 | CHAPTER XXI.
THE COMMITMENT. Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan |  |
21. CHAPTER XXI.
THE COMMITMENT.
The gray of morning was just beginning to dispel the
deep shadows of night, when little Ellen, partially aroused
from her torpor—it could scarcely be called sleep—strove
to pierce the black gloom which still enveloped her. It
was some time before she could collect her scattered and
half-shattered faculties, so as to comprehend her real condition;
and then she fairly groaned at the thought that
she was still alive.
Oh! how deep must be the anguish, in the heart of one
so young, to make life seem a burden! But there are
thousands, and tens of thousands, in our own broad, Heaven
favored land, to say nothing of other countries, whose
sands have not yet numbered ten solar revolutions of the
earth, who have so bitterly felt the heavy hand of oppression,
that Death, painted as it is in a form the most
terrible, only seems to them a kind of gloomy gateway,
and through which their crushed and weary spirits long to
pass. Ah! deeply do we regret to say, that it is as true
to-day, in the face of Christianity, as when the pen of the
poor peasant-poet Burns recorded it, that
Makes countless thousands mourn.”
Do you, kind reader—sympathetic reader, shall we say
—whose eye is now lingering upon this page—do you not
know of some poor, neglected, friendless little being, whose
distress you might assuage—whose sorrows you might
alleviate—whose path, now strewed with thorns, a little
exertion on your part might strew with flowers? Do you
know of none so circumstanced? If a dweller in a great
city, they are all around you—every wretched street, alley,
and court will send them forth by scores, if not by hundreds.
Do you know of none? Then do your duty, and
seek them out, and labor for their relief and reformation!
They are young—not yet hardened in vice—more unfortunate
than vicious—and you can, if you will, make them
good and useful citizens—and the next generation will be
one step higher in the great scale of progression. Are you
a Christian—a member of church—a professed follower of
Christ? Then go, and do as your Great Master commanded!
and look for your reward, when He shall say,
“Even as ye did it unto one of the least of these, ye did it
unto me.” Perhaps you are not a member of church—yet
God and humanity do none the less require this duty of
you, as one of the great human family, who have one common
Father in Heaven, and who must be more or less a
partaker of the joys and sorrows around you on earth. For
what do you live? Is this life all? Is there no hereafter?
If this life is all, it is very short at the longest, and you
as now feel it a burden. And you will be amply repaid,
even here—for one good, noble, disinterested deed, will
give you more real enjoyment, than you have ever found
in all the fleeting pleasures you have ever sought. But
this life is not all; it is but the beginning of a life that
will never end; and remember! in the next state of existence,
where all the distinctions of earth will be cast aside
as so much worthless chaff, you will be called upon to
render an account of your stewardship! Happy you, if
your conscience can say: “I did my duty to my God, to
myself, and to my fellow beings!”
Poor little Ellen, as we have said, awakened to a consciousness
of her own desolate condition, now groaned at
the thought that she had yet to live and bear her sorrows—
sorrows which seemed every moment gathering around her
and thickening into a gloom as black and cheerless as the
rayless atmosphere she breathed. And her groan of anguish
seemed to find more than one response in the breasts
of other miserable beings, in other miserable cells adjoining.
And with the moans and groans that came to her
ear, came blasphemous oaths from hoarse voices, mingled
with curses loud and bitter; and she shuddered at the
sounds, and felt as if she were one among the damned.
She got up from the damp, filthy ground, her little limbs
so cold, and stiff, and benumbed, that she could scarcely
stand. And even then, forlorn and hopeless as she was,
she remembered the sweet words of her mother in her
dream, and besought the protection of her Heavenly Father;
and prayed for patience and resignation to endure,
uncomplainingly, all the evils which might beset her, till
the end of life, or the end of affliction should come.
Though no human eye beheld her, it was a beautiful sight
to angels, to see that poor, friendless, almost heart-broken
enveloped in the darkest gloom of earth, appealing, with
the trusting faith of an innocent child, to Him who notes
even the fall of a sparrow. It was a beautiful sight to
angels, because it told them that she was one of the children
of earth, who had secured a glorious place among
their own bright, glorious homes on high!
It was not long, ere the increasing daylight began to
penetrate even the wretched cell in which little Ellen was
confined; and then she began to hear sounds, as of the
unlocking of the different cells around her, and of the
dragging forth of the wretched inmates, mingled with
curses and blasphemies, and many other harsh and brutal
words, passed back and forth between the officers and
those who might with some propriety be termed their victims.
Ellen trembled more than ever; for she knew, from
what the Constable had told her, that it would soon be her
turn to be brought before the mighty Magistrate, whose
mere word, she in her simplicity and ignorance of law
believed, would be sufficient to free her, or consign her to
death.
