An Outcast

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AN OUTCAST;

OR,

VIRTUE AND FAITH.

BY

F. COLBURN ADAMS.

"Be merciful to the erring."

NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY M. DOOLADY,
49 WALKER STREET.
1861.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1861,

BY M. DOOLADY,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.

PREFACE.

When reason and conscience are a man's true guides to what he
undertakes, and he acts strictly in obedience to them, he has little to
fear from what the unthinking may say. You cannot, I hold, mistake a man
intent only on doing good. You may differ with him on the means he calls
to his aid; but having formed a distinct plan, and carried it out in
obedience to truth and right, it will be difficult to impugn the
sincerity of his motives. For myself, I care not what weapon a man
choose, so long as he wield it effectively, and in the cause of humanity
and justice. We are a sensitive nation, prone to pass great moral evils
over in silence rather than expose them boldly, or trace them to their
true sources. I am not indifferent to the duty every writer owes to
public opinion, nor the penalties he incurs in running counter to it.
But fear of public opinion, it seems to me, has been productive of much
evil, inasmuch as it prefers to let crime exist rather than engage in
reforms. Taking this view of the matter, I hold fear of public opinion
to be an evil much to be deplored. It aids in keeping out of sight that
which should be exposed to public view, and is satisfied to pass
unheeded the greatest of moral evils. Most writers touch these great
moral evils with a timidity that amounts to fear, and in describing
crimes of the greatest magnitude, do it so daintily as to divest their
arguments of all force. The public cannot reasonably be expected to
apply a remedy for an evil, unless the cause as well as the effect be
exposed truthfully to its view. It is the knowledge of their existence
and the magnitude of their influence upon society, which no false
delicacy should keep out of sight, that nerves the good and generous to
action. I am aware that in exciting this action, great care should be
taken lest the young and weak-minded become fascinated with the gilding
of the machinery called to the writer's aid. It is urged by many good
people, who take somewhat narrow views of this subject, that in dealing
with the mysteries of crime vice should only be described as an ugly
dame with most repulsive features. I differ with those persons. It would
be a violation of the truth to paint her thus, and few would read of her
in such an unsightly dress. These persons do not, I think, take a
sufficiently clear view of the grades into which the vicious of our
community are divided, and their different modes of living. They found
their opinions solely on the moral and physical condition of the most
wretched and abject class, whose sufferings they would have us hold up
to public view, a warning to those who stand hesitating on the brink
between virtue and vice. I hold it better to expose the allurements
first, and then paint vice in her natural colors--a dame so gay and
fascinating that it is difficult not to become enamored of her. The ugly
and repulsive dame would have few followers, and no need of writers to
caution the unwary against her snares. And I cannot forget, that truth
always carries the more forcible lesson. But we must paint the road to
vice as well as the castle, if we would give effect to our warning. That
road is too frequently strewn with the brightest of flowers, the thorns
only discovering themselves when the sweetness of the flowers has
departed. I have chosen, then, to describe things as they are. You,
reader, must be the judge whether I have put too much gilding on the
decorations.

I confess that the subject of this work was not congenial to my
feelings. I love to deal with the bright and cheerful of life; to leave
the dark and sorrowful to those whose love for them is stronger than
mine. Nor am I insensible to the liabilities incurred by a writer who,
having found favor with the public, ventures upon so delicate and
hazardous an undertaking. It matters not how carefully and discreetly he
perform the task, there will always be persons enough to question his
sincerity and cast suspicion upon his motives. What, I have already been
asked, was my motive for writing such a book as this? Why did I descend
into the repulsive haunts of the wretched and the gilded palaces of the
vicious for the material of a novel? My answer is in my book.

NEW YORK, _January 1st_, 1861.

AN OUTCAST.

CHAPTER I.

CHARLESTON.

This simple story commences on a November evening, in the autumn of
185-. Charleston and New York furnish me with the scenes and characters.

Our quaint old city has been in a disquiet mood for several weeks.
Yellow fever has scourged us through the autumn, and we have again taken
to scourging ourselves with secession fancies. The city has not looked
up for a month. Fear had driven our best society into the North, into
the mountains, into all the high places. Business men had nothing to do;
stately old mansions were in the care of faithful slaves, and there was
high carnival in the kitchen. Fear had shut up the churches, shut up the
law-courts, shut up society generally. There was nothing for lawyers to
do, and the buzzards found it lonely enough in the market-place. The
clergy were to be found at fashionable watering-places, and politicians
found comfort in cards and the country. Timid doctors had taken to their
heels, and were not to be found. Book-keepers and bank-clerks were on
Sullivan's Island. The poor suffered in the city, and the rich had not a
thought to give them. Grave-looking men gathered into little knots, at
street corners, and talked seriously of Death's banquet. Old negroes
gathered about the kitchen-table, and terrified themselves with tales of
death: timid ones could not be got to pass through streets where the
scourge raged fiercest. Mounted guardsmen patrolled the lonely streets
at night, their horses' hoofs sounding on the still air, like a solemn
warning through a deserted city.

