I see they announced a big, old-fashioned barbecue to be given next week by the Brooklyn Democrats, at which Cleveland and Hendricks, Presidential candidates, are to participate. This barbecue holdin’ (of which we had a sample last Wednesday at Harlem River Park) used to be a very popular form of political excitement in the olden time. The biggest barbecue ever given in this country was held in Jones Wood just twenty-four years ago, and just before the war, in honor of Stephen A. Douglas, the “Little Giant,” and Herschel V. Johnson, who were then the Democratic nominees for President and Vice-President.
The barbecue was announced as a “Monster Democratic Rally,” and “A Grand Political Carnival and Ox-Roast.” Notices were put in all the newspapers, and the affair became the local sensation of its week.
From an early hour in the mornin’ of the day fixed for the barbecue, a large part of New York, especially the east side of New York, went toward Jones Wood, either by cars or by East River boats to the nearest landin’, or on foot. There was one prominent peculiarity of the average crowd that sought Jones Wood, and that was that everybody looked hungry–ox-roast hungry. Several poor men went with baskets, thinkin’ they would have an opportunity to bring home somethin’ from the ox-roast for their families. Poor devils! They were sadder and wiser men before the barbecue was over. They didn’t bring back even their baskets.
All sorts of “odds and ends” men went to the barbecue, hoping to pick up somethin’ or make somethin’ off of the crowd. Not only three-card monte men, and pickpockets, and two or three gipsies, but men with “Douglas” walkin’ sticks, and “free” Douglas beer. But, contrary to expectations, the “free” beer paid for by the Democratic committee was not a success–probably because the beer was not very good, and because the crowd were not after just then somethin’ free to drink, but somethin’ free to eat.
About noon there were about thirty thousand people in and around Jones Wood, and the fun commenced. It was a “roast,” indeed.
The place devoted to the roastin’ process was enclosed by a pine fence, which was constantly encircled by from two to three thousand people lookin’ on, and gettin’ hungrier as they looked. The pit for the roastin’ was about fifteen feet long, six feet wide and four feet deep. It was surrounded by eight tables, on which were disposed crackers and bread. Then there were a lot of boys, and several butchers and a lot of policemen within the “sacred” enclosure, into which every now and then some very rough, or very hungry, individual would strive to enter, and would get more or less gently clubbed for his pains.
At last the roast was accomplished, several pigs and sheep bein’ roasted with the ox. The butchers within the enclosure cut up the roasted carcass into chunks with cleavers, and then the boys handed it round, with bread or crackers on trays. That is to say, the boys made a pretense of handin’ the chunks round, but really they couldn’t hand ‘em round; the crowd wouldn’t wait until they were handed round. They used their own hands and seized the chunks.
In point of fact, the crowd of men and boys scrambled and fought among ‘emselves for possession of the chunks. The police were powerless to preserve order, and the roast became a riot, in which the weakest, and probably the hungriest, went to the wall.
Five or six men, or boys, would get hold of the same chunk, and then there would be trouble. At last the mob broke down the pine fence around the roastin’ pit, and helped ‘emselves to what remained of the carcass.
At first the hoodlums spared the carver, as they looked to him to supply their wants, but when he got frightened and run off, some big rough got hold of an ax and finished the carvin’ to suit himself, puttin’ by a twenty pound chunk or so for his own private share. Somebody tried to steal this laid-aside morsel, when the big rough went for the thief with uplifted ax, and if that chunk hadn’t been dropped, there would have been murder done sure.
While this little episode was transpirin’, other choice spirits got at the bags of salt, and salted the crowd. Then the boys got throwin’ the bread about, and hittin’ each other with the crackers. Then the bones of the, by this time eaten up, ox were used as missiles, and hurled to and fro. Finally the unruly spirit had pervaded the crowd, and the fences around were torn down and thrown around, and the tables ‘emselves were cut into pieces and hurled about. Several persons were seriously wounded in the course of these peculiar “sports.”
Meanwhile the band played and flags waved, and there were any number of side-shows.
At about two o’clock the political part of the barbecue began. There was a procession of politicians. August Belmont was chosen president of the meetin’, and made a speech, not a word of which was heard. The Seventh Ward club and the Eleventh Ward club, under Alderman Poole, made imposin’ demonstrations; guns were fired, Douglas, Johnson and Morehead, of Kentucky, made speeches, ex-congressman Jim Kerrigan flourished around, and there was a general glorification for the “Little Giant,” as Stephen A. Douglas was called.
Ten years afterward, the Greenbackers and Peter Cooperites got up another barbecue. John Taylor, the butcher, of old Centre Market, and of the old Washington Gray Troop, famous for his cattle, furnished the ox, and the affair was a comparative success.
[Editor’s notes: Most contemporary reporting of the Douglas barbecue merely noted that the food disappeared quickly–but the scene as described above is more than plausible. The head chef/carver was none other than Ferdinand Palmo, the restaurateur and opera impresario.]
