The American yblimteer PUBIiEBHED EVERY THURSDAY MORNING •Tolui B. Bratton. OFFICE-SOUTH MARKET SQUARE^ : dollars por year If paid strictly ia adftlilo&' tfwo Dollars and 'Fifty Cents if paid wlthlii three niohills, after which Three Dollart'win be charged.- These tehna-will be rigidly adheWd to lit every Instance. No sub iorlptron'discontinued tmtll oil arrearages are paid, unless at the option Of the Editor, ; |jfl{fal "MY LITE 19 liiKE THE SUMMEB EOSE." The author of tbebeautlful lyric, "My JQife Ja Like the Sdtamer Rose,’* sbich is so umvoraally admired, like Wolfe and Gray, Immortalized his name by a single production. The piece IS usually attributed tb'tliolate Hon,-Richard D, Wilde, d native of Baltimore, but for many years a resident of Georgia, which he represent-' ed ln Congress. It was written about the year 1813, ami was first printed in 1818. - Alyllle Is .like the summer rose, That opotia to the mornipg sky, Out ere the shades of evening olose, Is scattered on the ground to Ole. Yet on that rose’s humble bod, The sweetest dews of night are shed, As If she wept such waste to see; But none shall wkkp a tear for me. The dews of night may fall from Heaven Upon the withered rose’s bed, And tears of fond regret bo given, To mourn the virtues of the dead. v«t tnominc’s pun the dew will dry, And tears will fade from sorrow’s eye, Affection's pangs be lulled to sleep; And oven love forget to wkep. My life is.like an nntomn loaf . . . ■ That trembles In the moon’s pole ray— Its hold is frail, Us date Is brief. Kostless and soon to pass away. el ere that leaf shall fofl'and fade, The parent tree will mourn Its shade, The wind bewail the leafless tree; Put none shall breathe a srair for mo. The tree niay mourn its fallen-leaf And autumn.winds bewail its bloom, And friend’s may hayo a sigh of grief O’er those who sleep within the tomb; Yet soon wiU spring renew the flowers; And time will bring more smiling hours; And even love forget to sian. My life is like the prints which feet Have left on Tompa’s desert sand— Soon as the rising tide shall boat, . • All trace shall vanish from the strand, Yet, as ifgrieving to efface • All vestige of the human race . ’ On that lono shore loud moans the sea I Bui none, alas! shall mourn forme. The sea may on the desert shore Lament each trace it bears away; The lonely'heart Its grief may pour O’er cherished friendship’s fast decay; ' Yet when all tracis .is lost and gone. The waves dance bright and gaUy on; Ami^ovon loyTiforgets^iWdWHi^ 0111 * lllistellititeOKS. ji||b£GE CLEMENT'S WIFE. “Of all’thlngs, that is the worst I If I ever in all nay life, expected to hear such news 1 Why, our George has gone and got married ; d’ye hear ?” Good Mrs. Clements pushed her steel, bowed spectacles off her bright eyes and dropped the letter in her lap, as she turned around to her husband, the stout old farmer, who was contentedly stroking the old white cat. “Deacon,.d’ye hear?” i This time, when she asked the ques tion, there was a touch of sharpness in in her voice. “Yes, what if he la married? I’m sure it’s natural enough. It kind o’ runs in our family,,'pears to me.” Rnt Mrs. pifimenta took'no notictliof’ this little pleasantry. “ Well, if you like it, I tell you I fie not. He needn’t think he’s coming with his fine citified lady, all airs and graces, and fluted ruffles. Thors’a plen- ty of good girls hereabouts that wanted him. Bight in the middle of work, to talk of bringing a lady here in hog-kill ing time 1 I declare, I think George is a fool.” A graceful, dainty lady, in a garnet poplin and ruffled apron, with a small, proudly poised head covered with short dusky curls, a pair of dark blue eyes, so wistful .and tender, a tiny rosebud of a mouth, and dimple in one cheek. That was Marian Clements. Was it any wonder that George had fallen in love with her? She sat In the bright little parlor close besides the lace curtained window watching for the loved husband’s re turn ; and then, when she heard the click of the latch key, flew to the hall for the welcoming kiss. “Haven’t you the letter this, time, George? I’ve felt so sure of it all day. Indeed, I have quite decided what dresses to take with me.” He smiled as he shook his head. A dark cloud suddenly came over her, pretty face. * “Oh, George isn’t it too, bad? And I do believe—oh, I do believe they wont write because they are sorry you married me.” He put his arm around her neck, “ And supposing such should be the case do you think it would make any difference with me ?” “ Oh, no I only it would grieve me so if I knew I had alienated your parents from you.” “ And a one-sided alienation it would be, tool They never have seen you; how could they dislike you? And when they know you, they can’t help loving you.” . . o “ Oh, George 1” . And the exclamation was caused by the kiss accompanying his loving flat tery. “ That’s true as preaching. By the by, my dear, what would you say if the firm sent me off on a traveling tour of six months ?” A little dismayed cry answered him, “You wouldn’t stay here all alone, eh? But, Marian, it would be five hundred dollars clear gain to us.” “ What need,we care for money? "I’d rather have you.’’. ~ A mischievous smile .played, on the young man’s Ups ;,hewns more matter of fact than this romantic, tender wife' of his. , “I think the accession to our balance at the bankerte. would he very consol ing for the absence.- Never mind little pet, let’s go down todinnor. Xdo hopo we’ll gef; a letter from home soon.” And so it was ; ’ for Marian snatched it from his hand the next night. But her husband’s face was very grave and stern, and his eyes looked angry when she laughted gleefully over the envel ope. “My dear, you must remember, X care little for what the letter contains. Remember, I did not write it; that you are dearer to mo than over before. Kiss mo first; then rend it, while I watch you.” Clie American Uolantfcr f. f.;.' ' ' s jOIEN 11,14 FAT A little ..pang her wheirjitp gllgm tgargafefile un der her der mouth when she had fl fflSne3 i d her head down and cried. “It was cruel to let you see it, my wounded bride. Let me burn it. Andi don’t forget, darling, what our Bible says—that a man shall leave father and mother and cleave to his wife.' You are my precious wife, Maraian, and to you I turn for the happiness my life will ever hold.” He dried her tears and then they talked it over. “ Just because,l am a city bred, she thinks I am lazy and haughty and dir ty, and ” “ Never mind, Marian. ■ She will find out some day. My father ” “ Yes, bless the dear old man 1 he has added, ‘ My love to my daughter Ma rlau.’ Oh, I know I should love him, and your mother too, if she would only let me.” . “ We will Invite them down, when I 'come home. By the way, Marian, I will stop at the farm on my way Lome and bring them back ; will she—r>”i, “ George, dear, I have been thinking about the trip West. I think you had better go, and leaveme home. It won’t be very long.” Marian was eating an egg while she spoke across the little tele-a-iele break fast table. “ Spoken like my little Marian ; and when I come back I’ll bring you a pres ent. What shall It be?” “ Your mother and father from the farm. It shall be that hope that will bear me company while you are gone.” A fortnight, after that Marian Cle ments ate her breakfast alone, the traces of a tear or so on her pink cheeks; then she dashed them away with a merry joyous little laugh. ■ “This will never do ; and now that George has gone for six weeks I should ptcjiaiu . minis return.' Ana 1 priiy Heaven it may be such a coming home as shall delight his very soiil.” * * . * * - *.*'■* “ I’m sure I don’t know what to hay. The Lord knows I need help bad enough; but it ’peara to me such a slen der little midget as you couldn’t aim your salt. What do you say your name was?” .■ “ Mary Smith. And, indeed, if you Will try me only for a week. Urn sure you’ll keep me till the season is over.” Mrs. Clements looked oat of the wins dew at the gray clouds that were piling gloomily up; and then the wind gave a great walling shriek around the cor ners of the house. “ Youcan’t cook, ken you ?—or shake up feather beds, good big ones, forty pounders?” A gleeful little laugh came from Mav. iy’s lips. ■>.(>. ‘I Indeed I can. I may not cook to suit you, but I can fcarn. Mrs. Clements walked out to the huge open fire-place in the kitchen, where thq ! Deacon was shelling corn. 1 “What d’ye say, deacon—keep her or not? I kind o’ like her looks, and the dear knows it ’ud be a good lift while we’re killin’, if she couldn’t do more’n set the table or make the mush for the bread.” “ Take her, of course, Hanner. You are hard driv’, I know. Let her stop a. week or so, anyhow.” So Mrs, Clements came slowly back and sat down again, “ You can’t get away to-night any way. There’s a snow; storm been a brewin’. these days, and it’s on to us now, sure enough. See them ere flakes; fine and thick. That’s a sure sign it’ll last a long while. You may as well take your things In the west garret, and then come down and help mo to getsupper.” Then following directions to the ‘west garret,’'and when she was gone; Mrs. Clements returned to the Deacon. “ I never see’d a girl afore I’d trust up my stairs. But such as she don’t Steal. I kin tell you that, if nothing else.” Directly she came down in her neat, purple print dress and big white apron; her hair brushed off her face into a net; a narrow linen collar, fastened with a sailor’s loop of narrow black ribbon. It seemed as if she had life, so handi ly she flitted in and out the big pantry, into 'the buttery, and down into the cellar. Then, after the meal, she gathered the dishes in a neat, silent way, that, was perfect bliss to Mrs. Clement’s eyes. “ She’s determined to earn her bread anyhow; and I like her turn, too.” . And the Deacon knew his wife had, taken a shine to Mary Smith. . One by. one the days wore on; the ‘hog killn’ was over and done; long strings of sausages hung in fantastic ting?, arranged shoulders were piled awayiiuitrue house-wifely order ; and, now Mary and Mrs. Clements were sit ting in the great sunny dining-room, darning, mending and patching. “Idon’t know what I am going to. do without you, Mary. I dread to see you pack up your clothes.” A blush of pleasure spread over the girl’s fiioe. “I am so glad you have been suited with my work. Indeed I’ve tried.” “It ain’t the work, altogether, tho’, goodness knows. You’re the smartest gal I’ve seen this many a day. As I sny, it ain’t tho work—it’s you, Mary; I’ve got to thinking a sight o’ you—me and the Deacon.” Mary’s Ups trembled at the kindness in the old lady’s voice; but she sewed rapidly en. “It’s been uncommon lonesome like, since tho boy left the farm; but it’s worse yet since he got married. It seem like deserting us altogether.” “ Have you a son ? You never men tioned him.” “ Well,” quoth undo Peokhuui, when he featlvltes were over, and they were once more sitting beside the fire that ahono and sparkled like deep hued rubies beneath the carved arabesques of the marble mantle in the rich man’s dining room ; " bow do you like Sarah Eater brook? 1 ’ But despite her scorn, Mrs, Olomonta I “ Very well, sir.” “ NoGeorge has gone his way, and we must go ours. Yes, he married one of them crooked headed boarding school people, what can’t tell the differ ence between a rolling-pin and a milk can.” dashed off the tears With-her brown fists. “Is his wife pretty? I suppose you love her dearly?” ‘M don’t know nothing about her, and never want to know. He left us for, her, and us old folks’ll leave him for her too. Mary, just turn them cakes around. Seems they are burn ing.” When Mary returned, Mrs. Clements Was.leaning on the arm of her chair. “ Maftr, suppose you stop on with us another month yet, anyhow? The Deacon, will make it all right.” “It’s not the money I care for, Mrs. Clements, 1 only wish I might stay al ways. You do .not know how mucn I love yon. ’ “ Love us, do you ? Bless your heart. If poor George had only picked you out, what a comfort it would be to us all ? But it can’t bo helped now.” She sighed wearily, then glanced out of the window, looked a moment, then threw down her word. . “ Bless my soul, if there ain’t George coming up the lane! Beacon I Deacon! George is coming 1” And ail her mother love rushing to her heart, she hurried out to meet him. Oh, the welcoming,.the reproaches, the caresses, the determination to love him still, despite dear, innocent little Ma rian. . Then, when the table in the next room had been set by Mary’s deft Ung ers, and she had retired to her west garret, Mrs. Clements .opened her heart. ; “There is no use talking, George.— This fine, fancy lady of yours will never suit mo. Give me a smart girl like my Mary Smith, and I’ll ask no more.— Come in to supper how. Mary! Mary! She raised her voice to call the girl, when a low answer near her surprised her. “ Oh, you dressed up in honor of my boy ? Well, I must confess I never knew you had such a handsome dress; And you look.! i lce-a JuMurn with_-yniir. net oil and them short, Hohbin curls.