A STORY WITHOUT WHICH THIS HISTORY WOULD BE FOUND WANTING
ON taking leave of her father, Maria, her heart overburdened with grief, and her mind abstracted, turned towards the Battery, and continued, slowly and sadly, until she found herself seated beneath a tree, looking out upon the calm bay. Here, scarce conscious of those who were observing her in their sallies, she mused1 until dusky evening, when the air seemed hushed, and the busy hum of day was dying away in the distance. The dark woodland on the opposite bank gave a bold border to the soft picture; the ships rode sluggishly2 upon the polished waters; the negro's touching3 song echoed and re-echoed along the shore; and the boatman's chorus broke upon the stilly air in strains so dulcet4. And as the mellow5 shadows of night stole over the scene-as the heavens looked down in all their sereneness, and the stars shone out, and twinkled, and laughed, and danced upon the blue waters, and coquetted with the moonbeams--for the moon was up, and shedding a halo of mystic light over the scene-making night merry, nature seemed speaking to Maria in words of condolence. Her heart was touched, her spirits gained strength, her soul seemed in a loftier and purer atmosphere.
"Poor, but virtuous-virtue6 ennobles the poor. Once gone, the world never gives it back!" she muses7, and is awakened8 from her reverie by a sweet, sympathizing voice, whispering in her ear. "Woman! you are in trouble,--linger no longer here, or you will fall into the hands of your enemies." She looks up, and there stands at her side a young female, whose beauty the angels might envy. The figure came upon her so suddenly that she hesitates for a reply to the admonition.
"Take this, it will do something toward relieving your wants (do not open it now), and with this (she places a stiletto in her hand) you can strike down the one who attempts your virtue. Nay9, remember that while you cling to that, you are safe-lose it, and you are gone forever. Your troubles will soon end; mine are for a life-time. Yours find a relaxation10 in your innocence11; mine is seared into my heart with my own shame. It is guilt-shame! that infuses into the heart that poison, for which years of rectitude afford no antidote12. Go quickly-get from this lone13 place! You are richer than me." She slips something into Maria's hand, and suddenly disappears.
Maria rises from her seat, intending to follow the stranger, but she is out of sight. Who can this mysterious messenger, this beautiful stranger be? Maria muses. A thought flashes across her mind; it is she who sought our house at midnight, when my father revealed her dark future! "Yes," she says to herself, "it is the same lovely face; how oft it has flitted in my fancy!"
She reaches her home only to find its doors closed against her. A ruthless landlord has taken her all, and forced her into the street.
You may shut out the sterner sex without involving character or inviting14 insult; but with woman the case is very different. However pure her character, to turn her into the street, is to subject her to a stigma15, if not to fasten upon her a disgrace. You may paint, in your imagination, the picture of a woman in distress16, but you can know little of the heart-achings of the sufferer. The surface only reflects the faint gleams, standing17 out here and there like the lesser18 objects upon a dark canvas.
Maria turns reluctantly from that home of so many happy associations, to wander about the streets and by-ways of the city. The houses of the rich seem frowning upon her; her timid nature tells her they have no doors open to her. The haunts of the poor, at this moment, infuse a sanguine19 joyousness20 into her soul. How glad would she be, if they did but open to her. Is not the Allwise, through the beauties of His works, holding her up, while man only is struggling to pull her down?
And while Maria wanders homeless about the streets of Charleston, we must beg you, gentle reader, to accompany us into one of the great thoroughfares of London, where is being enacted21 a scene appertaining to this history.
It is well-nigh midnight, the hour when young London is most astir in his favorite haunts; when ragged22 and well-starved flower-girls, issuing from no one knows where, beset23 your path through Trafalgar and Liecester squares, and pierce your heart with their pleadings; when the Casinoes of the Haymarket and Picadilly are vomiting24 into the streets their frail25 but richly-dressed women; when gaudy26 supper-rooms, reeking27 of lobster28 and bad liquor, are made noisy with the demands of their flauntily-dressed customers; when little girls of thirteen are dodging29 in and out of mysterious courts and passages leading to and from Liecester square; when wily cabmen, ranged around the "great globe," importune30 you for a last fare; and when the aristocratic swell31, with hectic32 face and maudlin33 laugh, saunters from his club-room to seek excitement in the revels34 at Vauxhall.
A brown mist hangs over the dull area of Trafalgar square. The bells of old St. Martin's church have chimed merrily out their last night peal35; the sharp voice of the omnibus conductor no longer offends the ear; the tiny little fountains have ceased to give out their green water, and the lights of the Union Club on one side, and Morley's hotel on the other, throw pale shadows into the open square.
