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. CHAPTER XXII. MRS. SWIGGS FALLS UPON A MODERN HEATHEN WORLD. Purged of all the ill-humors of her mind, Mrs. Swiggs finds herself, on the morning following the excellent little gathering at Sister Scudder’s, restored to the happiest of tempers. The flattery administered by Brother Spyke, and so charmingly sprinkled with his pious designs on the heathen world, has had the desired effect. This sort of drug has, indeed, a wonderful efficacy in setting disordered constitutions to rights. It would not become us to question the innocence, or the right to indulge in such correctives; it is enough that our venerable friend finds herself in a happy vein, and is resolved to spend the day for the benefit of that heathen world, the darkness of which Brother Spyke pictured in colors so terrible.