Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page. It is also available as plain text as well as XML.

CHARLESTON E CHRISTMAS NO THOROUGHFARE. BY . Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins > --- A CHRISTMAS STORY For 1807. CONTENTS: Th* Overture. ACT L Ourtain Rite*. inter the Housekeeper. The HouteJceeper Speak*. Hero Characters on Scene. Etat Wilding. the ACT IL Vendale Makes Love. Vendale Hakes Mischief. ACT nx In the Valley. On the Mountain. ACT IV. The Clock-Lock. Obenrciser's Victory. The Curtain Falls. THE OVERTUBE. L Day of the month and year, November the thirtieth, one thousand eight hundred and thir? ty-five. London Time by the great clock of Saint Paul's, ten at night. All the leeser Lon? don churches strain their metallic throats. Some flippantly begin before the heavy bell of the greet cathedral ; some tardily begin three, (tor, half a dozen stroke" behind it ; all are in Bofficiently near accord to leave a resonance in the air, as if the winged father who devours his saildren had made a Hounding sweep with his gigantic scythe hi flying over the city. What is this dock lower than most of the rest, and r earer to the ear, that lags so far behind to-night az to strike into the vibration alone? This is the clock of the Hospital for Foundling Childrefe. Time was when the foundlings were received without question in a cradle at the gate. Time is when inquiries are made respect? ing them, and they are taken aa by favoi from the mothers who relinquish all natural knowl? edge of them and claim to them forevermore. The moon is at the foll, and the night is fair with light clouds. Th? day has been otherwise than fair, for slush and mud, thickened with the droppings of heavy fog, lia black in the streets. The vailed lady who flutters np and down near the postern gate ef the Hospital for Foundling Children has need to be well shod to-night. She flutters to and fro, avoiding the stand of hackney coaches, and often pausing m the shadow of the western end of the great quadrangle wah, with her face turned toward the ,;*te. As above her there is the purity of the moonlit sky, and below ber there are the defilements of the pavement, so k may she, haply, be divided in ber mind between two vistas of reflection or experience ? As her footprints, crossing and recrossing one another, have made a labyrinth in the mire, so may her track in life have involved iteeif in an intricate and unravelable tangle? The postern-gate of the hospital for foundling children opens, and a young woman comes out. The lady stands aside, observes cloeely, sees that the gate is quietly closed again from within, and follows the young woman. Two or three streets have been traversed in si? lence before she, following close behind the ob? ject of her attention, stretches out her hand and touches her. Then the young woman stops and looks round, startled. "Toa touched me last night, and when I turned my head, you would not speak. Why do you follow me like a silent ghost ?" "It waa not," returned the lady in a low voice. " that I would not speak, but that I could not when I tried.*' " What do you want of me ? I have nevor done you anjaharm?" "itever." "Do I know you ?" "No." " Then what can you want of mo ?" tt Here are two guineas in this paper. Take my poor little present, and I will tell you." Into the young woman's face, which is honest and comely, comes a flush aa she replies: "There is neither grown person nor child, in all the large establishment that I belong to, who hasn't a good word for Sally. I am Sally. Could I be so well thought of, if I wss to be bought ?" "I do net mean to buy you; I mean only to reward you very slightly." Sally firmly, but not ungently, closes and puta back the offering band. " If there ia anything I can do for you, ma'am, that I will not do for its own sake, you are much mistaken in me if you think that I will do it for money. What is it you want ? '.Your re one of the nurses or attendants at tho hospital; I saw you leave to-night and last night." " Yes, 1 am. I am Sally." " There is a pleasant patience in your face which makes mo believe that very young children would take readily to you." " God bless 'em ! So they do." The lady lilts fcer vail, e&QTrs afo-;a 00 older than the nurse's. A face far more refined and