Justice in the By-Ways Part 1

Justice in the By-Ways.

by F. Colburn Adams.

PREFACE.

PREFACES, like long sermons to fashionable congregations, are distasteful to most readers, and in no very high favor with us. A deep interest in the welfare of South Carolina, and the high esteem in which we held the better, and more sensible cla.s.s of her citizens, prompted us to sit down in Charleston, some four years ago (as a few of our friends are aware), and write this history. The malady of her chivalry had then broken out, and such was its virulence that very serious consequences were apprehended. We had done something, and were unwise enough to think we could do more, to stay its spread. We say unwise, inasmuch as we see, and regret that we do see, the malady breaking out anew, in a more virulent type-one which threatens dire consequences to this glorious Union, and bids fair soon to see the Insane Hospital of South Carolina crammed with her mad-politicians.

Our purpose, the reader will not fail to discover, was a high moral one. He must overlook the means we have called to our aid in some instances, remember that the spirit of the work is in harmony with a just sense of duty to a people among whom we have long resided, and whose follies deserve our pity, perhaps, rather than our condemnation. To remain blind to their own follies, is the sin of weak States; and we venture nothing when we say that it would be difficult to find a people more dragged down by their own ignorance than are the South Carolinians. And yet, strange as it may seem, no people are more energetic in laying claim to a high intellectual standard. For a stranger to level his shafts against the very evils they themselves most deprecate, is to consign himself an exile worthy only of that domestic garment

Tar and feathers. in which all who think and write too freely, are clothed and sent away.

And though the sentiments we have put forth in this work may not be in fashion with our Southern friends, they will give us credit for at least one thing-picturing in truthful colors the errors that, by their own confessions, are sapping the very foundations of their society. Our aim is to suggest reforms, and in carrying it out we have consulted no popular prejudice, enlarged upon no enormities to please the lover of tragedy, regarded neither beauty nor the art of novel making, nor created suffering heroines to excite an outpouring of sorrow and tears. The incidents of our story, which at best is but a mere thread, are founded in facts; and these facts we have so modified as to make them acceptable to the reader, while shielding ourself from the charge of exaggeration. And, too, we are conscious that our humble influence, heretofore exerted, has contributed to the benefit of a certain cla.s.s in Charleston, and trust that in this instance it may have a wider field.

Three years and upwards, then, has the MS. of this work laid in the hands of a Philadelphia publisher, who was kind enough to say more good things of it than it deserved, and only (as he said, and what publishers say no one ever thinks of doubting) regretted that fear of offending his Southern customers, who were exceedingly stiff in some places, and tender in others, prevented him publishing it.

Thankful for the very flattering but undeserved reception two works from our pen (both written at a subsequent period) met, in England as well as this country, we resolved a few weeks ago to drag the MS.

from the obscurity in which it had so long remained, and having resigned it to the rude hands of our printer, let it pa.s.s to the public. But there seemed another difficulty in the way: the time, every one said, and every one ought to know, was a hazardous one for works of a light character. Splash & Dash, my old publishers, (n.o.ble fellows), had no less than three Presidents on their shoulders, and could not be expected to take up anything "light" for several months. Brick, of the very respectable but somewhat slow firm of Brick & Brother, a firm that had singular scruples about publishing a work not thickly sprinkled with the author's knowledge of French, had one candidate by the neck, and had made a large bet that he could carry him into the "White House" with a rush, while the junior partner was deeply immersed in the study of Greek. Puff, of the firm of Puff & Bluff, a house that had recently moved into the city to teach the art of blowing books into the market, was foaming over with his two Presidential candidates, and thought the public could not be got to read a book without at least one candidate in it. It was not prudent to give the reading world more than a book of travels or so, said Munch, of the house of Munch & Muddle, until the candidates for the White House were got nicely out of the way.

