Other history seemed of less importance, though tremendous revolutions had been effected in the democracy. The property qualification had been at last removed and the terrible risk assumed of letting all men vote without regard to their bank accounts. The religious requirements for office holders had also been annulled in all the states. There had been fierce riots, of course, but the promised anarchy had not followed. This gave a new boldness to the annoying fanatics who asked for three downright impossibilities: the abolition of slavery and of liquor, and the granting of equal rights to women. Numbers of shameless females broke into public life and some of them into breeches. Mobs of conservatives raided their meetings, and chased them hither and yon; but still they raved and several effeminate or half-crazed men openly preached against slavery in the South. The bulk of the clergy of all denominations was, of course, against them. [Illustration: THE SUNLIGHT THAT MADE A SHIMMERING AUREOLE ABOUT HER FLASHED IN HER EYES, SHINING WITH THE TEARS OF RAPTURE] The Marquis of Waterford had made himself notorious with his riotous gayety and his clashes with the night watchmen, the Leatherheads. A fifty-year-old veteran of Waterloo had married a sixteen-year-old heiress in a boarding school secretly and had received enormous attention from the newspapers. Fanny Elssler had danced herself into the favor of the people and the horror of the pulpit. Daniel Webster had thundered for the Whigs. The streets had roared with the campaign cry of “Tippecanoe and Tyler, too.” Hard cider had become a slogan and log cabins a symbol. A log cabin had been built at Harrison’s, a few miles from Tuliptree Farm. It served later as a schoolhouse. Then President Harrison died of indigestion a month after his inauguration. The hard times grew harder and harder. The inpour of foreign immigrants increased till New York became almost a foreign city. The Native-Americans anxiously formed a party and their nominee received all of seventy-seven votes; he was a painter named S. F. B. Morse who had invented a curious toy he called the telegraph. He wanted Congress to help him stretch a wire from Washington to Baltimore for him to play with. The churches started an hegira uptown. One of them was set out as far as Tenth Street on Fifth Avenue, which had recently been opened through the farms beyond Washington Square. A mission had been established in the foreign world of the Five Points, where it amused the populace of the brothels and crime cellars. Crime increased and flourished appallingly and the newspapers were unfit for the home. The murderer Colt, having cut up the body of his victim, salted it, and shipped it to New Orleans; was caught, tried, and convicted; then, having married a foolish woman in his cell, stabbed himself to death and died while the guards of the Tombs fought a fire of mysterious origin.