mr. Tom Toddleworth, who was the chronicle of thePoints, and used to look into 'Scorpion Cove' now and then, and inquireabout Anna, as if he had a sort of interest in her, they said knew allabout her. But if he did, he always kept it a secret between himself andHag Zogbaum. 

"She was always of a melancholy turn, used to say life was but a burdento her--that she could see nothing in the future that did not seem darkand tortuous. The lot into which she was cast of necessity others mighthave mistaken for that which she had chosen. It was not. The hard handof necessity had forced her into this quicksand of death; theindifference of a naturally generous community, robbed her of the lightof intelligence, and left her a helpless victim in the hands of thiscultivator of vice. How could she, orphan as she was called, andunencouraged, come to be a noble and generous-hearted woman? No oneoffered her the means to come up and ornament her sex; but tyrannicalsociety neither forgets her misfortunes nor forgives her errors. Onceseal the death-warrant of a woman's errors, and you have none to comeforward and cancel it; the tomb only removes the seal. Anna took aliking to me, and was kind to me, and looked to me to protect her. And Iloved her, and our love grew up, and strengthened; and being alikeneglected in the world, our condition served as the strongest means ofcementing our attachment. 

"Hag Zogbaum then sent Anna away to the house up the alley, in Elizabethstreet, where she sent most of her girls when they had reached the ageof eleven and twelve. Hag Zogbaum had many places for her female pupils. The very best looking always went a while to the house in the alley; thenext best looking were sure to find their way into the hands of MissBrown, in Little Water street, and Miss Brown, they said, sold them tothe fairies of the South, who dressed them in velvet and gold; and the'scrubs, ' as the old woman used to call the rest, got, by somemysterious process, into the hands of Paddy Pie and Tim Branahan, whokept shantees in Orange street. 

"Anna had been away some time, and Mr. Tom Toddleworth had several timesbeen seen to look in and inquire for her. Mr. Toddleworth said he had aripping bid for her. At that time I was ignorant of its meaning. HarryRooney and me were sent to the house in Elizabeth street, one morning, to bring Anna and another girl home. The house was large, and had an airof neatness about it that contrasted strangely with the den in 'ScorpionCove. ' We rang the bell and inquired for the girls, who, after waitingnearly an hour, were sent down to us, clean and neatly dressed. In Annathe change was so great, that though I had loved her, and thought of herday and night during her absence, I scarce recognized her. So glad didshe seem to see me that she burst into tears, flung her arms about myneck, and kissed me with the fondness of a sister. Then she recountedwith childlike enthusiasm the kind treatment she had received at thehouse of Madame Harding (for such it was called), between whom and HagZogbaum there was carried on a species of business I am not inclined todesignate here. Two kind and splendidly-dressed ladies, Anna said, called to see them nearly every day, and were going to take them away, that they might live like fairies all the rest of their lives. 

"When we got home, two ladies were waiting at the den. It was not thefirst time we had seen them at the den. Anna recognized them as theladies she had seen at Madame Harding's. One was the woman who so kindlygave me the shilling in the market, when I was cold and hungry. Alengthy whispering took place between Hag Zogbaum and the ladies, and wewere ordered into the back cellar. I knew the whispering was about Anna;and watching through the boards I heard the Hag say Anna was fourteenand nothing less, and saw one of the ladies draw from her purse numerouspieces of gold, which were slipped into her hand. In a few minutes moreI saw poor little Anna follow her up the steps that led into 'ScorpionCove. ' When we were released Hag was serving ragged and dejected-lookingmen with gin and beer. Anna, she said when I inquired, had gone to agood home in the country. I loved her ardently, and being lonesome wasnot content with the statement of the old woman. I could not read, buthad begun to think for myself, and something told me all was not right. For weeks and months I watched at the house in Leonard street, intowhich I had followed the woman who gave me the shilling. But I neithersaw her nor the woman. Elegant carriages, and elegantly-dressed mendrove to and from the door, and passed in and out of the house, and thehouse seemed to have a deal of fashionable customers, and that was all Iknew of it then. 

"As I watched one night, a gentleman came out of the house, took me bythe arm and shook me, said I was a loitering vagrant, that he had seenme before, and having a suspicious look he would order the watch to lockme up. He inquired where my home was; and when I told him it was in'Scorpion Cove, ' he replied he didn't know where that was. I told him itwasn't much of a home, and he said I ought to have a better one. It wasall very well to say so; but with me the case was different. That nightI met Tom Farley, who was glad to see me, and told how he got out of thelock-up, and what he thought of the lock-up, and the jolly old Judge whosent him to the lock-up, and who he saw in the lock-up, and whatmischief was concocted in the lock-up, and what he got to eat in thelock-up, and how the lock-up wasn't so bad a place after all. 

"The fact was I was inclined to think the lock-up not so bad a place toget into, seeing how they gave people something good to eat, and clothesto wear. Tom and me went into business together. We sold _Heralds_ andSunday papers, and made a good thing of it, and shared our earnings, andgot enough to eat and some clothes. I took up my stand in Centre Market, and Tom took up his at Peck Slip. At night we would meet, count ourearnings, and give them to Mr. Crogan, who kept the cellar in Waterstreet, where we slept. I left Hag Zogbaum, who we got to calling thewizard. She got all we could earn or pilfer, and we got nothing for ourbacks but a few rags, and unwholesome fish and beer for our bellies. Ithought of Anna day and night; I hoped to meet in Centre Market thewoman who took her away. 

"I said no one ever looked in at the den in 'Scorpion Cove, ' but therewas a kind little man, with sharp black eyes, and black hair, and anearnest olive-colored face, and an earnester manner about him, who usedto look in now and then, talk kindly to us, and tell us he wished he hada home for us all, and was rich enough to give us all enough to eat. Hehated Hag Zogbaum, and Hag Zogbaum hated him; but we all liked himbecause he was kind to us, and used to shake his head, and say he woulddo something for us yet. Hag Zogbaum said he was always meddling withother people's business. At other times a man would come along and throwtracts in at the gate of the alley. We were ignorant of what they wereintended for, and used to try to sell them at the Gibraltars. Nobodywanted them, and nobody could read at the den, so Hag Zogbaum lightedthe fire with them, and that was the end of them. 

"Well, I sold papers for nearly two years, and learned to read a littleby so doing, and got up in the world a little; and being what was calledsmart, attracted the attention of a printer in Nassau street, who tookme into his office, and did well by me. My mind was bent on getting atrade. I knew I could do well for myself with a trade to lean upon. Twoyears I worked faithfully at the printer's, was approaching manhood, andwith the facilities it afforded me had not failed to improve my mind andget a tolerable good knowledge of the trade. But the image of Anna, andthe singular manner in which she disappeared, made me unhappy. 

"On my return from dinner one day I met in Broadway the lady who tookAnna away. The past and its trials flashed across my brain, and I turnedand followed her--found that her home was changed to Mercer street, andthis accounted for my fruitless watching in Leonard street. 

"The love of Anna, that had left its embers smouldering in my bosom, quickened, and seemed to burn with redoubled ardor. It was my first andonly love; the sufferings of our childhood had made it lasting. My veryemotion rose to action as I saw the woman I knew took her away. Myanxiety to know her fate had no bounds. Dressing myself up asrespectably as it was possible with my means, I took advantage of a darkand stormy night in the month of November to call at the house in Mercerstreet, into which I had traced the lady. I rung the bell; asumptuously-dressed woman came to the door, which opened into agorgeously-decorated hall. She looked at me with an inquiring eye anddisdainful frown, inquired who I was and what I wanted. I confess I wasnervous, for the dazzling splendor of the mansion produced in me afeeling of awe rather than admiration. I made known my mission as best Icould; the woman said no such person had ever resided there. In thatmoment of disappointment I felt like casting myself away in despair. Theassociations of Scorpion Cove, of the house of the Nine Nations, of theRookery, of Paddy Pie's--or any other den in that desert of death thatengulphs the Points, seemed holding out a solace for the melancholy thatweighed me down. But when I got back into Broadway my resolution gainedstrength, and with it I wept over the folly of my thoughts. 

"Led by curiosity, and the air of comfort pervading the well-furnishedroom, and the piously-disposed appearance of the persons who passed inand out, I had several times looked in at the house of the 'ForeignMissions, ' as we used to call it. A man with a good-natured face used tosit in the chair, and a wise-looking little man in spectacles (theSecretary) used to sit a bit below him, and a dozen or twowell-disposed persons of both sexes, with sharp and anxiouscountenances, used to sit round in a half circle, listening. Thewise-looking man in the spectacles would, on motion of some one present, read a long report, which was generally made up of a list of donationsand expenditures for getting up a scheme to evangelize the world, andget Mr. Singleton Spyke off to Antioch. It seemed to me as if a deal oftime and money was expended on Mr. Singleton Spyke, and yet Mr. Spykenever got off to Antioch. When the man of the spectacles got throughreading the long paper, and the good-natured man in the chair gotthrough explaining that the heavy amount of twenty-odd thousand dollarshad been judiciously expended for the salary of officers of the society, and the getting Brothers Spurn and Witherspoon off to enlighten theheathen, Brother Singleton Spyke's mission would come up. Every oneagreed that there ought to be no delay in getting Brother Spyke off toAntioch; but a small deficiency always stood in the way. And BrotherSpyke seemed spiked to this deficiency; for notwithstanding Mrs. Slocum, who was reckoned the strongest-minded woman, and best business-man ofthe society, always made speeches in favor of Brother Spyke and hismission (a special one), he never got off to Antioch. 

"Feeling forlorn, smarting under disappointment, and undecided where togo after I left the house in Mercer street, I looked in at the house ofthe 'Foreign Missions. ' Mrs. Slocum, as I had many times before seenher, was warmly contesting a question concerning Brother Spyke, with thegood-natured man in the chair. It was wrong, she said, so much moneyshould be expended, and Brother Spyke not got off to Antioch. So leavingthem debating Mr. Spyke's mission to Antioch, I proceeded back to thehouse in Mercer street, and inquired for the landlady of the house. Thelandlady, the woman that opened the door said, was engaged. The door wasshut in my face, and I turned away more wounded in my feelings thanbefore. Day and night I contemplated some plan by which to ascertainAnna's place of abode, her pursuit in life, her wants. When we partedshe could neither write nor read: I had taken writing lessons, by whichI could communicate tolerably well, while my occupation afforded me themeans of improvement. A few weeks passed (I continued to watch thehouse), and I recognized her one afternoon, by her black, floating hair, sitting at a second-story window of the house in Mercer street, her backtoward me. The sight was like electricity on my feelings; a transport ofjoy bore away my thoughts. I gazed, and continued to gaze upon theobject, throwing, as it were, new passion into my soul. But it turned, and there was a changed face, a face more lovely, looking eagerly into abook. Looking eagerly into a book did not betray one who could not read. But there was that in my heart that prompted me to look on the favorableside of the doubt--to try a different expedient in gaining admittance tothe house. When night came, I assumed a dress those who look onmechanics as vulgar people, would have said became a gentleman; andapproaching the house, gained easy admittance. As I was about enteringthe great parlors, a familiar but somewhat changed voice at the top ofthe circling stairs that led from the hall caught my ear. I paused, listened, became entranced with suspense. Again it resounded--again myheart throbbed with joy. It was Anna's voice, so soft and musical. Thewoman who opened the door turned from me, and attempted to hush it. ButAnna seemed indifferent to the admonition, for she tripped buoyantlydown stairs, accompanying a gentleman to the door. I stood before her, achanged person. Her recognition of me was instantaneous. Her colorchanged, her lips quivered, her eyes filled with tears, her very soulseemed fired with emotions she had no power to resist. 'GeorgeMullholland!' she exclaimed, throwing her arms about my neck, kissingme, and burying her head in my bosom, and giving vent to her feelings intears and quickened sobs--'how I have thought of you, watched for you, and hoped for the day when we would meet again and be happy. Oh, George!George! how changed everything seems since we parted! It seems a longage, and yet our sufferings, and the fondness for each other that wascreated in that suffering, freshens in the mind. Dear, good George--myprotector!' she continued, clinging to me convulsively. I took her in myarms (the scene created no little excitement in the house) and bore heraway to her chamber, which was chastely furnished, displaying a correcttaste, and otherwise suited to a princess. Having gained her presence ofmind, and become calm, she commenced relating what had occurred since weparted at Scorpion Cove. I need not relate it at length here, for it wassimilar in character to what might be told by a thousand others if theywere not powerless. For months she had been confined to the house, herlove of dress indulged to the furthest extent, her mind polluted andinitiated into the mysteries of refined licentiousness, her personalappearance scrupulously regarded, and made to serve the object of whichshe was a victim in the hands of the hostess, who made her the worsethan slave to a banker of great respectability in Wall street. Thisgood man and father was well down in the vale of years, had a mansion onFifth Avenue, and an interesting and much-beloved family. He was, inaddition, a prominent member of the commercial community; but hisexample to those more ready to imitate the errors of men in highpositions, than to improve by the examples of the virtuous poor, was notwhat it should be. Though a child of neglect, and schooled tolicentiousness under the very eye of a generous community, her naturalsensibility recoiled at the thought that she was a mere object of preyto the passions of one she could not love. 

"She resolved to remain in this condition no longer, and escaped toSavannah with a young man whose acquaintance she had made at the housein Mercer street. For a time they lived at a respectable hotel, ashusband and wife. But her antecedents got out, and they got notice toleave. The same fate met them in Charleston, to which city they removed. Her antecedents seemed to follow her wherever she went, like hauntingspirits seeking her betrayal. She was homeless; and without a home therewas nothing open to her but that vortex of licentiousness the worldseemed pointing her to. Back she went to the house in Mercer street--wasglad to get back; was at least free from the finger of scorn. Henceforward she associated with various friends, who sought her becauseof her transcendent charms. She had cultivated a natural intelligence, and her manners were such as might have become one in better society. But her heart's desire was to leave the house. I took her from it; andfor a time I was happy to find that the contaminating weeds of vice hadnot overgrown the more sensitive buds of virtue. 

"I provided a small tenement in Centre street, such as my means wouldafford, and we started in the world, resolved to live respectably. Butwhat had maintained me respectably was now found inadequate to thesupport of us both. Life in a house of sumptuous vice had rendered Annaincapable of adapting herself to the extreme of economy now forced uponus. Anna was taken sick; I was compelled to neglect my work, and wasdischarged. Discontent, embarrassment, and poverty resulted. I struggledto live for six months; but my prospects, my hopes of gaining an honestliving, were gone. I had no money to join the society, and the tradebeing dull, could get nothing to do. Fate seemed driving us to the laststage of distress. One by one our few pieces of furniture, our clothing, and the few bits of jewelry Anna had presented her at the house inMercer street, found their way to the sign of the Three Martyrs. The manof the eagle face would always lend something on them, and thatsomething relieved us for the time. I many times thought, as I passedthe house of the Foreign Missions in Centre street, where there was suchan air of comfort, that if Mrs. Abijah Slocum, and the good-natured manwho sat in the chair, and the wise little man in the spectacles, wouldcondescend to look in at our little place, and instead of always talkingabout getting Mr. Singleton Spyke off to Antioch, take pity on ourdestitution, what a relief it would be. It would have made more heartshappy than Mr. Spyke, notwithstanding the high end of his mission, couldhave softened in ten years at Antioch. 

"Necessity, not inclination, forced Anna back into the house in Mercerstreet, when I became her friend, her transient protector. Her hand wasas ready to bestow as her heart was warm and generous. She gave memoney, and was kind to me; but the degraded character of my positioncaused me to despond, to yield myself a victim to insidious vice, tobecome the associate of men whose only occupation was that of gamblingand 'roping-in' unsuspecting persons. I was not long in becoming anefficient in the arts these men practiced on the unwary. We used to meetat the 'Subterranean, ' in Church street, and there concoct our mode ofoperations. And from this centre went forth, daily, men who lived bygambling, larceny, picking pockets, counterfeiting, and passingcounterfeit money. I kept Anna ignorant of my associations. NeverthelessI was forced to get money, for I found her affections becomingperverted. At times her manner towards me was cold, and I sought tochange it with money. 

"While thus pursuing a life so precarious and exciting, I used to lookin at the 'Empire, ' in Broadway, to see whom I could 'spot, ' as wecalled it at the 'Subterranean. ' And it was here I met poor Tom Swiggs, distracted and giving himself up to drink, in the fruitless search afterthe girl of his love, from whom he had been separated, as he said, byhis mother. He had loved the girl, and the girl returned his love withall the sincerity and ardor of her soul. But she was poor, and of poorparents. And as such people were reckoned nothing in Charleston, hismother locked him up in jail, and she was got out of the way. Tom openedhis heart to me, said foul means had been resorted to, and the girl hadthrown herself away, because, while he was held in close confinement, falsehoods had been used to make her believe he had abandoned her. Tohave her an outcast on his account, to have her leading the life of anabandoned woman, and that with the more galling belief that he hadforsaken her, was more than he could bear, and he was sinking under theburden. Instead of making him an object of my criminal profession, hisstory so touched my feelings that I became his protector, saw him to hislodgings in Green street, and ultimately got him on board a vessel boundto Charleston. 

"Not many weeks after this, I, being moneyless, was the principal of aplot by which nearly a thousand dollars was got of the old man in Wallstreet, who had been Anna's friend; and fearing it might get out, Iinduced her to accompany me to Charleston, where she believed I had aprospect of bettering my condition, quitting my uncertain mode ofliving, and becoming a respectable man. Together we put up at theCharleston Hotel. But necessity again forced me to reveal to her mycircumstances, and the real cause of my leaving New York. Her hopes ofshaking off the taint of her former life seemed blasted; but she borethe shock with resignation, and removed with me to the house of MadameFlamingo, where we for a time lived privately. But the Judge sought herout, followed her with the zeal of a knight, and promised, if she wouldforsake me, to be her protector; to provide for her and maintain herlike a lady during her life. What progress he has made in carrying outhis promise you have seen. The English baronet imposed her upon the St. Cecilia, and the Judge was the first to betray her. "

CHAPTER XI. 

IN WHICH THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO MR. ABSALOM McARTHUR. 

You must know, reader, that King street is our Boulevard of fashion; andthough not the handsomest street in the world, nor the widest, nor thebest paved, nor the most celebrated for fine edifices, we so cherish itsage and dignity that we would not for the world change its provincialname, or molest one of the hundred old tottering buildings that dailythreaten a dissolution upon its pavement, or permit a wench of doubtfulblood to show her head on the "north sidewalk" during promenade hours. We are, you see, curiously nice in matters of color, and we should be. You may not comprehend the necessity for this scrupulous regard tocaste; others do not, so you are not to blame for your ignorance of thecustoms of an atmosphere you have only breathed through novels writtenby steam. We don't (and you wouldn't) like to have our wives meet ourslightly-colored mistresses. And we are sure you would not like to haveyour highly-educated and much-admired daughters meet those cream-coloredmaterial evidences of your folly--called by Northern "fanatics" theirhalf-sisters! You would not! And your wives, like sensible women, as ourwives and daughters are, would, if by accident they did meet them, neverlet you have a bit of sleep until you sent them to old Graspum'sflesh-market, had them sold, and the money put safely into their hands. We do these things just as you would; and our wives being philosophers, and very fashionable withal, put the money so got into fine dresses, anda few weeks' stay at some very select watering-place in the North. Ifyour wife be very accomplished, (like ours, ) and your daughters muchadmired for their beauty, (like ours, ) they will do as ours did--putwisely the cash got for their detestable relatives into a journey ofinspection over Europe. So, you see, we keep our fashionable side ofKing street; and woe be to the shady mortal that pollutes its bricks!

Mr. Absalom McArthur lives on the unfashionable side of this street, ina one-story wooden building, with a cottage roof, covered with thick, black moss, and having two great bow windows, and a very lean door, painted black, in front. It is a rummy old house to look at, for thegreat bow windows are always ornamented with old hats, which Mr. McArthur makes supply the place of glass; and the house itself, notwithstanding it keeps up the dignity of a circular window over thedoor, reminds one of that valiant and very notorious characteristic ofthe State, for it has, during the last twenty or more years, threatened(but never done it) to tumble upon the unfashionable pavement, just inlike manner as the State has threatened (but never done it!) to tumbleitself out of our unfashionable Union. We are a great people, you see;but having the impediment of the Union in the way of displaying ourmight, always stand ready to do what we never intended to do. We speakin that same good-natured sense and metaphor used by our politicians, (who are become very distinguished in the refined arts of fighting andwhiskey-drinking, ) when they call for a rope to put about the neck ofevery man not sufficiently stupid to acknowledge himself a secessionist. We imagine ourselves the gigantic and sublime theatre of chivalry, as wehave a right to do; we raise up heroes of war and statesmanship, compared with whom your Napoleons, Mirabeaus, and Marats--yes, even yourmuch-abused Roman orators and Athenian philosophers, sink into mereinsignificance. Nor are we bad imitators of that art displayed by theRoman soldiers, when they entered the Forum and drenched it withSenatorial blood! Pardon this digression, reader. 

Of a summer morning you will see McArthur, the old Provincialist, as heis called, arranging in his great bow windows an innumerable variety ofantique relics, none but a Mrs. Toodles could conceive a want for--suchas broken pots, dog-irons, fenders, saws, toasters, stew-pans, oldmuskets, boxing-gloves and foils, and sundry other odds and ends toonumerous to mention. At evening he sits in his door, a clever picture ofa by-gone age, on a venerable old sofa, supported on legs tapering intofeet of lion's paws, and carved in mahogany, all tacked over withbrass-headed nails. Here the old man sits, and sits, and sits, readingthe "Heroes of the Revolution, " (the only book he ever reads, ) andseemingly ready at all times to serve the "good wishes" of hiscustomers, who he will tell you are of the very first families, and verydistinguished! He holds distinguished peoples in high esteem; andseveral distinguished persons have no very bad opinion of him, but amuch better one of his very interesting daughter, whose acquaintance(though not a lady, in the Southern acceptation of the term) they wouldnot object to making--provided!

His little shop is lumbered with boxes and barrels, all containingrelics of a by-gone age--such as broken swords, pistols of curious make, revolutionary hand-saws, planes, cuirasses, broken spurs, blunderbusses, bowie, scalping, and hunting-knives; all of which he declares our greatmen have a use for. Hung on a little post, and over a pair of rathersuspicious-looking buckskin breeches, is a rusty helmet, which hesincerely believes was worn by a knight of the days of William theConqueror. A little counter to the left staggers under a pile of mustyold books and mustier papers, all containing valuable matter relating tothe old Continentals, who, as he has it, were all Carolinians. (Disputethis, and he will go right into a passion. ) Resting like good-naturedpolicemen against this weary old counter are two sympathetic oldcoffins, several second-hand crutches, and a quantity of much-neglectedwooden legs. These Mr. McArthur says are in great demand with our firstfamilies. No one, except Mr. Soloman Snivel, knows better what thechivalry stand in need of to prop up its declining dignity. His dirtylittle shelves, too, are stuffed with those cheap uniforms the State sogrudgingly voted its unwilling volunteers during the Revolution. [1]Tucked in here and there, at sixes and sevens, are the scarlet and blueof several suits of cast-off theatrical wardrobe he got of Abbott, andnow loans for a small trifle to Madame Flamingo and the St. CeciliaSociety--the first, when she gives her very seductive _balmasques_; thesecond, when distinguished foreigners with titles honor its costumeballs. As for Revolutionary cocked hats, epaulettes, plumes, andholsters, he has enough to supply and send off, feeling as proud aspeacocks, every General and Colonel in the State--and their name, asyou ought to know, reader, is legion. 

[Footnote 1: See Senator Sumner's speech in Congress on Plantationmanners. ]

The stranger might, indeed, be deceived into the belief that AbsalomMcArthur's curiosity shop was capable of furnishing accoutrements forthat noble little army, (standing army we call it!) on which the Stateprides itself not a little, and spends no end of money. For ourselves, (if the reader but permit us, ) we have long admired this little Spartanforce, saying all the good things of it our prosy brain could invent, and in the kindest manner recommending its uniform good character as amodel for our very respectable society to fashion after. Indeed, wehave, in the very best nature of a modern historian, endeavored toenlighten the barbarian world outside of South Carolina as to theterrible consequences which might accrue to the Union did this noblelittle army assume any other than a standing character. Now that GeneralJackson is out of the way, and our plebeian friends over the Savannah, whom we hold in high esteem, (the Georgians, ) kindly consent to let usgo our own road out of the Union, nothing can be more grateful than tofind our wise politicians sincerely believing that when this standingarmy, of which other States know so little, shall have become alliedwith those mighty men of Beaufort, dire consequences to this young butvery respectable Federal compact will be the result. Having dischargedthe duties of a historian, for the benefit of those benighted beingsunfortunate enough to live out of our small but highly-civilized State, we must return to McArthur. 

He is a little old-maidish about his age, which for the last twentyyears has not got a day more than fifty-four. Being as sensitive of hisveracity as the State is of its dignity, we would not, either byimplication or otherwise, lay an impeachment at his door, but rathercharge the discrepancy to that sin (a treacherous memory) the legalgentry find so convenient for their purposes when they knock down theirown positions. McArthur stood five feet eight exactly, when young, butage has made him lean of person, and somewhat bent. His face is long andcorrugated; his expression of countenance singularly serious. A nose, neither aquiline nor Grecian, but large enough, and long enough, and redenough at the end, to make both; a sharp and curiously-projecting chin, that threatens a meeting, at no very distant day, with his nasal organ;two small, watchful blue eyes deep-set under narrow arches, fringed withlong gray lashes; a deeply-furrowed, but straight and contractedforehead, and a shaggy red wig, poised upon the crown of his head, and, reader, if you except the constant working of a heavy, drooping lowerlip, and the diagonal sight with which his eyes are favored, you havehis most prominent features. Fashion he holds in utter contempt, nor hashe the very best opinion in the world of our fashionable tailors, whoare grown so rich that they hold mortgages on the very best plantationsin the State, and offer themselves candidates for the Governorship. Indeed, Mr. McArthur says, one of these knights of the goose, not longsince, had the pertinacity to imagine himself a great General. And toshow his tenacious adherence to the examples set by the State, hedresses exactly as his grandfather's great-grandfather used to, in ablue coat, with small brass buttons, a narrow crimpy collar, and tailslong enough and sharp enough for a clipper-ship's run. The periods whenhe provided himself with new suits are so far apart that they formedspecial episodes in his history; nevertheless there is always an air ofneatness about him, and he will spend much time arranging a dingyruffled shirt, a pair of gray trowsers, a black velvet waistcoat, cut inthe Elizabethan style, and a high, square shirt collar, into which hishead has the appearance of being jammed. This collar he ties with amuch-valued red and yellow Spittlefields, the ends of which flow overhis ruffle. Although the old man would not bring much at theman-shambles, we set a great deal of store by him, and would notexchange him for anything in the world but a regiment or two of heroicsecessionists. Indeed we are fully aware that nothing like him existsbeyond the highly perfumed atmosphere of our State. And to many othercurious accomplishments the old man adds that of telling fortunes. Thenegroes seriously believe he has a private arrangement with the devil, of whom he gets his wisdom, and the secret of propitiating the gods. 

Two days have passed since the _emeute_ at the house of the old hostess. McArthur has promised the young missionary a place for Tom Swiggs, whenhe gets out of prison (but no one but his mother seems to have a rightto let him out), and the tall figure of Mister Snivel is seen enteringthe little curiosity shop. "I say!--my old hero, has she been here yet?"inquires Mr. Snivel, the accommodation man. "Nay, good friend, " returnsthe old man, rising from his sofa, and returning the salutation, "shehas not yet darkened the door. " The old man draws the steel-bowedspectacles from his face, and watches with a patriarchal air any changethat comes over the accommodation man's countenance. "Now, good friend, if I did but know the plot, " pursues the old man. 

"The plot you are not to know! I gave you her history yesterday--thatis, as far as I know it. You must make up the rest. You know how to tellfortunes, old boy. I need not instruct you. Mind you flatter her beauty, though--extend on the kindness of the Judge, and be sure you get it inthat it was me who betrayed her at the St. Cecelia. All right old boy, eh?" and shaking McArthur by the hand warmly, he takes his departure, bowing himself into the street. The old man says he will be all readywhen she comes. 

Scarcely has the accommodation man passed out of sight when asallow-faced stripling makes his appearance, and with thatcharacteristic effrontery for borrowing and never returning, of theproperty-man of a country theatre, "desires" to know if Mr. McArthurwill lend him a skull. 

"A skull!" ejaculates the old man, his bony fingers wandering to hismelancholy lip--"a skull!" and he fusses studiously round the littlecell-like place, looking distrustfully at the property-man, and thenturning an anxious eye towards his piles of rubbish, as if fearing someplot is on foot to remove them to the infernal regions. 

"You see, " interrupts Mr. Property, "we play Hamlet to-night--expect acrammed house--and our star, being scrupulous of his reputation, as allsmall stars are, won't go on for the scene of the grave-digger, withouttwo skulls--he swears he won't! He raised the very roof of the theatrethis morning, because his name wasn't in bigger type on the bill. And ifwe don't give him two skulls and plenty of bones to-night, heswears--and such swearing as it is!--he'll forfeit the manager, have thehouse closed, and come out with a card to the public in the morning. Weare in a fix, you see! The janitor only has one, and he lent us that asif he didn't want to. "

Mr. McArthur says he sees, and with an air of regained wisdom stopssuddenly, and takes from a shelf a dingy old board, on which is adingier paper, bearing curious inscriptions, no one but the old manhimself would have supposed to be a schedule of stock in trade. Such itis, nevertheless. He rubs his spectacles, places them methodically uponhis face, wipes and wipes the old board with his elbow. "It's here ifit's anywhere!" says the old man, with a sigh. "It comes into my headthat among the rest of my valuables I've Yorick's skull. "

"The very skull we want!" interrupts Property. And the old man quickensthe working of his lower jaw, and continues to rub at the board until hehas brought out the written mystery. "My ancestors were great people, "he mumbles to himself, "great people!" He runs the crusty forefinger ofhis right hand up and down the board, adding, "and my customers are allof the first families, which is some consolation in one's poverty. Ah! Ihave it here!" he exclaims, with childlike exultation, frisking hisfingers over the board. "One Yorick's skull--a time-worn, tenantless, and valuable relic, in which graveyard worms have banqueted more thanonce. Yes, young man, presented to my ancestors by the elder Stuarts, and on that account worth seven skulls, or more. " "One Yorick's skull, "is written on the paper, upon which the old man presses firmly hisfinger. Then turning to an old box standing in the little fireplacebehind the counter, saying, "it's in here--as my name's AbsalomMcArthur, it is, " he opens the lid, and draws forth several old militarycoats (they have seen revolutionary days! he says, exultingly), numerousscales of brass, such as are worn on British soldiers' hats, a ponderouschapeau and epaulets, worn, he insists, by Lord Nelson at the renownedbattle of Trafalgar. He has not opened, he adds, this box for more thantwelve long years. Next he drags forth a military cloak of great weightand dimensions. "Ah!" he exclaims, with nervous joy, "here's theidentical cloak worn by Lord Cornwallis--how my ancestors used to prizeit. " And as he unrolls its great folds there falls upon the floor, tohis great surprise, an old buff-colored silk dress, tied firmly with anarrow, green ribbon. "Maria! Maria! Maria!" shouts the old man, as ifsuddenly seized with a spasm. And his little gray eyes flash withexcitement, as he says--"if here hasn't come to light at last, poor MagMunday's dress. God forgive the poor wretch, she's dead and gone, nodoubt. " In response to the name of "Maria" there protrudes from a littledoor that opens into a passage leading to a back-room, the delicatefigure of a female, with a face of great paleness, overcast by athoughtful expression. She has a finely-developed head, intelligent blueeyes, light auburn hair, and features more interesting than regular. Indeed, there is more to admire in the peculiar modesty of her demeanorthan in the regularity of her features, as we shall show. "My daughter!"says the old man, as she nervously advances, her pale hand extended. "Poor woman! how she would mourn about this old dress; and say itcontained something that might give her a chance in the world, " sherather whispers than speaks, disclosing two rows of small white teeth. She takes from the old man's hand the package, and disappears. Theanxiety she evinces over the charge discloses the fact that there issomething of deep interest connected with it. 

Mr. McArthur was about to relate how he came by this seeminglyworthless old package, when the property-man, becoming somewhatrestless, and not holding in over high respect the old man's rubbish, ashe called it in his thoughts, commences drawing forth, piece after pieceof the old relics. The old man will not allow this. "There, young man!"he says, touching him on the elbow, and resuming his labor. At length hedraws forth the dust-tenanted skull, coated on the outer surface withgreasy mould. "There!" he says, with an unrestrained exclamation of joy, holding up the wasting bone, "this was in its time poor Yorick's skull. It was such a skull, when Yorick lived! Beneath this filthy remnant ofpast greatness (I always think of greatness when I turn to the past), this empty tenement, once the domain of wisdom, this poor bone, whatthoughts did not come out?" And the old man shakes his head, muttersinarticulately, and weeps with the simplicity of a child. 

"The Star'll have skulls and bones enough to make up for his want oftalent now--I reckon, " interposes the property-man. "But!--I say, mister, this skull couldn't a bin old Yorick's, you know--"

"Yorick's!--why not?" interrupts the old man. 

"Because Yorick--Yorick was the King's jester, you see--no nigger; andno one would think of importing anything but a nigger's skull intoCharleston--"

"Young man!--if this skull had consciousness; if this had a tongue itwould rebuke thee;" the old man retorts hastily, "for my ancestors knewYorick, and Yorick kept up an intimate acquaintance with the ancestorsof the very first families in this State, who were not shoemakers andmilliners, as hath been maliciously charged, but good and piousHuguenots. " To the end that he may convince the unbelieving Thespian ofthe truth of his assertion, he commences to rub away the black coatingwith the sleeve of his coat, and there, to his infinite delight, iswritten, across the crown, in letters of red that stand out as bold asthe State's chivalry--"Alas! poor Yorick. " Tears of sympathy trickledown the old man's cheeks, his eyes sparkle with excitement, and withwomanly accents he mutters: "the days of poetry and chivalry are gone. It is but a space of time since this good man's wit made Kings andPrinces laugh with joy. "

This skull, and a coral pin, which he said was presented to hisancestors by Lord Cornwallis, who they captured, now became his hobby;and he referred to it in all his conversation, and made them as much hisidol as our politicians do secession. In this instance, he dare notentrust his newly-discovered jewel to the vulgar hands of Mr. Property, but pledged his honor--a ware the State deals largely in notwithstandingit has become exceedingly cheap--it would be forthcoming at therequisite time. 

CHAPTER XII. 

IN WHICH ARE MATTERS THE READER MAY HAVE ANTICIPATED. 

Mr. Soloman Snivel has effected a reconciliation between old JudgeSleepyhorn and the beautiful Anna Bonard, and he has flattered theweak-minded George Mullholland into a belief that the old Judge, as hestyles him, is his very best friend. So matters go on swimmingly at thehouse of Madame Flamingo. Indeed Mr. Soloman can make himself extremelyuseful in any affair requiring the exercise of nice diplomatic skill--nomatter whether it be of love or law. He gets people into debt, and outof debt; into bankruptcy and out of bankruptcy; into jail and out ofjail; into society and out of society. He has officiated in almost everycapacity but that of a sexton. If you want money, Mr. Soloman can alwaysarrange the little matter for you. If you have old negroes you want toget off your hands at a low figure, he has a customer. If you want tomortgage your negro property, a thing not uncommon with our very firstfamilies, Mr. Soloman is your man. Are you worth a fee, and want legaladvice, he will give it exactly to your liking. Indeed, he will lie youinto the most hopeless suit, and with equal pertinacity lie you out ofthe very best. Every judge is his friend and most intimate acquaintance. He is always rollicking, frisking, and insinuating himself intosomething, affects to be the most liberal sort of a companion, neverrefuses to drink when invited, but never invites any one unless he has amotive beyond friendship. Mr. Keepum, the wealthy lottery broker, wholives over the way, in Broad street, in the house with the mysterioussigns, is his money-man. This Keepum, the man with the sharp visage andguilty countenance, has an excellent standing in society, having got itas the reward of killing two men. Neither of these deeds of heroism, however, were the result of a duel. Between these worthies there existsrelations mutually profitable, if not the most honorable. Andnotwithstanding Mr. Soloman is forever sounding Mr. Keepum's generosity, the said Keepum has a singular faculty for holding with a firm grasp allhe gets, the extent of his charities being a small mite now and then toMr. Hadger, the very pious agent for the New York Presbyterian TractSociety. Mr. Hadger, who by trading in things called negroes, and suchlike wares, has become a man of great means, twice every year badgersthe community in behalf of this society, and chuckles over what he getsof Keepum, as if a knave's money was a sure panacea for the cure ofsouls saved through the medium of those highly respectable tracts thesociety publishes to suit the tastes of the god slavery. Mr. Keepum, too, has a very high opinion of this excellent society, as he calls it, and never fails to boast of his contributions. 

It is night. The serene and bright sky is hung with brighter stars. Ourlittle fashionable world has got itself arrayed in its best satin--andis in a flutter. Carriages, with servants in snobby coats, beset thedoors of the theatre. A flashing of silks, satins, brocades, tulle andjewelry, distinguished the throng pressing eagerly into the lobbies, and seeking with more confusion than grace seats in the dress circle. The orchestra has played an overture, and the house presents a livelypicture of bright-colored robes. Mr. Snivel's handsome figure is seenlooming out of a private box in the left-hand proceniums, behind thecurtain of which, and on the opposite side, a mysterious hand every nowand then frisks, makes a small but prudent opening, and disappears. Again it appears, with delicate and chastely-jeweled fingers. Cautiouslythe red curtain moves aside apace, and the dark languishing eyes of afemale, scanning over the dress-circle, are revealed. She recognizes thevenerable figure of Judge Sleepyhorn, who has made a companion of GeorgeMullholland, and sits at his side in the parquette. Timidly she closesthe curtain. 

In the right-hand procenium box sits, resplendent of jewels and laces, and surrounded by her many admirers, the beautiful and very fashionableMadame Montford, a woman of singularly regular features, and more thanordinary charms. Opinion is somewhat divided on the early history ofMadame Montford. Some have it one thing, some another. Society is sureto slander a woman of transcendent beauty and intellect. There isnothing in the world more natural, especially when those charms attractfashionable admirers. It is equally true, too, that if you would wipeout any little taint that may hang about the skirts of your characteryou must seek the panacea in a distant State, where, with theapplication of a little diplomacy you may become the much sought forwonder of a new atmosphere and new friends, as is the case with MadameMontford, who rebukes her New York neighbors of the Fifth Avenue (shehas a princely mansion there), with the fact that in Charleston she is, whenever she visits it, the all-absorbing topic with fashionablesociety. For four successive winters Madame Montford has honored theelite of Charleston with her presence. The advent of her coming, too, has been duly heralded in the morning papers--to the infinite delight ofthe St. Cecilia Society, which never fails to distinguish her arrivalwith a ball. And this ball is sure to be preceded with no end ofdelicately-perfumed cards, and other missives, as full of compliments asit is capable of cramming them. There is, notwithstanding all theseovations in honor of her coming, a mystery hanging over her periodicalvisits, for the sharp-eyed persist that they have seen her disguised, and in suspicious places, making singular inquiries about a woman of thename of Mag Munday. And these suspicions have given rise to whisperings, and these whisperings have crept into the ears of several very old andhighly-respectable "first families, " which said families have suddenlydropped her acquaintance. But what is more noticeable in the features ofMadame Montford, is the striking similarity between them and AnnaBonard's. Her most fervent admirers have noticed it; while strangershave not failed to discover it, and to comment upon it. And the girl whosits in the box with Mr. Snivel, so cautiously fortifying herself withthe curtain, is none other than Anna. Mr. Snivel has brought her here asan atonement for past injuries. 

Just as the curtain is about to rise, Mr. McArthur, true to his word, may be seen toddling to the stage door, his treasure carefully tied upin a handkerchief. He will deliver it to no one but the manager, and inspite of his other duties that functionary is compelled to receive it inperson. This done, the old man, to the merriment of certain wags whodelight to speculate on his childlike credulity, takes a seat in theparquette, wipes clean his venerable spectacles, and placing themmethodically over his eyes, forms a unique picture in the foreground ofthe audience. McArthur, with the aid of his glasses, can recognizeobjects at a distance; and as the Hamlet of the night is decidedlyTeutonic in his appearance and pronunciation, he has no great relish forthe Star, nor a hand of applause to bestow on his genius. Hamlet, he issure, never articulated with a coarse brogue. So turning from the stage, he amuses himself with minutely scanning the faces of the audience, andresolving in his mind that something will turn up in the grave-digger'sscene, of which he is an enthusiastic admirer. It is, indeed, he thinksto himself, very doubtful, whether in this wide world the much-abusedWilliam Shakspeare hath a more ardent admirer of this curious butfaithful illustration of his genius. Suddenly his attention seemsriveted on the private box, in which sits the stately figure of MadameMontford, flanked in a half-circle by her perfumed and white-glovedadmirers. "What!" exclaims the old man, in surprise, rubbing andreplacing his glasses, "if I'm not deceived! Well--I can't be. If thereisn't the very woman, a little altered, who has several times lookedinto my little place of an evening. Her questions were so curious that Icouldn't make out what she really wanted (she never bought anything);but she always ended with inquiring about poor Mag Munday. People thinkbecause I have all sorts of things, that I must know about all sorts ofthings. I never could tell her much that satisfied her, for Mag, reporthad it, was carried off by the yellow fever, and nobody ever thought ofher afterwards. And because I couldn't tell this woman any more, shewould go away with tears in her eyes. " Mr. McArthur whispers to a friendon his right, and touches him on the arm, "Pooh! pooh!" returns the man, with measured indifference, "that's the reigning belle of theseason--Madame Montford, the buxom widow, who has been just turned fortyfor some years. "

The play proceeds, and soon the old man's attention is drawn from theWidow Montford by the near approach to the scene of the grave-digger. And as that delineator enters the grave, and commences his tune, the oldman's anxiety increases. 

A twitching and shrugging of the shoulders, discovers Mr. McArthur'sfeelings. The grave-digger, to the great delight of the Star, bespreadsthe stage with a multiplicity of bones. Then he follows them with askull, the appearance of which causes Mr. McArthur to exclaim, "Ah!that's my poor Yorick. " He rises from his seat, and abstractedly staresat the Star, then at the audience. The audience gives out a spontaneousburst of applause, which the Teutonic Hamlet is inclined to regard as anindignity offered to superior talent. A short pause and his facebrightens with a smile, the grave-digger shoulders his pick, and withthe thumb of his right hand to his nasal organ, throws himself into acomical attitude. The audience roar with delight; the Star, ignorant ofthe cause of what he esteems a continued insult, waves his plumes to theaudience, and with an air of contempt walks off the stage. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

MRS. SWIGGS COMES TO THE RESCUE OF THE HOUSE OF THE FOREIGN MISSIONS. 

"An excellent society--excellent, I assure you, Madame--"

"Truly, Mr. Hadger, " interrupted Mrs. Swiggs, "your labors on behalf ofthis Tract Society will be rewarded in heaven--"

"Dear-a-me, " Mr. Hadger returns, ere Mrs. Swiggs can finish hersentence, "don't mention such a thing. I assure you it is a labor oflove. "

"Their tracts are so carefully got up. If my poor old negro propertycould only read--(Mrs. Swiggs pauses. ) I was going to say--if it wasn'tfor the law (again she pauses), we couldn't prejudice our cause byletting our negroes read them--"

"Excuse the interruption, " Mr. Hadger says, "but it wouldn't, do, notwithstanding (no one can be more liberal than myself on the subjectof enlightening our negro property!) the Tract Society exhibits such anunexceptionable regard to the requirements of our cherishedinstitution. "

This conversation passes between Mrs. Swiggs and Mr. Hadger, who, as hesays with great urbanity of manner, just dropped in to announce joyoustidings. He has a letter from Sister Abijah Slocum, which came to handthis morning, enclosing one delicately enveloped for Sister Swiggs. "The Lord is our guide, " says Mrs. Swiggs, hastily reaching out her handand receiving the letter. "Heaven will reward her for the interest shetakes in the heathen world. "

"Truly, if she hath not now, she will have there a monument of gold, "Mr. Hadger piously pursues, adding a sigh. 

"There! there!--my neuralgy; it's all down my left side. I'm not longfor this world, you see!" Mrs. Swiggs breaks out suddenly, then twitchesher head and oscillates her chin. And as if some electric current hadchanged the train of her thoughts, she testily seizes hold of herMilton, and says: "I have got my Tom up again--yes I have, Mr. Hadger. "

Mr. Hadger discovers the sudden flight her thoughts have taken: "I amsure, " he interposes, "that so long as Sister Slocum remains a member ofthe Tract Society we may continue our patronage. "

Mrs. Swiggs is pleased to remind Mr. Hadger, that although her meanshave been exceedingly narrowed down, she has not, for the last tenyears, failed to give her mite, which she divides between the house ofthe "Foreign Missions, " and the "Tract Society. "

A nice, smooth-faced man, somewhat clerically dressed, straight andportly of person, and most unexceptionable in his morals, is Mr. Hadger. A smile of Christian resignation and brotherly love happily ornamentshis countenance; and then, there is something venerable about hisnicely-combed gray whiskers, his white cravat, his snowy hair, his mildbrown eyes, and his pleasing voice. One is almost constrained to receivehim as the ideal of virtue absolved in sackcloth and ashes. As anevidence of our generosity, we regard him an excellent Christian, whoselife hath been purified with an immense traffic in human----(perhapssome good friend will crack our skull for saying it). 

In truth (though we never could find a solution in the Bible for it), asthe traffic in human property increased Mr. Hadger's riches, so also didit in a corresponding ratio increase his piety. There is, indeed, asingular connection existing between piety and slavery; but to analyzeit properly requires the mind of a philosopher, so strange is theblending. 

Brother Hadger takes a sup of ice-water, and commences reading SisterSlocum's letter, which runs thus:

 "NEW YORK, May --, 1850. "DEAR BROTHER HADGER:

"Justice and Mercy is the motto of the cause we have lent our hands andhearts to promote. Only yesterday we had a gathering of kind spirits atthe Mission House in Centre street, where, thank God, all was peace andlove. We had, too, an anxious gathering at the 'Tract Society's rooms. 'There it was not so much peace and love as could have been desired. Brother Bight seemed earnest, but said many unwise things; and BrotherScratch let out some very unwise indiscretions which you will find inthe reports I send. There was some excitement, and something said aboutwhat we got from the South not being of God's chosen earnings. And therewas something more let off by our indiscreet Brothers against thegetting up of the tracts. But we had a majority, and voted down ourindiscreet Brothers, inasmuch as it was shown to be necessary not tooffend our good friends in the South. Not to give offence to a Brotheris good in the sight of the Lord, and this Brother Primrose argued in amost Christian speech of four long hours or more, and which had theeffect of convincing every one how necessary it was to free the _tracts_of everything offensive to your cherished institution. And though we didnot, Brother Hadger, break up in the continuance of that love we werewont to when you were among us, we sustained the principle that seemethmost acceptable to you--we gained the victory over our disaffectedBrothers. And I am desired on behalf of the Society, to thank you forthe handsome remittance, hoping you will make it known, through peaceand love, to those who kindly contributed toward it. The Board of'Foreign Missions, ' as you will see by the report, also passed a vote ofthanks for your favor. How grateful to think what one will do toenlighten the heathen world, and how many will receive a tract throughthe medium of the other. 

"We are now in want of a few thousand dollars, to get the Rev. SingletonSpyke, a most excellent person, off to Antioch. Aid us with a mite, Brother Hadger, for his mission is one of God's own. The enclosed letteris an appeal to Sister Swiggs, whose yearly mites have gone far, veryfar, to aid us in the good but mighty work now to be done. Sister Swiggswill have her reward in heaven for these her good gifts. How thankfulshould she be to Him who provides all things, and thus enableth her tobestow liberally. 

"And now, Brother, I must say adieu! May you continue to live in thespirit of Christian love. And may you never feel the want of these mitesbestowed in the cause of the poor heathen. 

 "SISTER ABIJAH SLOCUM. "

"May the good be comforted!" ejaculates Mrs. Swiggs, as Mr. Hadgerconcludes. She has listened with absorbed attention to every word, attimes bowing, and adding a word of approval. Mr. Hadger hopes somethingmay be done in this good cause, and having interchanged sundrycompliments, takes his departure, old Rebecca opening the door. 

"Glad he's gone!" the old lady says to herself. "I am so anxious to hearthe good tidings Sister Slocum's letter conveys. " She wipes and wipesher venerable spectacles, adjusts them piquantly over her small, wickedeyes, gives her elaborate cap-border a twitch forward, frets her fingernervously over the letter, and gets herself into a general state ofconfritteration. "There!" she says, entirely forgetting her Milton, which has fallen on the floor, to the great satisfaction of the worthyold cat, who makes manifest his regard for it by coiling himself downbeside it, "God bless her. It makes my heart leap with joy when I seeher writing, " she pursues, as old Rebecca stands contemplating her, withserious and sullen countenance. Having prilled and fussed over theletter, she commences reading in a half whisper:

 "NO. --, 4TH AVENUE, NEW YORK, May --, 1850. 

"MUCH BELOVED SISTER:

"I am, as you know, always overwhelmed with business; and having hopedthe Lord in his goodness yet spares you to us, and gives you health andbounty wherewith to do good, must be pardoned for my brevity. The Lordprospers our missions among the heathen, and the Tract Society continuesto make its labors known throughout the country. It, as you will see bythe tracts I send herewith, still continues that scrupulous regard tothe character of your domestic institution which has hithertocharacterized it. Nothing is permitted to creep into them that in anyway relates to your domestics, or that can give pain to the delicatesensibilities of your very excellent and generous people. We would dogood to all without giving pain to any one. Oh! Sister, you know what awicked world this is, and how it becomes us to labor for the good ofothers. But what is this world compared with the darkness of the heathenworld, and those poor wretches ('Sure enough!' says Mrs. Swiggs) who eatone another, never have heard of a God, and prefer rather to worshipidols of wood and stone. When I contemplate this dreadful darkness, which I do night and day, day and night, I invoke the Spirit to give merenewed strength to go forward in the good work of bringing fromdarkness ('Just as I feel, ' thinks Mrs. Swiggs) unto light those poorbenighted wretches of the heathen world. How often I have wished youcould be here with us, to add life and spirit to our cause--to aid us inbeating down Satan, and when we have got him down not to let him up. Theheathen world never will be what it should be until Satan is bankrupt, deprived of his arts, and chained to the post of humiliation--never! ('Iwish I had him where my Tom is!' Mrs. Swiggs mutters to herself. ) Docome on here, Sister. We will give you an excellent reception, and makeyou so happy while you sojourn among us. And now, Sister, having neverappealed to you in vain, we again extend our hand, hoping you will favorthe several very excellent projects we now have on hand. First, we havea project--a very excellent one, on hand, for evangelizing the world;second, in consideration of what has been done in the reign of theSeven Churches--Pergamos Thyatira, Magnesia, Cassaba, Demish, andBaindir, where all is darkness, we have conceived a mission to Antioch;and third, we have been earnestly engaged in, and have spent a fewthousand dollars over a project of the 'Tract Society, ' which is thegetting up of no less than one or two million of their excellent tracts, for the Dahomy field of missionary labor--such as the Egba mission, theYoruba mission, and the Ijebu missions. Oh! Sister, what a field oflabor is here open to us. And what a source of joy and thankfulness itshould be to us that we have the means to labor in those fields ofdarkness. We have selected brother Singleton Spyke, a young man of greatpromise, for this all-important mission to Antioch. He has been for thelast four years growing in grace and wisdom. No expense has been sparedin everything necessary to his perfection, not even in the selection ofa partner suited to his prospects and future happiness. We now want afew thousand dollars to make up the sum requisite to his mission, andpay the expenses of getting him off. Come to our assistance, dearSister--do come! Share with us your mite in this great work ofenlightening the heathen, and know that your deeds are recorded inheaven. ('Verily!' says the old lady. ) And now, hoping the Giver of allgood will continue to favor you with His blessing, and preserve you inthat strength of intellect with which you have so often assisted us inbeating down Satan, and hoping either to have the pleasure of seeingyou, or hearing from you soon, I will say adieu! subscribing myself aservant in the cause of the heathen, and your sincere Sister, "MRS. ABIJAH SLOCUM. 

"P. S. --Remember, dear Sister, that the amount of money expended inidol-worship--in erecting monster temples and keeping them in repair, would provide comfortable homes and missions for hundreds of our veryexcellent young men and women, who are now ready to buckle on the armorand enter the fight against Satan. 

 "A. S. "

"Dear-a-me, " she sighs, laying the letter upon the table, kicking thecat as she resumes her rocking, and with her right hand restoring herMilton to its accustomed place on the table. "Rebecca, " she says, "willget a pillow and place it nicely at my back. " Rebecca, the old slave, brings the pillow. "There, there! now, not too high, nor too low, Rebecca!" her thin, sharp voice echoes, as she works her shoulders, andpermits her long fingers to wander over her cap-border. "When 'um gotjust so missus like, say--da he is!" mumbles the old negress in reply. "Well, well--a little that side, now--" The negress moves the pillow alittle to the left. "That's too much, Rebecca--a slight touch the otherway. You are so stupid, I will have to sell you, and get Jewel to takecare of me. I would have done it before but for the noise of hercrutch--I would, Rebecca! You never think of me--you only think of howmuch hominy you can eat. " The old negress makes a motion to move thepillow a little to the right, when Mrs. Swiggs settles her head andshoulders into it, saying, "there!"

"Glad'um suit--fo'h true!" retorts the negress, her heavy lips andsullen face giving out the very incarnation of hatred. 

"Now don't make a noise when you go out. " Rebecca in reply says she is"gwine down to da kitchen to see Isaac, " and toddles out of the room, gently closing the door after her. 