capable than hers, but wild and worn with sorrow. " I sm the miserable mother of a baby lately received under your care. I have a prayer to make to you." o Instinctively respecting the confidence which has drawn aside the vail Sally-whose ways are all ways of simplicity and spontaneity-replaces it, and begins to cry. " You will listen to my prayer ?" the lady urges. " You will not be deaf to the agonized entreaty of such a broken suppliant as I am." "0 dear, dear, dear ! cries Sally. "What shall I say, or can I say ? Don't talk of prayers. Prayers are to be put up to the Good Father of Ali, and not to nurses and such.. And there 1 I am only to hold my placo for half a year longer, till another young woman can be trained up to lt. I am going to be married. I shouldn't have been out last night, and I shouldn't have been out to-night, but that my Dick (he ia the young man I am going to be married to) lies ill, and I help his mother and Bister to watch him. Don't take on so, don't take on so !" "0 good Sally, dear Sally, moans the lady, catching at her dress entreatingly. "As you are hopeful and I am hopeless-as a fair w*y in life is before you, which can never, never be before me-as you can aspire to become a respected wife, and as you ean aspire to become a proud mother-as you are> a living, loving woman, and must die-for God's sake hear my distracted pe? tition!" "Deary, deary, deary me!" cries 8ally, her desperation culminating in the pronoun, "what am I ever to do ? And there ! See how you turn my own words back upon me. I tell you I am going to be married on purpose to make it clearer to you that I am going to leave, and therefore couldn't help you if I would, Poor Thing, and you make it seem to my own self as if I was cruel in going to be married and not helping you. It ain't kind. Now, ie it kind, Poor Thing ?" "Sally ! hear me, my dear. My entreaty is for no help in the future. It applies to what is past. It is only to be told in two word?." ( "There! 'This is worse and worse," cries Sally, " supposing that I understand what two words you mean." "You do understand. What are the names they have given my poor baby ? I ask no more than that. I have read of the customs of the place. He bas been christened in the chapel, and registered by some surname in the book; be was received last Monday evening. Wb ul have tbey called him ?" Down upon her knees in tho foul mud of the by? way into which they have strayed, an empty street without a thoroughfare giving on the dark gardens of the Hospital-the lady would drop in her pas? sionate entreaty, but that Sally prevents her. " Don't I Don't ! You make me feel as if I was setting myself UP to be good. Let me look in your pretty face again. Put your two hands in mine. Now, promise. You will never ask me anything more than the two words ?" "Never! Never 1" "You will never put them to a bad use, if I say them?" "Never! Never!" . , "Walter Wilding.-" The lady lays her face upon the nurse's breast, draws her close in her embraco with both arma, murmurs a blessing and the words, "Kiss him fer me !" and is gone. Day of the month and year, the first Sunday in October, ono thousand eight hundred and forty seven. London Time by the great clock of Saint Paul's, half past one in the afternoon. The clock of the Hospital for Foundling Children is well up with the cathedral to-day. Service in the chapel is over, and the foundling children aro at dinner. There are numerous lookers-on at tho dinner, as the custom is. There are two or three gover? nors, wholo families from the congregation, smaller groups of both sexes, individual strag? glers of various degrees. The bright autumnal sun strikes froth ly into tho wards; and the heavy framed windows through which it eh i nee, and the paneled walls on which it strikes, are snch windows and such walls as pervade Ho? garth's pictures. The girl's refectory (including that of the younger children ) is tile principal attraction. Neat attendants silently glide about the orderly and silent tables ; the lookers-on move or stop as the fancy takes thom ; com? ments in whispers on face such a number from such a window are not unfrequent ; many of tho faces are of a character to fix attention. Some of the visitors from the outside public are ac? customed visitors. They have