— George, this is Miss Mary Smith, my George came through the door, glanc ed carelessly at the corner where the woman stood, then with a cry sprang with outstretched-arms to mcetthe lit tle flgute that flew Into them.-; ' , 4 ’ “ My Marian I My darllqg,U.ttie wife! WJiat does this mean?’^ The Deacon and Mrs. Clements stood in speechless amazement. Then ,Ma rian, ail blushes and smiles, went oyer to the old .pair and took their hands,,. “I am George’s wife. I was so afraid you wouldn’t love me, so I came deter mined to win you if I could. Mother, father, may I be your daughter?” And a happier family, when they had exhausted their powers of surprise, amazement and pride in beautiful Ma rian, never gave, thanks over a supper talile., ' • . 1 WBldM WAS THE HELEE33 ? A fair, slender girl, with the golden hair Blown away from the blue veined forehead, and a soft violet light shining j n hav.Ayoa, na sho uiuiiu tnere, a living, picture, framed in by creeping vines and swinging sprays of clematis—that was the last glimpse that Henry Dalmayne caught of Lilias Raymond on the summer evening when he went away to seek his fortune.' He had. found it already, in a certain sense—in so far as man may find treas ures trove in the rich abundance of a woman’s love ; for Lilias loved him, and Lilias’s heart was a gold mine in Itself. She turned and went back lute the Jipuse, and with glistening dew of tears upon her cheek and a mournful quiver on her lip; “ How silly I am !” she murmured to herself. “It will ha but for a year or two at the furthest and he has so much more to endure and battle with than I.” And Lilias, repined at the faith as? signed to her in the great play bill of the’ world. It was, hard to realize the truth of the blind poet's words, that “ they al so serve who only stand and wait.” If she could have worked to earn mo ney and help him ; If she might also have been privileged to bear a weapon In the strike. Alas !itis so hard to count the seconds which must elapse ere the crisis of our fate dawns upon the leaden horizon of life. So Henry Dalmayne went to London, and Lilias stayed behind to bear the sep aration as best she might. “ Engaged, eh ?” growled old Mr- Peckham, Henry’s maternal uhole, whose skin had turned yellow with the. inflection of much gold, and whose heart .was harder than the marble of which bis mansion was built. . ‘Nephew, you are a fool! Engaged, at two/jawi twenty!” ‘I But, unclo Ralphi sSelB the aweetost 'girl that you “ Sweetest girllßweetestflddleßtlcks!” rosnd the irate old “ There, don’t talk Baptliiioiit tome; I’ve no patience with, it.” ■ : ■ Henry frescoed oeilf^s^-rtlietd out; closcj-tho ,re 4 the velyet hot house peaches,:.bcoaino dlataateful toltlm all at once. ' Uncle Peokham had promlaed to make his fortune for- at nil wanted Ids fortune made on : Mi»;teriiw. Ppp glto'& ono smile liAwmjiUpfty ore'.tte! all these h6llow: l pageonttlas ?'' “ Here,” said uncle Ralph, tossing a card- across the table. “ I’ve got you air Invitation to Lady Bruce’s party to night. ■ You'll meet some people there that are knowing;” t Henry Dalmayne hesitates, It was the evening he has set aside in each week to' write to Lilias.. She would .miss her, let-, ter—bnt, after all It would only be a dayte, delay;. He could write as well upon the\ neitjilght. , !: So Henry Dalmayne went to Lady Bruce’s under the wing of his uncle, the wealthy stock-broker. CARLISLE. PA., THURSDAY, JUNE 13, 1872. " Vary wplll” sarcastically mimicked Mr. Peokham. "Do you know that her father Is worth a quarter of a million 7” “ Is he, sir?” ,“ la he, sir ? Henry I roared the old gentleman; I believe you’re a fool.— Why, there are a score of the wealthiest young men in town who would give half they possess—aye, the whole of it, If need .be—for the smiles and glances Hiss Ea terbrook vouchsafed to you this very .night I” , "She was rather polite sir," said Hen ry, with rather a puzzled look, but— i •“Polite! And pray what would you have, Mr. Daimayne 7 Do you want a woman to tell you out and out, in so many words', that she likes you, before you can take a hint 7" Henry colored like a girl. It - was im passible to be quite insensible to the charm of this flattery, the mare especial ly as uncle Feckham was not ordinarily one who buttered his phrases," as the expression gees. "Yea, my boy,” went on the stook-hol der, tapping the,table emphatically, with his finger ends, " she does like you, and' I’m not the only person that has noticed it." ‘ " But uncle she is so plain." “ What of that ? All women can’t be Vehuaes, and the prettiest of them have a grinning skull and cross bones under their pink and white skins and. fair ex -teriors. Beauty is only skin deep !" Henry thought of pretty Lilias with a thrill,of tender recollection. Miss Ester brook, with all her golden charms could never hope to rival her. Yet,as the weeks went by, his thoughts and ideas insensibly changed. The yellow lustre of the gold worship ping atmosphere in which he lived seemed to wrap him around the surface of glittering society ; ideas gradually up rooted the old dogmas and, axioms of bis youthful faith. And one evening,-car- Tied away by the witchery and enchant ment of the hour, he proposed to Sarah Ensterbrook and was accepted. Congratulations poured in upon him “You’re the luckiest dog going, Dal mayne,” orie<J one. “I only Wish I were in your shoes !” echoed second, and Hen ry dazzled with the brilliancy of his prospects, believed that he really was a most fortunate man. For, according to the popular rumor he was going to marry one of the richest' girls in Loudon. And uncle Peokham. took to himself ail the credit for the whole affair. “ This is better that plodding on one’s whole life behind a counting house desk !” cried Raip, joyously robbing to gether his lean and wrinkled palms. “ A young man of enterprise and resolution can accomplish anything he sets about now a days. Especially, if you, iikeDal mayne, happen to be telerably decent looking,” A man does not usually degenerate in to a villain all at once; and when Harry Daimayne sat down to write to Lilias, his frame of mind was probably far from enviable. But he got the tc.r-irgitiac lie' do answer would be expected, and no answer came. Three months after, just as the prepay rations for the much talked of Ester brook-Dalmayuo wedding were culmi nating, he chanced to meet John