The night after these scenes in the Den of
the Killers was election night—October —
1849. On that night the city and districts of
Philadelphia were alive with excitement.
Every street had its bonfire; crowds of voters
were collected around every poll; bar-room
and groggery overflowed with drunken men.
The city and the districts were astir. And
through the darkness of night, a murmur rose
at intervals like the tramp of an immense
army.

It was election night. The good citizens
were engaged in making a Sheriff who might
prove an honest man and a faithful officer, or
who might heap up wealth, by stolen fees, and
leave the county to riot and murder, while he
grew rich upon the misery of the people.
The good citizens were also engaged in electing
Members of Assembly who might go to
Harrisburg and do their duty like men, or who
might go there as the especial hirelings of
Bank speculators, paid to enact laws that give
wealth to one class, and poverty and drunkenness
to another. There was a stirring time
around the State House: the entire vicinity
ran over with patriotism and brandy. Vote
for Moggs the People's friend! Vote for
Hoggs the sterling patriot! Don't forget
Boggs the hero of Squamdog! Appeals like
these glared from the placards on the walls,
and flashed from the election lanterns, carried
in the hands of sturdy politicians. In fine,
all over the county, the boys had their bonfires,
the men their brandy and politics, the
Candidates their agonies of suspense.

There was one District, however, which
added a new feature to the excitement of election
night. It was that District, which partly
comprised in the City Proper, and partly in
in Moyamensing, swarms with hovels, courts,
groggeries — with dens of every grade of misery
and of drunkenness — festering there, thick
and rank, as insects in a tainted cheese. It
cannot be denied that hard-working and honest
people, reside in the Barbarian District.
Nor can it be denied that it is the miserable
refuge of the largest portion of the Outcast
population of Philadelphia county

This District has for two years been the
scene of perpetual outrage. Here, huddled in
rooms thick with foul air, and drunk on poison
that can be purchased for a penny a glass, you
may see white and black, young and old, man
and woman, cramped together in crowds that

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fester with wretchedness, disease and crime.
This mass of misery and starvation affords a
profitable harvest to a certain class of “hangers
on of the law” who skulk about the offices of
Alderman, trade in licenses and do the dirty
work which prominent politicians do not care
to do for themselves.

Through this district, at an early hour on
the night of election, a furniture car, filled
with blazing tar barrels, was dragged by a number
of men and boys, who yelled like demons,
as they whirled their locomotive bonfire
through the streets. It was first taken through
a narrow street, known as St. Mary street,
and principally inhabited by negroes, and distant
about one square from the groggery of
the “Bulgine” and the home of the young
woman, mentioned in the previous pages. As
the car whirled along a shot was fired; a cry
at once arose that a white man was killed, and
the attention of the mob was directed to a
house at the corner of Sixth and St. Mary,
kept by a black fellow who (so the rumor ran)
was married to a white woman. The mob
gathered numbers every moment, and a conflict
ensued between the white mob and the
negroes who had fortified themselves within
the California House (a four story building)
and in the neighboring tenements and hovels.
The inmates after a desperate contest were
forced to fly; the bar was destroyed, and the
gas set on fire. In a moment the house was
in a blaze and the red light flashing against the
sky, was answered by the State House Bell,
which summoned the engine and hose companies
to the scene of action. The Hope, the
Good Will, the Phœnix, the Vigilant and other
engine companies arrived upon the scene —
amid the clamor of the riot, while pistol shots
broke incessantly on the air, and the flames of
burning houses ascended to the heavens, lighting
with a red glare the faces of the mob —
and attempted to save the houses, which were
yet untouched by the flames. Their efforts
were fruitless. The mob took possession of
the Franklin Engine, and ran it up St. Mary
street; as for the other companies, they were
greeted at every turn by discharges of fire-arms,
loaded with buckshot and slugs. Charles
Himmelwright, a fireman of the Good Will,
was shot through the heart, while nobly engaged
in the discharge of his duty. He was
a young and honest man. He fell dead the
moment he received the shot. Many were
wounded, and many killed. It was an infernal
scene. The faces of the mob reddened by
the glare, the houses whirling in flames, the
streets slippery with blood, and a roar like the
yells of a thousand tigers let loose upon their
prey, all combined, gave the appearance of a
sacked and ravaged town, to the District
which spreads around Sixth and St. Mary
street. The rioters and spectators in the
streets were not the only sufferers. Men and
women sheltered within their homes, were
shot by the stray missiles of the cowardly
combatants.

While these scenes were in progress around
the California House, all was quiet in Dog
Alley. The hovels of the Court were closed
or deserted; the place looked as though it had
not been occupied for a month. There were
indeed two exceptions — a light shone from
the greasy windows of the groggery, kept by
the Bulgine, and another emitted its struggling
rays from the home of Mrs. Watson and her
daughter Kate.