IN WHICH THE READER IS PRESENTED WITH A VARIED PICTURE.
Tom has passed a restless night in jail. He has dreamed of bottled
snakes, with eyes wickedly glaring at him; of fiery-tailed serpents
coiling all over him; of devils in shapes he has no language to
describe; of the waltz of death, in which he danced at the mansion of
Madame 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 moral
infirmity. 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 seemed to enjoy each other’s company exceedingly, got the better of
the bishop, who was scrupulous of his dignity, and not a little anxious
about being seen 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
he is plumed by the prisoners, whom he daily visits in his mission of
good. There was something so frank and gentle in this young man’s
demeanor—something so manly and radiant in his countenance—something so
disinterested and holy in his mission of love—something so opposite to
the coldness of the great world without—something so serene and
elevated in his youth, that even the most inveterate criminal awaited
his coming with emotions of joy, and gave a ready ear to his kindly
advice. Indeed, the prisoners called him their child; and he seemed not
dainty of their approach, but took them each by the hand, sat at their
side, addressed them as should one brother address another;—yea, he
made them to feel that what was their interest it was his joy to
promote.
The young theologian took him a seat close by the side of the dreaming
inebriate; and as he woke convulsively, and turned towards him his
distorted 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 the
hand. “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 is
a chance for you yet; and there is a chance; and you must struggle; and
I 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
think you are friendless, for then you are a certain victim in the
hands of the ruthless enemy—”
“Well, well,” pauses Tom, casting a half-suspicious look at the young
man, “I forgot. There’s you, and him they call old Spunyarn, are
friends, after all. You’ll excuse me, but I didn’t think of that;” and
a feeling of satisfaction seemed to have come over him. “How grateful
to have friends when a body’s in a place of this kind,” he mutters
incoherently, as the tears gush from his distended eyes, and child-like
he grasps the hand of the young man.
“Be comforted with the knowledge that you have friends, Tom. One
all-important thing is wanted, and you are a man again.”
“As to that!” interrupts Tom, doubtingly, and laying his begrimed hand
on his burning forehead, while he alternately frets and frisks his
fingers 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 think
I’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 our
chivalry—you do!”
“You must banish from your mind these despairing thoughts,” replies the
young man, laying his right hand approvingly on Tom’s head. “First,
Tom,” he pursues, “be to yourself a friend; second, forget the error of
your mother, and forgive her sending you here; and third, cut the house
of 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
our nature; and to be capable of forming and maintaining a resolution
to shake off the thraldom of vice, and to place oneself in the serener
atmosphere of good society, is equally worthy of the highest
commendation.”
Tom received this in silence, and seemed hesitating between what he
conceived an imperative demand and the natural inclination of his
passions.
“Give me your hand, and with it your honor—I know you yet retain the
latent 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 he
has on hand?”
“I do not withhold from you any discretionary indulgence that may bring
relief—”
Tom interrupts by saying, “My mother, you know!”
“I will see her, and plead with her on your behalf; and if she have a
mother’s feelings I can overcome her prejudice.”
Tom says, despondingly, he has no home to go to. It’s no use seeing his
mother; she’s all dignity, and won’t let it up an inch. “If I could
only persuade 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
seek a home for you elsewhere.”
“Well, there can’t be much harm in an effort, at all events; and here’s
my hand, in sincerity. But it won’t do to shut down until I get over
this bit of a fog I’m now in.” With child-like simplicity, Tom gives
his hand to the young man, who, as old Spunyarn enters the cell to, as
he says, 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,
like numerous other families in the State, seem to have outlived two
chivalrous generations, fed upon aristocracy, and are dying out
contemplating their own greatness. Indeed, the Swiggs family, while it
lived and enjoyed the glory of its name, was very like the Barnwell
family of this day, who, one by one, die off with the very pardonable
and very harmless belief that the world never can get along without the
aid of South Carolina, it being the parthenon from which the outside
world gets all its greatness. Her leading and very warlike newspapers,
(the people of these United States ought to know, if they do not
already,) it was true, were editorialized, as it was politely called in
the little State-militant, by a species of unreputationized Jew and
Yankee; but this you should know—if you do not already, gentle
reader—that it is only because such employments are regarded by the
lofty-minded chivalry as of too vulgar a nature to claim a place in
their attention.
