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Confession by W. Gilmore Simms

W >> W. Gilmore Simms >> Confession




There were not many persons present--I conjectured, at a glance,
that there might be fifteen; but we heard occasional voices from
an inner room, and a small door opening in the rear discovered a
retreat like that we occupied, in the dim light of which I perceived
moving faces and shadows, and Kingsley informed me that there were
several rooms all similarly occupied with ours.

An examination of the persons around me, increased the unpleasant
feelings which the place had inspired. With the exception of a few,
the greater number were evidently superior to their employments.
Several of them were young men like my companion--men not yet lost
to sensibility, who looked up with some annoyance as they beheld
Kingsley accompanied by a stranger. Two or three of the inmates
were veteran gamesters. You could see THAT in their business-like
nonchalance--their rigid muscles--the manner at once demure and
familiar. They were evidently "habitues del l'enfer"--men to whom
cards and dice were as absolutely necessary now, as brandy and
tobacco to the drunkard. These men were always at play. Even the
smallest interval found them still shuffling the cards, and looking
up at every opening of the door, as if in hungering anticipation
of the prey. At such periods alone might you behold any expression
of anxiety in their faces. This disappeared entirely the moment
that they were in possession of the victim. That imperturbable
composure which distinguished them was singularly contrasted with
the fidgety eagerness and nervous rapidity by which you could
discover the latter; and I glanced over the operations of the two
parties, as they were fairly shown in several sets about the room,
with a renewed feeling of wonder how a man so truly clever and
strong, in some things, as Kingsley, should allow himself to be
drawn so deeply into such low snares; the tricks of which seemed
so apparent, and the attractions of which, in the present instance,
were obviously so inferior and low. I little knew by what inoffensive
and gradual changes the human mind, having once commenced its
downward progress, can hurry to the base; nor did I sufficiently
allow for that love of hazard itself, in games of chance, which I
have already expressed the opinion, is natural to the proper heart
of man, belongs to a rational curiosity, and arises, most probably,
from that highest property of his intellect, namely, the love of
art and intellectual ingenuity. It would be very important to know
this fact, since then, instead of the blind hostility which is
entertained for sports of this description, by certain classes of
moralists among us, we might so employ their ministry as to deprive
them of their hurtfulness and make them permanently beneficial in
the cause of good education.

Kingsley seemed to conjecture my thoughts. A smile of lofty
significance expressing a feeling of mixed scorn and humility, rose
upon his countenance--as if admitting his own feebleness, while
insisting upon his recovered strength, A sentence which he uttered
to me in a whisper, at this moment, was intended to convey some
such meaning.

"It was only when thrown to the earth, Clifford, that the wrestler
recovered his strength."

"That fable," I replied, "proves that he was no god, at least. Of
the earth, earthy, he found strength only in his sphere. The moment
he aspired above it the god crushed him. I doubt if Hercules could
have derived any benefit from the same source."

"Ah! I am no Hercules, but you will also find that I am no Antaeus.
I fall, but I rise again, and I am not crushed. This is peculiarly
the source of HUMAN strength."

"Better not to fall."

"Ah! you are too late from Utopia. But--"

We were interrupted; a voice at my elbow--a soft, clear, insinuating
voice addressed my companion:--

"Ah, Monsieur Kingsley, I rejoice to see you."

Kingsley gave me a single look, which said everything, as he turned
to meet the new-comer. The latter continued:--

"Though worsted in that last encounter, you do not despair, I see."

"No! why should I?"

"True, why? Fortune baffles skill, but what of that? She is capricious.
Her despotism is feminine; and in her empire, more certainly than
any other, it may be said boldly, that, with change of day there
is change of doom. It is not always rain."

"Perhaps not, but we may have such a long spell of it that
everything is drowned. 'It's a long lane,' says the proverb, 'that
has no turn;' but a man be done up long before he gets to the
turning place."

The other replied by some of the usual commonplaces by which, in
condescending language, the gamester provoked and stimulates his
unconscious victim. Kingsley, however, had reached a period of
experience which enabled him to estimate these phrases at their
proper worth.