Hawley on the street—John's mother lived at a small place adjoining the Raymond farm. Dalmayne stopped, with real pleasure on his face. “ John, is it you ? Stop a minute and tell me the news.” "There ain't much news,” quoth John, rather sulkily. In common with most of the neighbors, he was inclined to think Henry Dalmayne bad behaved very ill. “ Except that Lilly Raymond is well, and prettier than ever.” . “ Ah!” Henry tried to speak careless ly, but without signal success. “ And Squire lugoldby'sson is getting pretty attentive in that quarter,” went on John, “ and old Robert Raymond died out in India last winter, and left Lilly a clean thirty thousand pounds.” “ Did he ?” I am glad of that. So Lilly was an heiress after all.' Would it not have been better—but Dai mayne resolutely checked the half formed conjecture in his mind. He -had put .bis bond to the plough—it was too late to look back now. Yet he wondered if Arthur Ingoldsby would value, as he had done, .the priceless treasure of Lilias’ love. He told himself that he was glad things had happened ns they bad; but he knew, spite of it all, that be would have felt better if Lilly had pined after him, just a little 1 ' All women are alike, and all men—pshaw 1 there id no use troub ling bis brain further about the matter. Uncle Peokbam met him on the hresbold with a troubled look. “ Have you heard the rumor, Dal mayne ?” “ No." “ Well, of course it can be. nothing but a. rumor. The house of Esterbrook & Esterbrook is too Well established to be shaken by a more fall In French stocks.”. “ What do you allude to?” he asked, scarce comprehending his uncle’s mean ing in the abstraction of his mind. " What people are whispering, about the Esterbrooks having failed ?” And before the sun went down on “■Change,” the whisper became, a trum pet voice—the rumor was true. Ester brook & Esterbrook had failed, and Dal mayne was engaged to a penniless bride. Henry Dalmayne, though a weak and vacillating man, was no scoundrel. He married Uarab Esterbrook, and lives With her now In a Gower street lodging house, daily growing more and more ..tfoary of his life, while in his heart ho cherishes ' the sweet memory of Lilias Raymond, now another man’s wife. '•He had broken his plight, given up Mho tenderest aspirations of his soul, and blighted bis whole future, to marry an (heiress—and he bad missed the heiress after all I A Nianr clerk who was called up by 'a woman who wanted to buy a cent’s worth of matches, in a Lowell drug store, politely told her to go whore brimstone was free. The rent of the Grand Central Ho tel, at Saratoga Is 180,000 a year. As -the season only lasts four months, tills is equal to $20,008 a month, $5,000 a week, or $BOO a day. CI 11 TONER'S GrMT SPEECH Delivered in the United States Senate, May 81, 1872.. The Eopnblkm Party—lts Origin and Ob ject—^Ttio I .Party Seized by the President— Presidential Pretensions—Personal ■ Qov ' eminent TJniepublioan—Grant as a Civilian, ■ &o.i &o. 1 - Mu. Pbbsiden* : I have no hesitation In declaring myself a member of the Kepublloan'partj, and one of the straigb test of the sect.] I doubt if any Senator can point to earlier or more constant ser vice in its behalf. I began at the begin ning. and from pat early day have nev er failed to sustain its candidates and to advance its principles. For these I have labored alwayrfby speech and vote in the Senate, at first with a few only,- but at last as sucoessbegau to dawn, multitudes flooked forward. ’ln this caise X never asked who Were my assooiat/s, or how many they would number. Ju the consciousness of right I was willing to bo alone.' To such a party wit)t whlqh so much of. my life is intertwined I have no common attach ment ; hot without regret can I see it suffer, and not without a pang can 1 see. it changed from its original character, for such a change is death. Therefore, do I ask, with no common feeling, that the plrii which menaces it may pass away. X stood by its cradle—let me not follow it* hearse. OmaiN AND OBJECT OF THE* REPUBLI ; CAN PARTY, Turning back to its birth, I recall a speech ofmy own at a State Convention in Massachusetts, as far back ns Septem ber 7,1854, where I vindicated its prin ciples and announced its name in these words: “ As Republicans, we go forth to encounter the .oligarchs of slavery,” The report records the applause with which this name was received by the excited multitude, [Years of conflict ensued, in which the good cause constantly gained. At last, in the summer of 1860, Abraham Lincoln wai nominated by this party as its candidate for the Presidency, and here pardon me f I refer again to myself. On my way home from the .Senate I was detained at New i r ork by the Invi tation of a party of friends to speak at the Cooper Institute on the issues of the en suing election. The speech was made on July is, and I believe was the earliest of the.ormpaign. As published at the time it win entitled Necennity. tv,” and to exhibit this was its precise object. Both the necessity and perma nence of the party wore asserted. A brief passage which X take from the report will show the duty and destiny I ven tured then to hold up. After dwelling on the evils of slavery, and the corruption it has engendered. Including the purchase of votes' at the polls, I proceeded as follows: “ There fore, just so long as the present false theories of slavery prevail, whether con cerning its character morally, economi cally and socially, or concerning its pre rogatives under the constitution, just so long as the slave oligarchy, which is the sleepless and unhesitating agent of sla very in all its pretentions, continues to exist as a political party, the Republican party must endure. [Applause.] If bad men conspire for slavery, good men must combine for freedom. Nor can. the holy wav he ended until the barbar ism now dominant in the republic is overthrown, and the pagan power is dri ven from our Jerusalem. And when the triumph is won, securing the Immediate object of out organization, the Republi can party will not die* but, purifled by iht,.f73-S® t 'Trter if will' be "lifted to yet' Other eflbrts with nobler aims for the good of man. Such, on the eve of the Presidential election, was my description of the Re publican party and my aspirations for Its future. It was not to die, but purified by the long contest with slavery and filled with higher life,.wo were to behold it lifted to yet other efforts and nobler aims for the good of man. Here was nothing