Indeed, there were good reasons for being alarmed, seeing that the publishing world had given up literature, and, following the example set by the New York Corporation, taken itself very generally to the trade of President-making. Wilkins, whose publications were so highly respectable that they invariably remained on his shelves, and had in more than one instance become so weighty that they had dragged the house down, thought the pretty feet of some few of the female characters in this volume a little too much exposed to suit the delicate sensibilities of his fair readers. Applejack, than whose taste none could be more exquisite, and who only wanted to feel a ma.n.u.script to tell whether it would do to publish it, made it a point, he said, not to publish novels with characters in them that would drink to excess. As for the very fast firm of Blowers & Windspin, celebrated for flooding the country with cheap books of a very tragic character, why, it had work enough on hand for the present. Blowers was blessed with a wife of a literary turn of mind, which was very convenient, inasmuch as all the novels with which the house astonished the world were submitted to her, and what she could not read she was sure to pa.s.s a favorable judgment upon. The house had in press four highly worked up novels of Mrs. Blowers' own, Mr.

Blowers said,--all written in the very short s.p.a.ce of six weeks. She was a remarkable woman, and extraordinary clever at novels, Blowers concluded with an air of magnificent self-satisfaction. These works, having been written by steam, Mr. Windspin, the unior partner, was expected to put into the market with a very large amount of high pressure.

Our friends in South Carolina, we knew, would be anxious to see what we had written of them in this volume, and we have made and shall continue to make it a point to gratify them: hence our haste in this instance. Conscious, too, that life is the great schoolmaster, and that public taste is neither to be regulated by a few, nor kept at any one point, we caught up a publisher with only one candidate for the "White House" on his shoulders, and with his a.s.sistance, now respectfully submit this our humble effort.

NEW YORK, Sept., 1856.

JUSTICE IN THE BY-WAYS.

CHAPTER I.

TOM SWIGGS' SEVENTH INTRODUCTION ON BOARD OF THE BRIG STANDFAST.

IT is in the spring of 1847 this history commences.

"Steady a bit! Here I am, boys, turned up again-a subject of this moral reform school, of moral old Charleston. If my good old mother thinks it'll reform a cast-off remnant of human patchwork like me, I've nothing to say in protest. Yes, here I am, comrades (poor Tom Swiggs, as you used to call me), with rum my victor, and modern vengeance hastening my destruction." This is the exclamation of poor Tom Swiggs (as his jail companions are pleased to call him), who, in charge of two officers of the law, neither of whom are inclined to regard him with sympathy, is being dragged back again to the Charleston jail. The loathsome wreck of a once respectable man, he staggers into the corridor, utters a wild shriek as the iron gate closes upon him, and falls headlong upon the floor of the vestibule, muttering, incoherently, "there is no hope for one like me." And the old walls re-echo his lamentation.

"His mother, otherwise a kind sort of woman, sends him here. She believes it will work his reform. I pity her error-for it is an error to believe reform can come of punishment, or that virtue may be nurtured among vice." Thus responds the brusque but kind-hearted old jailer, who view swith an air of compa.s.sion his new comer, as he lays, a forlorn ma.s.s, exposed to the gaze of the prisoners gathering eagerly about him.

The dejected man gives a struggle, raises himself to his haunches, and with his coa.r.s.e, begrimed hands resting on his knees, returns the salutation of several of his old friends. "This, boys, is the seventh time," he pursues, as if his scorched brain were tossed on a sea of fire, "and yet I'm my mother's friend. I love her still-yes, I love her still!" and he shakes his head, as his bleared eyes fill with tears. "She is my mother," he interpolates, and again gives vent to his frenzy: "fellows! bring me brandy-whiskey-rum-anything to quench this flame that burns me up. Bring it, and when I'm free of this place of torment, I will stand enough for you all to swim in."

"Shut your whiskey-pipe. You don't appreciate the respectability of the company you've got among. I've heard of you," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es a voice in the crowd of lookers-on.

"What of a citizen are you?" inquires Tom, his head dropping sleepily.

"A vote-cribber-Milman Mingle by name; and, like yourself, in for formal reform," retorts the voice. And the burly figure of a red, sullen-faced man, comes forward, folds his arms, and looks for some minutes with an air of contempt upon the poor inebriate.

