The next morning’s sun rose on a city which was ruled by a reign of terror.  Had the police possessed the heads of Hydra and the arms of Briareus, and had these heads all seen, these arms all fought, they would have been powerless against the multitude of opposers.  Outbreaks were made, crowds gathered, houses burned, streets barricaded, fights enacted, in a score of places at once.  Where the officers appeared they were irretrievably beaten and overcome; their stand, were it ever so short, but inflaming the passions of the mob to fresh deeds of violence.  Stores were closed; the business portion of the city deserted; the large works and factories emptied of men, who had been sent home by their employers, or were swept into the ranks of the marauding bands.  The city cars, omnibuses, hacks, were unable to run, and remained under shelter.  Every telegraph wire was cut, the posts torn up, the operators driven from their offices.  The mayor, seeing that civil power was helpless to stem this tide, desired to call the military to his aid, and place the city under martial law, but was opposed by the Governor,—­a governor, who, but a few days before, had pronounced the war a failure; and not only predicted, but encouraged this mob rule, which was now crushing everything beneath its heavy and ensanguined feet.  This man, through almost two days of these awful scenes, remained at a quiet seaside retreat but a few miles from the city.  Coming to it on the afternoon of the second day,—­instead of ordering cannon planted in the streets, giving these creatures opportunity to retire to their homes, and, in the event of refusal, blowing them there by powder and ball,—­he first went to the point where was collected the chiefest mob, and proceeded to address them.  Before him stood incendiaries, thieves, and murderers, who even then were sacking dwelling-houses, and butchering powerless and inoffensive beings.  These wretches he apostrophized as “My friends,” repeating the title again and again in the course of his harangue, assuring them that he was there as a proof of his friendship,—­which he had demonstrated by “sending his adjutant-general to Washington, to have the draft stopped”; begging them to “wait for his return”; “to separate now as good citizens”; with the promise that they “might assemble again whenever they wished to so do”; meanwhile, he would “take care of their rights.”  This model speech was incessantly interrupted by tremendous cheering and frantic demonstrations of delight,—­one great fellow almost crushing the Governor in his enthusiastic embrace.  This ended, he entered a carriage, and was driven through the blackened, smoking scenes of Monday’s devastations; through fresh vistas of outrage, of the day’s execution; bland, gracious, smiling.  Wherever he appeared, cheer upon cheer rent the air from these crowds of drunken blasphemers; and in one place the carriage in which he sat was actually lifted from the ground, and carried some rods, by hands yet red with deeds of arson and murder;