persnai—nothing mean nor pet tv. ■ The Republican party was necessary and permanent, and always on the as cending plane. For such a party there was no death, but higher life and nobler aims ; and this was the party to which I gave my vows, but alas, how changed ! Once country was tbe object and not a man. Once principles was inscribed on the victorious banners, and not a name only. TUB REPUBLICAN PARTY SEIZED BY THE PRESIDENT. It is not difficult to indicate when the dlsastorous change, exalting the will of one man above all else, became not mere ly manifest but powerfully conspicuous. Already it had begun to show itself in personal pretensions, to which I shall refer soon. When, suddenly and with out any warning, through the public press or any expression from public opin ion, the President elected by the Repub lican party, precipitated upon the country an 111-considered and ill-omened scheme for the annexation of a portion of the is land of San Domingo, in'pursuance of a treaty negotiated by a’ person of his own household, styling himself aid-de camp of the President of the United States. , Had this effort, however injurious in object, been confined to ordinary and .constitutional proceedings, with proper regard for a co-ordinate branch of the government, it would soon have dropped out of sight, and been remembered only as a blunder, bdt It was not so. Strange ly and unaccountably It was pressed for months by every means ana appliance of power, whether at home pr abroad, now reaching into the Senate chamber, and now into the waters about the is land. ; Reluctant Senators were subdued to its support while treading under foot the constitution in one of its most distinc tive Republican principles. The Presi dent seized the war powers of the na tion, Instituted foreign Intervention, and capped the climax of usurpation by me nace of violence to the Black Republic of Haytl, where the colored race have commenced the experiment of self-gov ernmont, thus adding manifest outrage of international law to manifest outrage of the constitution, while the long suf fering African was condemned to new Indignity. All these things so utterly indefensible and aggrieving, and there fore to bo promptly disavowed, found de fenders on this floqr. The President, who was the original author of the wrongs, continued to maintain them, and appealed to Repub lican Senators for. help, - thus fulfilling the eocentrlh stipulation with the gov ernment of Baez, executed by his aid-de camp. At last a Republican Senator, who felt it bis duty to exhibit these plain violations of the constitution and of international law, and then, in obedi ence to the irresistnble promptings of his nature, and In harmony with his wholo life, pleaded for the equal rights of the Black Republic, who declared that be did this ns a Republican, and to save the party from this wretched com plicity. This Republican Senator engaged in a patriotic service, and anxious to save the colored people from outrage, was de nounced on this floor as a traitor to the party, and this was done by a Senator speaking for the party, and known to bo uu intimate relations with the President guilty of these wrongs. Evidently the party was in process of change from that generous association dedicated to human rights and to the guardianship of the African race. Too plainly it was becoming the In strument of one man and his personal will, no matter how much ho set nt de fiance the constitutional and interna tional law,, nor how much he insulted tho colored people. Tho President was to be maintained at all hazards, notwith standing his aberrations and all who called them in question Were to be struck down, In . exhibiting this autocratic pretension, so revolutionary and unre publican in character, I mean to be mod erate in language and to keep within the strictest bounds. The facts are undlspu tablo, and nobody can deny the gross violation of the constitution and of inter national law in the insult to the black republic, the whole case being more re prehensible, as also plainly more unton stitutionkl and more illegal, than any thing alleged against Andrew Johnson on his impeachment. Believe me, sir, I shall gladly leave this matter to the Judgment already re corded if it were not put in issue'again by the extraordinary efforts radiating on every lino of office to press its author far a second term as President, and sinpe silence gives consent, nil these efforts are his efforts. They became more note worthy when is ids considered that the natneof the candidate thus pressed has become a sign of discard and not of con cord, dividing instead of uniting the Re publican party, so that these extraordi nary efforts tend directly to the disrup tion of the party, ail of which he witnes ses, and again by his silence ratifies:— " Let the party split,” says the Presi dent, “ I will not renounce my chance for a second term.” The extent of this personal purpose and the subordination of the party to the will of an individual, compU us to consider his pretensions. These“too, are in issue. PRESIDENTIAL PRETENSIONS. “On what meat doth this our Ciesar feed” that he should assume so much? No honor for victory in war can justi fy disobedience to the Constitution and to law; nor can it aflbrd the least apol ogy for any personal’immunity, privi lege or license in the Presidential office. A President must turn into a king before it can be said of him that he can do no wrong. He is responsible always. As President he Is the foremost servant of the law, bound to obey its slightest man date. As the elect of the people he owes' not only the example of - willing obedi dience, but also of fidelity and industry in the discharge of his conspicuous of fice, with an absolute abnegation of ail self-seeking. Nothing so self but all for country. And now, as we regard the ca reer of this candidate we find, to our amazement, how little it accords with this simple requirement. Bring it to the touchstone-and it fails. Not only are constitution and law dis thing and a perquisite—when not the fdrmer, then the latter. Here the 'de tails are ample, showing how from the beginning this exalted trust has dropped to be a personal indulgence, where pal ace oars, ' FAST HOUSES AND SEASIDE LOITERING^ figure more than duties; how personal aims and objects have been more promi nent than the public interests; how tbe Presidential office baa been used to ad vance bis oWn family on a scale of ne potism, dwarfing everything of the kind In