And true to her expectations, the key was soon heard
turning in the lock of her own wretched cell, the door was
jerked open, and the mean-looking face of little Pat Cafferty,
the great Constable, appeared to the view of the
trembling orphan.
“Come!” he said, seizing her roughly by the arm—
“out of this, ye little tief! and lit his honor sittle yer
buzness, along wid the rest of yer ragamuffin tribe, now!”
Then he whispered in her ear: “If ye spake of the trinkets
ye stole, ye tief, it's mesilf as 'll be the death of ye, so I
will!”
Poor little Ellen, too much terrified to speak, made no
reply; and the officer hurried her along the passage, to a
she was thrust without ceremony. The room was small,
and was well filled with police officers, and wretched beings
of the lowest grade, ragged and filthy in the extreme.
Two of the party were black; while the others might, by
way of distinction, be termed white—though the complexion
of more than one was the color of dirty tan.
Inside of a railing, and perched on a seat, with a kind
of desk in front of him, on which lay writing materials,
was the great Mogul of the occasion. He was a human
biped, who, in his general appearance, had a meaner look
than Pat Cafferty himself—and this is saying a great
deal. He was about forty-five years of age, with a long,
thin, sharp, half-starved face—a sinister-looking mouth—a
snub-nose—a cold, heartless gray eye—beetling brows—a
low, retreating forehead—and dark, matted, uncombed
hair.
He wore an old hat—which, instead of being put on
respectably, seemed rather smashed down on one side of
his head—and between his teeth he held the short stem of
a smoke-black pipe, from which he was very industriously
drawing in, to be as industriously puffed out, the sickening
fumes of the rankest kind of pig-tail tobacco. On this
great man of office, who owed his position to the free suffrage
of drunken beggars, thieves, cut-throats, and all sorts
of scoundrels and villains—for we have too good an opinion
of human nature generally, to believe one honest man ever
voted for him—on this great man of office, we say—who
rejoiced in the euphonious distinction of His Honor, Alderman
Felix McGrabby—little Ellen at once fixed her eyes,
knowing, as it were intuitively, that he was the individual
who had the power to decide her fate. And what that
decision would be, she knew by an instinct not unlike that
which tells the innocent little dove that the soaring hawk
villainous face, that she had scarcely noticed any of the
other occupants of this vile place, when she felt some one
squeeze her arm; and looking around, she was surprised
to see Nabob Hunchy standing by her side. His features
were swollen and dirty, his cheeks paler than usual, and
his eyes slightly red and bleared—all donoting that he had
very recently been indulging in his favorite pastime of getting
beastly drunk.
“I'm going down below for the twenty-seventh time, for
being found elevated in the gutter,” he whispered, with a
grin. “But what brought you here, my little lady?”
Before Ellen had time to reply, an officer, to show his
importance, rudely jerked the poor Hunchback from her
side, and commanded silence.
“Who's that? who's that? as hasn't the fear of contimpt
of Coort before his eyes?” cried His Honor, Felix McGrabby,
with a proud look of indignation, as he surveyed
the wretched group before him.
“It's Nob Hunchy, so it is, your Honor,” replied the
officer, another bad specimen of Hibernian extraction.
“Agh! I know the rascal—it's the like of him I've saan
here mony times, so I have. What's he up for now,
Pater?”
“Gitting drunk, your Honor.”
“Agh! the baste! down below wid him agin, for a vagabond
vagrant, jist!” He hurriedly scrawled a few words
on a piece of paper, and added: “Here, Pater, tak' him
away—tak' him away—out of me sight, now!”
As the Hunchback was hurried from the august presence,
His Honor inquired:
“Who next now? Come! hurry, ye divils! for it's mesilf
as wants a warm breakfast, jist.”
“Well, your Honor,”—began a stout, broad, red-faced
Irish woman, who stood near the desk.
“Whist, now!” cried Felix McGrabby. “What's your
name, jist?”
“Biddy O'Shaughnessy, your Honor.”
His Honor wrote it down.
“Well, Biddy,” he said, “what ye got agin yoursilf?”
and he winked his eye to little Pat Cafferty, as much as to
say, “You see how facetious mesilf is.”
Pat Cafferty felt proud, and Biddy O'Shaughnessy
hastened to reply:
“It's not agin mesilf, your Honor—but that wretch
there, Mary Mulholland.”
Mary Mulholland, the wretch alluded to, was a pale,
delicate-looking woman, whose appearance, comparatively
speaking, was tidy, and whose interesting face was the
picture of distress.
“Tak' your oath—tak' your oath, Biddy,” said the Magistrate.
And the oath being administered, he added:
“Now git on wid ye—and be quick aboot it!”
“Well, your Honor,” pursued Biddy; “it's afeard of me
life I is. Mary lives in the same house wid mesilf, in
Baker street; and last night she got out wid me, and
struck me, and said she'd be the death of me.”