"You would encourage me," he said quietly, and in tones which, to
the unnoteful ear, would have seemed natural enough, but which,
knowing him as I did, were slightly sarcastic, and containing a
deeper signification than they gave out: "but you are the better
player. I am now convinced of that. Something there is in fortune,
doubtless; my self-esteem makes me willing to admit that; and yet
I do not deceive myself. You have been too much for me--you are!"

"The difference is trifling, very trifling, I suspect. A little
more practice will soon reconcile that."

"Ha! ha! you forget the practice is to be paid for."

"True, but it is the base spirit only that scruples at the cost of
its accomplishments."

"Surely, surely!"

"You are fresh for the encounter to-night?"

"Pleasantly put! Is the query meant for the player or his purse?"

"Good, very good! Why, truly, there is no necessary affinity between
them."

"And yet the one without the other would scarcely be able to
commend himself to so excellent an artist as Mr. Latour Cleveland.
Clifford, let me introduce you to my ENEMY; Mr. Cleveland, my
FRIEND."

In this manner was I introduced. Thus was I made acquainted
with the particular individual whom it was the meditated purpose
of Kingsley to expose. But, though thus marked in the language of
his introduction, there was nothing in the tone or manner of my
companion, at all calculated to alarm the suspicions of the other.
On the contrary, there was a sort of reckless joviality in the
air of ABANDON, with which he presented me and spoke. A natural
curiosity moved me to examine Cleveland more closely. He was what
we should call, in common speech, a very elegant young man. He was
probably thirty or thirty-five years of age, tall, graceful, rather
slenderish, and of particular nicety in his dress. All his clothes
were disposed with the happiest precision. White kid-gloves covered
his taper fingers. Withdrawn, a rich diamond blazed upon one hand,
while a seal-ring, of official dimensions, with characters cut in
lava, decorated the other. His movements betrayed the same nice method
which distinguished the arrangement of his dress. His evolutions
might all have been performed by trumpet signal, and to the sound
of measured music. He was evidently one of those persons whose
feelings are too little earnest, ever to affect their policy; too
little warm ever to disparage the rigor of their customary play;
one of those cold, nice men, who, without having a single passion
at work to produce one condition of feeling higher than another, are
yet the very ideals of the most narrow and concentrated selfishness.
His face was thin, pale, and intelligent. His lips were thick,
however--the eyes bright, like those of a snake, but side-looking,
never direct, never upward, and always with a smiling shyness in
their glance, in which a suspicious mind like my own would always
find sufficient occasion for distrust.

Mr. Cleveland bestowed a single keen glance upon me while going
through the ordeal of introduction. But his scrutiny labored under
one disadvantage. His eyes did not encounter mine! One loses a great
deal, if his object be the study of tuman nature, if he fails in
this respect.

"Much pleasure in making your acquaintance, Mr. Clifford; I trust,
however, you will find me no worse enemy than your friend has done."

"If he find YOU no worse, he will find himself no better. He will
pay for his enmity, whatever its degree, as I have done, ancl be
wiser, by reason of his losses."

"Ah! you think too much of your ill fortunes. That is bad. It
takes from your confidence and so enfeebles your skill. You should
think of it less seriously. Another cast, and the tables chinge.
You will have your revenge."

"I WILL!" said Kingsley with some emphasis, and a gravity which
the other did not see. He evidently heard the words only as he
had been accustomed to hear them--from the lips of young gamesters
who perpetually delude themselves with hopes based upon insane
expectations. A benignant smile mantled the cheeks of the gamester.

"Ah, well! I am ready; but if you think me too much for you--"

He paused. The taunt was deliberately intended. It was the customary
taunt of the gamester. On the minds of half the number of young
men, it would have had the desired efiect--of goading vanity,
and provoking the self-esteem of the conceited boy into a sort of
desperation, when the powers of sense and caution become mostly
suspended, and no unnecessary suspicion or watchfulness then
interferes to increase the difficulty of plucking the pigeon. I read
the smile on Kingsley's lip. It was brief, momentary, pleasantly
contemptuous. Then, suddenly, as if he had newly recollected his
policy, his countenance assumed a new expression--one more natural
to the youth who has been depressed by losses, vexed at defeat, but
flatters himself that the atonement is at hand. Perhaps, something
of the latent purpose of his mind increased the intense bitterness
in the manner and tones of my companion.