our history, and hardly equalled in tbe corrupt governments where this abuse. has not prevailed ; bow in tbe same spirit office has been conferred up on' those from whom he had received gifts or benefits, thus making the coun try repay his peisOnal obligations; how personal devotion to himself rather than public or party service, has been made the standard of favor; how the vast, ap pointing power, conferred by the consti tution for his general welfare, has been employed at his - will to promote his schemes, to reward 'his friends, to pun ish his opponents and t,o advance..the assumptions have matured in A PERSONAL GOVERNMENT, semi-military ip character and breath ing the military spirit, being a species of Ctesarism or personalism, abhorrent to Republican institutions, where subser vience to the President is the supreme law; how in maintaining this subservi ence he has operated by a system of com binations, military, political and .even senatorial, having their orbits about him so that, like the planet Saturn, he is surrounded by rings; nor does the elm iltqde end here, for his rings, like those of the planet, are held in position by sa tellites; how this utterly unrepubllcan Cmsarlsm has mastered th'e Republican party and dictated the Presidential will, stalking into the Senate chamber itself, while a vindictive spirit visits good Re publicans who cannot submit; haw the President himself, unconscious that a President has no right to quarrel with anybody, insists upon quarreling until be has become THE GREAT PRESIDENTIAL QUARRELER, with more quarrels than all the other Presidents together, and all begun and continued by himself;. how his personal followers back him in quarrels, insult those be insults, and then, not departing from his spirit, cry out with Shakes peare, “ We will have rings and things and fine array ;” and, finally, how the chosen , bead of the. republic is known chiefly for Presidential pretensions, ut terly indefensible in character, deroga tory to the country and of evil influence, making personal objects a primary pur suit, so that, instead of a beneficent pres ence, he is a bad example through whom Republican institutions suffer and THE PEOPLE LEARN TO DO WRONG. Would that these things could be forgot ten, but since, through officious friends, the President insists upon a second term, they must be considered and publicly dis cussed. When understood, nobody will vindicate them. It is easy to see tbat Cmsarlsm, even in Europe, Is at a dis count, that “ personal government" has. been beaten on that ancient field, and that “ Ctesar was a senate at his heels,” is not the fit model for our republic.— King George 111. of England, was so peculiar for narrowness and obstinacy tbat he bad retainers in parliament, who went under the name of “ the Kings' friends.” Nothing can be allowed here to justify the inquiry, “Have we a King George among us 7” or that other ques tion, “ Have We a party in the Senate of the King’s friends?” PERSONAL GOVERNMENT UNREPUBLIOAN Personal government is autocratic. It Is the one man power elevated above all else, and is, therefore, In direct conflict with a Republican government, whose consummate form is tripartite, executive legislative and judicial; each Independent and coequal. From Mr. Madison, In the Federalist, we learn tbat the accu mulation of these powers, in the same hands, may justly bo pronounced “ the very definition of tyranny,” and so any attempt by either to exercise the powers of another is a tyrannical invasion, al ways reprehensible In proportion to its extent, John Adams tells us in most instructive words that “ it is by balanc ing each of these powers against the oth er two that the efforts' in human nature toward tyranny can alone be checked and restrained, and any degree of free dom preserved in the constitution! (John Adams’ Works, vol. IV, page 180.) Then again the same authority says that the perfection of this great idea is, “ by giving each division a power to de fend itself by a negative,” (Ibid; page 290.) In other words each is armed against invasion by the others, Accor dingly, the constitution of Virginia, .In 1770, conspicuous os an historical prece dent, declares expressly “ the legislative, executive and judiciary departments shall be separate and distinct, so that neither exercise the power that properly belonging to the other; nor shall any person execute the powers of more than one of them at the same time.” The constitution of Massachusetts, da ting from 1790, embodied the same prin ciples in memorable words: " The legis lative department shall never exercise tho executive and Judicial powers, nor either of them; the executive shall never ♦ CI exercise the legislative and judicial pow ers, nor either of them; the judicial shall never exercise the legislative and execu tive powers, nor neither of them, to the end that it may be a government of laws and not df men.” A government of laws and not of men is the object of a Republican government, nay, more, it is the distinctive essence without which It becomes a tyranny.— Therefore, personal government, in all its forms, and especially wbeh it seeks to sway the action of any other branch tor overturn its constitutional negative, Is hostile to the first principles of Repub lican.institutions and an unquestionable outrage. That our President has of fended in this way is unhappily too ap parent. THE PRESIDENT AS A CIVILIAN. To comprehend the personal govern ment that has been installed over us we must know its author. His picture is the necessary frontispice ; not as soldier, let it be borne in mind, but os civilian.