 | CHAPTER V.
A NOTORIOUS DEN AND CHANGE OF SCENE. Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
A NOTORIOUS DEN AND CHANGE OF SCENE.
The den into which little Ellen had been so unceremoniously
thrust by the Hunchback, was one of those vile resorts
of the most miserable and degraded of human beings.
filled with the noxious smoke of rank tobacco and the steam
of drunken breaths. One side of the room was occupied
by the bar, as it was called, in which the intoxicating and
deadly poison was kept, and over which presided the master-fiend
of the place. At the end farthest from the street, a
flight of old crazy stairs led to the story above, and another
to the cellar beneath, and along the walls were benches devoted
to the comfort of the customers.
The proprietor of this establishment was a hideous dwarf,
known as Jimmy Quiglan, and was well fitted by nature to
be the presiding genius of so foul a place. He was upwards
of forty years of age, and something over four feet in
height. His large head was covered with black, coarse,
matted hair, and seemed to find a comfortable lodgment
between the shoulder blades, dispensing entirely with anything
resembling a neck. His body, of an ordinary size
and length, terminated on short duck-legs, with monstrous
feet. He had a low forehead, and a large, broad face,
deeply seamed, and apparently grown old before its time.
His eyes were large, dark, and cold; and while they gave
some evidence of intellect, they gave none of the better
feelings of humanity. His nose was long and hooked, and
his mouth large, with massive jaws, and teeth like fangs.
Altogether he looked the monster, and resembled in no
slight degree a large spider, surrounded by his web, and
watching for an opportunity to pounce upon some new
victim.
Now, Jimmy, as this hideous being was familiarly termed,
had a plan of doing business quite original. His den was a
lodging as well as drinking-house; and here a customer
could get drunk, at the rate of a cent a glass for the best
brandy, and be allowed to sleep up stairs, on the floor, for
three cents per night—or below, in the cellar, on the damp
the day, the enterprising landlord would “run him” for
nothing—that is to say, he would chuck him through a
narrow hole in the wall, or side door, into a dirty yard, and
there leave him exposed to the weather, till such time as he
might sufficiently revive to imbibe afresh.
Although it was an early hour in the morning when little
Ellen entered this foul abode, it was, as we have before remarked,
filled with human beings, though hardly deserving
a term which places them in the scale of animal progression
so much above their superiors, the brutes. Male and female,
white and black—all filthy, ragged, and the greater
portion of them nearly drunk—were huddled together, to
the number of fifteen or twenty, in this small room; and
were drinking, smoking, cursing, and swearing, in a way
that must have given the most profound satisfaction to his
Satanic Majesty. In the bar, smiling as fiends might be
supposed to smile, and rubbing his hands with delight, at
intervals between supplying one customer and an order
from another, stood Jimmy Quiglan, alive to the profits of
that blithe Christmas morning.
And no one knew better what the profits of that day
would be, than Jimmy himself; for besides those already
mentioned as being in active trade, he knew exactly how
many lay intoxicated above and below stairs—how long it
would take them to get sober—and how many glasses to
make them drunk again—calculations being only made on
those having money—and Jimmy, by previous inspection,
could name to a cent the value of each lodger.
It may be a matter of curiosity to the reader to know
how such wretched beings obtained money at all; but it
will only be necessary to state that some were bone gatherers,
some rag-pickers, some professional beggars, and the
rest job-workers and thieves. Like the Lazaroni of Naples,
many suppose, take no thought for the morrow—but, with
the small pittance they may have received for a day's hard
labor in their respective vocations, they pay for the poison
that for the time brings oblivion, and with returning consciousness
repeat the dose so long as their money holds
out. It is not an uncommon thing for one of these
wretches to go days without food—passing, meantime,
from one drunken fit to another, without drawing one sober
breath.
It was into this vile place, as we have said, that little
Ellen was thrust by the Hunchback, who quickly followed
and closed the door. As she looked hurriedly around her,
with an expression of terror on her pale features, the deformed
boy took her hand, and said, in a tone calculated
to reassure her:
“Don't be alarmed, my little lady—nobody shall hurt
you here.”
“Oh! let me go out! I'm so afraid!” she answered, in
a trembling whisper.
“Well, so you shall, as soon as I can get the brandy.
Give me the money and the bottle, and I will have it filled
at once.”
Ellen put both into his hands, and whispered:
“Oh! be quick! I'm so afraid.”
“A pint of your best brandy, Jimmy!” cried the Hunchback,
in a loud tone, and with an air of vast importance, as
he placed the bottle upon the counter, with a force that
made it ring again.
“Down with your dough, then, Nob,” replied Jimmy,
with a grin. “I doesn't read myself, Nob; but them as
does, says as how that ther bit of pasteboard, (pointing to a
card on the wall above his head, which contained the words,
the giraff over Jimmy Quiglan—ha! ha! ha!”
“Open your eyes then, Jimmy,” returned the Hunchback,
with a laugh; “for here is more white money than
you have seen among your ragged customers for many a
day;” and he placed the Spanish real, with a loud snap,
upon the counter.