established a speaking acquaintance with the occupants of particular oeats at the tables, and halt at those points to bend down and say a word or two. It is no disparagement to their kindness that those points are generally points where personal at? tractions are. The monotony of tho long spa? cious rooms and tho double lines of faces is agreeably relieved by these incidents, although so slight. A vailed lady, who las no companion, goes among the company. It would seem that cu? riosity and opportunity have never brought her hero before. She has the air of being a little troubled by tho sight, and, as she goes the length of the tables, it is wi.h a hesitating step and an uneasy manner. At length she comes lo the refectory of the boys. They are eo mnch less popular than the girls that it is bare of vis? itors when she looks in at the doorway. But just within the doorway chances to stand, inspecting, an elderly female attendant-some order of matron or housekeeper. To whom the lady addresses natural questions, as, How many bom? At what ?ge are tbey usually rut oat ia life ? Do they often tike % faney to the sei So, lower and lower in tone, until the lady, pu tho question : " Which is Walter Wilding ?" Attendant's head shaken. Against the nile " You know which is Walter Wilding?" So keenly does the attendant feel the closeno with which the lady's eyes examint her face th she keeps her own eyes fast npon the floor, le by wandering in the right direction they thou betray her. MI know which is Walter Wilding, but it is n my place, ma'am, to tell names to visitors." 11 Bnt you can show me without toiling me." The lady's band moves quietly to the atten ant's hand. Pause and silence. "I am going to pass round the tables," ea; the lady's interlocutor, without leeming toa dress ber. ''Follow me with your eyes. Tl boy that I stop at and speak to will not matter i yon. But the boy that I touch will be Wa ti Wilding. Say nothing more to me, and move little away." Quickly acting on the hint, the lady passes c into the room, and looks about her. After a fe moments, the attendant, in a staid official wa; walks down outside the line of ta'.iles common ing on her left band. She goes tho whole lengt of the line, turns, and comes back on tho insidi Very slightly glancing in the lady's directioi she stops, bends forward, and speaks. The bc whom she addresses lifts his head and ropliei Good humored!; and easily, as she listens to whi he says, she lays her hand upon the shoulder of th next bo; on his right. That the action may b well noticed, she keeps her hand on the should' while speaking in return, add pata it twice c thrice before moving away. Sho completes he tour of the tables, touching no one elso, am passes out by a door at the opposite end of th long room. Dinner is done, and the lady, too, walks dow outside the line of tables commencing on her lei band, goes the whole length of the line, tura and comes back on the inside. Other peopl have strolled in, fortunately for. ber, and stahl sprinkled about. She lifts her vail, and, stop ping at the touched boy, asks how old he is. '.I am twelve, ma'am," he an,were, with bi bright eyes fixed oh hers. " Are you well and happy ?" "Yes, ma'am." "May you take these sweetmeats from ca? li and?"' " If you please to give them to me." In stooping low tv the purpose, the lad] touches the boy's faca with her forehead ant with her bair. Then, lowering ber vail again she passes on, and passes out without lookinf back. ?s -- ACT L THE CURTAIN BISES. In a court yard in the City of London, which was No Thoroughfare either l'or vehicles or foot passengers-a court yard di verging from a steep, a slippery, and a winding street connecting Towel street with the Middlesex shore of the Thames otood the place of business of Wilding ? Co., wine mordants. Probably as a jocose acknowl? edgment of the obstructive character of this main approach, the point nearest to its base at which one could take the river (if so inodorous!j minded) bore the appellation Br esk-Ne ck-S tai re. The court yard itself had likewise been descrip? tively entitled, in old time, Cripple Corner. Years before the year one thousand eight hundred and sixty-one, people had left off taking boat at Break-Neck-Stairs, and water? men had ceased to ply there. The slimy