piled with loaves of bread and heaps of
"crackers" and biscuits, making the rowdy
mouth water with carnivorous anticipation.
The police, in large flat caps and blue frock-
coats, with brass stars on the breast, look on at
the pit, fifteen feet long, six feet wide, and four
feet deep, where the ox, the sheep, and the hog,
are roasting fragrantly. There is a roar of election
cannon, a defiling of banners, and a clash
of music as the speakers enter in. procession and
march towards the platform. The mob rolls,
and billows, and sways till it rocks itself calm.
Hon. Herschel Johnson has just begun to say
that he has come from the South, " the sunny,
constitutional South," in answer to a call " at
once pressing and pleasurable." The vast multitude
of freemen he sees, assure him that the
great and beating popular heart of the country
is moved and agitated by the impending
popular—

"—Crisis," he would have said, but at that
ill-timed moment bang—bang—bang—bang goes
the injudicious cannon, and a voice roars,
"Our friends from the Eleventh Ward are
here!"
"Yes, and all New Jersey, and Connecticut
too!" cries another.

And on comes the noisy procession with
tumultuous banners and untirable band.

Mr. Johnson, silenced for a time, goes on to
say that the Breckinridge platform has been
split up, and he talks much that I don't care to
follow, until there is a shout of "Dry up!"
"Douglas! Douglas!" And at last Douglas
rises to speak amid cadenced earthquakes of
applause, volleys of cannon, and bursts of brass
bands.

This is the sturdy, unscrupulous man, once a
cabinet-maker, who is opposing Lincoln, once
a boatman and woodcutter, both aiming at
power in a great country where there is no
impediment to prevent the poorest man of virtue
and genius from attaining the supreme power.
Douglas is a thick-set stern-looking man, of an
O'Connell build. He begins:

"FELLOW-CITIZENS OF NEW YORK, I appear before
you to-day for the purpose of making an earnest
appeal in behalf of this glorious Union. (Cries of
"Good for you!" and " Three cheers more for
Douglas!") There can be no disunionist, there can
be no enemy in this Union, in the Empire City of
America. (A Voice, "That's so!" "No, no!" and
applause.) New York is not Northern, nor is she
Southern, nor is she Western, nor is soo Eastern;
but she is continental and metropolitan. (Cries of
"That's good!" and cheers.) New York is the
great commercial centre, the great monetary heart
of the American continent, and as such every New
Yorker ought to sympathise with every State and
every Territory, and every people in the whole
Union. (Applause.) Then I ask your attention to
the mode in which this glorious Union a to be
maintained and perpetuated for ever to our posterity.
There is but one mode in which this can be done."

A VOICE " We'll elect you, and you'll do it."
(Music by a band on the ground.)

But need I pursue the vigorous speaker into
his thirdlies and fourthlies, or relate how he
swore to hang Lincoln with his own hands
higher than ever old Virginia hung John Brown,
if he proved a traitor to the constitution.

Need I dwell on the roars of

"Good, boy!"

"Bravo, Dug!"

"That's so!"

"Three cheers and a tiger for little Dag!

Hei! hei!! hei!!!"

"Hang up every black Republican in the
country!"

"Sail on!"

"LET HER RIP!"

At four o'clock the cutting-up commences.
There is a solemn hush. The table with loaves
and crackers is placed on the east side of the
enclosure. The oily oozing pig is on the west;
four other tables with bread, mutton, and beef,
form the south; and two tables, one for
loaves, the other for beef, are in the centre.
The reporters and cooks are inside the fence,
busy round the smouldering pit. The speakers,
satiated with talking, are dragging their relaxed
uvulus and deafened ears back to the city.
The police are driving interlopers outside the
fence. Thousands of rowdy eyes squint and
roll—hands clutch, and expectation stands on
tiptoe, eager for the fray. The hydra mob is
greedy and disposed to be violent. At first all was
reasonably decorous. Boys bore round trays
full of huge slices of bread, which every one
snatched at hungrily, according to the programme:
although now and then a tray was
knocked down and angrily scrambled for. Then
the meat was cut into savoury " chunks," and
also handed round, but routine was now despised;
the strongest and most brutal trod and
trampled to the front and rushed at whatever
was offered.

Impatient of the delay, and fearful of losing
their shares, the mob now rushes to the fence,
tears it down, and storms into the enclosure.
The police, swamped, rally round a table covered
with pork, and round that of the chief carver.
The mob overthrow the rickety table and
crowd round the carver, who is urged to apoplexy
by savage cries for "Beef, mister!"
At fast, faint and disgusted, he retires, and
the crowd rush at the relics of the ox. Foremost
among the rioters, like the dreadful " Man
with the Beard" in the crimson tableaux of the
French Revolution, is a Rough, in a puce
shirt, who with an axe lopped in bits the
remaining quarter of the bullock (or rather calf,
for the bullock of the night procession was far
too valuable to roast). Half savage, half
mischievous and laughing, the mob tear at the
pieces as he chops them off, and threaten to
leave him with nothing but the bone; but at
last he gives the axe to another, and makes off
with a small hot luncheon of some twenty
pounds of reeking meat.

Now, the mob, excited and wanton, but no
longer hungry, take their revenge for having been
kept wailing, by brutal mischief; a sack of salt is
tossed in the air to the detriment of many eyes
and many coats, and when it gets too empty for