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VOLUME 7.
tRECTonr.
LIST OF POST OFFICES.
p0,t Oficet. Pott Matter. Vtttriet.
Carolltown, Steven L. Evans, Carroll.
Cliess Spring!, M. D. Wagner, Chest.
Coucm&ugb, A. G. Crooks, Tajlor.
Crtaon, It. II. Brown, "Waahint'n.
Ebeasburg. John Thompson, Ebensburg.
Fallen Timber, C. Jeffrie. White,
r.jirmau's Mills, Peter Garraan, Susq'han.
CJallittin, J. M. Christy, Gftllitiin.
Hemlock, Wm Tiley, jr., Washt'n.
Johnstown, E, Roberts, Johnat'wn.
Loretto, M. Adlesberger, Loretto.
M inster, A. Durbin, Munster.
FUtteville, M. J. Piatt, Susq'ban.
St. Augustiue, Stan. Wharton, ClearBeld.
Scalp Level, Georpe Berkey, Richland.
Souman, A. Shoemaker, Wasbt'n.
Summerhill, B. F. Slick, Croyle.
Summit, Wm. M'Connell, Washt'n.
Wilmorc, J. K. Shrjock, S'merhill.
CHURCHES, MINISTERS, &C.
Presbyterian Riv. T. M. Wilson, Pastor.
Preaching every Sabbath morning at 10
o'clock, and in the evening at 7 o'clock. Sab
bath School at y o'clock, A. M. Prayer meet
iufr everv TliursJay evening at 6 o'clock.
Methodist Episcopal Church Rev. A. Baker,
Treacher iu charge. Rev. J. Persuing, Ap
istant. Preaching -every alternate Sabbath
morning, at 10 o'clock. Sabbath School at 9
o'clock, A. M. Prayer meeting every Wednes
J:j rvening, at 7 o'clock.
Welch Independent Rev T,l. R. Powell,
litor. Preaching every Sabbath morning at
: -j o'clock, and iu the evening at 6 o'clock.
Subbntb School at 1 o'clock, P. M. Prayer
imetinp on the first Monday evening of each
month ; and on every Tuesday, Thursday and
Friday evening, excepting the first week in
each month.
tdriiitic Methodist Rkv. Moroas Ellis,
rWur. Preachine every Sabbath evening at
2 and 6 o'clock. Sabbath School at lf o'clock,
A. M. Pinyer meeting every Friday evening,
nt 7 oVlock. Society every Tuesday evening
m 7 o'clock.
Disciples Rkv. W. Lloyd, Pastor. rrcach
i.nr every Sabbath morning at 10 o'clock.
Particular JioptistsUnx. David Evans,
l,.tor. Preaching every Sabbath evening at
3 o'clock. Sabbath School at at I o'clock, P. M.
Catholic Rev. R. C. Christy. Pastor.
SVrvices every Sabbath morning at Cth o'clock
ud Vciptrs at 4 o'clock in the evening.
KUCXSRL'KG 91 AILS.
MAILS ARRIVE.
K.tst. m. through, daily, at 0.33 P. M.
V.'-.-.urti, wj-.y. 4 ut 9-l"' P. M-
V,?itru, through, at 'J. 25 A. M.
r.ii-ttrn, way. " at y.25 A. M.
' MAILS CLOSE.
Knsterii. Jailv, at P. M.
Western, at 8.00 P. M
cjjuThc m.iili from Carrolltown arrive
':iiiy, Sundnys excepted'. The mails from
J'l.itfevil.e, CSrant. &c, arrive on Mondays,
Wednesdays ar.d Fridays.
Mails fJr Carrolltowu leave daily, Sun
(i iys excepted. Mails for Platte ville, Grant,
ic", leave oa Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sat
urda vs.
RAILROAD SCHEDULE
CRESSON STATION'.
VwVst Bait. Express leaves at
" 1'hila. Express '
8.25
9.23
9.52
9.54
7.30
4.15
XAO
2.30
7.10
1.55
1.21
A. M.
A. M.
A. M.
P. M.
P M.
P. M.
P. M".
A. M.
A. M.
P. M.
P. M.
New York Exp.
