there comes full to view the glare of yellow silks
and red satins, and doubtful jewels--worn by denizens from whose faded
brows the laurel wreath hath fallen. How shrunken with the sorrow of
their wretched lives, and yet how sportive they seem! The pale gas-light
throws a spectre-like hue over their paler features; the artificial
crimson with which they would adorn the withered cheek refuses to lend a
charm to features wan and ghastly. The very air is sickly with the odor
of their cosmetics. And with flaunting cambrics they bend over carriage
sides, salute each and every pedestrian, and receive in return answers
unsuited to refined ears. They pass into the dim vista, but we see with
the aid of that flickering gas, the shadow of that polluting hand which
hastens life into death.

Old Mr. McArthur, who sits smoking his long pipe in the door of his
crazy-looking curiosity shop, (he has just parted company with the young
theologian, having assured him he would find a place to stow Tom Swiggs
in,) wonders where the fashionable world of Charleston can be going? It
is going to the house of the Flamingo. The St. Cecilia were to have had
a ball to-night; scandal and the greater attractions here have closed
its doors.

A long line of carriages files past the door of the old hostess. An
incessant tripping of feet, delicately encased in bright-colored
slippers; an ominous fluttering of gaudy silks and satins; an inciting
glare of borrowed jewelry, mingling with second-hand lace; an
heterogeneous gleaming of bare, brawny arms, and distended busts, all
lend a sort of barbaric splendor to that mysterious group floating, as
it were, into a hall in one blaze of light. A soft carpet, overlain
with brown linen, is spread from the curbstone into the hall. Two
well-developed policemen guard the entrance, take tickets of those who
pass in, and then exchange smiles of recognition with venerable looking
gentlemen in masks. The hostess, a clever "business man" in her way, has
made the admission fee one dollar. Having paid the authorities ten
dollars, and honored every Alderman with a complimentary ticket, who has
a better right? No one has a nicer regard for the Board of Aldermen than
Madame Flamingo; no one can reciprocate this regard more condescendingly
than the honorable Board of Aldermen do. Having got herself arrayed in a
dress of sky-blue satin, that ever and anon streams, cloud-like, behind
her, and a lace cap of approved fashion, wit