"You're no better than you ought to be," incoherently continues Tom, raising his gla.s.sy eyes as if to sight his seemingly querulous companion.

"Better, at all events, than you," emphatically replies the man.

"I'm only in for cribbing voters; which, be it known, is commonly called a laudable enterprise just before our elections come off, and a henious offence when office-seekers have gained their ends. But what use is it discussing the affairs of State with a thing like you?" The vote-cribber, inclined to regard the new-comer as an inferior mortal, shrugs his shoulders, and walks away, contemplatively humming an air.

"If here ain't Tom Swiggs again!" exclaims a lean, parchment-faced prisoner, pressing eagerly his way through the circle of bystanders, and raising his hands as he beholds the wreck upon the floor.

"Fate, and my mother, have ordered it so," replies Tom, recognizing the voice, and again imploring the jailer to bring him some brandy to quench the fires of his brain. The thought of his mother floated uppermost, and recurred brightest to the wandering imagination of this poor outcast.

"There's no rum here, old bloat. The mother having you for a son is to be pitied-you are to be pitied, too; but the jail is bankrupt, without a shilling to relieve you in the liquor line," interposes another, as one by one the prisoners begin to leave and seek their several retreats.

"That breath of yours," interrupts the vote-cribber, who, having returned, stands regarding the outcast man with singular interest, "would make drunk the whole jail. A week in 'Mount Rascal'

The upper story used for the confinement of felons. will be necessary to trans.m.u.te you, as they call it, into something Christian. On 'the Mount' you will have a chance to philosophize-mollify the temperature of your nervous system-which is out of fix just now."

There is an inert aristocracy, a love of distinction, among the lowest dregs of society, as there is also a love of plush and other insignificant tawdry among our more wealthy republicans. Few would have thought of one inebriate affecting superiority over another, (the vote-cribber was an inebriate, as we shall show,) but so it was, nevertheless.

"I own up," rejoins Tom, "I own up; I love my mother, and am out of sorts. You may call me a ma.s.s of filth-what you please!"

"Never mind; I am your friend, Tom," interrupts the brusque old jailer, stooping down and taking him gently by the arm. "Good may come of the worst filth of nature-evil may come of what seemeth the best; and trees bearing sound pippins may have come of rotten cores.

Cheer up!"

The cool and unexpected admonition of the "vote-cribber" leaves a deep impression in Tom's feelings. He attempts, heaving a sigh, to rise, but has not strength, and falls languidly back upon the floor.

His countenance, for a few moments, becomes dark and desponding; but the kind words that fall from the jailer's lips inspire him with confidence; and, turning partly on his side, he thrusts his begrimed hands into a pair of greasy pockets, whistling "Yankee Doodle," with great composure.

The jailer glances about him for a.s.sistance, saying it will be necessary to get him up and carry him to his cell.

"To a cell-a cell-a cell!" reiterates the inebriate. "Well, as the legal gentry say," he continues, "I'll enter a 'non-contender.' I only say this by way of implication, to show my love for the fellow who gathers fees by making out writs on my account."

In reply to a question from the jailer, he says they mistake Tom Swiggs, if they think he has no pride left.

"After all, there's something more in you than I thought, Tom. Give us your hand," says the vote-cribber, extending cordially his hand, as if a change for the better had come over him, and grasping firmly that of the inebriate. Raising his besotted head, Tom gazes distrustfully at the cribber, as if questioning his sincerity. "I am not dead to shame," he mutters, struggling at the same time to suppress his emotions.

"There are, Tom," continues the cribber, playfully, "two claims on you-two patent claims! (He lets go the inebriate's hand, and begins teasing his long, red beard.) And, are you disposed to come out on the square, in the liquor line, you may redeem yourself--"

"Name 'em!" interposed Tom, stopping short in his tune.