" Fast Line
Lay Express
44 Altoona Accom
F:t l'hil'i. Express
" Fast Line
' I'ay Express
" Cincinnati Ex.
" Altoona Accom,
COt'A'Tl' OFFICERS.
Judges of the Courts President Hon. Geo.
Taylor, Huntingdon ; Associates, George W.
E-isley, Henry C. Devine.
I'rothonotary Geo. C. K. Zahm.
Register and' Recorder James Grifiin.
Sheriff James Myers.
District Attorney." John F. Barnes.
I'nuntu Commissioners John Campbell, Ed
ward Glass, E. R. Dunnegan.
Treasurer Barnabas M'Dcrmit.
Poor House Directors George M'Cullough,
Coore Orris, Joseph Dai'.ey.
Poor House Treasurer George C. K. Zahm.
Au litort Fran. P. Tierney, Jco. A. Ken
r.fdy, Emanuel Brallier.
County Surveyor. Henry Scanlan.
Coroner. -William Flattery.
Mercantile Appraiser John Cox.
SujU. of Common School J. F. Condon.
tnnsni'RG bor. officers.
at large.
liurcjess James A. Moore.
Justices of the Peace Harrison Kinkead,
Ejmund J. Waters.
School Directors D. W. Evans, J. A. Moore,
b; ciel J. Davis, David J. Jones, 'Villiam M.
Jones, R. Jones, jr.
Porough Treasurer Geo. W. Oatman.
Clerk to Council Saml. Singleton.
Street Commissioner David Davis.
EAST WARD.
Tctm Council A. Y. Jones, John O. Evans,
Lemuel Davis. Charles Owens, R. Jones, jr.
Constable Thomas Todd.
Judge of Election Wm. D. Davis.
Inspector David h. Evans, Danl. J. Davis.
Attestor Thomas J. Davis.
WEST WARD.
Toxrn Council John Lloyd, Samuel Stiles,
fl rtison Kinkead, John E. Scanlan, George
Curie v.
Constable Barnabas M'Dermit.
Judge nf Election. John D. Thomas.
Inspectors. William H. Sechler. Georrre W.
Erown.
Attestor Joshua D. Parrish.
SOCIETIES, &c.
-4. 1". M. Summit Lndn V ai A. Y. M.
meets in Masonic Hall, Ebensbure. on the
uu luesaay oi eacu montli, at 7 J o ciock,
. O. Ci V T v., A to T r
F. mitii in CAA rstlnn..' tfnii r-i V
very Wednesday evening.
of T. Highland Division No. 84 Sons of
mperance meets in Temperance Hall, Eb
tusburg, every Saturday evening.
fPERMS Of SUBSPRIPTION-
TO
"THE LLEGIIAXIAN -."
$2.00 LN ADVANCE.
Au Old Hand.
Blue-veined and wrinkled, knuckly and brown
This good old hand is clasping mine ;
I bend above it, and looking down,
I study its aspect line by line.
This hand has clasped a thousand hands
Tha long have known no answering thrill;
Soma have jaouldered in foreign lands
Some in the graveyard on the hill.
Clasped a mother's hand, in the day
When it was little, and soft, and white
Mother, who kissed it, and went away,
To rest till the waking in God's good light.
Clasped a lover's hand, years ngone,'
Who sailed away and left her in tears ;
Under Sahara's torrid sun,
Its bones have whitened years and years.
Clasped the hand of a goodman true,
Who held it softly, and fell asleep,
And woke no more, and never knew
How long that impress this may keep.
Clasped so many, so many 1 so few
That still respond to the living will,
Or can answer tt.is pressure so kind and true!
So many, that lie unmoved and still !
Clasped, at last, this hand my own ;
And mine will moulder, too, in turn.
Will any clasp it when I am gone ?
In vain I study this hand to learn I
A SUNDAY A CENTURY AGO.
An old brown leather-covered book, the
ieavca yellow, the writing scarcely legible,
ftom time and decay : evidently an old,
neglected MS. To the lire or to my
private shelf? Which?
