A SHORT CHAPTER OF ORDINARY EVENTS.
To bear up against the malice of inexorable enemies is at once the gift
and the shield of a noble nature. And here it will be enough to say,
that Maria bore the burden of her ills with fortitude and resignation,
trusting in Him who rights the wronged, to be her deliverer. What took
place when she saw her aged father led away, a prisoner; what thoughts
invaded that father’s mind when the prison bolt grated on his ear, and
he found himself shut from all that had been dear to him through life,
regard for the feelings of the reader forbids us recounting here.
Naturally intelligent, Maria had, by close application to books,
acquired some knowledge of the world. Nor was she entirely ignorant of
those arts designing men call to their aid when seeking to effect the
ruin of the unwary female. Thus fortified, she fancied she saw in the
story of the lost ship a plot against herself, while the persecution of
her father was only a means to effect the object. Launched between hope
and fear, then-hope that her lover still lived, and that with his
return her day would brighten-fear lest the report might be founded in
truth, she nerves herself for the struggle. She knew full well that to
give up in despair-to cast herself upon the cold charities of a busy
world, would only be to hasten her downfall. Indeed, she had already
felt how cold, and how far apart were the lines that separated our rich
from our poor.
The little back parlor is yet spared to Maria, and in it she may now be
seen plying at her needle, early and late. It is the only means left
her of succoring the parent from whom she has been so ruthlessly
separated. Hoping, fearing, bright to-day and dark to-morrow, willing
to work and wait-here she sits. A few days pass, and the odds and ends
of the Antiquary’s little shop, like the “shirts” of the gallant
Fremont, whom we oppressed while poor, and essayed to flatter when a
hero, are gazetted under the head of “sheriff’s sale.” Hope, alas!
brings no comfort to Maria. Time rolls on, the month’s rent falls due,
her father pines and sinks in confinement, and her needle is found
inadequate to the task undertaken. Necessity demands, and one by one
she parts with her few cherished mementos of the past, that she may
save an aged father from starvation.
The “prisoner” has given notice that he will take the benefit of the
act-commonly called “an act for the relief of poor debtors.” But before
he can reach this boon, ten days must elapse. Generous-minded
legislators, no doubt, intended well when they constructed this act,
but so complex are its provisions that any legal gentleman may make it
a very convenient means of oppression. And in a community where laws
not only have their origin in the passions of men, but are made to
serve popular prejudices-where the quality of justice obtained depends
upon the position and sentiments of him who seeks it,—the weak have no
chance against the powerful.
The multiplicity of notices, citations, and schedules, necessary to the
setting free of this “poor debtor” (for these fussy officials must be
paid), Maria finds making a heavy drain on her lean purse.
The Court is in session, and the ten days having glided away, the old
man is brought into “open Court” by two officials with long tipstaffs,
and faces looking as if they had been carefully pickled in strong
drinks. “Surely, now, they’ll set me free-I can give them no more-I am
old and infirm-they have got all-and my daughter!” he muses within
himself. Ah! he little knows how uncertain a thing is the law.
The Judge is engaged over a case in which two very fine old families
are disputing for the blood and bones of a little “nigger” girl. The
possession of this helpless slave, the Judge (he sits in easy dignity)
very naturally regards of superior importance when compared with the
freedom of a “poor debtor.” He cannot listen to the story of
destitution-precisely what was sought by Keepum-to-day, and to-morrow
the Court adjourns for six months.
The Antiquary is remanded back to his cell. No one in Court cares for
him; no one has a thought for the achings of that heart his release
would unburden; the sorrows of that lone girl are known only to herself
and the One in whom she puts her trust. She, nevertheless, seeks the
old man in his prison, and there comforts him as best she can.
Five days more, and the “prisoner” is brought before the Commissioner
for Special Bail, who is no less a personage than the rosy-faced Clerk
of the Court, just adjourned. And here we cannot forbear to say, that
however despicable the object sought, however barren of right the plea,
however adverse to common humanity the spirit of the action, there is
always to be found some legal gentleman, true to the lower instincts of
the profession, ready to lend himself to his client’s motives. And in
this instance, the cunning Keepum finds an excellent instrument of
furthering his ends, in one Peter Crimpton, a somewhat faded and rather
disreputable member of the learned profession. It is said of Crimpton,
that he is clever at managing cases where oppression rather than
justice is sought, and that his present client furnishes the larger
half of his practice.
And while Maria, too sensitive to face the gaze of the coarse crowd,
pauses without, silent and anxious, listening one moment and hoping the
next will see her old father restored to her, the adroit Crimpton rises
to object to “the Schedule.” To the end that he may substantiate his
objections, he proposes to examine the prisoner. Having no alternative,
the Commissioner grants the request.