Resignedly Mrs. Swiggs closes her eyes, moderates her rocking, andcommences evolving and revolving the subject over in her mind. "Ihaven't much of this world's goods--no, I haven't; but I'm of a goodfamily, and its name for hospitality must be kept up. Don't see that Ican keep it up better than by helping Sister Slocum and the _TractSociety_ out, " she muses. But the exact way to effect this has not yetcome clear to her mind. Times are rather hard, and, as we have saidbefore, she is in straightened circumstances, having, for something morethan ten years, had nothing but the earnings of eleven old negroes, fiveof whom are cripples, to keep up the dignity of the house of the Swiggs. "There's old Zeff, " she says, "has took to drinking, and Flame, hiswife, ain't a bit better; and neither one of them have been worthanything since I sold their two children--which I had to do, or let thedignity of the family suffer. I don't like to do it, but I must. I mustsend Zeff to the workhouse--have him nicely whipped, I only charge himeighteen dollars a month for himself, and yet he will drink, and won'tpay over his wages. Yes!--he shall have it. The extent of the law, welllaid on, will learn him a lesson. There's old Cato pays me twentydollars a month, and Cato's seventy-four--four years older than Zeff. Intruth, my negro property is all getting careless about paying wages. OldTrot runs away whenever he can get a chance; Brutus has forever gotsomething the matter with him; and Cicero has come to be a real skulk. He don't care for the cowhide; the more I get him flogged the worse hegets. Curious creature! And his old woman, since she broke her leg, andgoes with a crutch, thinks she can do just as she pleases. There isplenty of work in her--plenty; she has no disposition to let it comeout, though! And she has kept up a grumbling ever since I sold hergirls. Well, I didn't want to keep them all the time at thewhipping-post; so I sold them to save their characters. " Thus Mrs. Swiggs muses until she drops into a profound sleep, in which sheremains, dreaming that she has sold old Mumma Molly, Cicero's wife, andwith the proceeds finds herself in New York, hob-nobbing it with SisterSlocum, and making one extensive donation to the Tract Society, andanother to the fund for getting Brother Singleton Spyke off to Antioch. Her arrival in Gotham, she dreams, is a great event. The Tract Society(she is its guest) is smothering her with its attentions. Indeed, awhole column and a half of the very conservative and highly respectableold _Observer_ is taken up with an elaborate and well-written history ofher many virtues. 

The venerable old lady dreams herself into dusky evening, and wakes tofind old Rebecca summoning her to tea. She is exceedingly sorry the oldslave disturbed her. However, having great faith in dreams, and the oneshe has just enjoyed bringing the way to aid Sister Slocum in carryingout her projects of love so clear to her mind, she is resolved to loseno time in carrying out its principles. Selling old Molly won't be much;old Molly is not worth much to her; and the price of old Molly (she'llbring something!) will do so much to enlighten the heathen, and aid theTract Society in giving out its excellent works. "And I have for yearslonged to see Sister Slocum, face to face, before I die, " she says. Andwith an affixed determination to carry out this pious resolve, Mrs. Swiggs sips her tea, and retires to her dingy little chamber for thenight. 

A bright and cheerful sun ushers in the following morning. The soft rayssteal in at the snuffy door, at the dilapidated windows, through thefaded curtains, and into the "best parlor, " where, at an early hour, sits the antique old lady, rummaging over some musty old papers piled onthe centre-table. The pale light plays over and gives to her features aspectre-like hue; while the grotesque pieces of furniture by which sheis surrounded lend their aid in making complete the picture of awizard's abode. The paper she wants is nowhere to be found. "I mustexercise a little judgment in this affair, " she mutters, folding a bitof paper, and seizing her pen. Having written--

"TO THE MASTER OF THE WORK-HOUSE:

"I am sorry I have to trouble you so often with old Cicero. He will notpay wages all I can do. Give him at least thirty--well laid on. I go toNew York in a few days, and what is due you from me for punishments willbe paid any time you send your bill. 

 "SARAH PRINGLE HUGHES SWIGGS. "

"Well! he deserves what he gets, " she shakes her head and ejaculates. Having summoned Rebecca, Master Cicero, a hard-featured old negro, isordered up, and comes tottering into the room, half-bent with age, hishair silvered, and his face covered with a mossy-white beard--thepicture of a patriarch carved in ebony. "Good mornin', Missus, " hespeaks in a feeble and husky voice, standing hesitatingly before hisaugust owner. "You are--well, I might as well say it--you're amiserable old wretch!" Cicero makes a nervous motion with his left hand, as the fingers of his right wander over the bald crown of his head, andhis eyes give out a forlorn look. She has no pity for the poor oldman--none. "You are, Cicero--you needn't pretend you ain't, " shepursues; and springing to her feet with an incredible nimbleness, sheadvances to the window, tucks up the old curtain, and says, "There; letthe light reflect on your face. Badness looks out of it, Cicero! younever was a good nigger--"

"Per'aps not, Missus; but den I'se old. "

"Old! you ain't so old but you can pay wages, " the testy old womaninterrupts, tossing her head. "You're a capital hand at cunning excuses. This will get you done for, at the workhouse. " She hands him adelicately enveloped and carefully superscribed _billet_, and commandshim to proceed forthwith to the workhouse. A tear courses slowly downhis time-wrinkled face, he hesitates, would speak one word in his owndefence. But the word of his owner is absolute, and in obedience to thewave of her hand he totters to the door, and disappears. His tears areonly those of a slave. How useless fall the tears of him who has novoice, no power to assert his manhood! And yet, in that shrunkenbosom--in that figure, bent and shattered of age, there burns a passionfor liberty and hatred of the oppressor more terrible than the hand thathas made him the wretch he is. That tear! how forcibly it tells the taleof his sorrowing soul; how eloquently it foretells the downfall of thatinjustice holding him in its fierce chains!

Cicero has been nicely got out of the way. Molly, his wife, is summonedinto the presence of her mistress, to receive her awful doom. "To befrank with you, Molly, and I am always outspoken, you know, I am goingto sell you. We have been long enough together, and necessity at thismoment forces me to this conclusion, " says our venerable lady, addressing herself to the old slave, who stands before her, leaning onher crutch, for she is one of the cripples. "You will get a pious owner, I trust; and God will be merciful to you. "

The old slave of seventy years replies only with an expression of hatein her countenance, and a drooping of her heavy lip. "Now, " Mrs. Swiggspursues, "take this letter, go straight to Mr. Forcheu with it, and hewill sell you. He is very kind in selling old people--very!" Mollyinquires if Cicero may go. Mrs. Swiggs replies that nobody will buy twoold people together. 

The slave of seventy years, knowing her entreaties will be in vain, approaches her mistress with the fervency of a child, and graspingwarmly her hand, stammers out: "Da--da--dah Lord bless um, Missus. Tan'tmany days fo'h we meet in t'oder world--good-bye. "

"God bless you--good-bye, Molly. Remember what I have told you so manytimes--long suffering and forbearance make the true Christian. Be aChristian--seek to serve your Master faithfully; such the Scriptureteacheth. Now tie your handkerchief nicely on your head, and get yourclean apron on, and mind to look good-natured when Mr. Forcheu sellsyou. " This admonition, methodically addressed to the old slave, and Mrs. Swiggs waves her hand, resumes her Milton, and settles herself back intoher chair. Reader! if you have a heart in the right place it will beneedless for us to dwell upon the feelings of that old slave, as shedrags her infirm body to the shambles of the extremely kind vender ofpeople. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

MR. McARTHUR MAKES A DISCOVERY. 

On his return from the theatre, Mr. McArthur finds his daughter, Maria, waiting him in great anxiety. "Father, father!" she says, as he entershis little back parlor, "this is what that poor woman, Mag Munday, usedto take on so about; here it is. " She advances, her countenance wearingan air of great solicitude, holds the old dress in her left hand, and astained letter in her right. "It fell from a pocket in the bosom, " shepursues. The old man, with an expression of surprise, takes the letterand prepares to read it. He pauses. "Did it come from the dress Idiscovered in the old chest?" he inquires, adjusting his spectacles. Maria says it did. She has no doubt it might have relieved hersuffering, if it had been found before she died. "But, father, was therenot to you something strange, something mysterious about the manner shepursued her search for this old dress? You remember how she used toinsist that it contained something that might be a fortune to her in herdistress, and how there was a history connected with it that would notreflect much credit on a lady in high life!"

The old man interrupts by saying he well remembers it; remembers how hethought she was a maniac to set so much value on the old dress, and makeso many sighs when it could not be found. "It always occurred to methere was something more than the dress that made her take on so, " theold man concludes, returning the letter to Maria, with a request thatshe will read it. Maria resumes her seat, the old man draws a chair tothe table, and with his face supported in his left hand listensattentively as she reads:

 "WASHINGTON SQUARE, NEW YORK, May 14, 18--

"I am glad to hear from Mr. Sildon that the child does well. Poor littlething, it gives me so many unhappy thoughts when I think of it; but Iknow you are a good woman, Mrs. Munday, and will watch her with the careof a mother. She was left at our door one night, and as people arealways too ready to give currency to scandal, my brother and I thoughtthat it would not be prudent to adopt it at once, more especially as Ihave been ill for the last few months, and have any quantity of enemies. I am going to close my house, now that my deceased husband's estate issettled, and spend a few years in Europe. Mr. Thomas Sildon is wellprovided with funds for the care of the child during my absence, andwill pay you a hundred dollars every quarter. Let no one see thisletter, not even your husband. And when I return I will give you anextra remuneration, and adopt the child as my own. Mr. Sildon will tellyou where to find me when I return. "

 Your friend, "C. A. M. "

"There, father, " says Maria, "there is something more than we knowabout, connected with this letter. One thing always discoversanother--don't you think it may have something to do with that lady whohas two or three times come in here, and always appeared so nervouswhen she inquired about Mag Munday? and you recollect how she would notbe content until we had told her a thousand different things concerningher. She wanted, she said, a clue to her; but she never could get a clueto her. There is something more than we know of connected with thisletter, " and she lays the old damp stained and crumpled letter on thetable, as the old servant enters bearing on a small tray their humblesupper. 

"Now, sit up, my daughter, " says the old man, helping her to a sandwichwhile she pours out his dish of tea, "our enjoyment need be none theless because our fare is humble. As for satisfying this lady about MagMunday, why, I have given that up. I told her all I knew, and that is, that when she first came to Charleston--one never knows what these NewYorkers are--she was a dashing sort of woman, had no end of admirers, and lived in fine style. Then it got out that she wasn't the wife of theman who came with her, but that she was the wife of a poor man of thename of Munday, and had quit her husband; as wives will when they take anotion in their heads. And as is always the way with these sort ofpeople, she kept gradually getting down in the world, and as she keptgetting more and more down so she took more and more to drink, and drinkbrought on grief, and grief soon wasted her into the grave. I took pityon her, for she seemed not a bad woman at heart, and always said she wasforced by necessity into the house of Madame Flamingo--a house thathurries many a poor creature to her ruin. And she seemed possessed of asense of honor not common to these people; and when Madame Flamingoturned her into the street, --as she does every one she has succeeded inmaking a wretch of, --and she could find no one to take her in, and hadnowhere to lay her poor head, as she used to say, I used to lend herlittle amounts, which she always managed somehow to repay. As to therebeing anything valuable in the dress, I never gave it a thought; andwhen she would say if she could have restored to her the dress, andmanage to get money enough to get to New York, I thought it was only theresult of her sadness. "

"You may remember, father, " interrupts Maria, "she twice spoke of achild left in her charge; and that the child was got away from her. Ifshe could only trace that poor child, she would say, or find out whathad become of it, she could forget her own sufferings and die easy. Butthe thought of what had become of that child forever haunted her; sheknew that unless she atoned in some way the devil would surely get her. "The old man says, setting down his cup, it all comes fresh to his mind. Mr. Soloman (he has not a doubt) could let some light upon the subject;and, as he seems acquainted with the lady that takes so much interest inwhat became of the woman Munday, he may relieve her search. "I am sureshe is dead, nevertheless; I say this, knowing that having no home shegot upon the Neck, and then associated with the negroes; and the last Iheard of her was that the fever carried her off. This must have beentrue, or else she had been back here pleading for the bundles we couldnot find. " Thus saying, Mr. McArthur finishes his humble supper, kissesand fondles his daughter, whom he dotingly loves, and retires for thenight. 

CHAPTER XV. 

WHAT MADAME FLAMINGO WANTS TO BE. 

Tom Swiggs has enjoyed, to the evident satisfaction of his mother, aseven months' residence in the old prison. The very first familiescontinue to pay their respects to the good old lady, and she in returndaily honors them with mementoes of her remembrance. These littlecivilities, exchanging between the stately old lady and our firstfamilies, indicate the approach of the fashionable season. Indeed, wemay as well tell you the fashionable season is commencing in right goodearnest. Our elite are at home, speculations are rife as to what the"Jockey Club" will do, we are recounting our adventures at northernwatering-places, chuckling over our heroism in putting down those whowere unwise enough to speak disrespectful of our cherished institutions, and making very light of what we would do to the whole north. You mayknow, too, that our fashionable season is commenced by what is takingplace at the house of Madame Flamingo on the one side, and the St. Cecilia on the other. We recognize these establishments as institutions. That they form the great fortifications of fashionable society, flankingit at either extreme, no one here doubts. 

We are extremely sensitive of two things--fashion, and our right to sellnegroes. Without the former we should be at sea; without the latter, ourexistence would indeed be humble. The St. Cecilia Society inauguratesthe fashionable season, the erudite Editor of the Courier will tellyou, with an entertainment given to the elite of its members and a fewvery distinguished foreigners. Madame Flamingo opens her forts, at thesame time, with a grand supper, which she styles a very selectentertainment, and to which she invites none but "those of the higheststanding in society. " If you would like to see what sort of a supper shesets to inaugurate the fashionable season, take our arm for a fewminutes. 

Having just arrived from New York, where she has been luxuriating andselecting her wares for the coming season, (New York is the fountainejecting its vice over this Union, ) Madame looks hale, hearty, andexceedingly cheerful. Nor has she spared any expense to make herself upwith becoming youthfulness--as the common people have it. She has gother a lace cap of the latest fashion, with great broad striped blue andred strings; and her dress is of orange-colored brocade, trimmed withtulle, and looped with white blossoms. Down the stomacher it is set withjewels. Her figure seems more embonpoint than when we last saw her; andas she leans on the arm of old Judge Sleepyhorn, forms a strikingcontrast to the slender figure of that singular specimen of judicialinfirmity. Two great doors are opened, and Madame leads the way intowhat she calls her upper and private parlor, a hall of some fifty feetby thirty, in the centre of which a sumptuously decorated table is setout. Indeed there is a chasteness and richness about the furniture andworks of art that decorate this apartment, singularly at variance withthe bright-colored furniture of the room we have described in a formerchapter. "Ladies and gentlemen!" ejaculates the old hostess, "imaginethis a palace, in which you are all welcome. As the legal gentry say(she casts a glance at the old Judge), when you have satisfactorilyimagined that, imagine me a princess, and address me--"

"High ho!" interrupts Mr. Soloman. 

"I confess, " continues the old woman, her little, light-brown curlsdangling across her brow, and her face crimsoning, "I would like to be aprincess. "

"You can, " rejoins the former speaker, his fingers wandering to hischin. 

"Well! I have my beadle--beadles, I take, are inseparable from royalblood--and my servants in liveries. After all (she tosses her head) whatcan there be in beadles and liveries? Why! the commonest and vulgarestpeople of New York have taken to liveries. If you chance to take anelegant drive up the 'Fifth Avenue, ' and meet a dashing equipage--saywith horses terribly caparisoned, a purloined crest on thecarriage-door, a sallow-faced footman covered up in a green coat, allover big brass buttons, stuck up behind, and a whiskey-faced coachmanhalf-asleep in a great hammercloth, be sure it belongs to some snob whohas not a sentence of good English in his head. Yes! perhaps asoap-chandler, an oil-dealer, or a candy-maker. Brainless people alwayscreep into plush--always! People of taste and learning, like me, onlyare entitled to liveries and crests. " This Madame says, inviting herguests to take seats at her banquet-table, at the head of which shestands, the Judge on her right, Mr. Soloman on her left. Her china is ofthe most elaborate description, embossed and gilt; her plate is of puresilver, and massive; she has vases and candelabras of the same metal;and her cutlery is of the most costly description. No house in thecountry can boast a more exact taste in their selection. At each platea silver holder stands, bearing a bouquet of delicately-arrangedflowers. A trellise of choice flowers, interspersed here and there withgorgeous bouquets in porcelain vases, range along the centre of thetable; which presents the appearance of a bed of fresh flowersvariegated with delicious fruits. Her guests are to her choicer than herfruits; her fruits are choicer than her female wares. No entertainmentof this kind would be complete without Judge Sleepyhorn and Mr. Soloman. They countenance vice in its most insidious form--they foster crime;without crime their trade would be damaged. The one cultivates, that theother may reap the harvest and maintain his office. 

"I see, " says Mr. Soloman, in reply to the old hostess, "not theslightest objection to your being a princess--not the slightest! And, tobe frank about the matter, I know of no one who would better ornamentthe position. "

"Your compliments are too liberally bestowed, Mr. Soloman. "

"Not at all! 'Pon my honor, now, there is a chance for you to bring thatthing about in a very short time. There is Grouski, the Polish exile, aprince of pure blood. Grouski is poor, wants to get back to Europe. Hewants a wife, too. Grouski is a high old fellow--a most celebrated man, fought like a hero for the freedom of his country; and though an exilehere, would be received with all the honors due to a prince in eitherItaly, France or England. 

"A very respectable gentleman, no doubt; but a prince of pure blood, Mr. Soloman, is rather a scarce article these days. "

"Not a bit of it--why there is lots of exiled Princes all over thiscountry. They are modest men, you know, like me; and having got it intotheir heads that we don't like royal blood, rather keep the fact oftheir birth to themselves. As for Grouski! why his history is asfamiliar to every American who takes any interest in these things, as isthe history of poor Kossuth. I only say this, Madame Flamingo, to proveto you that Grouski is none of your mock articles. And what is more, Ihave several times heard him speak most enthusiastically of you. "

"Of me!" interrupts the old hostess, blushing. "I respect Grouski, andthe more so for his being a poor prince in exile. " Madame orders herservants, who are screwed into bright liveries, to bring on somesparkling Moselle. This done, and the glasses filled with the sparklingbeverage, Mr. Soloman rises to propose a toast; although, as he says, itis somewhat out of place, two rounds having only succeeded the soup: "Ipropose the health of our generous host, to whom we owe so much for thesuperb manner in which she has catered for our amusement. Here's that wemay speedily have the pleasure of paying our respects to her as thePrincess Grouski. " Madame Flamingo bows, the toast is drunk with cheers, and she begins to think there is something in it after all. 

"Make as light of it as you please, ladies and gentlemen--many strangerthings have come to pass. As for the exile, Grouski, I always esteemedhim a very excellent gentleman. "

"Exactly!" interposes the Judge, tipping his glass, and preparing hisappetite for the course of game--broiled partridges, rice-birds, andgrouse--which is being served by the waiters. "No one more worthy, " hepursues, wiping his sleepy face with his napkin, "of being a princess. Education, wealth, and taste, you have; and with Grouski, there isnothing to prevent the happy consummation--nothing! I beg to assureyou, " Madame Flamingo makes a most courteous bow, and with an air ofgreat dignity condescends to say she hopes gentlemen of the higheststanding in Charleston have for ten years or more had the strongestproofs of her ability to administer the offices of a lady of station. "But you know, " she pursues, hoping ladies and gentlemen will be kindenough to keep their glasses full, "people are become so piousnow-a-days that they are foolish enough to attach a stigma to ourbusiness. "

"Pooh, pooh!" interrupts the accommodation man, having raised his glassin compliment to a painted harlot. "Once in Europe, and under the shadowof the wife of Prince Grouski, the past would be wiped out; your moneywould win admirers, while your being a princess would make fashionablesociety your tool. The very atmosphere of princesses is full of taint;but it is sunk in the rank, and rather increases courtiers. In Franceyour untainted princess would prognosticate the second coming of--, well, I will not profane. "

"Do not, I beg of you, " says Madame, blushing. "I am scrupulouslyopposed to profanity. " And then there breaks upon the ear music thatseems floating from an enchanted chamber, so soft and dulcet does itmingle with the coarse laughing and coarser wit of the banqueters. Atthis feast of flowers may be seen the man high in office, the gravemerchant, the man entrusted with the most important affairs of thecommonwealth--the sage and the charlatan. Sallow-faced and paintedwomen, more undressed than dressed, sit beside them, hale companions. Respectable society regards the Judge a fine old gentleman; respectablesociety embraces Mr. Soloman, notwithstanding he carries on a business, as we shall show, that brings misery upon hundreds. Twice has hereceived a large vote as candidate for the General Assembly. 

A little removed from the old Judge (excellent man) sits Anna Bonard, like a jewel among stones less brilliant, George Mullholland on herleft. Her countenance wears an expression of gentleness, sweet andtouching. Her silky black hair rolls in wavy folds down her voluptuousshoulders, a fresh carnatic flush suffuses her cheeks, her great blackeyes, so beautifully arched with heavy lashes, flash incessantly, and toher bewitching charms is added a pensive smile that now lights up herfeatures, then subsides into melancholy. 

"What think you of my statuary?" inquired the old hostess, "and myantiques? Have I not taste enough for a princess?" How soft the carpet, how rich its colors! Those marble mantel-pieces, sculptured in femalefigures, how massive! How elegantly they set off each end of the hall, as we shall call this room; and how sturdily they bear up statuettes, delicately executed in alabaster and Parian, of Byron, Goethe, Napoleon, and Charlemagne--two on each. And there, standing between two Gothicwindows on the front of the hall, is an antique side-table, of curiousdesign. The windows are draped with curtains of rich purple satin, withembroidered cornice skirts and heavy tassels. On this antique table, andbetween the undulating curtains, is a marble statue of a female in areclining posture, her right hand supporting her head, her dishevelledhair flowing down her shoulder. The features are soft, calm, and almostgrand. It is simplicity sleeping, Madame Flamingo says. On the oppositeside of the hall are pedestals of black walnut, with mouldings in gilt, on which stand busts of Washington and Lafayette, as if they wereunwilling spectators of the revelry. A venerable recline, that may havehad a place in the propylæa, or served to decorate the halls ofVersailles in the days of Napoleon, has here a place beneath theportrait of Jefferson. This humble tribute the old hostess says she paysto democracy. And at each end of the hall are double alcoves, over thearches of which are great spread eagles, holding in their beaks thepoints of massive maroon-colored drapery that falls over the sides, forming brilliant depressions. In these alcoves are groups of figuresand statuettes, and parts of statuettes, legless and armless, and allpresenting a rude and mutilated condition. What some of them representedit would have puzzled the ancient Greeks to decypher. Madame, nevertheless, assures her guests she got them from among the relics ofItalian and Grecian antiquity. You may do justice to her taste on livingstatuary; but her rude and decrepit wares, like those owned and so muchvalued by our New York patrons of the arts, you may set down asbelonging to a less antique age of art. And there are chairs inlaid withmosaic and pearl, and upholstered with the richest and brightest satindamask, --revealing, however, that uncouthness of taste so characteristicof your Fifth Avenue aristocrat. 

Now cast your eye upward to the ceiling. It is frescoed with themes of abarbaric age. The finely-outlined figure of a female adorns the centre. Her loins are enveloped in what seems a mist; and in her right hand, looking as if it were raised from the groundwork, she holds gracefullythe bulb of a massive chandelier, from the jets of which a refulgentlight is reflected upon the flowery banquet table. Madame smilingly saysit is the Goddess of Love, an exact copy of the one in the temple ofJupiter Olympus. Another just opposite, less voluptuous in its outlines, she adds, is intended for a copy of the fabled goddess, supposed by theancients to have thrown off her wings to illustrate the uncertainty offortune. 

Course follows course, of viands the most delicious, and sumptuouslyserved. The wine cup now flows freely, the walls reëcho the coarse jokesand coarser laughs of the banqueters, and leaden eyelids, languid faces, and reeling brains, mark the closing scene. Such is the gorgeous vice weworship, such the revelries we sanction, such the insidious debaucherieswe shield with the mantle of our laws--laws made for the accommodationof the rich, for the punishment only of the poor. And a thousand poor inour midst suffer for bread while justice sleeps. 

Midnight is upon the banqueters, the music strikes up a last march, thestaggering company retire to the stifled air of resplendent chambers. The old hostess contemplates herself as a princess, and seriouslybelieves an alliance with Grouski would not be the strangest thing inthe world. There is, however, one among the banqueters who seems to havesomething deeper at heart than the transitory offerings on thetable--one whose countenance at times assumes a thoughtfulnesssingularly at variance with those around her. It is Anna Bonard. 

Only to-day did George Mullholland reveal to her the almost hopelesscondition of poor Tom Swiggs, still confined in the prison, withcriminals for associates, and starving. She had met Tom when fortune wasless ruthless; he had twice befriended her while in New York. Moved bythat sympathy for the suffering which is ever the purest offspring ofwoman's heart, no matter how low her condition, she resolved not to restuntil she had devised the means of his release. Her influence over thesubtle-minded old Judge she well knew, nor was she ignorant of therelations existing between him and the accommodation man. 

On the conclusion of the feast she invites them to her chamber. They arenot slow to accept the invitation. "Be seated, gentlemen, be seated, "she says, preserving a calmness of manner not congenial to the feelingsof either of her guests. She places chairs for them at the round table, upon the marble top of which an inlaid portfolio lies open. 

"Rather conventional, " stammers Mr. Snivel, touching the Judgesignificantly on the arm, as they take seats. Mr. Snivel is fond of goodwine, and good wine has so mellowed his constitution that he is obligedto seek support for his head in his hands. 

"I'd like a little light on this 'ere plot. Peers thar's somethin' afoot, " responds the Judge. 

Anna interposes by saying they shall know quick enough. Placing a penand inkstand on the table, she takes her seat opposite them, andcommences watching their declining consciousness. "Thar, " ejaculates theold Judge, his moody face becoming dark and sullen, "let us have thewish. "

"You owe me an atonement, and you can discharge it by gratifying mydesire. "

"Women, " interposes the old Judge, dreamily, "always have wishes togratify. W-o-l, if its teu sign a warrant, hang a nigger, tar andfeather an abolitionist, ride the British Consul out a town, or send adozen vagrants to the whipping-post--I'm thar. Anything my hand's inat!" incoherently mumbles this judicial dignitary. 

Mr. Snivel having reminded the Judge that ten o'clock to-morrow morningis the time appointed for meeting Splitwood, the "nigger broker, " whofurnishes capital with which they start a new paper for the new party, drops away into a refreshing sleep, his head on the marble. 

"Grant me, as a favor, an order for the release of poor Tom Swiggs. Youcannot deny me this, Judge, " says Anna, with an arch smile, and pausingfor a reply. 

"Wol, as to that, " responds this high functionary, "if I'd power, 'twouldn't be long afore I'd dew it, though his mother'd turn the townupside down; but I hain't no power in the premises. I make it a rule, onand off the bench, never to refuse the request of a pretty woman. Chivalry, you know. "

"For your compliment, Judge, I thank you. The granting my request, however, would be more grateful to my feelings. "

"It speaks well of your heart, my dear girl; but, you see, I'm only aJudge. Mr. Snivel, here, probably committed him ('Snivel! here, wakeup!' he says, shaking him violently), he commits everybody. Being aJustice of the Peace, you see, and justices of the peace beingeverything here, I may prevail on him to grant your request!" pursuesthe Judge, brightening up at the earnest manner in which Anna makes herappeal. "Snivel! Snivel!--Justice Snivel, come, wake up. Thar is a callfor your sarvices. " The Judge continues to shake the higher functionaryviolently. Mr. Snivel with a modest snore rouses from his nap, says heis always ready to do a bit of a good turn. "If you are, then, "interposes the fair girl, "let it be made known now. Grant me an orderof release for Tom Swiggs. Remember what will be the consequence of arefusal!"

"Tom Swiggs! Tom Swiggs!--why I've made a deal of fees of that fellow. But, viewing it in either a judicial or philosophical light, he's quiteas well where he is. They don't give them much to eat in jail I admit, but it is a great place for straightening the morals of a rum-head likeTom. And he has got down so low that all the justices in the citycouldn't make him fit for respectable society. " Mr. Snivel yawns andstretches his arms athwart. 

"But you can grant me the order independent of what respectable societywill do. "

Mr. Snivel replies, bowing, a pretty woman is more than a match for thewhole judiciary. He will make a good amount of fees out of Tom yet; andwhat his testy old mother declines to pay, he will charge to the State, as the law gives him a right to do. 

"Then I am to understand!" quickly retorts Anna, rising from her chair, with an expression of contempt on her countenance, and a satirical curlon her lip, "you have no true regard for me then; your friendship isthat of the knave, who has nothing to give after his ends are served. Iwill leave you!" The Judge takes her gently by the arm; indignantly shepushes him from her, as her great black eyes flash with passion, and sheseeks for the door. Mr. Snivel has placed himself against it, begs shewill be calm. "Why, " he says, "get into a passion at that which was buta joke. " The Judge touches him on the arm significantly, and whispersin his ear, "grant her the order--grant it, for peace sake, JusticeSnivel. "

"Now, if you will tell me why you take so deep an interest in gettingthem fellows out of prison, I will grant the order of release, " Mr. Snivel says, and with an air of great gallantry leads her back to herchair. 

"None but friendship for one who served me when he had it in his power. "

"I see! I see!" interrupts our gallant justice; "the renewal of an oldacquaintance; you are to play the part of Don Quixote, --he, themistress. It's well enough there should be a change in the knights, andthat the stripling who goes about in the garb of the clergy, and hasbeen puzzling his wits how to get Tom out of prison for the last sixmonths--"

"Your trades never agree;" parenthesises Anna. 

"Should yield the lance to you. "

"Who better able to wield it in this chivalrous atmosphere? It onlypains my own feelings to confess myself an abandoned woman; but I have aconsolation in knowing how powerful an abandoned woman may be inCharleston. "

An admonition from the old Judge, and Mr. Snivel draws his chair to thetable, upon which he places his left elbow, rests his head on his hand. "This fellow will get out; his mother--I have pledged my honor to keephim fast locked up--will find it out, and there'll be a fuss among ourfirst families, " he whispers. Anna pledges him her honor, a thing shenever betrays, that the secret of Tom's release shall be a matter ofstrict confidence. And having shook hands over it, Mr. Snivel seizes thepen and writes an order of release, commanding the jailer to set atliberty one Tom Swiggs, committed as a vagrant upon a justice's warrant, &c. , &c. , &c. "There, " says Justice Snivel, "the thing is done--now fora kiss;" and the fair girl permits him to kiss her brow. "Me too; thebench and the bar!" rejoins the Judge, following the example of hisjunior. And with an air of triumph the victorious girl bears away whatat this moment she values a prize. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

IN WHICH TOM SWIGGS GAINS HIS LIBERTY, AND WHAT BEFALLS HIM. 

Anna gives George Mullholland the letter of release, and on thesucceeding morning he is seen entering at the iron gate of the wall thatencloses the old prison. "Bread! give me bread, " greets his ear as soonas he enters the sombre old pile. He walks through the debtors' floor, startles as he hears the stifled cry for bread, and contemplates withpained feelings the wasting forms and sickly faces that everywhere meethis eye. The same piercing cry grates upon his senses as he salliesalong the damp, narrow aisle of the second floor, lined on both sideswith small, filthy cells, in which are incarcerated men whose crime isthat of having committed "assault and battery, " and British seameninnocent of all crime except that of having a colored skin. If anythingless than a gentleman commit assault and battery, we punish him withimprisonment; we have no law to punish gentlemen who commit suchoffences. 

Along the felon's aisle--in the malarious cells where "poor" murderersand burglars are chained to die of the poisonous atmosphere, the samecry tells its mournful tale. Look into the dark vista of this littlepassage, and you will see the gleaming of flabby arms and shrunkenhands. Glance into the apertures out of which they protrude soappealingly, you will hear the dull clank of chains, see the glare ofvacant eyes, and shudder at the pale, cadaverous faces of beingstortured with starvation. A low, hoarse whisper, asks you for bread; alistless countenance quickens at your footfall. Oh! could you but feelthe emotion that has touched that shrunken form which so despondinglywaits the coming of a messenger of mercy. That system of cruelty toprisoners which so disgraced England during the last century, and whichfor her name she would were erased from her history, we preserve here inall its hideousness. The Governor knows nothing, and cares nothing aboutthe prison; the Attorney-General never darkens its doors; the publicscarce give a thought for those within its walls--and to one man, Mr. Hardscrabble, is the fate of these wretched beings entrusted. And soprone has become the appetite of man to speculate on the misfortunes ofhis fellow-man, that this good man, as we shall call him, tortures thusthe miserable beings entrusted to his keeping, and makes it a means ofgetting rich. Pardon, reader, this digression. 

George, elated with the idea of setting Tom at liberty, found the youngtheologian at the prison, and revealed to him the fact that he had gotthe much-desired order. To the latter this seemed strange--not that sucha person as George could have succeeded in what he had tried in vain toeffect, but that there was a mystery about it. It is but justice to saythat the young theologian had for six months used every exertion in hispower, without avail, to procure an order of release. He had appealed tothe Attorney-General, who declared himself powerless, but referred himto the Governor. The Governor could take no action in the premises, andreferred him to the Judge of the Sessions. The Judge of the Sessionsdoubted his capacity to interfere, and advised a petition to the Clerkof the Court. The Clerk of the Court, who invariably took it uponhimself to correct the judge's dictum, decided that the judge could notinterfere, the case being a committal by a Justice of the Peace, and nothaving been before the sessions. And against these highfunctionaries--the Governor, Attorney-General, Judge of the Sessions, and Clerk of the Court, was Mr. Soloman and Mrs. Swiggs all-powerful. There was, however, another power superior to all, and that we havedescribed in the previous chapter. 

Accompanied by the brusque old jailer, George and the young theologianmake their way to the cell in which Tom is confined. 

"Hallo! Tom, " exclaims George, as he enters the cell, "boarding at theexpense of the State yet, eh?" Tom lay stretched on a blanket in onecorner of the cell, his faithful old friend, the sailor, watching overhim with the solicitude of a brother. "I don't know how he'd got on ifit hadn't bin for the old sailor, yonder, " says the jailer, pointing toSpunyarn, who is crouched down at the great black fireplace, blowing thecoals under a small pan. "He took to Tom when he first came in, andhasn't left him for a day. He'll steal to supply Tom's hunger, and fightif a prisoner attempts to impose upon his charge. He has rigged him out, you see, with his pea-coat and overalls, " continues the man, folding hisarms. 

"I am sorry, Tom--"

"Yes, " says Tom, interrupting the young theologian, "I know you are. Youdon't find me to have kept my word; and because I haven't you don't findme improved much. I can't get out; and if I can't get out, what's theuse of my trying to improve? I don't say this because I don't want toimprove. I have no one living who ought to care for me, but my mother. And she has shown what she cares for me. "

"Everything is well. (The young theologian takes Tom by the hand. ) Wehave got your release. You are a free man, now. "

"My release!" exclaims the poor outcast, starting to his feet, "myrelease?"

"Yes, " kindly interposes the jailer, "you may go, Tom. Stone walls, bolts and chains have no further use for you. " The announcement bringstears to his eyes; he cannot find words to give utterance to hisemotions. He drops the young theologian's hand, grasps warmly that ofGeorge Mullholland, and says, the tears falling fast down his cheeks, "now I will be a new man. "

"God bless Tom, " rejoins the old sailor, who has left the fireplace andjoined in the excitement of the moment. "I alwas sed there war betterweather ahead, Tom. " He pats him encouragingly on the shoulder, andturns to the bystanders, continuing with a childlike frankness: "he'salwas complained with himself about breaking his word and honor withyou, sir--"

The young theologian says the temptation was more than he couldwithstand. 

"Yes sir!--that was it. He, poor fellow, wasn't to blame. One broughthim in a drop, and challenged him; then another brought him in a drop, and challenged him; and the vote-cribber would get generous now andthen, and bring him a drop, saying how he would like to crib him if hewas only out, on the general election coming on, and make him take adrop of what he called election whiskey. And you know, sir, it's hardfor a body to stand up against all these things, specially when a body'sbin disappointed in love. It's bin a hard up and down with him. To-dayhe would make a bit of good weather, and to-morrow he'd be all up in ahurricane. " And the old sailor takes a fresh quid of tobacco, wipesTom's face, gets the brush and fusses over him, and tells him to cheerup, now that he has got his clearance. 

"Tom would know if his mother ordered it. "

"No! she must not know that you are at large, " rejoins George. 

"Not that I am at large?"

"I have, " interposes the young theologian, "provided a place for you. Wehave a home for you, a snug little place at the house of old McArthur--"

"Old McArthur, " interpolates Tom, smiling, "I'm not a curiosity. "

George Mullholland says he may make love to Maria, that she will oncemore be a sister. Touched by the kindly act on his behalf, Tom repliessaying she was always kind to him, watched over him when no one elsewould, and sought with tender counsels to effect his reform, to make himforget his troubles. 

"Thank you!--my heart thanks you more forcibly than my tongue can. Ifeel a man. I won't touch drink again: no I won't. You won't find mebreaking my honor this time. A sick at heart man, like me, has no powerto buffet disappointment. I was a wretch, and like a wretch without amother's sympathy, found relief only in drinks--"

"And such drinks!" interposes the old sailor, shrugging his shoulders. "Good weather, and a cheer up, now and then, from a friend, would havesaved him. "

Now there appears in the doorway, the stalworth figure of thevote-cribber, who, with sullen face, advances mechanically toward Tom, pauses and regards him with an air of suspicion. "You are not what youought to be, Tom, " he says, doggedly, and turns to the young Missionary. "Parson, " he continues, "this 'ere pupil of yourn's a hard un. He isn'tfit for respectable society. Like a sponge, he soaks up all the whiskeyin jail. " The young man turns upon him a look more of pity than scorn, while the jailer shakes his head admonishingly. The vote-cribbercontinues insensible to the admonition. He, be it known, is a characterof no small importance in the political world. Having a sort of sympathyfor the old jail he views his transient residences therein rathernecessary than otherwise. As a leading character is necessary to everygrade of society, so also does he plume himself the aristocrat of theprison. Persons committed for any other than offences against theelection laws, he holds in utter contempt. Indeed, he says with a gooddeal of truth, that as fighting is become the all necessaryqualification of our Senators and Representatives to Congress, he thinksof offering himself for the next vacancy. The only rival he fears is"handsome Charley. "[2] The accommodations are not what they might be, but, being exempt from rent and other items necessary to a prominentpolitician, he accepts them as a matter of economy. 

[Footnote 2: An election bully, the ugliest man in Charleston, and thedeadly foe of Mingle. ]

The vote-cribber is sure of being set free on the approach of anelection. We may as well confess it before the world--he is anindispensable adjunct to the creating, of Legislators, Mayors, Congressmen, and Governors. Whiskey is not more necessary to thereputation of our mob-politicians than are the physical powers of MilmanMingle to the success of the party he honors with his services. Nor dohis friends scruple at consulting him on matters of great importance tothe State while in his prison sanctuary. 

"I'm out to-morrow, parson, " he resumes; the massive fingers of hisright hand wandering into his crispy, red beard, and again over hisscarred face. "Mayor's election comes off two weeks fromFriday--couldn't do without me--can knock down any quantity of men--youthrow a plumper, I take it?" The young Missionary answers in thenegative by shaking his head, while the kind old sailor continues tofuss over and prepare Tom for his departure. "Tom is about to leave us, "says the old sailor, by way of diverting the vote-cribber's attention. That dignitary, so much esteemed by our fine old statesmen, turns toTom, and inquires if he has a vote. 

Tom has a vote, but declares he will not give it to the vote-cribber'sparty. The politician says "p'raps, " and draws from his bosom a smallflask. "Whiskey, Tom, " he says, --"no use offering it to parsons, eh? (hecasts an insinuating look at the parson. ) First-chop election whiskey--asup and we're friends until I get you safe under the lock of my crib. Our Senators to Congress patronize this largely. " The forlorn freeman, with a look of contempt for the man who thus upbraids him, dashes thedrug upon the floor, to the evident chagrin of the politician, who, toconceal his feelings, turns to George Mulholland, and mechanicallyinquires if _he_ has a vote. Being answered in the negative, he picks uphis flask and walks away, saying: "what rubbish!"

Accompanied by his friends and the old sailor, Tom sallies forth intothe atmosphere of sweet freedom. As the old jailer swings back the outergate, Spunyarn grasps his friend and companion in sorrow warmly by thehand, his bronzed face brightens with an air of satisfaction, and likepure water gushing from the rude rock his eyes fill with tears. Howhonest, how touching, how pure the friendly lisp--good bye! "Keep up astrong heart, Tom, --never mind me. I don't know by what right I'm kepthere, and starved; but I expect to get out one of these days; and when Ido you may reckon on me as your friend. Keep the craft in good trim tillthen; don't let the devil get master. Come and see us now and then, andabove all, never give up the ship during a storm. " Tom's emotions aretoo deeply touched. He has no reply to make, but presses in silence thehand of the old sailor, takes his departure, and turns to wave him anadieu. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

IN WHICH THERE IS AN INTERESTING MEETING. 

Our very chivalric dealers in human merchandise, like philosophers andphilanthropists, are composed merely of flesh and blood, while theirtheories are alike influenced by circumstances. Those of the first, we(the South) are, at times, too apt to regard as sublimated and refined, while we hold the practices of the latter such as divest human nature ofeverything congenial. Nevertheless we can assure our readers that theredoes not exist a class of men who so much pride themselves on theirchivalry as some of our opulent slave-dealers. Did we want proof tosustain what we have said we could not do better than refer to Mr. Forsheu, that very excellent gentleman. Mrs. Swiggs held him in highesteem, and so far regarded his character for piety and chivalryunblemished, that she consigned to him her old slave of seventyyears--old Molly. Molly must be sold, the New York Tract Society musthave a mite, and Sister Abijah Slocum's very laudable enterprise ofgetting Brother Singleton Spyke off to Antioch must be encouraged. AndMr. Forsheu is very kind to the old people he sells. It would, indeed, be difficult for the distant reader to conceive a more striking instanceof a man, grown rich in a commerce that blunts all the finer qualitiesof our nature, preserving a gentleness, excelled only by his realgoodness of heart. 

When the old slave, leaning on her crutch, stood before Mr. Forsheu, herface the very picture of age and starvation, his heart recoiled at thethought of selling her in her present condition. He read the letter shebore, contemplated her with an air of pity, and turning to Mr. Benbow, his methodical book-keeper of twenty years, who had added and subtractedthrough a wilderness of bodies and souls, ordered him to send theshrunken old woman into the pen, on feed. Mr. Forsheu prided himself onthe quality of people sold at his shambles, and would not for the worldhazard his reputation on old Molly, till she was got in bettercondition. Molly rather liked this, inasmuch as she had been fed on cornand prayers exclusively, and more prayers than corn, which is become thefashion with our much-reduced first families. For nearly four months sheenjoyed, much to the discomfiture of her august owner, the comforts ofMr. Forsheu's pen. Daily did the anxious old lady study her Milton, anddispatch a slave to inquire if her piece of aged property had found apurchaser. The polite vender preserved, with uncommon philosophy, histemper. He enjoined patience. The condition and age of the propertywere, he said, much in the way of sale. Then Mrs. Swiggs beganquestioning his ability as a merchant. Aspersions of this kind, thepolite vender of people could not bear with. He was a man of enormouswealth, the result of his skill in the sale of people. He was thepresident of an insurance company, a bank director, a commissioner ofthe orphan asylum, and a steward of the jockey club. To his greatrelief, for he began to have serious misgivings about his outlay on oldMolly, there came along one day an excellent customer. This was no lessa person than Madame Flamingo. What was singular of this verydistinguished lady was, that she always had a use for old slaves no oneelse ever thought of. Her yard was full of aged and tottering humanity. One cleaned knives, another fetched ice from the ice-house, a thirdblacked boots, a fourth split wood, a fifth carried groceries, and asixth did the marketing. She had a decayed negro for the smallestservice; and, to her credit be it said, they were as contented and wellfed a body of tottering age as could be found in old Carolina. 

Her knife-cleaning machine having taken it into his head to die one day, she would purchase another. Mr Forsheu, with that urbanity we so wellunderstand how to appreciate, informed the distinguished lady that hehad an article exactly suited to her wants. Forthwith, Molly wassummoned into her presence. Madame Flamingo, moved almost to tears atthe old slave's appearance, purchased her out of pure sympathy, as wecall it, and to the great relief of Mr. Forsheu, lost no time in payingone hundred and forty dollars down in gold for her. In deference to Mr. Hadger, the House of The Foreign Missions, and the very excellent TractSociety, of New York, we will not here extend on how the money was got. The transaction was purely commercial: why should humanity interpose? Wehold it strictly legal that institutions created for the purpose ofenlightening the heathen have no right to ask by what means the moneyconstituting their donations is got. 

The comforts of Mr. Forsheu's pen, --the hominy, grits, and rest, madethe old slave quite as reluctant about leaving him as she had beforebeen in parting with Lady Swiggs. Albeit, she shook his hand with equalearnestness, and lisped "God bless Massa, " with a tenderness andsimplicity so touching, that had not Madame Flamingo been an excellentdiplomat, reconciling the matter by assuring her that she would getenough to eat, and clothes to wear, no few tears would have been shed. Madame, in addition to this incentive, intimated that she might attend aprayer meeting now and then--perhaps see Cicero. However, Molly couldeasily have forgotten Cicero, inasmuch as she had enjoyed the rarefelicity of thirteen husbands, all of whom Lady Swiggs had sold when itsuited her own convenience. 

Having made her purchase, Madame very elegantly bid the gallant merchantgood morning, hoping he would not forget her address, and call roundwhen it suited his convenience. Mr. Forsheu, his hat doffed, escortedher to her carriage, into the amber-colored lining of which shegracefully settled her majestic self, as a slightly-browned gentleman inlivery closed the bright door, took her order with servile bows, andhaving motioned to the coachman, the carriage rolled away, and was soonout of sight. Monsieur Gronski, it may be well to add here, wasdiscovered curled up in one corner; he smiled, and extended his handvery graciously to Madame as she entered the carriage. 

Like a pilgrim in search of some promised land, Molly adjusted hercrutch, and over the sandy road trudged, with truculent face, to her newhome, humming to herself "dah-is-a-time-a-comin, den da Lor' he begood!!"

On the following morning, Lady Swiggs received her account current, Mr. Forsheu being exceedingly prompt in business. There was one hundred andtwenty-nine days' feed, commissions, advertising, and sundry smallercharges, which reduced the net balance to one hundred and three dollars. Mrs. Swiggs, with an infatuation kindred to that which finds the Stateblind to its own poverty, stubbornly refused to believe her slaves haddeclined in value. Hence she received the vender's account with surpriseand dissatisfaction. However, the sale being binding, she graduallyaccommodated her mind to the result, and began evolving the question ofhow to make the amount meet the emergency. She must visit the great cityof New York; she must see Sister Slocum face to face; Brother Spyke'smission must have fifty dollars; how much could she give the TractSociety? Here was a dilemma--one which might have excited the sympathyof the House of the "Foreign Missions. " The dignity of the family, too, was at stake. Many sleepless nights did this difficult matter cause theaugust old lady. She thought of selling another cripple! Oh! that wouldnot do. Mr. Keepum had a lien on them; Mr. Keepum was a man ofiron-heart. Suddenly it flashed upon her mind that she had already beenguilty of a legal wrong in selling old Molly. Mr. Soloman had doubtlessdescribed her with legal minuteness in the bond of security for the twohundred dollars. Her decrepit form; her corrugated face; her heavy lip;her crutch, and her piety--everything, in a word, but her starvation, had been set down. Well! Mr. Soloman might, she thought, overlook in themultiplicity of business so small a discrepancy. She, too, had a largecircle of distinguished friends. If the worst came to the worst shewould appeal to them. There, too, was Sir Sunderland Swiggs' portrait, very valuable for its age; she might sell the family arms, such thingsbeing in great demand with the chivalry; her antique furniture, too, was highly prized by our first families. Thus Lady Swiggs contemplatedthese mighty relics of past greatness. Our celtic Butlers and Brooksesnever recurred to the blood of their querulous ancestors with more awethan did this memorable lady to her decayed relics. Mr. Israel Moses, she cherished a hope, would give a large sum for the portrait; thefamily arms he would value at a high figure; the old furniture he wouldesteem a prize. But to Mr. Moses and common sense, neither the blood ofthe Butlers, nor Lady Swiggs' rubbish, were safe to loan money upon. TheHebrew gentleman was not so easily beguiled. 

The time came when it was necessary to appeal to Mr. Hadger. Thatgentleman held the dignity of the Swiggs family in high esteem, butshook his head when he found the respectability of the house the onlysecurity offered in exchange for a loan. Ah! a thought flashed to herrelief, the family watch and chain would beguile the Hebrew gentleman. With these cherished mementoes of the high old family, (she would underno other circumstance have parted with for uncounted gold, ) she in timeseduced Mr. Israel Moses to make a small advance. Duty, stern anddemanding, called her to New York. Forced to reduce her generosity, she, not without a sigh, made up her mind to give only thirty dollars to eachof the institutions she had made so many sacrifices to serve. And thus, with a reduced platform, as our politicians have it, she set aboutpreparing for the grand journey. Regards the most distinguished weresent to all the first families; the St. Cecilia had notice of herintended absence; no end of tea parties were given in honor of theevent. Apparently happy with herself, with every one but poor Tom, ouraugust lady left in the Steamer one day. With a little of that vanitythe State deals so largely in, Mrs. Swiggs thought every passenger onboard wondering and staring at her. 

While then she voyages and dreams of the grand reception waiting her inNew York, --of Sister Slocum's smiles, of the good of the heathen world, and of those nice evening gatherings she will enjoy with the pious, letus, gentle reader, look in at the house of Absalom McArthur. 

To-day Tom Swiggs feels himself free, and it is high noon. Downcast ofcountenance he wends his way along the fashionable side of King-street. The young theologian is at his side. George Mullholland has gone to thehouse of Madame Flamingo. He will announce the glad news to Anna. Theold antiquarian dusts his little counter with a stubby broom, placesvarious curiosities in the windows, and about the doors, standscontemplating them with an air of satisfaction, then proceeds to drive aswarm of flies that hover upon the ceiling, into a curiously-arrangedtrap that he has set. 

"What!--my young friend, Tom Swiggs!" exclaims the old man, toddlingtoward Tom, and grasping firmly his hand, as he enters the door. "Youare welcome to my little place, which shall be a home. " Tom hangs downhis head, receives the old man's greeting with shyness. "Your poorfather and me, Tom, used to sit here many a time. (The old man points toan old sofa. ) We were friends. He thought much of me, and I had a highopinion of him; and so we used to sit for hours, and talk over the deedsof the old continentals. Your mother and him didn't get along over-welltogether; she had more dignity than he could well digest: but that isneither here nor there. "

"I hope, in time, " interrupts Tom, "to repay your kindness. I am willingto ply myself to work, though it degrades one in the eyes of oursociety. "

"As to that, " returns the old man, "why, don't mention it. Maria, youknow, will be a friend to you. Come away now and see her. " And takingTom by the hand, (the theologian has withdrawn, ) he becomesenthusiastic, leads him through the dark, narrow passage into the backparlor, where he is met by Maria, and cordially welcomed. "Why, Tom, what a change has come over you, " she ejaculates, holding his hand, andviewing him with the solicitude of a sister, who hastens to embrace abrother returned after a long absence. Letting fall his begrimed hand, she draws up the old-fashioned rocking chair, and bids him be seated. Heshakes his head moodily, says he is not so bad as he seems, and hopesyet to make himself worthy of her kindness. He has been the associate ofcriminals; he has suffered punishment; he feels himself loathed bysociety; he cannot divest himself of the odium clinging to his garments. Fain would he go to some distant clime, and there seek a refuge from theodium of felons. 

"Let no such thoughts enter your mind, Tom, " says the affectionate girl;"divest yourself at once of feelings that can only do you injury. Youhave engaged my thoughts during your troubles. Twice I begged yourmother to honor me with an interview. We were humble people; shecondescended at last. But she turned a deaf ear to me when I appealed toher for your release, merely inquiring if--like that other jade--I hadbecome enamored of--" Maria pauses, blushing. 

"I would like to see my mother, " interposes Tom. 

"Had I belonged to our grand society, the case had been different, "resumes Maria. 

"Truly, Maria, " stammers Tom, "had I supposed there was one in the worldwho cared for me, I had been a better man. "

"As to that, why we were brought up together, Tom. We knew each other aschildren, and what else but respect could I have for you? One neverknows how much others think of them, for the--" Maria blushes, checksherself, and watches the changes playing over Tom's countenance. She wasabout to say the tongue of love was too often silent. 

It must be acknowledged that Maria had, for years, cherished a passionfor Tom. He, however, like many others of his class, was too stupid todiscover it. The girl, too, had been overawed by the dignity of hismother. Thus, with feelings of pain did she watch the downward course ofone in whose welfare she took a deep interest. 

"Very often those for whom we cherish the fondest affections, arecoldest in their demeanor towards us, " pursues Maria. 

"Can she have thought of me so much as to love me?" Tom questions withinhimself; and Maria put an end to the conversation by ringing the bell, commanding the old servant to hasten dinner. A plate must be placed atthe table for Tom. 

The antiquarian, having, as he says, left the young people tothemselves, stands at his counter furbishing up sundry old engravings, horse-pistols, pieces of coat-of-mail, and two large scimitars, all ofwhich he has piled together in a heap, and beside which lay severalchapeaus said to have belonged to distinguished Britishers. Mr. Solomansuddenly makes his appearance in the little shop, much to Mr. McArthur'ssurprise. "Say--old man! centurion!" he exclaims, in a maudlin laugh, "Keepum's in the straps--is, I do declare; Gadsden and he bought a lotof niggers--a monster drove of 'em, on shares. He wants that trifle ofborrowed money--must have it. Can have it back in a few days. "

"Bless me, " interrupts the old man, confusedly, "but off my littlethings it will be hard to raise it. Times is hard, our people go, likegeese, to the North. They get rid of all their money there, and theirfancy--you know that, Mr. Snivel--is abroad, while they have, for home, only a love to keep up slavery. "

"I thought it would come to that, " says Mr. Snivel, facetiously. Theantiquarian seems bewildered, commences offering excuses that ratherinvolve himself deeper, and finally concludes by pleading for a delay. Scarce any one would have thought a person of Mr. McArthur's position, indebted to Mr. Keepum; but so it was. It is very difficult to tellwhose negroes are not mortgaged to Mr. Keepum, how many mortgages ofplantation he has foreclosed, how many high old families he has reducedto abject poverty, or how many poor but respectable families he hasdisgraced. He has a reputation for loaning money to parents, that he mayrob their daughters of that jewel the world refuses to give them back. And yet our best society honor him, fawn over him, and bow to him. We soworship the god of slavery, that our minds are become debased, and yetwe seem unconscious of it. Mr. Keepum did not lend money to the oldantiquarian without a purpose. That purpose, that justice whichaccommodates itself to the popular voice, will aid him in gaining. 

