Mrs. Swiggs relishes this bit of gossip as if it were a dainty morsel; and calling Rebecca, she commands her to forthwith proceed into the cellar and bring a bottle of the old Madeira-she has only five left-for Mr. Soloman.  And to Mr. Soloman’s great delight, the old negress hastily obeys the summons; brings forth a mass of cobweb and dust, from which a venerable black bottle is disinterred, uncorked, and presented to the guest, who drinks the health of Mrs. Swiggs in sundry well-filled glasses, which he declares choice, adding, that it always reminds him of the age and dignity of the family.  Like the State, dignity is Mrs. Swiggs’ weakness-her besetting sin.  Mr. Soloman, having found the key to this vain woman’s generosity, turns it when it suits his own convenience.

“By-the-bye,” he suddenly exclaims, “you’ve got Tom locked up again.”

“As safe as he ever was, I warrant ye!” Mrs. Swiggs replies, resuming her Milton and rocking-chair.

“Upon my faith I agree with you.  Never let him get out, for he is sure to disgrace the family when he does—­”

“I’ve said he shall rot there, and he shall rot!  He never shall get out to disgrace the family—­no, not if I live to be as gray as Methuselah, I warrant you!” And Mr. Soloman, having made his compliments to the sixth glass, draws from his breast pocket a legal-looking paper, which he passes to Mrs. Swiggs, as she ejaculates, “Oh!  I am glad you thought of that.”

Mr. Soloman, watching intently the changes of her face, says, “You will observe, Madam, I have mentioned the cripples.  There are five of them.  We are good friends, you see; and it is always better to be precise in those things.  It preserves friendship.  This is merely a bit of a good turn I do for you.”  Mr. Soloman bows, makes an approving motion with his hands, and lays at her disposal on the table, a small roll of bills.  “You will find two hundred dollars there,” he adds, modulating his voice.  You will find it all right; I got it for you of Keepum.  We do a little in that way; he is very exact, you see—­”

“Honor is the best security between people of our standing,” she rejoins, taking up a pen and signing the instrument, which her guest deposits snugly in his pocket, and takes his departure for the house of Madame Flamingo.

CHAPTER VI.

Containing sundry matters appertaining to this history.

If, generous reader, you had lived in Charleston, we would take it for granted that you need no further enlightening on any of our very select societies, especially the St. Cecilia; but you may not have enjoyed a residence so distinguished, rendering unnecessary a few explanatory remarks.  You must know that we not only esteem ourselves the quintessence of refinement, as we have an undisputed right to do, but regard the world outside as exceedingly stupid in not knowing