"Too much for me, Mr. Cleveland! No, no! You are willing, I see, to
rob good fortune of some of her dues. You crow too soon. I have a
shrewd presentiment that I shall be quite too much FOR YOU to-night."

A pleasant and well-satisfied smile of Cleveland answered the
speaker.

"I like that," said he; "it proves two things, both of which
please me. Your trifling losses have not hurt your fortunes. nor
the adverse run of luck made you despond of better success hereafter.
It is something of a guaranty in favor of one's performance that he
is sure of himself. In such case he is equally sure of his opponent."

"Look to it, then, for I have just that sort of self-guaranty
which makes me sure of mine. I shall play deeply, that I may make
the most of my presentiments. Nay, to show you how confident I am,
this night restores me all that I have lost, or leaves me nothing
more to lose."

The eyes of the other brightened.

"That is said like a man. I thank you for your warning. Shall we
begin?"

"Ready, ay, ready!" was the response of Kingsley, as he turned to
one of the tables. Quietly laying down upon it the short, heavy
stick which he carried, he threw off his gloves, and rubbed his
hands earnestly together, laughing the while without restraint, as
if possessed suddenly of some very pleasant and ludicrous fancy.

"They laugh who win," remarked Cleveland, with something of coldness
in his manner.

"Ha! ha! ha!" was the only answer of Kingsley to this remark. The
other continued--and I now clearly perceived that his purpose was
provocation:--

"It is certainly a pleasure to win your money, Kingsley--you bear
it with so much philosophy. Nay, it seems to give you pleasure,
and thus lessens the pain I should otherwise feel in receiving the
fruits of my superiority."

"Ha! ha! ha!" again repeated Kingsley. "Excuse me, Mr. Cleveland.
I am reminded of your remark, 'They laugh who win.' I am laughing,
as it were, anticipatively. I am so certain that I shall have my
revenge to-night."

Cleveland looked at him for a moment with some curiosity, then
called:--

"Philip!"

He was answered by a young mulatto--a tall, good-looking fellow,
who approached with a mixed air of equal deference and self-esteem,
plaited frills to a most immaculately white shirt-collar, a huge
bulbous breastpin in his bosom, chains and seals, and all the usual
equipments of Broadway dandyism. The fellow approached us with
a smile; his eyes looking alternately to Cleveland and Kingsley,
and, as I fancied, with no unequivocal sneer in their expression,
as they settled on the latter. A significance of another kind
appeared in the look of Cleveland as he addressed him.

"Get us the pictures, Philip--the latest cuts--and bring--ay, you
may bring the ivories."

In a few moments, the preliminaries being despatched, the two were
seated at a table, and a couple of packs of cards were laid beside
them. Kingsley drew my attention to the cards. They were of a
kind that my experience had never permitted me to see before. In
place of ordinary kings and queens and knaves, these figures were
represented in attitudes and costumes the most indecent--such
as the prolific genius of Parisian bawdry alone could conceive
and delineate. It seems to be a general opinion among rogues that
knavery is never wholly triumphant unless the mind is thoroughly
degraded; and for this reason it is, perhaps, that establishments
devoted to purposes like the present, have, in most countries, for
their invariable adjuncts, the brothel and the bar-room. If they
are not in the immediate tenement, they are sufficiently nigh to
make the work of moral prostitution comparatively easy, in all its
ramifications, with the young and inconsiderate mind. Kingsley
turned over the cards, and I could see that while affecting to
show me the pictures he was himself subjecting the cards to a close
inspection of another kind. This object was scarcely perceptible
to myself, who knew his suspicions, and could naturally conjecture
his policy. It did not excite the alarm of his antagonist.

