MR. SNIVEL PURSUES HIS SEARCH FOR THE VOTE-CRIBBER.
While Mrs. Swiggs is being entertained by Sister Scudder and her
clerical friends in New York, Mr. Snivel is making good his demand on
her property in Charleston. As the agent of Keepum, he has attached her
old slaves, and what few pieces of furniture he could find; they will in
a few days be sold for the satisfaction of her debts. Mrs. Swiggs, it
must be said, never had any very nice appreciation of debt-paying,
holding it much more legitimate that her creditors accept her dignity in
satisfaction of any demand they chanced to have against her. As for her
little old house, the last abode of the last of the great Swiggs
family,--that, like numerous other houses of our "very first families,"
is mortgaged for more than it is worth, to Mr. Staple the grocer. We
must, however, turn to Mr. Snivel.
Mr. Snivel is seen, on the night after the secret interview at the
Charleston Hotel, in a happy mood, passing down King street. A little,
ill-featured man, with a small, but florid face, a keen, lecherous eye,
leans on his arm. They are in earnest conversation.
"I think the mystery is nearly cleared up, Keepum" says Snivel.
"There seems no getting a clue to the early history of this Madame
Montford, 'tis true. Even those who introduced her to Charleston society
know nothing of her beyond a certain period. All anterior to that is
wrapped in suspicion," returns Keepum, fingering his massive gold chain
and seals, that pend from his vest, then releasing his hold of Mr.
Snivel's arm, and commencing to button closely his blue dress coat,
which is profusely decorated with large gilt buttons. "She's the mother
of the dashing harlot, or I'm no prophet, nevertheless," he concludes,
shaking his head significantly.
"You may almost swear it--a bad conscience is a horrid bore; d--n me, if
I can't see through the thing. (Mr. Snivel laughs.) Better put our
female friends on their guard, eh?"
"They had better drop her as quietly as possible," rejoins Mr. Keepum,
drawing his white glove from off his right hand, and extending his cigar
case.
Mr. Snivel having helped himself to a cigar, says: "D--n me, if she
didn't faint in my arms last night. I made a discovery that brought
something of deep interest back to her mind, and gave her timbers such a
shock! I watched, and read the whole story in her emotions. One
accustomed to the sharps of the legal profession can do this sort of
thing. She is afraid of approaching this beautiful creature, Anna
Bonard, seeing the life she lives, and the suspicions it might create in
fashionable society, did she pursue such a course to the end of finding
out whether she be really the lost child of the relative she refers to
so often. Her object is to find one Mag Munday, who used to knock about
here, and with whom the child was left. But enough of this for the
present." Thus saying, they enter the house of the old antiquary, and
finding no one but Maria at home, Mr. Snivel takes the liberty of
throwing his arms about her waist. This done, he attempts to drag her
across the room and upon the sofa. "Neither your father nor you ever had
a better friend," he says, as the girl struggles from his grasp, shrinks
at his feet, and, with a look of disdain, upbraids him for his attempt
to take advantage of a lone female.
"High, ho!" interposes Keepum, "what airs these sort of people put on,
eh? Don't amount to much, no how; they soon get over them, you know. A
blasted deal of assumption, as you say. Ha, ha, ha! I rather like this
sort of modesty. 'Tisn't every one can put it cleverly." Mr. Snivel
winks to Keepum, who makes an ineffectual attempt to extinguish the
light, which Maria seizes in her hand, and summoning her courage, stands
before them in a defiant attitude, an expression of hate and scorn on
her countenance. "Ah, fiend! you take this liberty--you seek to destroy
me because I am poor--because you think me humble--an easy object to
prey upon. I am neither a stranger to the world nor your cowardly
designs; and so long as I have life you shall not gloat over the
destruction of my virtue. Approach me at your peril--knaves! You have
compromised my father; you have got him in your grasp, that you may the
more easily destroy me. But you will be disappointed, your perfidy will
recoil on yourselves: though stripped of all else, I will die protecting
that virtue you would not dare to offend but for my poverty." This
unexpected display of resolution has the effect of making the position
of the intruders somewhat uncomfortable. Mr. Keepum, whose designs
Snivel would put in execution, sinks, cowardly, upon the sofa, while his
compatriot (both are celebrated for their chivalry) stands off apace
endeavoring to palliate the insult with facetious remarks. (This
chivalry of ours is a mockery, a convenient word in the foul mouths of
fouler ruffians.) Mr. Snivel makes a second attempt to overcome the
unprotected girl. With every expression of hate and scorn rising to her
face, she bids him defiance. Seeing himself thus firmly repulsed, he
begs to assure her, on the word of a gentleman--a commodity always on
hand, and exceedingly cheap with us--he was far from intending an
insult. He meant it for a bit of a good turn--nothing more. "Always
fractious at first--these sort of people are," pursues Keepum,
relighting his cigar as he sits on the sofa, squinting his right eye.
"Take bravely to gentlemen after a little display of modesty--always!
Try her again, Squire." Mr. Snivel dashes the candle from her hand, and
in the darkness grasps her wrists. The enraged girl shrieks, and calls
aloud for assistance. Simultaneously a blow fells Mr. Snivel to the
floor. The voice of Tom Swiggs is heard, crying: "Wretch! villain!--what
brings you here? (Mr. Keepum, like the coward, who fears the vengeance
he has merited, makes good his escape.) Will you never cease polluting
the habitations of the poor? Would to God there was justice for the
poor, as well as law for the rich; then I would make thee bite the dust,
like a dying viper. You should no longer banquet on poor virtue.
Wretch!--I would teach thee that virtue has its value with the poor as
well as the rich;--that with the true gentleman it is equally sacred."
Tom stands a few moments over the trembling miscreant, Maria sinks into
a chair, and with her elbows resting on the table, buries her face in
her hands and gives vent to her tears.
"Never did criminal so merit punishment; but I will prove thee not worth
my hand. Go, wretch, go! and know that he who proves himself worthy of
entering the habitations of the humble is more to be prized than kings
and princes." Tom relights the candle in time to see Mr. Snivel rushing
into the street.
The moon sheds a pale light over the city as the two chivalric
gentlemen, having rejoined and sworn to have revenge, are seen entering
a little gate that opens to a dilapidated old building, fronted by a
neglected garden, situate on the north side of Queen street, and in days
gone by called "Rogues' Retreat." "Rogues' Retreat" has scared vines
creeping over its black, clap-boarded front, which viewed from the
street appears in a squatting mood, while its broken door, closed
shutters--the neglected branches of grape vines that depend upon decayed
trellise and arbors, invest it with a forlorn air: indeed, one might
without prejudicing his faculties imagine it a fit receptacle for our
deceased politicians and our whiskey-drinking congressmen--the last
resting-place of our departed chivalry. Nevertheless, generous reader,
we will show you that "Rogues' Retreat" serves a very different purpose.
Our mob-politicians, who make their lungs and fists supply the want of
brains, use it as their favorite haunt, and may be seen on the eve of an
election passing in and out of a door in the rear. Hogsheads of bad
whiskey have been drunk in "Rogues' Retreat;" it reeks with the fumes of
uncounted cigars; it has been the scene of untold villanies. Follow us;
we will forego politeness, and peep in through a little,
suspicious-looking window, in the rear of the building. This window
looks into a cavern-like room, some sixteen feet by thirty, the ceiling
of which is low, and blotched here and there with lamp-smoke and
water-stains, the plastering hanging in festoons from the walls, and
lighted by the faint blaze of a small globular lamp, depending from the
centre, and shedding a lurid glare over fourteen grotesque faces, formed
round a broad deal-table. Here, at one side of the table sits Judge
Sleepyhorn, Milman Mingle, the vote-cribber, on his right; there, on the
other, sits Mr. Snivel and Mr. Keepum. More conspicuous than anything
else, stands, in the centre of the table, bottles and decanters of
whiskey, of which each man is armed with a stout glass. "I am as well
aware of the law as my friend who has just taken his seat can be. But we
all know that the law can be made subordinate; and it must be made
subordinate to party ends. We must not (understand me, I do not say this
in my judicial capacity) be too scrupulous when momentous issues are
upon us. The man who has not nerve enough to make citizens by the
dozen--to stuff double-drawered ballot-boxes, is not equal to the times
we live in;--this is a great moral fact." This is said by the Judge,
who, having risen with an easy air, sits down and resumes his glass and
cigar.
"Them's my sentiments--exactly," interposes the vote-cribber, his burly,
scarred face, and crispy red hair and beard, forming a striking picture
in the pale light. "I have given up the trade of making Presidents, what
I used to foller when, you see, I lived in North Caroliner; but, I tell
you on the faith of my experience, that to carry the day we must let the
law slide, and crib with a free chain: there's no gettin' over this."
"It is due," interrupts the Judge, again rising to his feet and bowing
to the cribber, "to this worthy man, whose patriotism has been tried so
often within prison-walls, that we give weight to his advice. He bears
the brunt of the battle like a hero--he is a hero!" (The vote-cribber
acknowledges the compliment by filling his glass and drinking to the
Judge.)
"Of this worthy gentleman I have, as a member of the learned profession,
an exalted opinion. His services are as necessary to our success as
steam to the speed of a locomotive. I am in favor of leaving the law
entirely out of the question. What society sanctions as a means to party
ends, the law in most cases fails to reach," rejoins a tall,
sandy-complexioned man, of the name of Booper, very distinguished among
lawyers and ladies. Never was truth spoken with stronger testimony at
hand. Mr. Keepum could boast of killing two poor men; Mr. Snivel could
testify to the fallacy of the law by gaining him an honorable acquittal.
There were numerous indictments against Mr. Keepum for his dealings in
lottery tickets, but they found their way into the Attorney-General's
pocket, and it was whispered he meant to keep them there. It was indeed
pretty well known he could not get them out in consequence of the gold
Keepum poured in. Not a week passes but men kill each other in the open
streets. We call these little affairs, "rencontres;" the fact is, we are
become so accustomed to them that we rather like them, and regard them
as evidences of our advanced civilization. We are infested with
slave-hunters, and slave-killers, who daily disgrace us with their
barbarities; yet the law is weak when the victor is strong. So we
continue to live in the harmless belief that we are the most chivalrous
people in the world.
"Mr. Booper!" ejaculates Mr. Snivel, knocking the ashes from his cigar
and rising to his feet, "you have paid no more than a merited
compliment to the masterly completeness of this excellent man's
cribbing. (He points to the cribber, and bows.) Now, permit me to say
here, I have at my disposal a set of fellows, (he smiles,) who can fight
their way into Congress, duplicate any system of sharps, and stand in
fear of nothing. Oh! gentlemen, (Mr. Snivel becomes enthusiastic.) I
was--as I have said, I believe--enjoying a bottle of champagne with my
friend Keepum here, when we overheard two Dutchmen--the Dutch always go
with the wrong party--discoursing about a villanous caucus held to-night
in King street. There is villany up with these Dutch! But, you see,
we--that is, I mean I--made some forty or more citizens last year. We
have the patent process; we can make as many this year."
Mr. Sharp, an exceedingly clever politician, who has meekly born any
number of cudgellings at the polls, and hopes ere long to get the
appointment of Minister to Paris, interrupts by begging that Mr. Soloman
will fill his glass, and resume his seat. Mr. Snivel having taking his
seat, Mr. Sharp proceeds: "I tell you all what it is, says I, the other
day to a friend--these ponderous Dutch ain't to be depended on. Then,
says I, you must separate the Irish into three classes, and to each
class you must hold out a different inducement, says I. There's the Rev.
Father Flaherty, says I, and he is a trump card at electioneering. He
can form a breach between his people and the Dutch, and, says I, by the
means of this breach we will gain the whole tribe of Emeralds over to
our party. I confess I hate these vagabonds right soundly; but necessity
demands that we butter and sugar the mover until we carry our ends. You
must not look at the means, says I, when the ends are momentous."
"The staunch Irish," pursues the Judge, rising as Mr. Sharp sits down,
"are noble fellows, and with us. To the middle class--the grocers and
shopkeepers--we must, however, hold out flattering inducements; such as
the reduction of taxes, the repeal of our oppressive license laws,
taking the power out of the hands of our aristocracy--they are very
tender here--and giving equal rights to emigrants. These points we must
put as Paul did his sermons--with force and ingenuity. As for the low
Irish, all we have to do is to crib them, feed and pickle them in
whiskey for a week. To gain an Irishman's generosity, you cannot use a
better instrument than meat, drink, and blarney. I often contemplate
these fellows when I am passing sentence upon them for crime."
"True! I have the same dislike to them personally; but politically, the
matter assumes quite a different form of attraction. The laboring
Irish--the dull-headed--are what we have to do with. We must work them
over, and over, and over, until we get them just right. Then we must
turn them all into legal voting citizens--"
"That depends on how long they have been in the country," interrupts a
brisk little man, rising quickly to his feet, and assuming a legal air.
"Mr. Sprig! you are entirely behind the age. It matters not how long
these gentlemen from Ireland have been in the country. They take to
politics like rats to good cheese. A few months' residence, and a little
working over, you know, and they become trump voters. The Dutch are a
different sort of animal; the fellows are thinkers," resumes the Judge.
Mr. Snivel, who has been sipping his whiskey, and listening very
attentively to the Judge, rises to what he calls the most important
order. He has got the paper all ready, and proposes the gentlemen he
thinks best qualified for the naturalization committee. This done, Mr.
Snivel draws from his pocket a copy of the forged papers, which are
examined, and approved by every one present. This instrument is
surmounted with the eagle and arms of the United States, and reads thus:
"_STATE OF NEW YORK_.
"In the Court of Common Pleas for the city and county of New York:
"I---- do declare on oath, that it is _bonâ fide_ my intention to
become a citizen of the United States, and to renounce forever all
allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, State or
sovereignty whatever, and particularly to the Queen of the United
Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, of whom I am a subject."
Signed this---- day of---- 184-.
JAMES CONNOR, Clerk.
"Clerk's office, Court of Common Pleas for the city and county of
New York."
"I hereby certify that the foregoing is a true copy of an original
declaration of intention remaining on record in my office, &c.,
&c., &c."
"There! it required skill and practice to imitate like that" Mr. Snivel
exultingly exclaims. "We require to make thirty-seven citizens, and have
prepared the exact number of papers. If the cribbers do their duty, the
day is ours." Thus is revealed one of the scenes common to "Rogues'
Retreat." We shrink at the multiplicity of crime in our midst; we too
seldom trace the source from whence it flows. If we did but turn our
eyes in the right direction we would find the very men we have elected
our guardians, protecting the vicious, whose power they
covet--sacrificing their high trust to a low political ambition. You
cannot serve a political end by committing a wrong without inflicting a
moral degradation on some one. Political intrigue begets laxity of
habits; it dispels that integrity without which the unfixed mind becomes
vicious; it acts as a festering sore in the body politic.
Having concluded their arrangements for the Mayor's election, the party
drinks itself into a noisy mood, each outshouting the other for the
right to speak, each refilling and emptying his glass, each asserting
with vile imprecations, his dignity as a gentleman. Midnight finds the
reeling party adjourning in the midst of confusion.
Mr. Snivel winks the vote-cribber into a corner, and commences
interrogating him concerning Mag Munday. The implacable face of the
vote-cribber reddens, he contorts his brows, frets his jagged beard with
the fingers of his left hand, runs his right over the crown of his head,
and stammers: "I know'd her, lived with her--she used to run sort of
wild, and was twice flogged. She got crazed at last!" He shrugs his
stalworth shoulders and pauses. "Being a politician, you see, a body
can't divest their minds of State affairs sufficiently to keep up on
women matters," he pursues: "She got into the poor-house, that I
knows--"
"She is dead then?" interposes Mr. Snivel.
"As like as not. The poor relatives of our 'first families' rot and die
there without much being said about it. Just look in at that
institution--it's a terrible place to kill folks off!--and if she be not
there then come to me. Don't let the keepers put you off. Pass through
the outer gate, into and through the main building, then turn sharp to
the left, and advance some twenty feet up a filthy passage, then enter a
passage on the right, (have a light with you,) that leads to a dozen or
fourteen steps, wet and slippery. Then you must descend into a sort of
grotto, or sickly vault, which you will cross and find yourself in a
spacious passage, crawling with beetles and lizards. Don't be
frightened, sir; keep on till you hear moanings and clankings of chains.
Then you will come upon a row of horrid cells, only suited for dog
kennels. In these cells our crazy folks are chained and left to die.
Give Glentworthy a few shillings for liquor, sir, and he, having these
poor devils in charge, will put you through. It's a terrible place, sir,
but our authorities never look into it, and few of our people know of
its existence."
Mr. Snivel thanks the vote-cribber, who pledges his honor he would
accompany him, but for the reason that he opens crib to-morrow, and has
in his eye a dozen voters he intends to look up. He has also a few
recently-arrived sons of the Emerald Isle he purposes turning into
citizens.