Mr. Snivel affects a tone of moderation, whispers in the old man's ear, and says: "Mind you tell the fortune of this girl, Bonard, as I havedirected. Study what I have told you. If she be not the child of MadameMontford, then no faith can be put in likenesses. I have got in mypossession what goes far to strengthen the suspicions now rifeconcerning the fashionable New Yorker. "

"There surely is a mystery about this woman, Mr. Snivel, as you say. Shehas so many times looked in here to inquire about Mag Munday, a woman ina curious line of life who came here, got down in the world, as they alldo, and used now and then to get the loan of a trifle from me to keepher from starvation. " (Mr. Snivel says, in parentheses, he knows allabout her. )

"Ha! ha! my old boy, " says Mr. Snivel, frisking his fingers through hislight Saxon beard, "I have had this case in hand for some time. It isstrictly a private matter, nevertheless. They are a bad lot--them NewYorkers, who come here to avoid their little delicate affairs. I may yetmake a good thing out of this, though. As for that fellow, Mullholland, I intend getting him the whipping post. He is come to be the associateof gentlemen; men high in office shower upon him their favors. It is allto propitiate the friendship of Bonard--I know it. " Mr. Snivel concludeshurriedly, and departs into the street, as our scene changes. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

ANNA BONARD SEEKS AN INTERVIEW WITH THE ANTIQUARY. 

It is night. King street seems in a melancholy mood, the blue arch ofheaven is bespangled with twinkling stars, the moon has mounted her highthrone, and her beams, like messengers of love, dance joyously over thecalm waters of the bay, so serenely skirted with dark woodland. The dulltramp of the guardman's horse now breaks the stillness; then themeasured tread of the heavily-armed patrol, with which the city swarmsat night, echoes and re-echoes along the narrow streets. A theatrereeking with the fumes of whiskey and tobacco; a sombre-lookingguard-house, bristling with armed men, who usher forth to guard thefears of tyranny, or drag in some wretched slave; a dilapidated "CourtHouse, " at the corner, at which lazy-looking men lounge; a castellated"Work House, " so grand without, and so full of bleeding hearts within; a"Poor House" on crutches, and in which infirm age and poverty die oftreatment that makes the heart sicken--these are all the publicbuildings we can boast. Like ominous mounds, they seem sleeping in thecalm and serene night. Ah! we had almost forgotten the sympathetic oldhospital, with its verandas; the crabbed looking "City Hall, " with itsport holes; and the "Citadel, " in which, when our youths have learned tofight duels, we learn them how to fight their way out of the Union. Duelling is our high art; getting out of the Union is our low. And, too, we have, and make no small boast that we have, two or three buildingscalled "Halls. " In these our own supper-eating men riot, our soldiersdrill (soldiering is our presiding genius), and our mob-politicianswaste their spleen against the North. Unlike Boston, towering all brightand vigorous in the atmosphere of freedom, we have no galleries ofstatuary; no conservatories of paintings; no massive edifices of marble, dedicated to art and science; no princely school-houses, radiating theirlight of learning over a peace and justice-loving community; no majesticexchange, of granite and polished marble, so emblematic of a thriftycommerce;--we have no regal "State House" on the lofty hill, noglittering colleges everywhere striking the eye. The god of slavery--thegod we worship, has no use for such temples; public libraries are hisprison; his civilization is like a dull dead march; he is the enemy ofhis own heart, vitiating and making drear whatever he touches. He wageswar on art, science, civilization! he trembles at the sight of templesreared for the enlightening of the masses. Tyranny is his law, acotton-bag his judgment-seat. But we pride ourselves that we are arespectable people--what more would you have us?

The night is chilly without, in the fireplace of the antiquary's backparlor there burns a scanty wood fire. Tom has eaten his supper andretired to a little closet-like room overhead, where, in bed, he musesover what fell from Maria's lips, in their interview. Did she reallycherish a passion for him? had her solicitude in years past somethingmore than friendship in it? what did she mean? He was not one of thosewhose place in a woman's heart could never be supplied. How would analliance with Maria affect his mother's dignity? All these things Tomevolves over and over in his mind. In point of position, a mechanic'sdaughter was not far removed from the slave; a mechanic's daughter wasviewed only as a good object of seduction for some nice young gentleman. Antiquarians might get a few bows of planter's sons, the legal gentry, and cotton brokers (these make up our aristocracy), but practically noone would think of admitting them into decent society. They, of right, belong to that vulgar herd that live by labor at which the slave can beemployed. To be anything in the eyes of good society, you must only liveupon the earnings of slaves. 

"Why, " says Tom, "should I consult the dignity of a mother who discardsme? The love of this lone daughter of the antiquary, this girl whostrives to know my wants, and to promote my welfare, rises superior toall. I will away with such thoughts! I will be a man!" Maria, with eagereye and thoughtful countenance, sits at the little antique centre-table, reading Longfellow's Evangeline, by the pale light of a candle. A luridglare is shed over the cavern-like place. The reflection plays curiouslyupon the corrugated features of the old man, who, his favorite cat athis side, reclines on a stubby little sofa, drawn well up to the fire. The poet would not select Maria as his ideal of female loveliness; andyet there is a touching modesty in her demeanor, a sweet smile everplaying over her countenance, an artlessness in her conversation thatmore than makes up for the want of those charms novel writers arepleased to call transcendent. "Father!" she says, pausing, "some oneknocks at the outer door. " The old man starts and listens, then hastensto open it. There stands before him the figure of a strange female, veiled. "I am glad to find you, old man. Be not suspicious of my comingat this hour, for my mission is a strange one. " The old man's crookedeyes flash, his deep curling lip quivers, his hand vibrates the candlehe holds before him. "If on a mission to do nobody harm, " he responds, "then you are welcome. " "You will pardon me; I have seen you before. Youhave wished me well, " she whispers in a musical voice. Gracefully sheraises her veil over her Spanish hood, and advances cautiously, as theold man closes the door behind her. Then she uncovers her head, nervously. The white, jewelled fingers of her right hand, so delicateand tapering, wander over and smooth her silky black hair, that falls inwaves over her Ion-like brow. How exquisite those features justrevealed; how full of soul those flashing black eyes; her dress, howchaste! "They call me Anna Bonard, " she speaks, timorously, "you mayknow me?--"

"Oh, I know you well, " interrupts the old man, "your beauty has made youknown. What more would you have?"

"Something that will make me happy. Old man, I am unhappy. Tell me, ifyou have the power, who I am. Am I an orphan, as has been told me; orhave I parents yet living, affluent, and high in society? Do they seekme and cannot find me? Oh! let the fates speak, old man, for this worldhas given me nothing but pain and shame. Am I--" she pauses, her eyeswander to the floor, her cheeks crimson, she seizes the old man by thehand, and her bosom heaves as if a fierce passion had just been kindledwithin it. 

The old man preserves his equanimity, says he has a fortune to tell her. Fortunes are best told at midnight. The stars, too, let out theirsecrets more willingly when the night-king rules. He bids her followhim, and totters back to the little parlor. With a wise air, he bids herbe seated on the sofa, saying he never mistakes maidens when they callat this hour. 

Maria, who rose from the table at the entrance of the stranger, bows, shuts her book mechanically, and retires. Can there be another face solovely? she questions within herself, as she pauses to contemplate thestranger ere she disappears. The antiquary draws a chair and seatshimself beside Anna. "Thy life and destiny, " he says, fretting his bonyfingers over the crown of his wig. "Blessed is the will of providencethat permits us to know the secrets of destiny. Give me your hand, fairlady. " Like a philosopher in deep study, he wipes and adjusts hisspectacles, then takes her right hand and commences reading its lines. "Your history is an uncommon one--"

"Yes, " interrupts the girl, "mine has been a chequered life. "

"You have seen sorrow enough, but will see more. You come of goodparents; but, ah!--there is a mystery shrouding your birth. " ("And thatmystery, " interposes the girl, "I want to have explained. ") "There willcome a woman to reclaim you--a woman in high life; but she will come toolate--" (The girl pales and trembles. ) "Yes, " pursues the old man, looking more studiously at her hand, "she will come too late. You willhave admirers, and even suitors; but they will only betray you, and inthe end you will die of trouble. Ah! there is a line that had escapedme. You may avert this dark destiny--yes, you may escape the end thatfate has ordained for you. In neglect you came up, the companion of aman you think true to you. But he is not true to you. Watch him, followhim--you will yet find him out. Ha! ha! ha! these men are not to betrusted, my dear. There is but one man who really loves you. He is anold man, a man of station. He is your only true friend. I here see itmarked. " He crosses her hand, and says there can be no mistaking it. "With that man, fair girl, you may escape the dark destiny. But, aboveall things, do not treat him coldly. And here I see by the sign thatAnna Bonard is not your name. The name was given you by a wizard. "

"You are right, old man, " speaks Anna, raising thoughtfully her greatblack eyes, as the antiquary pauses and watches each change of hercountenance; "that name was given me by Hag Zogbaum, when I was a childin her den, in New York, and when no one cared for me. What my rightname was has now slipped my memory. I was indeed a wretched child, andknow little of myself. "

"Was it Munday?" inquires the old man. Scarce has he lisped the namebefore she catches it up and repeats it, incoherently, "Munday! Munday!Munday!" her eyes flash with anxiety. "Ah, I remember now. I was calledAnna Munday by Mother Bridges. I lived with her before I got to the denof Hag Zogbaum. And Mother Bridges sold apples at a stand at the cornerof a street, on West street. It seems like a dream to me now. I do notwant to recall those dark days or my childhood. Have you not somerevelation to make respecting my parents?" The old man says the signswill not aid him further. "On my arm, " she pursues, baring her white, polished arm, "there is a mark. I know not who imprinted it there. See, old man. " The old man sees high up on her right arm two hearts and abroken anchor, impressed with India ink blue and red. "Yes, " repeats theantiquary, viewing it studiously, "but it gives out no history. If youcould remember who put it there. " Of that she has no recollection. Theold man cannot relieve her anxiety, and arranging her hood she bids himgood night, forces a piece of gold into his hand, and seeks her home, disappointed. 

The antiquary's predictions were founded on what Mr. Soloman Snivel hadtold him, and that gentleman got what he knew of Anna's history fromGeorge Mullholland. To this, however, he added what suggestions hissuspicions gave rise to. The similarity of likeness between Anna andMadame Montford was striking; Madame Montford's mysterious searches andinquiries for the woman Munday had something of deep import in them. MagMunday's strange disappearance from Charleston, and her previousimportuning for the old dress left in pawn with McArthur, were not to beoverlooked. These things taken together, and Mr. Snivel saw a case therecould be no mistaking. That case became stronger when his fashionablefriend engaged his services to trace out what had become of the womanMag Munday, and to further ascertain what the girl Anna Bonard knew ofher own history. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

A SECRET INTERVIEW. 

While the scene we have related in the foregoing chapter was beingenacted, there might be seen pacing the great colonnade of theCharleston hotel, the tall figure of a man wrapped in a massive talma. Heedless of the throng of drinkers gathered in the spacious bar-room, making the very air echo with their revelry, he pauses every fewmoments, watches intently up and then down Meeting street, nowapparently contemplating the twinkling stars, then turning as ifdisappointed, and resuming his sallies. "He will not come to night, " hemutters, as he pauses at the "Ladies' door, " then turns and rings thebell. The well-dressed and highly-perfumed servant who guards the door, admits him with a scrutinizing eye. "Beg pardon, " he says, with amechanical bow. He recognizes the stranger, bows, and motions his hands. "Twice, " continues the servant, "she has sent a messenger to inquire ofyour coming. " The figure in the talma answers with a bow, slipssomething into the hand of the servant, passes softly up the greatstairs, and is soon lost to sight. In another minute he enters, withoutknocking, a spacious parlor, decorated and furnished most sumptuously. "How impatiently I have waited your coming, " whispers, cautiously, arichly-dressed lady, as she rises from a velvet covered lounge, on whichshe had reclined, and extends her hand to welcome him. 

"Madame, your most obedient, " returns the man, bowing and holding herdelicate hand in his. "You have something of importance, --something torelieve my mind?" she inquires, watching his lips, trembling, and inanxiety. "Nothing definite, " he replies, touching her gently on the arm, as she begs him to be seated in the great arm-chair. He lays aside histalma, places his gloves on the centre-table, which is heaped with aninfinite variety of delicately-enveloped missives and cards, allindicative of her position in fashionable society. "I may say, Madame, that I sympathize with you in your anxiety; but as yet I have discoverednothing to relieve it. " Madame sighs, and draws her chair near him, insilence. "That she is the woman you seek I cannot doubt. While on theNeck, I penetrated the shanty of one Thompson, a poor mechanic--ourwhite mechanics, you see, are very poor, and not much thought of--whohad known her, given her a shelter, and several times saved her fromstarvation. Then she left the neighborhood and took to living with apoor wretch of a shoemaker. "

"Poor creature, " interrupts Madame Montford, for it is she whom Mr. Snivel addresses. "If she be dead--oh, dear! That will be the end. Inever shall know what became of that child. And to die ignorant of itsfate will--" Madame pauses, her color changes, she seems seized withsome violent emotion. Mr. Snivel perceives her agitation, and begs shewill remain calm. "If that child had been my own, " she resumes, "theresponsibility had not weighed heavier on my conscience. Wealth, position, the pleasures of society--all sink into insignificance whencompared with my anxiety for the fate of that child. It is like an arrowpiercing my heart, like a phantom haunting me in my dreams, like anevil spirit waking me at night to tell me I shall die an unhappy womanfor having neglected one I was bound by the commands of God toprotect--to save, perhaps, from a life of shame. " She lets fall thesatin folds of her dress, buries her face in her hands, and gives ventto her tears in loud sobs. Mr. Snivel contemplates her agitation withunmoved muscle. To him it is a true index to the sequel. "If you willpardon me, Madame, " he continues, "as I was about to say of thismiserable shoemaker, he took to drink, as all our white mechanics do, and then used to abuse her. We don't think anything of these people, yousee, who after giving themselves up to whiskey, die in the poor house, aterrible death. This shoemaker, of whom I speak, died, and she wasturned into the streets by her landlord, and that sent her to livingwith a 'yellow fellow, ' as we call them. Soon after this she died--soreport has it. We never know much, you see, about these common people. They are a sort of trash we can make nothing of, and they get terriblylow now and then. " Madame Montford's swelling breast heaves, hercountenance wears an air of melancholy; again she nervously lays asidethe cloud-like skirts of her brocade dress. "Have you not, " sheinquires, fretting her jewelled fingers and displaying the massive goldbracelets that clasp her wrists, "some stronger evidence of her death?"Mr. Snivel says he has none but what he gathered from the negroes andpoor mechanics, who live in the by-lanes of the city. There is littledependence, however, to be placed in such reports. Madame, with an airof composure, rises from her chair, and paces twice or thrice across theroom, seemingly in deep study. "Something, " she speaks, stoppingsuddenly in one of her sallies--"something (I do not know what it is)tells me she yet lives: that this is the child we see, living anabandoned life. "

"As I was going on to say, Madame, " pursues Mr. Snivel, with greatblandness of manner, "when our white trash get to living with ournegroes they are as well as dead. One never knows what comes of themafter that. Being always ready to do a bit of a good turn, as you know, I looked in at Sam Wiley's cabin. Sam Wiley is a negro of somerespectability, and generally has an eye to what becomes of these whitewretches. I don't--I assure you I don't, Madame--look into these placesexcept on professional business. Sam, after making inquiry among hisneighbors--our colored population view these people with no very goodopinion, when they get down in the world--said he thought she had foundher way through the gates of the poor man's graveyard. "

"Poor man's graveyard!" repeats Madame Montford, again resuming herchair. 

"Exactly! We have to distinguish between people of position and thosewhite mechanics who come here from the North, get down in the world, andthen die. We can't sell this sort of people, you see. No keeping theirmorals straight without you can. However, this is not to the point. (Mr. Solomon Snivel keeps his eyes intently fixed upon the lady. )

"I sought out the old Sexton, a stupid old cove enough. He had neithernames on his record nor graves that answered the purpose. In a legalsense, Madame, this would not be valid testimony, for this old covebeing only too glad to get rid of our poor, and the fees into hispocket, is not very particular about names. If it were one of our'first families, ' the old fellow would be so obsequious about having thename down square--"

Mr. Snivel frets his fingers through his beard, and bows with an easygrace. 

"Our first families!" repeats Madame Montford. 

"Yes, indeed! He is extremely correct over their funerals. They are of afashionable sort, you see. Well, while I was musing over the decayingdead, and the distinction between poor dead and rich dead, there camealong one Graves, a sort of wayward, half simpleton, who goes aboutamong churchyards, makes graves a study, knows where every one who hasdied for the last century is tucked away, and is worth six sextons atpointing out graves. He never knows anything about the living, for theliving, he says, won't let him live; and that being the case, he onlywants to keep up his acquaintance with the dead. He never has a hat tohis head, nor a shoe to his foot; and where, and how he lives, no onecan tell. He has been at the whipping-post a dozen times or more, butI'm not so sure that the poor wretch ever did anything to merit suchpunishment. Just as the crabbed old sexton was going to drive him out ofthe gate with a big stick, I says, more in the way of a joke thananything else: 'Graves, come here!--I want a word or two with you. ' Hecame up, looking shy and suspicious, and saying he wasn't going to harmanybody, but there was some fresh graves he was thinking over. "

"Some fresh graves!" repeats Madame Montford, nervously. 

"Bless you!--a very common thing, " rejoins Mr. Snivel, with a bow. "Well, this lean simpleton said they (the graves) were made while he wassick. That being the case, he was deprived--and he lamented itbitterly--of being present at the funerals, and getting the names of thedeceased. He is a great favorite with the grave-digger, lends him awilling hand on all occasions, and is extremely useful when the yellowfever rages. But to the sexton he is a perfect pest, for if a grave bemade during his absence he will importune until he get the name of thedeparted. 'Graves, ' says I, 'where do they bury these unfortunate womenwho die off so, here in Charleston?' 'Bless you, my friend, ' saysGraves, accompanying his words with an idiotic laugh, 'why, there'sthree stacks of them, yonder. They ship them from New York in lots, poorthings; they dies here in droves, poor things; and we buries them yonderin piles, poor things. They go--yes, sir, I have thought a deal of thisthing--fast through life; but they dies, and nobody cares for them--yousee how they are buried. ' I inquired if he knew all their names. He saidof course he did. If he didn't, nobody else would. In order to try him, I desired he would show me the grave of Mag Munday. He shook his headsmiled, muttered the name incoherently, and said he thought it soundedlike a dead name. 'I'll get my thinking right, ' he pursued, andbrightening up all at once, his vacant eyes flashed, then he touched mecunningly on the arm, and with a wink and nod of the head there was nomistaking, led the way to a great mound located in an obscure part ofthe graveyard--"

"A great mound! I thought it would come to that, " sighs Madame Montford, impatiently. 

"We bury these wretched creatures in an obscure place. Indeed, Madame, Ihold it unnecessary to have anything to distinguish them when once theyare dead. Well, this poor forlorn simpleton then sat down on a grave, and bid me sit beside him. I did as he bid me, and soon he went into adeep study, muttering the name of Mag Munday the while, until I thoughthe never would stop. So wild and wandering did the poor fellow seem, that I began to think it a pity we had not a place, an insane hospital, or some sort of benevolent institution, where such poor creatures couldbe placed and cared for. It would be much better than sending them tothe whipping-post--"

"I am indeed of your opinion--of your way of thinking most certainly, "interpolates Madame Montford, a shadow of melancholy darkening hercountenance. 

"At length, he went at it, and repeated over an infinite quantity ofnames. It was wonderful to see how he could keep them all in his head. 'Well, now, ' says he, turning to me with an inoffensive laugh, 'sheben't dead. You may bet on that. There now!' he spoke, as if suddenlybecoming conscious of a recently-made discovery. 'Why, she runned wildabout here, as I does, for a time; was abused and knocked about byeverybody. Oh, she had a hard time enough, God knows that. ' 'But that isnot disclosing to me what became of her, ' says I; 'come, be serious, Graves. ' (We call him this, you see, Madame, for the reason that he isalways among graveyards. ) Then he went into a singing mood, sang twoplaintive songs, and had sung a third and fourth, if I had not stoppedhim. 'Well, ' he says, 'that woman ain't dead, for I've called up in mymind the whole graveyard of names, and her's is not among them. Why not, good gentleman, (he seized me by the arm as he said this, ) inquire ofMilman Mingle, the vote-cribber? He is a great politician, never thinksof poor Graves, and wouldn't look into a graveyard for the world. Thevote-cribber used to live with her, and several times he threatened tohang her, and would a hanged her--yes, he would, sir--if it hadn't abeen for the neighbors. I don't take much interest in the living, youknow. But I pitied her, poor thing, for she was to be pitied, and therewas nobody but me to do it. Just inquire of the vote-cribber. ' I knewthe simpleton never told an untruth, being in no way connected with ourpolitical parties. "

"Never told an untruth, being in no way connected with our politicalparties!" repeats Madame Montford, who has become more calm. 

"I gave him a few shillings, he followed me to the gate, and left memuttering, 'Go, inquire of the vote-cribber. '"

"And have you found this man?" inquires the anxious lady. 

"I forthwith set about it, " replies Mr. Snivel, "but as yet, amunsuccessful. Nine months during the year his residence is the jail--"

"The jail!"

"Yes, Madame, the jail. His profession, although essential to theelevation of our politicians and statesmen, is nevertheless unlawful. And he being obliged to practice it in opposition to the law, quietlysubmits to the penalty, which is a residence in the old prison for ashort time. It's a nominal thing, you see, and he has become sohabituated to it that I am inclined to the belief that he prefers it. Iproceeded to the prison and found he had been released. One of ourelections comes off in a few days. The approach of such an event is sureto find him at large. I sought him in all the drinking saloons, in thegambling dens, in the haunts of prostitution--in all the low placeswhere our great politicians most do assemble and debauch themselves. Hewas not to be found. Being of the opposite party, I despatched a spy tothe haunt of the committee of the party to which he belongs, and forwhich he cribs. I have paced the colonnade for more than an hour, waiting the coming of this spy. He did not return, and knowing youranxiety in the matter I returned to you. To-morrow I will seek him out;to-morrow I will get from him what he knows of this woman you seek. 

"And now, Madame, here is something I would have you examine. " (Mr. Snivel methodically says he got it of McArthur, the antiquary. ) "Shemade a great ado about a dress that contained this letter. I have nodoubt it will tell a tale. " Mr. Snivel draws from his breast-pocket theletter found concealed in the old dress, and passes it to MadameMontford, who receives it with a nervous hand. Her eyes become fixedupon it, she glances over its defaced page with an air of bewilderment, her face crimsons, then suddenly pales, her lips quiver--her every nerveseems unbending to the shock. "Heavens! has it come to this?" shemutters, confusedly. Her strength fails her; the familiar letter fallsfrom her fingers. --For a few moments she seems struggling to suppressher emotions, but her reeling brain yields, her features become likemarble, she shrieks and swoons ere Mr. Snivel has time to clasp her inhis arms. 

CHAPTER XX. 

LADY SWIGGS ENCOUNTERS DIFFICULTIES ON HER ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK. 

A pleasant passage of sixty hours, a good shaking up at the hands ofthat old tyrant, sea-sickness, and Lady Swiggs finds the steamer onwhich she took passage gliding majestically up New York Bay. There shesits, in all her dignity, an embodiment of our decayed chivalry, a fairrepresentative of our first families. She has taken up her position onthe upper deck, in front of the wheel house. As one after another theobjects of beauty that make grand the environs of that noble Bay, opento her astonished eyes, she contrasts them favorably or unfavorably withsome familiar object in Charleston harbor. There is indeed a similarityin the conformation. And though ours, she says, may not be so extensive, nor so grand in its outlines, nor so calm and soft in its perspective, there is a more aristocratic air about it. Smaller bodies are alwaysmore select and respectable. The captain, to whom she has put an hundredand one questions which he answers in monosyllables, is not, she thinks, so much of a gentleman as he might have been had he been educated inCharleston. He makes no distinction in favor of people of rank. 

Lady Swiggs wears that same faded silk dress; her black crape bonnet, with two saucy red artificial flowers tucked in at the side, sits sojauntily; that dash of brown hair is smoothed so exactly over heryellow, shrivelled forehead; her lower jaw oscillates with increasedmotion; and her sharp, gray eyes, as before, peer anxiously through hergreat-eyed spectacles. And, generous reader, that you may not mistakeher, she has brought her inseparable Milton, which she holds firmlygrasped in her right hand. "You have had a tedious time of it, Madam, "says a corpulent lady, who is extensively dressed and jewelled, andaccosts her with a familiar air. Lady Swiggs says not so tedious as itmight have been, and gives her head two or three very fashionabletwitches. 

"Your name, if you please?"

"The Princess Grouski. My husband, the Prince Grouski, " replies thecorpulent lady, turning and introducing a fair-haired gentleman, talland straight of person, somewhat military in his movements, andextremely fond of fingering his long, Saxon moustache. Lady Swiggs, onthe announcement of a princess, rises suddenly to her feet, andcommences an unlimited number of courtesies. She is, indeed, most happyto meet, and have the honor of being fellow-voyager with their RoyalHighnesses--will remember it as being one of the happiest events of herlife, --and begs to assure them of her high esteem. The corpulent ladygives her a delicate card, on which is described the crown of Poland, and beneath, in exact letters, "The Prince and Princess Grouski. " ThePrince affects not to understand English, which Lady Swiggs regretsexceedingly, inasmuch as it deprives her of an interesting conversationwith a person of royal blood. The card she places carefully between theleaves of her Milton, having first contemplated it with an air ofexultation. Again begging to thank the Prince and Princess for thismark of their distinguished consideration, Lady Swiggs inquires if theyever met or heard of Sir Sunderland Swiggs. The rotund lady, for herselfand the prince, replies in the negative. "He was, " she pursues, with asigh of disappointment, "he was very distinguished, in his day. Yes, andI am his lineal descendant. Your highnesses visited Charleston, ofcourse?"

"O dear, " replies the rotund lady, somewhat laconically, "the happiestdays of my life were spent among the chivalry of South Carolina. Indeed, Madam, I have received the attention and honors of the very firstfamilies in that State. "

This exclamation sets the venerable lady to thinking how it could bepossible that their highnesses received the attentions of the firstfamilies and she not know it. No great persons ever visited the UnitedStates without honoring Charleston with their presence, it was true; buthow in the world did it happen that she was kept in ignorance of such anevent as that of the Prince and Princess paying it a visit. She began todoubt the friendship of her distinguished acquaintances, and the St. Cecilia Society. She hopes that should they condescend to pay the UnitedStates a second visit, they will remember her address. This the rotundlady, who is no less a person than the distinguished Madame Flamingo, begs to assure her she will. 

Let not this happy union between Grouski and the old hostess, surpriseyou, gentle reader. It was brought about by Mr. Snivel, theaccommodation man, who, as you have before seen, is always ready to do abit of a good turn. Being a skilful diplomatist in such matters, heorganized the convention, superintended the wooing, and for a lustyshare of the spoils, secured to him by Grouski, brought matters to anissue "highly acceptable" to all parties. A sale of her palace oflicentiousness, works of art, costly furniture, and female wares, together with the good will of all concerned, (her friends of the "benchand bar" not excepted, ) was made for the nice little sum of sixty-seventhousand dollars, to Madame Grace Ashley, whose inauguration was one ofthe most gorgeous _fêtes_ the history of Charleston can boast. The newoccupant was a novice. She had not sufficient funds to pay ready moneyfor the purchase, hence Mr. Doorwood, a chivalric and very excellentgentleman, according to report, supplies the necessary, taking amortgage on the institution; which proves to be quite as good propertyas the Bank, of which he is president. It is not, however, just thatsort of business upon which an already seared conscience can repose inquiet, hence he applies that antidote too frequently used by knaves--henever lets a Sunday pass without piously attending church. 

The money thus got, through this long life of iniquity, was by MadameFlamingo handed over to the Prince, in exchange for his heart and thetitle she had been deluded to believe him capable of conferring. Herreverence for Princes and exiled heroes, (who are generally exiledhumbugs, ) was not one jot less than that so pitiably exhibited by ourself-dubbed fashionable society all over this Union. It may be well toadd, that this distinguished couple, all smiling and loving, are ontheir way to Europe, where they are sure of receiving the attentions ofany quantity of "crowned heads. " Mr. Snivel, in order not to let theaffair lack that _eclat_ which is the crowning point in matters of highlife, got smuggled into the columns of the highly respectable and veryauthentic old "Courier, " a line or two, in which the fashionable worldwas thrown into a flutter by the announcement that Prince Grouski andhis wealthy bride left yesterday, _en route_ for Europe. This bit ofgossip the "New York Herald" caught up and duly itemised, for thebenefit of its upper-ten readers, who, as may be easily imagined, wereall on tip-toe to know the address of visitors so distinguished, andleave cards. 

Mrs. Swiggs has (we must return to her mission) scarcely set foot onshore, when, thanks to a little-headed corporation, she is fairly setupon by a dozen or more villanous hack-drivers, each dangling his whipin her face, to the no small danger of her bonnet and spectacles. Theyjostle her, utter vile imprecations, dispute for the right of carryingher, each in his turn offering to do it a shilling less. Lady Swiggs isindeed an important individual in the hands of the hack-drivers, and bythem, in a fair way of being torn to pieces. She wonders they do notrecognize her as a distinguished person, from the chivalric State ofSouth Carolina. The captain is engaged with his ship, passengers arehurrying ashore, too anxious to escape the confinement of the cabin;every one seems in haste to leave her, no one offers to protect her fromthe clutches of those who threaten to tear her into precious pieces. Shesighs for Sister Slocum, for Mr. Hadger, for any one kind enough toraise a friendly voice in her behalf. Now one has got her black box, another her corpulent carpet-bag--a third exults in a victory over herband-box. Fain would she give up her mission in disgust, return to themore aristocratic atmosphere of Charleston, and leave the heathen to hisfate. All this might have been avoided had Sister Slocum sent hercarriage. She will stick by her black-box, nevertheless. So into thecarriage with it she gets, much discomfited. The driver says he woulddrive to the Mayor's office "and 'ave them ar two coves what's got thecorpulent carpet-bag and the band-box, seed after, if it wern't that HisHonor never knows anything he ought to know, and is sure to do nothing. They'll turn up, Mam, I don't doubt, " says the man, "but it's next tolos'in' on 'em, to go to the Mayor's office. Our whole corporation, Mam, don't do nothin' but eats oysters, drinks whiskey, and makespresidents;--them's what they do, Marm. " Lady Swiggs says what a pity sogreat a city was not blessed with a bigger-headed corporation. 

"That it is, Marm, " returns the methodical hack-driver, "he an't got avery big head, our corporation. " And Lady Swiggs, deprived of hercarpet-bag and band-box, and considerably out of patience, is rolledaway to the mansion of Sister Slocum, on Fourth Avenue. Instead offalling immediately into the arms and affections of that worthy and veryenterprising lady, the door is opened by a slatternly maid of allwork--her greasy dress, and hard, ruddy face and hands--her short, flabby figure, and her coarse, uncombed hair, giving out strong evidenceof being overtaxed with labor. "Is it Mrs. Slocum hersel' ye'd beseein'?" inquires the maid, wiping her soapy hands with her apron, andlooking querulously in the face of the old lady, who, with the air of aScotch metaphysician, says she is come to spend a week in friendlycommunion with her, to talk over the cause of the poor, benightedheathen. "Troth an' I'm not as sure ye'll do that same, onyhow; sureshe'd not spend a week at home in the blessed year; and the divilanother help in the house but mysel' and himsel', Mr. Slocum. A decentman is that same Slocum, too, " pursues the maid, with a laconicindifference to the wants of the guest. A dusty hat-stand ornaments oneside of the hall, a patched and somewhat deformed sofa the other. Thewalls wear a dingy air; the fumes of soapsuds and stewed onions offendthe senses. Mrs. Swiggs hesitates in the doorway. Shall I advance, orretreat to more congenial quarters? she asks herself. The wilyhack-driver (he agreed for four and charged her twelve shillings) leavesher black box on the step and drives away. She may be thankful he didnot charge her twenty. They make no allowance for distinguished people;Lady Swiggs learns this fact, to her great annoyance. To themuch-confused maid of all work she commences relating the loss of herluggage. With one hand swinging the door and the other tucked under herdowdy apron, she says, "Troth, Mam, and ye ought to be thankful, for thelike of that's done every day. "

Mrs. Swiggs would like a room for the night at least, but is told, in asomewhat confused style, that not a room in the house is in order. Thata person having the whole heathen world on her shoulders should not haveher house in order somewhat surprises the indomitable lady. In answer toa question as to what time Mr. Slocum will be home, the maid of all worksays: "Och! God love the poor man, there's no tellin'. Sure there's notmuch left of the poor man. An' the divil a one more inoffensive thanpoor Slocum. It's himsel' works all day in the Shurance office beyant. He comes home dragged out, does a dale of writing for Mrs. Slocumhersel', and goes to bed sayin' nothin' to nobody. " Lady Swiggs says:"God bless me He no doubt labors in a good cause--an excellentcause--he will have his reward hereafter. "

It must here be confessed that Sister Slocum, having on hand anewly-married couple, nicely suited to the duties of a mission to someforeign land, has conceived the very laudable project of sending them toAleppo, and is now spending a few weeks among the Dutch of Albany, whoare expected to contribute the necessary funds. A few thousand dollarsexpended, a few years' residence in the East, a few reports as to whatmight have been done if something had not interposed to prevent it, andthere is not a doubt that this happy couple will return home crownedwith the laurels of having very nearly Christianized one Turk and twoTartars. 

The maid of all work suddenly remembers that Mrs. Slocum left word thatif a distinguished lady arrived from South Carolina she could becomfortably accommodated at Sister Scudder's, on Fourth Street. Not alittle disappointed, the venerable old lady calls a passing carriage, gets herself and black box into it, and orders the driver to forthwithproceed to the house of Sister Scudder. Here she is--and she sheds tearsthat she is--cooped up in a cold, closet-like room, on the third story, where, with the ends of her red shawl, she may blow and warm herfingers. Sister Scudder is a crispy little body, in spectacles. Herfeatures are extremely sharp, and her countenance continually wears awise expression. As for her knowledge of scripture, it is trulywonderful, and a decided improvement when contrasted with the meagreset-out of her table. Tea time having arrived, Lady Swiggs is inviteddown to a cup by a pert Irish servant, who accosts her with anindependence she by no means approves. Entering the room with an air ofstateliness she deems necessary to the position she desires to maintain, Sister Scudder takes her by the hand and introduces her to a bevy ofnicely-conditioned, and sleek-looking gentlemen, whose exactly-combedmutton chop whiskers, smoothly-oiled hair, perfectly-tied white cravats, cloth so modest and fashionable, and mild, studious countenances, discover their profession. Sister Scudder, motioning Lady Swiggs aside, whispers in her ear: "They are all very excellent young men. They willimprove on acquaintance. They are come up for the clergy. " They, inturn, receive the distinguished stranger in a manner that is ratherabrupt than cold, and ere she has dispensed her stately courtesy, say;"how do you do marm, " and turn to resume with one another theirconversation on the wicked world. It is somewhat curious to see how muchmore interested these gentry become in the wicked world when it is afaroff. 

Tea very weak, butter very strong, toast very thin, and religiousconversation extremely thick, make up the repast. There is no want ofappetite. Indeed one might, under different circumstances, have imaginedSister Scudder's clerical boarders contesting a race for an extra sliceof her very thin toast. Not the least prominent among Sister Scudder'sboarders is Brother Singleton Spyke, whom Mrs. Swiggs recognizes by themany compliments he lavishes upon Sister Slocum, whose absence is asource of great regret with him. She is always elbow deep in somelaudable pursuit. Her presence sheds a radiant light over everythingaround; everybody mourns her when absent. Nevertheless, there is somesatisfaction in knowing that her absence is caused by her anxiety topromote some mission of good: Brother Spyke thus muses. Seeing thatthere is come among them a distinguished stranger, he gives out thatto-morrow evening there will be a gathering of the brethren at the"House of the Foreign Missions, " when the very important subject offunds necessary to his mission to Antioch, will be discussed. BrotherSpyke, having levelled this battery at the susceptibility of Mrs. Swiggs, is delighted to find some fourteen voices chiming in--allcomplimenting his peculiar fitness for, and the worthy object of themission. Mrs. Swiggs sets her cup in her saucer, and in a becomingmanner, to the great joy of all present, commences an eulogium on Mr. Spyke. Sister Slocum, in her letters, held him before her in strongcolors; spoke in such high praise of his talent, and gave so manyguarantees as to what he would do if he only got among the heathen, thather sympathies were enlisted--she resolved to lose no time in getting toNew York, and, when there, put her shoulder right manfully to the wheel. This declaration finds her, as if by some mysterious transport, anobject of no end of praise. Sister Scudder adjusts her spectacles, and, in mildest accents, says, "The Lord will indeed reward suchdisinterestedness. " Brother Mansfield says motives so pure will ensure apassport to heaven, he is sure. Brother Sharp, an exceedingly lean andtall youth, with a narrow head and sharp nose (Mr. Sharp's fatherdeclared he made him a preacher because he could make him nothing else), pronounces, with great emphasis, that such self-sacrifice should bewritten in letters of gold. A unanimous sounding of her praisesconvinces Mrs. Swiggs that she is indeed a person of great importance. There is, however, a certain roughness of manner about her new friends, which does not harmonize with her notions of aristocracy. She questionswithin herself whether they represent the "first families" of New York. If the "first families" could only get their heads together, the heathenworld would be sure to knock under. No doubt, it can be effected in timeby common people. If Sister Slocum, too, would evangelize the world--ifshe would give the light of heaven to the benighted, she must employwilling hearts and strong hands. Satan, she says, may be chained, subdued, and made to abjure his wickedness. These cheeringcontemplations more than atone for the cold reception she met at thehouse of Sister Slocum. Her only regret now is that she did not sell oldCicero. The money so got would have enabled her to bestow a moresubstantial token of her soul's sincerity. 

Tea over, thanks returned, a prayer offered up, and Brother Spyke, having taken a seat on the sofa beside Mrs. Swiggs, opens his batteriesin a spiritual conversation, which he now and then spices with a fewitems of his own history. At the age of fifteen he found himself in lovewith a beautiful young lady, who, unfortunately, had made up her mind toaccept only the hand of a clergyman: hence, she rejected his. This sodisturbed his thoughts, that he resolved on studying theology. In thishe was aided by the singular discovery, that he had a talent, and a"call to preach. " He would forget his amour, he thought, become a memberof the clergy, and go preach to the heathen. He spent his days inreading, his nights in the study of divine truths. Then he got on thekind side of a committee of very excellent ladies, who, having dulyconsidered his qualities, pronounced him exactly suited to the study oftheology. Ladies were generally good judges of such matters, and BrotherSpyke felt he could not do better than act up to their opinions. To allthese things Mrs. Swiggs listens with delight. 

Spyke, too, is in every way a well made-up man, being extremely tall andlean of figure, with nice Saxon hair and whiskers, mild but thoughtfulblue eyes, an anxious expression of countenance, a thin, squeakingvoice, and features sufficiently delicate and regular for his calling. His dress, too, is always exactly clerical. If he be cold and pedanticin his manner, the fault must be set down to the errors of theprofession, rather than to any natural inclination of his own. But whatis singular of Brother Spyke is, that, notwithstanding his passion fordelving the heathen world, and dragging into Christian light and lovethe benighted wretches there found, he has never in his life given athought for that heathen world at his own door--a heathen world sinkingin the blackest pool of misery and death, in the very heart of anopulent city, over which it hurls its seething pestilence, and scoffs atthe commands of high heaven. No, he never thought of that Babylon ofvice and crime--that heathen world pleading with open jaws at his owndoor. He had no thought for how much money might be saved, and how muchmore good done, did he but turn his eyes; go into this dark world (thePoints) pleading at his feet, nerve himself to action, and lend a stronghand to help drag off the film of its degradation. In addition to this, Brother Spyke was sharp enough to discover the fact that a countryparson does not enjoy the most enviable situation. A country parson mustput up with the smallest salary; he must preach the very best ofsermons; he must flatter and flirt with all the marriageable ladies ofhis church; he must consult the tastes, but offend none of the oldladies; he must submit to have the sermon he strained his brain to makeperfect, torn to pieces by a dozen wise old women, who claim the rightof carrying the church on their shoulders; he must have dictated to himwhat sort of dame he may take for wife;--in a word, he must bear meeklya deal of pestering and starvation, or be in bad odor with the seniormembers of the sewing circle. Duly appreciating all these difficulties, Brother Spyke chose a mission to Antioch, where the field of his laborswould be wide, and the gates not open to restraints. And though he couldnot define the exact character of his mission to Antioch, he so workedupon the sympathies of the credulous old lady, as to well-nigh create inher mind a resolve to give the amount she had struggled to get and setapart for the benefit of those two institutions ("the Tract Society, "and "The Home of the Foreign Missions"), all to the getting himself offto Antioch. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

MR. SNIVEL PURSUES HIS SEARCH FOR THE VOTE-CRIBBER. 

While Mrs. Swiggs is being entertained by Sister Scudder and herclerical friends in New York, Mr. Snivel is making good his demand onher property in Charleston. As the agent of Keepum, he has attached herold slaves, and what few pieces of furniture he could find; they will ina few days be sold for the satisfaction of her debts. Mrs. Swiggs, itmust be said, never had any very nice appreciation of debt-paying, holding it much more legitimate that her creditors accept her dignity insatisfaction of any demand they chanced to have against her. As for herlittle old house, the last abode of the last of the great Swiggsfamily, --that, like numerous other houses of our "very first families, "is mortgaged for more than it is worth, to Mr. Staple the grocer. Wemust, however, turn to Mr. Snivel. 

Mr. Snivel is seen, on the night after the secret interview at theCharleston Hotel, in a happy mood, passing down King street. A little, ill-featured man, with a small, but florid face, a keen, lecherous eye, leans on his arm. They are in earnest conversation. 

"I think the mystery is nearly cleared up, Keepum" says Snivel. 

"There seems no getting a clue to the early history of this MadameMontford, 'tis true. Even those who introduced her to Charleston societyknow nothing of her beyond a certain period. All anterior to that iswrapped in suspicion, " returns Keepum, fingering his massive gold chainand seals, that pend from his vest, then releasing his hold of Mr. Snivel's arm, and commencing to button closely his blue dress coat, which is profusely decorated with large gilt buttons. "She's the motherof the dashing harlot, or I'm no prophet, nevertheless, " he concludes, shaking his head significantly. 

"You may almost swear it--a bad conscience is a horrid bore; d--n me, ifI can't see through the thing. (Mr. Snivel laughs. ) Better put ourfemale friends on their guard, eh?"

"They had better drop her as quietly as possible, " rejoins Mr. Keepum, drawing his white glove from off his right hand, and extending his cigarcase. 

Mr. Snivel having helped himself to a cigar, says: "D--n me, if shedidn't faint in my arms last night. I made a discovery that broughtsomething of deep interest back to her mind, and gave her timbers such ashock! I watched, and read the whole story in her emotions. Oneaccustomed to the sharps of the legal profession can do this sort ofthing. She is afraid of approaching this beautiful creature, AnnaBonard, seeing the life she lives, and the suspicions it might create infashionable society, did she pursue such a course to the end of findingout whether she be really the lost child of the relative she refers toso often. Her object is to find one Mag Munday, who used to knock abouthere, and with whom the child was left. But enough of this for thepresent. " Thus saying, they enter the house of the old antiquary, andfinding no one but Maria at home, Mr. Snivel takes the liberty ofthrowing his arms about her waist. This done, he attempts to drag heracross the room and upon the sofa. "Neither your father nor you ever hada better friend, " he says, as the girl struggles from his grasp, shrinksat his feet, and, with a look of disdain, upbraids him for his attemptto take advantage of a lone female. 

"High, ho!" interposes Keepum, "what airs these sort of people put on, eh? Don't amount to much, no how; they soon get over them, you know. Ablasted deal of assumption, as you say. Ha, ha, ha! I rather like thissort of modesty. 'Tisn't every one can put it cleverly. " Mr. Snivelwinks to Keepum, who makes an ineffectual attempt to extinguish thelight, which Maria seizes in her hand, and summoning her courage, standsbefore them in a defiant attitude, an expression of hate and scorn onher countenance. "Ah, fiend! you take this liberty--you seek to destroyme because I am poor--because you think me humble--an easy object toprey upon. I am neither a stranger to the world nor your cowardlydesigns; and so long as I have life you shall not gloat over thedestruction of my virtue. Approach me at your peril--knaves! You havecompromised my father; you have got him in your grasp, that you may themore easily destroy me. But you will be disappointed, your perfidy willrecoil on yourselves: though stripped of all else, I will die protectingthat virtue you would not dare to offend but for my poverty. " Thisunexpected display of resolution has the effect of making the positionof the intruders somewhat uncomfortable. Mr. Keepum, whose designsSnivel would put in execution, sinks, cowardly, upon the sofa, while hiscompatriot (both are celebrated for their chivalry) stands off apaceendeavoring to palliate the insult with facetious remarks. (Thischivalry of ours is a mockery, a convenient word in the foul mouths offouler ruffians. ) Mr. Snivel makes a second attempt to overcome theunprotected girl. With every expression of hate and scorn rising to herface, she bids him defiance. Seeing himself thus firmly repulsed, hebegs to assure her, on the word of a gentleman--a commodity always onhand, and exceedingly cheap with us--he was far from intending aninsult. He meant it for a bit of a good turn--nothing more. "Alwaysfractious at first--these sort of people are, " pursues Keepum, relighting his cigar as he sits on the sofa, squinting his right eye. "Take bravely to gentlemen after a little display of modesty--always!Try her again, Squire. " Mr. Snivel dashes the candle from her hand, andin the darkness grasps her wrists. The enraged girl shrieks, and callsaloud for assistance. Simultaneously a blow fells Mr. Snivel to thefloor. The voice of Tom Swiggs is heard, crying: "Wretch! villain!--whatbrings you here? (Mr. Keepum, like the coward, who fears the vengeancehe has merited, makes good his escape. ) Will you never cease pollutingthe habitations of the poor? Would to God there was justice for thepoor, as well as law for the rich; then I would make thee bite the dust, like a dying viper. You should no longer banquet on poor virtue. Wretch!--I would teach thee that virtue has its value with the poor aswell as the rich;--that with the true gentleman it is equally sacred. "Tom stands a few moments over the trembling miscreant, Maria sinks intoa chair, and with her elbows resting on the table, buries her face inher hands and gives vent to her tears. 

"Never did criminal so merit punishment; but I will prove thee not worthmy hand. Go, wretch, go! and know that he who proves himself worthy ofentering the habitations of the humble is more to be prized than kingsand princes. " Tom relights the candle in time to see Mr. Snivel rushinginto the street. 

The moon sheds a pale light over the city as the two chivalricgentlemen, having rejoined and sworn to have revenge, are seen enteringa little gate that opens to a dilapidated old building, fronted by aneglected garden, situate on the north side of Queen street, and in daysgone by called "Rogues' Retreat. " "Rogues' Retreat" has scared vinescreeping over its black, clap-boarded front, which viewed from thestreet appears in a squatting mood, while its broken door, closedshutters--the neglected branches of grape vines that depend upon decayedtrellise and arbors, invest it with a forlorn air: indeed, one mightwithout prejudicing his faculties imagine it a fit receptacle for ourdeceased politicians and our whiskey-drinking congressmen--the lastresting-place of our departed chivalry. Nevertheless, generous reader, we will show you that "Rogues' Retreat" serves a very different purpose. Our mob-politicians, who make their lungs and fists supply the want ofbrains, use it as their favorite haunt, and may be seen on the eve of anelection passing in and out of a door in the rear. Hogsheads of badwhiskey have been drunk in "Rogues' Retreat;" it reeks with the fumes ofuncounted cigars; it has been the scene of untold villanies. Follow us;we will forego politeness, and peep in through a little, suspicious-looking window, in the rear of the building. This windowlooks into a cavern-like room, some sixteen feet by thirty, the ceilingof which is low, and blotched here and there with lamp-smoke andwater-stains, the plastering hanging in festoons from the walls, andlighted by the faint blaze of a small globular lamp, depending from thecentre, and shedding a lurid glare over fourteen grotesque faces, formedround a broad deal-table. Here, at one side of the table sits JudgeSleepyhorn, Milman Mingle, the vote-cribber, on his right; there, on theother, sits Mr. Snivel and Mr. Keepum. More conspicuous than anythingelse, stands, in the centre of the table, bottles and decanters ofwhiskey, of which each man is armed with a stout glass. "I am as wellaware of the law as my friend who has just taken his seat can be. But weall know that the law can be made subordinate; and it must be madesubordinate to party ends. We must not (understand me, I do not say thisin my judicial capacity) be too scrupulous when momentous issues areupon us. The man who has not nerve enough to make citizens by thedozen--to stuff double-drawered ballot-boxes, is not equal to the timeswe live in;--this is a great moral fact. " This is said by the Judge, who, having risen with an easy air, sits down and resumes his glass andcigar. 

"Them's my sentiments--exactly, " interposes the vote-cribber, his burly, scarred face, and crispy red hair and beard, forming a striking picturein the pale light. "I have given up the trade of making Presidents, whatI used to foller when, you see, I lived in North Caroliner; but, I tellyou on the faith of my experience, that to carry the day we must let thelaw slide, and crib with a free chain: there's no gettin' over this. "

"It is due, " interrupts the Judge, again rising to his feet and bowingto the cribber, "to this worthy man, whose patriotism has been tried sooften within prison-walls, that we give weight to his advice. He bearsthe brunt of the battle like a hero--he is a hero!" (The vote-cribberacknowledges the compliment by filling his glass and drinking to theJudge. )

"Of this worthy gentleman I have, as a member of the learned profession, an exalted opinion. His services are as necessary to our success assteam to the speed of a locomotive. I am in favor of leaving the lawentirely out of the question. What society sanctions as a means to partyends, the law in most cases fails to reach, " rejoins a tall, sandy-complexioned man, of the name of Booper, very distinguished amonglawyers and ladies. Never was truth spoken with stronger testimony athand. Mr. Keepum could boast of killing two poor men; Mr. Snivel couldtestify to the fallacy of the law by gaining him an honorable acquittal. There were numerous indictments against Mr. Keepum for his dealings inlottery tickets, but they found their way into the Attorney-General'spocket, and it was whispered he meant to keep them there. It was indeedpretty well known he could not get them out in consequence of the goldKeepum poured in. Not a week passes but men kill each other in the openstreets. We call these little affairs, "rencontres;" the fact is, we arebecome so accustomed to them that we rather like them, and regard themas evidences of our advanced civilization. We are infested withslave-hunters, and slave-killers, who daily disgrace us with theirbarbarities; yet the law is weak when the victor is strong. So wecontinue to live in the harmless belief that we are the most chivalrouspeople in the world. 

"Mr. Booper!" ejaculates Mr. Snivel, knocking the ashes from his cigarand rising to his feet, "you have paid no more than a meritedcompliment to the masterly completeness of this excellent man'scribbing. (He points to the cribber, and bows. ) Now, permit me to sayhere, I have at my disposal a set of fellows, (he smiles, ) who can fighttheir way into Congress, duplicate any system of sharps, and stand infear of nothing. Oh! gentlemen, (Mr. Snivel becomes enthusiastic. ) Iwas--as I have said, I believe--enjoying a bottle of champagne with myfriend Keepum here, when we overheard two Dutchmen--the Dutch always gowith the wrong party--discoursing about a villanous caucus held to-nightin King street. There is villany up with these Dutch! But, you see, we--that is, I mean I--made some forty or more citizens last year. Wehave the patent process; we can make as many this year. "

Mr. Sharp, an exceedingly clever politician, who has meekly born anynumber of cudgellings at the polls, and hopes ere long to get theappointment of Minister to Paris, interrupts by begging that Mr. Solomanwill fill his glass, and resume his seat. Mr. Snivel having taking hisseat, Mr. Sharp proceeds: "I tell you all what it is, says I, the otherday to a friend--these ponderous Dutch ain't to be depended on. Then, says I, you must separate the Irish into three classes, and to eachclass you must hold out a different inducement, says I. There's the Rev. Father Flaherty, says I, and he is a trump card at electioneering. Hecan form a breach between his people and the Dutch, and, says I, by themeans of this breach we will gain the whole tribe of Emeralds over toour party. I confess I hate these vagabonds right soundly; but necessitydemands that we butter and sugar the mover until we carry our ends. Youmust not look at the means, says I, when the ends are momentous. "

"The staunch Irish, " pursues the Judge, rising as Mr. Sharp sits down, "are noble fellows, and with us. To the middle class--the grocers andshopkeepers--we must, however, hold out flattering inducements; such asthe reduction of taxes, the repeal of our oppressive license laws, taking the power out of the hands of our aristocracy--they are verytender here--and giving equal rights to emigrants. These points we mustput as Paul did his sermons--with force and ingenuity. As for the lowIrish, all we have to do is to crib them, feed and pickle them inwhiskey for a week. To gain an Irishman's generosity, you cannot use abetter instrument than meat, drink, and blarney. I often contemplatethese fellows when I am passing sentence upon them for crime. "

"True! I have the same dislike to them personally; but politically, thematter assumes quite a different form of attraction. The laboringIrish--the dull-headed--are what we have to do with. We must work themover, and over, and over, until we get them just right. Then we mustturn them all into legal voting citizens--"

"That depends on how long they have been in the country, " interrupts abrisk little man, rising quickly to his feet, and assuming a legal air. 

