Caught at Last

by Paul Plume

The city of W—, today, presents a very different appearance from the little quiet town it was twenty-five years ago. 

In those times, day in and day out, the same tedious monotony characterized its inhabitants and the self-same sights and sounds met the eye and ear. 

Lazy negroes loitered about the streets, or unwillingly performed their allotted tasks, and there appeared to be no enterprise whatever. The grass grew so fast in the streets that it was with difficulty the solitary contractor could keep the principal thoroughfare from looking like a country lane. Yet in those days the town had its august Mayor and Common Council who, with grave rigor presided over the destinies of the diminutive commonwealth, and whose anxiety and official watchfulness was to see that the bellman rang the town hall bell every night at 10 o’clock, as a warning to the colored people that they must no longer be found upon the streets, except furnished with a pass.

Matters have changed in a quarter of a century in W—. For a good while ago the 10 o’clock ordinance fell into disuse. I have no doubt the Mayor breathed more freely when it was permanently discontinued, for it was rarely rang on time. The bellman (who had occupied the post for forty years), was either asleep or tipping with companions in a neighboring tavern when the hour rolled round, and the perpetual reprimands he had received had so blunted his moral nature, that the town fathers had long given him up as incorrigible. But when the old bell ceased swinging at night their trouble was over, and the ringer’s occupation gone. 

If the people of W— were slow in business pursuits, they were active enough in politics. The local elections were conducted with a zeal and bitterness that seemed to suggest an anomaly in the character of the citizens, while the great or general ones… Read More