An Outcast | Page 7

narrow street leading to the house of the old
hostess. We have reached the great arched door, and stand in the
shadow of a gas-light, playing over its trap, its network of iron, and its
bright, silver plate. We pause and contemplate the massive walls, as the
thought flashes upon us--How mighty is vice, that it has got such a
mansion dedicated to its uses! Even stranger thoughts than these flit
through the mind as we hesitate, and touch the bell timidly. Now, we
have excited your curiosity, and shall not turn until we have shown you
what there is within.
We hear the bell faintly tinkle--now voices in loud conversation break
upon the ear--then all is silent. Our anxiety increases, and keeps
increasing, until a heavy footstep is heard advancing up the hall. Now
there is a whispering within--then a spring clicks, and a small square
panel opens and is filled with a broad fat face, with deep blue eyes and
a profusion of small brown curls, all framed in a frosty cap-border. It is

the old hostess, done up in her best book muslin, and so well preserved.
"Gentlemen, or ain't ye gentlemen?" inquires the old hostess, in a low
voice. "This is a respectable house, I'd have you remember. Gentlemen
what ain't gentlemen don't git no show in this house--no they don't."
She looks curiously at us, and pauses for a reply. The display of a kid
glove and a few assuring words gain us admittance into the great hall,
where a scene of barbaric splendor excites curious emotions. "There
ain't nothin' but gentlemen gets into this house--they don't! and when
they are in they behaves like gentlemen," says the hostess, bowing
gracefully, and closing the door after us.
The time prints of sixty summers have furrowed the old hostess' brow,
and yet she seems not more than forty--is short of figure, and weighs
two hundred. Soft Persian carpets cover the floor, lounges, in carved
walnut and satin, stand along the sides; marble busts on pedestals, and
full-length figures of statesmen and warriors are interspersed at short
intervals; and the ceiling is frescoed in uncouth and fierce-looking
figures. Flowers hang from niches in the cornice; a marble group,
representing St. George and the dragon, stands at the foot of a broad
circular stairs; tall mirrors reflect and magnify each object, and over all
the gas from three chandeliers sheds a bewitching light. Such is the
gaudy scene that excites the fancy, but leaves our admiration unmoved.
"This is a castle, and a commonwealth, gentlemen. Cost me a deal of
money; might get ruined if gentlemen forgot how to conduct
themselves. Ladies like me don't get much credit for the good they do.
Gentlemen will be introduced into the parlor when they are ready," says
the old hostess, stepping briskly round us, and watching our every
movement; we are new-comers, and her gaudy tabernacle is novel to
us.
"Have educated a dozen young men to the law, and made gentlemen of
a dozen more, excellent young men--fit for any society. Don't square
my accounts with the world, as the world squares its account with me,"
she continues, with that air which vice affects while pleading its own
cause. She cannot shield the war of conscience that is waging in her
heart; but, unlike most of those engaged in her unnatural trade, there is

nothing in her face to indicate a heart naturally inclined to evil. It is
indeed bright with smiles, and you see only the picture of a being
sailing calmly down the smooth sea of peace and contentment. Her
dress is of black glossy satin, a cape of fine point lace covers her broad
shoulders, and bright blue cap-ribbons stream down her back.
"Listen," says the old hostess--"there's a full house to-night. Both
parlors are full. All people of good society!" she continues,
patronizingly. "Them what likes dancin' dances in the left-hand parlor.
Them what prefers to sit and converse, converses in the right-hand
parlor. Some converses about religion, some converses about
politics--(by way of lettin' you know my position, I may say that I go
for secession, out and out)--some converses about law, some converses
about beauty. There isn't a lady in this house as can't converse on
anything." Madame places her ear to the door, and thrusts her fat
jewelled fingers under her embroidered apron.
"This is my best parlor, gentlemen," she resumes; "only gentlemen of
deportment are admitted--I might add, them what takes wine, and, if
they does get a little in liquor, never loses their dignity." Madame bows,
and the door of her best parlor swings open, discovering a scene of still
greater splendor.
"Gentlemen as can't enjoy themselves in my house, don't know how to
enjoy anything. Them is all gentlemen you see,