The parties sat confronting each other. Kingsley drew forth a wallet,
somewhat ostentatiously, which he laid down beside him. The sight
of his wallet staggered me. By its bulk I should judge it to have
held thousands; yet he had assured me that he had nothing beside,
the one hundred dollars which he had procured from me. My surprise
increased as I saw him open the wallet, and draw from one of its
pockets the identical roll which I had put into his hands. The
bulk of the pocket-book seeemed (sic) scarcely to be diminished.
My suspicions were beginning to be roused. I began to think that
he had told me a falsehood; but he looked up at this instant, and
a bright manly smile on his deep purposeful countenance, reassured
me. I felt that there was some policy in the business which was not
for me then to fathom. The cards were cut. A box of dice was also
in the hands of Cleveland.

"Spots or pictures?" said Cleveland.

"Pictures first, I suppose," said Kingsley, "till the blood gets up.
The ivories then as the most rapid. But these pictures are really
so tempting. A new supply, Philip!"

"Just received, sir," said the other.

"And how shall we begin?" demanded Cleveland, drawing a handful of
bills, gold, and silver, from his pocket; "yellow, white, or brown?"

It was thus, I perceived, that gold, silver, and paper money, were
described.

"Shall it be child's play, or--"

"Man's, man's!" replied Kingsley, with some impatience "I am
for beginning with a cool hundred," and, to my consternation, he
unfolded the roll he had of me, counted out the bills, refolded them
and placed them in a saucer, where they were soon covered with a
like sum by his antagonist. I was absolutely sickened, and stared
aghast upon my reckless companion. He looked at me with a smile.

"To your own game, Clifford. You will find men enough for your
money in either of the rooms. Should you run short, come to me."

Thus confidently did he speak; yet he had actually but the single
hundred which he had so boldly staked on the first issue. I thought
him lost; but he better knew his game than I. He also knew his man.
The eyes of Cleveland were on the huge wallet in reserve, of which
the "cool hundred" might naturally be considered a mere sample. I
had not courage to wait for the result, but wandered off, with a
feeling not unallied to terror, into an adjoining apartment.






CHAPTER XXX.

FALSE LUCK.





Though confounded with what I had seen of the proceedings of Kingsley,
I was yet willing to promote, so far as I could, the purpose for
which we came. I felt too, that, unless I played, that purpose,
or my own, might reasonably incur suspicion. To rove through the
several rooms of a gambling-house, surveying closely the proceedings
of others, without partaking, in however slight a degree, in the
common business of the establishment, was neither good policy nor
good manners. Unless there to play, what business had I there?
Accordingly I resolved to play. But of these games I knew nothing.
It was necessary to choose among them, and, without a choice I
turned to one of the tables where the genius of Roulette presided.
A motley group, none of whom I knew, surrounded it. I placed my
dollar upon one of the spots, red or black, I know not which, and
saw it, in a moment after, spooned up with twenty others by the
banker. I preferred this form of play to any other, for the simple
reason that it did not task my own faculties, and left me free
to bestow my glances on the proceedings of my friend. But I soon
discovered that the contagion of play is irresistible; and so
far from putting my stake down at intervals, and with philosophic
indifference, I found myself, after a little while, breathlessly
eager in the results. These, after the first few turns of the machine,
had ceased to be unfavorable. I was confounded to discover myself
winning. Instead of one I put down two Mexicans.

"Put down ten," said one of the bystanders, a dark, sulky-looking
little yellow man, who seemed a veteran at these places. "You are
in luck--make the most of it."

The master of the ceremonies scowled upon the speaker; and this
determined me to obey his suggestions. I did so, and doubled the
money; left my original stake and the winnings on the same spot, and
doubled that also; and it was not long before, under this stimulus
of success, and the novelty of my situation, I found myself as
thoroughly anxious and intensely interested, as if I had gone to
the place in compliance with a natural passion. I know not how
long I had continued in this way, but I was still fortunate. I
had doubled my stakes repeatedly, and my pockets were crammed with
money.

"Stop now, if you are wise," whispered the same sulky-looking little
man who had before urged me to go on more boldly, as he sidled along
by me for this object; "never ride a good horse to death. There's
a time to stop just as there's a time to push. You had better stop
now. Stake another dollar and you lose all your winnings."

