ve a political end by committing a wrong without inflicting a
moral degradation on some one. Political intrigue begets laxity of
habits; it dispels that integrity without which the unfixed mind becomes
vicious; it acts as a festering sore in the body politic.

Having concluded their arrangements for the Mayor's election, the party
drinks itself into a noisy mood, each outshouting the other for the
right to speak, each refilling and emptying his glass, each asserting
with vile imprecations, his dignity as a gentleman. Midnight finds the
reeling party adjourning in the midst of confusion.

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 a 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