Those were iny reflections as I looked
over the p.ipers of my late uncle, the
rector of a Somersetshire village.
I liked the look of the book and decided
for the shelf; and I had iny reward, for I
found in the crabbed characters a simple
story, evidently written towards the close
of the writer'a life. This story I now
transcribe into a modern style.
"He'll be fic for nothing," said my
father ; "an awkward booby who holds
his awl and cut? his food with his left
hand."-
. So 6aid my father, and so, alas I I felt.
I icas awkward. I was fifteen ; thick set,
strong, but terribly clumsy. I could not
make a collar, cor sew a pair of blinkers,
nor stuff a saddle, nor do anything that I
ought to be able to do. 3Iy fingers seemed
to have no mechanical feeling iu ihem.
I was awkward, and knew it, and ail
knew it.
I was good-tempered ; could write fair
ly, and read anything ; but I was awkwrard
with my limbs; they seemed to have wills
of their own ; and yet I could dance as
easily and lightly as any oue of my neigh
bors' sons.
"I don't krow what he's fit for," said
my father to the rector of tho parish.
''I've set him to carpentering, and he cut
his linger nearly off with an axe ; then he
went to the smith, and burnt his hands
till he was laid up for a month. It's all
of no use; he spoils me more good leather
in a week than his earniurs pay for in a
month. "Why cannot he, like other Chris
tians, use his hands as the good God meant
him to 'i There ! Look at him now,
cutting that back strap for the squire
with his left luind."
I heard him ; the knife slipped, and the
long strip of leather was divided iu a
momeut and utterly spoiled.
"There, now ! look at that. A. piece
out of the very middle of the skin, and
his finger gashed into the bargain."
The rector endeavored to soothe my
father's anger, while I bandaged my finger.
"You'd better let him come up for that
vase, Mr. Walters; I should like a case
to fit it, for it'a very fragile, as all that
old Italian glass is ; and line it with the
softest leather, please."
And so I went with th rector to bring
back the vase, taking two chamois leathers
to bring it in.
We reached the house, and I waited in
the passage while he went to fetch it.
He came back with a large vase, tenderly
wrapped in the leathers. Alas ! At that
moment there came from the room, against
the door of which I was 6tauding, the
sound of a voice singing. A voice that
thrilled me through, a voice I hear now
as I write these lines, so clear, so sweet,
so pure, it was as if an augcl had revealed
itself to me.
I trembled, and forgot the. precious
burden in my hauds ; it dropped to the
ground and was shattered to pieces.
How shall I describe the rector's rage?
I fear he said somethiug for which he
would have blushed in his calmer moments,
and she came out.
She who had the angel voice his niece
came out, and I saw her. I forgot the
disaster, and stood speechlessly gaziug at
her face.
"You awkward scoundrel ! look at your
work ! Thirty pounds ! Fifty pounds !
An invaluable treasure g3ne irreparably
in a moment. Why don't you speak ?
Why did you drop it ?"
- "Drop it," 1 said, waking up. "Drop
what?" And then it flashed upon me
again,' and I stammered out, "she sang I"
"Aud if she did sini,', was there any
occasion to drop my beautiful vase, yov
doubly ttupid blockhead ? There, go out
of the bouse, do, before you do aDy farther
EBENSBUB.G, PA., THURSDAY, AUGUST 9, .1866.
mischief, and tell your father to horsewhip
you for a stupid dlt."
I said nothing, did nothing, but only
looked at her face, and went shambling
away, a changed and altered being. There
was a world where horse-collars and horse
shoes, tenons and mortises, right-hands or
left, entered not. That world I had seen;
I had breathed its air and heard its voices.
My father heard of my misfortune, and
laid the strap across my shoulders without
hesitation, for in my young days boys
were boys tiil eighteen or nineteen years
old. I bore it patiently, uncomplainingly.
"What is he fit for ?" every one would
ask, and no one could answer, not even
myself.
I wandered about tho rectory in the?
summer evenings and hoard her sing ; I
tried hard to get the old gardener to let
me help him carry the watering pots, and
when I succeeded, .felt, as I entered tho
rector's garden, that I was entering a par
adise. O happy months, when, after the
horrible labors of the weary day, I used
to follow the old gardener, and hear her
6iug. My old withered heart beats fuller
and freer when the memory comes back
to me now.
