MADAME FLAMINGO—HER DISTINGUISHED PATRONS, AND HER VERY RESPECTABLE
HOUSE.
Regard us forbearingly, generous and urbane reader; follow us undaunted
whither we go, nor charge us with tracing crime in a bad cause. We will
leave the old prison, the dejected inebriate, the more curious group
that surround him, and the tale of the destroyer it develops, and
escort you in our walk to the mansion of Madame Flamingo, who is well
known in Charleston, and commonly called the Mother of Sin. It is a
massive brick pile, situate in one of the public thoroughfares, four
stories high, with bold Doric windows, set off with brown fluted
freestone, and revealing faded red curtains, overlain with mysterious
lace, and from between the folds of which, at certain hours of the day,
languid and more mysterious eyes may be seen peering cautiously. Madame
Flamingo says (the city fathers all know it) she has a scrupulous
regard to taste, and develops it in the construction of her front door,
which is of black walnut, fluted and carved in curious designs. In
style it resembles somewhat the doors of those fashionable churches
that imitate so closely the Italian, make good, paying property of
fascinating pews, and adopt the more luxurious way of getting to heaven
(prayer-book of gold in hand) reclining on velvet and satin damask.
The mansion of Madame Flamingo differs only in sumptuousness of
furniture from twenty others of similar character, dotted here and
there about the little city. Add to these the innumerable smaller
haunts of vice that line the more obscure streets-that, rampart-like,
file along the hundred and one “back lanes” that surround the scattered
town, and, reader, you may form some estimation of the ratio of vice
and wretchedness in this population of thirty thousand, of which the
enslaved form one-third.
Having escorted you to the door, generous reader, we will forget the
common-place jargon of the world, and affect a little ceremony, for
Madame Flamingo is delicately exact in matters of etiquette. Touch
gently the bell; you will find it there, a small bronze knob, in the
fluting of the frame, and scarce perceptible to the uninitiated eye. If
rudely you touch it, no notice will be taken; the broad, high front of
her house will remain, like an ill-natured panorama of brick and
freestone, closed till daylight. She admits nothing but gentlemen; and
gentlemen know how to ring a bell. Well, you have touched it like one
of delicate nerves, and like a bell with manners polished by Madame
Flamingo herself, it answers as faintly as does the distant tinkle of
an Arab’s bell in the desert.
There! It was recognized as the ring of a genteel gentleman, and Madame
Flamingo’s heavy foot is heard advancing up the hall. Be a diplomatist
now. Show a white glove, and a delicate hand, and a winning smile, and
you have secured your passport to the satin and brocade of her mansion.
A spring is heard to tick, a whisper of caution to some one within
follows, and a block broad enough to admit your hat swings open,
disclosing the voluptuous splendor of a great hall, the blaze of which
flashes upon your senses, and fills you instinctively with curious
emotions. Simultaneously a broad, cheerful face, somewhat matronly in
its aspect, and enlivened with an urbane smile, darkens the space.
After a few moments’ pause we see two sharp gray eyes peering curiously
at us, and a soft but quick accenting voice inquires who we are. Ah!
yes, the white glove has told who we are, for the massive doors swing
open, and we find ourselves in a long, stately hall, resplendent of
Persian carpets, lounges in tapestry, walls and ceiling frescoed in
uncouth and bright-colored designs, and curiously wrought chandeliers,
shedding over all a bewitching light. The splendor is more gaudy than
regal; it strikes our fancy, but leaves our admiration unmoved. The
door is suddenly closed, and the short, portly figure of Madame (she
bows, saying her house is most select) stands before us, somewhat
nervous, as if she were yet undecided about our position in society.
She has seen some sixty summers, made her nefarious reputation in New
York; there she keeps a joint establishment, which, she adds, has been
kindly patronized by the members of several pumpkin-headed
corporations. Indeed, her princely tabernacle there was owned by one of
these individuals, but in deference to his reputation she had the lease
of a third party. Of corporations in general has she the very highest
opinion.
Madame Flamingo’s round, dapper figure, is set off with a glossy, black
satin, made high at the neck, about which a plain white collar is
arranged, corresponding nicely with the dash of snowy lace down the
stomacher, and an embroidered buff apron, under which she every few
minutes thrusts her fat, jewelled fingers. Her face is pallid, her chin
fat and dimpled, her artificial hair light brown, and lain smoothly
over a low forehead, which is curiously contrasted with a
jauntily-setting cap, the long strings of which flutter down her
shoulders.
