Three o’clock.—­State of the poll to this time:—­

Figsby          45
Griggles        39

The rascally corrupt assessor has decided that the temperance electors who came up to vote for the Liberal candidate, being too drunk to speak, were disentitled to vote.  Some dead men had been polled by Griggles.

The verdict of the coroner’s inquest on those who unfortunately lost their lives this morning, has been, “Found dead.”  Everybody admires the sagacious conclusion at which the jury have arrived.  It is reported that Figsby has resigned!  I am able to contradict the gross falsehood.  Mr. F. is now addressing the electors from his committee-room window, and has this instant received a plumper—­in the eye—­in the shape of a rotten potato.  I have ascertained that the casualties amount to no more than six men, two pigs, and two policemen, killed; thirteen men, women, and children, wounded.

Four o’clock—­State of the poll up to this time:—­

Figsby          29
Griggles        41

The poll-clerks on both sides are drunk, the assessor has closed the booths, and I am grieved to inform you that Griggles has just been duly elected.

Half past Four o’clock.—­Figsby has given Grigglcs the lie on the open hustings.  Will Griggles fight?

Five o’clock.—­His wife insists he shall; so, of course, he must.  I hear that a message has just been delivered to Figsby.  Tom Daly and his carpet-bag passed under my window a few minutes ago.

Half-past Five o’clock.—­Two post-chaises have just dashed by at full speed—­I got a glimpse of Tom Daly smoking a cigar in one of them.

Six o’clock.—­I open my letter to tell you that Figsby is the favourite; 3 to 1 has been offered at the club, that he wings his man; and 3 to 2 that he drills him.  The public anxiety is intense.

Half-past Six.—­I again open my letter to say, that I have nothing further to add, except that the betting continues in favour of the popular candidate.

Seven o’clock.—­Huzza!—­Griggles is shot!  The glorious principles of constitutional freedom have been triumphant!  The town is in an uproar of delight!  We are making preparations to illuminate.  BALLINAFAD IS SAVED!  FIGSBY FOR EVER!

* * * * *

EPIGRAM.

  Lord Johnny from Stroud thought it best to retreat. 
  Being certain of getting the sack,
  So he ran to the City, and begged for a seat,
  Crying, “Please to re-member Poor Jack!”

* * * * *

CONUNDRUMS BY COL.  SIBTHORP.

Why is a tall nobleman like a poker?—­Because he’s a high’un belonging to the great.

Why is a defunct mother like a dog?—­Because she’s a ma-stiff.

When is a horse like a herring?—­When he’s hard rode.