"Mr. Sprig! you are entirely behind the age. It matters not how longthese gentlemen from Ireland have been in the country. They take topolitics like rats to good cheese. A few months' residence, and a littleworking over, you know, and they become trump voters. The Dutch are adifferent sort of animal; the fellows are thinkers, " resumes the Judge. 

Mr. Snivel, who has been sipping his whiskey, and listening veryattentively to the Judge, rises to what he calls the most importantorder. He has got the paper all ready, and proposes the gentlemen hethinks best qualified for the naturalization committee. This done, Mr. Snivel draws from his pocket a copy of the forged papers, which areexamined, and approved by every one present. This instrument issurmounted with the eagle and arms of the United States, and reads thus:

 "_STATE OF NEW YORK_. 

 "In the Court of Common Pleas for the city and county of New York:

 "I---- do declare on oath, that it is _bonâ fide_ my intention to become a citizen of the United States, and to renounce forever all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, State or sovereignty whatever, and particularly to the Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, of whom I am a subject. "

 Signed this---- day of---- 184-. 

 JAMES CONNOR, Clerk. 

 "Clerk's office, Court of Common Pleas for the city and county of New York. "

 "I hereby certify that the foregoing is a true copy of an original declaration of intention remaining on record in my office, &c. , &c. , &c. "

"There! it required skill and practice to imitate like that" Mr. Snivelexultingly exclaims. "We require to make thirty-seven citizens, and haveprepared the exact number of papers. If the cribbers do their duty, theday is ours. " Thus is revealed one of the scenes common to "Rogues'Retreat. " We shrink at the multiplicity of crime in our midst; we tooseldom trace the source from whence it flows. If we did but turn oureyes in the right direction we would find the very men we have electedour guardians, protecting the vicious, whose power theycovet--sacrificing their high trust to a low political ambition. Youcannot serve a political end by committing a wrong without inflicting amoral degradation on some one. Political intrigue begets laxity ofhabits; it dispels that integrity without which the unfixed mind becomesvicious; it acts as a festering sore in the body politic. 

Having concluded their arrangements for the Mayor's election, the partydrinks itself into a noisy mood, each outshouting the other for theright to speak, each refilling and emptying his glass, each assertingwith vile imprecations, his dignity as a gentleman. Midnight finds thereeling party adjourning in the midst of confusion. 

Mr. Snivel winks the vote-cribber into a corner, and commencesinterrogating him concerning Mag Munday. The implacable face of thevote-cribber reddens, he contorts his brows, frets his jagged beard withthe fingers of his left hand, runs his right over the crown of his head, and stammers: "I know'd her, lived with her--she used to run sort ofwild, and was twice flogged. She got crazed at last!" He shrugs hisstalworth shoulders and pauses. "Being a politician, you see, a bodycan't divest their minds of State affairs sufficiently to keep up onwomen matters, " he pursues: "She got into the poor-house, that Iknows--"

"She is dead then?" interposes Mr. Snivel. 

"As like as not. The poor relatives of our 'first families' rot and diethere without much being said about it. Just look in at thatinstitution--it's a terrible place to kill folks off!--and if she be notthere then come to me. Don't let the keepers put you off. Pass throughthe outer gate, into and through the main building, then turn sharp tothe left, and advance some twenty feet up a filthy passage, then enter apassage on the right, (have a light with you, ) that leads to a dozen orfourteen steps, wet and slippery. Then you must descend into a sort ofgrotto, or sickly vault, which you will cross and find yourself in aspacious passage, crawling with beetles and lizards. Don't befrightened, sir; keep on till you hear moanings and clankings of chains. Then you will come upon a row of horrid cells, only suited for dogkennels. In these cells our crazy folks are chained and left to die. Give Glentworthy a few shillings for liquor, sir, and he, having thesepoor devils in charge, will put you through. It's a terrible place, sir, but our authorities never look into it, and few of our people know ofits existence. "

Mr. Snivel thanks the vote-cribber, who pledges his honor he wouldaccompany him, but for the reason that he opens crib to-morrow, and hasin his eye a dozen voters he intends to look up. He has also a fewrecently-arrived sons of the Emerald Isle he purposes turning intocitizens. 

CHAPTER XXII

MRS. SWIGGS FALLS UPON A MODERN HEATHEN WORLD. 

Purged of all the ill-humors of her mind, Mrs. Swiggs finds herself, onthe morning following the excellent little gathering at SisterScudder's, restored to the happiest of tempers. The flatteryadministered by Brother Spyke, and so charmingly sprinkled with hispious designs on the heathen world, has had the desired effect. Thissort of drug has, indeed, a wonderful efficacy in setting disorderedconstitutions to rights. It would not become us to question theinnocence, or the right to indulge in such correctives; it is enoughthat our venerable friend finds herself in a happy vein, and is resolvedto spend the day for the benefit of that heathen world, the darkness ofwhich Brother Spyke pictured in colors so terrible. 

Breakfast is scarcely over when Sister Slocum, in great agitation, comesbustling into the parlor, offers the most acceptable apologies for herabsence, and pours forth such a vast profusion of solicitude for Mrs. Swiggs' welfare, that that lady is scarce able to withstand thekindness. She recounts the numerous duties that absorb her attention, the missions she has on hand, the means she uses to keep up an interestin them, the amount of funds necessary to their maintenance. A largeportion of these funds she raises with her own energy. She will drag upthe heathen world; she will drag down Satan. Furnishing Mrs. Swiggswith the address of the House of the Foreign Missions, in Centre street, she excuses herself. How superlatively happy she would be to accompanyMrs. Swiggs. A report to present to the committee on finance, sheregrets, will prevent this. However, she will join her precisely attwelve o'clock, at the House. She must receive the congratulations ofthe Board. She must have a reception that will show how much the Northrespects her co-laborers of the South. And with this, Sister Slocumtakes leave of her guest, assuring her that all she has to do is to getinto the cars in the Bowery. They will set her down at the door. 

Ten o'clock finds our indomitable lady, having preferred the lessexpensive mode of walking, entering a strange world. Sauntering alongthe Bowery she turns down Bayard street. Bayard street she finds linedwith filthy looking houses, swarming with sickly, ragged, and besottedpoor; the street is knee-deep with corrupting mire; carts are tiltedhere and there at intervals; the very air seems hurling its pestilenceinto your blood. Ghastly-eyed and squalid children, like ants in questof food, creep and swarm over the pavement, begging for bread oruttering profane oaths at one another. Mothers who never heard the Wordof God, nor can be expected to teach it to their children, protrudetheir vicious faces from out reeking gin shops, and with bare breastsand uncombed hair, sweep wildly along the muddy pavement, disappear intosome cavern-like cellar, and seek on some filthy straw a resting placefor their wasting bodies. A whiskey-drinking Corporation might feast itspeculative eyes upon hogs wallowing in mud; and cellars where swarmingbeggars, for six cents a night, cover with rags their hideousheads--where vice and crime are fostered, and into which your sensitivepoliceman prefers not to go, are giving out their seething miasma. Thevery neighborhood seems vegetating in mire. In the streets, in thecellars, in the filthy lanes, in the dwellings of the honest poor, aswell as the vicious, muck and mire is the predominating order. Thebesotted remnants of depraved men, covered with rags and bedaubed withmire, sit, half sleeping in disease and hunger on decayed door-stoops. Men with bruised faces, men with bleared eyes, men in whose everyfeature crime and dissipation is stamped, now drag their waning bodiesfrom out filthy alleys, as if to gasp some breath of air, then dragthemselves back, as if to die in a desolate hiding-place. Engines ofpestilence and death the corporation might see and remove, if it would, are left here to fester--to serve a church-yard as gluttonous as its ownbelly. The corporation keeps its eyes in its belly, its little sense inits big boots, and its dull action in the whiskey-jug. Like Mrs. Swiggs, it cannot afford to do anything for this heathen world in the heart ofhome. No, sir! The corporation has the most delicate sense of itsduties. It is well paid to nurture the nucleus of a pestilence that maysome day break out and sweep over the city like an avenging enemy. Itthanks kind Providence, eating oysters and making Presidents the while, for averting the dire scourge it encourages with its apathy. Like ourhumane and very fashionable preachers, it contents itself with lookinginto the Points from Broadway. What more would you ask of it?

Mrs. Swiggs is seized with fear and trembling. Surely she is in a worldof darkness. Can it be that so graphically described by BrotherSyngleton Spyke? she questions within herself. It might, indeed, putAntioch to shame: but the benighted denizens with which it swarms speakher own tongue. "It is a deal worse in Orange street, [3] Marm--a deal, Iassure you!" speaks a low, muttering voice. Lady Swiggs is startled. Sheonly paused a moment to view this sea of vice and wretchedness she findsherself surrounded with. Turning quickly round she sees before her aman, or what there is left of a man. His tattered garments, his lean, shrunken figure, his glassy eyes, and pale, haggard face, cause her toshrink back in fright. He bows, touches his shattered hat, and says, "Benot afraid good Madam. May I ask if you have not mistaken your way?"Mrs. Swiggs looks querulously through her spectacles and says, "Do tellme where I am?" "In the Points, good Madam. You seem confused, and Idon't wonder. It's a dreadful place. I know it, madam, to my sorrow. "There is a certain politeness in the manner of this man--an absence ofrudeness she is surprised to find in one so dejected. The red, distendednose, the wild expression of his countenance, his jagged hair, hangingin tufts over his ragged coat collar, give him a repulsiveness noteasily described. In answer to an inquiry he says, "They call me, Madam, and I'm contented with the name, --they call me Tom Toddleworth, theChronicle. I am well down--not in years, but sorrow. Being sick of theworld I came here, have lived, or rather drifted about, in this sea ofhopeless misery, homeless and at times foodless, for ten years or more. Oh! I have seen better days, Madam. You are a stranger here. May Godalways keep you a stranger to the sufferings of those who dwell with us. I never expect to be anything again, owe nothing to the world, andnever go into Broadway. "

[Footnote 3: Now called Baxter street]

"Never go into Broadway, " repeats Mrs. Swiggs, her fingers wandering toher spectacles. Turning into Orange street, Mr. Toddleworth tenders hisservices in piloting Mrs. Swiggs into Centre street, which, as he adds, will place her beyond harm. As they advance the scene becomes darker anddarker. Orange street seems that centre from which radiates the avenuesof every vice known to a great city. One might fancy the world'soutcasts hurled by some mysterious hand into this pool of crime andmisery, and left to feast their wanton appetites and die. "And you haveno home, my man?" says Mrs. Swiggs, mechanically. "As to that, Madam, "returns the man, with a bow, "I can't exactly say I have no home. I kindof preside over and am looked up to by these people. One says, 'comespend a night with me, Mr. Toddleworth, ' another says, 'come spend anight with me, Mr. Tom Toddleworth. ' I am a sort of respectable man withthem, have a place to lay down free, in any of their houses. They allesteem me, and say, come spend a night with me, Mr. Toddleworth. It'svery kind of them. And whenever they get a drop of gin I'm sure of ataste. Surmising what I was once, they look up to me, you see. Thisgives me heart. " And as he says this he smiles, and draws about him theragged remnants of his coat, as if touched by shame. Arrived at thecorner of Orange street, Mr. Toddleworth pauses and begs his charge tosurvey the prospect. Look whither she will nothing but a scene ofdesolation--a Babylon of hideous, wasting forms, mucky streets, andreeking dens, meet her eye. The Jews have arranged themselves on oneside of Orange street, to speculate on the wasted harlotry of theother. "Look you, Madam!" says Mr. Toddleworth, leaning on his stick andpointing towards Chatham street. "A desert, truly, " replies the augustold lady, nervously twitching her head. She sees to the right ("it iswantonness warring upon misery, " says Mr. Toddleworth) a long line ofirregular, wooden buildings, black and besmeared with mud. Little houseswith decrepit doorsteps; little houses with decayed platforms in front;little dens that seem crammed with rubbish; little houses withblack-eyed, curly-haired, and crooked-nosed children looking shyly aboutthe doors; little houses with lusty and lecherous-eyed Jewesses sittingsaucily in the open door; little houses with open doors, broken windows, and shattered shutters, where the devil's elixir is being served toragged and besotted denizens; little houses into which women withblotched faces slip suspiciously, deposit their almost worthless rags, and pass out to seek the gin-shop; little houses with eagle-faced menpeering curiously out at broken windows, or beckoning some wayfarer toenter and buy from their door; little houses piled inside with thecast-off garments of the poor and dissolute, and hung outside withsmashed bonnets, old gowns, tattered shawls; flaunting--red, blue, andyellow, in the wind, emblematic of those poor wretches, on the oppositeside, who have pledged here their last offerings, and blazed down intothat stage of human degradation, which finds the next step thegrave--all range along, forming a picturesque but sad panorama. Mr. Moses, the man of the eagle face, who keeps the record of death, as theneighbors call it, sits opulently in his door, and smokes his cigar;while his sharp-eyed daughters estimate exactly how much it is safe toadvance on the last rag some lean wretch would pledge. He will tell youjust how long that brawny harlot, passing on the opposite side, willlast, and what the few rags on her back will be worth when she is"shoved into Potters' Field. " At the sign of the "Three Martyrs" Mr. Levy is seen, in his fashionable coat, and a massive chain falling overhis tight waistcoat, registering the names of his grotesque customers, ticketing their little packages, and advancing each a shilling or two, which they will soon spend at the opposite druggery. Thus bravely wagesthe war. London has nothing so besotted, Paris nothing so vicious, Naples nothing so dark and despairing, as this heathen world we pass byso heedlessly. Beside it even the purlieus of Rome sink intoinsignificance. Now run your eye along the East side of Orange street. Asidewalk sinking in mire; a long line of one-story wooden shanties, ready to cave-in with decay; dismal looking groceries, in which the god, gin, is sending his victims by hundreds to the greedy graveyard;suspicious looking dens with dingy fronts, open doors, and windowsstuffed with filthy rags--in which crimes are nightly perpetrated, andwhere broken-hearted victims of seduction and neglect, seeking here alast refuge, are held in a slavery delicacy forbids our describing; denswhere negro dancers nightly revel, and make the very air re-echo theirprofaning voices; filthy lanes leading to haunts up alleys and in narrowpassages, where thieves and burglars hide their vicious heads;mysterious looking steps leading to cavern-like cellars, where swarm andlay prostrate wretched beings made drunk by the "devil's elixir"--allthese beset the East side of Orange street. Wasted nature, blanched anddespairing, ferments here into one terrible pool. Women ingaudy-colored dresses, their bared breasts and brawny arms contrastingcuriously with their wicked faces, hang lasciviously over "half-doors, "taunt the dreamy policeman on his round, and beckon the unwary strangerinto their dens. Piles of filth one might imagine had been thrown up bythe devil or the street commissioner, and in which you might bury adozen fat aldermen without missing one; little shops where unwholesomefood is sold; corner shops where idlers of every color, and sharpers ofall grades, sit dreaming out the day over their gin--are here to befound. Young Ireland would, indeed, seem to have made this the citadelfrom which to vomit his vice over the city. 

"They're perfectly wild, Madam--these children are, " says Mr. Toddleworth, in reply to a question Mrs. Swiggs put respecting theimmense number of ragged and profaning urchins that swarm the streets. "They never heard of the Bible, nor God, nor that sort of thing. Howcould they hear of it? No one ever comes in here--that is, they come innow and then, and throw a bit of a tract in here and there, and are gladto get out with a whole coat. The tracts are all Greek to the dwellershere. Besides that, you see, something must be done for the belly, before you can patch up the head. I say this with a fruitful experience. A good, kind little man, who seems earnest in the welfare of these wildlittle children that you see running about here--not the half of themknow their parents--looks in now and then, acts as if he wasn't afraidof us, (that is a good deal, Madam) and the boys are beginning to taketo him. But, with nothing but his kind heart and earnest resolution, he'll find a rugged mountain to move. If he move it, he will deserve amonument of fairest marble erected to his memory, and letters of goldto emblazon his deeds thereon. He seems to understand the key to some oftheir affections. It's no use mending the sails without making safe thehull. "

At this moment Mrs. Swiggs' attention is attracted by a crowd of raggedurchins and grotesque-looking men, gathered about a heap of filth atthat corner of Orange street that opens into the Points. 

"They are disinterring his Honor, the Mayor, " says Mr. Toddleworth. "Dothis sort of thing every day, Madam; they mean no harm, you see. "

Mrs. Swiggs, curious to witness the process of disinterring sodistinguished a person, forgets entirely her appointment at the House ofthe Foreign Missions, crowds her way into the filthy throng, and watcheswith intense anxiety a vacant-looking idiot, who has seen some sixteensummers, lean and half clad, and who has dug with his staff a hole deepin the mud, which he is busy piling up at the edges. 

"Deeper, deeper!" cries out a dozen voices, of as many mischievousurchins, who are gathered round in a ring, making him the victim oftheir sport. Having cast his glassy eyes upward, and scanned vacantlyhis audience, he sets to work again, and continues throwing out deadcats by the dozen, all of which he exults over, and pauses now and thenfor the approbation of the bystanders, who declare they bear noresemblance to his Honor, or any one of the Board of Aldermen. Onechubby urchin, with a bundle of _Tribunes_ under his arm, looksmischievously into the pit, and says, "His 'Onor 'ill want the_Tribune_. " Another, of a more taciturn disposition, shrugs hisshoulders, gives his cap a pull over his eyes, and says, spicing hisdeclaration with an oath, "He'll buy two _Heralds_!--he will. " Thetaciturn urchin draws them from his bundle with an air of independence, flaunts them in the face of his rival, and exults over their merits. Asplashing of mud, followed by a deafening shout, announces that thepersevering idiot has come upon the object he seeks. One proclaims tohis motley neighbors that the whole corporation is come to light;another swears it is only his Honor and a dead Alderman. A third, moreastute than the rest, says it is only the head and body of theCorporation--a dead pig and a decaying pumpkin! Shout after shout goesup as the idiot, exultingly, drags out the prostrate pig, following itwith the pumpkin. Mr. Toddleworth beckons Lady Swiggs away. Thewicked-faced harlots are gathering about her in scores. One has justbeen seen fingering her dress, and hurrying away, disappearingsuspiciously into an Alley. 

"You see, Madam, " says Mr. Toddleworth, as they gain the vicinity of CowBay, "it is currently reported, and believed by the dwellers here, thatour Corporation ate itself out of the world not long since; and seeinghow much they suffer by the loss of such--to have a dead Corporation ina great city, is an evil, I assure you--an institution, they adopt thismethod of finding it. It affords them no little amusement. Theseswarming urchins will have the filthy things laid out in state, holdingwith due ceremony an inquest over them, and mischievously proposing tothe first policeman who chances along, that he officiate as coroner. Lady Swiggs has not a doubt that light might be valuably reflected overthis heathen world. Like many other very excellent ladies, however, shehas no candles for a heathen world outside of Antioch. "

Mr. Toddleworth escorts her safely into Centre street, and directs herto the House of the Foreign Missions. 

"Thank you! thank you!--may God never let you want a shilling, " he says, bowing and touching his hat as Mrs. Swiggs puts four shillings into hisleft hand. 

"One shilling, Madam, " he pursues, with a smile, "will get me a newcollar. A clean collar now and then, it must be said, gives a body alook of respectability. "

Mr. Toddleworth has a passion for new collars, regards them as a meansof sustaining his respectability. Indeed, he considers himself in fulldress with one mounted, no matter how ragged the rest of his wardrobe. And when he walks out of a morning, thus conditioned, his friends greethim with: "Hi! ho! Mister Toddleworth is uppish this morning. " He hasbid his charge good morning, and hurries back to his wonted haunts. There is a mysterious and melancholy interest in this man's history, which many have attempted but failed to fathom. He was once heard to sayhis name was not Toddleworth--that he had sunk his right name in hissorrows. He was sentimental at times, always used good language, andspoke like one who had seen better days and enjoyed a superioreducation. He wanted, he would say, when in one of his melancholy moods, to forget the world, and have the world forget him. Thus he shut himselfup in the Points, and only once or twice had he been seen in the Bowery, and never in Broadway during his sojourn among the denizens who swarmthat vortex of death. How he managed to obtain funds, for he was neverwithout a shilling, was equally involved in mystery. He had no very badhabits, seemed inoffensive to all he approached, spoke familiarly onpast events, and national affairs, and discovered a general knowledge ofthe history of the world. And while he was always ready to share hisshilling with his more destitute associates, he ever maintained a degreeof politeness and civility toward those he was cast among not common tothe place. He was ready to serve every one, would seek out the sick andwatch over them with a kindness almost paternal, discovering a singularfamiliarity with the duties of a physician. He had, however, aninveterate hatred of fashionable wives; and whenever the subject wasbrought up, which it frequently was by the denizens of the Points, hewould walk away, with a sigh. "Fashionable wives, " he would mutter, hiseyes filling with tears, "are never constant. Ah! they have deluged theworld with sorrow, and sent me here to seek a hiding place. "

CHAPTER XXIII. 

IN WHICH THE VERY BEST INTENTIONS ARE SEEN TO FAIL. 

The city clock strikes one as Mrs. Swiggs, nervous and weary, enters theHouse of the Foreign Missions. Into a comfortably-furnished room on theright, she is ushered by a man meekly dressed, and whose countenancewears an expression of melancholy. Maps and drawings of Palestine, Hindostan, and sundry other fields of missionary labor, hang here andthere upon the walls. These are alternated with nicely-framed engravingsand lithographs of Mission establishments in the East, all located insome pretty grove, and invested with a warmth and cheerfulness thatcannot fail to make a few years' residence in them rather desirable thanotherwise. These in turn are relieved with portraits of distinguishedmissionaries. Earnest-faced busts, in plaster, stand prominently aboutthe room, periodicals and papers are piled on little shelves, and brightbookcases are filled with reports and various documents concerning thesociety, all bound so exactly. The good-natured man of the kind facesits in refreshing ease behind a little desk; the wise-looking lean man, in the spectacles, is just in front of him, buried in ponderous foliosof reports. In the centre of the room stands a highly-polished mahoganytable, at which Brother Spyke is seated, his elbow rested, and his headleaning thoughtfully in his hand. The rotund figure and energetic faceof Sister Slocum is seen, whisking about conspicuously among a bevy ofsleek but rather lean gentlemen, studious of countenance, and in modestcloth. For each she has something cheerful to impart; each in his turnhas some compliment to bestow upon her. Several nicely-dressed, butrather meek-looking ladies, two or three accompanied by their knittingwork, have arranged themselves on a settee in front of the wise man inthe spectacles. 

Scarcely has the representative of our chivalry entered the room whenSister Slocum, with all the ardor of a lover of seventeen, runs to herwith open arms, embraces her, and kisses her with an affection trulygrateful. Choking to relate her curious adventure, she is suddenlyheaped with adulations, told how the time of her coming was looked to, as an event of no common occurrence--how Brothers Sharp, Spyke, andPhills, expressed apprehensions for her safety this morning, each inturn offering in the kindest manner to get a carriage and go in pursuit. The good-natured fat man gets down from his high seat, and receives herwith pious congratulations; the man in the spectacles looks askant, andadvances with extended hand. To use a convenient phrase, she is receivedwith open arms; and so meek and good is the aspect, that she finds herthoughts transported to an higher, a region where only is bliss. Provided with a seat in a conspicuous place, she is told to considerherself the guest of the society. Sundry ovations, Sister Slocum givesher to understand, will be made in her honor, ere long. The fact musthere be disclosed that Sister Slocum had prepared the minds of thosepresent for the reception of an embodiment of perfect generosity. 

No sooner has Lady Swiggs time to breathe freely, than she changes thewondrous kind aspect of the assembly, and sends it into a paroxysm offright, by relating her curious adventure among the denizens of thePoints. Brother Spyke nearly makes up his mind to faint; thegood-natured fat man turns pale; the wise man in the spectacles is seento tremble; the neatly-attired females, so pious-demeanored, expresstheir horror of such a place; and Sister Slocum stands aghast. "Oh!dear, Sister Swiggs, " she says, "your escape from such a vile place istruly marvellous! Thank God you are with us once more. " The good-naturedfat man says, "A horrible world, truly!" and sighs. Brother Spyke shrugshis shoulders, adding, "No respectable person here ever thinks of goinginto such a place; the people there are so corrupt. " Brother Sharp sayshe shudders at the very thought of such a place. He has heard much saidof the dark deeds nightly committed in it--of the stubborn vileness ofthe dwellers therein. God knows he never wants to descend into it. "Truly, " Brother Phills interposes, "I walked through it once, andbeheld with mine eyes such sights, such human deformity! O, God! Sincethen, I am content to go to my home through Broadway. I never forget toshudder when I look into the vile place from a distance, nevertheless. "Brother Phills says this after the manner of a philosopher, fretting hisfingers, and contorting his comely face the while. Sister Slocum, havingrecovered somewhat from the shock (the shock had no permanent effect onany of them), hopes Sister Swiggs did not lend an ear to their falsepleadings, nor distribute charity among the vile wretches. "Such wouldbe like scattering chaff to the winds, " a dozen voices chime in. "Indeed!" Lady Swiggs ejaculates, giving her head a toss, in token ofher satisfaction, "not a shilling, except to the miserable wretch whoshowed me the way out. And he seemed harmless enough. I never met a moremelancholy object, never!" Brother Spyke raises his eyes imploringly, and says he harbors no ill-will against these vile people, butmelancholy is an art with them--they make it a study. They affect itwhile picking one's pocket. 

The body now resolves itself into working order. Brother Spyke offers upa prayer. He thanks kind Providence for the happy escape of SisterSwiggs--this generous woman whose kindness of heart has brought herhere--from among the hardened wretches who inhabit that slough ofdespair, so terrible in all its aspects, and so disgraceful to a greatand prosperous city. He thanks Him who blessed him with the light oflearning--who endowed him with vigor and resolution--and told him to goforth in armor, beating down Satan, and raising up the heathen world. Amustering of spectacles follows. Sister Slocum draws from her bosom acopy of the report the wise man in the spectacles rises to read. Afashionable gold chain and gold-framed eye-glass is called to her aid;and with a massive pencil of gold, she dots and points certain items ofdollars and cents her keen eye rests upon every now and then. 

The wise man in the spectacles rises, having exchanged glances withSister Slocum, and commences reading a very long, and in nowise leanreport. The anxious gentlemen draw up their chairs, and turn attentiveears. For nearly an hour, he buzzes and bores the contents of thisreport into their ears, takes sundry sips of water, and informs thosepresent, and the world in general, that nearly forty thousand dollarshave recently been consumed for missionary labor. The school at Corsica, the missions at Canton, Ningpo, Pu-kong, Cassaba, Abheokuta, and sundryother places, the names of which could not, by any possibility, aid thereader in discovering their location--all, were doing as well as couldbe expected, _under the circumstances_. After many years labor, and aconsiderable expenditure of money, they were encouraged to go forward, inasmuch as the children of the school at Corsica were beginning tolearn to read. At Casaba, Droneyo, the native scholar, had, after manyyears' teaching, been made conscious of the sin of idol-worship, and hadgiven his solemn promise to relinquish it as soon as he could propitiatetwo favorite gods bequeathed to him by his great uncle. The furnace of"Satanic cruelty" had been broken down at Dahomey. Brother Smash had, after several years' labor, and much expense--after having broken downhis health, and the health of many others--penetrated the dark regionsof Arabia, and there found the very seat of Satanic power. It was firmlypegged to Paganism and Mahomedan darkness! This news the world wasexpected to hail with consternation. Not one word is lisped about thatterrible devil holding his court of beggary and crime in the Points. Hehad all his furnaces in full blast there; his victims were legion! NoBrother Spyke is found to venture in and drag him down. The region ofthe Seven Churches offers inducements more congenial. Bound about themall is shady groves, gentle breezes, and rural habitations; in thePoints the very air is thick with pestilence!

A pause follows the reading. The wise man in the spectacles--his voicesoft and persuasive, and his aspect meekness itself--would like to knowif any one present be inclined to offer a remark. General satisfactionprevails. Brother Sharp moves, and Brother Phills seconds, that thereport be accepted. The report is accepted without a dissenting voice. Asecond paper is handed him by Sister Slocum, whose countenance is seento flash bright with smiles. Then there follows the proclaiming of thefact of funds, to the amount of three thousand six hundred dollars, having been subscribed, and now ready to be appropriated to gettingBrother Syngleton Spyke off to Antioch. A din of satisfaction follows;every face is radiant with joy. Sister Swiggs twitches her head, beginsto finger her pocket, and finally readjusts her spectacles. Havingworked her countenance into a good staring condition, she sets her eyesfixedly upon Brother Spyke, who rises, saying he has a few words tooffer. 

The object of his mission to Antioch, so important at this moment, hewould not have misunderstood. Turks, Greeks, Jews, Arabs, Armenians, andKurds, and Yesedees--yes, brethren, Yesedees! inhabit this part ofAssyria, which opens up an extensive field of missionary labor, evenyet. Much had been done by the ancient Greeks for the people who roamedin these Eastern wilds--much remained for us to do; for it was yet adark spot on the missionary map. Thousands of these poor souls werewithout the saving knowledge of the Gospel. He could not shrink from aduty so demanding--wringing his very heart with its pleadings! Givingthe light of the Gospel to these vicious Arabs and Kurds was the end andaim of his mission. (A motion of satisfaction was here perceptible. ) Andwhile there, he would teach the Jews a just sense of their Lord'sdesign--which was the subjugation of the heathen world. Inward light wasvery good, old prophecies were very grand; but Judaism was made ofstubborn metal, had no missionary element in it, and could only beforced to accept light through strong and energetic movement. He hadread with throbbing heart how Rome, while in her greatness, protectedthose Christian pilgrims who went forth into the East, to do battle withthe enemy. Would not America imitate Rome, that mighty mother ofRepublics? A deeper responsibility rested on her at this moment. Rome, then, was semi-barbarous; America, now, was Christianized and civilized. Hence she would be held more accountable for the dissemination of light. 

In those days the wandering Christian Jews undertook to instruct thepolished Greeks--why could not Americans at this day inculcate thedoctrines of Jesus to these educated heathen? It was a bold and daringexperiment, but he was willing to try it. The Allwise worked his wondersin a mysterious way. In this irrelevant and somewhat mystical style, Brother Spyke continues nearly an hour, sending his audience into ahighly-edified state. We have said mystical, for, indeed, none but thosein the secret could have divined, from Brother Spyke's logic, what wasthe precise nature of his mission. His speech was very like a countryparson's model sermon; one text was selected, and a dozen or more (alldifferent) preached from; while fifty things were said no one couldunderstand. 

Brother Spyke sits down--Sister Slocum rises. "Our dear and verygenerous guest now present, " she says, addressing the good-natured fatman in the chair, as Lady Swiggs bows, "moved by the goodness that is inher, and conscious of the terrible condition of the heathen world, hascome nobly to our aid. Like a true Christian she has crossed the sea, and is here. Not only is she here, but ready to give her mite towardgetting Brother Spyke off to Antioch. Another donation she proposesgiving the 'Tract Society, ' an excellent institution, in high favor atthe South. Indeed I may add, that it never has offended against itssocial--"

Sister Slocum hesitates. Social slavery will not sound just right, shesays to her herself. She must have a term more musical, and less gratingto the ear. A smile flashes across her countenance, her gold-framedeye-glasses vibrate in her fingers: "Well! I was going to say, theirsocial arrangements, " she pursues. 

The assembly is suddenly thrown into a fit of excitement. Lady Swiggs isseen trembling from head to foot, her yellow complexion changing to palewhite, her features contorting as with pain, and her hand clutching ather pocket. "O heavens!" she sighs, "all is gone, gone, gone: how vainand uncertain are the things here below. " She drops, fainting, into thearms of Sister Slocum, who has overset the wise man in the spectacles, in her haste to catch the prostrate form. On a bench the august body islaid. Fans, water, camphor, hartshorn, and numerous other restorativesare brought into use. Persons get in each other's way, run every way butthe right way, causing, as is common in such cases, very unnecessaryalarm. The stately representative of the great Swiggs family liesmotionless. Like the last of our chivalry, she has nothing left her buta name. 

A dash or two of cold water, and the application of a little hartshorn, and that sympathy so necessary to the fainting of distinguishedpeople--proves all-efficient. A slight heaving of the bosom is detected, the hands--they have been well chaffed--quiver and move slowly, her faceresumes its color. She opens her eyes, lays her hand solicitously onSister Slocum's arm: "It must be the will of Heaven, " she lisps, motioning her head, regretfully; "it cannot now be undone--"

"Sister! sister! sister!" interrupts Sister Slocum, grasping her hand, and looking inquiringly in the face of the recovering woman, "is it anaffection of the heart?--where is the pain?--what has befallen you? Weare all so sorry!"

"It was there, there, there! But it is gone now. " Regaining herconsciousness, she lays her hand nervously upon her pocket, and pursues:"Oh! yes, sister, it was there when I entered that vile place, as youcall it. What am I to do? The loss of the money does not so much troublemy mind. Oh! dear, no. It is the thought of going home deprived of themeans of aiding these noble institutions. "

Had Lady Swiggs inquired into the character of the purchaser of oldDolly she might now have become conscious of the fact, that whatevercomes of evil seldom does good. The money she had so struggled to gettogether to aid her in maintaining her hypocrisy, was the result ofcrime. Perhaps it were better the wretch purloined it, than that thefair name of a noble institution be stained with its acceptance. Atonement is too often sought to be purchased with the gold got ofinfamy. 

The cause of this fainting being traced to Lady Swiggs' pocket bookinstead of her heart, the whole scene changes. Sister Slocum becomes asone dumb, the good fat man is seized with a nervous fit, the man in thespectacles hangs his head, and runs his fingers through his crispy hair, as Brother Spyke elongates his lean body, and is seen going into amelancholy mood, the others gathering round with serious faces. LadySwiggs commences describing with great minuteness the appearance of Mr. Tom Toddleworth. That he is the person who carried off the money, everyone is certain. "He is the man!" responds a dozen voices. And as manymore volunteer to go in search of Mr. Detective Fitzgerald. BrotherSpyke pricks up his courage, and proceeds to initiate his missionarylabors by consulting Mr. Detective Fitzgerald, with whom he starts offin pursuit of Mr. Tom Toddleworth. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

MR. SNIVEL ADVISES GEORGE MULLHOLLAND HOW TO MAKE STRONG LOVE. 

Let us leave for a time the pursuit with which we concluded theforegoing chapter, and return to Charleston. It is the still hour ofmidnight. There has been a ball at the fashionable house of theFlamingo, which still retains its name. In the great parlour we havebefore described, standing here and there upon massive tables withEgyptian marble-tops, are half-empty bottles of wine, decanters, tumblers, and viands of various descriptions. Bits of artificial flowersare strewn about the carpet, a shawl is seen thrown over one chair, amantle over another; the light is half shut off--everything bearsevidence of the gaieties of luxurious life, the sumptuous revel and thedebauch. The gilded mirrors reflect but two faces, both hectic and moodyof dissipation. George Mullholland and Mr. Snivel face each other, at apier-table. Before them are several half filled bottles, from one ofwhich Mr. Snivel fills George's glass. 

"There is something in this champaign (one only gets rubbish in thesehouses) that compounds and elevates one's ideas, " says Mr. Snivel, holding his glass in the light, and squinting his blood-shotten eyes, the lids of which he has scarce power to keep open. "Drink, George--drink! You have had your day--why let such nonsense troubleyou? The whole city is in love with the girl. Her beauty makes hercapricious; if the old Judge has got her, let him keep her. Indeed, I'mnot so sure that she doesn't love him, and (well, I always laugh when Ithink of it), it is a well laid down principle among us lawyers, that nolaw stands good against love. " Mr. Snivel's leaden eyelids close, andhis head drops upon his bosom. "She never can love him--never! Hiswealth, and some false tale, has beguiled her. He is a hoary-headedlecher, with wealth and position to aid him in his hellish pursuits; Iam poor, and an outcast! He has flattered me and showered his favorsupon me, only to affect my ruin. I will have--"

"Pshaw! George, " interrupts Mr. Snivel, brightening up, "be aphilosopher. Chivalry, you know--chivalry! A dashing fellow like youshould doff the kid to a knight of his metal: challenge him. " Mr. Snivelreaches over the table and pats his opponent on the arm. "These women, George! Funny things, eh? Make any kind of love--have a sample for everysort of gallant, and can make the quantity to suit the purchaser. 'Ponmy soul this is my opinion. I'm a lawyer, know pretty well how the sexlay their points. As for these unfortunate devils, as we of theprofession call them (he pauses and empties his glass, saying, not badfor a house of this kind), there are so many shades of them, life issuch a struggle with them; they dream of broken hopes, and they diesighing to think how good a thing is virtue. You only love this girlbecause she is beautiful, and beautiful women, at best, are the mostcapricious things in the world. D--n it, you have gone through enough ofthis kind of life to be accustomed to it. We think nothing of thesethings, in Charleston--bless you, nothing! Keep the Judge yourfriend--his position may give him a means to serve you. A man of theworld ought at all times to have the private friendship of as manyjudges as he can. "

"Never! poor as I am--outcast as I feel myself! I want no suchfriendship. Society may shun me, the community may fear me, necessitymay crush me--yea! you may regard me as a villain if you will, but, wereI a judge, I would scorn to use my office to serve base ends. " As hesays this he draws a pistol from his pocket, and throwing it defiantlyupon the table, continues as his lip curls with scorn, "poor men's livesare cheap in Charleston--let us see what rich men's are worth!"

"His age, George!--you should respect that!" says Mr. Snivel, laconically. 

"His age ought to be my protection. "

"Ah!--you forget that the follies of our nature too often go with us tothe grave. "

"And am I to suffer because public opinion honors him, and gives himpower to disgrace me? Can he rob me of the one I love--of the one inwhose welfare my whole soul is staked, and do it with impunity?"

"D----d inconvenient, I know, George. Sympathize with you, I do. But, you see, we are governed here by the laws of chivalry. Don't let your (Iam a piece of a philosopher, you see) temper get up, keep on a stiffupper lip. You may catch him napping. I respect your feelings, my dearfellow; ready to do you a bit of a good turn--you understand! Now let metell you, my boy, he has made her his adopted, and to-morrow she moveswith him to his quiet little villa near the Magnolia. "

"I am a poor, forlorn wretch, " interrupts George, with a sigh. "Thoseof whom I had a right to expect good counsel, and a helping hand, havebeen first to encourage me in the ways of evil--"

"Get money, Mullholland--get money. It takes money to make love strong. Say what you will, a woman's heart is sure to be sound on the goldquestion. Mark ye, Mullholland!--there is an easy way to get money. Doyou take? (His fingers wander over his forehead, as he watches intentlyin George's face. ) You can make names? Such things are done by men inhigher walks, you know. Quite a common affair in these parts. The Judgehas carried off your property; make a fair exchange--you can use hisname, get money with it, and make it hold fast the woman you love. Thereare three things, George, you may set down as facts that will be ofservice to you through life, and they are these: when a man eternallyrings in your ears the immoralities of the age, watch him closely; whena man makes what he has done for others a boast, set him down a knave;and when a woman dwells upon the excellent qualities of her manyadmirers, set her down as wanting. But, get money, and when you have gotit, charm back this beautiful creature. "

Such is the advice of Mr. Soloman Snivel, the paid intriguer of thevenerable Judge. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

A SLIGHT CHANGE IN THE PICTURE. 

The two lone revellers remain at the pier-table, moody and hectic. Mr. Snivel drops into a sound sleep, his head resting on the marble. Weak-minded, jealous, contentious--with all the attendants natural toone who leads an unsettled life, sits George Mullholland, his elbowresting on the table, and his head poised thoughtfully in his hand. "Iwill have revenge--sweet revenge; yes, I will have revenge to-night!" hemutters, and sets his teeth firmly. 

In Anna's chamber all is hushed into stillness. The silvery moonbeamsplay softly through the half-closed windows, lighting up and giving anair of enchantment to the scene. Curtains hang, mist-like, from massivecornices in gilt. Satin drapery, mysteriously underlaid with lace, andfloating in bewitching chasteness over a fairy-like bed, makes morevoluptuous that ravishing form calmly sleeping--half revealed among thesnowy sheets, and forming a picture before which fancy soars, passionunbends itself, and sentiment is led away captive. With such exquisiteforms strange nature excites our love;--that love that like a littlestream meanders capriciously through our feelings, refreshing life, purifying our thoughts, exciting our ambition, and modulating ouractions. That love, too, like a quicksand, too often proves a destroyerto the weak-minded. 

Costly chairs, of various styles carved in black walnut, stand aroundthe chamber: lounges covered with chastely-designed tapestry are seenhalf concealed by the gorgeous window curtains. The foot falls upon asoft, Turkey carpet; the ceiling--in French white, and giltmouldings--is set off with two Cupids in a circle, frescoed by a skilledhand. On a lounge, concealed in an alcove masked by curtains pendingfrom the hands of a fairy in bronze, and nearly opposite Anna's bed, theold Judge sleeps in his judicial dignity. To-day he sentenced threerogues to the whipping-post, and two wretched negroes--one for raisinghis hand to a white man--to the gallows. 

Calmly Anna continues to sleep, the lights in the girandoles shedding amysterious paleness over the scene. To the eye that scans only theexterior of life, how dazzling! Like a refulgent cloud swelling goldenin the evening sky, how soon it passes away into darkness anddisappointment! Suddenly there appears, like a vision in the chamber, the stately figure of a female. Advancing slowly to the bed-side, for aminute she stands contemplating the sleeping beauty before her. A dark, languishing eye, an aquiline nose, beautifully-cut mouth, and afinely-oval face, is revealed by the shadow in which she stands. "Howwillingly, " she mutters, raising the jewelled fingers of her right handto her lips, as her eyes become liquid with emotion, and her everyaction betokens one whose very soul is goaded with remorse, "would Iexchange all these worldly pleasures for one single day in peace ofmind. " She lays aside her mantle, and keeps her eyes fixed upon theobject before her. A finely-rounded shoulder and exactly-developed bustis set off with a light satin bodice or corsage, cut low, openingshawl-fashion at the breast, and relieved with a stomacher of fineBrussels lace. Down the edges are rows of small, unpolished pearls, running into points. A skirt of orange-colored brocade, trimmed withtulle, and surrounded with three flounces, falls, cloud-like, from hergirdle, which is set with cameos and unpolished pearls. With her lefthand she raises slightly her skirts, revealing the embroidered gimps ofa white taffeta underskirt, flashing in the moonlight. Small, unpolishedpearls ornament the bands of her short sleeves; on her fingers arerings, set with diamonds and costly emeralds; and her wrists are claspedwith bracelets of diamonds, shedding a modest lustre over hermarble-like arms. 

"Can this be my child? Has this crime that so like a demon hauntsme--that curses me even in my dreams, driven her, perhaps against herwill, to seek this life of shame?" She takes the sleeper's hand gentlyin her own, as the tears gush down her cheeks. 

The sleeper startles, half raises herself from her pillow, parts herblack, silky hair, that lays upon her gently-swelling bosom, and throwsit carelessly down her shoulders, wildly setting her great black orbs onthe strange figure before her. "Hush, hush!" says the speaker, "I am afriend. One who seeks you for a good purpose. Give me yourconfidence--do not betray me! I need not tell you by what means I gainedaccess to you. "

A glow of sadness flashes across Anna's countenance. With a look ofsuspicion she scans the mysterious figure from head to foot. "It is theJudge's wife!" she says within herself. "Some one has betrayed me toher; and, as is too often the case, she seeks revenge of the less guiltyparty. " But the figure before her is in full dress, and one seekingrevenge would have disguised herself. "Why, and who is it, that seeks mein this mysterious manner?" whispers Anna, holding her delicate hand inthe shadow, over her eyes. "I seek you in the hope of finding somethingto relieve my troubled spirit, I am a mother who has wronged herchild--I have no peace of mind--my heart is lacerated--"

"Are you, then, my mother?" interrupts Anna, with a look of scorn. 

"That I would answer if I could. You have occupied my thoughts day andnight. I have traced your history up to a certain period. ("What I knowof my own, I would fain not contemplate, " interrupts Anna. ) Beyond that, all is darkness. And yet there are circumstances that go far to proveyou the child I seek. Last night I dreamed I saw a gate leading to adungeon, that into the dungeon I was impelled against my will. Whilethere I was haunted with the figure of a woman of the name of MagMunday--a maniac, and in chains! My heart bled at the sight, for she, Ithought, was the woman in whose charge I left the child I seek. Ispoke--I asked her what had become of the child! She pointed with herfinger, told me to go seek you here, and vanished as I awoke. I spentthe day in unrest, went to the ball to-night, but found no pleasure inits gay circle. Goaded in my conscience, I left the ball-room, and withthe aid of a confidant am here. "

"I recognize--yes, my lady, I recognize you! You think me your abandonedchild, and yet you are too much the slave of society to seek me as amother ought to do. I am the supposed victim of your crime; you are thefavored and flattered ornament of society. Our likenesses have beencompared many times:--I am glad we have met. Go, woman, go! I would not, outcast as I am, deign to acknowledge the mother who could enjoy theluxuries of life and see her child a wretch. "

"Woman! do not upbraid me. Spare, oh! spare my troubled heart this lastpang, " (she grasps convulsively at Anna's hand, then shrinks back infright. ) "Tell me! oh, tell me!" she pursues, the tears coursing downher cheeks--

Anna Bonard interrupts by saying, peremptorily, she has nothing to tellone so guilty. To be thus rebuked by an abandoned woman, notwithstandingshe might be her own child, wounded her feelings deeply. It was likepoison drying up her very blood. Tormented with the thought of hererror, (for she evidently labored under the smart of an error in earlylife, ) her very existence now seemed a burden to her. Gloomy andmotionless she stood, as if hesitating how best to make her escape. 

"Woman! I will not betray your coming here. But you cannot give me backmy virtue; you cannot restore me untainted to the world--the world neverforgives a fallen woman. Her own sex will be first to lacerate her heartwith her shame. " These words were spoken with such biting sarcasm, thatthe Judge, whose nap the loudness of Anna's voice had disturbed, protruded his flushed face and snowy locks from out the curtains of thealcove. "The gay Madame Montford, as I am a Christian, " he exclaims inthe eagerness of the moment, and the strange figure vanishes out of thedoor. 

"A fashionable, but very mysterious sort of person, " pursues the Judge, confusedly. "Ah! ha, --her case, like many others, is the want of a clearconscience. Snivel has it in hand. A great knave, but a capital lawyer, that Snivel--"

The Judge is interrupted in his remarks by the entrance of Mr. Snivel, who, with hectic face, and flushed eyes, comes rushing into the chamber. "Hollo!--old boy, there's a high bid on your head to-night. Ready to doyou a bit of a good turn, you see. " Mr. Snivel runs his fingers throughhis hair, and works his shoulders with an air of exultation. "If, " hecontinues, "that weak-minded fellow--that Mullholland we have shown somerespect to, hasn't got a pistol! He's been furbishing it up while in theparlor, and swears he will seriously damage you with it. Blastedassurance, those Northerners have. Won't fight, can't make 'emgentlemen; and if you knock 'em down they don't understand enough ofchivalry to resent it. They shout to satisfy their fear and not tomaintain their honor. Keep an eye out!"

The Judge, in a tone of cool indifference, says he has no fears of therenegade, and will one of these days have the pleasure of sending him tothe whipping-post. 

"As to that, Judge, " interposes Mr. Snivel, "I have already prepared thepreliminaries. I gave him the trifle you desired--to-morrow I will nailhim at the Keno crib. " With this the Judge and the Justice each take anaffectionate leave of the frail girl, and, as it is now past one o'clockin the morning, an hour much profaned in Charleston, take theirdeparture. 

Armed with a revolver Mullholland has taken up his position in thestreet, where he awaits the coming of his adversaries. In doubt andanxiety, he reflects and re-reflects, recurs to the associations of hispast life, and hesitates. Such reflections only bring more vividly tohis mind the wrong he feels himself the victim of, and has no power toresent except with violence. His contemplations only nerve him torevenge. 

A click, and the door cautiously opens, as if some votary of crime wasabout to issue forth in quest of booty. The hostess' head protrudessuddenly from the door, she scans first up and then down the street, then withdraws it. The Judge and Mr. Snivel, each in turn, shake thelandlady by the hand, and emerge into the street. They have scarcestepped upon the sidepath when the report of a pistol resounds throughthe air. The ball struck a lamp-post, glanced, passed through the collarof Judge Sleepyhorn's coat, and brushed Mr. Snivel's fashionablewhiskers. Madame Ashley, successor to Madame Flamingo, shrieks andalarms the house, which is suddenly thrown into a state of confusion. Acting upon the maxim of discretion being the better part of valor, theJudge and the Justice beat a hasty retreat into the house, and secretethemselves in a closet at the further end of the back-parlor. 

As if suddenly moved by some strange impulse, Madame Ashley runs fromroom to room, screaming at the very top of her voice, and declaring thatshe saw the assassin enter her house. Females rush from their rooms andinto the great parlor, where they form groups of living statuary, strange and grotesque. Anxious faces--faces half painted, faces hecticof dissipation, faces waning and sallow, eyes glassy and lascivious, dishevelled hair floating over naked shoulders;--the flashing ofbewitching drapery, the waving and flitting of embroidered underskirts, the tripping of pretty feet and prettier ankles, the gesticulating andswaying of half-draped bodies--such is the scene occasioned by the benchand the bar. 

Madame Ashley, having inherited of Madame Flamingo the value of ascrupulous regard for the good reputation of her house, must needs callin the watch to eject the assassin, whom she swears is concealedsomewhere on the premises. Mr. Sergeant Stubbs, a much respecteddetective, and reputed one of the very best officers of the guard, inasmuch as he never troubles his head about other people's business, and is quite content to let every one fight their own battles, --providedthey give him a "nip" of whiskey when they are through, lights hislantern and goes bobbing into every room in the house. We must hereinform the reader that the cause of the _emeute_ was kept a profoundsecret between the judicial gentry. Madame Ashley, at the same time, isfully convinced the ball was intended for her, while Anna lays in aterrible fright in her chamber. 

"Ho, " says Mr. Stubbs, starting back suddenly as he opened the door ofthe closet in which the two gentlemen had concealed themselves. "I see!I see!--beg your pardon, gentlemen!" Mr. Stubbs whispers, and bows, andshuts the door quickly. 

"An infernal affair this, Judge! D--n me if I wouldn't as soon be in thedock. It will all get out to-morrow, " interposes Mr. Snivel, facetiously. 

"Blast these improper associations!" the high functionary exclaims, fussily shrugging his shoulders, and wiping the sweat from his forehead. "I love the girl, though, I confess it!"

"Nothing more natural. A man without gallantry is like a pilgrim in theSouth-West Pass. You can't resist this charming creature. In truth it'sa sort of longing weakness, which even the scales of justice fail tobring to a balance. "

Mr. Stubbs fails to find the assassin, and enters Madame Ashley'schamber, the door of which leads into the hall. Here Mr. Stubbs's quickeye suddenly discerns a slight motion of the curtains that enclose thegreat, square bed, standing in one corner. "I ax your pardon, Mam, butmay I look in this 'ere bed?" Mr. Stubbs points to the bed, as Madame, having thrown herself into a great rocking chair, proceeds to sway herdignity backward and forward, and give out signs of making up her mindto faint. 

Mr. Stubbs draws back the curtains, when, behold! but tell it not in theby-ways, there is revealed the stalworth figure of Simon Patterson, theplantation parson. Our plantation parsons, be it known, are a singularspecies of depraved humanity, a sort of itinerant sermon-makers, holdingforth here and there to the negroes of the rich planters, receiving apaltry pittance in return, and having in lieu of morals an excellenttaste for whiskey, an article they invariably call to their aid whendiscoursing to the ignorant slave--telling him how content with his lothe ought to be, seeing that God intended him only for ignorance andservitude. The parson did, indeed, cut a sorry figure before the gaze ofthis indescribable group, as it rushed into the room and commencedheaping upon his head epithets delicacy forbids our insertinghere--calling him a clerical old lecher, an assassin, and a disturber ofthe peace and respectability of the house. Indeed, Madame Ashley quiteforgot to faint, and with a display of courage amounting almost toheroism, rushed at the poor parson, and had left him in the state he wasborn but for the timely precautions of Mr. Stubbs, who, finding arevolver in his possession, and wanting no better proof of his guilt, straightway took him off to the guard-house. Parson Patterson would haveentered the most solemn and pious protestation of his innocence but theevidence was so strong against him, and the zeal of Mr. Sergeant Stubbsso apparent, that he held it the better policy to quietly submit to therough fare of his new lodgings. 

"I have a terror of these brawls!" says Mr. Snivel, emerging from hishiding-place, and entering the chamber, followed by the high legalfunctionary. 

"A pretty how-do-ye-do, this is;" returns Madame Ashley, cooling herpassion in the rocking-chair, "I never had much respect for parsons--"

"Parsons?" interrupts Mr. Snivel, inquiringly, "you don't mean to say itwas all the doings of a parson?"

"As I'm a lady it was no one else. He was discovered behind the curtainthere, a terrible pistol in his pocket--the wretch!"

Mr. Snivel exchanges a wink with the Judge, points his thumb over hisleft shoulder, and says, captiously: "I always had an implacable hatredof that old thief. A bad lot! these plantation parsons. "

Mr. Stubbs having discovered and removed the assassin, the terrifieddamsels return to their chambers, and Madame Ashley proceeds to closeher house, as the two legal gentlemen take their departure. Perhaps itwould be well to inform the reader that a principal cause of Anna'spreference for the Judge, so recently manifested, was the deepimpression made on her already suspicious mind by Mr. McArthur, theantiquary, who revealed to her sincerely, as she thought, her futuredark destiny. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

IN WHICH A HIGH FUNCTIONARY IS MADE TO PLAY A SINGULAR PART. 

The morning following the events detailed in the foregoing chapter, finds the august Sleepyhorn seated on his judgment-seat. The clockstrikes ten as he casts his heavy eyes over the grotesque group gatheredinto his little, dingy court-room; and he bows to his clerk, of whom hegets his law knowledge, and with his right hand makes a sign that he isready to admonish the erring, or pass sentence on any amount ofcriminals. History affords no record of a judge so unrelenting of hisjudgments. 

