30. XXX.
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 Senter—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 ticket 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 P. 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 gas! Senter
was at the battle of Tippe-ca-noo,
scalped twelve Injuns and wrote a treatise
on 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 him 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. Will 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, 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!