The solitary36 figure of a man, dressed in the garb37 of a gentleman, is seen sauntering past Northumberland house, then up the east side of the square. Now he halts at the corner of old St. Martin's church, turns and contemplates38 the scene before him. On his right is that squatty mass of freestone and smoke, Englishmen exultingly39 call the Royal Academy, but which Frenchmen affect contempt for, and uninitiated Americans mistake for a tomb. An equestrian40 statue of one of the Georges rises at the east corner; Morley's Hotel, where Americans get poor fare and enormous charges, with the privilege of fancying themselves quite as good as the queen, on the left; the dead walls of Northumberland House, with their prisonlike aspect, and the mounted lion, his tail high in air, and quite as rigid41 as the Duke's dignity, in front; the opening that terminates the Strand42, and gives place to Parliament street, at the head of which an equestrian statue of Charles the First, much admired by Englishmen, stands, his back, on Westminster; the dingy43 shops of Spring Garden, and the Union Club to the right; and, towering high over all, Nelson's Column, the statue looking as if it had turned its back in pity on the little fountains, to look with contempt, first upon the bronze face of the unfortunate Charles, then upon Parliament, whose parsimony44 in withholding45 justice from his daughter, he would rebuke46-and the picture is complete.
The stranger turns, walks slowly past the steps of St. Martin's church, crosses to the opposite side of the street, and enters a narrow, wet, and dimly-lighted court, on the left. Having passed up a few paces, he finds himself hemmed47 in between the dead walls of St. Martin's "Work-house" on one side, and the Royal Academy on the other. He hesitates between fear and curiosity. The dull, sombre aspect of the court is indeed enough to excite the fears of the timid; but curiosity being the stronger impulse, he proceeds, resolved to explore it-to see whence it leads.
A short turn to the right, and he has reached the front wall of the Queen's Barracks, on his left, and the entrance to the "Work-house," on his right; the one overlooking the other, and separated by a narrow street. Leave men are seen reluctantly returning in at the night-gate; the dull tramp of the sentinel within sounds ominously48 on the still air; and the chilly49 atmosphere steals into the system. Again the stranger pauses, as if questioning the safety of his position. Suddenly a low moan grates upon his ear, he starts back, then listens. Again it rises, in a sad wail50, and pierces his very heart. His first thought is, that some tortured mortal is bemoaning51 his bruises52 in a cell of the "Work-house," which he mistakes for a prison. But his eyes fall to the ground, and his apprehensions53 are dispelled54.
The doors of the "Work-house" are fast closed; but there, huddled55 along the cold pavement, and lying crouched56 upon its doorsteps, in heaps that resemble the gatherings57 of a rag-seller, are four-and- thirty shivering, famishing, and homeless human beings--
An institution for the relief of the destitute58. (mostly young girls and aged59 women), who have sought at this "institutution of charity" shelter for the night, and bread to appease60 their hunger.
This sight may be seen at any time. Alas61! its ruthless keepers have refused them bread, shut them into the street, and left them in rags scarce sufficient to cover their nakedness, to sleep upon the cold stones, a mute but terrible rebuke to those hearts that bleed over the sorrows of Africa, but have no blood to give out when the object of pity is a poor, heart-sick girl, forced to make the cold pavement her bed. The stranger shudders62. "Are these heaps of human beings?" he questions within himself, doubting the reality before him. As if counting and hesitating what course to pursue for their relief, he paces up and down the grotesque63 mass, touching one, and gazing upon the haggard features of another, who looks up to see what it is that disturbs her. Again the low moan breaks on his ear, as the sentinel cries the first hour of morning. The figure of a female, her head resting on one of the steps, moves, a trembling hand steals from under her shawl, makes an effort to reach her head, and falls numb64 at her side. "Her hand is cold-her breathing like one in death--oh! God!--how terrible-what, what am I to do?" he says, taking the sufferer's hand in his own. Now he rubs it, now raises her head, makes an effort to wake a few of the miserable65 sleepers66, and calls aloud for help. "Help! help! help!" he shouts, and the shout re-echoes through the air and along the hollow court. "A woman is dying,--dying here on the cold stones-with no one to raise a hand for her!" He seizes the exhausted67 woman in his arms, and with herculean strength rushes up the narrow street, in the hope of finding relief at the Gin Palace he sees at its head, in a blaze of light. But the body is seized with spasms68, an hollow, hysteric wail follows, his strength gives way under the burden, and he sets the sufferer down in the shadow of a gas light. Her dress, although worn threadbare, still bears evidence of having belonged to one who has enjoyed comfort, and, perhaps, luxury. Indeed, there is something about the woman which bespeaks69 her not of the class generally found sleeping on the steps of St. Martin's Work-house.
"What's here to do?" gruffly inquires a policeman, coming up with an air of indifference70. The stranger says the woman is dying. The policeman stoops down, lays his hand upon her temples, then mechanically feels her arms and hands.
