Tom and Madame Montford set out to explore the establishment. They enter room after room, find them small, dark, and filthy beyond description. Some are crowded with half-naked, flabby females, whose careworn faces, and well-starved aspect, tells a sorrowful tale of the chivalry. An abundant supply of profane works, in yellow and red covers, would indeed seem to have been substituted for food, which, to the shame of our commissioners, be it said, is a scarce article here. Cooped up in another 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.