WHICH A STATE OF SOCIETY IS SLIGHTLY REVEALED.
A week has rolled into the past since the event at the Keno den.
Madame Montford, pale, thoughtful, and abstracted, sits musing in her
parlor. “Between this hope and fear-this remorse of conscience, this
struggle to overcome the suspicions of society, I have no peace. I am
weary of this slandering-this unforgiving world. And yet it is my own
conscience that refuses to forgive me. Go where I will I see the cold
finger of scorn pointed at me: I read in every countenance, ‘Madame
Montford, you have wronged some one-your guilty conscience betrays
you!’ I have sought to atone for my error-to render justice to one my
heart tells me I have wronged, yet I cannot shake off the dread burden;
and there seems rest for me only in the grave. Ah! there it is. The one
error of my life, and the means used to conceal it, may have brought
misery upon more heads than one.” She lays her hand upon her heart, and
shakes her head sorrowfully. “Yes! something like a death-knell rings
in my ears-‘more than one have you sent, unhappy, to the grave.’
Rejected by the one I fancy my own; my very touch scorned; my motives
misconstrued-all, perhaps, by-a doubt yet hangs between us-an abandoned
stranger. Duty to my conscience has driven me to acts that have
betrayed me to society. I cannot shake my guilt from me even for a day;
and now society coldly cancels all my claims to its attentions. If I
could believe her dead; if I but knew this girl was not the object of
all my heart’s unrest, then the wearying doubt would be buried, and my
heart might find peace in some remote corner of the earth. Well,
well-perhaps I am wasting all this torture on an unworthy object. I
should have thought of this sooner, for now foul slander is upon every
tongue, and my misery is made thrice painful by my old flatterers. I
will make one more effort, then if I fail of getting a certain clue to
her, I will remove to some foreign country, shake off these haunting
dreams, and be no longer a victim to my own thoughts.” Somewhat
relieved, Madame is roused from her reverie by a gentle tap at the
door. “I have waited your coming, and am glad to see you;” she says,
extending her hand, as a servant, in response to her command, ushers
into her presence no less a person than Tom Swiggs. “I have sent for
you,” she resumes, motioning him gracefully to a chair, in which she
begs he will be seated, “because I feel I can confide in you—”
“Anything in my power is at your service, Madame,” modestly interposes
Tom, regaining confidence.
“I entrusted something of much importance to me, to Mr. Snivel—”
“We call him the Hon. Mr. Snivel now, since he has got to be a great
politician,” interrupts Tom.
“And he not only betrayed my confidence,” pursues Madame Montford, “but
retains the amount I paid him, and forgets to render the promised
service. You, I am told, can render me a service—”
“As for Mr. Snivel,” pursues Tom, hastily, “he has of late had his
hands full, getting a poor but good-natured fellow, by the name of
George Mullholland, into trouble. His friend, Judge Sleepyhorn, and he,
have for some time had a plot on hand to crush this poor fellow. A few
nights ago Snivel drove him mad at a gambling den, and in his
desperation he robbed a man of his pocket-book. He shared the money
with a poor woman he rescued at the den, and that is the way it was
discovered that he was the criminal. He is a poor, thoughtless man, and
he has been goaded on from one thing to another, until he was driven to
commit this act. First, his wife was got away from him—” Tom pauses and
blushes, as Madame Montford says: “His wife was got away from him?”
“Yes, Madame,” returns Tom, with an expression of sincerity. “The Judge
got her away from him; and this morning he was arraigned before that
same Judge for examination, and Mr. Snivel was a principal witness, and
there was enough found against him to commit him for trial at the
Sessions.” Discovering that this information is exciting her emotions,
Tom pauses, and contemplates her with steady gaze. She desires he will
be her guide to the Poor-House, and there assist her in searching for
Mag Munday, whom, report says, is confined in a cell. Tom having
expressed his readiness to serve her, they are soon on their way to
that establishment.
A low, squatty building, with a red, moss-covered roof, two lean
chimneys peeping out, the windows blockaded with dirt, and situated in
one of the by-lanes of the city, is our Poor-House, standing half hid
behind a crabbed old wall, and looking very like a much-neglected
Quaker church in vegetation. We boast much of our institutions, and
this being a sample of them, we hold it in great reverence. You may say
that nothing so forcibly illustrates a state of society as the
character of its institutions for the care of those unfortunate beings
whom a capricious nature has deprived of their reason. We agree with
you. We see our Poor-House crumbling to the ground with decay, yet
imagine it, or affect to imagine it, a very grand edifice, in every way
suited to the wants of such rough ends of humanity as are found in it.
