The mansion of Madame Flamingo differs only in sumptuousness of furniture from twenty others of similar character, dotted here and there about the little city. Add to these the innumerable smaller haunts of vice that line the more obscure streets-that, rampart-like, file along the hundred and one “back lanes” that surround the scattered town, and, reader, you may form some estimation of the ratio of vice and wretchedness in this population of thirty thousand, of which the enslaved form one-third. Having escorted you to the door, generous reader, we will forget the common-place jargon of the world, and affect a little ceremony, for Madame Flamingo is delicately exact in matters of etiquette. Touch gently the bell; you will find it there, a small bronze knob, in the fluting of the frame, and scarce perceptible to the uninitiated eye. If rudely you touch it, no notice will be taken; the broad, high front of her house will remain, like an ill-natured panorama of brick and freestone, closed till daylight. She admits nothing but gentlemen; and gentlemen know how to ring a bell. Well, you have touched it like one of delicate nerves, and like a bell with manners polished by Madame Flamingo herself, it answers as faintly as does the distant tinkle of an Arab’s bell in the desert. There! It was recognized as the ring of a genteel gentleman, and Madame Flamingo’s heavy foot is heard advancing up the hall. Be a diplomatist now. Show a white glove, and a delicate hand, and a winning smile, and you have secured your passport to the satin and brocade of her mansion. A spring is heard to tick, a whisper of caution to some one within follows, and a block broad enough to admit your hat swings open, disclosing the voluptuous splendor of a great hall, the blaze of which flashes upon your senses, and fills you instinctively with curious emotions. Simultaneously a broad, cheerful face, somewhat matronly in its aspect, and enlivened with an urbane smile, darkens the space. After a few moments’ pause we see two sharp gray eyes peering curiously at us, and a soft but quick accenting voice inquires who we are. Ah! yes, the white glove has told who we are, for the massive doors swing open, and we find ourselves in a long, stately hall, resplendent of Persian carpets, lounges in tapestry, walls and ceiling frescoed in uncouth and bright-colored designs, and curiously wrought chandeliers, shedding over all a bewitching light. The splendor is more gaudy than regal; it strikes our fancy, but leaves our admiration unmoved. The door is suddenly closed, and the short, portly figure of Madame (she bows, saying her house is most select) stands before us, somewhat nervous, as if she were yet undecided about our position in society. She has seen some sixty summers, made her nefarious reputation in New York; there she keeps a joint establishment, which, she adds, has been kindly patronized by the members of several pumpkin-headed corporations.