“Better, at all events, than you,” emphatically replies the man. “I’m only in for cribbing voters; which, be it known, is commonly called a laudable enterprise just before our elections come off, and a henious offence when office-seekers have gained their ends. But what use is it discussing the affairs of State with a thing like you?” The vote-cribber, inclined to regard the new-comer as an inferior mortal, shrugs his shoulders, and walks away, contemplatively humming an air. “If here ain’t Tom Swiggs again!” exclaims a lean, parchment-faced prisoner, pressing eagerly his way through the circle of bystanders, and raising his hands as he beholds the wreck upon the floor. “Fate, and my mother, have ordered it so,” replies Tom, recognizing the voice, and again imploring the jailer to bring him some brandy to quench the fires of his brain. The thought of his mother floated uppermost, and recurred brightest to the wandering imagination of this poor outcast. “There’s no rum here, old bloat. The mother having you for a son is to be pitied—you are to be pitied, too; but the jail is bankrupt, without a shilling to relieve you in the liquor line,” interposes another, as one by one the prisoners begin to leave and seek their several retreats. “That breath of yours,” interrupts the vote-cribber, who, having returned, stands regarding the outcast man with singular interest, “would make drunk the whole jail. A week in ‘Mount Rascal’ The upper story used for the confinement of felons. will be necessary to transmute you, as they call it, into something Christian. On ‘the Mount’ you will have a chance to philosophize—mollify the temperature of your nervous system-which is out of fix just now.” There is an inert aristocracy, a love of distinction, among the lowest dregs of society, as there is also a love of plush and other insignificant tawdry among our more wealthy republicans. Few would have thought of one inebriate affecting superiority over another, (the vote-cribber was an inebriate, as we shall show,) but so it was, nevertheless. “I own up,” rejoins Tom, “I own up; I love my mother, and am out of sorts. You may call me a mass of filth—what you please!” “Never mind; I am your friend, Tom,” interrupts the brusque old jailer, stooping down and taking him gently by the arm. “Good may come of the worst filth of nature—evil may come of what seemeth the best; and trees bearing sound pippins may have come of rotten cores. Cheer up!” The cool and unexpected admonition of the “vote-cribber” leaves a deep impression in Tom’s feelings. He attempts, heaving a sigh, to rise, but has not strength, and falls languidly back upon the floor. His countenance, for a few moments, becomes dark and desponding; but the kind words that fall from the jailer’s lips inspire him with confidence; and, turning partly on his side, he thrusts his begrimed hands into a pair of greasy pockets, whistling “Yankee Doodle,” with great composure.