little causeway had dropped into the river by a slow process of nu ic i de, and two or three stumps of piles and a rusty iron moor ing-ring wore all that remained of the departed Break-Neck glories. Sometimes, indeed, a laden coal barge would bump itself into che place, and certain laborious heavers, seemingly mud-en? gendered, would arise, deliver tho cargo in the neighborhood, shove off, and vanish; but at most times the only commerce of Break-Neck Stairs arose out of the conveyance of casks and bottles, both full and empty, Doth to and from the cellars of Wilding ?4 Co., wine merchants. Even that commerce was but occasional, and tbrough three-fourths of its rising tides the dirty, indecorous drab of a river would come solitarily oozing and lapping at the rusty ring, as if it had heard of the Doge and the Adriatic,. and wanted to be married to the great conserver of its filthiness, the right honorable the lord mayor. Some two hundred and fifty yards on the right,. np the opposite hdl (approaching it from the low t ground of Break-Neck-Stairs), was Cripple, Corner. There was a pump in Cripple Corner; j there was a tree in Cripple Corner. All CripploJ Corner belonged to Wilding & Co., wino mer- . chants. Their cellars burrowed under it, their1 mansion towered over. It really had been a mansion in the days when merchants inhabited* the city, and had a ceremonious shelter to?; the doorway j without visible eupport, like j the sounding-board over an old pulpit. It hadi also a number of long narrow strips of window, so disposed in its tcravc brick front as to rendes* it symmetrically ugly. It had also on its roof?? cupola with a boll in it. "W hen a man at fl ve-and-twenty can put his ha* on, and can say, * This bat covers the owner of this property and of the business which is trans? acted on this property,' I consider, Mr. Bintrey, that, without being boastful, he may be allowed to bo deeply thankful. I don't know how it may - appear to you, but BO it appears to me." Tims Mr. Walter Wildin 5 to his man of law, in his own counting-house-taking his hat down from its peg to suit the action to tho *?aiL hanging it up wben he had done so, nob to ov step the modesty of nature. An innocent, o pen-a peaking, unnsod-iooki man, Mr.. Walter Wilding, m th a remarkal pink and whit? complexion, and ? figure mn (oo bulky for so youn ? a man, though of go stature, With crispy culing brown bair a amiable bright blue eyes. An extremely comm nicative man-aman with whom loquacity waa t irreatrainablo outpouring of contentment a: gratitude. Mr. Bin trey, on tba other hand, cautions man, with twinkling beads of eyes in large, overhanging bald bead, who inwardly b intensely enjoyed the comicality of openness speech, or bund, or heart. "Yes/' said Mr. Bintrey. "Yes. Hal hal* A decanter, two wineglasses, and a plato bisonlt stood on th? desk. "Yon like this forty-five year old port wine said Mr. Willing. " Like it ?" repeated Mr. Bin trey. " Batta sir!" " It's from the best corner of our boat fort five year old bin," said Mr. Wilding. "Thank ;-on, sir," said Mr. Bmtrey. ?'Il most excellent." He laughed again, as be held np his glass ai ogled it, at the highly ludicrous idea of giru away such nine. "And noir," said Wilding, with a childish ei joyment in the discussion of affairs, '"I th ii we have got everything straight, Mr. Bintrey/ " Everything straight, " said Bmtrey. "A parta? secured-9 u Partner secured," said Bintrey. " A housekeeper advertised for--" "Housekeeper advertised for,'* said Bmtrey u<r>PPl7 personally at Cripple Corner, Grei i Tower etrest, from ten to twelve'-to-morroi by-the-by." " My late dear mother's affairs wound up-" " Wound up," said Bintrey. "And all charges paid." "Aud all charges paid," said Bintrey, with chuckle; probably occasioned by the droll ct cums tance that they had been paid without haggle. "The mention of my late dear mother," Mi Wilding cc ntinued, his eyes filling with tean and hts pocketbandkerchief drying them, "rn mane me still, Mr. Bmtrey. You know bow loved her; you (her lawyer) know hew she love me. The utmost love of mother and child wi I cherished between us, and we never experience L one mom eu t's division or unhappiness from tb \ time when she took me under her car? ? Thirteen years in all. Thirteen yeal under my