University of Virginia Library

23. JOHN STOUT ESQ., AND MARK
SULLIVAN.

Mark Sullivan was imprisoned in the Sumter county
jail, having changed the venue and place of residence from
Washington county, where he had committed a murder.
John Stout was an old acquaintance of Mark's, and being of
a susceptible nature when there was any likelihood of a fee,
was not a man to stand on ceremony or the etiquette of the
profession. He did not wait to be sent for, but usually hurried
post-haste to comfort his friends, when in the disconsolate
circumstances of the unfortunate Mark. John
had a great love for the profession, and a remarkable perseverance
under discouraging circumstances, having clung to
the bar after being at least twice stricken from the roll, for
some practices indicating a much greater zeal for his clients
than for truth, justice, or fair dealing: but he had managed
to get reinstated on promises of amendment, which were, we
fear, much more profuse than sincere. John's standard of
morality was not exalted, nor were his attainments in the
profession great; having confined himself mostly to a class

of cases and of clients better suited to give notoriety than
enviable reputation to the practitioner. He seemed to have
a separate instinct, like a carrion crow's, for the filthy; and
he snuffed up a tainted atmosphere, as Swedenborg says
certain spirits do, with a rare relish. But with all John's
industry and enterprise, John never throve, but at fifty years
of age, he was as seedy and threadbare in clothes as in
character. He had no settled abode, but was a sort of Calmuc
Tartar of the Law, and roamed over the country generally,
stirring up contention and breeding dirty lawsuits,
fishing up fraudulent papers, and hunting up complaisant
witnesses to very apocryphal facts.

Well, on one bright May morning, Squire Stout presented
himself at the door of the jail in Livingston, and asked admittance,
professing a desire to see Mr. Mark Sullivan, an
old friend. Harvey Thompson, the then sheriff, admitted
him to the door within, and which stood between Mark and
the passage. John desired to be led into the room in which
Mark was, wishing, he said, to hold a private interview
with Mark as one of Mark's counsel; but Harvey peremptorily
refused—telling him, however, that he might talk
with the prisoner in his presence. The door being thrown
back, left nothing but the iron lattice-work between the
friends, and Mark, dragging his chain along, came to the
door. At first, he did not seem to recognize John; but
John, running his hand through the interstices, grasped
Mark's with fervor, asking him, at the same time, if it were
possible that he had forgotten his old friend, John Stout.

Mark, as most men in durance, was not slow to recognize
any friendship, real or imaginary, that might be made to
turn out to advantage, and, of course, allowed the claim, and
expressed the pleasure it gave him to see John. John soon
got his hydraulics in readiness,—for sympathy and pathetic
eloquence are wonderfully cheap accessories to rascality,—
and begun applying his handkerchief to his eyes with great
energy. “Mark, my old friend, you and I have been
friends many a long year, old fellow; we have played many
a game of seven up together, Mark, and shot at many a
shooting match, Mark, and drunk many a gallon of `red-eye'
together;—and to think, Mark, my old friend and
companion, that I loved and trusted like a brother, Mark,
should be in this dreadful fix,—far from wife, children,
and friends, Mark,—it makes a child of me, and I can't—
control—my feelings.” (Here John wept with considerable
vivacity, and doubled up an old bandanna handkerchief and
mopped his eyes mightily.) Mark was not one of the crying
sort. He was a Roman-nosed, eagle-eyed ruffian of a
fellow, some six feet two inches high, and with a look and
step that the McGregor himself might feel entitled him to
be respected on the heather.

So Mark responded to this lachrymal ebullition of Stout's
a little impatiently: “Hoot, man, what are you making all
that how-de-do for? It aint so bad as you let on. To be sure,
it aint as pleasant as sitting on a log by a camp fire, with a tickler
of the reverend stuff, a pack of the documents and two or
three good fellows, and a good piece of fat deer meat roasting

at the end of a ramrod; but, for all that, it aint so bad
as might be: they can't do nothing with me: it was done
fair,—it was an old quarrel. We settled it in the old way:
I had my rifle, and I plugged him fust—he might a knowed
I would. It was devil take the hindmost. It wasn't my
fault he didn't draw trigger fust—they can't hurt me for it.
But I hate to be stayin' here so long, and the fishin' time
comin' on, too—it's mighty hard, but it can't be holped, I
suppose.” (And here Mark heaved a slight sigh.)

“Ah, Mark,” said John, “I aint so certain about that;
that is, unless you are particular well defended. You see,
Mark, it aint now like it used to be in the good old times.
They are getting new notions now-a-days. Since the penitentiary
has been built, they are got quare ways of doing
things,—they are sending gentlemen there reg'lar as pig-tracks.
I believe they do it just because they've got an idea
it helps to pay taxes. When it used to be neck or nothin',
why, one of the young hands could clear a man; but now it
takes the best sort of testimony, and the smartest sort of
lawyers in the market, to get a friend clear. The way things
are goin' on now, murdering a man will be no better than
stealin' a nigger, after a while.”