"Let the gentleman play his own game, Brinckoff. I don't see why
you come here to spoil sport."

Such was the remark of the keeper of the table. He had overheard
my counsellor. He felt his losses, and was angry. I saw that, and
it determined me. I took the counsel of the stranger. I was the
more willing to do so, as I reproached myself for my inattention
to my friend. It was time to see what had been his progress, and I
prepared to leave the theatre of my own success. Before doing so,
I turned to my counsellor, and thus addressed him: "Your advice has
made me win; I trust I will not offend a gentleman who has been so
courteous, by requesting him to take my place upon a small capital."

I put twenty pieces into his hand.

"I am but a young beginner," I continued, "and I owe you for my
first lesson."

"You are too good," he said, but his hand closed over the dollars.
The keeper of the table renewed his murmurs of discontent as he
saw me turn away.

"Ah! bah! Petit, what's the use to grumble?" demanded my representative.
"Do you suppose I will give up my sport for yours? When would I
get a sixpence to stake, if it were not that I was kind to young
fellows just beginning? There; growl no more; the twenty Mexicans
upon the red!"

The next minute my gratuity was swallowed up in the great spoon of
the banker. I was near enough, to see the result. I placed another
ten pieces in the hand of the unsuccessful gambler.

"Very good," said he; "very much obliged to you; but if you please,
I will do no more to-night. It's not my lucky night. I've
lost every set."

"As you please--when you please."

"You are a gentleman," he said; "the sooner you go home the better.
A young beginner seldom wins in the small hours."

This was said in another whisper. I thanked him for his further
suggestion, and turned away, leaving him to a side squabble with the
banker, who finally concluded by telling him that he never wished
to see him at his table.

"The more fool you, Petit," said Brinckoff; "for the youngster that
wins comes back, and he does not always win. You finish him in the
end as you finished me, and what more would you have?"

The rest, and there was much more, was inaudible to me. I hurried
from the place somewhat ashamed of my success. I doubt whether
I should have had the like feelings had I lost. As it was, never
did possession seem more cumbrous than the mixed gold, paper, and
silver, with which my pockets were burdened. I gladly thought of
Kingsley, to avoid thinking of myself. It was certain, I fancied,
that he had not lost, else how could he have continued to play? My
anxiety hurried me into the room where I had left him.

They sat together, he and Cleveland, as before. I observed that
there was now an expression of anxiety--not intense, but obvious
enough--upon the countenance of the latter. Philip, too, the mulatto,
stood on one side, contemplating the proceedings with an air of
grave doubt and uncertainty in his countenance. No such expression
distinguished the face of Kingsley. Never did a light-hearted,
indifferent, almost mocking spirit, shine out more clearly from
any human visage. At times he chuckled as with inward satisfaction.
Not unfrequently he laughed aloud, and his reckless "Ha! ha! ha!"
had more than once reached and startled me in the midst of my own
play, in the adjoining room. The opponents had discarded their
"pictures," They were absolutely rolling dice for their stakes. I
saw that the wallet of Kingsley lay untouched, and quite as full
as ever, in the spot where he had first laid it down. A pile of
money lay open beside him; the gold and silver pieces keeping down
the paper. When he saw me approach, he laughed aloud, as he cried
out:--

"Have they disburdened you, Clifford? Help yourself. I am punishing
my enemy famously. I can spare it."

A green, sickly smile mantled the lips of Cleveland. He replied in
low, soft tones, such as I could only partly hear; and, a moment
after, he swept the stake before the two, to his own side of the
table. The amount was large, but the features of Kingsley remained
unaltered, while his laugh was renewed as heartily as if he really
found pleasure in the loss.

"Ha! ha! ha! that is encouraging; but the end is not yet. The tug
is yet to come!"

I now perceived that Kingsley took up his wallet with one hand
while he spread his handkerchief on his lap with the other. Into
this he drew the pile of money which he had loose before on his
side of the table, and appeared to busy himself in counting into
it the contents of the wallet. This he did with such adroitness,
that, though I felt assured he had restored the wallet to his bosom
with its bulk undiminished, yet I am equally certain that no such
conclusion could have been reached by any other person. This done,
he lifted the handkerchief, full as it was, and dashed it down upon
the table.

