ned of the vote-cribber--the man to
whom so many were indebted for their high offices--into a deal box, and
the deal box into the old hearse, and the old hearse, driven by a
mischievous negro, hastening to that great crib to which we must all go.
"Visitors," Mr. Glentworthy smiles, "must not question the way we do
business here, I get no pay, and there's only old Saddlerock and me to
do all the work. Old Saddlerock, you see, is a bit of a miser, and
having a large family of small Saddlerocks to provide for, scrapes what
he can into his own pocket. No one is the wiser. They can't be--they
never come in." Mr. Glentworthy, in reply to a question from Madame
Montford, says Mag Munday (he has some faint recollection of her) was
twice in the house, which he dignifies with the title of "Institution."
She never was in the "mad cells"--to his recollection. "Them what get
there, mostly die there." A gift of two dollars secures Mr.
Glentworthy's services, and restores him to perfect good nature. "You
will remember," says Tom, "that this woman ran neglected about the
streets, was much abused, and ended in becoming a maniac." Mr.
Glentworthy remembers very well, but adds: "We have so many maniacs on
our hands, that we can't distinctly remember them all. The clergymen
take good care never to look in here. They couldn't do any good if they
did, for nobody cares for the rubbish sent here; and if you tried to
Christianize them, you would only get laughed at. I don't like to be
laughed at. Munday's not here now, that's settled--but I'll--for
curiosity's sake--show you into the 'mad cells.'" Mr. Glentworthy leads
the way, down the rickety old stairs, through the lumbered passage, into
an open square, and from thence into a small out-building, at the
extreme end of which some dozen wet, slippery steps, led into a dark
subterranean passage, on each side of which are small, dungeon-like
cells. "Heavens!" exclaims Madame Montford, picking her way down the
steep, slippery steps. "How chilling! how tomb-like! Can it be that
mortals are confined here, and live?" she mutters, incoherently. The
stifling atmosphere is redolent of disease.

"It straightens 'em down, sublimely--to put 'em in here," says Mr.
Glentworthy, laconically, lighting his lamp. "I hope to get old
Saddlerock in here. Give him such a mellowing!" He turns his light, and
the shadows play, spectre-like, along a low, wet aisle, hung on each
side with rusty bolts and locks, revealing