HOW AN HONEST MAN MAY GET INTO LIMBO.
"And as for the Bastile,--the terror is in the word.--Make the most of
it you can, said I to myself, the Bastile is but another word for a
tower;--and a tower is but another word for a house you can't get out
of."--_Sterne._
A stranger in New-York, and even many of its younger citizens, would
hardly suppose, from the present appearance of the handsome Ionic
temple standing directly east of the City Hall, for what "base uses"
that classic edifice was originally built, or for what ignoble purposes
it was kept, until within a few years back. Although it may now be
justly considered one of the most correct and pleasing specimens of
architecture in the union, yet, until the recent transformation of its
outward form and proportions, it was one of the most unsightly of
buildings. It was not, however, of republican origin--having been
erected early in the reign of his late most excellent Majesty, King
George the Third, as a place of confinement for such of his refractory
subjects as either could not, or would not, pay their debts. And it is
no great credit to his Majesty's successors in the government, that it
should not have been appropriated to some other use at a much earlier
day. Long did the citizens of New-York petition for its removal or
destruction, but in vain,--until, "in the course of human events," the
public service demanded an additional edifice as a depository for its
records. A change from the Boeotian to the Ionic order, and its
conversion to a more humane purpose, were then determined upon, not
only for the public convenience, but from motives of economy. One of
the patriotic members of the city government, distinguished for his
enterprise, and his public spirit, undertook the job, and gave to the
ancient walls of unhewn stone their existing "form and pressure;"--at
an amount, too, not much exceeding, probably, twice the cost of two new
buildings of the same dimensions.
Architecture is one of the crowning glories of a city; and nothing more
strongly indicates the cultivation of a people, than refinement in this
beautiful department of science. "Order is the first law of nature,"
and the utter disregard hitherto paid to all established orders of
architecture in this country, is one reason, probably, that we have
become such a disorderly people. The taste of the Greeks in the arts
has contributed more to their glory than their deeds in arms. The
chisel of Phidias carved for him a name of more true renown, than the
sword did for Alexander; and the name of Sir Christopher Wren will live
as long in English history as the Duke of Wellington's. Every patriotic
Gothamite, therefore, should rejoice at each successive indication of
an improvement in architectural taste amongst us. Who knows but the
beauty of the new commercial exchange that is to be, will cause
gladness to those who wept alike over the ugliness and the destruction
of the old! Who knows but that a grinning populace will one day
displace the lions grinning from the gutters at the eaves of the new
stone church in Duane-street! And who knows but that in process of
time, American architects will be found who shall understand the
difference between the Composite and the Corinthian, and that a long
sperm candle was never intended as a model for a Doric column!
The simple-minded reader who imagines that every narrative,
biographical or historical, should read straight on, like Robinson
Crusoe, or a speech of Colonel Crockett, may suppose that a digression
like this in which I have just indulged, must be wholly irrelevant, in
the life of an humble and unpretending individual like Daniel
Wheelwright,--but he will soon discover his mistake--with which
preliminary flourish, the order of my history is resumed.
It was some four or five years before the change in the _don-jon_
just indicated, that the humble writer hereof was informed by a special
messenger, that there was "a gentleman in distress" at the debtor's
prison, who desired to see him. Not for the instant recollecting any
friend who was just then in need of house-room at the public expense,
the writer was entirely at a loss to imagine who could have requested
the interview. But aside from the dictates of humanity, in a country
where every Shylock has a right to imprison such of his debtors as may
have become too poor to pay in any thing but flesh, it is always wise
to answer summonses of this description, since there is no telling
whose turn may come next. And besides, if your friend in the bilboes
has brought himself thither by his own imprudence, there is a chance
that you may have the consolation of seeing him come out a wiser man
than he went in.
No time was lost, therefore, in repairing to the sombre and substantial
mansion already described. It was during the latter days of the
venerable "Poppy Lownds," as the worthy old jailer was called, who for
so long a succession of years had presided over the internal police of
the prison. He was a kind-hearted old gentleman; and amidst all the
storms and vicissitudes of party, was never removed from office during
his life-time--for the good reason, probably, among others, that the
venerable officer had grown so lusty in his place, that it was
impossible to remove him out of it, without removing a portion of the
prison walls also. Be that, however, as it may, the writer found Poppy
Lownds sitting in his big oaken arm-chair, dozing in some pleasing
reverie, like a Turk over his sherbet after dinner, or "as calm and
quiet as a summer's morning," to quote a favorite metaphor of the day,
in regard to the guiding spirit of an often-killed but still living and
breathing "monster." As the writer entered his apartment, he took a
long pipe from his mouth with the most easy deliberation, while the
last whiff from the aromatic Virginia weed curled upward in an azure
cloud, and mingled with the vapor which had preceded it.
Having made known the cause of my visit, in answer to the inquiry as to
the inmate of his establishment who had despatched the messenger, Poppy
Lownds assured me that the "distressed gentleman" was a good-looking
stranger, with an indifferent wardrobe, and rather out-at-the-elbows
like,--destitute of money, and somewhat in want of a dinner,--but one
of the easiest and best-natured prisoners ever committed to his charge,
since the evacuation by the British troops, in November, 1783;--an
event, by the way, which General Morton will not live long enough to
forget, although on every cold and drizzling return of the anniversary,
his brigade for three generations past have heartily wished that it had
taken place in June, or almost not at all!