"There! cover that, if you be a man!" was his speech of defiance.

"How much?" huskily demanded Cleveland.

"All!"

"Ah!"

"Yes, all. I know not the number of dollars, cents, or sixpences,
but face it with your winnings: there need be no counting. It is
loss of time. Stir the stuff with your fingers, and you will find
it as good, and as much, as you have here to put against it. On
that hangs my fate or yours. Mine for certain! I tell you, Mr.
Cleveland, it is all!"

Cleveland lifted the ends of the handkerchief, as if weighing its
contents; and then, without more scruple, flung into it a pile not
unlike it in bulk and quality: a handful of mixed gold paper, and
silver. Kingsley grasped the dice before him, and with a single
shake dashed them out upon the table.

"Six, four, two," cried Philip with a degree of excitement which
did not appear in either of the active opponents. Meanwhile my
heart was in my mouth. I looked on Kingsley with a sentiment of
wonder. Every muscle of his face was composed into the most quiet
indifference. He saw my glance, and smilingly exclaimed:--

"I trust to my star, Clifford. Sans Souci--remember!"

No time was allowed for more. The moment was a breathless one.
Cleveland had taken up the dice. His manner was that of the most
singular deliberation. His eyes were cast down upon the table. His
lips strongly closed together; and now it was that I could see the
keen, piercing look which Kingsley addressed to every movement of
the gambler. I watched him also. He did not immediately throw the
dice, and I was conscious of some motion which he made with his
hands before he did so. What that motion was, however, I could
neither have said nor conceived. But I saw a grim smile, full of
intelligence, suddenly pass over Kingsley's lips. The dice descended
upon the table with a sound that absolutely made me tremble.

Letter: Gender roles in the Cinderella story

Doctors assure us that wherever you find an elderly, pompous old writer long past his prime you will find a bottle of scotch nearby. If only that were the case. Hilly hid mine after I fell up the stairs when I came home from the Garrick yesterday, and I've had to make do with a bottle of Blue Nun I found in the maid's parlour. Not that I am an alcoholic. Dipsomaniacs are a breed of the lower orders you meet on street corners: people like myself are bon viveurs who happen to like a drink. Or 12.

My primary observation is that drinking makes the daily grind of dealing with people so much easier. You drink a pint of whisky and become the life and soul of the party. You then start insulting people, before sweating heavily and wetting yourself involuntarily. You will usually find that everyone quickly avoids you, thereby relieving you of the need to make conversation. This is why I prefer to do much of my drinking at home. It saves so much time.

There are a great many drinks on the market - spirits, wines and beers - and I've probably drunk them all. Usually in some kind of combination with one another. Mixing cocktails is one of my favourite hobbies. Here's one I invented last week for my great sycophant, Christopher Hitchens.

The Hitch

One bottle of Babycham

One bottle of absinthe

Five shots of Angostura very bitters

Two tablespoons of bile

Two or three glasses of this tincture can give you a lifetime of self-satisfaction.

At some time you will probably be forced to invite people to your home and they may expect a drink. My advice is to offer them the cheapest tipple you can find; my local off-licence does a ghastly Mosel at 70p a bottle. I've never cared for even the best wines, and this should guarantee those poncing off you neither ask for top-ups nor stay long, thereby leaving you more money and time for the pub.

It is well known that only the very dullest of petit-bourgeois minds fail to over-imbibe on a daily basis, so I regard hangovers as a price worth paying for my brilliance. That said, I have found ways of coping with this metaphysical malaise. The first is to fuck someone; preferably somebody else's wife, but if your own is the only one around then she will do. The second is to read a book by that little shit Mart; it will either remind you you're not that bad a writer or give you some sleep.

The one downside to drinking is that it can make you fat. This is remedied by cutting out food entirely and drinking all spirits without mixers. My weight has gone down to 19st with this diet. There isn't much more to say, but as I'm being paid by the column I'd better repeat myself. And now that I'm dead, there's no harm in Bloomsbury repackaging the same material several times in the same collection.