The old Antiquary made out his schedule with the aid of the
good-hearted jailer, who inserted as his effects, “Necessary wearing
apparel.” It was all he had. Like the gallant Fremont, when he offered
to resign his shirts to his chivalric creditor, he could give them no
more. A few questions are put; the old man answers them with childlike
simplicity, then sits down, his trembling fingers wandering into his
beard. Mr. Crimpton produces his paper, sets forth his objections, and
asks permission to file them, that the case may come before a jury of
“Special Bail.”
Permission is granted. The reader will not fail to discover the object
of this procedure. Keepum hopes to continue the old man in prison, that
he may succeed in breaking down the proud spirit of his daughter.
The Commissioner listens attentively to the reading of the objections.
The first sets forth that Mr. McArthur has a gold watch;
Our Charleston readers will recognize the case here described, without
any further key. the second, that he has a valuable breast-pin, said to
have been worn by Lord Cornwallis; and the third, that he has one
Yorick’s skull. All of these, Mr. Crimpton regrets to say, are withheld
from the schedule, which virtually constitutes fraud. The facile
Commissioner bows; the assembled crowd look on unmoved; but the old man
shakes his head and listens. He is surprised to find himself accused of
fraud; but the law gives him no power to show his own innocence. The
Judge of the Sessions was competent to decide the question now raised,
and to have prevented this reverting to a “special jury”—this giving
the vindictive plaintiff a means of torturing his infirm victim. Had he
but listened to the old man’s tale of poverty, he might have saved the
heart of that forlorn girl many a bitter pang.
The motion granted, a day is appointed-ten days must elapse-for a
hearing before the Commissioner of “Special Bail,” and his special
jury. The rosy-faced functionary, being a jolly and somewhat flexible
sort of man, must needs give his health an airing in the country. What
is the liberty of a poor white with us? Our Governor, whom we esteem
singularly sagacious, said it were better all our poor were enslaved,
and this opinion finds high favor with our first families. The worthy
Commissioner, in addition to taking care of his health, is expected to
make any number of speeches, full of wind and war, to several recently
called Secession Conventions. He will find time (being a General by
courtesy) to review the up-country militia, and the right and left
divisions of the South Carolina army. He will be feted by some few of
our most distinguished Generals, and lecture before the people of
Beaufort (a very noisy town of forty-two inhabitants, all heroes), to
whom he will prove the necessity of our State providing itself with an
independent steam navy.
The old Antiquary is remanded back to jail-to wait the coming day.
Maria, almost breathless with anxiety, runs to him as he comes
tottering out of Court in advance of the official, lays her trembling
hand upon his arm, and looks inquiringly in his face. “Oh! my father,
my father!—released? released?” she inquires, with quivering lips and
throbbing heart. A forced smile plays over his time-worn face, he looks
upward, shakes his head in sorrow, and having patted her affectionately
on the shoulder, throws his arms about her neck and kisses her. That
mute appeal, that melancholy voucher of his sorrows, knells the painful
answer in her ears, “Then you are not free to come with me? Oh, father,
father!” and she wrings her hands and gives vent to her tears.
“The time will come, my daughter, when my Judge will hear me-will judge
me right. My time will come soon—” And here the old man pauses, and
chokes with his emotions. Maria returns the old man’s kiss, and being
satisfied that he is yet in the hands of his oppressors, sets about
cheering up his drooping spirits. “Don’t think of me, father,” she
says—“don’t think of me! Let us put our trust in Him who can shorten
the days of our tribulation.” She takes the old man’s arm, and like one
who would forget her own troubles in her anxiety to relieve another,
supports him on his way back to prison.
It is high noon. She stands before the prison gate, now glancing at the
serene sky, then at the cold, frowning walls, and again at the old
pile, as if contemplating the wearying hours he must pass within it.
“Don’t repine-nerve yourself with resolution, and all will be well!”
Having said this with an air of confidence in herself, she throws her
arms about the old man’s neck, presses him to her bosom, kisses and
kisses his wrinkled cheek, then grasps his hand warmly in her own.
“Forget those who persecute you, for it is good. Look above, father-to
Him who tempers the winds, who watches over the weak, and gives the
victory to the right!” She pauses, as the old man holds her hand in
silence. “This life is but a transient sojourn at best; full of hopes
and fears, that, like a soldier’s dream, pass away when the battle is
ended.” Again she fondly shakes his hand, lisps a sorrowing “good-bye,”
watches him, in silence, out of sight, then turns away in tears, and
seeks her home. There is something so pure, so earnest in her
solicitude for the old man, that it seems more of heaven than earth.