— The President is titular head of the ar my and navy of the United States, but his office is neither military nor naval. As if to exclude ail question be is classed by the constitution among civil officers; therefore, as civilian is he to be seen. Then, perhaps, we may learn the secret of the policy, so adverse to Republican ism, in which ho perseveres. To appreciate his peculiar character os a civilian it is important to know his' triumphs as a soldier, for the ohe lathe natural compliment of the other; ™The successful soldier is rarely changed to the successful civilian. There seems to be an incompatibility between the two, modified by the extent to which one has been allowed to exclude the other. One 'always a soldier cannot late in life be come a statesman; one always a civilian cannot late in life become a soldier. Ed ucation and experience are needed for each. Washington and Jackson were civilians as well as soldiers. In the large trainiog and experience of antiquity the soldier and civilian were often united. But in modern times this has been rare. The camp is peculiar in the influence it exercises. It is in itself an education, but it.is not the education of the statesman. To suppose that we can change without preparation from the soldier to the statesman is to assume that training and experience are of less conse quence for the one than for the other— that a man may be born a statesman but can fit himself as a soldier only by four years at West Point, careful scientific study, the command of troops and expo- Tng feqfllfed' WlfieatSteßiflgtft*- TEPlffc duty so slight? His study Is the nation and its welfare, turning always to his tory for example, to law, authority and to the loftiest truth for rules of conduct. No knowledge, care nor virtue,disci plined by habit can be too great. The pi lot is not accepted in his trust until he knows the signs of the storm, the secrets of navigation and the rocks of the coast: all of which are learned only by careful study with charts and soundings, by .coasting the land and watching the crested wave. But can less be expected of that other pilot, who Is to steer the ship which contains us all? The failure of the modern soldier as a statesman Is exhibited by Mr. Buckle in his remarkable work on the “History of Civilization." Writing as a philosopher devoted to liberal ideas, he does not dis guise that In antiquity “the most emi nent soldiers were likewise the most emi nent politicians.” But he plainly shows tire reason when he adds that “in the midst of the bnrry and turmoil of camps these . eminent men cultivated their minds to the highest point that the knowledge of that age would allow. The pvwti* few soldiers have been more conspicuous than Gustavus Adolphus and Frederick, sometimes called the great; but we learn from our author that both "failed Igno miniously in their domestic policy, and showed themselves as short sighted In the arts of peace as they were sagacious in the art of war." (ibid.) The judg ment of Marlborough is more pointed.— While portraying him as “the greatest conqueror of the age, the hero of a hun dred fights, Ihe victor of Blenheim and Eamillies," the same philosophical wri ter describes him .as “a man not only of the most idle and frivolous pursuits, but so miserably ignorant that bis defloien oies made him the ridicule of his ootem poraries,’ while his polities were com. pounded of selfishness and treachery- Nor was Wellington an exception; Tho’ shining in the field without'a rival, and remarkable for integrity of purpose, and unflinching honesty and high moral feel ing, the oonquororof Waterloo is describ ed as “nevertholeasntterly unequal to the complicated exigencies of political life.” (Ibid.) Such are the examples of history —each with its warning. It would be hard to find anything in the native endowment;; or in the train ing of our chieftain, to make him an Il lustrious exception; at least nothing of this kind is recorded. Was nature more generous with him than with Marlbor ough or Wellington,Gustavus Adolphus or Frederick called. the Great ? Or was bis experience of life a better preparation than theirs ? And yet they failed except in war. It is not known that our chief tain had any experience as a civilian un til be became President, nor does any partisan attribute to him that double culture which in antiquity made the same man soldier and statesman. It has often been said that he took no note of public affairs, never voting but onoe in bis life, and then for James Buchanan, After leaving West Point he became a captain in the army, but soon abandoned the service to reappear at a later day os a successful general. There is no reason to believe that be spent this Intermediate period in any way calculated to improve him as a statesman. One of his hnbesi tatlng supporters, my colleague [Mr. Wilson], In a speech Intended to com mend him for re-election, says s “Before the war we knew nothing of Grant. He was ' earning a few hundred dollars a year in tanning hides in Galena." By the war he passed to be president. And such was his preparation to govern the great republic, making it an example to mankind. Thus he learned to deal with all questions, domestic and. foreign, whether of peace or war, to declare con stitutional law an international law, and to administer the vast appointing pow er, creating cabinet officers, judges, for eign ministers and AN UNCOUNTED ARMY OP OFFICE HOL- DEBS, To these things must be added that when this soldier first began as a civil ian he was already 40 years oldi At this mature age, close upon half a century, when habits are irrevocably fixed, when the mind has hardened against what is new, when the character has tahen its *permanent form and the whole man is rooted in his own unchangeable Individ uality, our soldier entered abruptly upon the untried life of a civilian in its most exalted sphere. So not be surprised that like other soldiers he failed. The wonder would be bad he succeeded. Harvy was accustomed to say that nobody over for ty ever accepted his discovery of the cir culation of the blood. But be is not the only person who has recognized this pe riod of life os the dividing point, after which it is difficult to learn new things. Something like this Is embodied in the French saying “That at forty a man has given bis measure!’ 1 At least bis voca tion is settled—how completely this is seen if we suppose the statesman, after tracing the dividing point, abruptly change to the soldier. And yet at an age nearly seven years later, our soldier is precipitately changed to the statesman. . This sudden metamorphosis cannot be forgotten when we seek to comprehend the strange pictures which ensued. It is easy to see how some very moderate ex perience in civil lilb. Involving, of course, the lesson of subordination to republican principles, would have prevented inde fensible nets. IW 8100 92 00 93 00 34 00 $7 00 912 00 $22 VL 2 “ 160 800 400 s'oo 000 •14 00 20 00 B** 200 400 600 .640 11 00 10 00 80 00 4" 260 475 675 6*73 12TO 18 00 '32 60 5“ 300 650 <l6O .7 60 14 00 .20 00 MOO 6" 360 660, 7 60 86016 60 22 69 37 50 2hl 400 ‘>s# B>6o 17 6Q •26 09 >42 50 3“ 500 -8 60 060 10.50 20 00 30 00 60 00 0•* 760 ioCO 13 50, ifoo 28 £0 ,40J» 75 00 lyi 10 00 15 00 20.00 ,®OO 40&0 7<TOO 10)00 ilwelvo lines constitute a square. For Executors’ and Aclm’rs’. Notices, 81 ou For Auditor’s Notices, 2 0u For Assignees* andsimllar Notices*- : i 300 For Yedriy Oards,*not exceeding six lines, 7 oo For Announcements flvo cents per lino, unlcsp contracted for by tho year.. Business and Special Notices, 10 coats per Boublecolpaoi advertisements o*t(a. VOX. 59."