1.62. A MAYORALTY ELECTION.
Messrs. Senter and Coffinberry, two esteemed citizens, are the candidates. Here's a faint attempt at a specimen scene. An innocent German is discovered about half a mile from the polls of this or that ward. A dozen ticket-peddlers scent him ("even as the war-horse snuffs the battle," etc.), see him, and make a grand rush for him. They surround him, each shoves a bunch of tickets under his nose, and all commence bellowing in his ears. Here's the ticket yer want—Coffinberry. Here's Senterberry and Coffinter. What the h—l yer tryin' to fool the man for? Don't yer spose he knows who he wants ter vote for, say! 'Ere's the ticket—Sen—Coff—don't crowd—get off my toes, you d—d fool! Workin' men's tickets is the ticket you want! To h—l wid yez workin' men's ticket, 'ere's the ticket yez want! No, by Cot, vote for Shorge B. Senter—he says he'll py all the peer for dems as votes for him as much more dan dey can trinks, by tam! Senter be d—d! Go for Coffinberry! Coffinberry was killed eight times in the Mexican war, and is in favor of justice and Pop'lar Sovrinty! Oh gos! Senter was at the battle of Tippe-ca-noo, scalped twelve Injuns and wrote a treatise in Horse-shoeing! Don't go for Coffinberry. He's down on all the Dutch, and swears he'll have all their heads chopped off and run into sausages if he's lected. Do you know what George B. Senter says about the Germans? He says by — they're in the habit of stealing LIVE American infants and hashing 'em up into head cheese. By —! That's a lie! T'aint—I heard that say so with my own mouth. Let the man alone—stop yer pullin—I'll bust yer ear for yer yet. My Cot, my Cot, what tam dimes dese 'lections is. Well yez crowd a poor Jarman till death, yer d—d spalpanes, yez? Sen— Coff—Senterberry and Coffinter—Working Men's—Repub—Dem-whoop-h- l-whooray-bully-y-e-o-u-c-h!!
The strongest side got the unfortunate German's vote and he went sore and bleeding home and satisfied, no doubt, that this is a great country, and that the American Eagle will continue to be a deeply interesting bird while his wings are in the hands of patriots like the above. Scenes like the above (only our description is very imperfect) were played over and over again, at every ward in the city, yesterday. Let us be thankful that the country is safe—but we should like to see some of the ward politicians gauged to-day, for we are confident the operation would exhibit an astonishing depth of whiskey.
Hurrah for the Bar—Stangled Spanner!