JUSTICE IN THE BY-WAYS.
A TALE OF LIFE.
BY F. COLBURN ADAMS,
AUTHOR
OF “OUR WORLD,” ETC., ETC., ETC.
“A rebellion or an invasion alarms,
And puts the people upon its defence;
But a corruption of principles
Works its ruin more slowly perhaps,
But more surely.”
NEW YORK:
LONDON:
1856.
Contents
Preface
CHAPTER I.—Tom Swiggs’ Seventh Introduction on board of the Brig
Standfast
CHAPTER II.—Madame Flamingo—Her Distinguished Patrons, and her very
respectable House
CHAPTER III.—In which the Reader is presented with a Varied Picture
CHAPTER IV.—A few Reflections on the Cure of Vice
CHAPTER V.—In which Mr. Snivel, commonly called the Accommodation Man, is
introduced, and what takes place between him and Mrs. Swiggs.
CHAPTER VI.—Containing Sundry Matters appertaining to this History
CHAPTER VII.—In which is seen a Commingling of Citizens
CHAPTER VIII.—What takes place between George Mullholland and Mr.
Snivel
CHAPTER IX.—In which a Gleam of Light is shed on the History of Anna
Bonard
CHAPTER X.—A Continuation of George Mullholland’s History
CHAPTER XI.—In which the Reader is introduced to Mr. Absalom McArthur
CHAPTER XII.—In which are Matters the Reader may have anticipated
CHAPTER XIII.—Mrs. Swiggs comes to the Rescue of the House of the Foreign
Missions
CHAPTER XIV.—Mr. McArthur makes a Discovery
CHAPTER XV.—What Madame Flamingo wants to be
CHAPTER XVI.—In which Tom Swiggs gains his Liberty, and what befalls
him
CHAPTER XVII.—In which there is an Interesting Meeting
CHAPTER XVIII.—Anna Bonard seeks an Interview with the Antiquary
CHAPTER XIX.—A Secret Interview
CHAPTER XX.—Lady Swiggs encounters Difficulties on her Arrival in New
York
CHAPTER XXI.—Mr. Snivel pursues his Search for the Vote-Cribber
CHAPTER XXII.—Mrs. Swiggs falls upon a Modern Heathen World
CHAPTER XXIII.—In which the very best Intentions are seen to fail
CHAPTER XXIV.—Mr. Snivel advises George Mullholland how to make Strong
Love
CHAPTER XXV.—A Slight Change in the Picture
CHAPTER XXVI.—In which a High Functionary is made to play a Singular
Part
CHAPTER XXVII.—The House of the Nine Nations, and what may be seen in
it
CHAPTER XXVIII.—In which is presented Another Picture of the House of the
Nine Nations
CHAPTER XXIX.—In which may be seen a few of our Common Evils
CHAPTER XXX.—Containing Various Things appertaining to this History
CHAPTER XXXI.—The Keno Den, and what may be seen in it
CHAPTER XXXII.—In which a State of Society is slighty Revealed
CHAPTER XXXIII.—In which there is a Singular Revelation
CHAPTER XXXIV.—The Two Pictures
CHAPTER XXXV.—In which a Little Light is shed upon the Character of our
Chivalry
CHAPTER XXXVI.—In which a Law is seen to serve Base Purposes
CHAPTER XXXVII.—A Short Chapter of Ordinary Events
CHAPTER XXXVIII.—A Story without which this History would be found
wanting
CHAPTER XXXIX.—A Story with many Counterparts
CHAPTER XL.—In which the Law is seen to Conflict with our Cherished
Chivalry
CHAPTER XLI.—In which Justice is seen to be very accommodating
CHAPTER XLII.—In which Some Light is thrown on the Plot of this
History
CHAPTER XLIII.—In which is revealed the One Error that brought so much
Suffering upon many
CHAPTER XLIV.—In which is recorded Events the Reader may not have
Expected
CHAPTER XLV.—Another Shade of the Picture
CHAPTER XLVI.—The Soul may gain Strength in a dreary Cell
CHAPTER XLVII.—In which is a Happy Meeting, and something Pleasing
CHAPTER XLVIII.—A Few Words With the Reader
PREFACE.
