are well nigh coming to blows; in fact, peace is only preserved by the timely appearance of the landlord, who proclaims that unless order be preserved until after the candidates have addressed them, the next barrel of whiskey will positively “not be tapped.”  He could not use a more effectual argument.  Mr. M’Fadden, who exercises great authority over the minions under him, at this announcement mounts the top of an empty whiskey barrel, and declares he will whip the “whole crowd,” if they do not cease to wage their political arguments.

While the above cursory remarks and party sparrings are going on, some forty negroes are seen busily employed preparing the indispensable adjuncts of the occasion-the meats.  Here, beneath the clump of trees, a few yards from the grocery and justices’ office, the candidates’ tables are being spread with cold meats, crackers, bread and cheese, cigars, &c., &c.  As soon as the gentlemen candidates have delivered themselves of their sentiments, two barrels of real “straight-back” whiskey will be added.

“This is the way we puts our candidate through, down south, ye see, fellers, voters:  it’s we what’s the bone and siners o’ the rights o’ the south.  It’s we what’s got t’ take the slow-coach politics out o’ the hands o’ them ar’ old harristocrats what don’t think them ar’ northern abolitionists han’t goin to do nothin.  It’s we, fellow citizens, what puts southern-rights principles clean through; it’s we what puts them ar’ old Union haristocrats, what spiles all the nigger property, into the straight up way o’ doing things!  Now, feller voters, free and independent citizens-freemen who have fought for freedom,—­you, whose old, grey-headed fathers died for freedom! it takes you t’ know what sort a thing freedom is; and how to enjoy it so niggers can’t take it away from you!  I’ze lived north way, know how it is!  Yer jist the chaps to put niggers straight,—­to vote for my man, Colonel Mohpany,” Mr. M’Fadden cries out at the very top of his voice, as he comes rushing out of the tavern, edging his way through the crowd, followed by the two candidates.  The gentlemen look anxiously good-natured; they walk together to the rostrum, followed by a crowd, measuring their way to the assembly through the darling affections of our free and independent voters.  Gossamer citizenship, this!

As they reach the rostrum, a carriage is seen in the distance, approaching in great haste.  All attention being directed to it, the first candidate, Colonel Mohpany, mounts the stump, places his right hand in his bosom, and pauses as if to learn who it brings.  To the happy consolation of Mr. M’Fadden and his friends, it bears Mr. Scranton the philosopher.  Poor Mr. Scranton looks quite worn out with anxiety; he has come all the way from the city, prepared with the very best kind of a southern-rights speech, to relieve his friend, General Vardant, who is not accustomed to public declamation.  The General is a cunning