I don't really like wine. Gin is for pansies, though a snifter with water doesn't go amiss. Liqueurs are best left to patent-shoed Wops. Or Americans. Champagne is an overrated girl's drink, though it can be drunk with any food; as such, it's a perfect breakfast drink because a scotch before 10am is very non-U.

I loathe pubs with loud music, but my utmost detestation is reserved for sanctimonious ex-topers. There's nothing worse than a man who doesn't drink. I once tried not drinking for several hours and my wives and mistresses said how dull it was that I was conscious and they were spared removing my soiled trousers from my bloated legs.

Whisky is my favourite tipple, though I recommend never giving it to a Welshman as it's wasted on someone with an IQ of less than 80. Have I mentioned that I'm partial to a Macallan? Gosh is that the time? Hilly's coming to change my IV drip before I fall unconscious again. The publisher can bloody well pad out the rest of the book with a pointless quiz without me.

Q: Who will buy this?

A: No one.

The digested read digested: The old pub bore.

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A judge who was sued for libel by her mother over allegations of childhood cruelty and neglect in her bestselling "misery memoir" won her case yesterday.

Constance Briscoe burst into tears at the high court in London as a jury unanimously cleared her and publishers Hodder & Stoughton over the claims in Ugly, which her mother Carmen Briscoe-Mitchell, 74, had alleged were a "piece of fiction".

During the 10-day trial, Briscoe, 51, who was one of the first black women judges in the UK, told the court her mother repeatedly beat her with a stick for bed-wetting and called her a "dirty little whore", a "potato-head" and "miss piss-a-bed".

She described trying to kill herself by drinking diluted bleach after failing to get taken into care, and told the jury she used a university grant to have plastic surgery to remove the "ugliness" her mother had taunted her over.

Briscoe, of Clapham, south London, also said that when she was nine, her mother had deliberately cut her on the inside of her arm with a knife in a row over the preparation of a chicken.

Ugly, published in 2006, has sold more than 400,000 copies in the UK. Briscoe and Hodder & Stoughton had denied libel and said the book was substantially true. Andrew Caldecott QC, for Briscoe, said the events occurred between 1964 and 1975.

Briscoe-Mitchell, from Southwark, south-east London, left court without making any immediate comment about her legal defeat. During the trial she had denied all the allegations of verbal and physical abuse and claimed she and her daughter had enjoyed a loving relationship within a happy family.

Her counsel, William Panton, told the jury Briscoe was "spinning a yarn", claiming his client had struggled to bring up her 11 children and had provided for them equally to the best of her ability.

Outside court, Briscoe told reporters she was "very happy" with the jury's verdict, which came after more than a day of deliberation.

"It is sad that my mother still feels the need to pursue me," she said. "Now I just want to get on with my career. I would like to thank all my readers who have sent me messages of support, including the very many children who provided helpful advice.

"I can quite understand why my family went into collective denial but whilst child abuse may be committed behind closed doors it should never be swept under the carpet."

Hodder & Stoughton said it was pleased with the verdict. "We are very proud to be Constance Briscoe's publisher," a statement said. "Her books Ugly and Beyond Ugly have touched hundreds of thousands of readers, many of them children. Sadly, as we know from the news over the past few weeks, child abuse is all too common and nothing and no one should ever stand in the way of the truth."

Asked during the trial why she wrote the book, Briscoe said: "I didn't believe for a split second that I owed my mother a bond of silence. I don't. I had a story to tell and that story really is that I, someone who from dirt poverty, from absolutely nowhere, with absolutely no assistance whatsoever, who faced adversity at every turn, could come through."

The court heard she had cleaned offices for two hours every day before school until her studies took her to Newcastle University, the criminal bar and, eventually, to become one of the country's few black women judges.

"I wanted to say to whoever read the book ... you can be whatever you want to be," Briscoe said. "You just have to believe in yourself ... you do not have to be posh or privileged to be at the Bar.

"You just need to believe in yourself and I truly, truly believe that my book has done an enormous amount of good."

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