Prefaces, like long sermons to fashionable congregations, are
distasteful to most readers, and in no very high favor with us. A deep
interest in the welfare of South Carolina, and the high esteem in which
we held the better, and more sensible class of her citizens, prompted
us to sit down in Charleston, some four years ago (as a few of our
friends are aware), and write this history. The malady of her chivalry
had then broken out, and such was its virulence that very serious
consequences were apprehended. We had done something, and were unwise
enough to think we could do more, to stay its spread. We say unwise,
inasmuch as we see, and regret that we do see, the malady breaking out
anew, in a more virulent type—one which threatens dire consequences to
this glorious Union, and bids fair soon to see the Insane Hospital of
South Carolina crammed with her mad-politicians.
Our purpose, the reader will not fail to discover, was a high moral
one. He must overlook the means we have called to our aid in some
instances, remember that the spirit of the work is in harmony with a
just sense of duty to a people among whom we have long resided, and
whose follies deserve our pity, perhaps, rather than our condemnation.
To remain blind to their own follies, is the sin of weak States; and we
venture nothing when we say that it would be difficult to find a people
more dragged down by their own ignorance than are the South
Carolinians. And yet, strange as it may seem, no people are more
energetic in laying claim to a high intellectual standard. For a
stranger to level his shafts against the very evils they themselves
most deprecate, is to consign himself an exile worthy only of that
domestic garment[1] in which all who think and write too freely, are
clothed and sent away.
[1] Tar and feathers.
And though the sentiments we have put forth in this work may not be in
fashion with our Southern friends, they will give us credit for at
least one thing—picturing in truthful colors the errors that, by their
own confessions, are sapping the very foundations of their society. Our
aim is to suggest reforms, and in carrying it out we have consulted no
popular prejudice, enlarged upon no enormities to please the lover of
tragedy, regarded neither beauty nor the art of novel making, nor
created suffering heroines to excite an outpouring of sorrow and tears.
The incidents of our story, which at best is but a mere thread, are
founded in facts; and these facts we have so modified as to make them
acceptable to the reader, while shielding ourself from the charge of
exaggeration. And, too, we are conscious that our humble influence,
heretofore exerted, has contributed to the benefit of a certain class
in Charleston, and trust that in this instance it may have a wider
field.
Three years and upwards, then, has the MS. of this work laid in the
hands of a Philadelphia publisher, who was kind enough to say more good
things of it than it deserved, and only (as he said, and what
publishers say no one ever thinks of doubting) regretted that fear of
offending his Southern customers, who were exceedingly stiff in some
places, and tender in others, prevented him publishing it. Thankful for
the very flattering but undeserved reception two works from our pen
(both written at a subsequent period) met, in England as well as this
country, we resolved a few weeks ago to drag the MS. from the obscurity
in which it had so long remained, and having resigned it to the rude
hands of our printer, let it pass to the public. But there seemed
another difficulty in the way: the time, every one said, and every one
ought to know, was a hazardous one for works of a light character.