“If you please, gentlemen,” she says, “my house is highly
respectable—highly respectable (don’t make strange of me tending my own
door!) I assure you gentlemen.” And Madame Flamingo’s eyes quicken, and
she steps round us, now contemplating us suspiciously, then frisking
her hands beneath her embroidered apron, which she successively
flaunts.
We have assured her of our standing in society. To which, with an air
of resumed confidence, and a quickened step, she says she has (that is,
she thinks she has) seen us before, and is glad to see us again. She is
getting well down in the role of years, has a treacherous memory—the
result of arduous business, and a life of trouble—the poison of a war
upon society—the excitement of seeking revenge of the world. She cannot
at all times trust her memory, for it has given out in the watchfulness
necessary to the respectability of her house, which she regards as the
Gibraltar from which she turns upon society her unerring guns. “Lord,
gentlemen,” she says in quick accents, “the reputation of this house—I
watch it as our senator to Congress does his—is my bank stock; and on
the respectability and behavior of my customers, who are of the first
families, depends my dividends. Madame Flamingo wouldn’t—gentlemen, I
am no doubt known to you by reputation?—soil the reputation of her
house for uncounted gold.” This she whispers, tripping nervously over
the soft carpet up the hall, until she reaches mid-way, where on the
right and left are two massive arched doors of black walnut, with
stained glass for fan-lights. Our guardian (she has assumed the office)
makes a significant motion with her left hand, which she moves
backward, places her right upon the porcelain knob, turns to the right,
and puts her ear inquiringly to the door. “It’s a sort of commonwealth;
yes, sir, a commonwealth—but then they are all gentlemen—some very
distinguished,” she continues, shaking her head as if to caution us.
Voices in loud conversation are heard in the room to the right, while
from out the left float the mellow notes of a waltz, accompanied by the
light tripping of feet.
With an urbane bow, and a familiar smile, Madame opens the door,
watches with an air of exultation the effect her sumptuously-furnished
parlors, and her more sumptuously-dressed worshippers, have on our
feelings. The great glare of Gothic windows; the massive curtains of
orange-colored satin that, veiled with lace, pend in undulating folds
over them; the cloudlike canopy that overhangs a dias at the further
end of the parlor; the gorgeously-carved piano, with keys of pearl,
that stands in dumb show beneath the drapery; the curiously-carved
eagles, in gilt, that perch over each window, and hold daintily in
their beaks the amber-colored drapery; the chastely-designed tapestry
of sumptuously-carved lounges, and reclines, and ottomans, and
patrician chairs, and lute tabs, arranged with exact taste here and
there about the great parlor; the massive centre and side-tables,
richly inlaid with pearl and Mosaic; the antique vases interspersed
along the sides, between the windows, and contrasting curiously with
the undulating curtains, looped alternately with goddesses of liberty,
in gilt; the jetting lights from a great chandelier, blending with
prismatic reflections; and the gaudy gossamers in which weary and
blanched-faced females flaunt, more undressed than dressed—all mingle
in one blaze of barbaric splendor.
It is here your child of ignorance and neglect is fascinated and made
to drink the first cup of death; it is here your faltering sister
falls; it is here your betrayed daughter seeks revenge; it is here your
forlorn, outcast sufferer first feels the world her enemy, has no
sympathizing sister to stretch out the hand of encouragement, and sinks
hopeless in the agony of her meditations. It is here, alas! too often
necessity forces its hapless victims, and from whence a relentless
world—without hope of regaining the lost jewel—hurls them down a short
life, into a premature grave. Your church is near by, but it never
steps in here to make an inquiry; and if it chance to cast a suspicious
look in now and then, it is only as it passes along to inquire the
state of the slave market, of so much more importance is the price of
men. Your common school (a thing unknown, and held extremely dangerous
in Carolina!) may be your much talked of guiding star to virtue; your
early education is your bulwark against which the wave of vice is
powerless; but unless you make it something more than a magnificent
theory—unless you seek practical means, and go down into the haunts of
vice, there to drag up the neglected child, to whom the word early
education is a mystery, you leave untouched the festering volcano that
vomits its deadly embers upon the community.