Alas I alas ! my awkwardness again ban
ished me. She met me one evening in
the garden, as I was coming along the
path with my cans full of water, and spoke
to me and said,
"You're the boy that broke the vase,
aren't you ?"
I did not, could not reply ; my strength
forsook me. I dropped my cans ou the
ground, where they upset and flooded
away iu a moment some 6eeds on which
the rector set most especial store.
"How awkward, to be sure I" she ex
claimed. . "And how angry uncle will be."
I turned and fled, and from that time
the rectory gate was closed against me.
I led a miserably unhappy life for the
next three rears ; I had ouly one consola
tion during the whole of that weary time, i
I saw her at church and heard her sing
there. 1 could hear nothing else when
she 6ang, clear and distinct, above the
confused, nasal sounds that came from the
voices of o:hers, hers alone pure, sweet,
aud good. It was a blessed time. I
would not miss a Sunday's service in
church for all" that might offer. Three
good miles every Sunday there and heav
ily plod to hear her, aud fe'el well reward
ed. I shared her joys and heaviness. I
knew when she was happy, when oppres
sed ; as a mother knows the tones of her
child's voice, to the minutest shade of dif
ference, sol could tell when her heart was
light and when sad.
One Sunday she sang as I had never
yet heard her. uot loudly, but so tenderly,
so loviugly ; I knew the change had come,
she loved ; it thrilled in her voice ; and
at the evening service, he was there. I
haw him. A soldier, I knew by his bear
ing, with cruel, hard, gray eyes; and she
loved, I knew it. I detected a tremble and
gratitude in the notes. . I felt she was to
suffer, as I had suffered ; not that I sang.
I had no voice. A harsh, guttural sound
was all I could give utterance to. I could
whistle like a bird, and often and often
have I lam for hour; in the shade of a
tree and joined the concerts of the woods.
One day I wa3 whistling, as was my
wont, as I went through the street, when
I was tapped on the shouldcr-by an old
man, the cobbler of the next parish. I
knew him from his coming to my lather
for leather occasionally.
"Sam, where did you learn that ?"
"Learn what ?"
"That tune."
"At church."
"You've got a good ear, Sam."
"I've nothing else good, but I can whis
tle anything."
' Can you whistle me the Morning
Hymn ?"
I did so.
"Good; very good. Know anythiugof
music, Sam ?"
"Nothing."
"Like to ?"
"I'd give all I have in the world to be
able to play auything. My soul's full of
music. I can't sing a note, but I could
play anything if I were taught."
"So you shall, Sam, my boy. Come
home with me. Carry these skins, and
you shall begin at once."
I went borne with him, and found that
he was one of the players in the choir of
his parish, his instrument being the vio
lincello. I took my first lesson, and from
that time commenced a new life. Evening
after evening, aud sometimes during the
day, I wandered over to his little shop,
and while he sat, stitch, stitch, at the
boots and shoes, I played over and over
aain all the music I could get from the
church.
"You've a beautiful fingering, Sam, my
boy, beautiful, and though it does look a
little awkward to see you bowing away
with your left, it makes uo difference to
r0u. You ought to bo a fine player,
Sam."
I was enthusiastic, but I was poor. I
wanted an instrument of my own, but I
had no money, and I earned none, I
could earn none. My parents thought,
and perhaps rightly, that if they found me
food and clothing, I was well provided
for, and so for some twelve months I used
the old cobbler's instrument, improving
daily. It was f trange that the limbs and
fingers so rigid and etiff fox every other
impulse should, under the influence of
sound, move with auch precision, case, and
exactness.
"Sam, my boy," said the cobbler, one
day, "you shall have an instrument, and
your father shall buy it for you, or the
whole parish shall cry 6hame upon him."
"But he don't know a word of this," I
said.
"Never mind, Sam, my boy, he shall be
glad to know of it;" and ho told me his
plans.