A few dilapidated gentlemen of the "_learned_ profession, " with sharpfeatures and anxious faces, fuss about among the crowd, reeking ofwhiskey and tobacco. Now they whisper suspiciously in the ears offorlorn prisoners, now they struggle to get a market for their legalnostrums. A few, more respectably clothed and less vicious of aspect, sit writing at a table inside the bar, while a dozen or more punch-facedpolicemen, affecting an air of superiority, drag themselves lazilythrough the crowd of seedy humanity, looking querulously over therailing encircling the dock, or exchanging recognitions with friends. 

Some twenty "negro cases" having been disposed of without much respectto law, and being sent up for punishment (the Judge finds it moreconvenient to forego testimony in these cases), a daughter of theEmerald Isle, standing nearly six feet in her bare soles, and muchshattered about the dress, is, against her inclination, arraigned beforehis Honor. "I think I have seen you before, Mrs. Donahue?" says theJudge, inquiringly. 

"Arrah, good-morning, yer 'onher! Shure, it's only the sixth time thesethree weeks. Doesn't meself like to see yer smiling face, onyhow!" HereMrs. Donahue commences complimenting the Judge in one breath, and layingno end of charges at the door of the very diminutive and harmless MisterDonahue in the next. 

"This being the sixth time, " returns his Honor, somewhat seriously, "Iwould advise you to compromise the matter with Donahue, and not be seenhere again. The state of South Carolina cannot pay your fees so often--"

"Och, bad luck to Donahue! Troth, an' if yer onher'd put the fees downto Donahue, our acquaintance 'ouldn't be so fraquent. " Mrs. Donahue saysthis with great unction, throwing her uncombed hair back, then daintilyraising her dress apace, and inquiring of Mr. Sheriff Hardscrabble, whosits on his Honor's left, peering sharply through his spectacles, how helikes the spread of her broad, flat foot; "the charging the fees toDonahue, yer onher, 'd do it!" There was more truth in this remark thanhis Honor seemed to comprehend, for having heard the charge against her(Mr. Donahue having been caught in the act of taking a drop of her gin, she had well-nigh broken his head with the bottle), and having listenedattentively while poor Donahue related his wrongs, and exhibited twovery well blacked eyes and a broken nose, he came to the very justconclusion that it were well to save the blood of the Donahues. And tothis end did he grant Mrs. Donahue board and lodging for one month inthe old prison. Mrs. Donahue is led away, heaping curses on the head ofDonahue, and compliments on that of his Honor. 

A pale, sickly looking boy, some eleven years old, is next placed uponthe stand. Mr. Sergeant Stubbs, who leans his corpulent figure againstthe clerk's desk, every few minutes bowing his sleepy head to somefriend in the crowd, says: "A hard 'un--don't do no good about here. Avagrant; found him sleeping in the market. "

His Honor looks at the poor boy for some minutes, a smile of kindlinessseems lighting up his face; he says he would there were some place ofrefuge--a place where reformation rather than punishment might be theaim and end, where such poor creatures could be sent to, instead ofconfining them in cells occupied by depraved prisoners. 

Mr. Sheriff Hardscrabble, always eager to get every one into jail hecan, inasmuch as it pays him twenty-two cents a day clear profit on eachand every person confined, says: "A hard customer. Found sleeping in themarket, eh? Well, we must merge him in a tub of water, and scrub him upa little. " Mr. Hardscrabble views him with an air of satisfaction, touches him with a small cane he holds in his hand, as if he weresomething very common. Indeed, Mr. Hardscrabble seems quite at a loss toknow what species of animal he is, or whether he be really intended forany other use than filling up his cells and returning him twenty-twocents a day clear profit. "Probably an incendiary, " mutters thesagacious sheriff. The helpless boy would explain how he came to sleepin the market--how he, a poor cabin-boy, walked, foot-sore and hungry, from Wilmington, in the hope of getting a ship; and being moneyless andfriendless he laid down in the market to sleep. Mr. Hardscrabble, however, suggests that such stories are extremely common. His Honorthinks it not worth while to differ from this opinion, but to the endthat no great legal wisdom may be thrown away, he orders the accused tobe sent to the common jail for three months. This, in the opinion ofJudge Sleepyhorn, is an extremely mild penalty for being found sleepingin the market. 

Next there comes forward a lean, up-country Cracker, (an half-civilizednative, ) who commences telling his story with commendable simplicity, the Judge in the meanwhile endeavoring to suppress a smile, which thequaintness of his remarks excite. Making a tenement of his cart, as isusual with these people when they visit the city, which they do now andthen for the purpose of replenishing their stock of whiskey, he had, about eleven o'clock on the previous night, been set upon by threeintoxicated students, who, having driven off his mule, overturned hiscart, landing him and his wife prostrate in the ditch. A great noise wasthe result, and the guard, with their accustomed zeal for seizing uponthe innocent party, dragged up the weaker (the Cracker and his wife) andlet the guilty go free. He had brought the good wife, he added, as aliving evidence of the truth of what he said, and would bring the muleif his honor was not satisfied. The good wife commences a volley of whatshe is pleased to call voluntary testimony, praising and defending allthe good qualities of her much-abused husband, without permitting anyone else an opposing word. No sufficient charge being brought againstthe Cracker (he wisely slipped a five dollar bill into the hands ofStubbs), he joins his good wife and goes on his way rejoicing. 

During this little episode between the court and the Cracker's wife, Madame Grace Ashley, arrayed in her most fashionable toilet, comesblazing into Court, bows to the Judge and a few of her most selectfriends of the Bar. A seat for Madame is provided near his Honor's desk. His Honor's blushes seem somewhat overtaxed; Madame, on the other hand, is not at all disconcerted; indeed, she claims an extensive acquaintancewith the most distinguished of the Bar. 

The Judge suggests to Mr. Stubbs that it would be as well to waive thecharge against the clergyman. Somewhat the worse for his night in theguard-house, Parson Patterson comes forward and commences in the mostunintelligible manner to explain the whole affair, when the Judge veryblandly interrupts by inquiring if he is a member of the clergy at thismoment. "Welle, " returns the parson, with characteristic drawl, "can'tzactly say I am. " The natural seediness of the parson excites suspicion, nevertheless he is scrupulous of his white cravat, and preserves withala strictly clerical aspect. Having paused a few moments and exchangedglances with the Judge, he continues: "I do nigger preaching onSunday--that is (Parson Patterson corrects himself), I hold forth, hereand there--we are all flesh and blood--on plantations when I have ademand for my services. Our large planters hold it good policy toencourage the piety of their property. "

"You make a good thing of it?" inquires the Judge, jocosely. The parsonreplies, with much meekness of manner, that business is not so good asit was, planters having got it into their heads that sermons can be gotat a very low figure. Here he commences to explain his singularposition. He happened to meet an old and much-esteemed friend, whom heaccompanied home, and while spending the evening conversing onspiritual matters--it was best not to lie--he took a little too much. Onhis way to the hotel he selected Beresford street as a short cut, andbeing near the house where he was unfortunately found when the shootingtook place, he ran into it to escape the police--

"Don't believe a word he says, " interrupts Madame Ashley, springingsuddenly to her feet, and commencing to pour out her phials of wrath onthe head of the poor parson, whom she accuses of being a suspicious andextremely unprofitable frequenter of her house, which she describes asexceedingly respectable. "Your Honor can bear me out in what I say!"pursues Madame, bowing with an air of exultation, as the sheriff demandsorder. 

"A sorry lot, these plantation preachers! Punish him right soundly, yourhonor. It is not the first time he has damaged the respectability of myhouse!" again interrupts Madame Ashley. His Honor replies only with ablush. Mr. Snivel, who watches with quisical countenance, over the bar, enjoys the joke wonderfully. 

Order being restored, the Judge turns to address the parson. 

"I see, my friend--I always address my prisoners familiarly--you placebut little value on the fact of your being a clergyman, on the groundthat you only preach to slaves. This charge brought against you is agrave one--I assure you! And I cannot incline to the view you take ofyour profession. I may not be as erudite as some; however, I hold itthat the ignorant and not the learned have most need of good example. "

"Aye! I always told the old reprobate so, " interposes Madam Ashley, withgreat fervor. 

"A charge, " resumes the Judge, "quite sufficient to warrant me incommitting you to durance vile, might be preferred. You may thank mygenerosity that it is not. These houses, as you know, Mr. Patterson, arenot only dangerous, but damaging to men of potent morality like you. "

"But, your Honor knows, they are much frequented, " meekly drawls theparson. 

"It affords no palliation, " sharply responds the Judge, his facecrimsoning with blushes. "Mark ye, my friend of the clergy, these placesmake sad destruction of our young men. Indeed I may say with becomingsincerity and truth, that they spread a poison over the community, andact as the great enemy of our social system. "

"Heigh ho!" ejaculates Madame Ashley, to the great delight of the throngassembled, "Satan has come to rebuke sin. " Madame bids his Honor a verypolite good morning, and takes her departure, looking disdainfully overher shoulder as she disappears out of the door. 

Not a little disturbed in his equanimity, the Judge pursues his charge. "The clergy ought to keep their garments clear of such places, for beingthe source of all evil, the effect on the community is not good--I meanwhen such things are brought to light! I would address you frankly andadmonish you to go no more into such places. Let your ways merit theapprobation of those to whom you preach the Gospel. You can go. Henceforth, live after the ways of the virtuous. "

Parson Patterson thanks his Honor, begs to assure him of his innocence, and seems only too anxious to get away. His Honor bows to Mr. Patterson, Mr. Patterson returns it, and adds another for the audience, whereuponthe court adjourns, and so ends the episode. His Honor takes Mr. Snivel's arm, and together they proceed to the "most convenient" saloon, where, over a well-compounded punch, "the bench and the bar" complimenteach other on the happy disposal of such vexatious cases. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE HOUSE OF THE NINE NATIONS, AND WHAT MAY BE SEEN IN IT. 

On the corner of Anthony street and the Points, [4] in New-York, therestands, like a grim savage, the house of the Nine Nations, a dingywooden tenement, that for twenty years has threatened to tumble awayfrom its more upright neighbor, and before which the stranger wayfareris seen to stop and contemplate. In a neighborhood redolent of crime, there it stands, its vices thick upon its head, exciting in the mind ofthe observer its association with some dark and terrible deed. On theone side, opens that area of misery, mud and sombre walls, called "CowBay;" on the other a triangular plot, reeking with the garbage of themiserable cellars that flank it, and in which swarms of wasting beingsseek a hiding-place, inhale pestilential air, and die. Gutters runningwith seething matter; homeless outcasts sitting, besotted, on crazydoorsteps; the vicious, with savage visage, and keen, watchful eye, loitering at the doors of filthy "groceries;" the sickly and neglectedchild crawling upon the side-pave, or seeking a crust to appease itshunger--all are found here, gasping, in rags, a breath of air by day, orseeking a shelter, at night, in dens so abject that the world canfurnish no counterpart. And this forlorn picture of dilapidated houses, half-clad, squabbish women, blistered-faced men, and sickly children, the house of the Nine Nations overlooks. And yet this house, to thedisgrace of an opulent people be it said, is but the sample of anhundred others standing in the same neighborhood. 

[Footnote 4: Now Worth street and Mission Place. ]

With its basement-doors opening into its bottomless pit; with itscontinual outgoing and ingoing of sooty and cruel-visaged denizens; withits rickety old steps leading to the second story; with its batteredwindows, begrimed walls, demolished shutters, clapboards hanging atsixes and sevens--with its suspicious aspect;--there it stands, with itsdistained sign over the doors of its bottomless pit. You may read onthis sign, that a gentleman from Ireland, who for convenience' sake wewill call Mr. Krone, is licensed to sell imported and other liquors. 

Indeed the house of the Nine Nations would seem to say within itself: "Iam mother of this banquet of death you behold with your eyes. " There itstands, its stream of poison hurrying its victims to the grave; itslittle dark passages leading to curious hiding-places; its caving roof, and its ominous-looking back platform, overlooking the dead walls ofMurderers' Yard. How it mocks your philanthropy, your regal edifices, your boasted charities--your gorgeous churches! Everybody but thecorporation knows the house of the Nine Nations, a haunt for wastedprostitutes, assassins, burglars, thieves--every grade of criminalsknown to depraved nature. The corporation would seem either to have acharming sympathy for it, or to look upon it with that good-naturedindifference so happily illustrated while eating its oysters anddrinking its whiskey. An empty-headed corporation is sure always tohave its hands very full, which is the case with yours at this moment. Having the people's money to waste, its own ambition to serve, and itshat to fill with political waste paper--what more would you ask of it?

The man of the house of the Nine Nations, you ought to know, makescriminals by the hundred, deluges your alms houses with paupers, andmakes your Potters' field reek with his victims: for this he is becomerich. Mr. Krone is an intimate friend of more than one Councilman, and aman of much measure in the political world--that is, Mr. Krone is apolitician-maker. When you say there exists too close an intimacybetween the pugilist and the politician, Mr. Krone will bet twentydrinks with any one of his customers that he can prove such doctrines atfault. He can secure the election of his favorite candidate with thesame facility that he can make an hundred paupers per week. You may wellbelieve him a choice flower in the bouquet of the corporation; we meanthe corporation that banquets and becomes jubilant while assassins stabtheir victims in the broad street--that becomes befogged while bands ofruffians disgrace the city with their fiendish outrages--that makespresidents and drinks whiskey when the city would seem given over to theswell-mobsman--when no security is offered to life, and wholesaleharlotry, flaunting with naked arms and bared bosoms, passes along inpossession of Broadway by night. 

It is the night succeeding the day Lady Swiggs discovered, at the houseof the Foreign Missions, the loss of her cherished donations. As this isa world of disappointments, Lady Swiggs resigns herself to this mostgalling of all, and with her Milton firmly grasped in her hand, may beseen in a little room at Sister Scudder's, rocking herself in thearm-chair, and wondering if Brother Spyke has captured therobber-wretch. A chilly wind howls, and a drizzling rain falls thickover the dingy dwellings of the Points, which, sullen and dark, seem ina dripping mood. A glimmering light, here and there, throws curiousshadows over the liquid streets. Now the drenched form of somehalf-naked and homeless being is reflected, standing shivering in theentrance to some dark and narrow alley; then the half-crazed inebriatehurries into the open door of a dismal cellar, or seeks eagerly ashelter for his bewildered head, in some suspicious den. Flashingthrough the shadow of the police lamp, in "Cow Bay, " a forlorn female isseen, a bottle held tightly under her shawl. Sailing as it were into thebottomless pit of the house of the Nine Nations, then suddenly returningwith the drug, seeking the cheerless garret of her dissolute partner, and there striving to blunt her feelings against the horrors ofstarvation. 

Two men stand, an umbrella over their heads, at the corner, in the glareof the bottomless pit, which is in a blaze of light, and crowded withsavage-faced figures, of various ages and colors, --all habited in thepoison-seller's uniform of rags. "I don't think you'll find him here, sir, " says one, addressing the other, who is tall and slender of person, and singularly timid. "God knows I am a stranger here. To-morrow I leavefor Antioch, " is the reply, delivered in nervous accents. The one isBrother Syngleton Spyke, the other Mr. Detective Fitzgerald, a man ofmore than middle stature, with compact figure, firmly-knit limbs, and anexpression of countenance rather pleasant. 

"You see, sir, this Toddleworth is a harmless creature, always aims tobe obliging and civil. I don't, sir--I really don't think he'll steal. But one can't tell what a man will do who is driven to such straits asthe poor devils here are. We rather like Toddleworth at the station, look upon him as rather wanting in the head, and for that reason ratherincline to favor him. I may say we now and then let him 'tie up' allnight in the station. And for this he seems very thankful. I may say, "continues Mr. Fitzgerald, touching the visor of his cap, "that he alwaysrepays with kindness any little attention we may extend to him at thestation, and at times seems too anxious to make it his home. We give hima shirt and a few shillings now and then; and when we want to be rid ofhim we begin to talk about fashionable wives. He is sure to go then. Can't stand such a topic, I assure you, sir, and is sure to go off in ahuff when Sergeant Pottle starts it. "

They enter the great door of the bottomless pit; the young missionaryhesitates. His countenance changes, his eyes scan steadily over thescene. A room some sixty feet by twenty opens to his astonished eyes. Its black, boarded walls, and bare beams, are enlivened here and therewith extravagant pictures of notorious pugilists, show-bills, andillustrated advertisements of lascivious books, in which the murder ofan unfortunate woman is the principal feature. Slippery mud covers thefloor. Mr. Krone sits on an empty whiskey-barrel, his stunted featuresbetraying the hardened avarice of his character. He smokes his blackpipe, folds his arms deliberately, discoursing of the affairs of thenation to two stupefied negroes and one blear-eyed son of the EmeraldIsle. Three uncouth females, with hair hanging matted over their faces, and their features hidden in distortion, stand cooling their bared limbsat a running faucet just inside the door, to the left. A group ofhalf-naked negroes lie insensible on the floor, to the right. A littlefurther on two prostrate females, shivering, and reeking of gin, sleepundisturbed by the profanity that is making the very air resound. "Thegin gets a-many of us, " is the mournful cry of many a wasting inebriate. Mr. Krone, however, will tell you he has no sympathy with such cries. You arraign, and perhaps punish, the apothecary who sells by mistake hisdeadly drug. With a philosophical air, Mr. Krone will tell you he dealsout his poison without scruple, fills alms-houses without a pang ofremorse, and proves that a politician-maker may do much to degradesociety and remain in high favor with his friends of the bench ofjustice. On one side of the dungeon-like place stands a rickety oldcounter, behind which three savage-faced men stand, filling and servingincessant potions of deleterious liquor to the miserable beings, haggardand ragged, crowding to be first served. Behind the bar, or counter, rises a pyramid of dingy shelves, on which are arranged little paintedkegs, labelled, and made bright by the glaring gas-light reflected uponthem. On the opposite side, on rows of slab benches, sit a group ofmotley beings, --the young girl and the old man, the negro and the frailwhite, --half sleeping, half conscious; all imbibing the stiflingdraught. 

Like revelling witches in rags, and seen through the bedimmed atmosphereat the further end of the den, are half-frantic men, women, and girls, now sitting at deal tables, playing for drinks, now jostling, jeering, and profaning in wild disorder. A girl of sixteen, wasted and deformedwith dissipation, approaches Brother Spyke, extends her blanched hand, and importunes him for gin. He shudders, and shrinks from her touch, asfrom a reptile. A look of scorn, and she turns from him, and is lostamong the grotesque crowd in the distance. 

"This gin, " says Mr. Fitzgerald, turning methodically to Brother Spyke, "they make do for food and clothing. We used to call this the devil'sparadise. As to Krone, we used to call him the devil's bar-tender. Theseragged revellers, you see, beg and steal during the day, and get ginwith it at night. Krone thinks nothing of it! Lord bless your soul, sir!why, this man is reckoned a tip-top politician; on an emergency he canturn up such a lot of votes!" Mr. Fitzgerald, approaching Mr. Krone, says "you're a pretty fellow. Keeping such a place as this!" Thedetective playfully strikes the hat of the other, crowding it over hiseyes, and inquiring if he has seen Tom Toddleworth during the day. Mr. Toddleworth was not seen during the day. No one in the bottomless pitknows where he may be found. A dozen husky voices are heard to say, hehas no home--stores himself away anywhere, and may be found everywhere. 

Brother Spyke bows, and sighs. Mr. Fitzgerald says: "he is alwaysharmless--this Toddleworth. " As the two searchers are about to withdraw, the shrunken figure of a woman rushes wildly into the pit. "Devils!devils!--hideous devils of darkness! here you are--stillhover--hover--hovering; turning midnight into revelling, day into horriddreaming!" she shrieks at the top of her voice. Now she pauses suddenly, and with a demoniacal laugh sets her dull, glassy eyes on Mr. Krone, then walks round him with clenched fists and threatening gestures. Thepolitician-maker sits unmoved. Now she throws her hair about her barebreasts, turns her eyes upward, imploringly, and approaches BrotherSpyke, with hand extended. Her tale of sorrow and suffering is writtenin her very look. "She won't hurt you--never harms anybody;" says Mr. Fitzgerald, methodically, observing Brother Spyke's timidity. 

"No, no, no, " she mutters incoherently, "you are not of this place--youknow, like the rich world up-town, little of these revelling devils. Cling! yes, cling to the wise one--tell him to keep you from this, andforever be your teacher. Tell him! tell him! oh! tell him!" She wringsher hands, and having sailed as it were into the further end of the pit, vaults back, and commences a series of wild gyrations round Mr. Krone. 

"Poor wretch!" says Brother Spyke, complacently, "the gin has dried upher senses--made her what she is. "

"Maniac Munday! Maniac Munday!" suddenly echoes and re-echoes throughthe pit. She turns her ear, and with a listless countenance listensattentively, then breaks out into an hysterical laugh. "Yes! yeloathsome denizens. Like me, no one seeks you, no one cares for you. Iam poor, poor maniac Munday. The maniac that one fell error brought tothis awful end. " Again she lowers her voice, flings her hair back overher shoulders, and gives vent to her tears. Like one burdened withsorrow she commences humming an air, that even in this dark den floatssweetly through the polluted atmosphere. "Well, I am what I am, " shesighs, having paused in her tune. "That one fatal step--that plightedfaith! How bitter to look back. " Her bony fingers wander to her lips, which she commences biting and fretting, as her countenance becomes paleand corpse-like. Again her reason takes its flight. She staggers to thedrenched counter, holds forth her bottle, lays her last sixpencetauntingly upon the board, and watches with glassy eyes the drawing ofthe poisonous drug. Meanwhile Mr. Krone, with an imprecation, declareshe has power to elect his candidate to the Senate. The man behind thecounter--the man of savage face, has filled the maniac's bottle, whichhe pushes toward her with one hand, as with the other he sweeps her coininto a drawer. "Oh! save poor maniac Munday--save poor maniac Munday!"the woman cries, like one in despair, clutching the bottle, and reelsout of the pit. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

IN WHICH IS PRESENTED ANOTHER PICTURE OF THE HOUSE OF THE NINE NATIONS. 

Pale and hesitating, Brother Spyke says: "I have no passion for delvinginto such places; and having seen enough for one night, am content toleave the search for this vile old man to you. " The valiant missionaryaddresses Mr. Fitzgerald, who stands with one foot upon the rickety oldsteps that lead to the second story of the House of the Nine Nations. 

This morning, Brother Spyke was ready to do battle with the wholeheathen world, to drag it up into light, to evangelize it. Now he quailsbefore this heathen world, so terribly dark, at his own door. 

"You have, sir, " says the detective, "seen nuthin' as yet. The sightsare in these 'ere upper dens; but, I may say it, a body wants nerve. Some of our Aldermen say ye can't see such sights nowhere else. "

The missionary replies, holding tenaciously to his umbrella, "That maybe true; but I fear they will be waiting me at home. " Again he scansinquiringly into the drenched area of the Points; then bidding theofficer good-night, is soon out of sight, on his way into Centre Street. Reaching the old stoop, the detective touches a spring, and theshattered door opens into a narrow, gloomy passage, along which hegropes his way, over a floor cobbled with filth, and against anatmosphere thick of disease. Now a faint light flashes through a crevicein the left wall, plays fantastically upon the black surface of theopposite, then dies away. The detective lights his lantern, stands amoment with his ear turned, as if listening to the revelry in thebottomless pit. A door opens to his touch, he enters a cave-likeroom--it is the one from out which the light stole so curiously, and inwhich all is misery and sadness. A few embers still burn in a greatbrick fireplace, shedding a lurid glow over the damp, filthy walls, thediscolored ceiling, and the grotesque group upon the floor. "You needn'tcome at this time of night--we are all honest people;" speaks a massivenegro, of savage visage, who (he is clothed in rags) sits at the leftside of the fireplace. He coaxes the remnant of his fire to cook somecoarse food he has placed in a small, black stew-pan, he watches withsteady gaze. Three white females (we blush to say it), their bare, brawny arms resting on their knees, and their disfigured faces droopedinto their hands, form an half circle on the opposite side. 

"The world don't think nothin' of us down here--we haven't had a bite toeat to-night, " gruffly resumes the negro. 

"May them that have riches enjoy them, for to be supperless is nouncommon thing wid us, " interrupts one of the women, gathering about herthe shreds of her tattered garment, parting the matted hair over herface, and revealing her ghastly features. The detective turns his lightfull upon her. "If we live we live, if we die we die--nobody cares! Lookyou yonder, Mr. Fitzgerald, " continues the negro, with a sarcastic leer. Turning his light to where the negro points, the detective casts aglance into the shadow, and there discovers the rags move. A dozen pairof glassy eyes are seen peering from out the filthy coverings, overwhich lean arms and blanched hands keep up an incessant motion. Here anemaciated and heart-sick Welsh girl, of thirteen (enciente) laysshivering on the broken floor; there an half-famished Scotch woman, twomoaning children nestling at her heart, suffers uncovered upon a palletof straw. The busy world without would seem not to have a care for her;the clergy have got the heathen world upon their shoulders. Hunger, likea grim tyrant, has driven her to seek shelter in this wretched abode. Despair has made her but too anxious that the grave or prison wallsshould close the record of her sorrows. How tightly she with her righthand presses her babe to her bosom; how appealingly with her left sheasks a pittance of the detective! Will he not save from death herstarving child? He has nothing to give her, turns his head, answers onlywith a look of pity, and moves slowly towards the door. 

"You have not been long off the Island, Washington?" inquires thedetective, with an air of familiarity. 

"I wish, " replies the negro, sullenly, "I was back. An honest man as Iis, can't get on in this world. Necessity makes rascals of better menthan me, Mr. Fitzgerald. Mr. Krone (he's a white man, though) makes allthe politicians for the district, and charges me eight dollars a monthfor this hole. Just measure them two things together, Mr. Fitzgerald;then see if takin' in sixpenny, lodgers pays. " Mr. Fitzgerald commencescounting them. "You needn't count, " pursues the negro, uncovering hisstew-pan, "there's only eighteen in to-night. Have twenty, sometimes!Don't get nothin' for that poor Scotch woman an' her children. Can'tget it when they hain't got it--you know that, Mr. Fitzgerald. "

The detective inquires if any of them have seen Mr. Toddleworth to-day. Washington has not seen him, and makes no scruple of saying he thinksvery little of him. 

"Faith an' it's hard times with poor Tom, " speaks up one of the women, in a deep brogue. "It was only last night--the same I'm tellin' is true, God knows--Mrs. McCarty took him to the Rookery--the divil a mouthfulhe'd ate durin' the day--and says, bein' a ginerous sort of body, come, take a drop, an' a bite to ate. Mister Toddleworth did that same, andthin lay the night on the floor. To-night--it's the truth, Godknows--Tom Downey took him above. An' it's Tom who woundn't be the frindof the man who hadn't a shillin' in his pocket. "

The detective shrugs his shoulders, and having thanked the woman, withdraws into the passage, to the end of which he cautiously picks hisway, and knocks at a distained door that fronts him. A voice deep andhusky bids him enter, which he does, as the lurid glare of his lanternreveals a room some twelve by sixteen feet, the plaster hanging infestoons from the black walls, and so low of ceiling that he scarce canstand upright. Four bunk-beds, a little bureau, a broken chair or two, and a few cheap pictures, hung here and there on the sombre walls, giveit an air of comfort in grateful contrast with the room just left. "Wholives here?" inquires the detective, turning his light full upon eachobject that attracts his attention. "Shure it's only me--Mrs. TerenceMurphy--and my three sisters (the youngest is scarce fourteen), and thetwo English sisters: all honest people, God knows, " replies Mrs. Murphy, with a rapid tongue. 

"It's not right of you to live this way, " returns the detective, continuing to survey the prostrate forms of Mrs. Murphy, her threesisters, and the two fair-haired English girls, and the besotted beingsthey claim as husbands. Alarm is pictured in every countenance. Abrowned face withdraws under a dingy coverlid, an anxious face peersfrom out a pallet on the floor, a prostrate figure in the cornerinquires the object of Mr. Detective Fitzgerald's visit--and Mrs. Murphy, holding it more becoming of respectable society, leaves the bedin which she had accommodated five others, and gets into one she callsher own. A second thought, and she makes up her mind not to get intobed, but to ask Mr. Fitzgerald if he will be good enough, when next hemeets his Onher, the Mayor, just to say to him how Mr. Krone is bringingdisgrace upon the house and every one in it, by letting rooms tonegroes. Here she commences pouring out her pent-up wrath upon the headof Mr. Krone, and the colored gentleman, whom she declares has a dozenwhite females in his room every night. The detective encourages her bysaying it is not right of Mr. Krone, who looks more at the color of hismoney than the skin of his tenants. "To come of a dacint family--and bebrought to this!" says Mrs. Murphy, allowing her passion to rise, andswearing to have revenge of the negro in the next room. 

"You drink this gin, yet--I have warned you against it, " interposes thedetective, pointing to some bottles on the bureau. "Faith, an' it's thegin gets a many of us, " returns the woman, curtly, as she gathers abouther the skirts of her garments. "Onyhow, yerself wouldn't deprive us ofa drop now and then, jist to keep up the spirits. " The detective shakeshis head, then discloses to them the object of his search, adding, inparenthesis, that he does not think Mr. Toddleworth is the thief. Adozen tongues are ready to confirm the detective's belief. "Not ashillin' of it did the poor crature take--indeed he didn't, now, Mr. Fitzgerald. 'Onor's 'onor, all over the wurld!" says Mrs. Murphy, grasping the detective by the hand. "Stay till I tell ye all about it. Mary Maguire--indeed an' ye knows her, Mr. Fitzgerald--this sameafternoon looked in to say--'how do ye do, Mrs. Murphy. See this! Mrs. Murphy, ' says she, 'an' the divil a sich a pocket of money I'd seebefore, as she held in her right hand, jist. 'Long life to ye, Mary, 'says I. 'We'll have a pint, Mrs. Murphy, ' says she. 'May ye niver wantthe worth of it, ' says I. And the pint was not long in, when Mary got alittle the worse of it, and let all out about the money. 'You won'twhisper it, Mrs. Murphy, ' says she, 'if I'd tell ye in confidence bywhat manes I got the lift?'"

"'Not in the wide world, Mary, ' says I; 'ye may trust me for that same. ''Shure didn't I raise it from the pocket of an auld woman in spectacles, that watched the fool beyant dig up the corporation. ' 'An' it'll not doyerself much good, ' says I, liftin' the same, and cuttin' away to thehouse. 'You won't whisper it?' says she. "

"I can confirm the truth of that same, " rejoins a brusque-figured man, rising from his pallet, and speaking with regained confidence. "Marylooked in at the Blazers, and being the worse of liquor, showed a daleof ready money, and trated everybody, and gave the money to everybody, and was wilcome wid everybody. Then Mrs. McCarty got aboard of herginerosity, and got her into the Rookery, where the Miss McCartysthought it would not be amiss to have a quart. The same was brought in, and Mary hersel' was soon like a dead woman on the floor, jist--"

"And they got the money all away?" interrupts the detective. 

"Faith, an' she'll not have a blessed dollar come daylight, " continuesthe man, resuming his pallet. 

The detective bids Mrs. Murphy good night, and is soon groping his wayover a rickety old floor, along a dark, narrow passage, scarce highenough to admit him, and running at right angles with the first. A dooron the left opens into a grotto-like place, the sickly atmosphere ofwhich seems hurling its poison into the very blood. "Who's here?"inquires the detective, and a voice, feeble and hollow, responds:"Lodgers!"

The damp, greasy walls; the broken ceilings; the sooty fireplace, withits shattered bricks; the decayed wainscoating--its dark, forlornaspect, all bespeak it the fit abode of rats. And yet Mr. Krone thinksit comfortable enough (the authorities think Mr. Krone the best judge)for the accommodation of thirteen remnants of human misery, all of whomare here huddled together on the wet, broken floor, borrowing warmth ofone another. The detective's light falls curiously upon the dreadpicture, which he stands contemplating. A pale, sickly girl, of someeleven summers, her hair falling wildly over her wan features, lays uponsome rags near the fireplace, clinging to an inebriated mother. Here afather, heart-sick and prostrate with disease, seeks to keep warm histhree ragged children, nestling about him. An homeless outcast, necessity forces him to send them out to prey upon the community by day, and to seek in this wretched hovel a shelter at night. Yonder the ragsare thrown back, a moving mass is disclosed, and there protrudes adisfigured face, made ghostly by the shadow of the detective's lantern. At the detective's feet a prostrate girl, insensible of gin, is seizedwith convulsions, clutches with wasted hands at the few rags about herpoor, flabby body, then with fingers grasping, and teeth firmly set, herwhole frame writhes in agony. Your missionary never whispered a kind, encouraging word in her ear; his hand never pressed that blanched bonewith which she now saddens your heart! Different might it have been withher had some gentle-tongued Brother Spyke sought her out, bore patientlywith her waywardness, snatched her from this life of shame, and placedher high in an atmosphere of light and love. 

It is here, gentle shepherds, the benighted stand most in need of yourlabors. Seek not to evangelize the Mahomedan world until you have workeda reform here; and when you have done it, a monument in heaven will beyour reward. 

"Mr. Toddleworth is not here, " says the detective, withdrawing into thepassage, then ascending a broken and steep stairs that lead into thethird story. Nine shivering forms crouched in one dismal room; foursquabbish women, and three besotted men in another; and in a third, nineragged boys and two small girls--such are the scenes of squalid miserypresented here. In a little front room, Mr. Tom Downey, his wife, andeight children, lay together upon the floor, half covered with rags. Mr. Downey startles at the appearance of the detective, rises nervously fromhis pallet, and after the pause of a moment, says: "Indeed, yer welcome, Mr. Fitzgerald. Indeed, I have not--an' God knows it's the truth Itell--seen Mr. Toddleworth the week;" he replies, in answer to aquestion from the detective. 

"You took a drop with him this afternoon?" continues the detective, observing his nervousness. 

"God knows it's a mistake, Mr. Fitzgerald. " Mr. Downey changes thesubject, by saying the foreigners in the garret are a great nuisance, and disturb him of his rest at night. 

A small, crooked stair leads into "Organ-grinders' Roost, " in thegarret. To "Organ-grinders' Roost" the detective ascends. If, reader, you have ever pictured in your mind the cave of despair, peopled bybeings human only in shape, you may form a faint idea of thewretchedness presented in "Organ-grinders' Roost, " at the top of thehouse of the Nine Nations. Seven stalworth men shoot out from among amass of rags on the floor, and with dark, wandering eyes, and massive, uncombed beards, commence in their native Italian a series ofinterrogatories, not one of which the detective can understand. Theywould inquire for whom he seeks at this strange hour. He (the detective)stands unmoved, as with savage gesture--he has discovered his star--theytell him they are famishing of hunger. A pretty black-eyed girl, towhose pale, but beautifully oval face an expression of sorrow lends atouching softness, lays on the bare floor, beside a mother ofpatriarchal aspect. Now she is seized with a sharp cough that bringsblood at every paroxysm. As if forgetting herself, she lays her handgently upon the cheek of her mother, anxious to comfort her. Ah! thehard hand of poverty has been upon her through life, and stubbornlyrefuses to relax its grip, even in her old age. An organ forms here andthere a division between the sleepers; two grave-visaged monkeys sitchattering in the fireplace, then crouch down on the few charred sticks. A picture of the crucifix is seen conspicuous over the dingy fireplace, while from the slanting roof hang several leathern girdles. Oh, what astruggle for life is their's! Mothers, fathers, daughters, and littlechildren, thus promiscuously grouped, and coming up in neglect andshame. There an old man, whom remorseless death is just calling intoeternity, with dull, glassy eyes, white, flowing beard, bald head, sunken mouth, begrimed and deeply-wrinkled face, rises, spectre-like, from his pallet. Now he draws from his breast a small crucifix, andcommences muttering to it in a guttural voice. "Peace, peace, good oldman--the holy father will come soon--the holy virgin will come soon: hewill receive the good spirit to his bosom, " says a black-eyed daughter, patting him gently upon the head, then looking in his face solicitously, as he turns his eyes upward, and for a few moments seems invoking themercy of the Allwise. "Yes, father, " she resumes, lightening up the matof straw upon which he lays, "the world has been unkind to you, but youare passing from it to a better--you will be at peace soon. "

"Soon, soon, soon, " mumbles the old man, in a whisper; and havingcarefully returned the crucifix to his bosom, grasps fervently the handof the girl and kisses it, as her eyes swim in tears. 

Such, to the shame of those who live in princely palaces, and revel inluxury, are but faintly-drawn pictures of what may be seen in the houseof the Nine Nations. 

The detective is about to give up the search, and turns to descend thestairs, when suddenly he discerns a passage leading to the north end ofthe garret. Here, in a little closet-like room, on the right, the ratshis only companions, lies the prostrate form of poor Toddleworth. 

"Well, I persevered till I found you, " says the detective, turning hislight full upon the body. Another minute, and his features become asmarble; he stands aghast, and his whole frame seems struggling under theeffect of some violent shock. "What, what, what!" he shouts, in nervousaccents, "Murder! murder! murder! some one has murdered him. " Motionlessthe form lies, the shadow of the light revealing the ghastly spectacle. The head lies in a pool of blood, the bedimmed eyes, having taken theirlast look, remain fixedly set on the black roof. "He has died of ablow--of a broken skull!" says the frightened official, feeling, andfeeling, and pressing the arms and hands that are fast becoming rigid. Life is gone out; a pauper's grave will soon close over what remains ofthis wretched outcast. The detective hastens down stairs, spreads thealarm over the neighborhood, and soon the House of the Nine Nations isthe scene of great excitement. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

IN WHICH MAY BE SEEN A FEW OF OUR COMMON EVILS. 

Leaving for a time the scenes in the House of the Nine Nations, let usreturn to Charleston, that we may see how matters appertaining to thishistory are progressing. Mr. Snivel is a popular candidate for theSenate of South Carolina; and having shot his man down in the street, the question of his fighting abilities we regard as honorably settled. Madame Montford, too, has by him been kept in a state of nervousanxiety, for he has not yet found time to search in the "Poor-house forthe woman Munday. " All our very first, and best-known families, havedropped Madame, who is become a wet sheet on the fashionable world. Aselect committee of the St. Cecilia has twice considered her expulsion, while numerous very respectable and equally active old ladies have beenshaking their scandal-bags at her head. Sins have been laid at her doorthat would indeed damage a reputation with a fairer endorsement than NewYork can give. 

Our city at this moment is warmed into a singular state of excitement. AGeorgia editor (we regard editors as belonging to a very windy class ofmen), not having the mightiness of our chivalry before him, said theUnion would have peace if South Carolina were shut up in a penitentiary. And for this we have invited the indiscreet gentleman to step over theborder, that we may hang him, being extremely fond of such common-placeamusements. What the facetious fellow meant was, that our own Statewould enjoy peace and prosperity were our mob-politicians all in thepenitentiary. And with this sensible opinion we heartily agree. 

We regard our state of civilization as extremely enviable. To-day wemade a lion of the notorious Hines, the forger. Hines, fashioning afterour hapless chivalry, boasts that South Carolina is his State--hispolitical mother. He has, nevertheless, graced with his presence no fewpenitentiaries. We feasted him in that same prison where we degrade andstarve the honest poor; we knew him guilty of an heinous crime--yet wecarried him jubilantly to the "halls of justice. " And whiledistinguished lawyers tendered their services to the "clever villain, "you might have witnessed in sorrow a mock trial, and heard a mobsanction with its acclamations his release. 

Oh, truth and justice! how feeble is thy existence where the god slaveryreigns. And while men are heard sounding the praises of this highwaymanat the street corners, extolling men who have shot down their fellow-menin the streets, and calling those "Hon. Gentlemen, " who have in the mostcowardly manner assassinated their opponents, let us turn to a differentpicture. Two genteely-dressed men are seen entering the old, jail. "Ihave twice promised them a happy surprise, " says one, whose pale, studious features, wear an expression of gentleness. The face of theother is somewhat florid, but beaming with warmth of heart. They enter, having passed up one of the long halls, a room looking into theprison-yard. Several weary-faced prisoners are seated round a dealtable, playing cards; among them is the old sailor described in theearly part of this history. "You don't know my friend, here?" says theyoung man of the studious face, addressing the prisoners, and pointingto his companion. The prisoners look inquiringly at the stranger, thenshake their heads in response. 

"No, you don't know me: you never knew me when I was a man, " speaks thestranger, raising his hat, as a smile lights up his features. "You don'tknow Tom Swiggs, the miserable inebriate--"

A spontaneous shout of recognition, echoing and reechoing through theold halls, interrupts this declaration. One by one the imprisoned mengrasp him by the hand, and shower upon him the warmest, the heartiestcongratulations. A once fallen brother has risen to a knowledge of hisown happiness. Hands that raised him from that mat of straw, when themental man seemed lost, now welcome him restored, a purer being. 

"Ah, Spunyarn, " says Tom, greeting the old sailor with childlikefondness, as the tears are seen gushing into the eyes, and coursing downthe browned face of the old mariner, "I owe you a debt I fear I nevercan pay. I have thought of you in my absence, and had hoped on my returnto see you released. I am sorry you are not--"

"Well, as to that, " interrupts the old sailor, his face resuming itswonted calm, "I can't--you know I can't, Tom, --sail without a clearance. I sometimes think I'm never going to get one. Two years, as you know, I've been here, now backing and then filling, in and out, just as itsuits that chap with the face like a snatch-block. They call him ajustice. 'Pon my soul, Tom, I begin to think justice for us poor folksis got aground. Well, give us your hand agin' (he seizes Tom by thehand); its all well wi' you, anyhows. '

"Yes, thank God, " says Tom, returning his friendly shake, "I haveconquered the enemy, and my thanks for it are due to those who reachedmy heart with kind words, and gave me a brother's hand. I was not deadto my own degradation; but imprisonment left me no hope. The sting ofdisappointment may pain your feelings; hope deferred may torture youhere in a prison; the persecutions of enemies may madden your very soul;but when a mother turns coldly from you--No, I will not say it, for Ilove her still--" he hesitates, as the old sailor says, with touchingsimplicity, he never knew what it was to have a mother or father. Havingspread before the old man and his companions sundry refreshments he hadordered brought in, and received in return their thanks, he inquires ofSpunyarn how it happened that he got into prison, and how it is that heremains here a fixture. 

"I'll tell you, Tom, " says the old sailor, commencing his story. "We'djust come ashore--had a rough passage--and, says I to myself, here's layup ashore awhile. So I gets a crimp, who takes me to a crib. 'It's allright here--you'll have snug quarters, Jack, ' says he, introducing me tothe chap who kept it. I gives him twenty dollars on stack, and gets upmy chest and hammock, thinking it was all fair and square. Then I meetsan old shipmate, who I took in tow, he being hard ashore for cash. 'Letus top the meetin' with a glass, ' says I. 'Agreed, ' says Bill, and Icalls her on, the very best. 'Ten cents a glass, ' says the fellow behindthe counter, giving us stuff that burnt as it went. 'Mister, ' says I, 'do ye want to poison a sailor?' 'If you no like him, ' says he, 'go getbetter somewhere else. ' I told him to give me back the twenty, and medunnage. 

"'You don't get him--clear out of mine 'ouse, ' says he. 

"'Under the peak, ' says I, fetching him a but under the lug that beachedhim among his beer-barrels. He picked himself up, and began talkingabout a magistrate. And knowing what sort of navigation a fellow'd havein the hands of that sort of land-craft, I began to think about layingmy course for another port. 'Hold on here, ' says a big-sidedland-lubber, seizing me by the fore-sheets. 'Cast off there, ' says I, 'or I'll put ye on yer beam-ends. '

"'I'm a constable, ' says he, pulling out a pair of irons he said must goon my hands. "

"I hope he did not put them on, " interrupts the young theologian, for itis he who accompanies Tom. 

"Avast! I'll come to that. He said he'd only charge me five dollars forgoing to jail without 'em, so rather than have me calling damaged, I givhim it. It was only a trifle. 'Now, Jack, ' says the fellow, as we wentalong, in a friendly sort of way, 'just let us pop in and see thejustice. I think a ten 'll get ye a clearance. ' 'No objection to that, 'says I, and in we went, and there sat the justice, face as long andsharp as a marlinspike, in a dirty old hole, that looked like ourforecastle. 'Bad affair this, Jack, ' says he, looking up over hisspectacles. 'You must be locked up for a year and a day, Jack. '

"'You'll give a sailor a hearin', won't ye?' says I. 'As to that, --well, I don't know, Jack; you musn't break the laws of South Carolina when youget ashore. You seem like a desirable sailor, and can no doubt get aship and good wages--this is a bad affair. However, as I'm not inclinedto be hard, if you are disposed to pay twenty dollars, you can go. ' 'Lawand justice, ' says I, shaking my fist at him--'do ye take thissalt-water citizen for a fool?'

"'Take him away, Mr. Stubble--lock him up!--lock him up!' says thejustice, and here I am, locked up, hard up, hoping. I'd been tied upabout three weeks when the justice looked in one day, and afterinquiring for me, and saying, 'good morning, Jack, ' and seeming a littleby the head: 'about this affair of yourn, Jack, ' says he, 'now, ifyou'll mind your eye when you get out--my trouble's worth tendollars--and pay me, I'll discharge you, and charge the costs to theState. '

"'Charge the cost to the State!' says I. 'Do you take Spunyarn for amarine?' At this he hauled his wind, and stood out. "

"You have had a hearing before the Grand Jury, have you not?" inquiresTom, evincing a deep interest in the story of his old friend. 

"Not I. This South Carolina justice is a hard old craft to sail in. TheGrand Jury only looks in once every six months, and then looks outagain, without inquiring who's here. And just before the time it comesround, I'm shuffled out, and just after it has left, I'm shuffled inagain--fees charged to the State! That's it. So here I am, a fee-makingmachine, bobbing in and out of jail to suit the conveniences of MisterJustice. I don't say this with any ill will--I don't. " Having concludedhis story, the old sailor follows his visitors to the prison gate, takesan affectionate leave of Tom Swiggs, and returns to join his companions. On the following day, Tom intercedes with Mr. Snivel, for it is he whothus harvests fees of the State by retaining the old sailor in prison, and procures his release. And here, in Mr. Snivel, you have aninstrument of that debased magistracy which triumphs over the weak, thatsits in ignorance and indolence, that invests the hypocritical designerwith a power almost absolute, that keeps justice muzzled on herthrone--the natural offspring of that demon-making institution thatscruples not to brunt the intellect of millions, while dragging a pallof sloth over the land. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

CONTAINING VARIOUS THINGS APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY. 

Maria McArthur having, by her womanly sympathy, awakened the generousimpulses of Tom Swiggs, he is resolved they shall have a new channel fortheir action. Her kindness touched his heart; her solicitude for hiswelfare gained his affections, and a recognition of that love she solong and silently cherished for him, is the natural result. The heartthat does not move to woman's kindness, must indeed be hard. But therewere other things which strengthened Tom's affections for Maria. Thepoverty of her aged father; the insults offered her by Keepum andSnivel; the manner in which they sought her ruin while harassing herfather; the artlessness and lone condition of the pure-minded girl; andthe almost holy affection evinced for the old man on whom she doted--alltended to bring him nearer and nearer to her, until he irresistiblyfound himself at her feet, pledging that faith lovers call eternal. Maria is not of that species of being the world calls beautiful; butthere is about her something pure, thoughtful, even noble; and this herlone condition heightens. Love does not always bow before beauty. Thesingularities of human nature are most strikingly blended in woman. Shecan overcome physical defects; she can cultivate attractions mostappreciated by those who study her worth deepest. Have you not seenthose whose charms at first-sight found no place in your thoughts, butas you were drawn nearer and nearer to them, so also did your esteemquicken, and that esteem, almost unconsciously, you found ripening intoaffection, until in turn you were seized with an ardent passion? Youhave. And you have found yourself enamored of the very one against whomyou had endeavored most to restrain your generous impulses. Like thefine lines upon a picture with a repulsive design, you trace them, andrecur to them until your admiration is carried away captive. So it iswith woman's charms. Tom Swiggs, then, the restored man, bows before thesimple goodness of the daughter of the old Antiquary. 

Mr. Trueman, the shipowner, gave Tom employment, and has proved a friendto him. Tom, in turn, has so far gained his confidence and respect thatMr. Trueman contemplates sending him to London, on board one of hisships. Nor has Tom forgotten to repay the old Antiquary, who gave him ashelter when he was homeless; this home is still under the roof of theold man, toward whose comfort he contributes weekly a portion of hisearnings. If you could but look into that little back-parlor, you wouldsee a picture of humble cheerfulness presented in the old man, hisdaughter, and Tom Swiggs, seated round the tea-table. Let us, however, turn and look into one of our gaudy saloons, that we may see howdifferent a picture is presented there. 

It is the night previous to an election for Mayor. Leaden clouds hangthreatening over the city; the gas-light throws out its shadows at anearly hour; and loud-talking men throng our street-corners and publicresorts. Our politicians tell us that the destiny of the rich and thepoor is to forever guard that institution which employs all ourpassions, and absorbs all our energies. 

In a curtained box, at the St. Charles, sits Mr. Snivel and GeorgeMullholland--the latter careworn and downcast of countenance. "Let usfinish this champaign, my good fellow, " says the politician, emptyinghis glass. "A man--I mean one who wants to get up in the world--must, like me, have two distinct natures. He must have a grave, moralnature--that is necessary to the affairs of State. And he must, toaccommodate himself to the world (law and society, I mean), have aterribly loose nature--a perfect quicksand, into which he can drageverything that serves himself. You have seen how I can develop boththese, eh?" The downcast man shakes his head, as the politician watcheshim with a steady gaze. "Take the advice of a friend, now, let the Judgealone--don't threaten again to shoot that girl. Threats are sometimesdragged in as testimony against a man (Mr. Snivel taps Georgeadmonishingly on the arm); and should anything of a serious naturebefall her--the law is curious--why, what you have said might implicateyou, though you were innocent. "

"You, " interrupts George, "have shot your man down in the street. "

"A very different affair, George. My position in society protects me. Iam a member of the Jockey-Club, a candidate for the State Senate--aJustice of the Peace--yes, a politician! You are--Well, I was going tosay--nothing! We regard northerners as enemies; socially, they arenothing. Come, George, come with me. I am your best friend. You shallsee the power in my hands. " The two men saunter out together, pass up anarrow lane leading from King Street, and are soon groping their way upthe dark stairway of an old, neglected-looking wooden building, that forseveral years has remained deserted by everything but rats andpoliticians, --one seeming to gnaw away at the bowels of the nation, theother at the bowels of the old building. Having ascended to the secondfloor, Mr. Snivel touches a spring, a suspicious little trap opens, andtwo bright eyes peer out, as a low, whispering voice inquires, "Who'sthere?" Mr. Snivel has exchanged the countersign, and with his companionis admitted into a dark vestibule, in which sits a brawny guardsman. 

"Cribs are necessary, sir--I suppose you never looked into one before?"

George, in a voice discovering timidity, says he never has. 

"You must have cribs, and crib-voters; they are necessary to get intohigh office--indeed, I may say, to keep up with the political spirit ofthe age. " Mr. Snivel is interrupted by the deep, coarse voice of MilmanMingle, the vote-cribber, whose broad, savage face looks out at a smallguard trap. "All right, " he says, recognizing Mr. Snivel. Anotherminute, and a door opens into a long, sombre-looking room, redolent ofthe fumes of whiskey and tobacco. "The day is ours. We'll elect ourcandidate, and then my election is certain; naturalized thirteen rathergreen ones to-day--to-morrow they will be trump cards. Stubbs hasattended to the little matter of the ballot-boxes. " Mr. Snivel gives thevote-cribber's hand a warm shake, and turns to introduce his friend. Thevote-cribber has seen him before. "There are thirteen in, " he says, andtwo more he has in his eye, and will have in to-night, having senttrappers out for them. 

Cold meats, bread, cheese, and crackers, and a bountiful supply of badwhiskey, are spread over a table in the centre of the room; while thepale light of two small lamps, suspended from the ceiling, throws acurious shadow over the repulsive features of thirteen forlorn, ragged, and half-drunken men, sitting here and there round the room, on woodenbenches. You see ignorance and cruelty written in their verycountenances. For nearly three weeks they have not scented the air ofheaven, but have been held here in a despicable bondage. Ragged andfilthy, like Falstaff's invincibles, they will be marched to the pollsto-morrow, and cast their votes at the bid of the cribber. "A happy lotof fellows, " says Mr. Snivel, exultingly. "I have a passion for thissort of business--am general supervisor of all these cribs, youunderstand. We have several of them. Some of these 'drifts' we kidnap, and some come and be locked up of their own accord--merely for the feedand drink. We use them, and then snuff them out until we want themagain. " Having turned from George, and complimented the vote-cribber forhis skill, he bids him good-night. Together George and the politicianwend their way to an obscure part of the city, and having passed up twoflight of winding stairs, into a large, old-fashioned house on the Neck, are in a sort of barrack-room, fitted up with bunks and benches, andfilled with a grotesque assembly, making night jubilant--eating, drinking, smoking, and singing. "A jolly set of fellows, " says Mr. Snivel, with an expression of satisfaction. "This is a decoy crib--thevagabonds all belong to the party of our opponents, but don't know it. We work in this way: we catch them--they are mostly foreigners--lockthem up, give them good food and drink, and make them--not the half canspeak our language--believe we belong to the same party. They yield, assubmissive as curs. To morrow, we--this is in confidence--drug them all, send them into a fast sleep, in which we keep them till the polls areclosed, then, not wanting them longer, we kick them out for a set ofdrunkards. Dangerous sort of cribbing, this. I let you into the secretout of pure friendship. " Mr. Snivel pauses. George has at heartsomething of deeper interest to him than votes and vote-cribbers. Butwhy, he says to himself, does Mr. Snivel evince this anxiety to befriendme? This question is answered by Mr. Snivel inviting him to take a lookinto the Keno den. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE KENO DEN, AND WHAT MAY BE SEEN IN IT. 

The clock has just struck twelve. Mr. Snivel and George, passing fromthe scenes of our last chapter, enter a Keno den, [5] situated on Meetingstreet. "You must get money, George. Here you are nothing without money. Take this, try your hand, make your genius serve you. " Mr. Snivel putstwenty dollars into George's hand. They are in a room some twenty bythirty feet in dimensions, dimly-lighted. Standing here and there aregambling tables, around which are seated numerous mechanics, losing, andbeing defrauded of that for which they have labored hard during theweek. Hope, anxiety, and even desperation is pictured on thecountenances of the players. Maddened and disappointed, one young manrises from a table, at which sits a craven-faced man sweeping thewinnings into his pile, and with profane tongue, says he has lost hisall. Another, with flushed face and bloodshot eyes, declares it thesixth time he has lost his earnings here. A third reels confusedly aboutthe room, says a mechanic is but a dog in South Carolina; and the soonerhe comes to a dog's end the better. 