The scowling turnkey was thereupon summoned, and the writer was
conducted through one dark passage and another, secured by bolts and
bars enough to have ensured the safe keeping of Baron Trenck, or a
second Ethan Allen. At length, ascending a flight of stairs, he was
ushered into an apartment, connected with several others, the
communicating doors between which were opened for the day, containing
sundry sorry groups of inmates, with long beards, and patches upon both
elbows, some of whom were eating the soup just received from that
excellent charity, the Humane Society--while others were playing at all
fours, with cards looking as old and dirty as though first used by the
Moabites. Others, again, were engaged at domino; and others still
busied in scoring the walls with their pen-knives, or whittling
shingles as they whistled for want of thought. These latter were
Yankees of course; but an air of idleness and indifference pervaded the
apartments, which almost begets a yawn in the remembrance.
When the good Vicar of Wakefield was sent to prison by the villany of
Thornhill, he expected on his entrance to find nothing but lamentations
and various sounds of misery; but it was very different. The prisoners
seemed all employed in one common design--that of forgetting thought in
merriment or clamor. My own disappointment was equally great on the
occasion I am relating--although there was less of clamor, probably,
than that encountered by the Vicar--owing, most likely, to the
lassitude incident to a fervid sun in July. But in all other respects,
the prison scene depicted by Goldsmith one hundred years ago, would
have answered very well for New-York in 1821--albeit we discerned not
among them the shrewd features of a Jenkinson, and heard nothing of the
cosmogony either of Sanchoniathon or Manetho.
Among them all, however, there was not a countenance that could be
recognized, and the writer began to flatter himself that he had been
called by mistake. It was not so. Turning to a strongly grated window
in another direction, whom should he see but his quondam friend Doctor
Wheelwright--as sound asleep as though in attendance upon a lecture on
the circulation of the blood, in the Medical College! On awaking him
from his slumber, he appeared neither surprised nor chagrined at the
interview. "The iron had not entered into _his_ soul," whatever might
have been the case with others--as may be inferred from the following
brief dialogue, in which my friend bore his part with all imaginable
_non-chalance_:--
"Ah, doctor, is this you?"
"How are you? Why shouldn't it be?"
"But pray how came you here?"
"Like most other honest people, for that matter--because I couldn't
help it. But it's all come of a mistake."
"Why, they have not mistaken you for another man, have they?"
"I can't say exactly that; but I made a mistake in going into the
lottery trade."
"Then you didn't draw the high prize, eh?"
"No: but I came plaguey nigh it though--three more of the figures would
have given me two of them."
"Indeed! you made the mistake in selecting the tickets, then? All you
wanted was the right numbers!"
"Exactly so: but it's no use to cry over spilt milk, you know; and
besides, that fellow the manager has failed, so that it's all blanks
and no prizes, and I am as well off as others. But if I could dream as
well as that Mr. Clark did, with his eyes open, in Richmond, I should
like to go into Yates & M'Intyre's next scheme. It's well enough to
have honest managers, you know."
"Very true, friend Wheelwright; but even then, it is the last 'way to
wealth,' in my opinion, that any sensible man would take--on
calculation."
"Yes: but then it's well enough to be in luck's way, _arnt it_?"
It will readily have been perceived from the language and bearing of
Wheelwright, that his spirits were far less depressed than his
circumstances. Indeed he was as cheerful and as full of good nature as
ever,--indifferent as to the past,--not much troubled at the
present,--and yet unconcerned and full of hope for the future.
On making the necessary inquiry into the state of his affairs, it
appeared that, not having a superabundance of visible means for his
support, his landlord, on hearing that he had missed drawing the high
prize, had very unkindly seized upon his clothes for his board, and
shut him up so that he could earn nothing to pay the balance. But, so
that it is a part of the contract that in default of the payment of a
debt, the delinquent promises to go to jail, it is all right. The
wisdom of sending him there, is another matter, which there is not time
now to discuss, and we proceed. My friend's object in sending for me,
was merely to obtain the means of procuring "a little something to
eat," since his only food for the week preceding had been given him by
one of the prisoners--a venerable man, with snow-white hair, who had
been an inmate of the prison upward of thirty years, and who, to the
day of his death, refused to leave the prison, although the creditors
who had imprisoned him, had long since paid the debt of nature. If
deeds of charity, or the voice of mercy, or the requirements of
business, have in former days called any of the readers of these pages
to the old prison, they will remember this ancient prisoner. The old
man had perhaps read the pathetic tale in the school-books, of the aged
prisoner released from the Bastile, and he cared not to return to a
world by which he was unknown, or had long since been forgotten. If,
perchance, any of those whom he had once taken by the hand, were yet on
the stage, their chariot-wheels might roll too fast to enable them to
recognize the poor old man by whose early patronage they had been
enabled to purchase their equipage. He therefore preferred the cold
victuals of his prison-house, to the cold charities of the world.
Wheelwright had already taken the preliminary steps to procure relief
under the insolvent law. He should soon be discharged from jail "by
order of the honorable Richard Riker;"--and as "the world owed him a
living," he was quite confident of doing well enough yet.
All that was necessary for his comfort was of course done for him, and
at the time appointed, he was discharged from prison in due course of
law--free from debt--and the wide world all before him where to choose.
His clothes were redeemed from the landlord; and setting his face
northward, he departed, in the first steamboat, for the ancient city of
Albany, and to revisit the scenes of his youth in the valley of the
Mohawk.