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 remained of the vote-cribber-the man to whom so many were indebted for their high offices-into a deal box, and the deal box into the old hearse, and the old hearse, driven by a mischievous negro, hastening to that great crib to which we must all go.  “Visitors,” Mr. Glentworthy smiles, “must not question the way we do business here, I get no pay, and there’s only old Saddlerock and me to do all the work.  Old Saddlerock, you see, is a bit of a miser, and having a large family of small Saddlerocks to provide for, scrapes what he can into his own pocket.  No one is the wiser.  They can’t be-they never come in.”  Mr. Glentworthy, in reply to a question from Madame Montford, says Mag Munday (he has some faint recollection of her) was twice in the house, which he dignifies with the title of “Institution.”  She never was in the “mad cells”—­to his recollection.  “Them what get there, mostly die there.”  A gift of two dollars secures Mr. Glentworthy’s services, and restores him to perfect good nature.  “You will remember,” says Tom, “that this woman ran neglected about the streets, was much abused, and ended in becoming a maniac.”  Mr. Glentworthy remembers very well, but adds:  “We have so many maniacs on our hands, that we can’t distinctly remember them all.  The clergymen take good care never to look in here.  They couldn’t do any good if they did, for nobody cares for the rubbish sent here; and if you tried to Christianize them, you would only get laughed at.  I don’t like to be laughed at.  Munday’s not here now, that’s settled-but I’ll-for curiosity’s sake-show you into the ‘mad cells.’” Mr. Glentworthy leads the way, down the rickety old stairs, through the lumbered passage, into an open square, and from thence into a small out-building, at the extreme end of which some dozen wet, slippery steps, led into a dark subterranean passage, on each side of which are small, dungeon-like cells.  “Heavens!” exclaims Madame Montford, picking her way down the steep, slippery steps.  “How chilling! how tomb-like!  Can it be that mortals are confined here, and live?” she mutters, incoherently.  The stifling atmosphere is redolent of disease.