Splash & Dash, my old publishers, (noble fellows), had no less than
three Presidents on their shoulders, and could not be expected to take
up anything “light” for several months. Brick, of the very respectable
but somewhat slow firm of Brick & Brother, a firm that had singular
scruples about publishing a work not thickly sprinkled with the
author’s knowledge of French, had one candidate by the neck, and had
made a large bet that he could carry him into the “White House” with a
rush, while the junior partner was deeply immersed in the study of
Greek. Puff, of the firm of Puff & Bluff, a house that had recently
moved into the city to teach the art of blowing books into the market,
was foaming over with his two Presidential candidates, and thought the
public could not be got to read a book without at least one candidate
in it. It was not prudent to give the reading world more than a book of
travels or so, said Munch, of the house of Munch & Muddle, until the
candidates for the White House were got nicely out of the way. Indeed,
there were good reasons for being alarmed, seeing that the publishing
world had given up literature, and, following the example set by the
New York Corporation, taken itself very generally to the trade of
President-making. Wilkins, whose publications were so highly
respectable that they invariably remained on his shelves, and had in
more than one instance become so weighty that they had dragged the
house down, thought the pretty feet of some few of the female
characters in this volume a little too much exposed to suit the
delicate sensibilities of his fair readers. Applejack, than whose taste
none could be more exquisite, and who only wanted to feel a manuscript
to tell whether it would do to publish it, made it a point, he said,
not to publish novels with characters in them that would drink to
excess. As for the very fast firm of Blowers & Windspin, celebrated for
flooding the country with cheap books of a very tragic character, why,
it had work enough on hand for the present. Blowers was blessed with a
wife of a literary turn of mind, which was very convenient, inasmuch as
all the novels with which the house astonished the world were submitted
to her, and what she could not read she was sure to pass a favorable
judgment upon. The house had in press four highly worked up novels of
Mrs. Blowers’ own, Mr. Blowers said,—all written in the very short
space of six weeks. She was a remarkable woman, and extraordinary
clever at novels, Blowers concluded with an air of magnificent
self-satisfaction. These works, having been written by steam, Mr.
Windspin, the unior partner, was expected to put into the market with a
very large amount of high pressure.
Our friends in South Carolina, we knew, would be anxious to see what we
had written of them in this volume, and we have made and shall continue
to make it a point to gratify them: hence our haste in this instance.
Conscious, too, that life is the great schoolmaster, and that public
taste is neither to be regulated by a few, nor kept at any one point,
we caught up a publisher with only one candidate for the “White House”
on his shoulders, and with his assistance, now respectfully submit this
our humble effort.
NEW YORK, Sept., 1856.
JUSTICE IN THE BY-WAYS.
CHAPTER I.
TOM SWIGGS’ SEVENTH INTRODUCTION ON BOARD OF THE BRIG STANDFAST.
It is in the spring of 1847 this history commences.
“Steady a bit! Here I am, boys, turned up again—a subject of this moral
reform school, of moral old Charleston. If my good old mother thinks
it’ll reform a cast-off remnant of human patchwork like me, I’ve
nothing to say in protest. Yes, here I am, comrades (poor Tom Swiggs,
as you used to call me), with rum my victor, and modern vengeance
hastening my destruction.” This is the exclamation of poor Tom Swiggs
(as his jail companions are pleased to call him), who, in charge of two
officers of the law, neither of whom are inclined to regard him with
sympathy, is being dragged back again to the Charleston jail. The
loathsome wreck of a once respectable man, he staggers into the
corridor, utters a wild shriek as the iron gate closes upon him, and
falls headlong upon the floor of the vestibule, muttering,
incoherently, “there is no hope for one like me.” And the old walls
re-echo his lamentation.
“His mother, otherwise a kind sort of woman, sends him here. She
believes it will work his reform. I pity her error—for it is an error
to believe reform can come of punishment, or that virtue may be
nurtured among vice.” Thus responds the brusque but kind-hearted old
jailer, who view swith an air of compassion his new comer, as he lays,
a forlorn mass, exposed to the gaze of the prisoners gathering eagerly
about him.
The dejected man gives a struggle, raises himself to his haunches, and
with his coarse, begrimed hands resting on his knees, returns the
salutation of several of his old friends. “This, boys, is the seventh
time,” he pursues, as if his scorched brain were tossed on a sea of
fire, “and yet I’m my mother’s friend. I love her still—yes, I love her
still!” and he shakes his head, as his bleared eyes fill with tears.