[Footnote 5: A gambling den. ]

Mr. Snivel points George to a table, at which he is soon seated. "Blank--blank--blank!" he reiterates, as the numbers turn up, and one byone the moody bank-keeper sweeps the money into his fast-increasingheap. "Cursed fate!--it is against me, " mutters the forlorn man. "Another gone, and yet another! How this deluding, this fascinatingmoney tortures me. " With hectic face and agitated nerve, he puts downhis last dollar. "Luck's mysterious!" exclaims Mr. Snivel, looking onunmoved, as the man of the moody face declares a blank, and again sweepsthe money into his heap. "Gone!" says George, "all's gone now. " He risesfrom his seat, in despair. 

"Don't get frantic, George--be a philosopher--try again--here's a ten. Luck 'll turn, " says Mr. Snivel, patting the deluded man familiarly onthe shoulder, as he resumes his seat. "Will poverty never ceasetorturing me? I have tried to be a man, an honest man, a respectableman. And yet, here I am, again cast upon a gambler's sea, strugglingwith its fearful tempests. How cold, how stone-like the faces aroundme!" he muses, watching with death-like gaze each number as it turns up. Again he has staked his last dollar; again fortune frowns upon him. Likea furnace of livid flame, the excitement seems burning up his brain. "Iam a fool again, " he says, throwing the blank number contemptuously uponthe table. "Take it--take it, speechless, imperturbable man! Rake itinto your pile, for my eyes are dim, and my fortune I must seekelsewhere. "

A noise at the door, as of some one in distress, is heard, and thererushes frantically into the den a pale, dejected-looking woman, bearingin her arms a sick and emaciated babe. "Oh, William! William!--has itcome to this?" she shrieks, casting a wild glance round the den, until, with a dark, sad expression, her eye falls upon the object of hersearch. It is her husband, once a happy mechanic. Enticed by degreesinto this den of ruin, becoming fascinated with its games of chance, heis how an _habitue_. To-night he left his suffering family, lost his allhere, and now, having drank to relieve his feelings, lies insensible onthe floor. "Come home!--come home! for God's sake come home to yoursuffering family, " cries the woman, vaulting to him and taking him bythe hand, her hair floating dishevelled down her shoulders. "I sentTommy into the street to beg--I am ashamed--and he is picked up by thewatch for a thief, a vagrant!" The prostrate man remains insensible toher appeal. Two policemen, who have been quietly neglecting their dutieswhile taking a few chances, sit unmoved. Mr. Snivel thinks the womanbetter be removed. "Our half-starved mechanics, " he says, "are adepraved set; and these wives they bring with them from the North are asort of cross between a lean stage-driver and a wildcat. She seems apoor, destitute creature--just what they all come to, out here. " Mr. Snivel shrugs his shoulders, bids George good night, and takes hisdeparture. "Take care of yourself, George, " he says admonitiously, asthe destitute man watches him take his leave. The woman, frantic at thecoldness and apathy manifested for her distress, lays her babe hurriedlyupon the floor, and with passion and despair darting from her very eyes, makes a lunge across the keno table at the man who sits stoically at thebank. In an instant everything is turned into uproar and confusion. Glasses, chairs, and tables, are hurled about the floor; shriek followsshriek--"help! pity me! murder!" rises above the confusion, the watchwithout sound the alarm, and the watch within suddenly become consciousof their duty. In the midst of all the confusion, a voice cries out:"My pocket book--my pocket book!--I have been robbed. " A light flashesfrom a guardsman's lantern, and George Mullholland is discovered withthe forlorn woman in his arms--she clings tenaciously to herbabe--rushing into the street. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

WHICH A STATE OF SOCIETY IS SLIGHTLY REVEALED. 

A week has rolled into the past since the event at the Keno den. 

Madame Montford, pale, thoughtful, and abstracted, sits musing in herparlor. "Between this hope and fear--this remorse of conscience, thisstruggle to overcome the suspicions of society, I have no peace. I amweary of this slandering--this unforgiving world. And yet it is my ownconscience that refuses to forgive me. Go where I will I see the coldfinger of scorn pointed at me: I read in every countenance, 'MadameMontford, you have wronged some one--your guilty conscience betraysyou!' I have sought to atone for my error--to render justice to one myheart tells me I have wronged, yet I cannot shake off the dread burden;and there seems rest for me only in the grave. Ah! there it is. The oneerror of my life, and the moans used to conceal it, may have broughtmisery upon more heads than one. " She lays her hand upon her heart, andshakes her head sorrowfully. "Yes! something like a death-knell rings inmy ears--'more than one have you sent, unhappy, to the grave. ' Rejectedby the one I fancy my own; my very touch, scorned; my motivesmisconstrued--all, perhaps, by--a doubt yet hangs between us--anabandoned stranger. Duty to my conscience has driven me to acts thathave betrayed me to society. I cannot shake my guilt from me even for aday; and now society coldly cancels all my claims to its attentions. IfI could believe her dead; if I but knew this girl was not the object ofall my heart's unrest, then the wearying doubt would be buried, and myheart might find peace in some remote corner of the earth. Well, well--perhaps I am wasting all this torture on an unworthy object. Ishould have thought of this sooner, for now foul slander is upon everytongue, and my misery is made thrice painful by my old flatterers. Iwill make one more effort, then if I fail of getting a certain clue toher, I will remove to some foreign country, shake off these hauntingdreams, and be no longer a victim to my own thoughts. " Somewhatrelieved, Madame is roused from her reverie by a gentle tap at the door. "I have waited your coming, and am glad to see you, " she says, extendingher hand, as a servant, in response to her command, ushers into herpresence no less a person than Tom Swiggs. "I have sent for you, " sheresumes, motioning him gracefully to a chair, in which she begs he willbe seated, "because I feel I can confide in you--"

"Anything in my power is at your service, Madame, " modestly interposesTom, regaining confidence. 

"I entrusted something of much importance to me, to Mr. Snivel--"

"We call him the Hon. Mr. Snivel now, since he has got to be a greatpolitician, " interrupts Tom. 

"And he not only betrayed my Confidence, " pursues Madame Montford, "butretains the amount I paid him, and forgets to render the promisedservice. You, I am told, can render me a service--"

"As for Mr. Snivel, " pursues Tom, hastily, "he has of late had his handsfull, getting a poor but good-natured fellow, by the name of GeorgeMullholland, into trouble. His friend, Judge Sleepyhorn, and he, havefor some time had a plot on hand to crush this poor fellow. A few nightsago Snivel drove him mad at a gambling den, and in his desperation herobbed a man of his pocket-book. He shared the money with a poor womanhe rescued at the den, and that is the way it was discovered that he wasthe criminal. He is a poor, thoughtless man, and he has been goaded onfrom one thing to another, until he was driven to commit this act. First, his wife was got away from him--" Tom pauses and blushes, asMadame Montford says: "His wife was got away from him?"

"Yes, Madame, " returns Tom, with an expression of sincerity, "The Judgegot her away from him; and this morning he was arraigned before thatsame Judge for examination, and Mr. Snivel was a principal witness, andthere was enough found against him to commit him for trial at theSessions. " Discovering that this information is exciting her emotions, Tom pauses, and contemplates her with steady gaze. She desires he willbe her guide to the Poor-House, and there assist her in searching forMag Munday, whom, report says, is confined in a cell. Tom havingexpressed his readiness to serve her, they are soon on their way to thatestablishment. 

A low, squatty building, with a red, moss-covered roof, two leanchimneys peeping out, the windows blockaded with dirt, and situated inone of the by-lanes of the city, is our Poor-House, standing half hidbehind a crabbed old wall, and looking very like a much-neglectedQuaker church in vegetation. We boast much of our institutions, andthis being a sample of them, we hold it in great reverence. You may saythat nothing so forcibly illustrates a state of society as the characterof its institutions for the care of those unfortunate beings whom acapricious nature has deprived of their reason. We agree with you. Wesee our Poor-House crumbling to the ground with decay, yet imagine it, or affect to imagine it, a very grand edifice, in every way suited tothe wants of such rough ends of humanity as are found in it. Like Satan, we are brilliant believers in ourselves, not bad sophists, andsingularly clever in finding apologies for all great crimes. 

At the door of the Poor-House stands a dilapidated hearse, to which anold gray horse is attached. A number of buzzards have gathered abouthim, turn their heads suspiciously now and then, and seem meditating adescent upon his bones at no very distant day. Madame casts a glance atthe hearse, and the poor old horse, and the cawing buzzards, thenfollows Tom, timidly, to the door. He has rung the bell, and soon therestands before them, in the damp doorway, a fussy old man, with a verybroad, red face, and a very blunt nose, and two very dull, gray eyes, which he fortifies with a fair of massive-framed spectacles, that have apassion for getting upon the tip-end of his broad blunt nose. 

"There, you want to see somebody! Always somebody wanted to be seen, when we have dead folks to get rid of, " mutters the old man, querulously, then looking inquiringly at the visitors. Tom says theywould like to go over the premises. "Yes--know you would. Ain't so dullbut I can see what folks want when they look in here. " The old man, hiscountenance wearing an expression of stupidity, runs his dingy fingersover the crown of his bald head, and seems questioning within himselfwhether to admit them. "I'm not in a very good humor to-day, " he rathergrowls than speaks, "but you can come in--I'm of a good family--and I'llcall Glentworthy. I'm old--I can't get about much. We'll all get old. "The building seems in a very bad temper generally. 

Mr. Glentworthy is called. Mr. Glentworthy, with a profane expletive, pops his head out at the top of the stairs, and inquires who wants him. The visitors have advanced into a little, narrow passage, lumbered withall sorts of rubbish, and swarming with flies. Mr. Saddlerock (for thisis the old man's name) seems in a declining mood, the building seems ina declining mood, Mr. Glentworthy seems in a declining mood--everythingyou look at seems in a declining mood. "As if I hadn't enough to do, gettin' off this dead cribber!" interpolates Mr. Glentworthy, withdrawing his wicked face, and taking himself back into a room on theleft. 

"He's not so bad a man, only it doesn't come out at first, " pursues Mr. Saddlerock, continuing to rub his head, and to fuss round on his toes. His mind, Madame Montford verily believes stuck in a fog. "We must waita bit, " says the old man, his face seeming to elongate. "You can lookabout--there's not much to be seen, and what there is--well, it's notthe finest. " Mr. Saddlerock shuffles his feet, and then shuffles himselfinto a small side room. Through the building there breathes a warm, sickly atmosphere; the effect has left its marks upon the sad, waningcountenances of its unfortunate inmates. 

Tom and Madame Montford set out to explore the establishment. Theyenter room after room, find them small, dark, and filthy beyonddescription. Some are crowded with half-naked, flabby females, whosecareworn faces, and well-starved aspect, tells a sorrowful tale of thechivalry. An abundant supply of profane works, in yellow and red covers, would indeed seem to have been substituted for food, which, to the shameof our commissioners, be it said, is a scarce article here. Cooped up inanother little room, after the fashion of wild beasts in a cage, areseven poor idiots, whose forlorn condition, sad, dull countenances, asthey sit round a table, staring vacantly at one another, like mummies incontemplation, form a wild but singularly touching picture. Eachcountenance pales before the seeming study of its opponent, until, enraptured and amazed, they break out into a wild, hysterical laugh. Andthus, poisoned, starved, and left to die, does time with these poormortals fleet on. 

The visitors ascend to the second story. A shuffling of feet in a roomat the top of the stairs excites their curiosity. Mr. Glentworthy'svoice grates harshly on the ear, in language we cannot insert in thishistory. "Our high families never look into low places--chance if thecommissioner has looked in here for years, " says Tom, observing MadameMontford protect her inhaling organs with her perfumed cambric. "Thereis a principle of economy carried out--and a very nice principle, too, in getting these poor out of the world as quick as possible. " Tom pushesopen a door, and, heavens! what a sight is here. He stands aghast in thedoorway--Madam, on tip-toe, peers anxiously in over his shoulders. Mr. Glentworthy and two negroes--the former slightly inebriated, the lattertrembling of fright--are preparing to box up a lifeless mass, lyingcarelessly upon the floor. The distorted features, the profusion oflong, red hair, curling over a scared face, and the stalworth figure, shed some light upon the identity of the deceased. "Who is it?"ejaculates Mr. Glentworthy, in response to an inquiry from Tom. Mr. Glentworthy shrugs his shoulders, and commences whistling a tune. "Thatcove!" he resumes, having stopped short in his tune, "a man what don'tknow that cove, never had much to do with politics. Stuffed more ballotboxes, cribbed more voters, and knocked down more slip-shodcitizens--that cove has, than, put 'em all together, would make a SouthCarolina regiment. A mighty man among politicians, he was! Now the devilhas cribbed him--he'll know how good it is!" Mr. Glentworthy says thiswith an air of superlative satisfaction, resuming his tune. The dead manis Milman Mingle, the vote-cribber, who died of a wound he received atthe hands of an antagonist, whom he was endeavoring to "block out" whilegoing to the polls to cast his vote. "Big politician, but had no home!"says Madame, with a sigh. 

Mr. Glentworthy soon had what remained of the vote-cribber--the man towhom so many were indebted for their high offices--into a deal box, andthe deal box into the old hearse, and the old hearse, driven by amischievous negro, hastening to that great crib to which we must all go. "Visitors, " Mr. Glentworthy smiles, "must not question the way we dobusiness here, I get no pay, and there's only old Saddlerock and me todo all the work. Old Saddlerock, you see, is a bit of a miser, andhaving a large family of small Saddlerocks to provide for, scrapes whathe can into his own pocket. No one is the wiser. They can't be--theynever come in. " Mr. Glentworthy, in reply to a question from MadameMontford, says Mag Munday (he has some faint recollection of her) wastwice in the house, which he dignifies with the title of "Institution. "She never was in the "mad cells"--to his recollection. "Them what getthere, mostly die there. " A gift of two dollars secures Mr. Glentworthy's services, and restores him to perfect good nature. "Youwill remember, " says Tom, "that this woman ran neglected about thestreets, was much abused, and ended in becoming a maniac. " Mr. Glentworthy remembers very well, but adds: "We have so many maniacs onour hands, that we can't distinctly remember them all. The clergymentake good care never to look in here. They couldn't do any good if theydid, for nobody cares for the rubbish sent here; and if you tried toChristianize them, you would only get laughed at. I don't like to belaughed at. Munday's not here now, that's settled--but I'll--forcuriosity's sake--show you into the 'mad cells. '" Mr. Glentworthy leadsthe way, down the rickety old stairs, through the lumbered passage, intoan open square, and from thence into a small out-building, at theextreme end of which some dozen wet, slippery steps, led into a darksubterranean passage, on each side of which are small, dungeon-likecells. "Heavens!" exclaims Madame Montford, picking her way down thesteep, slippery steps. "How chilling! how tomb-like! Can it be thatmortals are confined here, and live?" she mutters, incoherently. Thestifling atmosphere is redolent of disease. 

"It straightens 'em down, sublimely--to put 'em in here, " says Mr. Glentworthy, laconically, lighting his lamp. "I hope to get oldSaddlerock in here. Give him such a mellowing!" He turns his light, andthe shadows play, spectre-like, along a low, wet aisle, hung on eachside with rusty bolts and locks, revealing the doors of cells. Anominous stillness is broken by the dull clank of chains, the mutteringof voices, the shuffling of limbs; then a low wail breaks upon the ear, and rises higher and higher, shriller and shriller, until in piercingshrieks it chills the very heart. Now it ceases, and the echoes, likethe murmuring winds, die faintly away. "Look in here, now, " says Mr. Glentworthy--"a likely wench--once she was!"

He swings open a door, and there issues from a cell about four feet sixinches wide, and nine long, the hideous countenance of a poor, mulattogirl, whose shrunken body, skeleton-like arms, distended and glassyeyes, tell but too forcibly her tale of sorrow. How vivid the picture ofwild idiocy is pictured in her sad, sorrowing face. No painter's touchcould have added a line more perfect. Now she rushes forward, with asuddenness that makes Madame Montford shrink back, appalled--now shefixes her eyes, hangs down her head, and gives vent to her tears. "Mysoul is white--yes, yes, yes! I know it is white; God tells me it iswhite--he knows--he never tortures. He doesn't keep me here to die--no, I can't die here in the dark. I won't get to heaven if I do. Oh! yes, yes, yes, I have a white soul, but my skin is not, " she rather murmursthan speaks, continuing to hold down her head, while parting her long, clustering hair over her shoulders. Notwithstanding the spectacle ofhorror presented in this living skeleton, there is something in her lookand action which bespeaks more the abuse of long confinement than theresult of natural aberration of mind. "She gets fierce now and then, and yells, " says the unmoved Glentworthy, "but she won't hurt ye--"

[6]"How long, " inquires Madame Montford, who has been questioning withinherself whether any act of her life could have brought a Human beinginto such a place, "has she been confined here?" Mr. Glentworthy saysshe tells her own tale. 

[Footnote 6: Can it be possible that such things as are here picturedhave an existence among a people laying any claim to a state ofcivilization? the reader may ask. The author would here say that to theend of fortifying himself against the charge of exaggeration, hesubmitted the MS. Of this chapter to a gentleman of the highestrespectability in Charleston, whose unqualified approval it received, aswell as enlisting his sympathies in behalf of the unfortunate lunaticsfound in the cells described. Four years have passed since that time. Hesubsequently sent the author the following, from the "CharlestonCourier, " which speaks for itself. 

 "FROM THE REPORTS OF COUNCIL. "January 4th, 1843

"_The following communication was received from William M. Lawton, Esq. , Chairman of the Commissioners of the Poor-house. _

 "'Charleston, Dec. 17th, 1852. "'To the Honorable, the City Council of Charleston:

"'By a resolution of the Board of Commissioners of this City, I havebeen instructed to communicate with your honorable body in relation tothe insane paupers now in Poor-house', (the insane in a poor-house!)'and to request that you will adopt the necessary provision for sendingthem to the Lunatic Asylum at Columbia. * * * * There are twelve on thelist, many of whom, it is feared, have already remained too long in aninstitution quite unsuited to their unfortunate situation. 

 "'With great respect, your very obedient servant, "'(Signed) WM. M. LAWTON, "'Chairman of the Board of Commissioners. '"]

"Five years, --five years, --five long, long years, I have waited for himin the dark, but he won't come, " she lisps in a faltering voice, as heremotions overwhelm her. Then crouching back upon the floor, she supportsher head pensively in her left hand, her elbow resting on her knee, andher right hand poised against the brick wall, "Pencele!" says Mr. Glentworthy, for such is the wretched woman's name, "cannot you sing asong for your friends?" Turning aside to Madame Montford, he adds, "shesings nicely. We shall soon get her out of the way--can't last muchlonger. " Mr. Glentworthy, drawing a small bottle from his pocket, placesit to his lips, saying he stole it from old Saddlerock, and gulps down aportion of the contents. His breath is already redolent of whiskey. "Oh, yes, yes, yes! I can sing for them, I can smother them with kisses. Goodfaces seldom look in here, seldom look in here, " she rises to her feet, and extends her bony hand, as the tears steal down Madame Montford'scheeks. Tom stands speechless. He wishes he had power to redress thewrongs of this suffering maniac--his very soul fires up against thecoldness and apathy of a people who permit such outrages againsthumanity. "There!--he comes! he comes! he comes!" the maniac speaks, with faltering voice, then strikes up a plaintive air, which she singswith a voice of much sweetness, to these words:

 When you find him, speed him to me, And this heart will cease its bleeding, &c. 

The history of all this poor maniac's sufferings is told in a few simplewords that fall incautiously from Mr. Glentworthy's lips: "Poor fool, she had only been married a couple of weeks, when they sold her husbanddown South. She thinks if she keeps mad, he'll come back. "

There was something touching, something melancholy in the music of hersong, as its strains verberated and reverberated through the dreadvault, then, like the echo of a lover's lute on some Alpine hill, diedsoftly away. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

IN WHICH THERE IS A SINGULAR REVELATION. 

Madame Montford returns, unsuccessful, to her parlor. It is consciencethat unlocks the guilty heart, that forces mortals to seek relief wherethere is no chance of finding it. It was this irresistible emotion thatfound her counseling Tom Swiggs, making of him a confidant in her searchfor the woman she felt could remove the doubt, in respect to Anna'sidentity, that hung so painfully in her mind. And yet, such was herposition, hesitating as it were between her ambition to move infashionable society, and her anxiety to atone for a past error, that shedare not disclose the secret of all her troubles even to him. She soughthim, not that he could soften her anxiety, but that being an humbleperson, she could pursue her object through him, unobserved tosociety--in a word, that he would be a protection against theapprehensions of scandal-mongers. Such are the shifts to which theambitious guilty have recourse. What she has beheld in the poor-house, too, only serves to quicken her thoughts of the misery she may haveinflicted upon others, and to stimulate her resolution to persevere inher search for the woman. Conscious that wealth and luxury does notalways bring happiness, and that without a spotless character, woman isbut a feeble creature in this world, she would now sacrifice everythingelse for that one ennobling charm. 

It may be proper here to add, that although Tom Swiggs could not enterinto the repentant woman's designs, having arranged with his employer tosail for London in a few days, she learned of him something thatreflected a little more light in her path. And that was, that the womanAnna Bonard, repined of her act in leaving George Mullholland, to whomshe was anxious to return--that she was now held against her will; thatshe detested Judge Sleepyhorn, although he had provided lavishly for hercomfort. Anna knew George loved her, and that love, even to an abandonedwoman (if she could know it sincere), was dearer to her than all else. She learned, too, that high up on Anna's right arm, there was imprintedin blue and red ink, two hearts and a broken anchor. And this tendedfurther to increase her anxiety. And while evolving all these things inher mind, and contemplating the next best course to pursue, her parloris invaded by Mr. Snivel. He is no longer Mr. Soloman, nor Mr. Snivel. He is the Hon. Mr. Snivel. It is curious to contemplate the character ofthe men to whose name we attach this mark of distinction. "I know youwill pardon my seeming neglect, Madame, " he says, grasping her handwarmly, as a smile of exultation lights up his countenance. "The factis, we public men are so absorbed in the affairs of the nation, that wehave scarce a thought to give to affairs of a private nature. We haveelected our ticket. I was determined it should be so, if Jericho fell. And, more than all, I am made an honorable, by the popular sentiment ofthe people--"

"To be popular with the people, is truly an honor, " interrupts the lady, facetiously. 

"Thank you--O, thank you, for the compliment, " pursues our hero. "Now, as to this unfortunate person you seek, knowing it was of little use tosearch for her in our institutions of charity--one never can find outanything about the wretches who get into them--I put the matter into thehands of one of our day-police--a plaguey sharp fellow--and he set aboutscenting her out. I gave him a large sum, and promised him more ifsuccessful. Here, then, after a long and tedious search--I have no doubtthe fellow earned his money--is what he got from New York, thismorning. " The Hon. Mr. Snivel, fixing his eye steadily upon her, handsher a letter which reads thus:

"NEW YORK, _Dec. 14th, 18--_. 

"Last night, while making search after a habitant of the Points, a oddold chip what has wandered about here for some years, some think he hasbin a better sort of man once, I struck across the woman you want. Sheis somewhere tucked away in a Cow Bay garret, and is awful crazy; I'llkeep me eye out till somethin' further. If her friends wants to give hera lift out of this place, they'd better come and see me at once. 

 "Yours, as ever, "M---- FITZGERALD. "

Mr. Snivel ogles Madame Montford over the page of a book he affects toread. "Guilt! deep and strong, " he says within himself, as Madame, withflushed countenance and trembling hand, ponders and ponders over thepaper. Then her emotions quicken, her eyes exchange glances with Mr. Snivel, and she whispers, with a sigh, "found--at last! And yet howfoolish of me to give way to my feelings? The affair, at best, is noneof mine. " Mr. Snivel bows, and curls his Saxon mustache. "To do goodfor others is the natural quality of a generous nature. "

Madame, somewhat relieved by this condescension of the Hon. Gentleman, says, in reply, "I am curious at solving family affairs. "

"And I!" says our hero, with refreshing coolness--"always ready to do abit of a good turn. "

Madame pauses, as if in doubt whether to proceed or qualify what she hasalready said. "A relative, whose happiness I make my own, " she resumes, and again pauses, while the words tremble upon her lips. She hears thewords knelling in her ears: "A guilty conscience needs no betrayer. "

"You have, " pursues our hero, "a certain clue; and of that I maycongratulate you. "

Madame says she will prepare at once to return to her home in New York, and--and here again the words hang upon her lips. She was going to say, her future proceedings would be governed by the paper she holds sonervously in her finger. 

Snivel here receives a nostrum from the lady's purse. "Truly!--Madame, "he says, in taking leave of her, "the St. Cecilia will regret you--weshall all regret you; you honored and graced our assemblies so. Ourfirst families will part with you reluctantly. It may, however, be somesatisfaction to know how many kind things will be said of you in yourabsence. " Mr. Snivel makes his last bow, a sarcastic smile playing overhis face, and pauses into the street. 

On the following day she encloses a present of fifty dollars to TomSwiggs, enjoins the necessity of his keeping her visit to thepoor-house a secret, and takes leave of Charleston. 

And here our scene changes, and we must transport the reader to NewYork. It is the day following the night Mr. Detective Fitzgeralddiscovered what remained of poor Toddleworth, in the garret of the Houseof the Nine Nations. The City Hall clock strikes twelve. The goodly aregathered into the House of the Foreign Missions, in which peace andrespectability would seem to preside. The good-natured fat man is in hisseat, pondering over letters lately received from the "dark regions" ofArabia; the somewhat lean, but very respectable-looking Secretary, isgot nicely into his spectacles, and sits pondering over lusty folios ofreports from Hindostan, and various other fields of missionary labor, all setting forth the various large amounts of money expended, how muchmore could be expended, and what a blessing it is to be enabled toannounce the fact that there is now a hope of something being done. Thesame anxious-faced bevy of females we described in a previous chapter, are here, seated at a table, deeply interested in certain periodicalsand papers; while here and there about the room, are severalcontemplative gentlemen in black. Brother Spyke, having deeplyinterested Brothers Phills and Prim with an account of his visit to theBottomless Pit, paces up and down the room, thinking of Antioch, and theevangelization of the heathen world. "Truly, brother, " speaks thegood-natured fat man, "his coming seemeth long. " "Eleven was the hour;but why he tarryeth I know not, " returns Brother Spyke, with calmdemeanor. "There is something more alarming in Sister Slocum's absence, "interposes one of the ladies. The house seems in a waiting mood, whensuddenly Mr. Detective Fitzgerald enters, and changes it to one ofanxiety. Several voices inquire if he was successful. He shakes hishead, and having recounted his adventures, the discovery of where themoney went to, and the utter hopelessness of an effort to recover it;"as for the man, Toddleworth, " he says, methodically, "he was found witha broken skull. The Coroner has had an inquest over him; but murders areso common. The verdict was, that he died of a broken skull, by the handsof some one to the jury unknown. Suspicions were strong against one TomDowney, who is very like a heathen, and is mistrusted of severalmurders. The affair disturbed the neighborhood a little, and the Coronertried to get something out concerning the man's history; but it all wentto the wind, for the people were all so ignorant. They all kneweverything about him, which turned out to be just nothing, which theywere ready to swear to. One believed Father Flaherty made the Bible, another believed the Devil still chained in Columbia College--a thirdbelieved the stars were lanterns to guide priests--the only angels theyknow--on their way to heaven. "

"Truly!" exclaims the man of the spectacles, in a moment of abstraction. 

Brother Spyke says: "the Lord be merciful. "

"On the body of the poor man we found this document. It was rolledcarefully up in a rag, and is supposed to throw some light on hishistory. " Mr. Fitzgerald draws leisurely from his pocket a distained andmuch-crumpled paper, written over in a bold, business-like hand, andpasses it to the man in the spectacle, as a dozen or more anxious facesgather round, eager to explore the contents. 

"He went out of the Points as mysteriously as he came in. We buried hima bit ago, and have got Downey in the Tombs: he'll be hanged, no doubt, "concludes the detective, laying aside his cap, and setting himself, uninvited, into a chair. The man in the spectacles commences reading thepaper, which runs as follows:

"I have been to you an unknown, and had died such an unknown, but thatmy conscience tells me I have a duty to perform. I have wronged no one, owe no one a penny, harbor no malice against any one; I am a victim of abroken heart, and my own melancholy. Many years ago I pursued anhonorable business in this city, and was respected and esteemed. Manyknew me, and fortune seemed to shed upon me her smiles. I married a ladyof wealth and affluence, one I loved and doted on. Our affections seemedformed for our bond; we lived for one another; our happiness seemedcomplete. But alas! an evil hour came. Ambitious of admiration, shegradually became a slave to fashionable society, and then gave herselfup to those flatterers who hang about it, and whose chief occupation itis to make weak-minded women vain of their own charms. Coldness, andindifference to home, soon followed. My house was invaded, my home--thathome I regarded so sacredly--became the resort of men in whose society Ifound no pleasure, with whom I had no feeling in common. I could notremonstrate, for that would have betrayed in me a want of confidence inthe fidelity of one I loved too blindly. I was not one of those who makelife miserable in seeing a little and suspecting much. No! I forgavemany things that wounded my feelings; and my love for her would notpermit a thought to invade the sanctity of her fidelity. Businesscalled me into a foreign country, where I remained several months, thenreturned--not, alas! to a home made happy by the purity of one Iesteemed an angel;--not to the arms of a pure, fond wife, but to find myconfidence betrayed, my home invaded--she, in whom I had treasured up mylove, polluted; and slander, like a desert wind, pouring its desolatingbreath into my very heart. In my blindness I would have forgiven her, taken her back to my distracted bosom, and fled with her to some distantland, there still to have lived and loved her. But she sought rather toconceal her guilt than ask forgiveness. My reason fled me, my passionrose above my judgment, I sank under the burden of my sorrow, attemptedto put an end to her life, and to my own misery. Failing in this, for myhand was stayed by a voice I heard calling to me, I fled the country andsought relief for my feelings in the wilds of Chili. I left nearly allto my wife, took but little with me, for my object was to bury myselffrom the world that had known me, and respected me. Destitution followedme; whither I went there seemed no rest, no peace of mind for me. Thepast floated uppermost in my mind. I was ever recurring to home, tothose with whom I had associated, to an hundred things that had endearedme to my own country. Years passed--years of suffering and sorrow, and Ifound myself a lone wanderer, without friend or money. During this timeit was reported at home, as well as chronicled in the newspapers, that Iwas dead. The inventor of this report had ends, I will not name themhere, to serve. I was indeed dead to all who had known me happy in thisworld. Disguised, a mere shadow of what I was once, I wandered back toNew York, heart-sick and discouraged, and buried myself among thosewhose destitution, worse, perhaps, than my own, afforded me a means ofconsolation. My life has long been a burden to me; I have many timesprayed God, in his mercy, to take me away, to close the account of mymisery. Do you ask my name? Ah! that is what pains me most. To liveunknown, a wretched outcast, in a city where I once enjoyed a name thatwas respected, is what has haunted my thoughts, and tortured myfeelings. But I cannot withhold it, even though it has gone down, tainted and dishonored. It is Henry Montford. And with this short recordI close my history, leaving the rest for those to search out who findthis paper, at my death, which cannot be long hence. 

 "HENRY MONTFORD. "_New York, Nov. --, 184-. _"

A few sighs follow the reading of the paper, but no very deep interest, no very tender emotion, is awakened in the hearts of the goodly. Nevertheless, it throws a flood of light upon the morals of a class ofsociety vulgarly termed fashionable. The meek females hold their tearsand shake their heads. Brother Spyke elongates his lean figure, drawsnear, and says the whole thing is very unsatisfactory. Not one word islet drop about the lost money. 

Brother Phills will say this--that the romance is very cleverly got up, as the theatre people say. 

The good-natured fat man, breathing somewhat freer, says: "Truly! thesepeople have a pleasant way of passing out of the world. They die oftheir artful practices--seeking to devour the good and the generous. "

"There's more suffers than imposes--an' there's more than's writtenmeant in that same bit of paper. Toddleworth was as inoffensive acreature as you'd meet in a day. May God forgive him all his faults;"interposes Mr. Detective Fitzgerald, gathering up his cap and passingslowly out of the room. 

And this colloquy is put an end to by the sudden appearance of SisterSlocum. A rustling silk dress, of quiet color, and set off with threemodest flounces; an India shawl, loosely thrown over her shoulders; adainty little collar, of honiton, drawn neatly about her neck, and abonnet of buff-colored silk, tastefully set off with tart-pie workwithout, and lined with virtuous white satin within, so saucily poisedon her head, suggests the idea that she has an eye to fashion as well asthe heathen world. Her face, too, always so broad, bright, andbenevolent in its changes--is chastely framed in a crape border, sonicely crimped, so nicely tucked under her benevolent chin at one end, and so nicely pinned under the virtuous white lining at the other. Goodness itself radiates from those large; earnest blue eyes, thosesoft, white cheeks, that large forehead, with those dashes of silveryhair crossing it so smoothly and so exactly--that well-developed, butrather broad nose, and that mouth so expressive of gentleness. 

Sister Slocum, it requires no very acute observer to discover, has gotsomething more than the heathen world at heart, for all those soft, congenial features are shadowed with sadness. Silently she takes herseat, sits abstracted for a few minutes--the house is thrown into awondering mood--then looks wisely through her spectacles, and havingfolded her hands with an air of great resignation, shakes, and shakes, and shakes her head. Her eyes suddenly fill with tears, her thoughtswander, or seem to wander, she attempts to speak, her voice chokes, andthe words hang upon her lips. All is consternation and excitement. Anxious faces gather round, and whispering voices inquire the cause. Thelean man in the spectacles having applied his hartshorn bottle, SisterSlocum, to the great joy of all present, is so far restored as to beable to announce the singular, but no less melancholy fact, that ourdear guest, Sister Swiggs, has passed from this world to a better. Sheretired full of sorrow, but came not in the morning. And this sotroubled Sister Scudder that there was no peace until she entered herroom. But she found the angel had been there before her, smoothed thepillow of the stranger, and left her to sleep in death. On earth herwork was well done, and in the arms of the angel, her pure spirit nowbeareth witness in heaven. Sister Slocum's emotions forbid her sayingmore. She concludes, and buries her face in her cambric. Then anoutpouring of consoling words follow. "He cometh like a thief in thenight: His works are full of mystery; truly, He chasteneth; He givethand taketh away. " Such are a few of the sentiments lisped, regrettingly, for the departed. 

How vain are the hopes with which we build castles in the air; howstrange the motives that impel us to ill-advised acts. We leaveuntouched the things that call loudest for our energies, and treasure upour little that we may serve that which least concerns us. In thisinstance it is seen how that which came of evil went in evil; howdisappointment stepped in and blew the castle down at a breath. 

There could not be a doubt that the disease of which Sister Smiggsdied, and which it is feared the State to which she belongs will one daydie, was little dignity. Leaving her then in the arms of the House ofthe Foreign Mission, and her burial to the Secretary of the veryexcellent "Tract Society" she struggled so faithfully to serve, we closethis chapter of events, the reader having, no doubt, discovered thehusband of Madame Montford in the wretched man, Mr. Toddleworth. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE TWO PICTURES. 

We come now to another stage of this history. Six months have glidedinto the past since the events recorded in the foregoing chapter. Thepolitical world of Charleston is resolved to remain in the Union a fewmonths longer. It is a pleasant evening in early May. The western sky isgolden with the setting sun, and the heavens are filled with battlementsof refulgent clouds, now softening away into night. Yonder to the East, reposes a dark grove. A gentle breeze fans through its foliage, theleaves laugh and whisper, the perfumes of flowers are diffusing throughthe air birds make melodious with their songs, the trilling streammingles its murmurs, and nature would seem gathering her beauties intoone enchanting harmony. In the foreground of the grove, and looking asif it borrowed solitude of the deep foliage, in which it is half buried, rises a pretty villa, wherein may be seen, surrounded by luxuries thecommon herd might well envy, the fair, the beautiful siren, Anna Bonard. In the dingy little back parlor of the old antiquary, grim povertylooking in through every crevasse, sits the artless and pure-mindedMaria McArthur. How different are the thoughts, the hopes, the emotionsof these two women. Comfort would seem smiling on the one, whiledestitution threatens the other. To the eye that looks only upon thesurface, how deceptive is the picture. The one with every wishgratified, an expression of sorrow shadowing her countenance, and thatfreshness and sweetness for which she was distinguished passing away, contemplates herself a submissive captive, at the mercy of one for whomshe has no love, whose gold she cannot inherit, and whose roof she mustsome day leave for the street. The other feels poverty grasping at her, but is proud in the possession of her virtue; and though trouble wouldseem tracing its lines upon her features, her heart remains untouched byremorse;--she is strong in the consciousness that when all else is gone, her virtue will remain her beacon light to happiness. Anna, in the lossof that virtue, sees herself shut out from that very world that pointsher to the yawning chasm of her future; she feels how like a slave inthe hands of one whose heart is as cold as his smiles are false, she is. Maria owes the world no hate, nor are her thoughts disturbed by suchcontemplations. Anna, with embittered and remorseful feelings--with darkand terrible passions agitating her bosom, looks back over her eventfullife, to a period when even her own history is shut to her, only to findthe tortures of her soul heightened. Maria looks back upon a life offond attachment to her father, to her humble efforts to serve others, and to know that she has borne with Christian fortitude those ills whichare incident to humble life. With her, an emotion of joy repays thecontemplation. To Anna, the future is hung in dark forebodings. Sherecalls to mind the interview with Madame Montford, but that only tendsto deepen the storm of anguish the contemplation of her parentagenaturally gives rise to. With Maria, the present hangs dark and thefuture brightens. She thinks of the absent one she loves--of how she canbest serve her aged father, and how she can make their little homecheerful until the return of Tom Swiggs, who is gone abroad. It must behere disclosed that the old man had joined their hands, and invoked ablessing on their heads, ere Tom took his departure. Maria looks forwardto the day of his return with joyous emotions. That return is the daydream of her heart; in it she sees her future brightening. Such are thecherished thoughts of a pure mind. Poverty may gnaw away at thehearthstone, cares and sorrow may fall thick in your path, the rich mayfrown upon you, and the vicious sport with your misfortunes, but virtuegives you power to overcome them all. In Maria's ear something whispers:Woman! hold fast to thy virtue, for if once it go neither gold nor falsetongues can buy it back. 

Anna sees the companion of her early life, and the sharer of hersufferings, shut up in a prison, a robber, doomed to the lash. "He wassincere to me, and my only true friend--am I the cause of this?" shemuses. Her heart answers, and her bosom fills with dark and stormyemotions. One small boon is now all she asks. She could bow down andworship before the throne of virgin innocence, for now its worth towers, majestic, before her. It discovers to her the falsity of her day-dream;it tells her what an empty vessel is this life of ours without it. Sheknows George Mullholland loves her passionately; she knows how deep willbe his grief, how revengeful his feelings. It is poverty that fastensthe poison in the heart of the rejected lover. The thought of thisflashes through her mind. His hopeless condition, crushed out as it wereto gratify him in whose company her pleasures are but transitory, andmay any day end, darkens as she contemplates it. How can she acquit herconscience of having deliberately and faithlessly renounced one who wasso true to her? She repines, her womanly nature revolts at thethought--the destiny her superstition pictured so dark and terrible, stares her in the face. She resolves a plan for his release, and, relieved with a hope that she can accomplish it while propitiating thefriendship of the Judge, the next day seeks him in his prison cell, andwith all that vehemence woman, in the outpouring of her generousimpulses, can call to her aid, implores his forgiveness. But the rust ofdisappointment has dried up his better nature; his heart is wrung withthe shafts of ingratitude--all the fierce passions of his nature, hate, scorn and revenge, rise up in the one stormy outburst of his soul. Hecasts upon her a look of withering scorn, the past of that life sochequered flashes vividly through his thoughts, his hate deepens, hehurls her from him, invokes a curse upon her head, and shuts her fromhis sight. "Mine will be the retribution!" he says, knitting his darkbrow. 

How is it with the Judge--that high functionary who provides thussumptuously for his mistress? His morals, like his judgments, areexcused, in the cheap quality of our social morality. 

Such is gilded vice; such is humble virtue. 

A few days more and the term of the Sessions commences. George isarraigned, and the honorable Mr. Snivel, who laid the plot, andfurthered the crime, now appears as a principal witness. He procures theman's conviction, and listens with guilty heart to the sentence, for heis rearraigned on sentence day, and Mr. Snivel is present. And whilethe culprit is sentenced to two years imprisonment, and to receiveeighty lashes, laid on his bare back, while at the public whipping-post, at four stated times, the man who stimulated the hand of the criminal, is honored and flattered by society. Such is the majesty of the law. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

IN WHICH A LITTLE LIGHT IS SHED UPON THE CHARACTER OF OUR CHIVALRY. 

Mr. McArthur has jogged on, in the good old way but his worldly storeseems not to increase. The time, nevertheless, is arrived when he isexpected to return the little amount borrowed of Keepum, through theagency of Mr. Snivel. Again and again has he been notified that he mustpay or go to that place in which we lock up all our very estimable"first families, " whose money has taken wings and flown away. Notcontent with this, the two worthy gentlemen have more than once invadedthe Antiquary's back parlor, and offered, as we have described in aformer chapter, improper advances to his daughter. 

Mr. Keepum, dressed in a flashy coat, his sharp, mercenary face, hecticof night revels, and his small but wicked eyes wandering over Mr. McArthur's stock in trade, is seen in pursuit of his darling object. "Idon't mind so much about the pay, old man! I'm up well in the world. Thefact is, I am esteemed--and I am!--a public benefactor. I never forgethow much we owe to the chivalric spirit of our ancestors, and in dealingwith the poor--money matters and politics are different from anythingelse--I am too generous. I don't mind my own interests enough. There itis!" Mr. Keepum says this with an evident relief to himself. Indeed itmust here be acknowledged that this very excellent member of the St. Cecilia Society, and profound dealer in lottery tickets, like our finegentlemen who are so scrupulous of their chivalry while stabbing menbehind their backs, fancies himself one of the most disinterested beingsknown to generous nature. 

Bent and tottering, the old man recounts the value of his curiosities;which, like our chivalry, is much talked of but hard to get at. Heoffers in apology for the nonpayment of the debt his knowledge of theold continentals, just as we offer our chivalry in excuse for everydisgraceful act--every savage law. In fine, he follows the maxims of ourpoliticians, recapitulating a dozen or more things (wiping the sweatfrom his brow the while) that have no earthly connection with thesubject. "They are all very well, " Mr. Keepum rejoins, with an air ofself-importance, dusting the ashes from his cigar. He only wishes toimpress the old man with the fact that he is his very best friend. 

And having somewhat relieved the Antiquary's mind of its apprehensions, for McArthur stood in great fear of duns, Mr. Keepum pops, uninvited, into the "back parlor, " where he has not long been when Maria's screamsfor assistance break forth. 

"Ah! I am old--there is not much left me now. Yes, I am old, myinfirmities are upon me. Pray, good man, spare me my daughter. Nay, youmust not break the peace of my house;" mutters the old man, advancinginto the room, with infirm step, and looking wistfully at his daughter, as if eager to clasp her in his arms. Maria stands in a defiantattitude, her left hand poised on a chair, and her right pointingscornfully in the face of Keepum, who recoils under the look ofwithering scorn that darkens her countenance. "A gentleman! begone, knave! for your looks betray you. You cannot buy my ruin with your gold;you cannot deceive me with your false tongue. If hate were a noblepassion, I would not vent that which now agitates my bosom on you. Nay, I would reserve it for a better purpose--"

"Indeed, indeed--now I say honestly, your daughter mistakes me. I wasonly being a little friendly to her, " interrupts the chopfallen man. Hedid not think her capable of summoning so much passion to her aid. 

Maria, it must be said, was one of those seemingly calm natures in whichresentment takes deepest root, in which the passions are most violentwhen roused. Solitude does, indeed, tend to invest the passionate naturewith a calm surface. A less penetrating observer than the chivalrousKeepum, might have discovered in Maria a spirit he could not so easilyhumble to his uses. It is the modest, thoughtful woman, you cannot makelick the dust in sorrow and tears. "Coward! you laid ruffian hands onme!" says Maria, again towering to her height, and giving vent to herfeelings. 

"Madam, Madam, " pursues Keepum, trembling and crouching, "you asperse myhonor, --my sacred honor, Madam. You see--let me say a word, now--you areletting your temper get the better of you. I never, and the public knowI never did--I never did a dishonorable thing in my life. " Turning tothe bewildered old man, he continues: "to be called a knave, andupbraided in this manner by your daughter, when I have befriended youall these days!" His wicked eyes fall guilty to the floor. 

"Out man!--out! Let your sense of right, if you have it, teach you whatis friendship. Know that, like mercy, it is not poured out with handsreeking of female dishonor. "

Mr. Keepum, like many more of our very fine gentlemen, had so trainedhis thoughts to look upon the poor as slaves created for a base use, that he neither could bring his mind to believe in the existence of suchthings as noble spirits under humble roofs, nor to imagine himself--evenwhile committing the grossest outrages--doing aught to sully the highchivalric spirit he fancied he possessed. The old Antiquary, on theother hand, was not a little surprised to find his daughter displayingsuch extraordinary means of repulsing an enemy. 

Trembling, and childlike he stands, conscious of being in the grasp of aknave, whose object was more the ruin of his daughter than the recoveryof a small amount of money, the tears glistening in his eyes, and thefinger of old age marked on his furrowed brow. 

"Father, father!" says Maria, and the words hang upon her quiveringlips, her face becomes pale as marble, her strength deserts her, --shetrembles from head to foot, and sinks upon the old man's bosom, struggling to smother her sobs. Her passion has left her; her calmernature has risen up to rebuke it. The old man leads her tenderly to thesofa, and there seeks to sooth her troubled spirit. 

"As if this hub bub was always to last!" a voice speaks suddenly. It isthe Hon. Mr. Snivel, who looks in at the eleventh hour, as he says, tofind affairs always in a fuss. "Being a man of legal knowledge--alwaysready to do a bit of a good turn--especially in putting a disorderedhouse to rights--I thought it well to look in, having a leisure minuteor two (we have had a convention for dissolving the Union, and passed avote to that end!) to give to my old friends, " Mr. Snivel says, in avoice at once conciliating and insinuating. "I always think of a borderfeud when I come here--things that find no favor with me. " Mr. Snivel, having first patted the old man on the shoulder, exchanges a significantwink with his friend Keepum, and then bestows upon him what he ispleased to call a little wholesome advice. "People misunderstand Mr. Keepum, " he says, "who is one of the most generous of men, but lacksdiscretion, and in trying to be polite to everybody, lets his feelingshave too much latitude now and then. " Maria buries her face in herhandkerchief, as if indifferent to the reconciliation offered. 

"Now let this all be forgotten--let friendship reign among friends:that's my motto. But! I say, --this is a bad piece of news we have thismorning. Clipped this from an English paper, " resumes the Hon. Gentleman, drawing coolly from his pocket a bit of paper, having theappearance of an extract. 

"You are never without some kind of news--mostly bad!" says Keepum, flinging himself into a chair, with an air of restored confidence. Mr. Snivel bows, thanks the gentleman for the compliment, and commences toread. "This news, " he adds, "may be relied upon, having come fromLloyd's List: 'Intelligence was received here (this is, you mustremember, from a London paper, he says, in parentheses) this morning, ofthe total loss of the American ship ----, bound from this port forCharleston, U. S. , near the Needles. Every soul on board, except theCaptain and second mate, perished. The gale was one of the worst everknown on this coast--'"

"The worst ever known on this coast!" ejaculates Mr. Keepum, his wickedeyes steadily fixed upon Maria. "One of Trueman's ships, " Mr. Sniveladds. "Unlucky fellow, that Trueman--second ship he has lost. "

"By-the-bye, " rejoins Keepum, as if a thought has just flashed upon him, "your old friend, Tom Swiggs, was supercargo, clerk, or whatever you maycall it, aboard that ship, eh?"

It is the knave who can most naturally affect surprise and regret whenit suits his purposes, and Mr. Snivel is well learned in the art. "True!" he says, "as I'm a Christian. Well, I had made a man of him--Idon't regret it, for I always liked him--and this is the end of the poorfellow, eh?" Turning to McArthur, he adds, rather unconcernedly: "Youknow somewhat of him?" The old man sits motionless beside his daughter, the changes of whose countenance discover the inward emotions thatagitate her bosom. Her eyes fill with tears; she exchanges inquiringglances, first with Keepum, then with Snivel; then a thought strikes herthat she received a letter from Tom, setting forth his prospects, andhis intention to return in the ship above named. It was very naturalthat news thus artfully manufactured, and revealed with such apparenttruthfulness, should produce a deep impression in the mind of anunsuspecting girl. Indeed, it was with some effort that she bore upunder it. Expressions of grief she would fain suppress before the enemygain a mastery over her--and ere they are gone the cup flows over, andshe sinks exhausted upon the sofa. 

"There! good as far as it goes. You have now another mode of gaining thevictory, " Mr. Snivel whispers in the ear of his friend, Keepum; and thetwo gentlemen pass into the street. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

IN WHICH A LAW IS SEEN TO SERVE BASE PURPOSES. 

Maria has passed a night of unhappiness. Hopes and fears are knelling inthe morning, which brings nothing to relieve her anxiety for the absentone; and Mr. Snivel has taken the precaution to have the news of thelost ship find its way into the papers. 

And while our city seems in a state of very general excitement; whilegreat placards on every street corner inform the wondering stranger thata mighty Convention (presided over by the Hon. S. Snivel) for dissolvingthe Union, is shortly to be holden; while our political world has gotthe Union on its shoulders, and threatens to throw it into the nearestditch; while our streets swarm with long, lean, and very hairy-faceddelegates (all lusty of war and secession), who have dragged themselvesinto the city to drink no end of whiskey, and say all sorts of foolishthings their savage and half-civilized constituents are expected toapplaud; while our more material and conservative citizens are thinkingwhat asses we make of ourselves; while the ship-of-war we built to fightthe rest of the Union, lies an ugly lump in the harbor, and "won't goover the bar;" while the "shoe-factory" we established to supplyniggerdom with soles, is snuffed out for want of energy and capacity tomanage it; while some of our non-slaveholding, but most active secessionmerchants, are moving seriously in the great project of establishing a"SOUTHERN CANDLE-FACTORY"--a thing much needed in the "up-country;"while our graver statesmen (who don't get the State out of the Unionfast enough for the ignorant rabble, who have nothing but their folly atstake) are pondering over the policy of spending five hundred thousanddollars for the building of another war-ship--one that "will go over thebar;" and while curiously-written letters from Generals Commander andQuattlebum, offering to bring their allied forces into the field--toblow this confederation down at a breath whenever called upon, are beingpublished, to the great joy of all secessiondom; while saltpetre, broadswords, and the muskets made for us by Yankees to fight Yankees, and which were found to have wood instead of flint in their hammers, (and which trick of the Yankees we said was just like the Yankees, ) arein great demand--and a few of our mob-politicians, who are all "Kern'ls"of regiments that never muster, prove conclusively our necessity forkeeping a fighting-man in Congress; while, we assert, many of our firstand best known families have sunk the assemblies of the St. Cecilia inthe more important question of what order of government will bestsuit--in the event of our getting happily out of the Union!--our refinedand very exacting state of society;--whether an Empire or a Monarchy, and whether we ought to set up a Quattlebum or Commanderdynasty?--whether the Bungle family or the Jungle family (both fightingfamilies) will have a place nearest the throne; what sort of orders willbe bestowed, who will get them, and what colored liveries will bestbecome us (all of which grave questions threaten us with a veryextensive war of families)?--while all these great matters find us in asea of trouble, there enters the curiosity-shop of the old Antiquary asuspicious-looking individual in green spectacles. 

"Mr. Hardscrabble!" says the man, bowing and taking a seat, leisurely, upon the decrepit sofa. Mr. McArthur returns his salutation, contemplates him doubtingly for a minute, then resumes his fussing andbrushing. 

The small, lean figure; the somewhat seedy broadcloth in which it isenveloped; the well-browned and very sharp features; the straight, dark-gray hair, and the absent manner of Mr. Hardscrabble, might, withthe uninitiated, cause him to be mistaken for an "up-country" clergymanof the Methodist denomination. 

"Mr. Hardscrabble? Mr. Hardscrabble? Mr. Hardscrabble?" muses theAntiquary, canting his head wisely, "the Sheriff, as I'm a man ofyears!"

Mr. Hardscrabble comforts his eyes with his spectacles, and havingglanced vacantly over the little shop, as if to take an inventory of itscontents, draws from his breast-pocket a paper containing very ominousseals and scrawls. 

"I'm reluctant about doing these things with an old man like you, " Mr. Hardscrabble condescends to say, in a sharp, grating voice; "but I haveto obey the demands of my office. " Here he commences reading the paperto the trembling old man, who, having adjusted his broad-bowedspectacles, and arrayed them against the spectacles of Mr. Hardscrabble, says he thinks it contains a great many useless recapitulations. 

Mr. Hardscrabble, his eyes peering eagerly through his glasses, and hislower jaw falling and exposing the inner domain of his mouth, replieswith an--"Umph. " The old Antiquary was never before called upon toexamine a document so confusing to his mind. Not content with asurrender of his property, it demands his body into the bargain--all atthe suit of one Keepum. He makes several motions to go show it to hisdaughter; but that, Mr. Hardscrabble thinks, is scarce worth while. "Isympathize with you--knowing how frugal you have been through life. Alist of your effects--if you have one--will save a deal of trouble. Ifear (Mr. Hardscrabble works his quid) my costs will hardly come out ofthem. "

"There's a fortune in them--if the love of things of yore--" The old manhesitates, and shakes his head dolefully. 

