her little room, after the fashion of wild beasts in a cage, are
seven poor idiots, whose forlorn condition, sad, dull countenances, as
they sit round a table, staring vacantly at one another, like mummies in
contemplation, form a wild but singularly touching picture. Each
countenance pales before the seeming study of its opponent, until,
enraptured and amazed, they break out into a wild, hysterical laugh. And
thus, poisoned, starved, and left to die, does time with these poor
mortals fleet on.

The visitors ascend to the second story. A shuffling of feet in a room
at the top of the stairs excites their curiosity. Mr. Glentworthy's
voice grates harshly on the ear, in language we cannot insert in this
history. "Our high families never look into low places--chance if the
commissioner has looked in here for years," says Tom, observing Madame
Montford protect her inhaling organs with her perfumed cambric. "There
is a principle of economy carried out--and a very nice principle, too,
in getting these poor out of the world as quick as possible." Tom pushes
open a door, and, heavens! what a sight is here. He stands aghast in the
doorway--Madam, on tip-toe, peers anxiously in over his shoulders. Mr.
Glentworthy and two negroes--the former slightly inebriated, the latter
trembling of fright--are preparing to box up a lifeless mass, lying
carelessly upon the floor. The distorted features, the profusion of
long, red hair, curling over a scared face, and the stalworth figure,
shed some light upon the identity of the deceased. "Who is it?"
ejaculates Mr. Glentworthy, in response to an inquiry from Tom. Mr.
Glentworthy shrugs his shoulders, and commences whistling a tune. "That
cove!" he resumes, having stopped short in his tune, "a man what don't
know that cove, never had much to do with politics. Stuffed more ballot
boxes, cribbed more voters, and knocked down more slip-shod
citizens--that cove has, than, put 'em all together, would make a South
Carolina regiment. A mighty man among politicians, he was! Now the devil
has cribbed him--he'll know how good it is!" Mr. Glentworthy says this
with an air of superlative satisfaction, resuming his tune. The dead man
is Milman Mingle, the vote-cribber, who died of a wound he received at
the hands of an antagonist, whom he was endeavoring to "block out" while
going to the polls to cast his vote. "Big politician, but had no home!"
says Madame, with a sigh.

Mr. Glentworthy soon had what remai