At certain 'times it was customary for
the choirs of neighboring churches to
help each other, and it was arranged that
the choir of our parish should play and
sing on the next Sunday morning at his
parish church, and that he and his choir
should come over to our. parish for the
evening service.
"And you, Sam," said he, "shall take
my place in your own church ; and please
God, you dd as well there a? you have
done here, it will be the proudest day I shall
know, iSam, my boy, and your father and
mother will say so, too."
How I practised, morning, noon and
night, for the great day ; how the old man
darkly hinted at a prodigy that was to be
forthcoming at the festival ; and then the
day itself, with its events, all is as vivid
a it it were yesterday.
The evening came; and there, in the
dimly lit gallery, I sat waiting, with my
master beside me.
"Sam, my boy," said my master, "it's
agreat risk ; it 8 getting very full. There
is the squire and my lady just come in.
Keep your eyes on your book and feel
what you're playing, and thiuk you're in
the little shop ; I've brought a bit of
leather to help you, and he put a piece
of that black leather that has a peculiar
acid sceot in front of me. The scent of
it revived me ; the memory of the many
hours I had spent there came back to me
at one, and I felt as calm as if I were
indeed there.
She came at last, and service began.
O that night ! Shall I ever forget its
pleasures? the wondering looks of the
fiiends and neighbors who came and found
in me, the despised, awkward, left-handed
saddler's apprentice, the prodigy of which
they had heard rumors. O it was glori
ous ! The first few strokes of my now
gave me confidence, and I did well, and
knew it, through the hymn, through the
chants, and on to the anthem before the
sermon. That was to be the gem of the
evening; it was Handel's then new
anthem, "I know that my lledeemcr liv
eth." It began harsh, inharmonious, out of
tune I know not why or how ; but as it
progressed, a spell seemed upon all but
her aud myself; one by one the instru
ments ceased and were silent; one by one
the voices died awa and were lost, and
she and I alone, bound together and driv
en on by an irresistible impulse, went
through the anthem ; oue soul, one spirit
teemed to animate both. The whole cou
crHiiation listened breathless as to an an
rel ; and she, self-absorbed, and like one
in a trance, sang, filling me with a deli
cious sense of peace and exultation, the
like of which I have never known since.
It came to an end at last, and with the
last triumphant note I fell forward on the
desk in a swoon.
When I recovered I found myself at
home in. my own room, with the rector,
the doctor, aud my parents there, and
heard tho doctor say,
"I told you he would, my dear madam;
I knew he would."
"Thank God !" murmured my mother.
"My dear bov, how we have feared for
you."
What a difference ! I was courted and
made much of. "Genius !" and "very
clever !" and "delightful talent!" Such
were the expressions I now heard, instead
of "stupid !" "awkward !" and "unfit for
anything !"
My father bought a fine instrument and
I was the hero of the village for months.
It was some days after that Sunday that
I ventured to ask about the rector's niece.
"My dear boy," said my mother; "the
like was never heard. We saw you
there and woudered what you were doing;
but as soon as we saw you with the bo,
we knew you must be the person thcre'd
been so much talk about. ; and then, when
the anthem came, and we all left off sing
ing, and they all left off playing, and ouly
you and Miss Cecilia kept on, we were all
in tears. I saw cveu the rector crying ;
and, poor girl, she seemed as if in a dream,
and so did you ; it was dreadful for we to
see you with your eyes fixed on her,
watching her 60 eagerly. And then to
look at her, staring up at the stained
glass window as if she could see through
it, miles and away into the sky. O, I'm
sure, tho like never was ; and then, when
you fell down, I screamed, and your
father ran up and carried you down and
brought you home in Farmer Slade's four
wheeler." After this, I had an invitation to go up
to the rectory, and there in the long
winter evenings we used to sit; and while
I played, she sang. O, those happy times !
when she loved me, but only as a dear
friend ; and I loved her as I never had
loved before or could love again. I do
not know the kind of love I had for her.
I was but a little older than she was, but
I felt as a father ight feel to bis daugh
ter ; a Bweet tenderness and love that
made me pitiful towards her. I knew she
loved a man unworthy of her, and I think,
at time?, she felt this herself.