"Yore!--a thing that would starve out our profession. "

"A little time to turn, you know. There's my stock of uniforms. "

"Well--I--know, " Mr. Hardscrabble rejoins, with a drawl; "but I mustlock up the traps. Yes, I must lock you up, and sell you out--unless youredeem before sale day; that you can't do, I suppose?"

And while the old man totters into the little back parlor, and, givingway to his emotions, throws himself upon the bosom of his fond daughter, to whom he discloses his troubles, Mr. Hardscrabble puts locks and boltsupon his curiosity-shop. This important business done, he leads the oldman away, and gives him a lodging in the old jail. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

A SHORT CHAPTER OF ORDINARY EVENTS. 

To bear up against the malice of inexorable enemies is at once the giftand the shield of a noble nature. And here it will be enough to say, that Maria bore the burden of her ills with fortitude and resignation, trusting in Him who rights the wronged, to be her deliverer. What tookplace when she saw her aged father led away, a prisoner; what thoughtsinvaded that father's mind when the prison bolt grated on his ear, andhe found himself shut from all that had been dear to him through life, regard for the feelings of the reader forbids us recounting here. 

Naturally intelligent, Maria had, by close application to books, acquired some knowledge of the world. Nor was she entirely ignorant ofthose arts designing men call to their aid when seeking to effect theruin of the unwary female. Thus fortified, she fancied she saw in thestory of the lost ship a plot against herself, while the persecution ofher father was only a means to effect the object. Launched between hopeand fear, then--hope that her lover still lived, and that with hisreturn her day would brighten--fear lest the report might be founded intruth, she nerves herself for the struggle. She knew full well that togive up in despair--to cast herself upon the cold charities of a busyworld, would only be to hasten her downfall. Indeed, she had alreadyfelt how cold, and how far apart were the lines that separated our richfrom our poor. 

The little back parlor is yet spared to Maria, and in it she may now beseen plying at her needle, early and late. It is the only means left herof succoring the parent from whom she has been so ruthlessly separated. Hoping, fearing, bright to-day and dark to-morrow, willing to work andwait--here she sits. A few days pass, and the odds and ends of theAntiquary's little shop, like the "shirts" of the gallant Fremont, whomwe oppressed while poor, and essayed to flatter when a hero, aregazetted under the head of "sheriff's sale. " Hope, alas! brings nocomfort to Maria. Time rolls on, the month's rent falls due, her fatherpines and sinks in confinement, and her needle is found inadequate tothe task undertaken. Necessity demands, and one by one she parts withher few cherished mementos of the past, that she may save an aged fatherfrom starvation. 

The "prisoner" has given notice that he will take the benefit of theact--commonly called "an act for the relief of poor debtors. " But beforehe can reach this boon, ten days must elapse. Generous-mindedlegislators, no doubt, intended well when they constructed this act, butso complex are its provisions that any legal gentleman may make it avery convenient means of oppression. And in a community where laws notonly have their origin in the passions of men, but are made to servepopular prejudices--where the quality of justice obtained depends uponthe position and sentiments of him who seeks it, --the weak have nochance against the powerful. 

The multiplicity of notices, citations, and schedules, necessary to thesetting free of this "poor debtor" (for these fussy officials must bepaid), Maria finds making a heavy drain on her lean purse. 

The Court is in session, and the ten days having glided away, the oldman is brought into "open Court" by two officials with long tipstaffs, and faces looking as if they had been carefully pickled in strongdrinks. "Surely, now, they'll set me free--I can give them no more--I amold and infirm--they have got all--and my daughter!" he muses withinhimself. Ah! he little knows how uncertain a thing is the law. 

The Judge is engaged over a case in which two very fine old families aredisputing for the blood and bones of a little "nigger" girl. Thepossession of this helpless slave, the Judge (he sits in easy dignity)very naturally regards of superior importance when compared with thefreedom of a "poor debtor. " He cannot listen to the story ofdestitution--precisely what was sought by Keepum--to-day, and to-morrowthe Court adjourns for six months. 

The Antiquary is remanded back to his cell. No one in Court cares forhim; no one has a thought for the achings of that heart his releasewould unburden; the sorrows of that lone girl are known only to herselfand the One in whom she puts her trust. She, nevertheless, seeks the oldman in his prison, and there comforts him as best she can. 

Five days more, and the "prisoner" is brought before the Commissionerfor Special Bail, who is no less a personage than the rosy-faced Clerkof the Court, just adjourned. And here we cannot forbear to say, thathowever despicable the object sought, however barren of right the plea, however adverse to common humanity the spirit of the action, there isalways to be found some legal gentleman, true to the lower instincts ofthe profession, ready to lend himself to his client's motives. And inthis instance, the cunning Keepum finds an excellent instrument offurthering his ends, in one Peter Crimpton, a somewhat faded and ratherdisreputable member of the learned profession. It is said of Crimpton, that he is clever at managing cases where oppression rather than justiceis sought, and that his present client furnishes the larger half of hispractice. 

And while Maria, too sensitive to face the gaze of the coarse crowd, pauses without, silent and anxious, listening one moment and hoping thenext will see her old father restored to her, the adroit Crimpton risesto object to "the Schedule. " To the end that he may substantiate hisobjections, he proposes to examine the prisoner. Having no alternative, the Commissioner grants the request. 

The old Antiquary made out his schedule with the aid of the good-heartedjailer, who inserted as his effects, "_Necessary wearing apparel_. " Itwas all he had. Like the gallant Fremont, when he offered to resign hisshirts to his chivalric creditor, he could give them no more. A fewquestions are put; the old man answers them with childlike simplicity, then sits down, his trembling fingers wandering into his beard. Mr. Crimpton produces his paper, sets forth his objections, and askspermission to file them, that the case may come before a jury of"Special Bail. "

Permission is granted. The reader will not fail to discover the objectof this procedure. Keepum hopes to continue the old man in prison, thathe may succeed in breaking down the proud spirit of his daughter. 

The Commissioner listens attentively to the reading of the objections. The first sets forth that Mr. McArthur has a gold watch;[7] the second, that he has a valuable breastpin, said to have been worn by LordCornwallis; and the third, that he has one Yorick's skull. All of these, Mr. Crimpton regrets to say, are withheld from the schedule, whichvirtually constitutes fraud. The facile Commissioner bows; the assembledcrowd look on unmoved; but the old man shakes his head and listens. Heis surprised to find himself accused of fraud; but the law gives him nopower to show his own innocence. The Judge of the Sessions was competentto decide the question now raised, and to have prevented this revertingto a "special jury"--this giving the vindictive plaintiff a means oftorturing his infirm victim. Had he but listened to the old man's taleof poverty, he might have saved the heart of that forlorn girl many abitter pang. 

[Footnote 7: Our Charleston readers will recognize the case heredescribed, without any further key. ]

The motion granted, a day is appointed--ten days must elapse--for ahearing before the Commissioner of "Special Bail, " and his special jury. The rosy-faced functionary, being a jolly and somewhat flexible sort ofman, must needs give his health an airing in the country. What is theliberty of a poor white with us? Our Governor, whom we esteem singularlysagacious, said it were better all our poor were enslaved, and thisopinion finds high favor with our first families. The worthyCommissioner, in addition to taking care of his health, is expected tomake any number of speeches, full of wind and war, to several recentlycalled Secession Conventions. He will find time (being a General bycourtesy) to review the up-country militia, and the right and leftdivisions of the South Carolina army. He will be feted by some few ofour most distinguished Generals, and lecture before the people ofBeaufort (a very noisy town of forty-two inhabitants, all heroes), towhom he will prove the necessity of our State providing itself with anindependent steam navy. 

The old Antiquary is remanded back to jail--to wait the coming day. Maria, almost breathless with anxiety, runs to him as he comes totteringout of Court in advance of the official, lays her trembling hand uponhis arm, and looks inquiringly in his face. "Oh! my father, myfather!--released? released?" she inquires, with quivering lips andthrobbing heart. A forced smile plays over his time-worn face, he looksupward, shakes his head in sorrow, and having patted her affectionatelyon the shoulder, throws his arms about her neck and kisses her. Thatmute appeal, that melancholy voucher of his sorrows, knells the painfulanswer in her ears, "Then you are not free to come with me? Oh, father, father!" and she wrings her hands and gives vent to her tears. 

"The time will come, my daughter, when my Judge will hear me--will judgeme right. My time will come soon--" And here the old man pauses, andchokes with his emotions. Maria returns the old man's kiss, and beingsatisfied that he is yet in the hands of his oppressors, sets aboutcheering up his drooping spirits. "Don't think of me, father, " shesays--"don't think of me! Let us put our trust in Him who can shortenthe days of our tribulation. " She takes the old man's arm, and like onewho would forget her own troubles in her anxiety to relieve another, supports him on his way back to prison. 

It is high noon. She stands before the prison gate, now glancing at theserene sky, then at the cold, frowning walls, and again at the old pile, as if contemplating the wearying hours he must pass within it. "Don'trepine--nerve yourself with resolution, and all will be well!" Havingsaid this with an air of confidence in herself, she throws her armsabout the old man's neck, presses him to her bosom, kisses and kisseshis wrinkled cheek, then grasps his hand warmly in her own. "Forgetthose who persecute you, for it is good. Look above, father--to Him whotempers the winds, who watches over the weak, and gives the victory tothe right!" She pauses, as the old man holds her hand in silence. "Thislife is but a transient sojourn at best; full of hopes and fears, that, like a soldier's dream, pass away when the battle is ended. " Again shefondly shakes his hand, lisps a sorrowing "good-bye, " watches him, insilence, out of sight, then turns away in tears, and seeks her home. There is something so pure, so earnest in her solicitude for the oldman, that it seems more of heaven than earth. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

A STORY WITHOUT WHICH THIS HISTORY WOULD BE FOUND WANTING. 

On taking leave of her father, Maria, her heart overburdened with grief, and her mind abstracted, turned towards the Battery, and continued, slowly and sadly, until she found herself seated beneath a tree, lookingout upon the calm bay. Here, scarce conscious of those who wereobserving her in their sallies, she mused until dusky evening, when theair seemed hushed, and the busy hum of day was dying away in thedistance. The dark woodland on the opposite bank gave a bold border tothe soft picture; the ships rode sluggishly upon the polished waters;the negro's touching song echoed and re-echoed along the shore; and theboatman's chorus broke upon the stilly air in strains so dulcet. And asthe mellow shadows of night stole over the scene--as the heavens lookeddown in all their sereneness, and the stars shone out, and twinkled, andlaughed, and danced upon the blue waters, and coquetted with themoonbeams--for the moon was up, and shedding a halo of mystic light overthe scene--making night merry, nature seemed speaking to Maria in wordsof condolence. Her heart was touched, her spirits gained strength, hersoul seemed in a loftier and purer atmosphere. 

"Poor, but virtuous--virtue ennobles the poor. Once gone, the worldnever gives it back!" she muses, and is awakened from her reverie by asweet, sympathizing voice, whispering in her ear. "Woman! you are introuble, --linger no longer here, or you will fall into the hands of yourenemies. " She looks up, and there stands at her side a young female, whose beauty the angels might envy. The figure came upon her so suddenlythat she hesitates for a reply to the admonition. 

"Take this, it will do something toward relieving your wants (do notopen it now), and with this (she places a stiletto in her hand) you canstrike down the one who attempts your virtue. Nay, remember that whileyou cling to that, you are safe--lose it, and you are gone forever. Yourtroubles will soon end; mine are for a life-time. Yours find arelaxation in your innocence; mine is seared into my heart with my ownshame. It is guilt--shame! that infuses into the heart that poison, forwhich years of rectitude afford no antidote. Go quickly--get from thislone place! You are richer than me. " She slips something into Maria'shand, and suddenly disappears. 

Maria rises from her seat, intending to follow the stranger, but she isout of sight. Who can this mysterious messenger, this beautiful strangerbe? Maria muses. A thought flashes across her mind; it is she who soughtour house at midnight, when my father revealed her dark future! "Yes, "she says to herself, "it is the same lovely face; how oft it has flittedin my fancy!"

She reaches her home only to find its doors closed against her. Aruthless landlord has taken her all, and forced her into the street. 

You may shut out the sterner sex without involving character or invitinginsult; but with woman the case is very different. However pure hercharacter, to turn her into the street, is to subject her to a stigma, if not to fasten upon her a disgrace. You may paint, in yourimagination, the picture of a woman in distress, but you can know littleof the heart-achings of the sufferer. The surface only reflects thefaint gleams, standing out here and there like the lesser objects upon adark canvas. 

Maria turns reluctantly from that home of so many happy associations, towander about the streets and by-ways of the city. The houses of the richseem frowning upon her; her timid nature tells her they have no doorsopen to her. The haunts of the poor, at this moment, infuse a sanguinejoyousness into her soul. How glad would she be, if they did but open toher. Is not the Allwise, through the beauties of His works, holding herup, while man only is struggling to pull her down?

And while Maria wanders homeless about the streets of Charleston, wemust beg you, gentle reader, to accompany us into one of the greatthoroughfares of London, where is being enacted a scene appertaining tothis history. 

It is well-nigh midnight, the hour when young London is most astir inhis favorite haunts; when ragged and well-starved flower-girls, issuingfrom no one knows where, beset your path through Trafalgar and Liecestersquares, and pierce your heart with their pleadings; when the Casinoesof the Haymarket and Picadilly are vomiting into the streets their frailbut richly-dressed women; when gaudy supper-rooms, reeking of lobsterand bad liquor, are made noisy with the demands of theirflauntily-dressed customers; when little girls of thirteen are dodgingin and out of mysterious courts and passages leading to and fromLiecester square; when wily cabmen, ranged around the "great globe, "importune you for a last fare; and when the aristocratic swell, withhectic face and maudlin laugh, saunters from his club-room to seekexcitement in the revels at Vauxhall. 

A brown mist hangs over the dull area of Trafalgar square. The bells ofold St. Martin's church have chimed merrily out their last night peal;the sharp voice of the omnibus conductor no longer offends the ear; thetiny little fountains have ceased to give out their green water; and thelights of the Union Club on one side, and Morley's hotel on the other, throw pale shadows into the open square. 

The solitary figure of a man, dressed in the garb of a gentleman, isseen sauntering past Northumberland house, then up the east side of thesquare. Now he halts at the corner of old St. Martin's church, turns andcontemplates the scene before him. On his right is that squatty mass offreestone and smoke, Englishmen exultingly call the Royal Academy, butwhich Frenchmen affect contempt for, and uninitiated Americans mistakefor a tomb. An equestrian statue of one of the Georges rises at the eastcorner; Morley's Hotel, where Americans get poor fare and enormouscharges, with the privilege of fancying themselves quite as good as thequeen, on the left; the dead walls of Northumberland House, with theirprisonlike aspect, and the mounted lion, his tail high in air, and quiteas rigid as the Duke's dignity, in front; the opening that terminatesthe Strand, and gives place to Parliament street, at the head of whichan equestrian statue of Charles the First, much admired by Englishmen, stands, his back on Westminster; the dingy shops of Spring Garden, andthe Union Club to the right; and, towering high over all, Nelson'sColumn, the statue looking as if it had turned its back in pity on thelittle fountains, to look with contempt, first upon the bronze face ofthe unfortunate Charles, then upon Parliament, whose parsimony inwithholding justice from his daughter, he would rebuke--and the pictureis complete. 

The stranger turns, walks slowly past the steps of St. Martin's church, crosses to the opposite side of the street, and enters a narrow, wet, and dimly-lighted court, on the left. Having passed up a few paces, hefinds himself hemmed in between the dead walls of St. Martin's"Work-house" on one side, and the Royal Academy on the other. Hehesitates between fear and curiosity. The dull, sombre aspect of thecourt is indeed enough to excite the fears of the timid; but curiositybeing the stronger impulse, he proceeds, resolved to explore it--to seewhence it leads. 

A short turn to the right, and he has reached the front wall of theQueen's Barracks, on his left, and the entrance to the "Work-house, " onhis right; the one overlooking the other, and separated by a narrowstreet. Leave men are seen reluctantly returning in at the night-gate;the dull tramp of the sentinel within sounds ominously on the still air;and the chilly atmosphere steals into the system. Again the strangerpauses, as if questioning the safety of his position. Suddenly a lowmoan grates upon his ear, he starts back, then listens. Again it rises, in a sad wail, and pierces his very heart. His first thought is, thatsome tortured mortal is bemoaning his bruises in a cell of the"Work-house, " which he mistakes for a prison. But his eyes fall to theground, and his apprehensions are dispelled. 

The doors of the "Work-house" are fast closed; but there, huddled alongthe cold pavement, and lying crouched upon its doorsteps, in heaps thatresemble the gatherings of a rag-seller, are four-and-thirty shivering, famishing, and homeless human beings--[8] (mostly young girls and agedwomen), who have sought at this "institution of charity" shelter for thenight, and bread to appease their hunger. [9] Alas! its ruthless keepershave refused them bread, shut them into the street, and left them inrags scarce sufficient to cover their nakedness, to sleep upon the coldstones, a mute but terrible rebuke to those hearts that bleed over thesorrows of Africa, but have no blood to give out when the object of pityis a poor, heart-sick girl, forced to make the cold pavement her bed. The stranger shudders. "Are these heaps of human beings?" he questionswithin himself, doubting the reality before him. As if counting andhesitating what course to pursue for their relief, he paces up and downthe grotesque mass, touching one, and gazing upon the haggard featuresof another, who looks up to see what it is that disturbs her. Again thelow moan breaks on his ear, as the sentinel cries the first hour ofmorning. The figure of a female, her head resting on one of the steps, moves, a trembling hand steals from under her shawl, makes an effort toreach her head, and falls numb at her side. "Her hand is cold--herbreathing like one in death--oh! God!--how terrible--what, what am I todo?" he says, taking the sufferer's hand in his own. Now he rubs it, nowraises her head, makes an effort to wake a few of the miserablesleepers, and calls aloud for help. "Help! help! help!" he shouts, andthe shout re-echoes through the air and along the hollow court. "A womanis dying, --dying here on the cold stones--with no one to raise a handfor her!" He seizes the exhausted woman in his arms, and with herculeanstrength rushes up the narrow street, in the hope of finding relief atthe Gin Palace he sees at its head, in a blaze of light. But the body isseized with spasms, an hollow, hysteric wail follows, his strength givesway under the burden, and he sets the sufferer down in the shadow of agas light. Her dress, although worn threadbare, still bears evidence ofhaving belonged to one who has enjoyed comfort, and, perhaps, luxury. Indeed, there is something about the woman which bespeaks her not of theclass generally found sleeping on the steps of St. Martin's Work-house. 

[Footnote 8: An institution for the relief of the destitute. ]

[Footnote 9: This sight may be seen at any time. ]

"What's here to do?" gruffly inquires a policeman, coming up with an airof indifference. The stranger says the woman is dying. The policemanstoops down, lays his hand upon her temples, then mechanically feels herarms and hands. 

"And I--must die--die--die in the street, " whispers the woman, her headfalling carelessly from the policeman's hand, in which it had rested. 

"Got her a bit below, at the Work'ouse door, among them wot sleepsthere, eh?"

The stranger says he did. 

"A common enough thing, " pursues the policeman; "this a bad lot. Anyhow, we must give her a tow to the station. " He rubs his hands, and preparesto raise her from the ground. 

"Hold! hold, " interrupts the other, "she will die ere you get herthere. "

"Die, --ah! yes, yes, " whispers the woman. The mention of death seems tohave wrung like poison into her very soul. "Don't--don't move me--thespell is almost broken. Oh! how can I die here, a wretch. Yes, I amgoing now--let me rest, rest, rest, " the moaning supplicant mutters in aguttural voice, grasps spasmodically at the policeman's hand, heaves adeep sigh, and sets her eyes fixedly upon the stranger. She seemsrecognizing in his features something that gives her strength. 

"There--there--there!" she continues, incoherently, as a fit ofhysterics seize upon her; "you, you, you, have--yes, you have come atthe last hour, when my sufferings close. I see devils all aboutme--haunting me--torturing my very soul--burning me up! See them! seethem!--here they come--tearing, worrying me--in a cloud of flame!" Sheclutches with her hands, her countenance fills with despair, and herbody writhes in agony. 

"Bring brandy! warm, --stimulant! anything to give her strength! Quick!quick!--go fetch it, or she is gone!" stammers out the stranger. 

In another minute she calms away, and sinks exhausted upon the pavement. Policeman shakes his head, and says, "It 'ont do no good--she's donefor. "

The light of the "Trumpeter's Arms" still blazes into the street, whilea few greasy ale-bibbers sit moody about the tap-room. 

The two men raise the exhausted woman from the ground and carry her tothe door. Mine host of the Trumpeter's Arms shrugs his shoulders andsays, "She can't come in here. " He fears she will damage therespectability of his house. "The Work-house is the place for her, " hecontinues, gruffly. 

A sight at the stranger's well-filled purse, however, and a fewshillings slipped into the host's hand, secures his generosity and thewoman's admittance. "Indeed, " says the host, bowing most servilely, "gentlemen, the whole Trumpeter's Arms is at your service. " The woman iscarried into a lonely, little back room, and laid upon a cot, which, with two wooden chairs, constitutes its furniture. And while thepoliceman goes in search of medical aid, the host of the Trumpeter'sbestirs himself right manfully in the forthcoming of a stimulant. Thestranger, meanwhile, lends himself to the care of the forlorn suffererwith the gentleness of a woman. He smoothes her pillow, arranges herdress tenderly, and administers the stimulant with a hand accustomed tothe sick. 

A few minutes pass, and the woman seems to revive and brighten up. Minehost has set a light on the chair, at the side of the cot, and left heralone with the stranger. Slowly she opens her eyes, and with increasinganxiety sets them full upon him. Their recognition is mutual. "MadameFlamingo!" ejaculates the man, grasping her hand. 

"Tom Swiggs!" exclaims the woman, burying her face for a second, thenpressing his hand to her lips, and kissing it with the fondness of achild, as her eyes swim in tears. "How strange to find you thus--"continues Tom, for truly it is he who sits by the forlorn woman. 

"More strange, " mutters the woman, shaking her head sorrowfully, "that Ishould be brought to this terrible end. I am dying--I cannot lastlong--the fever has left me only to die a neglected wretch. Hearme--hear me, while I tell you the tale of my troubles, that others maytake warning. And may God give me strength. And you--if I have wrongedyou, forgive me--it is all I can ask in this world. " Here Tomadministers another draught of warm brandy and water, the influence ofwhich is soon perceptible in the regaining strength of the patient. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

A STORY WITH MANY COUNTERPARTS. 

A very common story is this of Madame Flamingo's troubles. It hascounterparts enough, and though they may be traced to a class of societyless notorious than that with which she moved, are generally kept in thedark chamber of hidden thoughts. We are indeed fast gaining anunenviable fame for snobbery, for affecting to be what we never can be, and for our sad imitation of foreign flunkydom, which, finding us rivalsin the realm of its tinsil, begins to button up its coat and lookcontemptuously at us over the left shoulder. If, albeit, the result ofthat passion for titles and plush (things which the empty-headed of theold world would seem to have consigned to the empty-headed of the new), which has of late so singularly discovered itself among our "best-knownfamilies, " could be told, it would unfold many a tale of misery andbetrayal. Pardon this digression, generous reader, and proceed with usto the story of Madame Flamingo. 

"And now, " says the forlorn woman, in a faint, hollow voice, "when myambition seemed served--I was ambitious, perhaps vain--I found myselfthe victim of an intrigue. I ask forgiveness of Him who only can forgivethe wicked; but how can I expect to gain it?" She presses Tom's hand, and pauses for a second. "Yes, I was ambitious, " she continues, "andthere was something I wanted. I had money enough to live in comfort, but the thought that it was got of vice and the ruin of others, weighedme down. I wanted the respect of the world. To die a forgotten wretch;to have the grave close over me, and if remembered at all, only withexecration, caused me many a dark thought. " Here she struggles tosuppress her emotions. "I sought to change my condition; that, you see, has brought me here. I married one to whom I intrusted my all, in whoserank, as represented to me by Mr. Snivel, and confirmed by his friend, the Judge, I confided. I hoped to move with him to a foreign country, where the past would all be wiped out, and where the associations ofrespectable society would be the reward of future virtue. 

"In London, where I now reap the fruits of my vanity, we enjoyed goodsociety for a time, were sought after, and heaped with attentions. But Imet those who had known me; it got out who I was; I was represented muchworse than I was, and even those who had flattered me in one sphere, didnot know me. In Paris it was the same. And there my husband said itwould not do to be known by his titles, for, being an exile, it might bethe means of his being recognized and kidnapped, and carried back aprisoner to his own dear Poland. In this I acquiesced, as I did ineverything else that lightened his cares. Gradually he grew cold andmorose towards me, left me for days at a time, and returned only toabuse and treat me cruelly. He had possession of all my money, which Isoon found he was gambling away, without gaining an entrée for me intosociety. 

"From Paris we travelled, as if without any settled purpose, into Italy, and from thence to Vienna, where I discovered that instead of being aprince, my husband was an impostor, and I his dupe. He had formerlybeen a crafty shoemaker; was known to the police as a notoriouscharacter, who, instead of having been engaged in the politicalstruggles of his countrymen, had fled the country to escape the penaltyof being the confederate of a desperate gang of coiners andcounterfeiters. We had only been two days in Vienna when I found he haddisappeared, and left me destitute of money or friends. My connectionwith him only rendered my condition more deplorable, for the policewould not credit my story; and while he eluded its vigilance, I wassuspected of being a spy in the confidence of a felon, and ruthlesslyordered to leave the country. "

"Did not your passport protect you?" interrupts Tom, with evidentfeeling. 

"No one paid it the least regard, " resumes Madame Flamingo, becomingweaker and weaker. "No one at our legations evinced sympathy for me. Indeed, they all refused to believe my story. I wandered back from cityto city, selling my wardrobe and the few jewels I had left, andconfidently expecting to find in each place I entered, some one I hadknown, who would listen to my story, and supply me with means to reachmy home. I could soon have repaid it, but my friends had gone with mymoney; no one dare venture to trust me--no one had confidence inme--every one to whom I appealed had an excuse that betrayed theirsuspicion of me. Almost destitute, I found myself back in London--how Igot here, I scarce know--where I could make myself understood. My hopesnow brightened, I felt that some generous-hearted captain would give mea passage to New York, and once home, my troubles would end. But beingworn down with fatigue, and my strength prostrated, a fever set in, andI was forced to seek refuge in a miserable garret in Drury-Lane, andwhere I parted with all but what now remains on my back, to procurenourishment. I had begun to recover somewhat, but the malady left mebroken down, and when all was gone, I was turned into the street. Yes, yes, yes, (she whispers, ) they gave me to the streets; for twenty-fourhours I have wandered without nourishment, or a place to lay my head. Isought shelter in a dark court, and there laid down to die; and when myeyes were dim, and all before me seemed mysterious and dark with curiousvisions, a hand touched me, and I felt myself borne away. " Here hervoice chokes, she sinks back upon the pillow, and closes her eyes as herhands fall careless at her side. "She breathes! she breathes yet!" saysTom, advancing his ear to the pale, quivering lips of the wretchedwoman. Now he bathes her temples with the vinegar from a bottle in thehand of the host, who is just entered, and stands looking on, hiscountenance full of alarm. 

"If she deys in my 'ouse, good sir, w'oat then?"

"You mean the expense?"

"Just so--it 'll be nae trifle, ye kno'!" The host shakes his head, doubtingly. Tom begs he will not be troubled about that, and givesanother assurance from his purse that quite relieves the host'sapprehensions. A low, heavy breathing, followed by a return of spasms, bespeaks the sinking condition of the sufferer. The policeman returns, preceded by a physician--the only one to be got at, he says--in verydilapidated broadcloth, and whose breath is rather strong of gin. "An'whereabutes did ye pick the woman up, --an, an, wha's teu stond thebill?" he inquires, in a deep Scotch brogue, then ordering the littlewindow opened, feels clumsily the almost pulseless hand. Encouraged onthe matter of his bill, he turns first to the host, then to Tom, andsays, "the wuman's nae much, for she's amast dede wi' exhaustion. " Andwhile he is ordering a nostrum he knows can do no good, the woman makesa violent struggle, opens her eyes, and seems casting a last glanceround the dark room. Now she sets them fixedly upon the ceiling, herlips pale, and her countenance becomes spectre-like--a low, gurglingsound is heard, the messenger of retribution is come--Madame Flamingo isdead!

CHAPTER XL. 

IN WHICH THE LAW IS SEEN TO CONFLICT WITH OUR CHERISHED CHIVALRY. 

"What could the woman mean, when on taking leave of me she said, 'youare far richer than me?'" questions Maria McArthur to herself, when, finding she is alone and homeless in the street, she opens the packetthe woman Anna slipped so mysteriously into her hand, and finds itcontains two twenty-dollar gold pieces. And while evolving in her mindwhether she shall appropriate them to the relief of her destitutecondition, her conscience smites her. It is the gold got of vice. Herheart shares the impulse that prompted the act, but her pure spiritrecoils from the acceptance of such charity. "You are far richer thanme!" knells in her ears, and reveals to her the heart-burnings of thewoman who lives in licentious splendor. "I have no home, no friend nearme, and nowhere to lay my head; and yet I am richer than her;" she says, gazing at the moon, and the stars, and the serene heavens. And thecontemplation brings to her consolation and strength. She wanders backto the gate of the old prison, resolved to return the gold in themorning, and, was the night not so far spent, ask admittance into thecell her father occupies. But she reflects, and turns away; well knowinghow much more painful will be the smart of his troubles does shedisclose to him what has befallen her. 

She continues sauntering up a narrow by-lane in the outskirts of thecity. A light suddenly flashes across her path, glimmers from the windowof a little cabin, and inspires her with new hopes. She quickens hersteps, reaches the door, meets a welcome reception, and is madecomfortable for the night by the mulatto woman who is its solitarytenant. The woman, having given Maria of her humble cheer, seems onlytoo anxious to disclose the fact that she is the slave and cast-offmistress of Judge Sleepyhorn, on whose head she invokes no few curses. It does not touch her pride so much that he has abandoned her, as thathe has taken to himself one of another color. She is tall and straightof figure, with prominent features, long, silky black hair, and a richolive complexion; and though somewhat faded of age, it is clear that shepossessed in youth charms of great value in the flesh market. 

Maria discloses to her how she came in possession of the money, as alsoher resolve to return it in the morning. Undine (for such is her name)applauds this with great gusto. "Now, thar!" she says, "that's thespirit I likes. " And straightway she volunteers to be the medium ofreturning the money, adding that she will show the hussy her contempt ofher by throwing it at her feet, and "letting her see a _slave_ knows allabout it. "

Maria fully appreciates the kindness, as well as sympathizes with thewounded pride of this slave daughter; nevertheless, there is anhumiliation in being driven to seek shelter in a negro cabin thattouches her feelings. For a white female to seek shelter under the roofof a negro's cabin, is a deep disgrace in the eyes of our very refinedsociety; and having subjected herself to the humiliation, she knows fullwell that it may be used against her--in fine, made a means to defameher character. 

Night passes away, and the morning ushers in soft and sunny, but bringswith it nothing to relieve her situation. She, however, returns the goldto Anna through a channel less objectionable than that Undine would havesupplied, and sallies out to seek lodgings. In a house occupied by apoor German family, she seeks and obtains a little room, wherein shecontinues plying at her needle. 

The day set apart for the trial before a jury of "special bail" arrives. The rosy-faced commissioner is in his seat, a very good-natured jury isimpanelled, and the feeble old man is again brought into court. Mariasaunters, thoughtful, and anxious for the result, at the outer door. Peter Crimpton rises, addresses the jury at great length, sets forth theevident intention of fraud on the part of the applicant, and theenormity of the crime. He will now prove his objections by competentwitnesses. The proceedings being in accordance with what Mr. Snivelfacetiously terms the strict rules of special pleading, the old man'slips are closed. Several very respectable witnesses are called, and averthey saw the old Antiquary with a gold watch mounted, at a recent date;witnesses quite as dependable aver they have known him for many years, but never mounted with anything so extravagant as a gold watch. So muchfor the validity of testimony! It is very clear that the veryrespectable witnesses have confounded some one else with the prisoner. 

The Antiquary openly confesses to the possession of a pin, and thecurious skull (neither of which are valuable beyond their associations), but declares it more an oversight than an intention that they were leftout of the schedule. For the virtue of the schedule, Mr. Crimpton issingularly scrupulous; nor does it soften his aspersions that the oldman offers to resign them for the benefit of the State. Mr. Crimptongives his case to the jury, expressing his belief that a verdict will berendered in his favor. A verdict of guilty (for so it is rendered in ourcourts) will indeed give the prisoner to him for an indefinite period. In truth, the only drawback is that the plaintiff will be required topay thirty cents a day to Mr. Hardscrabble, who will starve him rightlysoundly. 

The jury, very much to Mr. Crimpton's chagrin, remain seated, anddeclare the prisoner not guilty. Was this sufficient--all the lawdemanded? No. Although justice might have been satisfied, the law hadother ends to serve, and in the hands of an instrument like Crimpton, could be turned to uses delicacy forbids our transcribing here. The oldman's persecutors were not satisfied; the verdict of the jury was withhim, but the law gave his enemies power to retain him six months longer. Mr. Crimpton demands a writ of appeal to the sessions. The Commissionerhas no alternative, notwithstanding the character of the pretext uponwhich it is demanded is patent on its face. Such is but a feebledescription of one of the many laws South Carolina retains on herstatute book to oppress the poor and give power to the rich. If we wouldbut purge ourselves of this distemper of chivalry and secession, that soblinds our eyes to the sufferings of the poor, while driving ourpoliticians mad over the country (we verily believe them all coming tothe gallows or insane hospital), how much higher and nobler would be ourclaim to the respect of the world!

Again the old man is separated from his daughter, placed in the hands ofa bailiff, and remanded back to prison, there to hope, fear, and whileaway the time, waiting six, perhaps eight months, for the sitting of theCourt of Appeals. The "Appeal Court, " you must know, would seem to haveinherited the aristocracy of our ancestors, for, having a great aversionto business pursuits, it sits at very long intervals, and gets throughvery little business. 

When the news of her father's remand reaches Maria, it overwhelms herwith grief. Varied are her thoughts of how she shall provide for thefuture; dark and sad are the pictures of trouble that rise up beforeher. Look whichever way she will, her ruin seems sealed. The health ofher aged father is fast breaking--her own is gradually declining underthe pressure of her troubles. Rapidly forced from one extreme toanother, she appeals to a few acquaintances who have expressedfriendship for her father; but their friendship took wings when grimpoverty looked in. Southern hospitality, though bountifully bestowedupon the rich, rarely condescends to shed its bright rays over the needypoor. 

Maria advertises for a situation, in some of our first families, asprivate seamstress. Our first families having slaves for such offices, have no need of "poor white trash. " She applies personally to severalladies of "eminent standing, " and who busy themselves in getting updonations for northern Tract Societies. They have no sympathy to wasteupon her. Her appeal only enlists coldness and indifference. The "ChurchHome" had lent an ear to her story, but that her address is veryunsatisfactory, and it is got out that she is living a very suspiciouslife. The "Church Home, " so virtuous and pious, can do nothing for heruntil she improves her mode of living. Necessity pinches Maria at everyturn. "To be poor in a slave atmosphere, is truly a crime, " she says toherself, musing over her hard lot, while sitting in her chamber oneevening. "But I am the richer! I will rise above all!" She has justprepared to carry some nourishment to her father, when Keepum enters, his face flushed, and his features darkened with a savage scowl. "I havesaid you were a fool--all women are fools!--and now I know I was notmistaken!" This Mr. Keepum says while throwing his hat sullenly upon thefloor. "Well, " he pursues, having seated himself in a chair, lookeddesigningly at the candle, then contorted his narrow face, and friskedhis fingers through his bright red hair, "as to this here wincing andmincing--its all humbuggery of a woman like you. Affecting such morals!Don't go down here; tell you that, my spunky girl. Loose morals is whattakes in poor folks. "

Maria answers him only with a look of scorn. She advances to the door tofind it locked. 

"It was me--I locked it. Best to be private about the matter, " saysKeepum, a forced smile playing over his countenance. 

Unresolved whether to give vent to her passion, or make an effort toinspire his better nature, she stands a few moments, as if immersed indeep thought, then suddenly falls upon her knees at his feet, andimplores him to save her this last step to her ruin. "Hear me, oh, hearme, and let your heart give out its pity for one who has only her virtueleft her in this world;" she appeals to him with earnest voice, and eyesswimming in tears. "Save my father, for you have power. Give him hisliberty, that I, his child, his only comfort in his old age, may makehim happy. Yes! yes!--he will die where he is. Will you, can you--youhave a heart--see me struggle against the rude buffets of an unthinkingworld! Will you not save me from the Poor-house--from the shame thatawaits me with greedy clutches, and receive in return the blessing of afriendless woman! Oh!--you will, you will--release my father!--give himback to me and make me happy. Ah, ha!--I see, I see, you have feelings, better feelings--feelings that are not seared. You will have pity on me;you will forgive, relent--you cannot see a wretch suffer and not bemoved to lighten her pain!" The calm, pensive expression that lights upher countenance is indeed enough to inspire the tender impulses of aheart in which every sense of generosity is not dried up. 

Her appeal, nevertheless, falls ineffectual. Mr. Keepum has no generousimpulses to bestow upon beings so sensitive of their virtue. With him, it is a ware of very little value, inasmuch as the moral standard fixedby a better class of people is quite loose. He rises from his chair withan air of self-confidence, seizes her by the hand, and attempts to dragher upon his knee, saying, "you know I can and will make you a lady. Upon the honor of a gentleman, I love you--always have loved you; butwhat stands in the way, and is just enough to make any gentleman of mystanding mad, is this here squeamishness--"

"No! no! go from me. Attempt not again to lay your cruel hands upon me!"The goaded woman struggles from his grasp, and shrieks for help at thevery top of her voice. And as the neighbors come rushing up stairs, Mr. Keepum valorously betakes himself into the street. Maddened withdisappointment, and swearing to have revenge, he seeks his home, andthere muses over the "curious woman's" unswerving resolution. "Cruelty!"he says to himself--"she charges me with cruelty! Well, " (here he sighs)"it's only because she lacks a bringing up that can appreciate agentleman. " (Keepum could never condescend to believe himself less thana very fine gentleman. ) "As sure as the world the creature is somewhatout in the head. She fancies all sorts of things--shame, disgrace, andruin!--only because she don't understand the quality of ourmorality--that's all! There's no harm, after all, in these littleenjoyments--if the girl would only understand them so. Our society isfree from pedantry; and there--no damage can result where no one's thewiser. It's like stealing a blush from the cheek of beauty--nobodymisses it, and the cheek continues as beautiful as ever. " Thusphilosophizes the chivalric gentleman, until he falls into a fastsleep. 

CHAPTER XLI. 

IN WHICH JUSTICE IS SEEN TO BE VERY ACCOMMODATING. 

A few days have elapsed, Maria has just paid a visit to her father, still in prison, and may be seen looking in at Mr. Keepum's office, inBroad street. "I come not to ask a favor, sir; but, at my father'srequest, to say to you that, having given up all he has in the world, itcan do no good to any one to continue him in durance, and to ask ofyou--in whom the sole power rests--that you will grant him his releaseere he dies?" She addresses Mr. Keepum, who seems not in a very goodtemper this morning, inasmuch as several of his best negroes, withoutregard to their value to him, got a passion for freedom into theirheads, and have taken themselves away. In addition to this, he is muchput out, as he says, at being compelled to forego the pleasure held outon the previous night, of tarring and feathering two northernerssuspected of entertaining sentiments not exactly straight on the"peculiar question. " A glorious time was expected, and a great deal ofvery strong patriotism wasted; but the two unfortunate individuals, bysome means not yet discovered, got the vigilance committee, to whosecare they were entrusted, very much intoxicated, and were not to befound when called for. Free knives, and not free speech, is our motto. And this Mr. Keepum is one of the most zealous in carrying out. 

Mr. Keepum sits, his hair fretted back over his lean forehead, before atable covered with papers, all indicating an immense business in lotteryand other speculations. Now he deposits his feet upon it; leans back inhis chair, puffs his cigar, and says, with an air of indifference to thespeaker: "I shall not be able to attend to any business of yours to-day, Madam!" His clerk, a man of sturdy figure, with a broad, red face, anddressed in rather dilapidated broadcloth, is passing in and out of thefront office, bearing in his fingers documents that require a signatureor mark of approval. 

"I only come, sir, to tell you that we are destitute--" Maria pauses, and stands trembling in the doorway. 

"That's a very common cry, " interrupts Keepum, relieving his mouth ofthe cigar. "The affair is entirely out of my hands. Go to my attorney, Peter Crimpton, Esq. , --what he does for you will receive my sanction. Imust not be interrupted to-day. I might express a thousand regrets; yes, pass an opinion on your foolish pride, but what good would it do. "

And while Maria stands silent and hesitating, there enters the officeabruptly a man in the garb of a mechanic. "I have come, " speaks the man, in a tone of no very good humor, "for the last time. I asks of you--youprofesses to be a gentleman--my honest rights. If the law don't give itto me, I mean to take it with this erehand. " (He shakes his hand atKeepum. ) "I am a poor man who ain't thought much of because I works fora living; you have got what I had worked hard for, and lain up to makemy little family comfortable. I ask a settlement and my own--what isdue from one honest man to another!" He now approaches the table, strikes his hand upon it, and pauses for a reply. 

Mr. Keepum coolly looks up, and with an insidious leer, says, "There, take yourself into the street. When next you enter a gentleman's office, learn to deport yourself with good manners. "

"Pshaw! pshaw!" interrupts the man. "What mockery! When men likeyou--yes, I say men like you--that has brought ruin on so many poorfamilies, can claim to be gentlemen, rogues may get a patent for theirorder. " The man turns to take his departure, when the infuriated Keepum, who, as we have before described, gets exceedingly put out if any onedoubts his honor, seizes an iron bar, and stealing up behind, fetcheshim a blow over the head that fells him lifeless to the floor. 

Maria shrieks, and vaults into the street. The mass upon the floorfetches a last agonizing shrug, and a low moan, and is dead. Themurderer stands over him, exultant, as the blood streams from the deepfracture. In fine, the blood of his victim would seem rather to increasehis satisfaction at the deed, than excite a regret. 

Call you this murder? Truly, the man has outraged God's law. And thelover of law and order, of social good, and moral honesty, would findreasons for designating the perpetrator an assassin. For has he notfirst distressed a family, and then left it bereft of its protector? Youmay think of it and designate it as you please. Nevertheless we, in ourfancied mightiness, cannot condescend to such vulgar considerations. Weesteem it extremely courageous of Mr. Keepum, to defend himself "to thedeath" against the insults of one of the common herd. Our firstfamilies applaud the act, our sensitive press say it was "an unfortunateaffair, " and by way of admonition, add that it were better workingpeople be more careful how they approach gentlemen. Mr. Snivel will callthis, the sublime quality of our chivalry. What say the jury of inquest?

Duly weighing the high position of Mr. Keepum, and the very lowcondition of the deceased, the good-natured jury return a verdict thatthe man met his death in consequence of an accidental blow, administeredwith an iron instrument, in the hands of one Keepum. From thetestimony--Keepum's clerk--it is believed the act was committed inself-defence. 

Mr. Keepum, as is customary with our fine gentlemen, and like a hero (wewill not content ourselves with making him one jot less), magnanimouslysurrenders himself to the authorities. The majesty of our laws is noteasily offended by gentlemen of standing. Only the poor and the helplessslave can call forth the terrible majesty of the law, and quicken toaction its sensitive quality. The city is shocked that Mr. Keepum issubjected to a night in jail, notwithstanding he has the jailer's bestparlor, and a barricade of champaign bottles are strewn at his feet byflattering friends, who make night jubilant with their carousal. 

Southern society asks no repentance of him whose hands reek with theblood of his poor victim; southern society has no pittance for thatfamily Keepum has made lick the dust in tears and sorrow. Even while wewrite--while the corpse of the murdered man, followed by a few brothercraftsmen, is being borne to its last resting-place, the perpetrator, released on a paltry bail, is being regaled at a festive board. Such isour civilization! How had the case stood with a poor man! Could he havestood up against the chivalry of South Carolina, scoffed at the law, orbid good-natured justice close her eyes? No. He had been dragged to aclose cell, and long months had passed ere the tardy movements of thelaw reached his case. Even then, popular opinion would have turned uponhim, pre-judged him, and held him up as dangerous to the peace of thepeople. Yes, pliant justice would have affected great virtue, andgetting on her high throne, never ceased her demands until he hadexpiated his crime at the gallows. 

A few weeks pass: Keepum's reputation for courage is fully endorsed, theAttorney-General finds nothing in the act to justify him in bringing itbefore a Grand Jury, the law is satisfied (or ought to be satisfied), and the rich murderer sleeps without a pang of remorse. 

CHAPTER XLII. 

IN WHICH SOME LIGHT IS THROWN ON THE PLOT OF THIS HISTORY. 

June, July, and August are past away, and September, with all itsautumnal beauties, ushers in, without bringing anything to lighten thecares of that girl whose father yet pines in prison. She looks forward, hoping against hope, to the return of her lover (something tells her hestill lives), only to feel more keenly the pangs of hope deferred. 

And now, once more, New York, we are in thy busy streets. It is apleasant evening in early September. The soft rays of an autumn sun aretinging the western sky, and night is fast drawing her sable mantle overthe scene. In Washington Square, near where the tiny fountain jets itsstream into a round, grassy-bordered basin, there sits a man of middlestature, apparently in deep study. His dress is plain, and might betaken for that of either a working man, or a somewhat faded inspector ofcustoms. Heedless of those passing to and fro, he sits until nightfairly sets in, then rises, and faces towards the East. Through thetrunks of trees he sees, and seems contemplating the gray walls of theUniversity, and the bold, sombre front of the very aristocratic churchof the Reformed Dutch. 

"Well!" he mutters to himself, resuming his seat, and again facing tothe west, "this ere business of ourn is a great book of life--'tis that!Finds us in queer places; now and then mixed up curiously. " He rises asecond time, advances to a gas-light, draws a letter from his pocket, and scans, with an air of evident satisfaction, over the contents. "Umph!" he resumes, and shrugs his shoulders, "I was right on theaddress--ought to have known it without looking. " Having resumed hisseat, he returns the letter to his pocket, sits with his elbow upon hisknee, and his head rested thoughtfully in his right hand. The picturebefore him, so calm and soft, has no attractions for him. The dusky huesof night, for slowly the scene darkens, seem lending a softness andcalmness to the foliage. The weeping branches of the willow, interspersed here and there, as if to invest the picture with a touchingmelancholy, sway gently to and fro; the leaves of the silvery poplartremble and reflect their shadows on the fresh waters; and the flittinggas-lights mingle their gleams, play and sport over the rippled surface, coquet with the tripping star-beams, then throw fantastic lights overthe swaying foliage; and from beneath the massive branches of trees, there shines out, in bold relief, the marble porticoes and lintels ofstately-looking mansions. Such is the calm grandeur of the scene, thatone could imagine some Thalia investing it with a poetic charm the godsmight muse over. 

"It is not quite time yet, " says the man, starting suddenly to his feet. He again approaches a gas-light, looks attentively at his watch, thensaunters to the corner of Fourth and Thompson streets. An old, dilapidated wooden building, which some friend has whitewashed intorespectability, and looking as if it had a strong inclination to tumbleeither upon the sidewalk, or against the great trunk of a hoary-headedtree at the corner, arrests his attention. "Well, " he says, havingpaused before it, and scanned its crooked front, "this surely is thehouse where the woman lived when she was given the child. Practice, andputting two things together to find what one means, is the great thingin our profession. Like its old tenant, the house has got down a deal. It's on its last legs. " Again he consults his watch, and with aquickened step recrosses the Square, and enters ---- Avenue. Now hehalts before a spacious mansion, the front of which is high and bold, and deep, and of brown freestone. The fluted columns; theelegantly-chiselled lintels; the broad, scrolled window-frames; theexactly-moulded arches; the massive steps leading to the deep, vaultedentrance, with its doors of sombre and highly-polished walnut; and itsbold style of architecture, so grand in its outlines, --all invest itwith a regal air. The man casts a glance along the broad avenue, theninto the sombre entrance of the mansion. Now he seems questioning withinhimself whether to enter or retrace his steps. One-half of the outerdoor, which is in the Italian style, with heavy fluted mouldings, standsajar; while from out the lace curtains of the inner, there steals afaint light. The man rests his elbow on the great stone scroll of theguard-rail, and here we leave him for a few moments. 

The mansion, it may be well to add here, remains closed the greater partof the year; and when opened seems visited by few persons, and those notof the very highest standing in society. A broken-down politician, aseedy hanger-on of some "literary club, " presided over by a rich, butvery stupid tailor, and now and then a lady about whose skirts somethingnot exactly straight hangs, and who has been elbowed out of fashionablesociety for her too ardent love of opera-singers, and handsome actors, may be seen dodging in now and then. Otherwise, the mansion would seemvery generally deserted by the neighborhood. 

Everybody will tell you, and everybody is an individual so extremelybusy in other people's affairs, that he ought to know, that there issomething that hangs so like a rain-cloud about the magnificent skirtsof those who live so secluded "in that fine old pile, " (mansion, ) thatthe virtuous satin of the Avenue never can be got to "mix in. " Indeed, the Avenue generally seems to have set its face against those who residein it. They enjoy none of those very grand assemblies, balls, andreceptions, for which the Avenue is become celebrated, and yet theyluxuriate in wealth and splendor. 

Though the head of the house seems banished by society, society makesher the subject of many evil reports and mysterious whisperings. Thelady of the mansion, however, as if to retort upon her traducers, makesit known that she is very popular abroad, every now and then during herabsence honoring them with mysterious clippings from foreignjournals--all setting forth the admiration her appearance called forthat a grand reception given by the Earl and Countess of ----. 

Society is made of inexorable metal, she thinks, for the prejudices ofthe neighborhood have not relaxed one iota with time. That she has beenpresented to kings, queens, and emperors; that she has enjoyed thehospitalities of foreign embassies; that she has (and she makes nolittle ado that she has) shone in the assemblies of prime ministers;that she has been invited to court concerts, and been the flattered ofno end of fashionable _coteries_, serves her nothing at home. They areevents, it must be admitted, much discussed, much wondered at, muchregretted by those who wind themselves up in a robe of stern morality. In a few instances they are lamented, lest the morals and manners ofthose who make it a point to represent us abroad should reflect only thebrown side of our society. 

As if with regained confidence, the man, whom we left at the doorscroll, is seen slowly ascending the broad steps. He enters the vaultedvestibule, and having touched the great, silver bell-knob of the innerdoor, stands listening to the tinkling chimes within. A pause of severalminutes, and the door swings cautiously open. There stands before himthe broad figure of a fussy servant man, wedged into a livery quite likethat worn by the servants of an English tallow-chandler, but which, itmust be said, and said to be regretted, is much in fashion with ouraristocracy, who, in consequence of its brightness, believe it the exactstyle of some celebrated lord. The servant receives a card from thevisitor, and with a bow, inquires if he will wait an answer. 

"I will wait the lady's pleasure--I came by appointment, " returns theman. And as the servant disappears up the hall, he takes a seat, uninvited, upon a large settee, in carved walnut. "Something mysteriousabout this whole affair!" he muses, scanning along the spacious hall, into the conservatory of statuary and rare plants, seen opening away atthe extreme end. The high, vaulted roof; the bright, tesselated floor;the taste with which the frescoes decorating the walls are designed;the great winding stairs, so richly carpeted--all enhanced in beauty bythe soft light reflected upon them from a massive chandelier of stainedglass, inspire him with a feeling of awe. The stillness, and the air ofgrandeur pervading each object that meets his eye, reminds him of thehalls of those mediæval castles he has read of in his youth. The servantreturns, and makes his bow. "My leady, " he says, in a strongLincolnshire brogue, "'as weated ye an 'our or more. "

The visitor, evincing some nervousness, rises quickly to his feet, follows the servant up the hall, and is ushered into a parlor of regaldimensions, on the right. His eye falls upon one solitary occupant, whorises from a lounge of oriental richness, and advances towards him withan air of familiarity their conditions seem not to warrant. Havinggreeted the visitor, and bid him be seated (he takes his seat, shyly, beside the door), the lady resumes her seat in a magnificent chair. Fora moment the visitor scans over the great parlor, as if moved by thetaste and elegance of everything that meets his eye. The hand of art hasindeed been lavishly laid on the decorations of this chamber, whichpresents a scene of luxury princes might revel in. And though the softwind of whispering silks seemed lending its aid to make complete theenjoyment of the occupant, it might be said, in the words of Crabbe:

 "But oh, what storm was in that mind!"

The person of the lady is in harmony with the splendor of the apartment. Rather tall and graceful of figure, her complexion pale, yet soft anddelicate, her features as fine and regular as ever sculptor chiselled, her manner gentle and womanly. In her face, nevertheless, there is anexpression of thoughtfulness, perhaps melancholy, to which her large, earnest black eyes, and finely-arched brows, fringed with dark lashes, lend a peculiar charm. While over all there plays a shadow of languor, increased perhaps by the tinge of age, or a mind and heart overtaxedwith cares. 

"I received your note, which I hastened to answer. Of course youreceived my answer. I rejoice that you have persevered, and succeeded infinding the object I have so long sought. Not hearing from you for somany weeks, I had begun to fear she had gone forever, " says the lady, ina soft, musical voice, raising her white, delicate hand to her cheek, which is suffused with blushes. 

"I had myself almost given her over, for she disappeared from thePoints, and no clue could be got of her, " returns the man, pausing for amoment, then resuming his story. "A week ago yesterday she turned upagain, and I got wind that she was in a place we call 'Black-beetleHole'--"

"Black-beetle Hole!" ejaculates the lady, whom the reader will havediscovered is no less a person than Madame Montford. Mr. DetectiveFitzgerald is the visitor. 

"Yes, there's where she's got, and it isn't much of a place, to say thebest. But when a poor creature has no other place to get a stretch down, she stretches down there--"

"Proceed to how you found her, and what you have got from her concerningthe child, " the lady interrupts, with a deep sigh. 