Jimmy's eye fairly glistened as he seized the coin; and
after a close examination, to be certain it was genuine, he
said:
“Yes, that's good, Nob—the brandy's good, Nob—and
so, in course, a fair exchange ain't no robbery—ha!
ha! ha!”
While Jimmy was pouring out his pint of poison, the
Hunchback got upon a stool, leaned over the counter, and
whispered something in his ear. Jimmy grinned, winked,
and nodded; and springing down from his stool, the Hunchback,
much to Ellen's surprise, disappeared through the
crowd.
For half an hour, in that close, noisome hole, surrounded
and rudely jostled by filthy wretches in every degree of intoxication,
whose horrible blasphemy and vulgar obscenity
made her gentle and unpolluted spirit tremble and shrink
in its mortal casement, like the sensitive plant when rudely
touched, little Ellen most anxiously awaited the return of
her ungainly companion. Finding he came not, she at last,
in no little trepidation, applied to the landlord for information
concerning him.
He's doing well, Nob is—ha! ha! ha!” returned Jimmy.
“He told me if you axed arter him, to gin you his compliments,
and say he was just trying the brandy, to see if it
was good.”
“Well, tell him he musn't keep me waiting, as my mistress
will be very angry,” returned Ellen.
“Oh!” said Jimmy, with a grin, that made little Ellen
shudder—“if you're going to wait till he comes, you'll
want lodgings.”
“Won't he come, sir?” timidly inquired Ellen.
“Not afore he gits sober, gal—ha! ha! ha! He's drunk
by this time, you may bet your head.”
“Then I must go without him,” returned the child—
not sorry, if truth must be told, to be rid of one whose
reappearance in the street, she believed, would be the
signal for fresh abuse. “Will you please give me my
brandy?”
“Your what?” grinned Jimmy.
“The brandy that the deformed boy bought for me.”
“Why, you little fool,” laughed Jimmy; “that's what
he's gitting drunk on; and there ain't a gill left now, you
can bet your head.”
“Oh! then what will become of me?” exclaimed Ellen,
bursting into tears. “When I get back, I shall be beat
and turned out of doors.”
“Well, don't go back, then!” said the Dwarf, with a
hideous grin. “Such a perty creater as you is, needn't
sarve no cross mistress. Jest you stay here till night, and
I'll take you round to the nicest place you ever seed.”
“No! no!” said Ellen, shuddering and shrinking back
—for there was something peculiar in the cold light of
the Dwarf's eye, which seemed to cast a wicked influence
upon her innocent spirit. “No! no! I must go right
home, and tell my mistress the truth, and take the consequences.”
Jimmy was about to say something more, when his
attention was arrested by a fight between two of his
drunken customers—a white man and a negro.
“Stop!” thundered the worthy landlord, seizing a billet
of wood and springing upon the counter; and the next
over the head, and knocked him down.
Now some one thought this an improper interference of
the host, and immediately knocked him over behind the
bar among his kegs of poison. This opened the way to a
general fight; and in less than a minute, every one, not
too drunk to stand up, was battering away at his neighbor.
From this melee little Ellen managed to escape unharmed;
and the moment she gained the street, she hurried away,
intending to return at once to Margaret, and report truly
what had happened, although she trembled to think what
might be the result.
But it proved to be less easy to find her way back to her
last night's quarters than she had supposed; for she knew
not the name of the street in which she had first met the
Hunchback, and she had neglected to notice the turnings
made afterward. As a consequence of her haste to get
back, and ignorance of the locality, she lost her way, and
wandered through several dirty streets and alleys, looking
in vain for a spot she could recognize.
At length, by keeping on a certain course, she found herself
entering a better quarter of the city; and although she
knew she was now going in a direction that would not lead
to the abode of Margaret, she felt it such a relief to escape
from the disgusting scenes behind her, that she could not
prevail upon herself to turn back; but, quickening her pace,
walked on, determined to trust herself once more to the
guidance of Providence. She now passed habitations that
had an appearance of comfort, if not of wealth; while the
passengers on the street were warmly clothed, and had generally
a cheerful and happy look.
Still Ellen walked on, with something of that spirit of
adventure which takes one forward, one neither knows nor
cares whither, so that each passing moment is gratified by
one of the crowd thronging the rich and fashionable
thoroughfare of the city.
It was a strange sight to the poor girl; and as she stared
around her at the high and splendid buildings, the glittering
shop-windows, the richly attired and jewel-bedecked
passers—upon all of which the bright sun of that Christmas
morning was shining as though it might never be
dimmed by a cloud—amid the hum of voices and the jingling
of the merry bells—she felt bewildered and confused
by the contrast to that loathsome and wretched quarter
she had so recently left, and like the novice transplanted
by the magic of Aladdin's lamp to a gorgeous scene in the
Orient. Was this the same city of which she had been an
inhabitant for more than two years? and was this mart
of fashion within a few minutes' walk of the filthy dens
where human beings famished and starved to death almost
daily? It seemed impossible; and yet it was either a
dream or a reality. Was it a dream? She rubbed her eyes
and stared again; and at the same moment, as if to set the
matter forever at rest in her wondering mind, some hasty
pedestrian ran against her, and nearly knocked her down;
and stumbling against the velvets and furs of a soi-disant
lady, she was put rudely aside, with the cold, sharp words:
“Stand out of the way, you beggar!”