dear mother's care, Mr. Bintrej and eight of them her confidentially acknow j edged son I You know the story, Mr. Bintrey who but you, sb??" Mr. Wilding sobbed, an dried his eyee, without attempt at concealment during these remarks. Mr. Bin ry enjoyed his comical port, and sale aftcrrollir g it in his mouth: "I Know the story. "My late dear mother, Mr. Bintrey," pursue tho wine merchant, '. bad been deeply deceived and had cruelly suffered. But ou that subjec my late dear mother's Ups were forever sealed By whom deceived, or nuder what circum stances, heaven only knowe. My late dea mother n? ver betrayed her betrayer." "She httd made up ber mind," said Mr. Bintrey again turning his wine on his palate, "and eh could held her peace." An amused twinkle ii hie eyes ipretty plainly added, "A devilish dea better than you ever will.* " ' Honor,' " said Mr. Wilding, sobbing as hi quoted from the Commandments, " ' tby fathei and thy mother, that thy days may be long ii the land.1 When I was in the Foundling, Mr Bintrey, X was at such a Idss bow to do it, that ] apprehended my days would be short in tbi land. But 1 afterward came to honor my mothei deeply, profoundly. And I honor and revere hei memory. Dor soven happy years, Mr. Bintrey,' pursued Wilding, still with the same innocent catching m his breath, and the same unabashed tears, 1 ' did my excellent mother article me tc my predecessor in this business. Pebblasoi Nephew. Her affectionate forethought likewise apprenticed me to the Vintners' Company, and made mc in time a Free Vintner, and-and everythinr " 'se that the|best of mothers could desire. When I came ol' age, she bestowed hei inherited ah are in this business upon me ; it was ber mon 5y that afterward bought oat Pebbleson .Nephew and painted in Wilding & Co.; it waa she who left me everything she possessed, but the mon ming ring you wear. And yet, Mr. Bin? trey," with a fresh burst of honest affection, "she is no more. It is little over half a year since she came into the Corner to read on that door-post, with her own eyes, Wilding & Co., Wine Merchants. And yet she is no more 1" "Sad. Bnt the common lot, Mr. Wilding," ob? served Bintrey. "At some time er other we must all be no more." He placed the forty-five year old port wine in the universal condition, with a rel? ishing sigh. " So now, Mi. Bintrey," pursued Wilding, put? ting away hie pockethandkerchief, and emooth I ing his eyelids with his fingers, "now that I can no longer show my love and honor for the dear parent to whom my heart was mysteriously turned by Nature when she first spoke to me, a strange lady, I sitting at our Sunday dinner table in the Foundling, I can at least sbow that I am not ashamed of having been a Foundling, and that I, who never knew a father of my own, wish to be a father to ail in my employment. Therefore," continued Wilding, becoming en? thusiastic in hu loquacity-" therefore, I-want a thoroughly good housekeeper- to? undertake this dwelling house of Wilding & Co., Wine Mer- - ? chants, i Cripple Corner, so thj.t I may res tor o in .it s OBM j o? i?-.ftW relations b?t y,i-4.tpp?9j.?r sad j employed 1 So that I may live in itonthe .jpot where my money is made ! So that I mi? c aily sit at the head of the table at which tbe pee pie In my employment eat together, and may eat of the same roast and boiled, and drink of the sf me? beerl So that the people m my em ploy nen t may ledge ander the same roof with me ! So that we may ?ne and all - I bej your pardon, Mi-. Bintrey, bot that old singin? in my head' has suddenly come OD, and I shall feel obliged ii you wil' lead me to the pomp." Alarmed at the excessive pink ness of bis client. Mr. Bintrey lost not a moment in leading bim forth into the court yard, lt was easily done, for the counting boase in which they talked to? gether opened on to it, at one side of the dwel? ling house. There the attorney pumped with sr will, obedient toa sign from tb? client, and tb? dient laved his head and face wi th both hands, and took a hearty drink. After these remedies, * he declared himself much better. "Don't let your good feelings excite yon," said Din trey, as they returned to tho counting house, and Mr. Wilding dried himself on a jack" towel behind an inner door. "No, no. I won't," be retorced, looking ont of the towel. " I won't. I have not been ooo? fused, have I?" "Notated, Perfectly dear." 44 Where did I leave off, Mr. Bintrey ?" A4'Well, you left off-. But I would'nt excite myself, if I was you, by taking it up again just yet." - "intakecare? m take care. The singing in my bead came on at where, Mr. Bintrey f 44At roast, and boiled, and beer," answered the lawyer, prompting, -" lodging under the same roof-and one and ali-" "Ahl And one and all einging in the head' 1 together-" j. . 