IN WHICH ARE MATTERS THE READER MAY HAVE ANTICIPATED.
Mr. Soloman Snivel has effected a reconciliation between old Judge
Sleepyhorn and the beautiful Anna Bonard, and he has flattered the
weak-minded George Mullholland into a belief that the old Judge, as he
styles him, is his very best friend. So matters go on swimmingly at the
house of Madame Flamingo. Indeed Mr. Soloman can make himself extremely
useful in any affair requiring the exercise of nice diplomatic skill-no
matter whether it be of love or law. He gets people into debt, and out
of debt; into bankruptcy and out of bankruptcy; into jail and out of
jail; into society and out of society. He has officiated in almost
every capacity but that of a sexton. If you want money, Mr. Soloman can
always arrange the little matter for you. If you have old negroes you
want to get off your hands at a low figure, he has a customer. If you
want to mortgage your negro property, a thing not uncommon with our
very first families, Mr. Soloman is your man. Are you worth a fee, and
want legal advice, he will give it exactly to your liking. Indeed, he
will lie you into the most hopeless suit, and with equal pertinacity
lie you out of the very best. Every judge is his friend and most
intimate acquaintance. He is always rollicking, frisking, and
insinuating himself into something, affects to be the most liberal sort
of a companion, never refuses to drink when invited, but never invites
any one unless he has a motive beyond friendship. Mr. Keepum, the
wealthy lottery broker, who lives over the way, in Broad street, in the
house with the mysterious signs, is his money-man. This Keepum, the man
with the sharp visage and guilty countenance, has an excellent standing
in society, having got it as the reward of killing two men. Neither of
these deeds of heroism, however, were the result of a duel. Between
these worthies there exists relations mutually profitable, if not the
most honorable. And notwithstanding Mr. Soloman is forever sounding Mr.
Keepum’s generosity, the said Keepum has a singular faculty for holding
with a firm grasp all he gets, the extent of his charities being a
small mite now and then to Mr. Hadger, the very pious agent for the New
York Presbyterian Tract Society. Mr. Hadger, who by trading in things
called negroes, and such like wares, has become a man of great means,
twice every year badgers the community in behalf of this society, and
chuckles over what he gets of Keepum, as if a knave’s money was a sure
panacea for the cure of souls saved through the medium of those highly
respectable tracts the society 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. Our
little fashionable world has got itself arrayed in its best satin-and
is in a flutter. Carriages, with servants in snobby coats, beset the
doors of the theatre. A flashing of silks, satins, brocades, tulle and
jewelry, 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 lively
picture of bright-colored robes. Mr. Snivel’s handsome figure is seen
looming out of a private box in the left-hand procenium, behind the
curtain of which, and on the opposite side, a mysterious hand every now
and then frisks, makes a small but prudent opening, and disappears.
Again it appears, with delicate and chastely-jeweled fingers.
Cautiously the red curtain moves aside apace, and the dark languishing
eyes of a female, scanning over the dress-circle, are revealed. She
recognizes the venerable figure of Judge Sleepyhorn, who has made a
companion of George Mullholland, and sits at his side in the parquette.
Timidly she closes the curtain.
In the right-hand procenium box sits, resplendent of jewels and laces,
and surrounded by her many admirers, the beautiful and very fashionable
Madame Montford, a woman of singularly regular features, and more than
ordinary charms. Opinion is somewhat divided on the early history of
Madame Montford. Some have it one thing, some another. Society is sure
to slander a woman of transcendent beauty and intellect. There is
nothing in the world more natural, especially when those charms attract
fashionable admirers. It is equally true, too, that if you would wipe
out any little taint that may hang about the skirts of your character
you must seek the panacea in a distant State, where, with the
application of a little diplomacy you may become the much sought for
wonder of a new atmosphere and new friends, as is the case with Madame
Montford, who rebukes her New York neighbors of the Fifth Avenue (she
has a princely mansion there), with the fact that in Charleston she is,
whenever she visits it, the all-absorbing topic with fashionable
society. For four successive winters Madame Montford has honored the
elite of Charleston with her presence. The advent of her coming, too,
has been duly heralded in the morning papers-to the infinite delight of
the St. Cecilia Society, which never fails to distinguish her arrival
with a ball. And this ball is sure to be preceded with no end of
delicately-perfumed cards, and other missives, as full of compliments
as it is capable of cramming them. There is, notwithstanding all these
ovations in honor of her coming, a mystery hanging over her periodical
visits, for the sharp-eyed persist that they have seen her disguised,
and in suspicious places; making singular inquiries about a woman of
the name of Mag Munday. And these suspicions have given rise to
whisperings, and these whisperings have crept into the ears of several
very old and highly-respectable “first families,” which said families
have suddenly dropped her acquaintance. But what is more noticeable in
the features of Madame Montford, is the striking similarity between
them and Anna Bonard’s. Her most fervent admirers have noticed it;
while strangers have not failed to discover it, and to comment upon it.