“She is my mother,” he interpolates, and again gives vent to his
frenzy: “fellows! bring me brandy—whiskey—rum—anything to quench this
flame that burns me up. Bring it, and when I’m free of this place of
torment, I will stand enough for you all to swim in.”
“Shut your whiskey-pipe. You don’t appreciate the respectability of the
company you’ve got among. I’ve heard of you,” ejaculates a voice in the
crowd of lookers-on.
“What of a citizen are you?” inquires Tom, his head dropping sleepily.
“A vote-cribber—Milman Mingle by name; and, like yourself, in for
formal reform,” retorts the voice. And the burly figure of a red,
sullen-faced man, comes forward, folds his arms, and looks for some
minutes with an air of contempt upon the poor inebriate.
“You’re no better than you ought to be,” incoherently continues Tom,
raising his glassy eyes as if to sight his seemingly querulous
companion.
“Better, at all events, than you,” emphatically replies the man. “I’m
only in for cribbing voters; which, be it known, is commonly called a
laudable enterprise just before our elections come off, and a henious
offence when office-seekers have gained their ends. But what use is it
discussing the affairs of State with a thing like you?” The
vote-cribber, inclined to regard the new-comer as an inferior mortal,
shrugs his shoulders, and walks away, contemplatively humming an air.
“If here ain’t Tom Swiggs again!” exclaims a lean, parchment-faced
prisoner, pressing eagerly his way through the circle of bystanders,
and raising his hands as he beholds the wreck upon the floor.
“Fate, and my mother, have ordered it so,” replies Tom, recognizing the
voice, and again imploring the jailer to bring him some brandy to
quench the fires of his brain. The thought of his mother floated
uppermost, and recurred brightest to the wandering imagination of this
poor outcast.
“There’s no rum here, old bloat. The mother having you for a son is to
be pitied—you are to be pitied, too; but the jail is bankrupt, without
a shilling to relieve you in the liquor line,” interposes another, as
one by one the prisoners begin to leave and seek their several
retreats.
“That breath of yours,” interrupts the vote-cribber, who, having
returned, stands regarding the outcast man with singular interest,
“would make drunk the whole jail. A week in ‘Mount Rascal’ The upper
story used for the confinement of felons. will be necessary to
transmute you, as they call it, into something Christian. On ‘the
Mount’ you will have a chance to philosophize—mollify the temperature
of your nervous system-which is out of fix just now.”
There is an inert aristocracy, a love of distinction, among the lowest
dregs of society, as there is also a love of plush and other
insignificant tawdry among our more wealthy republicans. Few would have
thought of one inebriate affecting superiority over another, (the
vote-cribber was an inebriate, as we shall show,) but so it was,
nevertheless.
“I own up,” rejoins Tom, “I own up; I love my mother, and am out of
sorts. You may call me a mass of filth—what you please!”
“Never mind; I am your friend, Tom,” interrupts the brusque old jailer,
stooping down and taking him gently by the arm. “Good may come of the
worst filth of nature—evil may come of what seemeth the best; and trees
bearing sound pippins may have come of rotten cores. Cheer up!”
The cool and unexpected admonition of the “vote-cribber” leaves a deep
impression in Tom’s feelings. He attempts, heaving a sigh, to rise, but
has not strength, and falls languidly back upon the floor. His
countenance, for a few moments, becomes dark and desponding; but the
kind words that fall from the jailer’s lips inspire him with
confidence; and, turning partly on his side, he thrusts his begrimed
hands into a pair of greasy pockets, whistling “Yankee Doodle,” with
great composure.
The jailer glances about him for assistance, saying it will be
necessary to get him up and carry him to his cell.
“To a cell—a cell—a cell!” reiterates the inebriate. “Well, as the
legal gentry say,” he continues, “I’ll enter a ‘non-contender.’ I only
say this by way of implication, to show my love for the fellow who
gathers fees by making out writs on my account.”
In reply to a question from the jailer, he says they mistake Tom
Swiggs, if they think he has no pride left.