The clock of old Saint Michels, a clock so tenacious of its dignity as
to go only when it pleases, and so aristocratic in its habits as not to
go at all in rainy weather;—a clock held in great esteem by the “very
first families,” has just struck eleven. The young, pale-faced
missionary inquiringly hesitates before a small, two-story building of
wood, located on the upper side of Church street, and so crabbed in
appearance that you might, without endangering your reputation, have
sworn it had incorporated in its framework a portion of that chronic
disease for which the State has gained for itself an unenviable
reputation. Jutting out of the black, moss-vegetating roof, is an
old-maidish looking window, with a dowdy white curtain spitefully
tucked up at the side. The mischievous young negroes have pecked half
the bricks out of the foundation, and with them made curious grottoes
on the pavement. Disordered and unpainted clapboards spread over the
dingy front, which is set off with two upper and two lower windows, all
blockaded with infirm, green shutters. Then there is a snuffy door,
high and narrow (like the State’s notions), and reached by six
venerable steps and a stoop, carefully guarded with a pine hand-rail,
fashionably painted 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
smallest space, you have only to look in here and be told (she closely
patterns after the State in all things!) that fifty-five summers of her
crispy life have been spent here, reading Milton’s Paradise Lost and
contemplating the greatness of her departed family.
The old steps creak and complain as the young man ascends them, holding
nervously on at the blue hand-rail, and reaching in due time the stoop,
the strength of which he successively tests with his right foot, and
stands contemplating the snuffy door. A knocker painted in villanous
green—a lion-headed knocker, of grave deportment, looking as savage as
lion can well do in this chivalrous atmosphere, looks admonitiously at
him. “Well!” he sighs as he raises it, “there’s no knowing what sort of
a reception I may get.” He has raised the monster’s head and given
three gentle taps. Suddenly a frisking and whispering, shutting of
doors and tripping of feet, is heard within; and after a lapse of
several minutes the door swings carefully open, and the dilapidated
figure of an old negro woman, lean, shrunken, and black as Egyptian
darkness—with serious 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 specimen
of human infirmity half closes the door against him and doddles back. A
slight whispering, and Mrs. Swiggs is heard to say—“show him into the
best parlor.” And into the best parlor, and into the august presence of
Mrs. Swiggs is he ushered. The best parlor is a little, dingy room, low
of ceiling, and skirted with a sombre-colored surbase, above which is
papering, the original color of which it would be difficult to
discover. A listen carpet, much faded and patched, spreads over the
floor, the walls are hung with several small engravings, much valued
for their age and associations, but so crooked as to give one the idea
of the house having withstood a storm at sea; and the furniture is made
up of a few venerable mahogany chairs, a small side-table, on which
stands, much disordered, several well-worn books and papers, two
patch-covered foot-stools, a straightbacked rocking-chair, in which the
august woman rocks her straighter self, and a great tin cage, from
between the bars of 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 a receptacle for those second-hand coffins the State
buries its poor in.
“Well! who are you? And what do you want? You have brought letters, I
s’pose?” a sharp, squeaking voice, speaks rapidly.
The young man, without waiting for an invitation to sit down, takes
nervously a seat at the side-table, saying he has come on a mission of
love.
“Love! love! eh? Young man—know that you have got into the wrong
house!” 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 have
either 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 her dignity. A sharp, hatchet-face, sallow and corrugated; two
wicked gray eyes, set deep in bony sockets; a long, irregular nose,
midway of which is adjusted a pair of broad, brass-framed spectacles; a
sunken, purse-drawn mouth, with two discolored teeth protruding from
her upper lip; a high, narrow forehead, resembling somewhat crumpled
parchment; a dash of dry, brown hair relieving the ponderous border of
her steeple-crowned cap, which she seems to have thrown on her head in
a hurry; a moth-eaten, red shawl thrown spitefully over her shoulders,
disclosing a sinewy and sassafras-colored neck above, and the small end
of 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
nice embodiment of several of those qualities which the State clings
tenaciously to, and calls its own, for she lives on the labor of eleven
aged negroes, five of whom are cripples.
