he mud raked up was used to make mud pies which were greedily devoured
by hungry partisans. There were curious war-cries too on either side,
the deep significance of which had to be fully explained to the
uninitiated, before he could appreciate their strength. In the Cleveland
camp they were constantly burning pieces of paper and shouting: "Burn
this letter, dearest Fisher." "Oh! you'd better, better, better burn
this letter," or up went the cry in rhythmical measure--

"James Gould Blaine, James Gould Blaine,
He's the continental liar from the State of Maine."

Outsiders got a little slap too, where the partisan saw his opportunity,
as when one of the Irish banners paraded the sentiment: "We love James
Blaine for the English enemies he has made."

I fully shared in the excitement, and wherever two or three thousand
people were blocking a space really only adapted to so many hundred, I
helped to make ugly rushes, and took my part in the chorus of yelling
and hissing. This was in New York, on the principal day of the election.
A day or two afterwards I had returned to Albany, and was calling on
Cleveland with Erastus Corning.

"No," said the future President in answer to Mr. Corning's proposal to
start the illuminations and torchlight procession that night, "don't
hurry; I know it's all right, but wait for to-morrow's returns." He was,
to all outward appearances, the one man least affected by the issue.

The next day the returns came, and the torch and other lights were
allowed to blaze. All doubts had been dispelled by a certain telegram
from Jay Gould. His enemies swore that that arch-grabber of millions had
manipulated the telegraph wires, withholding or forging the returns
expected from various parts of the States, and it was generally
understood that the earliest opportunity would be taken to burn down his
house and to lynch him. That morning a telegram of congratulation from
the great financier, happily unlynched, had just been handed to the
President-elect; he showed it to us, deliberating whether it should be
communicated to the representative of the _New York Herald_, who was
anxiously waiting to carry it away. He decided to do so, and then turned
to a dear old man who stood beaming in the doorway, with a little boy
clinging to his coat-tails, both looking round the big reception-room
with eyes of wonder and bewilderment. There were no servants or ushers
to introduce visitors; anybody could walk in