Your homilies preached to pew-holders of fashion, who live sumptuously,
ride sumptuously to church of a Sunday, and meekly enjoy a sumptuous
sermon for appearance sake, will, so long as you pass unheeded the
haunts of vice, fall as chaff before the wind. You must make “early
education” more than the mere motto of future happiness; you must go
undaunted into the avenues of want and misery, seek out the fallen
child, forbear with her, and kindly teach her how much good there is in
its principles, its truths.
Pardon, generous reader, this digression, and keep our arm while we see
of what metal are the votaries at the shrine of Madame Flamingo. “I
am—that is, they say I am—something of an aristocrat, you see,
gentlemen,” says the old woman, flaunting her embroidered apron, and
fussily doddling round the great centre-table, every few minutes
changing backward and forward two massive decanters and four cut-glass
goblets. We bow approvingly. Then with an air of exultation she turns
on her centre, giving a scrutinizing look at the rich decorations of
her palace, and again at us, as if anxious to draw from us one word of
approval. “Gentlemen are no way sensitive here,” pursues Madame
Flamingo, moving again the great decanters, “it’s a commonwealth of
gentlemen, you see. In New York—I dash out there, you know—my house is
a perfect palace. I keep a footman and coachman there, have the most
exact liveries, and keep up an establishment equal to my Fifth Avenue
neighbors, whose trade of rope and fish is now lost in their terrible
love of plush. I am a woman of taste, you see; but, my honor for it,
gentlemen, I know of no people so given to plush and great buttons as
our Fifth Avenue parvenues.”
It is a high old house this of Madame Flamingo. We speak approvingly of
all we see, her pride is stimulated, she quickens her conversation. “I
think you said two bottles, gentlemen? Our sparkling Moselle is
pronounced a gem by connoisseurs.” And again flaunting her embroidered
apron, she trips hurriedly out of the room. While she is gone we turn
to view its human furniture. Yonder, in a cozy alcove, stands a
marble-topped pier-table, at which are seated two gentlemen of great
respectability in the community, playing whist with fair but frail
partners. Near them, on a soft lounge, is seated a man of portly person
and venerable appearance (his hair is snowy white, and he has a frank,
open countenance), holding converse with, and evidently enamoured of a
modest and beautiful girl, of some sixteen summers, who has just taken
her seat at the opposite end. Madame Flamingo addresses this man as
“Judge.” His daylight duty is known to be that of presiding over a
criminal court. The girl with whom he nervously holds conversation, and
whose bright, Italian eyes, undulating black hair, Grecian face and
fair features, swelling bust and beautifully-chiseled shoulders, round
polished arms and tapering hands, erect figure, so exactly dressed in
black brocade, and so reserve in her demeanor, is the Anna Bonard of
this history. “Judge!” she says in reply to a question he has advanced,
and turning disdainfully upon him her great black eyes, walks
gracefully out of the room.
Sitting on a sofa opposite is a slender youth, somewhat flashily
dressed. His complexion is sandy, there is something restless in his
manner; and in his features, which are sharp and watchful, is that
which indicates a mind weak and vacillating. He sits alone, seemingly
thoughtful, and regarding with a jealous eye the insidious manner in
which the venerable judge addresses the beautiful Anna, in whom you
must know, reader, he has a deep and passionate interest. As Anna
passes out of the room he, like one in despair, rests his head in his
pale, bony, and freckled hand, and mutters to himself: “I will have
revenge. His gray hairs shall not save him—my name is George
Mullholland!”