“After all, there’s something more in you than I thought, Tom. Give us
your hand,” says the vote-cribber, extending cordially his hand, as if
a change for the better had come over him, and grasping firmly that of
the inebriate. Raising his besotted head, Tom gazes distrustfully at
the cribber, as if questioning his sincerity. “I am not dead to shame,”
he mutters, struggling at the same time to suppress his emotions.
“There are, Tom,” continues the cribber, playfully, “two claims on
you—two patent claims! (He lets go the inebriate’s hand, and begins
teasing his long, red beard.) And, are you disposed to come out on the
square, in the liquor line, you may redeem yourself—”
“Name ’em!” interposed Tom, stopping short in his tune.
“The gentleman commonly called Mister Jones, and a soap-chandler, are
contesting a claim upon you. The one wants your body, the other your
clothes. Now, as I am something of a lawyer, having had large dealings
in elections, I may say, as a friend, that it is only a question of
time, so far as you are concerned. Take my advice, then, and cheat
both, by selling out, in advance. The student and the janitor pay good
prices for such things as you. Give the last-named worthy a
respondentia bond on yourself, redeemable before death, or resign the
body after, (any lawyer will make the lien valid,) and the advance will
produce floods of whiskey. Come out, Tom, like a hero, on the square.”
An outcast, hurled deep into the gulf of despair, and surrounded by
victims of poverty and votaries of crime, the poor inebriate has yet
left him one lingering spark of pride. As if somewhat revived, he
scrambles to his feet, staggers into the room of a poor debtor, on the
left of the long, sombre aisle, and drawing from his pocket a ten-cent
piece, throws it upon the table, with an air of great importance.
“I am not moneyless,” he exclaims—“not I!” and he staggers to the great
chimney-place, rebounding to the floor, saying, “Take that—bring her
in—quench my burning thirst!”
Tom is the only surviving, and now the outcast, member of a somewhat
respectable family, that has moved in the better walks of society. His
mother, being scrupulous of her position in society, and singularly
proud withal, has reared and educated her son in idleness, and
ultimately slights and discards him, because he, as she alleges, sought
society inferior to his position and her dignity. In his better days he
had been erect of person, and even handsome; but the thraldom of the
destroyer has brought him to the dust, a pitiable wreck.
Tom has seen thirty summers, presents a full, rounded figure, and
stands some five feet ten. He wears an old brown coat, cut after the
fashion of a surtout, that might have fitted him, he says, when he was
a man. But it has lost the right cuff, the left flap, and a part of the
collar; the nefarious moths, too, have made a sieve of its back. His
trowsers are of various colors, greasy down the sides, ragged at the
bottoms, and revealing two encrusted ancles, with feet stuck into old
shoes, turned under at the heels for convenience sake. A remark from
the cribber touches his pride, and borrowing a few pins he commences
pinning together the shattered threads of his nether garment. A
rope-yarn secured about his waist gives a sailor-like air to his
outfit. But, notwithstanding Tom affects the trim of the craft, the
skilled eye can easily detect the deception; for the craftsman, even
under a press of head sail, preserves a becoming rig.
Indeed, Tom might have attempted without effect, during his natural
life, to transform himself into a sailor. The destroyer was his victor;
the inner man was but a reflex of the outer. He pulled an old cloth cap
over his face, which was immersed in a massive black beard, bordering
two red, swollen cheeks; and with his begrimed hands he rubbed lustily
his inflamed eyes—once brown, large, and earnest—now glassy and sunken.
“I’m all square, ain’t I?” he inquires, looking with vacant stare into
the faces of those who tease him with facetious remarks, then scans his
haberdashery. There yet remains something displeasing to him. His sense
of taste is at stake. This something proves to be a sooty striped
shirt, open in front, and disclosing the remains of a red flannel
under-garment. Every few minutes will he, as if touched with a sense of
shame, wriggle his shoulders, and pull forward the wreck of his
collarless coat, apparently much annoyed that it fails to cover the
breastwork of his distress.
