ion for Mayor. Leaden clouds hang
threatening over the city; the gas-light throws out its shadows at an
early hour; and loud-talking men throng our street-corners and public
resorts. Our politicians tell us that the destiny of the rich and the
poor is to forever guard that institution which employs all our
passions, and absorbs all our energies.

In a curtained box, at the St. Charles, sits Mr. Snivel and George
Mullholland--the latter careworn and downcast of countenance. "Let us
finish this champaign, my good fellow," says the politician, emptying
his glass. "A man--I mean one who wants to get up in the world--must,
like me, have two distinct natures. He must have a grave, moral
nature--that is necessary to the affairs of State. And he must, to
accommodate himself to the world (law and society, I mean), have a
terribly loose nature--a perfect quicksand, into which he can drag
everything that serves himself. You have seen how I can develop both
these, eh?" The downcast man shakes his head, as the politician watches
him with a steady gaze. "Take the advice of a friend, now, let the Judge
alone--don't threaten again to shoot that girl. Threats are sometimes
dragged in as testimony against a man (Mr. Snivel taps George
admonishingly on the arm); and should anything of a serious nature
befall her--the law is curious--why, what you have said might implicate
you, though you were innocent."

"You," interrupts George, "have shot your man down in the street."

"A very different affair, George. My position in society protects me. I
am a member of the Jockey-Club, a candidate for the State Senate--a
Justice of the Peace--yes, a politician! You are--Well, I was going to
say--nothing! We regard northerners as enemies; socially, they are
nothing. Come, George, come with me. I am your best friend. You shall
see the power in my hands." The two men saunter out together, pass up a
narrow lane leading from King Street, and are soon groping their way up
the dark stairway of an old, neglected-looking wooden building, that for
several years has remained deserted by everything but rats and
politicians,--one seeming to gnaw away at the bowels of the nation, the
other at the bowels of the old building. Having ascended to the second
floor, Mr. Snivel touches a spring, a suspicious little trap opens, and
two bright eyes peer out, as a low, whispering voice inquires, "Who's
there?" Mr. Snivel has exchanged the countersign, and with his companio