Sisters of Mercy, in deep, dark garments, moved noiselessly along the
streets, by day and by night, searching out and ministering to the sick
and the dying. Like brave sentinels, they never deserted their posts.
The city government was in a state of torpor. The city government did
not know what to do. The city government never did know what to do. Four
hundred sick and dying lay languishing in the hospital. The city
government was sorry for them, and resolved that Providence would be the
best doctor. The dead gave place to the dying by dozens, and there has
been high carnival down in the dead-yard. The quick succession of
funeral trains has cast a shade of melancholy over the broad road that
leads to it. Old women are vending pies and cakes at the gates, and
little boys are sporting over the newly-made graves, that the wind has
lashed into furrows. Rude coffins stand about in piles, and tipsy
negroes are making the very air jubilant with the songs they bury the
dead to.

A change has come over the scene now. There is no more singing down in
the dead-yard. A bright sun is shedding its cheerful rays over the broad
landscape, flowers deck the roadside, and the air comes balmy and
invigorating. There has been frost down in the lowlands. A solitary
stranger paces listlessly along the walks of the dead-yard, searching
in vain for the grave of a departed friend. The scourge has left a sad
void between friends living and friends gone to eternal rest. Familiar
faces pass us on the street, only to remind us of familiar faces passed
away forever. The city is astir again. Society is coming back to us.
There is bustle in the churches, bustle in the law courts, bustle in the
hotels, bustle along the streets, bustle everywhere. There is bustle at
the steamboat landings, bustle at the railway stations, bustle in all
our high places. Vehicles piled with trunks are hurrying along the
streets; groups of well-dressed negroes are waiting their master's
return at the landings, or searching among piles of trunks for the
family baggage. Other groups are giving Mas'r and Missus such a cordial
greeting. Society is out of an afternoon, on King street, airing its
dignity. There is Mr. Midshipman Button, in his best uniform, inviting
the admiration of the fair, and making such a bow to all distinguished
persons. Midshipman Button, as he is commonly called, has come home to
us, made known to us the pleasing fact that he is ready to command our
"navy" for us, whenever we build it for him. There is Major Longstring,
of the Infantry, as fine a man in his boots as woman would fancy, ready
to fight any foe; and corporal Quod, of the same regiment, ready to
shoulder his weapon and march at a moment. We have an immense admiration
for all these heroes, just now; it is only equalled by their admiration
of themselves. The buzzards, too, have assumed an unusual air of
importance--are busy again in the market; and long-bearded politicians
are back again, at their old business, getting us in a state of
discontent with the Union and everybody in general.

There is a great opening of shutters among the old mansions. The music
of the organ resounds in the churches, and we are again in search of the
highest pinnacle to pin our dignity upon. Our best old families have
been doing the North extensively, and come home to us resolved never to
go North again. But it is fashionable to go North, and they will break
this resolution when spring comes. Mamma, and Julia Matilda have brought
home an immense stock of Northern millinery, all paid for with the
hardest of Southern money, which papa declares the greatest evil the
state suffers under. He has been down in the wilderness for the last ten
years, searching in vain for a remedy. The North is the hungry dog at
the door, and he will not be kicked away. So we have again mounted that
same old hobby-horse. There was so much low-breeding at the North,
landlords were so extortionate, vulgarity in fine clothes got in your
way wherever you went, servants were so impertinent, and the trades
people were so given to cheating. We would shake our garments of the
North, if only some one would tell us how to do it becomingly.

