“Only two!” interrupts the sailor.  “It will reduce the ground-swell a bit.”  The outcast places the flask to his lips, and having drank with contorted face passes it back with a sigh, and extends his right hand.  “My honor is nothing to the world, Spunyarn, but it is yet something to me; and by it I swear (here he grasps tighter the hand of the old sailor, as a tear moistens his suffused cheeks) never to touch the poison again.  It has grappled me like a fierce animal I could not shake off; it has made me the scoffed of felons-I will cease to be its victim; and having gained the victory, be hereafter a friend to myself.”

“God bless you-may you never want a friend, Tom-and may He give you strength to keep the resolution.  That’s my wish.”  And the old sailor shook Tom’s hand fervently, in pledge of his sincerity.

CHAPTER V.

In which Mr. Snivel, commonly called the accommodation man, is introduced, and what takes place between him and Mrs. Swiggs.

Reader! have you ever witnessed how cleverly one of our mob-politicians can, through the all-soothing medium of a mint-julep, transpose himself from a mass of passion and bad English into a child of perfect equanimity?  If not, perhaps you have witnessed in our halls of Congress the sudden transition through which some of our Carolina members pass from a state of stupidity to a state of pugnacity? (We refer only to those members who do their own “stumping,” and as a natural consequence, get into Congress through abuse of the North, bad whiskey, and a profusion of promises to dissolve the Union.) And if you have, you may form some idea of the suddenness with which Lady Swiggs, as she delights in having her friends call her, transposes herself from the incarnation of a viper into a creature of gentleness, on hearing announced the name of Mr. Soloman Snivel.

What!—­my old friend!  I wish I had words to say how glad I am to see you, Lady Swiggs!” exclaims a tall, well-proportioned and handsome-limbed man, to whose figure a fashionable claret-colored frock coat, white vest, neatly-fitting dark-brown trowsers, highly-polished boots, a cluster of diamonds set in an avalanche of corded shirt-bosom, and carelessly-tied green cravat, lend a respectability better imagined than described.  A certain reckless dash about him, not common to a refined gentleman, forces us to set him down as one of those individuals who hold an uncertain position in society; and though they may now and then mingle with men of refinement, have their more legitimate sphere in a fashionable world of doubtful character.

“Why!—­Mr. Snivel.  Is it you?” responds the old woman, reciprocating his warm shake of the hand, and getting her hard face into a smile.

“I am so glad-But (Mr. Snivel interrupts himself) never mind that!”