Again he thrusts his hands into his pockets, and with an air of
apparent satisfaction, struts twice or thrice across the dingy room, as
if he would show how far he has gained his equilibrium. “I shall go
straight mad; yes, mad, if the whiskey be not brought in,” he pursues,
stopping short in one of his sallies, and with a rhetorical flourish,
pointing at the piece of silver he so exultingly tossed upon the table.
As if his brain were again seized by the destroyer’s flame, his
countenance becomes livid, his eyes glare wildly upon each object near
him; then he draws himself into a tragic attitude, contorts hideously
his more hideous face, throws his cap scornfully to the ground, and
commences tearing from his head the matted black hair that confusedly
covers it. “If my mother thinks this a fit place for me—” He pauses in
the middle of his sentence, gives an imploring stare at his companions,
shakes and hangs down his head; then his brain reels, and his frame
trembles, and like a lifeless mass he falls to the floor.
“I’m gone now—gone—gone—gone!” he mutters, with a spasmodic effort,
covering his face with his hands.
“He’ll go mad; you can only save him with a hair of the same dog,” one
of the prisoner’s measuredly suggests, folding his arms, and looking
mechanically upon the wretched man.
A second agrees with the first; a third says he is past cure, though a
gallon of whiskey were wasted upon him.
Mr. Mingle, the vote-cribber—regarded good authority in such
matters—interposes. He has not the shadow of a doubt but that a speedy
cure can be effected, by his friends drinking the whiskey, (he will
join them, without an objection,) and just letting Tom smell the glass.
A fifth says, without prejudice to the State of South Carolina, if he
knew Tom’s mother, he would honestly recommend her to send him special
minister to Maine. There, drinking is rather an aristocratic
indulgence, enjoyed only on the sly.
Suddenly the poor inebriate gives vent to his frenzy. The color of his
face changes from pale livid to sickly blue; his hands seem more
shrunken and wiry; his body convulses and writhes upon the floor; he is
become more the picture of a wild beast, goaded and aggravated in his
confinement. A narcotic, administered by the hand of the jailer,
produces quiet, and with the assistance of two prisoners is he raised
to his feet, and supported into the corridor, to receive the benefit of
fresh air. Here he remains some twenty minutes, stretched upon two
benches, and eyed sharply by the vote-cribber, who paces in a circle
round him, regarding him with a half suspicious leer, and twice or
thrice pausing to fan his face with the drab felt hat he carries under
his arm.
“A curious mother that sends you here for reform,” muses the
vote-cribber; “but he must be a perfect fleshhook on the feelings of
the family.”
Send him up into Rogue’s Hall,” exclaims a deep, sonorous voice, that
echoes along the aisle. The vote-cribber, having paused over Tom, as if
to contemplate his degradation, turns inquiringly, to see from whence
comes the voice. “It is me!” again the voice resounds. Two glaring
eyes, staring anxiously through the small iron grating of a door
leading to a close cell on the left of the corridor, betrays the
speaker. “It’s Tom Swiggs. I know him—he’s got the hydrophobia; its
common with him! Take him in tow, old Spunyarn, give him a good berth,
and let him mellow at thirty cents a day,” continues the voice.
The last sentence the speaker addressed to a man of comely figure and
frank countenance, who has just made his appearance, dressed in the
garb of a sailor. This man stoops over Tom, seems to recognize in him
an old acquaintance, for his face warms with kindliness, and he
straightway commences wiping the sun-scorched face of the inebriate
with his handkerchief, and with his hand smooths and parts, with an air
of tenderness, his hair; and when he has done this, he spreads the
handkerchief over the wretched man’s face, touches the querulous
vote-cribber on the arm, and with a significant wink beckons him away,
saying, “Come away, now, he has luffed into the wind. A sleep will do
him good.”