44 Do you know, I really would not let my good ' (eelings excite me, if I was you," hinted the lawyer again, anxiously. , "Try some moro pump." . , "No occasion, no* occasion.. All right, Mr. * Bintrey. And one and all forming a kind oft - family 1 Ton seq, Mr. Bintrey, I was not used in, my childhood to that sort of individual exist? ence which,most individuals liave led, more ox less, in their childhood. After that time I be? i came absorbed in my late de ir mother. Having lost, her, I find that I am mora fit for being ene of a body than one by myself.. To be that, and. at the same time to do my duty to those do-j pendent on me, and attach them tome, has a patriarchal and pleasant air about it. I don's* know, bow it may appear to you, Mr. Bintrey, j : bat sp it appears to me." "It is not I who am all-important in the case, but you," returned Bintrey. "Consequently, ho* it may appear to me, is of very small im? portance." ? "It appears to me," said Mr. Wilding, ins glow,.41 hopeful, useful, delightful !" "Do you know," hinted the lawyer, again, " I really would not ex-" 411 am not going to. Then there's Handel." 41 There's wno ?" asked Bintrey. 41 Handel, Mozart, Haydn, Sent, Purcell, Doc? tor Arne, Greene, Mendelsshon. I know tb? choruses to those anthems by heart. Foundling* Chapel Coll ec. i on. Why shouldn't we learn? ? them together P " Who learn them together?" asked the law* yer, rather shortly. " Employer and employed." "Ay. ay 1" returned Bintrey, mollified; as il he had hair expected the answer to be, lawyer1 and client. " That's another thing." " Not another thing, Mr. Bintrey I The same thing. A part of the bond among us. Wo wu* form a choir in some quiet church near the Coro? ner here, and, having sang together of a Sun* I day with a relish, we will come home and taktt. an early dinner together with a relish. The ob. ' ject that I have at heart now is to get this sys*. tem well m action without delay, so that my nev4 twa partner may find it founded when he enters oo<.< bis partnership." 44 All good be with it 1" ex claimed-Bintrey, ria ing. 44 May it prosper ! Is Joey Ladle to take, a share in Handel, Mozart, Haydn, Kent, Pur- ' cell, Doctor Arne, Greene, and Mendelssohn?" ? "I hope so." "I wish them all well out out of it," returned . Bintrey, with much heartiness. "Good by, eir."*\ I , - They shook bands and parted. Then (finit i knocking with his knuckles for leave) entered* ' ' ' to Mr. Wilding, from a door of communication?' between bis private counting-house and that ir*, which his clerks sat, the Head Cellarman of ther cellars of Wilding & Co., Wino Merchants, -andi. .r erst Head Cellarman of the. cellars of PebbleeontS ' ^ Nephew. Thu Joey Ladle in question. A slosj? jkyP and ponderous man, of the drayman order-of* ;t. .' haman architecture, dresised in a corr?gateos. ?\? emt apd bibbed apron, apparently a commiten . of door mat and rhinoceros-hide. ' % y^/p " Bespe?tong this same boarding and lod^ing^ ?MV Young Master Wilding,'' said he. * 1^ "Yes, Joey?" , KL *4 Speaking for myaelf, Young Master Wildingf ' and I never did speak and I never do speak fodp y. no one else-./don't want no boarding noryetf \,. no lodging. But if you wiah to board me and lcm 3v lodge me, take me., I can. peck aa well as moan* fe men. Where I peck ain't so high a object withf me as what I peck. Nor ?ven so high a object! 'M with me as how much I peck. Is all to live ia (? the house, Young Master Wilding? The twa ^ftf. other ce H?rmen, the three porters, the t ?YO "preta-; K?k tices, and the old men ?" - ?h KTO ' 44 Yea. J hope we shall ill bo a united family^ ht*:" Ah*-!" said Joey. *4I hopo they may bo,"*.. , ?TWav ' ; 44 They? Rather say wo, Joey." -\ 'fflfflB, Joey Ladlo shook his heed. "Don't look'ttl ^MSaSt* jao to" ibfcutj W9 wa it, Young ttgW ??jjtfjjH