“Yes,” said Mark, “things is going downwards,—there
aint no denyin' of that. I know'd the time in old Washington,
when people let gentlemen settle these here little matters
their own way, and nobody interfered, but minded their
own business. And now you can't put an inch or two of
knife in a fellow, or lam him over the head a few times with

a light-wood knot, but every little lackey must poke his nose
into it, and Law, law, law, is the word,—the cowardly, nasty
slinks; and then them lawyers must have their jaw in it,
and bow, bow wow, it goes; and the juror, they must have
their say so in it; and the sherrer, he must do something,
too; and the old cuss that grinds out the law to 'em in the
box, he must have his how-de-do about it; and then the witnesses,
they must swear to ther packs of lies—and the lawyers
git to bawlin' and bellerin', like Methodist preachers at
a camp meetin'—allers quarrellin' and no fightin'—jawin'
and jawin' back, and sich eternal lyin'—I tell you, Stout, I
won't stay in no such country. When I get out of here, I
mean to go to Texas, whar a man can see some peace, and
not be interfered with in his private consarns. All this
come about consekens so many new settlers comin' in the
settlement, bringin' their new-fool ways with 'em. The fust
of it was two preachers comin' along. I told 'em 'twould
never do—and if my advice had been tuk, the thing could
a been stopped in time; but the boys said they wanted to
hear the news them fellers fotch'd about the Gospel and
sich—and there was old Ramsouser's mill-pond so handy,
too!—but it's too late now. And then the doggery-keepers
got to sellin' licker by the drink, instead of the half-pint,
and a dime a drink at that; and then the Devil was to pay,
and NO mistake. But they cant hurt me, John. They'll
have to let me out: and ef it wasn't so cussed mean, I'd
take the law on 'em, and sue 'em for damages; but then it
would be throw'd up to my children, that Mark Sullivan tuk
the law on a man; and, besides, Stout, I've got another way
of settlin' the thing up,—in the old way,—ef my life is
spared, and Providence favors me. But that aint nothin' to
the present purpose. John, where do you live now?”

John.—“I'm living in Jackson, Mississippi, now, Mark;
and hearing you were in distress, I let go all holds, and
came to see you. Says I, my old friend Mark Sullivan is in
trouble, and I must go and see him out; and says my wife:
`John Stout, you pretend you never deserted a friend, and
here you are, and your old friend Mark Sullivan, that you
thought so much of, laying in jail, when you, if any man
could, can get him clear.' Now, Mark, I couldn't stand
that. When my wife throw'd that up to me, I jist had my
horse got out, and travelled on, hardly stopping day or
night, till I got here. And the U. S. Court was in session,
too, and a big lawsuit was coming on for a million of dollars.
I and Prentiss and George Yerger was for the plaintiff, and
we were to get five thousand dollars, certain, and a hundred
thousand dollars if we gained it. I went to see George, before
I left, and George said I must stay—it would never do.
Says he, `John,'—he used always to call me John,—`you
know,'—which I did, Mark,—that our client relies on you,
and you must be here at the trial. I can fix up the papers, and
Prent. can do the fancy work to the jury; but when it comes
to the heavy licks of the law, John, you are the man, and
no mistake.' And just then Prentiss come in, and, after
putting his arm and sorter hugging me to him,—which was
Prent.'s way with his intimate friends,—says, `John, my old

friend, you have to follow on our side, and you must mash
Sam Boyd and Jo Holt into Scotch snuff; and you'll do it,
too, John: and after gaining the case, we'll have a frolic
that will suck the sweet out of the time of day.' And then
Yerger up and tells Prentiss about my going off; and Prentiss
opened his eyes, and asked me if I was crazy; and I
told him jist this: says I, `Prent, you are a magnanimous
man, that loves his friend, aint you?' and Prentiss said he
hoped he was. And then said I, `Prentiss, Mark Sullivan
is my friend, and in jail, away from his wife and children,
and nobody to get him out of that scrape; and may be, if I
don't go and defend him—there is no knowing what may
come of it; and how could I ever survive to think a friend
of mine had come to harm for want of my going to him in
the dark, dismal time of his distress.' (Here John took
out the handkerchief again, and began weeping, after a fashion
Mr. Alfred Jingle might have envied, even when performing
for the benefit of Mr. Samuel Weller.) `No,' said
I, `Sergeant Prentiss, let the case go to h—l, for me;—John
Stout and Andrew Jackson never deserted a friend, and
never will.' Said Prentiss, `John, I admire your principles;
give us your hand, old fellow; and come, let us take
a drink;'—for Prent. was always in the habit of treating his
noble sentiments—George wasn't. Well, Mark, you see I
came, and am at your service through thick and thin.”

“Yes,” said Mark, “I'm much obleeged to you, John,
but I'm afeered I can't afford to have you,—you're too dear
an article for my pocket; besides, I've got old John Gayle,
and I reckon he'll do.”

“Why,” said John, “I don't dispute, Mark, but that
the old Governor is some punkins,—you might have done
worse. I'll not disparage any of my brethren. I'll say to
his back what I've said to his face. You might do worse
than get old John—but, Mark, two heads are better than
one; and though I may say it, when it comes to the genius
licks of the law in these big cases, it aint every man in your
fix can get such counsel. Now, Mark, money is money, and
feelins is feelins; and I don't care if I do lose the case at
Jackson. If you will only secure two hundred dollars to pay
expenses, I am your man, and you're as good as cleared already.”

But Mark couldn't or wouldn't come into these reasonable
terms, and his friend Stout left him in no very amiable
mood,—having quite recovered from the fit of hysterics into
which he had fallen,—and Mark turned to Thompson, and
making sundry gyrations with his fingers upon a base formed
by his nose, his right thumb resting thereon, seemed to intimate
that John Stout's proposition and himself were little
short of a humbug, which couldn't win.

Mark, though ably and eloquently defended, was convicted
at the next court, and was sentenced to the penitentiary
for life. And Stout, speaking of the result afterwards,
said he did not wonder at it, for the old rascal, after having
sent for him all the way from Jackson, higgled with him on
a fee of one thousand dollars, when he, in indignant disgust
at his meanness, left him to his fate.