“Your Honor,” replied the poor woman, who spoke correctly,
and had evidently seen better days—“it is not true
that I struck her—but she struck me; and then, for fear I
would complain of her, she hurried off and had me
arrested.”
“Ye lie! and ye knows it!” cried Biddy.
“Whist, you owld fool!” exclaimed his Honor. “I'll
make short work here. Mary, ye'll have to find five hundred
dollars bail, to appear before the Coort, to answer for
kill, and pay the costs now, or go below wid ye!”
“Oh! don't send me to prison, your Honor! I am a poor
woman, with a sick husband, and three little children depending
on me for support!” cried the wretched mother,
in a piteous tone.
“Fiends tak' your husband and your brats!” returned
Felix McGrabby, savagely. “It's mesilf as has nought to
do wid them same—but wid yoursilf now. Have ye got
ony money now?”
“No, your Honor.”
“And ony one to go bail for ye?”
“No, your Honor.”
“Thin stop your noise, till I make out your commit
ment!”
“Oh! don't, your Honor!”
“Whist! or I'll put ye down below for contimpt of
Coort, so I will.”
In a few minutes, the order for her incarceration in a
gloomy prison was made out, and handed to an officer; and
Mary Mulholland was hurried off to her dreary abode—
leaving her sick husband and children to starve—while her
vile accuser went away rejoicing.[1]
“Well, you black rascal,” pursued the great Felix, as
his eye chanced to fall upon one of the two negroes—“it's
to be hoped your vartues is whiter than your face, jist.”
This bit of pleasantry of his Honor, was hugely enjoyed
by all but the subject of the joke, who showed the whites
of his eyes, and looked indignant. “What's your name?”
“Robert Carter.”
`What is't agin Robert Carter?”
“Your Honor,” replied the negro, “I jest come to 'cuse
dat odder nigger.”
“Guess I isn't more nigger nor you'seff,” was the response
of the accused.
“Whist, ye blaggards, in his Honor's prisence!” cried
Constable Cafferty.
“Tak' the oath!” said Felix; “and hurry wid ye! There
now—there now—what is't, jist?”
“Dat dar nigger—” began Robert.
“Stop!” interrupted the Magistrate; “what's his
name?”
“Sam Johnson.”
“Where d'ye live now?”
“In Small street, your Honor.”
“Well, go on—go on wid ye!”
“He stole my coat, dat dar Sam.”
“Who else knows aboot it?” inquired McGrabby.
“I do, your Honor,” said a Constable—“I found the
coat on him.”
“That's enough—whist, now! Five hundred dollars
bail now, Sam. Who'll give security? Nobody, in coorse.
Ye'll come up to Coort, ye will. Here,” (writing the commitment,)
“tak' him down below, jist!”
Thus one after another the cases were summarily disposed
of, by Alderman McGrabby, who kept pulling away
at his old dirty pipe, as if he expected to get that warm
breakfast from it, for which his aldermanic stomach so
ardently longed.
At last it came little Ellen's turn to have her fate decided;
and the thought that the time had come for her to
know the worst, caused her to tremble very much, and her
very teeth to chatter in her head.
“Well, Pat, my frind,” said the great Alderman—
“what brat have you in tow, this fine morning?”
“Och! sure, your Honor,” replied Pat, scratching his
head, and smoothing down the hair on his forehead—“it's
mesilf as is always doing me duthy to me counthry—though
it's not mesilf as should say the likes, now.”
“Well, git on wid ye—git on wid ye! ye're always
having too much blarney for your worst fault—and it's me
breakfast as'll be gitting cowld the whiles, jist!” rejoined
the mighty Felix, impatiently.
“Well, your Honor, ye see, as mesilf was coming up
Shippen street, last night, I saan a big crowd aboot to
git into a riot, it's like; and stipping over to 'em, I found
this little vagabond, stirring 'em up to sedition, it's like;
and at the risk of me life, I arrested her, and put her in
the lock-up, for your Honor's wise judgment this morning,
so I did.”
“What's your name?” cried McGrabby, scowling savagely
at the poor little orphan.
“E-E-El-len Nor-bu-bury, sir!” she stammered.
“Whist, ye spalpeen! where's yer manners?” exclaimed
the Constable, giving her a rough shake, and looking very
important and indignant. “Ye're spaking to his Honor
now, as if he was a common gintleman, jist. Whoop!
where's yer manners, ye little tief, now?”
“Wha-wha-what shall I—I—say?” gasped Ellen, more
terrified than ever.
“What'll ye say, ye bother? Och! who iver heerd the
likes! What'll ye say, now? Troth! ye're an ignoramus,
so ye is! What'll ye say, is it? Say `his Honor,' when
ye spakes to the likes of himsilf. Isn't his Honor, Felix
McGrabby, a Alderman? answer me that same!”
“Howld up your blarney, Pat!” cried the great Felix.