Master Tom and Julia Matilda differ with the old folks on this great
question of bidding adieu to the North. Tom had a "high old time
generally," and is sorry the season closed so soon. Julia Matilda has
been in a pensive mood ever since she returned. That fancy ball was so
brilliant; those moonlight drives were so pleasant; those flirtations
were carried on with such charming grace! A dozen little love affairs,
like pleasant dreams, are touching her heart with their sweet
remembrance. The more she contemplates them the sadder she becomes.
There are no drives on the beach now, no moonlight rambles, no
promenades down the great, gay verandah, no waltzing, no soul-stirring
music, no tender love-tales told under the old oaks. But they brighten
in her fancy, and she sighs for their return. She is a prisoner now,
surrounded by luxury in the grim old mansion. Julia Matilda and Master
Tom will return to the North when spring comes, and enjoy whatever there
is to be enjoyed, though Major Longstring and Mr. Midshipman Button
should get us safe out of the Union.

Go back with us, reader, not to the dead-yard, but to the quiet walks of
Magnolia Cemetery, hard by. A broad avenue cuts through the centre, and
stretches away to the west, down a gently undulating slope. Rows of tall
pines stand on either side, their branches forming an arch overhead, and
hung with long, trailing moss, moving and whispering mysteriously in the
gentle wind. Solemn cypress trees mark the by-paths; delicate flowers
bloom along their borders, and jessamine vines twine lovingly about the
branches of palmetto and magnolia trees. An air of enchanting harmony
pervades the spot; the dead could repose in no prettier shade.
Exquisitely chiselled marbles decorate the resting-places of the rich;
plain slabs mark those of the poor.

It is evening now. The shadows are deepening down the broad avenue, the
wind sighs touchingly through the tall pines, and the sinking sun is
shedding a deep purple hue over the broad landscape. A solitary
mocking-bird has just tuned its last note, and sailed swiftly into the
dark hedgerow, down in the dead-yard.

A young girl, whose fair oval face the sun of eighteen summers has
warmed into exquisite beauty, sits musingly under a cypress tree. Her
name is Anna Bonnard, and she is famous in all the city for her beauty,
as well as the symmetry of her form. Her dress is snowy white, fastened
at the neck with a blue ribbon, and the skirts flowing. Her face is
like chiselled marble, her eyes soft, black, and piercing, and deep,
dark tresses of silky hair fall down her shoulders to her waist. Youth,
beauty, and innocence are written in every feature of that fair face,
over which a pensive smile now plays, then deepens into sadness. Here
she has sat for several minutes, her head resting lightly on her right
hand, and her broad sun-hat in her left, looking intently at a newly
sodded grave with a plain white slab, on which is inscribed, in black
letters--"Poor Miranda." This is all that betrays the sleeper beneath.

"And this is where they have laid her," she says, with a sigh. "Poor
Miranda! like me, she was lost to this world. The world only knew the
worst of her." And the tears that steal from her eyes tell the tale of
her affection. "Heaven will deal kindly with the outcast, for Heaven
only knows her sorrows." She rises quickly from her seat, casts a glance
over the avenue, then pats the sods with her hands, and strews cypress
branches and flowers over the grave, saying, "This is the last of poor
Miranda. Some good friend has laid her here, and we are separated
forever. It was misfortune that made us friends." She turns slowly from
the spot, and walks down the avenue towards the great gate leading to
the city. A shadow crosses her path; she hesitates, and looks with an
air of surprise as the tall figure of a man advances hastily, saying,
"Welcome, sweet Anna--welcome home."

He extends his gloved hand, which she receives with evident reluctance.
"Pray what brought you here, Mr. Snivel?" she inquires, fixing her eyes
on him, suspiciously.

"If you would not take it impertinent, I might ask you the same
question. No, I will not. It was your charms, sweetest Anna. Love can
draw me--I am a worshipper at its fountain. And as for law,--you know I
live by that."

Mr. Snivel is what may be called a light comedy lawyer; ready to enter
the service of any friend in need. He is commonly called "Snivel the
lawyer," although the profession regard him with suspicion, and society
keeps him on its out skirts. He is, in a word, a sportsman of small
game, ready to bring down any sort of bird that chances within reach of
his fowling-piece. He is tall of figure and slender, a pink of fashion
in dress, wears large diamonds, an eye-glass, and makes the most of a
light, promising moustache. His face is small, sharp, and discolored
with the sun, his eyes grey and restless, his hair fair, his mouth wide
and characterless. Cunning and low intrigue are marked in every feature
of his face; and you look in vain for the slightest evidence of a frank
and manly nature.

"Only heard you were home an hour ago. Set right off in pursuit of you.
Cannot say exactly what impelled me. Love, perhaps, as I said before."
Mr. Snivel twirls his hat in the air, and condescends to say he feels in
an exceedingly happy state of mind. "I knew you needed a protector, and
came to offer myself as your escort. I take this occasion to say, that
you have always seen me in the false light my enemies magnify me in."

"I have no need of your escort, Mr. Snivel; and your friendship I can
dispense with, since, up to this time, it has only increased my
trouble," she interposes, continuing down the avenue.

"We all need friends----"

"True friends, you mean, Mr. Snivel."

"Well, then, have it so. You hold that all is false in men. I hold no
such thing. Come, give me your confidence, Anna. Look on the bright
side. Forget the past, and let the present serve. When you want a
friend, or a job of law, call on me." Mr. Snivel adjusts his eye-glass,
and again twirls his hat.

The fair girl shakes her head and says, "she hopes never to need either.
But, tell me, Mr. Snivel, are you not the messenger of some one else?"
she continues.

"Well, I confess," he replies, with a bow, "its partly so and partly not
so. I came to put in one word for myself and two for the judge. Its no
breach of confidence to say he loves you to distraction. At home in any
court, you know, and stands well with the bar----"

"Love for me! He can have no love for me. I am but an outcast, tossed on
the sea of uncertainty; all bright to-day, all darkness to-morrow. Our
life is a stream of excitement, down which we sail quickly to a
miserable death. I know the doom, and feel the pang. But men do not love
us, and the world never regrets us. Go, tell him to forget me."

"Forget you? not he. Sent me to 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 calls run to the dogs.
That's what whisky's did for him."

"And what it will do for you one of these days," interrupts the jailer,
admonishingly. "Up for disturbing the peace at Madame Flamingo's.
Committed by Justice Snivel."

"Throwing stones by way of repentance, eh? Tom was, at one time, as good
a customer as that house had. A man's welcome at that house when he's up
in the world. He's sure a gittin' kicked out when he is down."

"He's here, and we must get him to a cell," says the jailer, setting his
key down and preparing to lift the man on his feet.

"Look a here, Tom Swiggs,--in here again, eh?" resumes the man in the
red shirt. "Looks as if you liked the institution. Nice son of a
respectable mother, you is!" He stoops down and shakes the prostrate man
violently.

The man opens his eyes, and casts a wild glance on the group of wan
faces peering eagerly at him. "I am bad enough. You are no better than
me," he whispers. "You are always here."

"Not always. I am a nine months' guest. In for cribbing voters. Let out
when election day comes round, and paid well for my services. Sent up
when election is over, and friends get few. No moral harm in cribbing
voters. You wouldn't be worth cribbing, eh, Tom? There ain't no
politician what do'nt take off his hat, and say--'Glad to see you,
Mister Mingle,' just afore election." The man folds his arms and walks
sullenly down the corridor, leaving the newcomer to his own reflections.
There is a movement among the group looking on; and a man in the garb of
a sailor advances, presses his way through, and seizing the prostrate by
the hand, shakes it warmly and kindly. "Sorry to see you in here agin,
Tom," he says, his bronzed face lighting up with the fires of a generous
heart. "There's no man in this jail shall say a word agin Tom Swiggs. We
have sailed shipmates in this old craft afore."

The man was a sailor, and the prisoner's called him Spunyarn, by way of
shortness. Indeed, he had became so familiarized to the name, that he
would answer to none other. His friendship for the inebriate was of the
most sincere kind. He would watch over him, and nurse him into sobriety,
with the care and tenderness of a brother. "Tom was good to me, when he
had it;" he says, with an air of sympathy. "And here goes for lendin' a
hand to a shipmate in distress." He takes one arm and the jailer the
other, and together they support the inebriate to his cell. "Set me down
for a steady boarder, and have done with it," the forlorn man mutters,
as they lay him gently upon the hard cot. "Down for steady board,
jailer--that's it."

"Steady, steady now," rejoins the old sailor, as the inebriate tosses
his arms over his head. "You see, there's a heavy ground swell on just
now, and a chap what don't mind his helm is sure to get his spars
shivered." He addresses the the jailer, who stands looking with an air
of commiseration on the prostrate man. "Take in head-sail--furl
top-gallant-sails--reef topsails--haul aft main-sheet--put her helm
hard down--bring her to the wind, and there let her lay until it comes
clear weather." The man writhes and turns his body uneasily. "There,
there," continues the old sailor, soothingly; "steady, steady,--keep her
away a little, then let her luff into a sound sleep. Old Spunyarn's the
boy what'll stand watch." A few minutes more and the man is in a deep,
sound sleep, the old sailor keeping watch over him so kindly, so like a
true friend.

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