Ay! stand out of the way, you beggars! what business
have you to be in the same street, or even in the same
world, with your purse-proud brothers and sisters? breathing
the same air, and enjoying the same sunlight, which
God has given them? Do ye not know that these things
were not made for you? that ye are the weeds among
flowers, the thorns among roses, the scum of the earth,
that must be removed? Back to your dens! back to your
holes in the earth! back to your damps and filth! and
for your iniquities; while your rich and pious brothers and
sisters, clothed in broadcloths and silks, from golden-clasped
prayer-books, surrounded by the gorgeous trappings of a
splendid church, return thanks, that God, who made all
things, has made them better than you—and, from the
foundation of Creation, has elected them to monopolize all
the good things of this world and the next! By their
golden creeds you should learn, that it is necessary, for the
glory of God, that a certain portion of mankind should be
damned; and what portion is so well suited to eternal torments
as you who have never known luxury—never known
aught but misery in your weary pilgrimage through life?
Therefore repine not at this decree; but console yourselves
with the reflection, that, miserable as you may be here, it is
necessary, to secure the happiness of certain wealthy saints,
that you be more miserable hereafter! What if that
old-fashioned book, the Bible, does say that God is no respecter
of persons? Cannot the learned and aristocratic
Rev. Dr. Allgrace give such an explanation as shall prove
the contrary? What if that meek and lowly man, who
consorted with publicans and sinners—who was followed
and surrounded by such poor wretches as yourselves, collected
from the highways and byways—what if he, the
humble teacher, the founder of the Gospel, did give a parable
of the rich and poor man—Dives and Lazarus? Cannot
the Rev. Dr. Allgrace prove that the scribes, who
recorded the words of Christ, made a mistake? or, if not,
that Christ made a mistake himself? and that it was in
fact the rich man who went to Abraham's bosom, and the
poor man who lifted up his eyes in hell? Undoubtedly he
can, or else he would not be fit to preach an aristocratic
Gospel, and would be compelled to vacate his velvet-stuffed
pulpit.
No! stand out of the way, ye beggars! groan on, ye
starving millions! the wealth that would save you from the
horrors of your doom, is locked up in churches devoted to
the worship of God. Ye should rather rejoice than repine
at this! that the God who made you has such aristocratic
worshippers! and that ye are fit to be damned for His
glory! Christians talk of a Millennium—of a “good time
coming;” but it has not come yet—and so, groan on!
The female—we were about to say lady, but the term
is inapplicable to one so devoid of Christian feeling and the
graces of humanity—the female who so rudely put aside
little Ellen, was a zealous member of the church over which
the Rev. Dr. Allgrace presided; and by her side walked
her daughter, about the same age as Ellen—no purer in
heart, no fairer in feature—but so differently clothed, so
differently housed, so differently circumstanced, that there
seemed a bottomless gulf between them, without even the
hair-bridge of connection which allows the faithful of Mohammed
to pass to the Houri's Paradise.
On they went—the rich Mrs. Markham and her daughter
—while little Ellen, forgetting the rude treatment she had
received, (it was too much a matter of course, poor child!)
gazed after the younger, with a sigh, that she had not, like
her, a mother, on whose breast she could recline and pour
forth the grief of her heavily burdened soul. With a sorrowful
heart, and a tear-dimmed eye, she turned away, with
the feeling that she was never more alone and friendless
than among that jostling crowd of richly attired persons
and happy-looking faces.
For half an hour she wandered up and down Chestnut
street, wondering at all she saw, and lost in a whirl of
thought both new and strange. At length, seeing numbers
crossing the street, she mechanically attempted to follow.
We say mechanically—for she was abstracted in thought,
that came nigh being fatal. With that desire of
making the most of the fallen snow, which the citizens of
those cities have who see the ground covered but a few
days in the year, Chestnut street, on that bright Christmas
morning, might be described as a rushing, whirling stream
of horses, sleighs, and human beings; and scarcely had little
Ellen put her foot off the side pavement, ere she was struck
by the breast of a fiery beast going at great speed. In an
instant she was knocked down, trampled on, and lay senseless
and bleeding on the frozen snow; while the vehicle
which passed over her—containing a man in a fashionable
dress, and a female well muffled up in furs—dashed on at
a still more furious rate, as if the occupants were anxious
to escape the censure and penalty of fast and careless driving.
Besides, one glance at the dress of little Ellen, was
sufficient to tell them that she belonged to that despised
class of society who have no influential friends—and so,
what mattered it whether she were living or dead!
| CHAPTER V.
A NOTORIOUS DEN AND CHANGE OF SCENE. Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan | |