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. ’Tis n’t every one can put it on 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 seared
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
trellice 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. Hie 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 papers 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 bona 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 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.