Like Satan, we are brilliant believers in ourselves, not bad sophists,
and singularly clever in finding apologies for all great crimes.
At the door of the Poor-House stands a dilapidated hearse, to which an
old gray horse is attached. A number of buzzards have gathered about
him, turn their heads suspiciously now and then, and seem meditating a
descent upon his bones at no very distant day. Madame casts a glance at
the hearse, and the poor old horse, and the cawing buzzards, then
follows Tom, timidly, to the door. He has rung the bell, and soon there
stands before them, in the damp doorway, a fussy old man, with a very
broad, red face, and a very blunt nose, and two very dull, gray eyes,
which he fortifies with a pair of massive-framed spectacles, that have
a passion for getting upon the tip-end of his broad blunt nose.
“There, you want to see somebody! Always somebody wanted to be seen,
when we have dead folks to get rid of,” mutters the old man,
querulously, then looking inquiringly at the visitors. Tom says they
would like to go over the premises. “Yes-know you would. Ain’t so dull
but I can see what folks want when they look in here.” The old man, his
countenance wearing an expression of stupidity, runs his dingy fingers
over the crown of his bald head, and seems questioning within himself
whether to admit them. “I’m not in a very good humor to-day,” he rather
growls than speaks, “but you can come in—I’m of a good family-and I’ll
call Glentworthy. I’m old-I can’t get about much. We’ll all get old.”
The building seems in a very bad temper generally.
Mr. Glentworthy is called. Mr. Glentworthy, with a profane expletive,
pops his head out at the top of the stairs, and inquires who wants him.
The visitors have advanced into a little, narrow passage, lumbered with
all sorts of rubbish, and swarming with flies. Mr. Saddlerock (for this
is the old man’s name) seems in a declining mood, the building seems in
a declining mood, Mr. Glentworthy seems in a declining mood-everything
you look at seems in a declining mood. “As if I hadn’t enough to do,
gettin’ off this dead cribber!” interpolates Mr. Glentworthy,
withdrawing his wicked face, and taking himself back into a room on the
left.
“He’s not so bad a man, only it doesn’t come out at first;” pursues Mr.
Saddlerock, continuing to rub his head, and to fuss round on his toes.
His mind, Madame Montford verily believes stuck in a fog. “We must wait
a bit,” says the old man, his face seeming to elongate. “You can look
about-there’s not much to be seen, and what there is-well, it’s not the
finest.” Mr. Saddlerock shuffles his feet, and then shuffles himself
into a small side room. Through the building there breathes a warm,
sickly atmosphere; the effect has left its marks upon the sad, waning
countenances of its unfortunate inmates.
Tom and Madame Montford set out to explore the establishment. They
enter room after room, find them small, dark, and filthy beyond
description. Some are crowded with half-naked, flabby females, whose
careworn faces, and well-starved aspect, tells a sorrowful tale of the
chivalry. An abundant supply of profane works, in yellow and red
covers, would indeed seem to have been substituted for food, which, to
the shame of our commissioners, be it said, is a scarce article here.
Cooped up in another little room, after the fashion of wild beasts in a
cage, are seven poor idiots, whose forlorn condition, sad, dull
countenances, as they sit round a table, staring vacantly at one
another, like mummies in contemplation, form a wild but singularly
touching picture. Each countenance pales before the seeming study of
its opponent, until, enraptured and amazed, they break out into a wild,
hysterical laugh. And thus, poisoned, starved, and left to die, does
time with these poor mortals fleet on.
The visitors ascend to the second story. A shuffling of feet in a room
at the top of the stairs excites their curiosity. Mr. Glentworthy’s
voice grates harshly on the ear, in language we cannot insert in this
history. “Our high families never look into low places-chance if the
commissioner has looked in here for years,” says Tom, observing Madame
Montford protect her inhaling organs with her perfumed cambric. “There
is a principle of economy carried out-and a very nice principle, too,
in getting these poor out of the world as quick as possible.” Tom
pushes open a door, and, heavens! what a sight is here. He stands
aghast in the doorway-Madam, on tip-toe, peers anxiously in over his
shoulders. Mr. Glentworthy and two negroes-the former slightly
inebriated, the latter trembling of fright-are preparing to box up a
lifeless mass, lying carelessly upon the floor. The distorted features,
the profusion of long, red hair, curling over a scared face, and the
stalworth figure, shed some light upon the identity of the deceased.