“Ye've no feeling now, so ye haven't! Don't I till ye as
it's me breakfast as'll be gitting cowld, if ye kape me here
the day, wid your blather?”
“Well, your Honor, it's mesilf as'll be dacent the whiles,
now, so I will,” replied the Constable: “only don't hang
her, your Honor!” and he winked familiarly at the great
Felix, who seemed to swell with importance.
“What's your name?” demanded the Magistrate again.
“Ellen Norbury, sir—that is, I mean—”
She paused, and looked appealingly at the Constable,
who gave her a shove, and whispered:
“His Honor, ye spalpeen!”
Ellen did not exactly understand the phrase—but
fearing further reproof, hastened to stammer out:
“His Honor, the spalpeen.”
Great men seldom like to have unpleasant names attached
to them—their greatness being about as much as
they can carry; and such was the case in the present instance,
with His Honor, Alderman Felix McGrabby—who
got very red in the face, very suddenly, and jerked the
dirty pipe from between his teeth, which fortunately fell to
the ground and flew into fragments.
“What's that? what's that? you impertinent scapegallows!”
cried Felix, forgetting for the moment all about
the warm breakfast he was so likely to lose.
“He told me to say it, sir—his Honor, I mean,” said
Ellen, bursting into tears.
“Me? I towld you to call mesilf a spalpeen?” almost
yelled McGrabby.
“No, his Honor, this gentleman,” sobbed Ellen, pointing
to the astounded and indignant Cafferty.
“But I'm his Honor—not the likes of him!” cried
McGrabby.
“She's dape liar, so she is!” rejoined the Constable.
“Well, I'll fix the likes of her! calling mesilf names,
and tilling me I towld her to do it, jist!” roared the infuriated
Magistrate. “Where d'ye live, now?”
“I don't know where I live, sir,” sobbed the poor child,
not daring to venture again upon the use of the phrase,
“his Honor,” for fear of making another faux pas.
“Tare and ouns! she don't know where she lives!” exclaimed
Pat, holding up both hands in astonishment.
“Och! sure, but your Honor'll be after giving her a place
that she'll know where she slapes o' nights, now!”
“Whist! howld your tongue!” cried his Honor. “I'll
tind to her! I'll fix her, the baste! Ye'll be fined for contimpt
of Coort, now, so ye will!” he continued, addressing
the trembling Ellen, and plying his pen rapidly at the same
time; “and ye'll have big costs to pay; and ye'll go
below for a vagabond; and it's like ye'll come before
another Coort, for a tief—for disturbing the pace—or some
sich unhowly thing, jist!” He finished writing, and
dashed the paper over the desk to Pat Cafferty—adding,
in great wrath: “There! there! tak' her away now—tak'
her away, out of me sight, jist! and may she niver show
her face in me prisence agin!”
To the closing remarks, little Ellen's heart said,
“Amen.”
The sun was up, and shining bright and clear upon the
busy town, as poor little Ellen, in charge of the vile Constable
who had arrested her, took her way through the
streets to the dreary prison—which rears its massive,
solemn walls, and lofty turrets, looking like some grand
old castle of ancient days, upon the southern limits of the
thickly-settled portion of Philadelphia. Pat Cafferty
lectured her for some time, upon the heinous crime of insulting
so great a Magistrate as Felix McGrabby; but
Ellen had deeper sorrows in her heart, with which to occupy
her thoughts; and Pat Cafferty's sage remarks, and
wise counsel, made no impression upon her plastic mind,
because, fortunately, she did not comprehend a word he
her—some with looks of mere curiosity, and many with
looks of sympathy—but she took little notice of any, and
no one addressed her.
“It's in there, ye'll tak' lodgings, ye little vagabond!”
exclaimed the Constable, as they came in sight of the
massive prison.
Ellen looked up, and shuddered; and then she turned
her eyes upon the warm, bright sun, and wondered if she
would ever behold it again; and then she thought of dear
Rosalind, and how happy she had been with her in her
splendid home, and wondered if she would ever see her
sweet face again; and then she burst into tears, and wept,
and sobbed, till she reached the wicket-gate of the castellated
prison, in which she was to be immured as in a living
tomb.
She was now transferred to one of the keepers, and
hurried forward, through gloomy passages, and across a
very pretty garden, into the female department, where
she was consigned to a matron, who asked a few brief
questions, and conducted her again through long, stately,
well-ventilated corridors, to an empty cell, which she entered
with a sinking heart, and saw the door close, and
heard the lock turn, and felt every ray of hope shut out
from her innocent heart.
There was a straw mattrass upon the floor; and as poor
little Ellen discovered this, by the dull light which came
in through a high, narrow window, she threw herself
heavily upon it, and uttered one long groan of despair.
| CHAPTER XXI.
THE COMMITMENT. Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan | |