The Chinese and Italians rub elbows in this corner of the town, and a single step will bring us into Mulberry Bend, bright with red handkerchiefs and teeming with the olive-skinned children of Italy. Nowhere in the whole city is there a stronger clan feeling than here--a feeling that manifests itself not only in the craft and ferocity of the vendetta, but also in a spirit which impels these poverty-stricken exiles to stand by one another in the hour of trouble. There is no better-paying property to be had than one of these Mulberry Street tenements, for it is seldom, indeed, that the Italian poor will permit one of their number to be turned into the street for want of a month’s rent. The Jewish old-clothing quarter that lies close to the Five Points is near by. The “pullers-in,” as the sidewalk salesmen are termed in the vernacular of the trade, transact business with a ferocity that can be best likened to that of Siberian wolves; but over beyond Chatham Square lies the Hebrew burying-ground, an ancient patch of sacred soil which all the money in New York could not buy from the descendants of those whose ashes repose there. A few short blocks north of this old landmark lies one of the most famous political districts in the town, one which is liable to become the pivotal point in an exciting and closely contested election. There is a saloon here on one of the side-streets which it may be worth your while to visit. It is a dark, uninviting place, and its interior, with its rows of liquor barrels and boxes and its throng of blear-eyed, tough-looking customers, suggests anything but wealth and power. Nevertheless the taciturn little Irishman whose name is over the door has grown rich here and is the Warwick of the district so far as the minor city offices are concerned. And it was to this rumshop, as the whole ward knows, that a President of the United States came in his carriage one Sunday morning not many years ago, to make sure of the fealty of its proprietor and pour the oil of patronage on the troubled political waters. And furthermore it is related of this district boss--who stands in the same relation to his constituents that the Roman senator of old did to his clients--that once at the close of an election day of more than ordinary importance one of his lieutenants burst in upon him, as he sat with a few faithful henchmen in the back room of his saloon, and announced triumphantly that his candidate had carried a certain election district by a vote of one hundred and fifty-five to one. And at this intelligence the east-side Warwick swore a mighty oath, and, striking his clenched fist fiercely on the table before him, exclaimed: “What I want to know is the name of the wan sucker that voted agin us!”