“Who is it?” ejaculates Mr. Glentworthy, in response to an inquiry from
Tom. Mr. Glentworthy shrugs his shoulders, and commences whistling a
tune. “That cove!” he resumes, having stopped short in his tune, “a man
what don’t know that cove, never had much to do with politics. Stuffed
more ballot boxes, cribbed more voters, and knocked down more slip-shod
citizens-that cove has, than, put ’em all together, would make a South
Carolina regiment. A mighty man among politicians, he was! Now the
devil has cribbed him-he’ll know how good it is!” Mr. Glentworthy says
this with an air of superlative satisfaction, resuming his tune. The
dead man is Milman Mingle, the vote-cribber, who died of a wound he
received at the hands of an antagonist, whom he was endeavoring to
“block out” while going to the polls to cast his vote. “Big politician,
but had no home!” says Madame, with a sigh.
Mr. Glentworthy soon had what remained of the vote-cribber-the man to
whom so many were indebted for their high offices-into a deal box, and
the deal box into the old hearse, and the old hearse, driven by a
mischievous negro, hastening to that great crib to which we must all
go. “Visitors,” Mr. Glentworthy smiles, “must not question the way we
do business here, I get no pay, and there’s only old Saddlerock and me
to do all the work. Old Saddlerock, you see, is a bit of a miser, and
having a large family of small Saddlerocks to provide for, scrapes what
he can into his own pocket. No one is the wiser. They can’t be-they
never come in.” Mr. Glentworthy, in reply to a question from Madame
Montford, says Mag Munday (he has some faint recollection of her) was
twice in the house, which he dignifies with the title of “Institution.”
She never was in the “mad cells”—to his recollection. “Them what get
there, mostly die there.” A gift of two dollars secures Mr.
Glentworthy’s services, and restores him to perfect good nature. “You
will remember,” says Tom, “that this woman ran neglected about the
streets, was much abused, and ended in becoming a maniac.” Mr.
Glentworthy remembers very well, but adds: “We have so many maniacs on
our hands, that we can’t distinctly remember them all. The clergymen
take good care never to look in here. They couldn’t do any good if they
did, for nobody cares for the rubbish sent here; and if you tried to
Christianize them, you would only get laughed at. I don’t like to be
laughed at. Munday’s not here now, that’s settled-but I’ll-for
curiosity’s sake-show you into the ‘mad cells.’” Mr. Glentworthy leads
the way, down the rickety old stairs, through the lumbered passage,
into an open square, and from thence into a small out-building, at the
extreme end of which some dozen wet, slippery steps, led into a dark
subterranean passage, on each side of which are small, dungeon-like
cells. “Heavens!” exclaims Madame Montford, picking her way down the
steep, slippery steps. “How chilling! how tomb-like! Can it be that
mortals are confined here, and live?” she mutters, incoherently. The
stifling atmosphere is redolent of disease.
“It straightens ’em down, sublimely-to put ’em in here,” says Mr.
Glentworthy, laconically, lighting his lamp. “I hope to get old
Saddlerock in here. Give him such a mellowing!” He turns his light, and
the shadows play, spectre-like, along a low, wet aisle, hung on each
side with rusty bolts and locks, revealing the doors of cells. An
ominous stillness is broken by the dull clank of chains, the muttering
of voices, the shuffling of limbs; then a low wail breaks upon the ear,
and rises higher and higher, shriller and shriller, until in piercing
shrieks it chills the very heart. Now it ceases, and the echoes, like
the murmuring winds, die faintly away. “Look in here, now,” says Mr.
Glentworthy—“a likely wench-once she was!”