Here and there, on sofas arranged between the great windows, sit faded
denizens, reclining languidly in dresses of various bright colors, set
off with gaudy trinkets, and exhibiting that passion for cheap jewelry
so much in vogue with the vulgar of our self-plumed aristocracy—such as
live at fashionable hotels, and, like Mrs. Snivel, who has a palace on
the Fifth Avenue, make a show-case for cheap diamonds of themselves at
breakfast table. Beside these denizens are men of every shade and grade
of society. With one sits the distinguished lawyer; with a second
converses the grave-demeanored merchant, who seeks, away from the cares
of his domestic hearth, to satisfy his curiosity here; with a third,
the celebrated physician sips his wine; with a fourth, the fatherly
planter exchanges his saliant jokes; with a fifth, Doctor Handy the
politician—who, to please his fashionable wife, a northern lady of
great beauty, has just moved from the country into the city, keeps up
an unmeaning conversation. In the lefthand corner, seated on an
ottoman, and regarding the others as if a barrier were placed between
them, are two men designated gamblers. Your Southern gentleman is, with
few exceptions, a votary of the exciting vice; but he who makes it his
profession severs the thread that bound him to society. And there sits
not far from these members of the sporting fraternity, the tall,
slender figure of a man, habited in the garb of a quaker. He regards
everything about him with the eye of a philosopher, has a flowing white
beard, a mild, playful blue eye, a short but well-lined nose, a pale
oval face, an evenly-cut mouth, and an amiable expression of
countenance. He intently watches every movement of the denizens, and
should one accost him, he will answer in soft, friendly accents. He
seems known to Madame Flamingo, whom he regards with a mysterious
demeanor, and addresses as does a father his child. The old hostess
gets no profit of his visits, for “he is only a moralist,” she says,
and his name is Solon —; and better people love him more as more they
know him.
Madame Flamingo has returned, followed by a colored gentleman in bright
livery, bearing on a silver tray two seductive bottles of the sparkling
nectar, and sundry rich-cut goblets. “There! there!” says the old
hostess, pointing to the centre-table, upon which the colored man
deposits them, and commences arranging some dozen glasses, as she
prepares to extract the corks. Now she fills the glasses with the
effervescing beverage, which the waiter again places on the tray, and
politely serves to the denizens, in whose glassy eyes, sallow faces,
coarse, unbared arms and shoulders, is written the tale of their
misery. The judge drinks with the courtesan, touches glasses with the
gambler, bows in compliment to the landlady, who reiterates that she
keeps the most respectable house and the choicest wine. The moralist
shakes his head, and declines.
And while a dozen voices are pronouncing her beverage excellent, she
turns suddenly and nervously to her massive, old-fashioned side-board,
of carved walnut, and from the numerous cut glass that range
grotesquely along its top, draws forth an aldermanic decanter, much
broken. Holding it up to the view of her votaries, and looking upon it
with feelings of regret, “that,” she says, “is what I got, not many
nights since, for kindly admitting one—I don’t know when I did such a
thing before, mind ye!—of the common sort of people. I never have any
other luck when I take pity on one who has got down hill. I have often
thought that the more kind I am the more ungrateful they upon whom I
lavish my favors get. You must treat the world just as it treats
you—you must.”
To your simple question, reader, more simply advanced, she replies
coquettishly: “Now, on my word of honor, Tom Swiggs did that. And the
poor fellow—I call him poor fellow, because, thinking of what he used
to be, I can’t help it—has not a cent to pay for his pranks with. Bless
you, (here Madame Flamingo waxes warm,) why I knew Tom Swiggs years
ago, when he wasn’t what he is now! He was as dashing a young buck then
as you’d meet in the city; used to come here a perfect gentleman; and I
liked him, and he liked me, and he got to liking the house, so you
couldn’t, if you had wanted to, have kept him away. And he always had
no end of money, which he used to spend so freely. Poor fellow! (she
sighs and shakes her head,) I confess I used to almost love Tom then.
Then he got to courting a lady—she (Madame corrects herself) wasn’t a
lady though, she was only the daughter of a mechanic of small
means—mechanic families have no standing in society, you see—and this
cut deep into his mother’s pride. And she, you see, was not quite sure
where she stood in society, you see, and wouldn’t for the world have
her pride lessened; so she discarded poor Tom. And the girl has been
got out of the way, and Tom has become penniless, and such a wreck of
dissipation that no respectable house will admit him. It’s a stiff old
family, that Swiggs family! His mother keeps him threading in and out
of jail, just to be rid of him. She is a curious mother; but when I
think how he looks and acts, how can I wonder she keeps him in jail? I
had to put him there twice—I had! (Madame Flamingo becomes emphatic.)
But remembering what a friend of the house he used to be, I took pity
on him, let him out, and lent him two dollars. And there’s honor—I’ve
great faith in honor—in Tom, who, I honestly believe, providing the
devil do not get him in one of his fits, will pay all damages,
notwithstanding I placed the reputation of my house in jeopardy with
him a few nights since, was forced to call three policemen to eject
him, and resolved that he should not again darken my door.”