And the girl who sits in the box with Mr. Snivel, so cautiously
fortifying herself with the curtain, is none other than Anna. Mr.
Snivel has brought her here as an 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 up
in a handkerchief. He will deliver it to no one but the manager, and in
spite of his other duties that functionary is compelled to receive it
in person. This done, the old man, to the merriment of certain wags who
delight to speculate on his childlike credulity, takes a seat in the
parquette, wipes clean his venerable spectacles, and placing them
methodically over his eyes, forms a unique picture in the foreground of
the audience. McArthur, with the aid of his glasses, can recognize
objects at a distance; and as the Hamlet of the night is decidedly
Teutonic in his appearance and pronunciation, he has no great relish
for the Star, nor a hand of applause to bestow on his genius. Hamlet,
he is sure, never articulated with a coarse brogue. So turning from the
stage, he amuses himself with minutely scanning the faces of the
audience, and resolving in his mind that something will turn up in the
grave-digger’s scene, of which he is an enthusiastic admirer. It is,
indeed, he thinks to himself, very doubtful, whether in this wide world
the much-abused William Shakspeare hath a more ardent admirer of this
curious but faithful illustration of his genius. Suddenly his attention
seems riveted on the private box, in which sits the stately figure of
Madame Montford, flanked in a half-circle by her perfumed and
white-gloved admirers. “What!” exclaims the old man, in surprise,
rubbing and replacing his glasses, “if I’m not deceived! Well-I can’t
be. If there isn’t the very woman, a little altered, who has several
times looked into my little place of an evening. Her questions were so
curious that I couldn’t make out what she really wanted (she never
bought anything); but she always ended with inquiring about poor Mag
Munday. People think because I have all sorts of things, that I must
know about all sorts of things. I never could tell her much that
satisfied her, for Mag, report had it, was carried off by the yellow
fever, and nobody ever thought of her afterwards. And because I
couldn’t tell this woman any more, she would go away with tears in her
eyes.” Mr. McArthur whispers to a friend on his right, and touches him
on the arm, “Pooh! pooh!” returns the man, with measured indifference,
“that’s the reigning belle of the season-Madame Montford, the buxom
widow, who has been just turned forty for some years.”
The play proceeds, and soon the old man’s attention is drawn from the
Widow Montford by the near approach to the scene of the grave-digger.
And as that delineator enters the grave, and commences his tune, the
old man’s anxiety increases.
A twitching and shrugging of the shoulders, discovers Mr. McArthur’s
feelings. The grave-digger, to the great delight of the Star, bespreads
the stage with a multiplicity of bones. Then he follows them with a
skull, the appearance of which causes Mr. McArthur to exclaim, “Ah!
that’s my poor Yorick.” He rises from his seat, and abstractedly stares
at the Star, then at the audience. The audience gives out a spontaneous
burst of applause, which the Teutonic Hamlet is inclined to regard as
an indignity offered to superior talent. A short pause and his face
brightens with a smile, the grave-digger shoulders his pick, and with
the thumb of his right hand to his nasal organ, throws himself into a
comical attitude. The audience roar with delight; the Star, ignorant of
the cause of what he esteems a continued insult, waves his plumes to
the audience, and with an air of contempt walks off the stage.