I was perfectly free of the rector's
house at last, and we used to find in our
muic a means of converse that our tongues
couid never have known. Ah me, those
days! Alas! they are gone.
She left us at last, and in a few years
her motherless child came back in her
place, and as again I sit in the old rectory
parlor, years and years after my first visit,
with her daughter beside me singing,
all the old memories flood back upon me,
and I feel- a grateful, calm joy in the
openly-shown respect and affection of the
daughter of her whom I loved so silently,
so tenderly, and so ljng.
I sit in the old seat in the church now
and play ; and, once in the year, the old
anthem; but the voice is gone that filled
the old church as with a glory that day.
I feel as the sounds swell out, and the
strings vibrato under my withered fingers,
I am but waiting to be near her under the
old yew-tree outside, and it may be, nearer
to her still in the longed-for futuro.
A Wonderful Cave.
About one mile southeast of the village
of Hillside, a station on tho Pennsylvania
railroad, in Westmoreland county, says
the Blairsville New Era, there is a natur
al cave, called by the early settlers tho
Bear Cave, which name it retains to the
present day.. Why it has received this
name is more than we can tell. We were
fortunately one of the party who visited
this cave some four years ago, and its
features are indelibly impressed upon our
memory. The party consisted of six per
sons, all of whom were provided wih
hook lamps, twine, fire-arms, and each an
old suit of clothes for entering. Taking
the train at Ulairsville, we alighted at
Hillside, and after a refreshing walk of
half an hour up the gradual slope of the
Chestnut Iiidge to the south and east,
reached the mouth of the cave, which at
first sight appeared to be nothing more
than an opening amid a large mass of
towering, mos-covered rocks, into which
the most timorous were reluctant to enter.
Donning our old clothes, lighting our
lamps, .and tieing the outer eud of the
twine firmly at the mouth of the cave, we
entered the subterranean passage carrying
the ball with us, unwinding it as we pro
ceeded. After traversing a straight but
narrow court or alley for about three hun
dred feet, you come to a room out of
which lead a dozen or more passages, each
one to a different point iu the cave. We
selected what appeared tabe a most capa
cious one, and entered to the end of our
twine some 1,400 yards, or over three
fourths of a mile.
The explorer is at once reminded of his
insignificance, as he stands amid such
wondrous works of. nature, those massive
rocks on either hand being capable of
crushing him to death should a sudden
earthly agitation cause them to quit their
places. Or, us he leans tremblingly over
the verge of a deep and narrow cham,
listening to the f'uiut sound of the gurg
ling water below, he feels a chill or hor
ror as he contemplates his tragic end
should a misstep hurl him into its depths.
This cavern is of curious structure, being
so formed a3 to admit of exploration eith
er way you wish to go, to the right or
left, up or down. Streams of pure spring
water course down through rocky ledges,
and nestle in artificial reservoirs at their
base, giving an air of comfort to the dirt
begriniuied explorer. The rocks forming
the sides and ceilings of tho differeut
rooms and passages are set with stalac
tites, sheddicg off a strange lustre when
brought in contact with the light. The
sandy rocks are literally covered with
names from all parts of the country, and
dated early as 1820.
A number of years ago a lady from
Pittsburg lost herself in this cave, and
being unable to regain the course to the
mouth, perished ; her whitened bones
were found a few years afterward by an
exploring party ,.-being the only vestige
left to tell of her unhappy fate. She had
probably entered the cave unguided, and
thus unthinkingly subjected herself to
au awful deaih by starvation.
Nothing can be more striking to the
lover of romance iu nature, than this truly
historic cave. The discoverer is not known,
and it may be this was one of the accus
tomed haunts of a savage band of Indians,
and more latterly the rendezvous of a den
of thieves, who infested this couuty in
1852. It has never been explored to its
fullest extent, but it seems to cover a
large area, as our party crossed their
twine two or three times. For some dis
tance, perhaps a rod or more iu certain
places, it. narrows down to a small circular
hole, perhaps two feet or more in diameter,
and then into a large, spacious room.