He swings open a door, and there issues from a cell about four feet six
inches wide, and nine long, the hideous countenance of a poor, mulatto
girl, whose shrunken body, skeleton-like arms, distended and glassy
eyes, tell but too forcibly her tale of sorrow. How vivid the picture
of wild idiocy is pictured in her sad, sorrowing face. No painter’s
touch could have added a line more perfect. Now she rushes forward,
with a suddenness that makes Madame Montford shrink back, appalled-now
she fixes her eyes, hangs down her head, and gives vent to her tears.
“My soul is white-yes, yes, yes! I know it is white; God tells me it is
white-he knows-he never tortures. He doesn’t keep me here to die-no, I
can’t die here in the dark. I won’t get to heaven if I do. Oh! yes,
yes, yes, I have a white soul, but my skin is not,” she rather murmurs
than speaks, continuing to hold down her head, while parting her long,
clustering hair over her shoulders. Notwithstanding the spectacle of
horror presented in this living skeleton, there is something in her
look and action which bespeaks more the abuse of long confinement than
the result of natural aberration of mind. “She gets fierce now and
then, and yells,” says the unmoved Glentworthy, “but she won’t hurt
ye—”
Can it be possible that such things as are here pictured have an
existence among a people laying any claim to a state of civilization?
the reader may ask. The author would here say that to the end of
fortifying himself against the charge of exaggeration, he submitted the
MS. of this chapter to a gentleman of the highest respectability in
Charleston, whose unqualified approval it received, as well as
enlisting his sympathies in behalf of the unfortunate lunatics found in
the cells described. Four years have passed since that time. He
subsequently sent the author the following, from the “Charleston
Courier,” which speaks for itself.
“FROM THE REPORTS OF COUNCIL.
“January 4th, 1843.
“The following communication was received from William M. Lawton, Esq.,
Chairman of the Commissioners of the Poor-house.
“‘Charleston, Dec. 17th, 1852. “‘To the Honorable, the City Council of
Charleston:
“‘By a resolution of the Board of Commissioners of this City, I have
been instructed to communicate with your honorable body in relation to
the insane paupers now in Poor-house’, (the insane in a poorhouse!)
‘and to request that you will adopt the necessary provision for sending
them to the Lunatic Asylum at Columbia.
* * * *
There are twelve on the list, many of whom, it is feared, have already
remained too long in an institution quite unsuited to their unfortunate
situation.
“‘With great respect, your very obedient servant,
“‘(Signed) WM. M. LAWTON, “‘Chairman of the Board of Commissioners.’”
“How long,” inquires Madame Montford, who has been questioning within
herself whether any act of her life could have brought a human being
into such a place, “has she been confined here?” Mr. Glentworthy says
she tells her own tale.
“Five years,—five years,—five long, long years, I have waited for him
in the dark, but he won’t come,” she lisps in a faltering voice, as her
emotions overwhelm her. Then crouching back upon the floor, she
supports her head pensively in her left hand, her elbow resting on her
knee, and her right hand poised against the brick wall. “Pencele!” says
Mr. Glentworthy, for such is the wretched woman’s name, “cannot you
sing a song for your friends?” Turning aside to Madame Montford, he
adds, “she sings nicely. We shall soon get her out of the way-can’t
last much longer.” Mr. Glentworthy, drawing a small bottle from his
pocket, places it to his lips, saying he stole it from old Saddlerock,
and gulps down a portion of the contents. His breath is already
redolent of whiskey. “Oh, yes, yes, yes! I can sing for them, I can
smother them with kisses. Good faces seldom look in here, seldom look
in here,” she rises to her feet, and extends her bony hand, as the
tears steal down Madame Montford’s cheeks. Tom stands speechless. He
wishes he had power to redress the wrongs of this suffering maniac-his
very soul fires up against the coldness and apathy of a people who
permit such outrages against humanity. “There!—he comes! he comes! he
comes!” the maniac speaks, with faltering voice, then strikes up a
plaintive air, which she sings with a voice of much sweetness, to these
words: When you find him, speed him to me, And this heart will cease
its bleeding, &c.
The history of all this poor maniac’s sufferings is told in a few
simple words that fall incautiously from Mr. Glentworthy’s lips: “Poor
fool, she had only been married a couple of weeks, when they sold her
husband down South. She thinks if she keeps mad, he’ll come back.”
There was something touching, something melancholy in the music of her
song, as its strains verberated and reverberated through the dread
vault, then, like the echo of a lover’s lute on some Alpine hill, died
softly away.