CONTAINING VARIOUS THINGS APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY.
Maria McArthur having, by her womanly sympathy, awakened the generous
impulses of Tom Swiggs, he is resolved they shall have a new channel
for their action. Her kindness touched his heart; her solicitude for
his welfare gained his affections, and a recognition of that love she
so long and silently cherished for him, is the natural result. The
heart that does not move to woman’s kindness, must indeed be hard. But
there were other things which strengthened Tom’s affections for Maria.
The poverty of her aged father; the insults offered her by Keepum and
Snivel; the manner in which they sought her ruin while harassing her
father; the artlessness and lone condition of the pure-minded girl; and
the almost holy affection evinced for the old man on whom she
doated-all tended to bring him nearer and nearer to her, until he
irresistibly found himself at her feet, pledging that faith lovers call
eternal. Maria is not of that species of being the world calls
beautiful; but there is about her something pure, thoughtful, even
noble; and this her lone condition heightens. Love does not always bow
before beauty. The singularities of human nature are most strikingly
blended in woman. She can overcome physical defects; she can cultivate
attractions most ap- preciated by those who study her worth deepest.
Have you not seen those whose charms at first-sight found no place in
your thoughts, but as you were drawn nearer and nearer to them, so also
did your esteem quicken, and that esteem, almost unconsciously, you
found ripening into affection, until in turn you were seized with an
ardent passion? You have. And you have found yourself enamored of the
very one against whom you had endeavored most to restrain your generous
impulses. Like the fine lines upon a picture with a repulsive design,
you trace them, and recur to them until your admiration is carried away
captive. So it is with woman’s charms. Tom Swiggs, then, the restored
man, bows before the simple goodness of the daughter of the old
Antiquary.
Mr. Trueman, the shipowner, gave Tom employment, and has proved a
friend to him. Tom, in turn, has so far gained his confidence and
respect that Mr. Trueman contemplates sending him to London, on board
one of his ships. Nor has Tom forgotten to repay the old Antiquary, who
gave him a shelter when he was homeless; this home is still under the
roof of the old man, toward whose comfort he contributes weekly a
portion of his earnings. If you could but look into that little
back-parlor, you would see a picture of humble cheerfulness presented
in the old man, his daughter, and Tom Swiggs, seated round the
tea-table. Let us, however, turn and look into one of our gaudy
saloons, that we may see how different a picture is presented there.
It is the night previous to an election for Mayor. Leaden clouds hang
threatening over the city; the gaslight throws out its shadows at an
early hour; and loud-talking men throng our street-corners and public
resorts. Our politicians tell us that the destiny of the rich and the
poor is to forever guard that institution which employs all our
passions, and absorbs all our energies.
In a curtained box, at the St. Charles, sits Mr. Snivel and George
Mullholland-the latter careworn and downcast of countenance. “Let us
finish this champaign, my good fellow,” says the politician, emptying
his glass. “A man-I mean one who wants to get up in the world-must,
like me, have two distinct natures. He must have a grave, moral
nature-that is necessary to the affairs of State. And he must, to
accommodate himself to the world (law and society, I mean), have a
terribly loose nature-a perfect quicksand, into which he can drag
everything that serves himself. You have seen how I can develop both
these, eh?” The downcast man shakes his head, as the politician watches
him with a steady gaze. “Take the advice of a friend, now, let the
Judge alone-don’t threaten again to shoot that girl. Threats are
sometimes dragged in as testimony against a man (Mr. Snivel taps George
admonishingly on the arm); and should anything of a serious nature
befall her-the law is curious-why, what you have said might implicate
you, though you were innocent.”
“You,” interrupts George, “have shot your man down in the street.”
