An Outcast | Page 5

say he would meet you to-night. You
are at the house of Madame Flamingo, eh?"
"I am; and sorry am I that I am. Necessity has no choice."
"You have left Mulholland behind, eh? Never was a fit companion for
you. Can say that without offence. He is a New York rough, you know.
Charleston gentlemen have a holy dislike of such fellows."
"He has been good to me. Why should I forsake him for one who
affects to love me to-day, and will loathe me to-morrow? He has been
my only true friend. Heaven may smile on us some day, and give us
enough to live a life of virtue and love. As for the mystery that
separates me from my parents, that had better remain unsolved
forever." As she says this, they pass out of the great gate, and are on the
road to the city.
A darker scene is being enacted in a different part of the city. A grim
old prison, its walls, like the state's dignity, tumbling down and going
to decay; its roof black with vegetating moss, and in a state of
dilapidation generally,--stands, and has stood for a century or more, on
the western outskirts of the city. We have a strange veneration for this
damp old prison, with its strange histories cut on its inner walls. It has
been threatening to tumble down one of these days, and it does not say
much for our civilization that we have let it stand. But the question is
asked, and by grave senators, if we pull it down, what shall we do with
our pick-pockets and poor debtors? We mix them nicely up here, and
throw in a thief for a messmate. What right has a poor debtor to
demand that the sovereign state of South Carolina make a distinction
between poverty and crime? It pays fifteen cents a day for getting them

all well starved; and there its humanity ends, as all state humanity
should end.
The inner iron gate has just closed, and two sturdy constables have
dragged into the corridor a man, or what liquor has left of a man, and
left him prostrate and apparently insensible on the floor. "Seventh time
we've bring'd him 'ere a thin two months. Had to get a cart, or Phin and
me never'd a got him 'ere," says one of the men, drawing a long breath,
and dusting the sleeves of his coat with his hands.
"An officer earns what money he gits a commitin' such a cove," says
the other, shaking his head, and looking down resentfully at the man on
the floor. "Life'll go out on him like a kan'l one of these days." Officer
continues moralizing on the bad results of liquor, and deliberately
draws a commitment from his breast pocket. "Committed by Justice
Snivel--breaking the peace at the house of Madame----" He cannot
make out the name.
First officer interposes learnedly--"Madame Flamingo." "Sure enuf,
he's been playin' his shines at the old woman's house again. Why,
Master Jailer, Justice Snivel must a made fees enuf a this 'ere cove to
make a man rich enough," continues Mr. Constable Phin.
"As unwelcome a guest as comes to this establishment," rejoins the
corpulent old jailer, adjusting his spectacles, and reading the
commitment, a big key hanging from the middle finger of his left hand.
"Used to be sent up here by his mother, to be starved into reform. He is
past reform. The poor-house is the place to send him to, 'tis."
"Well, take good care on him, Master Jailer, now you've got him. He
comes of a good enough family," says the first officer.
"He's bin in this condition more nor a week--layin' down yonder, in
Snug Harbor. Liquor's drived all the sense out on him," rejoins the
second--and bidding the jailer good-morning, they retire.
The forlorn man still lies prostrate on the floor, his tattered garments
and besotted face presenting a picture of the most abject wretchedness.

The old jailer looks down upon him with an air of sympathy, and
shakes his head.
"The doctor that can cure you doesn't live in this establishment," he
says. The sound of a voice singing a song is heard, and the figure of a
powerfully framed man, dressed in a red shirt and grey homespun
trousers, advances, folds his arms deliberately, and contemplates with
an air of contempt the prostrate man. His broad red face, flat nose,
massive lips, and sharp grey eyes, his crispy red hair, bristling over a
low narrow forehead, and two deep scars on the left side of his face,
present a picture of repulsiveness not easily described. Silently and
sullenly he contemplates the object before him for several minutes,
then says:
"Dogs take me, Mister Jailer! but he's what I