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 as much of
us as we profess to know of ourselves. Abroad, we wonder we are not at
once recognized as Carolinians; at home, we let the vulgar world know
who we are. Indeed, we regard the outside world--of these States we
mean--very much in that light which the Greeks of old were wont to view
the Romans in. Did we but stop here, the weakness might be pardonable.
But we lay claim to Grecian refinement of manners, while pluming all our
mob-politicians Roman orators. There is a profanity about this we
confess not to like; not that danger can befall it, but because it hath
about it that which reminds us of the oyster found in the shell of gold.
Condescending, then, to believe there exists outside of our State a few
persons silly enough to read books, we will take it for granted, reader,
that you are one of them, straightway proceeding with you to the St.
Cecilia.

You have been a fashionable traveller in Europe? You say--yes! rummaged
all the feudal castles of England, sought out the resting places of her
kings, heard some one say "that is poet's corner," as we passed into
Westminster Abbey, thought they couldn't be much to have such a
corner,--"went to look" where Byron was buried, moistened the marble
with a tear ere we were conscious of it, and saw open to us the gulf of
death as we contemplated how greedy graveyard w