"And I-must die-die-die in the street," whispers the woman, her head falling carelessly from the policeman's hand, in which it had rested.
"Got her a bit below, at the Work'ouse door, among them wot sleeps there, eh?"
The stranger says he did.
"A common enough thing," pursues the policeman; "this a bad lot. Anyhow, we must give her a tow to the station." He rubs his hands, and prepares to raise her from the ground.
"Hold! hold," interrupts the other, "she will die ere you get her there."
"Die,--ah! yes, yes," whispers the woman. The mention of death seems to have wrung71 like poison into her very soul. "Don't-don't move me-the spell is almost broken. Oh! how can I die here, a wretch72. Yes, I am going now-let me rest, rest, rest," the moaning supplicant73 mutters in a guttural voice, grasps spasmodically at the policeman's hand, heaves a deep sigh, and sets her eyes fixedly74 upon the stranger. She seems recognizing in his features something that gives her strength.
"There-there-there!" she continues, incoherently, as a fit of hysterics seize upon her; "you, you, you, have-yes, you have come at the last hour, when my sufferings close. I see devils all about me-haunting me-torturing my very soul-burning me up! See them! see them!--here they come-tearing, worrying me-in a cloud of flame!" She clutches with her hands, her countenance75 fills with despair, and her body writhes76 in agony.
"Bring brandy! warm,--stimulant77! anything to give her strength! Quick! quick!--go fetch it, or she is gone!" stammers78 out the stranger.
In another minute she calms away, and sinks exhausted upon the pavement. Policeman shakes his head, and says, "It 'ont do no good-she's done for."
The light of the "Trumpeter's Arms" still blazes into the street, while a few greasy79 ale-bibbers sit moody80 about the tap room.
The two men raise the exhausted woman from the ground and carry her to the door. Mine host of the Trumpeter's Arms shrugs81 his shoulders and says, "She can't come in here." He fears she will damage the respectability of his house. "The Work-house is the place for her," he continues, gruffly.
A sight at the stranger's well-filled purse, however, and a few shillings slipped into the host's hand, secures his generosity82 and the woman's admittance. "Indeed," says the host, bowing most servilely, "gentlemen, the whole Trumpeter's Arms is at your service." The woman is carried into a lonely, little back room, and laid upon a cot, which, with two wooden chairs, constitutes its furniture. And while the policeman goes in search of medical aid, the host of the Trumpeter's bestirs himself right manfully in the forthcoming of a stimulant. The stranger, meanwhile, lends himself to the care of the forlorn sufferer with the gentleness of a woman. He smoothes her pillow, arranges her dress tenderly, and administers the stimulant with a hand accustomed to the sick.
A few minutes pass, and the woman seems to revive and brighten up. Mine host has set a light on the chair, at the side of the cot, and left her alone with the stranger. Slowly she opens her eyes, and with increasing anxiety sets them full upon him. Their recognition is mutual83. "Madame Flamingo84!" ejaculates the man, grasping her hand.
"Tom Swiggs!" exclaims the woman, burying her face for a second, then pressing his hand to her lips, and kissing it with the fondness of a child, as her eyes swim in tears. "How strange to find you thus--" continues Tom, for truly it is he who sits by the forlorn woman.
"More strange," mutters the woman, shaking her head sorrowfully, "that I should be brought to this terrible end. I am dying-I cannot last long-the fever has left me only to die a neglected wretch. Hear me-hear me, while I tell you the tale of my troubles, that others may take warning. And may God give me strength. And you,--if I have wronged you, forgive me-it is all I can ask in this world." Here Tom administers another draught85 of warm brandy and water, the influence of which is soon perceptible in the regaining86 strength of the patient.
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1
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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sluggishly
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| adv.懒惰地；缓慢地 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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dulcet
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| adj.悦耳的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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stigma
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| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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joyousness
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| 快乐，使人喜悦 | |
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enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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vomiting
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| 吐 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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importune
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| v.强求；不断请求 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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exultingly
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| 兴高采烈地，得意地 | |
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equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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parsimony
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| n.过度节俭，吝啬 | |
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withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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47
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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51
bemoaning
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的现在分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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52
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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69
bespeaks
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| v.预定( bespeak的第三人称单数 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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70
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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71
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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72
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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73
supplicant
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| adj.恳求的n.恳求者 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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75
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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76
writhes
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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77
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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78
stammers
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| n.口吃，结巴( stammer的名词复数 )v.结巴地说出( stammer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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79
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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80
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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81
shrugs
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| n.耸肩（以表示冷淡，怀疑等）( shrug的名词复数 ) | |
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82
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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83
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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84
flamingo
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| n.红鹳，火烈鸟 | |
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85
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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86
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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