"Well, " proceeds the detective, "I meets--havin' an eye out all thewhile--Sergeant Dobbs one morning--Dobbs knows every roost in the Pointsbetter than me!--and says he, 'Fitzgerald, that are woman, that crazywoman, you've been in tow of so long, has turned up. There was a row inBlack-beetle Hole last night. I got a force and descended into theplace, found it crammed with them half-dead kind of women and men, andthree thieves, what wanted to have a fuss with the hag that keeps it. One on 'em was thrashing the poor crazy woman. They had torn all therags off her back. Hows-ever, if you wants to fish her out, you'd betterbe spry about it--'"

The lady interrupts by saying she will disguise, and with hisassistance, go bring her from the place--save her! Mr. Fitzgerald begsshe will take the matter practically. She could not breathe the air ofthe place, he says. 

"'Thank you Dobbs, ' says I, " he resumes, "and when it got a bit dark Iwent incog. To Black-beetle's Hole--"

"And where is this curious place?" she questions, with an air ofanxiety. 

"As to that, Madame--well, you wouldn't know it was lived in, becauseits underground, and one not up to the entrance never would think it ledto a place where human beings crawled in at night. I don't wonder somany of 'em does things what get 'em into the Station, and after thattreated to a short luxury on the Island. As I was goin' on to say, I gotmyself fortified, started out into the Points, and walked--we take thesethings practically--down and up the east sidewalk, then stopped in frontof the old rotten house that Black-beetle Hole is under. Then I looksdown the wet little stone steps, that ain't wide enough for a big manto get down, and what lead into the cellar. Some call it Black-beetleHole, and then again some call it the Hole of the Black-beetles. 'Yerafter no good, Mr. Fitzgerald, ' says Mrs. McQuade, whose husband keepsthe junk-shop over the Hole, putting her malicious face out of thewindow. 

"'You're the woman I want, Mrs. McQuade, ' says I. 'Don't be puttin' yourfoot in the house, ' says she. And when I got her temper a little down bytelling her I only wanted to know who lived in the Hole, she swore byall the saints it had niver a soul in it, and was hard closed up. Beingwell up to the dodges of the Points folks, I descended the steps, andgettin' underground, knocked at the Hole door, and then sent it smashin. 'Well! who's here?' says I. 'It's me, ' says Mrs. Lynch, a knot of anold woman, who has kept the Hole for many years, and says she has nofear of the devil. "

Madame Montford listens with increasing anxiety; Mr. DetectiveFitzgerald proceeds: "'Get a light here, then;' says I. You couldn't seenothing, it was so dark, but you could hear 'em move, and breathe. Andthen the place was so hot and sickly. Had to stand it best way I could. There was no standing straight in the dismal place, which was wet andnasty under foot, and not more nor twelve by fourteen. The old womansaid she had only a dozen lodgers in; when she made out to get a lightfor me I found she had twenty-three, tucked away here and there, understraw and stuff. Well, it was curious to see 'em (here the detectivewipes his forehead with his handkerchief) rise up, one after another, all round you, you know, like fiends that had been buried for a time, then come to life merely to get something to eat. "

"And did you find the woman--and was she one of them?"

"That's what I'm comin' at. Well, I caught a sight at the woman; knewher at the glance. I got a sight at her one night in the Pit at theHouse of the Nine Nations. 'Here! I wants you, ' says I, takin' whatthere was left of her by the arm. She shrieked, and crouched down, andbegged me not to hurt her, and looked wilder than a tiger at me. Andthen the whole den got into a fright, and young women, and boys, andmen--they were all huddled together--set up such a screaming. 'Munday!'says I, 'you don't go to the Tombs--here! I've got good news for you. 'This quieted her some, and then I picked her up--she was nearlynaked--and seeing she wanted scrubbing up, carried her out of the Hole, and made her follow me to my house, where we got her into some clothes, and seeing that she was got right in her mind, I thought it would be agood time to question her. "

"If you will hasten the result of your search, it will, my good sir, relieve my feelings much!" again interposes the lady, drawing her chairnearer the detective. 

"'You've had. ' I says to her, 'a hard enough time in this world, and nowhere's the man what's going to be a friend to ye--understand that!' saysI, and she looked at me bewildered. We gave her something to eat, and apledge that no one would harm her, and she tamed down, and began to lookup a bit. 'Your name wasn't always Munday?' says I, in a way that shecouldn't tell what I was after. She said she had taken several names, but Munday was her right name. Then she corrected herself--she was weakand hoarse--and said it was her husband's name. 'You've a good memory, Mrs. Munday, ' says I; 'now, just think as far back as you can, and tellus where you lived as long back as you can think. ' She shook her head, and began to bury her face in her hands I tried for several minutes, butcould get nothing more out of her. Then she quickened up, shrieked outthat she had just got out of the devil's regions, and made a rush forthe door. "

CHAPTER XLIII. 

IN WHICH IS REVEALED THE ONE ERROR THAT BROUGHT SO MUCH SUFFERING UPONMANY. 

Mr. Fitzgerald sees that his last remark is having no very good effecton Madame Montford, and hastens to qualify, ere it overcome her. "That, I may say, Madame, was not the last of her. My wife and me, seeing howher mind was going wrong again, got her in bed for the night, and tookwhat care of her we could. Well, you see, she got rational in themorning, and, thinking it a chance, I 'plied a heap of kindness to her, and got her to tell all she knew of herself. She went on to tell whereshe lived--I followed your directions in questioning her--at the timeyou noted down. She described the house exactly. I have been to itto-night; knew it at a sight, from her description. Some few practicalquestions I put to her about the child you wanted to get at, I foundfrightened her so that she kept shut--for fear, I take it, that it was acrime she may be punished for at some time. I says, 'You was trustedwith a child once, wasn't you?' 'The Lord forgive me, ' she says, 'I knowI'm guilty--but I've been punished enough in this world haven't I?' Andshe burst out into tears, and hung down her head, and got into thecorner, as if wantin' nobody to see her. She only wanted a little goodcare, and a little kindness, to bring her to. This we did as well as wecould, and made her understand that no one thought of punishing her, butwanted to be her friends. Well, the poor wretch began to pick up, as Isaid before, and in three days was such another woman that nobody couldhave told that she was the poor crazy thing that ran about the lanes andalleys of the Points. And now, Madame, doing as you bid me, I thought itmore practical to come to you, knowing you could get of her all youwanted. She is made comfortable. Perhaps you wouldn't like to have herbrought here--I may say I don't think it would be good policy. If youwould condescend to come to our house, you can see her alone. I hope youare satisfied with my services. " The detective pauses, and again wipeshis face. 

"My gratitude for your perseverance I can never fully express to you. Iowe you a debt I never can repay. To-morrow, at ten o'clock, I will meetyou at your house; and then, if you can leave me alone with her--"

"Certainly, certainly, everything will be at your service, Madame, "returns the detective, rising from his seat and thanking the lady, whorewards him bountifully from her purse, and bids him good night. Theservant escorts him to the door, while Madame Montford buries her facein her hands, and gives vent to her emotions. 

On the morning following, a neatly-caparisoned carriage is seen drivingto the door of a little brick house in Crosby street. From it MadameMontford alights, and passes in at the front door, while in anotherminute it rolls away up the street and is lost to sight. A few moments'consultation, and the detective, who has ushered the lady into hishumbly-furnished little parlor, withdraws to give place to the pale andemaciated figure of the woman Munday, who advances with faltering stepand downcast countenance. "Oh! forgive me, forgive me! have mercy uponme! forgive me this crime!" she shrieks. Suddenly she raises her eyes, and rushing forward throws herself at Madame Montford's feet, in animploring attitude. Dark and varied fancies crowd confusedly on MadameMontford's mind at this moment. 

"Nay, nay, my poor sufferer, rather I might ask forgiveness of you. " Shetakes the woman by the hand, and, with an air of regained calmness, raises her from the floor. With her, the outer life seems preparing theinner for what is to come. "But I have long sought you--sought you inobedience to the demands of my conscience, which I would the world gaveme power to purify; and now I have found you, and with you some rest formy aching heart. Come, sit down; forget what you have suffered; tell mewhat befell you, and what has become of the child; tell me all, andremember that I will provide for you a comfortable home for the rest ofyour life. " Madame motions her to a chair, struggling the while tosuppress her own feelings. 

"I loved the child you intrusted to my care; yes, God knows I loved it, and watched over it for two years, as carefully as a mother. But I waspoor, and the brother, in whose hands you intrusted the amount for itssupport (this, the reader must here know, was not a brother, but theparamour of Madame Montford), failed, and gave me nothing after thefirst six months. I never saw him, and when I found you had goneabroad--" The woman hesitates, and, with weeping eyes and tremblingvoice, again implores forgiveness. "My husband gave himself up todrink, lost his situation, and then he got to hating the child, andabusing me for taking it, and embarrassing our scanty means of living. Night and day, I was harassed and abused, despised and neglected. I wasdiscouraged, and gave up in despair. I clung to the child as long as Icould. I struggled, and struggled, and struggled--" Here the womanpauses, and with a submissive look, again hangs down her head and sobs. 

"Be calm, be calm, " says Madame Montford, drawing nearer to her, andmaking an effort to inspirit her. "Throw off all your fears, forget whatyou have suffered, for I, too, have suffered. And you parted with thechild?"

"Necessity forced me, " pursues the woman, shaking her head. "I saw onlythe street before me on one side, and felt only the cold pinchings ofpoverty on the other. You had gone abroad--"

"It was my intention to have adopted the child as my own when Ireturned, " interrupts Madame Montford, still clinging to that flatteringhope in which the criminal sees a chance of escape. 

"And I, " resumes the woman, "left the husband who neglected me, and whotreated me cruelly, and gave myself, --perhaps I was to blame for it, --upto one who befriended me. He was the only one who seemed to care for me, or to have any sympathy for me. But he, like myself, was poor; and, being compelled to flee from our home, and to live in obscurity, wheremy husband could not find me out, the child was an incumbrance I had nomeans of supporting. I parted with her--yes, yes, I parted with her toMother Bridges, who kept a stand at a corner in West street--"

"And then what became of her?" again interposes Madame Montford. Thewoman assumes a sullenness, and it is some time before she can be got toproceed. 

"My conscience rebuked me, " she resumes, as if indifferent aboutanswering the question, "for I loved the child as my own; and the friendI lived with, and who followed the sea, printed on its right arm twohearts and a broken anchor, which remain there now. My husband died ofthe cholera, and the friend I had taken to, and who treated me kindly, also died, and I soon found myself an abandoned woman, an outcast--yes, ruined forever, and in the streets, leading a life that my own feelingsrevolted at, but from which starvation only seemed the alternative. Myconscience rebuked me again and again, and something--I cannot tell whatit was--impelled me with an irresistible force to watch over thefortunes of the child I knew must come to the same degraded lifenecessity--perhaps it was my own false step--had forced upon me. Iwatched her a child running neglected about the streets, then I saw hersold to Hag Zogbaum, who lived in Pell street; I never lost sight ofher--no, I never lost sight of her, but fear of criminating myself keptme from making myself known to her. When I had got old in vice, andyears had gone past, and she was on the first step to the vice she hadbeen educated to, we shared the same roof. Then she was known as AnnaBonard--"

"Anna Bonard!" exclaims Madame Montford. "Then truly it is she who nowlives in Charleston! There is no longer a doubt. I may seek and claimher, and return her to at least a life of comfort. "

"There you will find her. Ah, many times have I looked upon her, andthought if I could only save her, how happy I could die. I shared thesame roof with her in Charleston, and when I got sick she was kind tome, and watched over me, and was full of gentleness, and wept over hercondition. She has sighed many a time, and said how she wished she knewhow she came into the world, to be forced to live despised by the world. But I got down, down, down, from one step to another, one step toanother, as I had gone up from one step to another in the splendor ofvice, until I found myself, tortured in mind and body, a poor neglectedwretch in the Charleston Poor-house. In it I was treated worse than aslave, left, sick and heart-broken, and uncared-for, to the preying of afever that destroyed my mind. And as if that were not enough, I wascarried into the dungeons--the 'mad cells, '--and chained. And thisstruck such a feeling of terror into my soul that my reason, as theysaid, was gone forever. But I got word to Anna, and she came to me, andgave me clothes and many little things to comfort me, and got me out, and gave me money to get back to New York, where I have been ever since, haunted from place to place, with scarce a place to lay my head. SurelyI have suffered. Shall I be forgiven?" Her voice here falters, shebecomes weak, and seems sinking under the burden of her emotions. "If, --if--if, " she mutters, incoherently, "you can save me, and forgiveme, you will have the prayers of one who has drank deep of the bittercup. " She looks up with a sad, melancholy countenance, again imploresforgiveness, and bursts into loud sobs. 

"Mine is the guilty part--it is me who needs forgiveness!" speaks MadameMontford, pressing the hand of the forlorn woman, as the tears streamdown her cheeks. She has unburdened her emotions, but such is theirresistible power of a guilty conscience that she finds her crushedheart and smitten frame sinking under the shock--that she feels the veryfever of remorse mounting to her brain. 

"Be calm, be calm--for you have suffered, wandered through the darkabyss--truly you have been chastened enough in this world. But whileyour heart is only bruised and sore, mine is stung deep and lacerated. The image of that child now rises up before me. I see her looking backover her chequered life, and pining to know her birthright. Mine is thetask of seeking her out, reconciling her, saving her from this life ofshame. I must sacrifice the secrets of my own heart, go boldly inpursuit of her--" She pauses a moment. There is yet a thin veil betweenher and society. Society only founds its suspicions upon the mysteryinvolved in the separation from her husband, and the doubtful characterof her long residence in Europe. Society knows nothing of the birth ofthe child. The scandal leveled at her in Charleston, was only the resultof her own indiscretion. "Yes, " she whispers, attempting at the sametime to soothe the feelings of the poor disconsolate woman, "I must go, and go quickly--I must drag her from the terrible life she isleading;--but, ah! I must do it so as to shield myself. Yes, I mustshield myself!" And she puts into the woman's hand several pieces ofgold, saying: "take this!--to-morrow you will be better provided for. Besilent. Speak to no one of what has passed between us, nor make theacquaintance of any one outside the home I shall provide for you. " Thussaying, she recalls Mr. Detective Fitzgerald, rewards him with a nostrumfrom her purse, and charges him to make the woman comfortable at herexpense. 

"Her mind, now I do believe, " says the detective, with an approvingtoss of the head, "her faculties'll come right again, --they only wants alittle care and kindness, mum. " The detective thanks her again andagain, then puts the money methodically into his pocket. 

The carriage having returned, Madame Montford vaults into it as quicklyas she alighted, and is rolled away to her mansion. 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

IN WHICH IS RECORDED EVENTS THE READER MAY NOT HAVE EXPECTED. 

While the events we have recorded in the foregoing chapter, confused, hurried, and curious, are being enacted in New York, let us once moreturn to Charleston. 

You must know that, notwithstanding our high state of civilization, weyet maintain in practice two of the most loathsome relics ofbarbarism--we lash helpless women, and we scourge, at the publicwhipping-post, the bare backs of men. 

George Mullholland has twice been dragged to the whipping-post, twicestripped before a crowd in the market-place, twice lashed, maddened todesperation, and twice degraded in the eyes of the very negroes we teachto yield entire submission to the white man, however humble his grade. Hate, scorn, remorse--every dark passion his nature can summon--rises upin one torturing tempest, and fills his bosom with a mad longing forrevenge. "Death!" he says, while looking out from his cell upon thebright landscape without, "what is death to me? The burnings of anoutraged soul subdue the thought of death. "

The woman through whom this dread finale was brought upon him, and whonow repines, unable to shake off the smarts old associations crowd uponher heart, has a second and third time crept noiselessly to his cell, and sought in vain his forgiveness. Yea, she has opened the door gently, but drew back in terror before his dark frown, his sardonic scorn, hisfrenzied rush at her. Had he not loved her fondly, his hate had nottaken such deep root in his bosom. 

Two or three days pass, he has armed himself "to the death, " and isresolved to make his escape, and seek revenge of his enemies. It isevening. Dark festoons of clouds hang over the city, lambent lightningplays along the heavens in the south. Now it flashes across the city, the dull panorama lights up, the tall, gaunt steeples gleam out, and thesurface of the Bay flashes out in a phosphoric blaze. Patiently anddiligently has he filed, and filed, and filed, until he has removed thebar that will give egress to his body. The window of his cell overlooksthe ditch, beyond which is the prison wall. Noiselessly he arranges therope, for he is in the third story, then paces his cell, silent andthoughtful. "Must it be?" he questions within himself, "must I stainthese hands with the blood of the woman I love? Revenge, revenge--I willhave revenge. I will destroy both of them, for to-morrow I am to bedragged a third time to the whipping-post. " Now he casts a glance roundthe dark cell, now he pauses at the window, now the lightning coursesalong the high wall, then reflects back the deep ditch. Another moment, and he has commenced his descent. Down, down, down, he lowers himself. Now he holds on tenaciously, the lightning reflects his dangling figure, a prisoner in a lower cell gives the alarm, he hears the watchword ofhis discovery pass from cell to cell, the clashing of the keeper's doorgrates upon his ear like thunder--he has reached the end of his rope, and yet hangs suspended in the air. A heavy fall is heard, he hasreached the ditch, bounds up its side to the wall, seizes a pole, andplaces against it, and, with one vault, is over into the open street. Not a moment is to be lost. Uproar and confusion reigns throughout theprison, his keepers have taken the alarm, and will soon be on his track, pursuing him with ferocious hounds. Burning for revenge, and yetbewildered, he sets off at full speed, through back lanes, over fields, passing in his course the astonished guardmen. He looks neither to theright nor the left, but speeds on toward the grove. Now he reaches thebridge that crosses the millpond, pauses for breath, then proceeds on. Suddenly a light from the villa Anna occupies flashes out. He hascrossed the bridge, bounds over the little hedge-grown avenue, throughthe garden, and in another minute stands before her, a pistol pointed ather breast, and all the terrible passions of an enraged fiend darkeninghis countenance. Her implorings for mercy bring an old servant rushinginto the room, the report of a pistol rings out upon the still air, shriek after shriek follows, mingled with piercing moans, anddeath-struggles. "Ha, ha!" says the avenger, looking on with a sardonicsmile upon his face, and a curl of hate upon his lip, "I have taken thelife to which I gave my own--yes, I have taken it--I have taken it!" Andshe writhes her body, and sets her eyes fixedly upon him, as he hastensout of the room. 

"Quick! quick!" he says to himself. "There, then! I am pursued!" Herecrosses the millpond over another bridge, and in his confusion turns ashort angle into a lane leading to the city. The yelping of dogs, thedeep, dull tramp of hoofs, the echoing of voices, the ominous bayingand scenting of blood-hounds--all break upon his ear in one terriblechaos. Not a moment is to be lost. The sight at the villa will attractthe attention of his pursuers, and give him time to make a distance! Thethought of what he has done, and the terrible death that awaits him, crowds upon his mind, and rises up before him like a fierce monster ofretribution. He rushes at full speed down the lane, vaults across afield into the main road, only to find his pursuers close upon him. Thepatrol along the streets have caught the alarm, which he finds spreadingwith lightning-speed. The clank of side-arms, the scenting and baying ofthe hounds, coming louder and louder, nearer and nearer, warns him ofthe approaching danger. A gate at the head of a wharf stands open, thehounds are fast gaining upon him, a few jumps more and they will havehim fast in their ferocious grasp. He rushes through the gate, down thewharf, the tumultuous cry of his pursuers striking terror into his veryheart. Another instant and the hounds are at his feet, he stands on thecapsill at the end, gives one wild, despairing look into the abyssbeneath--"I die revenged, " he shouts, discharges a pistol into hisbreast, and with one wild plunge, is buried forever in the waterbeneath. The dark stream of an unhappy life has run out. Upon whom doesthe responsibility of this terrible closing rest? In the words ofThomson, the avenger left behind him only "Gaunt Beggary, and Scorn, with many hell-hounds more. "

When the gray dawn of morning streamed in through the windows of thelittle villa, and upon the parlor table, that had so often been adornedwith caskets and fresh-plucked flowers, there, in their stead, lay thelifeless form of the unhappy Anna, her features pale as marble, butbeautiful even in death. There, rolled in a mystic shroud, calm as asleeper in repose, she lay, watched over by two faithful slaves. 

The Judge and Mr. Snivel have found it convenient to make a trip ofpleasure into the country. And though the affair creates some littlecomment in fashionable society, it would be exceedingly unpopular to prytoo deeply into the private affairs of men high in office. We are notencumbered with scrutinizing morality. Being an "unfortunate woman, " thelaw cannot condescend to deal with her case. Indeed, were it broughtbefore a judge, and the judge to find himself sitting in judgment upon ajudge, his feelings would find some means of defrauding his judgment, while society would carefully close the shutter of its sanctity. 

At high noon there comes a man of the name of Moon, commonly called Mr. Moon, the good-natured Coroner. In truth, a better-humored man than Mr. Moon cannot be found; and what is more, he has the happiest way in theworld of disposing of such cases, and getting verdicts of his juryexactly suited to circumstances. Mr. Moon never proceeds to businesswithout regaling his jury with good brandy and high-flavored cigars. Inthis instance he has bustled about and got together six very solemn andseriously-disposed gentlemen, who proceed to deliberate. "A mysteryhangs over the case, " says one. A second shakes his head, and views thebody as if anxious to get away. A third says, reprovingly, that "suchcases are coming too frequent. " Mr. Moon explains the attendantcircumstances, and puts a changed face on the whole affair. One jurymanchalks, and another juryman chalks, and Mr. Moon says, by way ofbringing the matter to a settled point, "It is a bad ending to awretched life. " A solemn stillness ensues, and then follows the verdict. The body being identified as that of one Anna Bonard, a woman celebratedfor her beauty, but of notorious reputation, the jury are of opinion(having duly weighed the circumstances) that she came to her melancholydeath by the hands of one George Mullholland, who was prompted to committhe act for some cause to the jury unknown. And the jury, in passing thecase over to the authorities, recommend that the said Mullholland bebrought to justice. This done, Mr. Moon orders her burial, and the juryhasten home, fully confident of having performed their duty unswerved. 

When night came, when all was hushed without, and the silence within wasbroken only by the cricket's chirp, when the lone watcher, the faithfulold slave, sat beside the cold, shrouded figure, when the dim light ofthe chamber of death seemed mingling with the shadows of departed souls, there appeared in the room, like a vision, the tall figure of a female, wrapped in a dark mantle. Slowly and noiselessly she stole to the sideof the deceased, stood motionless and statue-like for several minutes, her eyes fixed in mute contemplation on the face of the corpse. Thewatcher looked and started back, still the figure remained motionless. Raising her right hand to her chin, pensively, she lifted her eyesheavenward, and in that silent appeal, in those dewy tears thatglistened in her great orbs, in those words that seemed freezing to herquivering lips, the fierce struggle waging in that bosom was told. Sheheard the words, "You cannot redeem me now!" knelling in her ears, herthoughts flashed back over years of remorse, to the day of her error, and she saw rising up as it were before her, like a spectre from thetomb, seeking retribution, the image of the child she had sacrificed toher vanity. She pressed and pressed the cold hand, so delicate, so likeher own; she unbared the round, snowy arm, and there beheld theimprinted hearts, and the broken anchor! Her pent-up grief then burstits bounds, the tears rolled down her cheeks, her lips quivered, herhand trembled, and her very blood seemed as ice in her veins. She cast ahurried glance round the room, a calm and serene smile seemed lightingup the features of the lifeless woman, and she bent over her, and kissedand kissed her cold, marble-like brow, and bathed it with her burningtears. It was a last sad offering; and having bestowed it, she turnedslowly away, and disappeared. It was Madame Montford, who came a day toolate to save the storm-tossed girl, but returned to think of thehereafter of her own soul. 

CHAPTER XLV. 

ANOTHER SHADE OF THE PICTURE. 

While the earth of Potter's Field is closing over all that remains ofAnna Bonard, Maria McArthur may be seen, snatching a moment of rest, asit were, seated under the shade of a tree on the Battery, musing, as isher wont. The ships sail by cheerily, there is a touching beauty aboutthe landscape before her, all nature seems glad. Even the heavens smileserenely; and a genial warmth breathes through the soft air. "Truly theAllwise, " she says within herself, "will be my protector, and ischastising me while consecrating something to my good. Mr. Keepum hasmade my father's release the condition of my ruin. But he is but fleshand blood, and I--no, I am not yet a slave! The virtue of the poor, truly, doth hang by tender threads; but I am resolved to die strugglingto preserve it. " And a light, as of some future joy, rises up in herfancy, and gives her new strength. 

The German family have removed from the house in which she occupies aroom, and in its place are come two women of doubtful character. Still, necessity compels her to remain in it; for though it is a means resortedto by Keepum to effect his purpose, she cannot remove without beingfollowed, and harassed by him. Strong in the consciousness of her ownpurity, and doubly incensed at the proof of what extremes the designerwill condescend to, she nerves herself for the struggle she sees beforeher. True, she was under the same roof with them; she was subjected tomany inconveniencies by their presence; but not all their flatteringinducements could change her resolution. Nevertheless, the resolution ofa helpless female does not protect her from the insults of heartlessmen. She returns home to find that Mother Rumor, with her thousandtongues, is circulating all kinds of evil reports about her. It is evenasserted that she has become an abandoned woman, and is the occupant ofa house of doubtful repute. And this, instead of enlisting thesympathies of some kind heart, rather increases the prejudice andcoldness of those upon whom she has depended for work. It is seldom thestory of suffering innocence finds listeners. The sufferer is toofrequently required to qualify in crime, before she becomes an object ofsympathy. 

She returns, one day, some work just finished for one of our high oldfamilies, the lady of which makes it a boast that she is always engagedin "laudable pursuits of a humane kind. " The lady sends her servant tothe door with the pittance due, and begs to say she is sorry to hear ofthe life Miss McArthur is leading, and requests she will not showherself at the house again. Mortified in her feelings, Maria begs aninterview; but the servant soon returns an answer that her Missus cannotdescend to anything of the kind. Our high old families despise workingpeople, and wall themselves up against the poor, whose virtue theyregard as an exceedingly cheap commodity. Our high old families chooserather to charge guilt, and deny the right to prove innocence. 

With the four shillings, Maria, weeping, turns from the door, procuressome bread and coffee, and wends her way to the old prison. But thechords of her resolution are shaken, the cold repulse has gone likepoison to her heart. The ray of joy that was lighting up her future, seems passing away; whilst fainter and fainter comes the hope of oncemore greeting her lover. She sees vice pampered by the rich, and poorvirtue begging at their doors. She sees a price set upon her own ruin;she sees men in high places waiting with eager passion the moment whenthe thread of her resolution will give out. The cloud of her night does, indeed, seem darkening again. 

But she gains the prison, and falters as she enters the cell where theold Antiquary, his brow furrowed deep of age, sleeps calmly upon hiscot. Near his hand, which he has raised over his head, lays a letter, with the envelope broken. Maria's quick eye flashes over thesuperscription, and recognizes in it the hand of Tom Swiggs. A transportof joy fills her bosom with emotions she has no power to constrain. Shetrembles from head to foot; fancies mingled with joys and fears crowdrapidly upon her thoughts. She grasps it with feelings frantic of joy, and holds it in her shaking hand; the shock has nigh overcome her. Thehope in which she has so long found comfort and strength--that has solong buoyed her up, and carried her safely through trials, has trulybeen her beacon light. "Truly, " she says within herself, "the dawn of mymorning is brightening now. " She opens the envelope, and finds a letterenclosed to her. "Oh! yes, yes, yes! it is him--it is from him!" shestammers, in the exuberance of her wild joy. And now the words, "Youare richer than me, " flash through her thoughts with revealedsignificance. 

Maria grasps the old man's hand. He starts and wakes, as if unconsciousof his situation, then fixes his eyes upon her with a steady, vacantgaze. Then, with childlike fervor, he presses her hand to his lips, andkisses it. "It was a pleasant dream--ah! yes, I was dreaming all thingswent so well!" Again a change comes over his countenance, and he glancesround the room, with a wild and confused look. "Am I yet inprison?--well, it was only a dream. If death were like dreaming, I wouldcrave it to take me to its peace, that my mind might no longer beharassed with the troubles of this life. Ah! there, there!"--(the oldman starts suddenly, as if a thought has flashed upon him)--"there isthe letter, and from poor Tom, too! I only broke the envelope. I havenot opened it. "

"It is safe, father; I have it, " resumes Maria, holding it before him, unopened, as the words tremble upon her lips. One moment she fears itmay convey bad news, and in the next she is overjoyed with the hope thatit brings tidings of the safety and return of him for whose welfare shebreathed many a prayer. Pale and agitated, she hesitates a moment, thenproceeds to open it. 

"Father, father! heaven has shielded me--heaven has shielded me! Ha! ha!ha! yes, yes, yes! He is safe! he is safe!" And she breaks out into onewild exclamation of joy, presses the letter to her lips, and kisses it, and moistens it with her tears, "It was all a plot--a dark plot set formy ruin!" she mutters, and sinks back, overcome with her emotions. Theold man fondles her to his bosom, his white beard flowing over hersuffused cheeks, and his tears mingling with hers. And here sheremains, until the anguish of her joy runs out, and her mind resumes itswonted calm. 

Having broken the spell, she reads the letter to the enraptured old man. Tom has arrived in New York; explains the cause of his long absence;speaks of several letters he has transmitted by post, (which she neverreceived;) and his readiness to proceed to Charleston, by steamer, in afew days. His letter is warm with love and constancy; he recurs to oldassociations; he recounts his remembrance of the many kindnesses hereceived at the hands of her father, when homeless; of the care, towhich he owes his reform, bestowed upon him by herself, and his burninganxiety to clasp her to his bosom. 

A second thought flashes upon her fevered brain. Am I not the subject ofslander! Am I not contaminated by associations? Has not society soughtto clothe me with shame? Truth bends before falsehood, and virtuewithers under the rust of slandering tongues. Again a storm rises upbefore her, and she feels the poisoned arrow piercing deep into herheart. Am I not living under the very roof that will confirm theslanders of mine enemies? she asks herself. And the answer rings back inconfirmation upon her too sensitive ears, and fastens itself in herfeelings like a reptile with deadly fangs. No; she is not yet free fromher enemies. They have the power of falsifying her to her lover. Thethought fills her bosom with sad emotions. Strong in the consciousnessof her virtue, she feels how weak she is in the walks of the worldly. Her persecutors are guilty, but being all-powerful may seek in stillfurther damaging her character, a means of shielding themselves frommerited retribution. It is the natural expedient of bad men in power tofasten crime upon the weak they have injured. 

Only a few days have to elapse, then, and Maria will be face to facewith him in whom her fondest hopes have found refuge: but even in thosefew days it will be our duty to show how much injury may be inflictedupon the weak by the powerful. 

The old Antiquary observes the change that has come so suddenly overMaria's feelings, but his entreaties fail to elicit the cause. Shall shereturn to the house made doubtful by its frail occupants; or shall shecrave the jailer's permission to let her remain and share her father'scell? Ah! solicitude for her father settles the question. Thealternative may increase his apprehensions, and with them hissufferings. Night comes on; she kisses him, bids him a fond adieu, andwith an aching heart returns to the house that has brought so muchscandal upon her. 

On reaching the door she finds the house turned into a bivouac ofrevelry; her own chamber is invaded, and young men and women are makingnight jubilant over Champagne and cigars. Mr. Keepum and the Hon. Mr. Snivel are prominent among the carousers; and both are hectic ofdissipation. Shall she flee back to the prison? Shall she go castherself at the mercy of the keeper? As she is about following thethought with the act, she is seized rudely by the arms, dragged into thescene of carousal, and made the object of coarse jokes. One insists thatshe must come forward and drink; another holds an effervescing glass toher lips; a third says he regards her modesty out of place, and demandsthat she drown it with mellowing drinks. The almost helpless girlshrieks, and struggles to free herself from the grasp of her enemies. Mr. Snivel, thinking it highly improper that such cries go free, catches her in his arms, and places his hand over her mouth. "Caughtamong queer birds at last, " he says, throwing an insidious wink atKeepum. "Will flock together, eh?"

As if suddenly invested with herculean strength, Maria hurls the ruffianfrom her, and lays him prostrate on the floor. In his fall the table isoverset, and bottles, decanters and sundry cut glass accompaniments, arespread in a confused mass on the floor. Suddenly Mr. Keepum extinguishesthe lights. This is the signal for a scene of uproar and confusion weleave the reader to picture in his imagination. The cry of "murder" isfollowed quickly by the cry of "watch, watch!" and when the guardmenappear, which they are not long in doing, it is seen that the verychivalric gentlemen have taken themselves off--left, as a prey for theguard, only Maria and three frail females. 

Cries, entreaties, and explanations, are all useless with such men asour guard is composed of. Her clothes are torn, and she is found riotingin disreputable company. The sergeant of the guard says, "Being thusdisagreeably caught, she must abide the penalty. It may teach you how tomodel your morals, " he adds; and straightway, at midnight, she isdragged to the guard-house, and in spite of her entreaties, locked up ina cell with the outcast women. "Will you not hear me? will you not allowan innocent woman to speak in her own behalf? Do, I beg, I beseech, Iimplore you--listen but for a minute--render me justice, and save mefrom this last step of shame and disgrace, " she appeals to the sergeant, as the cell door closes upon her. 

Mr. Sergeant Stubble, for such is his name, shakes his head in doubt. "Always just so, " he says, with a shrug of the shoulders: "every one'sinnocent what comes here 'specially women of your sort. The worstrioters 'come the greatest sentimentalists, and repents most when theygets locked up--does! You'll find it a righteous place for reflection, in there. " Mr. Sergeant Stubble shuts the door, and smothers her cries. 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

GAINING STRENGTH FROM PERSECUTION. 

You know it is Bulwer who says, and says truly: "There is in calumny arank poison that, even when the character throws off the slander, theheart remains diseased beneath the effect. " The force of this on Maria'sthoughts and feelings, surrounded as she was by the vile influences of aCharleston cell, came with strange effect as she contemplated herfriendless condition. There is one witness who can bear testimony to herinnocence, and in Him she still puts her trust. But the charitable haveclosed their ears to her; and the outside world is too busy to listen toher story. Those words of the poor woman who said, "You are still richerthan me, " again ring their sweet music in her ear, and give strength toher weary soul. They come to her like the voice of a mercifulProvidence, speaking through the hushed air of midnight, and breathingthe sweet spirit of love into the dusky figures who tenant that drearycell. To Maria it is the last spark of hope, that rarely goes out inwoman's heart, and has come to tell her that to-morrow her star maybrighten. And now, reader, turn with us to another scene of hope andanxiety. 

The steamer which bears Tom to Charleston is off Cape Romaine. He hasalready heard of the fate of the old man McArthur. But, he asks himself, may not truth and justice yet triumph? He paces and repaces the deck, now gazing vacantly in the direction the ship is steering, then walkingto the stern and watching the long train of phosphoric light playing onthe toppling waves. 

There was something evasive in the manner of the man who communicated tohim the intelligence concerning McArthur. "May I ask another question ofyou, sir?" he inquires, approaching the man who, like himself, saunteredrestlessly along the deck. 

The man hesitates, lights a fresh cigar. "You desire me to be frank withyou, of course, " rejoins the man. "But I observe you are agitated. Iwill answer your question, if it carry no personal wound. Speak, myfriend. "

"You know Maria?"

"Well. "

"You know what has become of her, or where she resides?"

Again the man hesitates--then says, "These are delicate matters todiscover. "

"You are not responsible for my feelings, " interrupts the impatient man. 

"If, then, I must be plain, --she is leading the life of an outcast. Yes, sir, the story is that she has fallen, and from necessity. I will saythis, though, " he adds, by way of relief, "that I know nothing of itmyself. " The words fall like a death-knell on his thoughts and feelings. He stammers out a few words, but his tongue refuses to give utterance tohis thoughts. His whole nature seems changed; his emotions have filledthe cup of his sorrow; an abyss, deep, dark, and terrible, has opened tohis excited imagination. All the dark scenes of his life, all thestruggles he has had to gain his manliness, rise up before him like agloomy panorama, and pointing him back to that goal of dissipation inwhich his mind had once found relief. He seeks his stateroom insilence, and there invokes the aid of Him who never refuses to protectthe right. And here again we must return to another scene. 

Morning has come, the guard-roll has been called, and Judge Sleepyhornis about to hold high court. Maria and the companions of her cell arearraigned, some black, others white, all before so august a judge. Hiseye rests on a pale and dejected woman inwardly resolved to meet herfate, calm and resolute. It is to her the last struggle of an eventfullife, and she is resolved to meet it with womanly fortitude. 

The Judge takes his seat, looks very grave, and condescends to say thereis a big docket to be disposed of this morning. "Crime seems to increasein the city, " he says, bowing to Mr. Seargent Stubbs. 

"If your Honor will look at that, " Mr. Stubbs says, smiling, --"most onem's bin up afore. All hard cases, they is. "

"If yeer Onher plases, might a woman o' my standin' say a woord in herown difince? Sure its only a woord, Judge, an beein a dacent gintlemanye'd not refuse me the likes. "

"Silence, there!" ejaculates Mr. Seargent Stubbs; "you must keep quietin court. "

"Faith its not the likes o' you'd keep me aisy, Mr. Stubbs. Do yee seethat now?" returns the woman, menacingly. She is a turbulent daughter ofthe Emerald Isle, full five feet nine inches, of broad bare feet, with avery black eye, and much in want of raiment. 

"The most corrigible case what comes to this court, " says Mr. Stubbs, bowing knowingly to the judge. "Rather likes a prison, yer Honor. Bin upnine times a month. A dear customer to the state. "

The Judge, looking grave, and casting his eye learnedly over the pagesof a ponderous statute book, inquires of Mr. Seargent Stubbs what thecharge is. 

"Disturbed the hole neighborhood. A fight atween the Donahues, yerHonor. "

"Dorn't believe a woord of it, yeer Onher. Sure, din't Donahue black theeye o' me, and sphil the whisky too? Bad luck to Donahue, says I. Youdon't say that to me, says he. I'd say it to the divil, says I. Takethat! says Donahue. " Here Mrs. Donahue points to her eye, and bringsdown even the dignity of the court. 

"In order to preserve peace between you and Donahue, " says his Honor, good naturedly, "I shall fine you ten dollars, or twenty days. "

"Let it go at twenty days, " replies Mrs. Donahue, complimenting hisHonor's high character, "fir a divil o' ten dollars have I. " And Mrs. Donahue resigns herself to the tender mercies of Mr. Seargent Stubbs, who removes her out of court. 

A dozen or more delinquent negroes, for being out after hours withoutpasses, are sentenced thirty stripes apiece, and removed, to the evidentdelight of the Court, who is resolved that the majesty of the law shallbe maintained. 

It is Maria's turn now. Pale and trembling she approaches the circularrailing, assisted by Mr. Seargent Stubbs. She first looks imploringly atthe judge, then hangs down her head, and covers her face with her hands. 

"What is the charge?" inquires the Judge, turning to the loquaciousStubbs. Mr. Stubbs says: "Disorderly conduct--and in a house of badrepute. "

"I am innocent--I have committed no crime, " interrupts the injuredwoman. "You have dragged me here to shame me. " Suddenly her facebecomes pale as marble, her limbs tremble, and the court is thrown intoa state of confusion by her falling to the floor in a swoon. 

"Its all over with her now, " says Mr. Stubbs, standing back in fear. 

Crime has not dried up all the kinder impulses of Judge Sleepyhorn'sheart. Leaving the bench he comes quickly to the relief of theunfortunate girl, holds her cold trembling hand in his own, and tenderlybathes her temples. "Sorry the poor girl, " he says, sympathizingly, "should have got down so. Knew her poor old father when he wascomfortably off, and all Charleston liked him. " His Honor adjournscourt, and ten minutes pass before the sufferer is restored toconsciousness. Then with a wild despairing look she scans those aroundher, rests her head on her hand despondingly, and gives vent to hertears. The cup of her sorrow has indeed overrun. 

"It was wrong to arrest you, young woman, and I sympathize with you. Nocharge has been preferred, and so you are free. A carriage waits at thedoor, and I have ordered you to be driven home, " says the judge, relaxing into sympathy. 

"I have no home now, " she returns, the tears coursing down her wetcheeks. "Slaves have homes, but I have none now. "

"When you want a friend, you'll find a friend in me. Keep up yourspirits, and remember that virtue is its own reward. " Having said this, the Judge raises her gently to her feet, supports her to the carriage, and sees her comfortably seated. "Remember, you know, where to find afriend if you want one, " he says, and bids her good-morning. In anotherminute the carriage is rolling her back to the home from whence she wastaken. She has no better home now. 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

AN EXCITEMENT. 

A bright fire burned that night in Keepum's best parlor, furnished withall the luxuries modern taste could invent. Keepum, restless, paces thecarpet, contemplating his own importance, for he has just been made aMajor of Militia, and we have a rare love for the feather. Now he pausesat a window and looks impatiently out, then frisks his fingers throughhis crispy hair and resumes his pacing. He expects some one, whosecoming he awaits with evident anxiety. "The time is already up, " hesays, drawing his watch from his pocket. The door-bell rings just then, his countenance brightens, and a servant ushers Mr. Snivel in. "The timeis already up, my good fellow, " says Keepum, extending his handfamiliarly, --Mr. Snivel saying, "I've so many demands on my time, youknow. We're in good time, you know. Must bring the thing to a headto-night. " A short conversation carried on in whispers, and they sallyout, and soon disappear down Broad street. 

Just rounding the frowning walls of fort Sumter, a fort the restlesspeople never had any particular love for, is a big red light of thesteamer cutting through the sea like a monster of smoke and flame, onher way up the harbor. Another hour, and she will be safely moored ather landing. Tom stands on the upper deck, looking intently towards thecity, his anxiety increasing as the ship approaches the end of hervoyage, and his eager eye catching each familiar object only to remindhim more forceably of the time when he seemed on the downward road oflife. Hope had already begun to dispel his fears, and the belief thatwhat the man had told him was founded only in slander, became strongerthe more he pondered over it. 

St. Michael's clock has just struck ten, and the mounted guard aredistributing into their different beats. Maria, contemplating what maycome to-morrow, sits at the window of her lonely chamber like one whomthe world had forgotten. The dull vibrating sound of the clock stillmurmurs on the air as she is startled from her reverie by the sound ofvoices under the window. She feels her very soul desponding. It doesindeed seem as if that moment has come when nature in her last strugglewith hope must yield up the treasure of woman's life, and sink into alife of remorse and shame. The talking becomes more distinct; then thereis a pause, succeeded by Keepum and Snivel silently entering her room, the one drawing a chair by her side, the other taking a seat near thedoor. "Come as friends, you know, " says Keepum, exchanging glances withSnivel, then fixing his eyes wickedly on the woman. "Don't seem to enjoyour company, eh? Poor folks is got to puttin' on airs right big, now-a-days. Don't 'mount to much, anyhow; ain't much better thanniggers, only can't sell 'em. " "Poor folks must keep up appearances, eh, " interposes Mr. Snivel. They are waiting an opportunity for seizingand overpowering the unprotected girl. We put our chivalry to strangeuses at times. 

But the steamer has reached her wharf; the roaring of her escaping steamdisturbs the city, and reëchoes far away down the bay. Again familiarscenes open to the impatient man's view; old friends pass and repass himunrecognized; but only one thought impels him, and that is fixed onMaria. He springs ashore, dashes through the crowd of spectators, andhurries on, scarcely knowing which way he is going. 

At length he pauses on the corner of King and Market streets, andglances up to read the name by the glare of gas-light. An old negrowends his way homeward. "Daddy, " says he, "how long have you lived inCharleston?"

"Never was out on em, Mas'r, " replies the negro, looking inquisitivelyinto the anxious man's face. "Why, lor's me, if dis are bin't Mas'r Tom, what used t' be dis old nigger's young Mas'r. "

"Is it you, Uncle Cato?" Their recognition was warm, hearty, and true. "God bless you, my boy; I've need of your services now, " says Tom, stillholding the hard hand of the old negro firmly grasped in his own, anddiscovering the object of his mission. 

"Jus' tote a'ter old Cato, Mas'r Tom. Maria's down da, at Undine'scabin, yander. Ain't no better gal libin dan Miss Maria, " replies Cato, enlarging on Maria's virtues. There is no time to be lost. They hurryforward, Tom following the old negro, and turning into a narrow lane tothe right, leading to Undine's cabin. But here they are doomed todisappointment. They reach Undine's cabin, but Maria is not there. Undine comes to the door, and points away down the lane, in thedirection of a bright light. "You will find her dare" says Undine; "andif she ain't dare, I don' know where she be. " They thank her, repay herwith a piece of silver, and hurry away in the direction of the light, which seems to burn dimmer and dimmer as they approach. It suddenlydisappears, and, having reached the house, a rickety wooden tenement, acry of "Save me, save me! Heaven save me!" rings out on the still air, and falls on the ear of the already excited man, like a solemn warning. 

"Up dar! Mas'r Tom, up dar!" shouts Cato, pointing to a stairs leadingon the outside. Up Tom vaults, and recognizing Maria's voice, supplicating for mercy, thunders at the door, which gives away beforehis strength. "It is me, Maria! it is me!" he proclaims. "Who is thisthat has dared to abuse or insult you?" and she runs and throws herselfinto his arms. "A light! a light, bring a light, Cato!" he demands, andthe old negro hastens to obey. 

In the confusion of the movement, Keepum reaches the street in safetyand hastens to his home, leaving his companion to take care of himself. 

A pale gleam of light streams into the open door, discovering a talldusky figure moving noiselessly towards it. "Why, if here bin't Mas'rSnivel!" ejaculates old Cato, who returns bearing a candle, the light ofwhich falls on the tall figure of Mr. Snivel. 

"What, villain! is it you who has brought all this distress upon afriendless girl?"----

"Glad to see you back, Tom. Don't make so much of it, my goodfellow--only a bit of a lark, you know. 'Pon my honor, there was nothingwrong meant. Ready to do you a bit of a good turn, any time, " interruptsMr. Snivel, blandly, and extending his hand. 

"You! villain, do me a friendly act? Never. You poisoned the mind of mymother against me, robbed her of her property, and then sought todestroy the happiness and blast forever the reputation of one who isdearer to me than a sister. You have lived a miscreant long enough. Youmust die now. " Quickly the excited man draws a pistol, the report ringssharply on the ear, and the tall figure of Mr. Snivel staggers againstthe door, then falls to the ground, --dead. His day of reckoning hascome, and with it a terrible retribution. 

"Now Maria, here, " says Tom, picking up a packet of letters that haddropped from the pocket of the man, as he fell, "is the proof of hisguilt and my sincerity. " They were the letters written by him to Maria, and intercepted by Mr. Snivel, through the aid of a clerk in thepost-office. "He has paid the penalty of his misdeeds, and I have noregrets to offer. To-morrow I will give myself up and ask only justice. "

Then clasping Maria in his arms he bids old Cato follow him, andproceeds with her to a place of safety for the night, as an anxiousthrong gather about the house, eager to know the cause of the shooting. "Ah, Mas'r Snivel, " says old Cato, pausing to take a last look of theprostrate form, "you's did a heap o' badness. Gone now. Nobody'll say hecare. "

CHAPTER XLIX. 

ALL'S WELL. 

Two months have passed since the events recorded in the precedingchapter. Tom has been arraigned before a jury of his peers, andhonorably acquitted, although strong efforts were made to procure aconviction, for Mr. Snivel had many friends in Charleston who consideredhis death a loss. But the people said it was a righteous verdict, andjustified it by their applause. 

And now, the dark clouds of sorrow and trial having passed away, thehappy dawn of a new life is come. How powerfully the truth of the wordsuttered by the woman, Undine, impresses itself on her mind now, --"Youare still richer than me. " It is a bright sunny morning in early April. Birds are making the air melodious with their songs; flowers blooming bythe roadside, are distilling their perfumes; a bright and serene sky, tinged in the East with soft, azure clouds, gives a clear, delicateoutline to the foliage, so luxuriant and brilliant of color, skirtingthe western edge of the harbor, and reflecting itself in the calm, glassy water. A soft whispering wind comes fragrant from the west; itdoes indeed seem as if nature were blending her beauties to make theharmony perfect. 

A grotesque group, chiefly negroes, old and young, may be seen gatheredabout the door of a quaint old personage near the millpond. Theircuriosity is excited to the highest pitch, and they wait with evidentimpatience the coming of the object that has called them together. Chiefamong the group is old Cato, in his best clothes, consisting of a talldrab hat, a faded blue coat, the tail extending nearly to the ground, striped pantaloons, a scarlet vest, an extravagant shirt collar, tied atthe neck with a piece of white cotton, and his bare feet. Cato moves upand down, evidently feeling himself an important figure of the event, and admonishing his young "brudren, " who are much inclined to mischief, not a few having perched on the pickets of the parsonage, to keep ontheir best behavior. Then he discourses with great volubility of hislong acquaintance with Mas'r Tom and Miss Maria. 

As if to add another prominent picture to the scene, there appears atthe door of the parsonage, every few minutes, a magnificently got-upnegro, portly, grey hair, and venerable, dressed in unsullied black, aspotless white cravat, and gloves. This is Uncle Pomp, who considershimself an essential part of the parsonage, and is regarded with awe forhis Bible knowledge by all the colored people of the neighborhood. Pompglances up, then down the street, advances a few steps, admonishes theyoung negroes, and exchanges bows with Cato, whom he regards as quite acommon brought-up negro compared with himself. Now he disappears, Catoremarking to his companions that if he had Pomp's knowledge and learninghe would not thank anybody to make him a white man. 

Presently there is a stir in the group: all eyes are turned up the road, and the cry is, "Dare da comes. " Two carriages approach at a rapidspeed, and haul up at the gate, to the evident delight and relief of theyounger members of the group, who close in and begin scattering sprigsof laurel and flowers along the path, as two couple, in bridal dress, alight, trip quickly through the garden, and disappear, Pomp bowingthem into the parsonage. Tom and Maria are the central figures of theinteresting ceremony about to be performed. Old Cato received a warmpress of the hand from Tom as he passed, and Cato returned therecognition, with "God bress Mas'r Tom. " A shadow of disappointmentdeepened in his face as he saw the door closed, and it occurred to himthat he was not to be a witness of the ceremony. But the door againopened, and Pomp relieved his wounded feelings by motioning with hisfinger, and, when Cato had reached the porch, bowing him into the house. 

And now we have reached the last scene in the picture. There, kneelingbefore the altar in the parlor of that quaint old parsonage, are thehappy couple and their companions. The clergyman, in his surplice, readsthe touching service in a clear and impressive voice, while Pomp, in apair of antique spectacles, ejaculates the responses in a voice peculiarto his race. Old Cato, kneeling before a chair near the door, followswith a loud--Amen. There is something supremely simple, touching, andimpressive in the picture. As the closing words of the benediction fallfrom the clergyman's lips, Maria, her pale oval face shadowed with thatsweetness and gentleness an innocent heart only can reflect, raises hereyes upwards as if to return thanks to the Giver of all good for hismercy and protection. As she did this a ray of light stole in at thewindow and played softly over her features, like a messenger of lovecome to announce a happy future. Just then the cup of her joy becamefull, and tears, like gems of purest water, glistened in her eyes, thenmoistened her pallid cheeks. Truly the woman spoke right when she said, "You are still still richer than me. "

HOME INSURANCE COMPANY. OFFICE, No. 112 & 114 BROADWAY. 

CASH CAPITAL, ONE MILLION DOLLARS. Assets, 1st July, 1860, $1, 481, 819 27. Liabilities, 1st July, 1860, 54, 068 67. 

The Home Insurance Company continues to issue against loss or damageby FIRE and the dangers of INLAND NAVIGATION AND TRANSPORTATION, on terms as favorable as the nature of the risks and the realsecurity of the Insured and the Company will warrant. 

LOSSES EQUITABLY ADJUSTED AND PROMPTLY PAID. 

Charles J. Martin, President. A. F. Willmarth, Vice-President. J. MILTON SMITH, Secretary. JOHN MCGEE, Assistant Secretary. 

DIRECTORS. 

Wm. G. Lambert, of A. & A. Lawrence & Co. Geo. C. Collins, of Sherman, Collins & Co. Danford N. Barney, of Wells, Fargo & Co. Lucius Hopkins, President of Importers and Traders' Bank. Thos. Messenger, of T. & H. Messenger. Wm. H. Mellen, of Claflin, Mellen & Co. Chas. J. Martin, President. A. F. Willmarth, Vice-President. Charles B. Hatch, of C. B. Hatch & Co. B. Watson Bull, of Merrick & Bull. Homer Morgan, Levi P. Stone, of Stone, Starr & Co. Jas. Humphrey, late of Barney, Humphrey & Butler. George Pearce, of George Pearce & Co. Ward A. Work, of Ward A. Work & Son. James Low, of James Low & Co. , of Louisville. I. H. Frothingham, late firm of I. H. Frothingham & Co. Charles A. Bulkley, Bulkley & Co. Geo. D. Morgan, of E. D. Morgan & Co. Cephas H. Norton, of Norton & Jewett. Theo. McNamee, of Bowen, McNamee & Co. Richard Bigelow, of Doan, King & Co. , St. Louis. Oliver E. Wood, of Willard, Wood & Co. Alfred S. Barnes, A. S. Barnes & Burr. George Bliss, of Phelps, Bliss & Co. Roe Lockwood, of R. Lockwood & Son. Levi P. Morton, of Morton, Grinnell & Co. Curtis Noble, late of Condit & Noble. J. B. Hutchinson, of J. C. Howe & Co. , Boston. Chas. P. Baldwin, of Baldwin, Starr & Co. Amos T. Dwight, of Trowbridge, Dwight & Co. H. A. Hurlbut, of Swift, Hurlbut & Co. Jesse Hoyt, of Jesse Hoyt & Co. Wm. Sturgis, Jr. , of Sturgis, Shaw & Co. John R. Ford, of Ford Rubber Co. Sidney Mason, late of Mason & Thompson. Geo. T. Stedman, of Stedman, Carlisle & Shaw, Cincinnati. Cyrus Yale, Jr. , of Cyrus Yale, Jr. & Co. , of New Orleans. Wm. R. Fosdick, of Wm. R. & Chas. B. Fosdick. David I. Boyd, of Boyd, Brother & Co. , Albany. F. H. Cossitt, of Cossitt, Hill & Tallmadge, Memphis. Lewis Roberts, of L. Roberts & Co.