"The gentleman commonly called Mister Jones, and a soap-chandler, are contesting a claim upon you. The one wants your body, the other your clothes. Now, as I am something of a lawyer, having had large dealings in elections, I may say, as a friend, that it is only a question of time, so far as you are concerned. Take my advice, then, and cheat both, by selling out, in advance. The student and the janitor pay good prices for such things as you. Give the last-named worthy a respondentia bond on yourself, redeemable before death, or resign the body after, (any lawyer will make the lien valid,) and the advance will produce floods of whiskey. Come out, Tom, like a hero, on the square."

An outcast, hurled deep into the gulf of despair, and surrounded by victims of poverty and votaries of crime, the poor inebriate has yet left him one lingering spark of pride. As if somewhat revived, he scrambles to his feet, staggers into the room of a poor debtor, on the left of the long, sombre aisle, and drawing from his pocket a ten-cent piece, throws it upon the table, with an air of great importance.

"I am not moneyless," he exclaims--"not I!" and he staggers to the great chimney-place, rebounding to the floor, saying, "Take that-bring her in-quench my burning thirst!"

Tom is the only surviving, and now the outcast, member of a somewhat respectable family, that has moved in the better walks of society.

His mother, being scrupulous of her position in society, and singularly proud withal, has reared and educated her son in idleness, and ultimately slights and discards him, because he, as she alleges, sought society inferior to his position and her dignity. In his better days he had been erect of person, and even handsome; but the thraldom of the destroyer has brought him to the dust, a pitiable wreck.

Tom has seen thirty summers, presents a full, rounded figure, and stands some five feet ten. He wears an old brown coat, cut after the fashion of a surtout, that might have fitted him, he says, when he was a man. But it has lost the right cuff, the left flap, and a part of the collar; the nefarious moths, too, have made a sieve of its back. His trowsers are of various colors, greasy down the sides, ragged at the bottoms, and revealing two encrusted ancles, with feet stuck into old shoes, turned under at the heels for convenience sake. A remark from the cribber touches his pride, and borrowing a few pins he commences pinning together the shattered threads of his nether garment. A rope-yarn secured about his waist gives a sailor-like air to his outfit. But, notwithstanding Tom affects the trim of the craft, the skilled eye can easily detect the deception; for the craftsman, even under a press of head sail, preserves a becoming rig.

Indeed, Tom might have attempted without effect, during his natural life, to transform himself into a sailor. The destroyer was his victor; the inner man was but a reflex of the outer. He pulled an old cloth cap over his face, which was immersed in a ma.s.sive black beard, bordering two red, swollen cheeks; and with his begrimed hands he rubbed l.u.s.tily his inflamed eyes--once brown, large, and earnest--now gla.s.sy and sunken.

"I'm all square, ain't I?" he inquires, looking with vacant stare into the faces of those who tease him with facetious remarks, then scans his haberdashery. There yet remains something displeasing to him. His sense of taste is at stake. This something proves to be a sooty striped shirt, open in front, and disclosing the remains of a red flannel under-garment. Every few minutes will he, as if touched with a sense of shame, wriggle his shoulders, and pull forward the wreck of his collarless coat, apparently much annoyed that it fails to cover the breastwork of his distress.

Again he thrusts his hands into his pockets, and with an air of apparent satisfaction, struts twice or thrice across the dingy room, as if he would show how far he has gained his equilibrium. "I shall go straight mad; yes, mad, if the whiskey be not brought in," he pursues, stopping short in one of his sallies, and with a rhetorical flourish, pointing at the piece of silver he so exultingly tossed upon the table. As if his brain were again seized by the destroyer's flame, his countenance becomes livid, his eyes glare wildly upon each object near him; then he draws himself into a tragic att.i.tude, contorts hideously his more hideous face, throws his cap scornfully to the ground, and commences tearing from his head the matted black hair that confusedly covers it. "If my mother thinks this a fit place for me--" He pauses in the middle of his sentence, gives an imploring stare at his companions, shakes and hangs down his head; then his brain reels, and his frame trembles, and like a lifeless ma.s.s he falls to the floor.