The young man smiles, as Mrs. Swiggs increases the velocity of her
rocking, 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!” 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 as
a passport—”
“I’m of a good family, you must know, young man. You could have learned
that of anybody before seeking this sort of an introduction. Any of our
first families could have told you about me. You must go your way,
young man!” And she twitches her head, and pulls closer about her lean
shoulders the old red shawl.
“I (if you will permit me, Madam) am not ignorant of the very high
standing of your famous family—” Madam interposes by saying, every
muscle of her frigid face unmoved the while, she is glad he knows
something, “having read of them in a celebrated work by one of our more
celebrated genealogists—”
“But you should have brought a letter from the Bishop! and upon that
based your claims to a favorable reception. Then you have read of Sir
Sunderland Swiggs, my ancestor? Ah! he was such a Baron, and owned such
estates in the days of Elizabeth. But you should have brought a letter,
young man.” Mrs. Swiggs replies rapidly, alternately raising and
lowering her squeaking voice, twitching her head, and grasping tighter
her Milton.
“Those are his arms and crest.” She points with her Milton to a
singular hieroglyphic, in a wiry black frame, resting on the
marble-painted mantelpiece. “He was very distinguished in his time; and
such an excellent Christian.” She shakes her head and wipes the tears
from her spectacles, 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 in
the book I refer to—”
She again interposes. The young man watches her emotions with a
penetrating eye, conscious that he has touched a chord in which all the
milk of kindness is not dried up.
“It’s a true copy of the family arms. Everybody has got to having arms
now-a-days. (She points to the indescribable scrawl over the
mantelpiece.) It was got through Herald King, of London, who they say
keeps her Majesty’s slippers and the great seal of State. We were very
exact, you see. Yes, sir—we were very exact. Our vulgar people, you
see-I mean such as have got up by trade, and that sort of thing—went to
a vast expense in sending to England a man of great learning and much
aforethought, to ransack heraldry court and trace out their families.
Well, he went, lived very expensively, spent several years abroad, and
being very clever in his way, returned, bringing them all pedigrees of
the very best kind. With only two exceptions, he traced them all down
into 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 was shown, came of noble blood, so displeased—the most ingenious
(the old lady shakes her head regrettingly) can’t please everybody—the
living members of these families, that they refused to pay the poor man
for his researches, 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 refuse to accept the pedigree. They are both rich grocers,
you see! and on this account we were very particular about ours.”
The young man thought it well not to interrupt the old woman’s display
of weakness, inasmuch as it might produce a favorable change in her
feelings.
“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 nothing
to 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 knew
it. Never saw one of your black-coated flock about that there wasn’t
mischief brewing—never! I can’t read my Milton in peace for you—”
“But your son is in prison, Madam, among criminals, and subject to the
influence 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 your
way, 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 of
mine.”
“I am a Christian: I would like to extend a Christian’s hand to your
son. 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 so
many 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. “I
wonder how folks can live out of it.”
“As to that, Madam, permit me to say, I am happy to see and appreciate
your 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! He
has disgraced the family; I have put him where he is seven times; he
shall rot were he is! He never shall disgrace the family again. Think
of Sir Sunderland Swiggs, and then think of him, and see what a pretty
level the family has come to! That’s the place for him. I have told him
a 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 his
countenance. “I have no doubt I can work your son’s reform—perhaps make
him an honor to the family—”
“He honor the family!” she interrupts, twitches the shawl about her
shoulders, and permits herself to get into a state of general
excitement. “I should like to see one who has disgraced the family as
much as he has think of honoring it—”
“Through kindness and forbearance, Madam, a great deal may be done,”
the young 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 lady calls
Rebecca, the decrepit slave who opened the door, and directs her to
show the young man out. “There now!” she says testily, turning to the
marked page of her Milton.
The young man contemplates her for a few moments, but, having no
alternative, 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 with
neatly-combed Saxon hair and beard, and who taps the old negress under
the 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 the
presence of the old lady, as if he had news of great importance for
her.