“A very different affair, George. My position in society protects me. I
am a member of the Jockey-Club, a candidate for the State Senate—a
Justice of the Peace—yes, a politician! You are—Well, I was going to
say-nothing! We regard northerners as enemies; socially, they are
nothing. Come, George, come with me. I am your best friend. You shall
see the power in my hands.” The two men saunter out together, pass up a
narrow lane leading from King Street, and are soon groping their way up
the dark stairway of an old, neglected-looking wooden building, that
for several years has remained deserted by everything but rats and
politicians,—one seeming to gnaw away at the bowels of the nation, the
other at the bowels of the old building. Having ascended to the second
floor, Mr. Snivel touches a spring, a suspicious little trap opens, and
two bright eyes peer out, as a low, whispering voice inquires, “Who’s
there?” Mr. Snivel has exchanged the countersign, and with his
companion is admitted into a dark vestibule, in which sits a brawny
guardsman.
“Cribs are necessary, sir-I suppose you never looked into one before?”
George, in a voice discovering timidity, says he never has.
“You must have cribs, and crib-voters; they are necessary to get into
high office-indeed, I may say, to keep up with the political spirit of
the age.” Mr. Snivel is interrupted by the deep, coarse voice of Milman
Mingle, the vote-cribber, whose broad, savage face looks out at a small
guard trap. “All right,” he says, recognizing Mr. Snivel. Another
minute, and a door opens into a long, sombre-looking room, redolent of
the fumes of whiskey and tobacco. “The day is ours. We’ll elect our
candidate, and then my election is certain; naturalized thirteen rather
green ones to-day-to-morrow they will be trump cards. Stubbs has
attended to the little matter of the ballot-boxes.” Mr. Snivel gives
the vote-cribber’s hand a warm shake, and turns to introduce his
friend. The vote-cribber has seen him before. “There are thirteen in,”
he says, and two more he has in his eye, and will have in to-night,
having sent trappers out for them.
Cold meats, bread, cheese, and crackers, and a bountiful supply of bad
whiskey, are spread over a table in the centre of the room; while the
pale light of two small lamps, suspended from the ceiling, throws a
curious shadow over the repulsive features of thirteen forlorn, ragged,
and half-drunken men, sitting here and there round the room, on wooden
benches. You see ignorance and cruelty written in their very
countenances. For nearly three weeks they have not scented the air of
heaven, but have been held here in a despicable bondage. Ragged and
filthy, like Falstaff’s invincibles, they will be marched to the polls
to-morrow, and cast their votes at the bid of the cribber. “A happy lot
of fellows,” says Mr. Snivel, exultingly. “I have a passion for this
sort of business-am general supervisor of all these cribs, you
understand. We have several of them. Some of these ‘drifts’ we kidnap,
and some come and be locked up of their own accord-merely for the feed
and drink. We use them, and then snuff them out until we want them
again.” Having turned from George, and complimented the vote-cribber
for his skill, he bids him good-night. Together George and the
politician wend their way to an obscure part of the city, and having
passed up two flight of winding stairs, into a large, old-fashioned
house on the Neck, are in a sort of barrack-room, fitted up with bunks
and benches, and filled with a grotesque assembly, making night
jubilant-eating, drinking, smoking, and singing. “A jolly set of
fellows,” says Mr. Snivel, with an expression of satisfaction. “This is
a decoy crib-the vagabonds all belong to the party of our opponents,
but don’t know it. We work in this way: we catch them-they are mostly
foreigners-lock them up, give them good food and drink, and make
them-not the half can speak our language-believe we belong to the same
party. They yield, as submissive as curs. To morrow, we-this is in
confidence-drug them all, send them into a fast sleep, in which we keep
them till the polls are closed, then, not wanting them longer, we kick
them out for a set of drunkards. Dangerous sort of cribbing, this. I
let you into the secret out of pure friendship.” Mr. Snivel pauses.
George has at heart something of deeper interest to him than votes and
vote-cribbers. But why, he says to himself, does Mr. Snivel evince this
anxiety to befriend me? This question is answered by Mr. Snivel
inviting him to take a look into the Keno den.