-NO*, , Something also must bo attributed to individual character; and here I express no opinion of my own ; I shall allow an other to speak in solemn words echoed from the tomb. ; On reaching Washington at the open ing of congressi In December, 1809,1 was pained to bear that Mr. Stanton, late sec retary of war, was In failing health. Full of gratitude for his unsurpassed services, and with a sentiment of friendship quickened, by common political sympa thies, I lost no time In seeing him, and repeated my visits until his death, to ward the close of the same month. My last visit was marked by a communica tion never to beiforgotten. As I eutorml his bed room, where I found him reclin ing on a .sofa, : propped by pillows, bo reached out bis hand, already clammy cold, and iu reply to my inquiry ‘'How ate you answered “Walling for my furlough.” Then, at once, with singular solemnity, be said, “I have something to say to you." When X was seated he pro ceeded without one word of introduction: “X know General Grant better than any person in the country knows him. It was my duty to, study him and I did so night and day, when I saw him and when I did not see him, and now I tell you what I know. . HE CANNOT GOVERN THIS COUNTRY.” The intensity of his manner and the poaltlveness of his judgment surprised me, for, though I was aware that the sec retary of war did not place the President ' very high in general capacity, I was not prepared for a Judgment so strongly crouched. At last, after some delay, oo- , ' copied in meditating upon his remarks ble words, I observed, “what you say la very broad,” “It is as true as It Is broad,” 1 be replied promptly. I added, “yon tell this late; why did you not say it before his nomination ?” He answered that be :l|, > was not Consulted about the nomination, n u and bad no opportunity of expressing his, ’ opinion upon lt,Jbesldes being much oc cupied at the time-by his duties as score- 11 " tary of war and his contest with they. President. I followed by saying, "but ' you took-part in the Presidential elec lion, and made a succession of apeeoheslh " for him in Ohio and Pennsylvania. “I spoke," said he, “but I never Introduced*- 1 the name of General Grant: I spoke for. -ill tho Republican party and the Benub|U can cause.” This was the last time I' , rests. As the vagarigs of the President became more manifest, and the Preside T j | tial office seemed more and more a play thing and perquisite, this dying juagt.uoi ment of the great.oltlzen, who knew hlmlwil, so well, haunted me constantly day and night, and now I communicate it to -fny country, feeling that it is a legacy whlth/im I have no right to withhold. Beyond f Intrinsic interest from its author, it Is not without value as testimony In consldfcW 1 " 1 ' 1 ing how the President could have!ihoenoil; led Into that Quixotism of personaLpfs,- IJnll tension which It is my duty to expose. [As this great speech Is so Idfiktlty l that It would consume the entire'sptfdeX 111 of our outside, and as it is •out“d ! eSWe""c to give our readers as much IlbMtttyaon matter as possible each week, wedhaCounl concluded to publish part of thpflj)ee|ffi,|. in this issue and the remainder,,)n^. lull week.] ■ . i i •11 nil -:-.i A Hard Story.— I There is a'ilocidr 1 '" 1 In the north-western part of acdasolUT for being, as the women term n and crusty.” vti A Week or two since he was fpr visit a patient who was laboring ppjjpr. f ... a severe attack of cheap i ■ “ Well, doctor, I’m down, you, completely floored. I’ve got the.^e-r,,,-, mendous delirum, you know.” “ Tremens, you fool; where’d 1 yWti l getyourrum?” 1 11 ', “ All over in spots; broke our ptbe' * mlscuously, doctor 1” 11 . >. “ Served you right.” ’ ' “ Father dledof the same disease, it took him under the ribs and carripd, (1 , him away bodily.” “ Well, you’ve got to take something. immediately.” . •* You are a trump, Doc! Here, wife,,.,. I’ll take a nip of old rye.” “ Lie still, you blockhead!. Mrs. B., 1 if your husband should get worse before' 1 I return, which will he in an hour, give him a dose of that trunk strap, maybe ' that will fetch him to a seniso of his 1 folly.” The doctor sailed out grandly, and within an hour sailed in, again, and found his friend of the ‘‘tremendous delirium” in a terrible condition, writhing and struggling with pain.— His wife, a female of the kind but ig norant school, came up, and laid her hand on the doctor’s arm, said—“ Doc tor, I gave bim the strap as you di rected.” “ Did you thrash him well.” “ Thrash him I” exclaimed the aston ished woman; ‘ ‘no! I cut the strap into hash, and made him swallow it 1” “O, Lord, doctor!” roared the vic tim, “ swallowed the leather, but—but —“But-what?” “ I swallowed the whole of the strap, but—but—l’m darned if I can go the buckle!” The doctor administered two bread pills and evaporated. To look os beautiful as she can, is the duty of every true woman. Part of her mission in this world is to glad den and brighten it, in this way, just as it is part of the mission of trees, and skies, and flowers, and water, and all other lovely things. Those families in which the sense of beaney is cultivated are always the most genial and sweet and lovable. Mowers, prints, books, a nice choice of colors—all these refine and elevate Insensibly. So does dress. To be well dressed is to look, and even to be, charming, for it satifles ourselves and makes us aflkble. The pretended moralists are all, but blind leaders of the blind. „ In speaking of- the humor of the Scotch people, Sidney Smith said to Bobert Chambers: “ Oh, bynllmeans, you are Immensely funny people, but yon need a little operating upon to let the fun out. I know no instrument so effectual for the purpose as a cork screw.” Thompson Is not going to do any thing more in conundrums. He re cently asked his wife the difference be tween his head and a hogshead, and she said there was none. He says that is not the right answer. The best people are not only the bap* piest, but the happiest people arena tl* ally the best. Rates of Advertising 11 sip | asq. 1 8 «q?u «g. I jin I M p -TTco TESTIMONY OP THE LATE EDWIN M. STANTON. )0 ll H 1 1
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