Shaped in the rocks are to be seen the
outlines of snakes, lizards, and other curi
ous shaped reptiles, and occasionally the
marks of human feet and hands in the sol
id rocks, once supposed to be soft clay.
Bats, both'wfiite and black, are found,
which set up a terrible screeching upon
the approach of the light, a thing to which
thev are unaccustomed.
It is aptly remarked that the Prus
sian needle gun has given Austria a stitch
in the sid.
NUMBER, 42.
HBHBp
The Atlantic Cable.
Subjoined are some of the coDgratula
tory dispatches following the completioo
of the great Atlantic Cable :
FIRST ANNOUNCEMENT.
"Heart's Content, July 27.
'We arrived hero at 9 o'clock this
morning, all well, thank God. . The cable
has beeu laid, and is in perfect working
order. Cyrus W. Field."
MR. field to president joiinson.
"Heart's Content, July 27.
" To Jlis Excellency, Andrew Johnson,
" W'ashinijlon, D. C. :
"Sir : The Atlantic Cable has been
successfully completed this morning. I
hope that it will prove a blessing to Eng
laud and the United States, and increase
the intercourse between our own country
and the Eastern Hemisphere.
"Cyrus W. Field.'
PRESIDENT JOIINSON'S REPLY.
"Washington, July 29.
"To Ctrus TK FMJ, Ueart's Content:
"I heartily congratulate you, and trust
that your enterprise may prove as success
ful as your efforts have been cersevering.
May the cable under the sea tend to pro
mote harmony between the Republic of
the West and the Governments of the
Eastern Hemisphere.
"Andrew Johnson."
mr. field to secretary sewabd.
"Heart's Content, July 27.
"To Hon. Wm. II. Seieard, Washington;
"The telegraph cable has been success
fully laid between Ireland and Newfound
land. I remember with gratitude your
services in the Senate of the United States
in tho Winter of 1857, and recollect with
pleasure the speech you then made in
favor of the telecraph bill. That you may
never have reason to regret what you
have done to establish communicatiou
across the Atlantic, is the sincere wish of
your friend, Cyrus W. Field."
secretary seward's reply.
"Washington, July 29.
"Cyrus 11. Field, Ileirt's Content:
"Acknowledgments and congratulations.
If the Atlantic Cable had not failed iu
1858, European States would not havo
been led in 1861 into the great error of
supposiug that civil war in America
could either perpetuate African Slavery
or divide this Repuhlio. Your great
achievement constitutes, I trust, an effec
tive treaty of international neutrality and
non-intervention. "Wm. II. Seward."
QUEEN VICTORIA TO PRESIDENT J0HN
SON.
"Osborne, July 27, 1866.
"To the President of the United States,
44 Washington :
"The Queen congratulates tho Presi
dent on the successful completion of au
undertaking which she hopes may serve
as an additional bond of union between
the United States and England."
THE PRESIDENT'S REPLY.
"Washington, July 30, 1866.
44 To Tier Majcs'y, the Qiieen of (lie. United
"Kingdom Great Britain and Ireland:
"Tho President of the United States
acknowledges with profound gratification,
the receipt of Her Majesty's dispatch, and
cordially reciprocates the hope that the
Cable which now unites the Eastern and
Western Hemi.phers may serve to
strengthen and perpetuate peace and ami
ty between the Government of England
and the Kepublic of the United States.
"Andrew Johnson."
mayor hoffman to the lord mayor
cf london.
"Mayor's Office, New York, )
'July 30, 1866. J ,
"To the Lord Mayor of London, :
"The energy and genius of man, di
rected by the Providence of God, havo
united the Continents.
"May this union be instrumental in se
curing the happiness of all nations and
the rights of all people.
"John T. Hoffman,
"Mayor of New York."
the lord mayor's reply.
" Heart's Content, July 28, 186C.
"To the Mayor of Neto York :
"May commerce flourish, and peace and
prosperity unite us.
"Mayor of London."
In Memoriam. The Rochester Dem
ocrat proposes to erect a monument in
honor of the defunct Democracy, and offer
the following as an inscription :
Hie Jacetl
The Democratic Pautt,
a kind husband of
SSlavert,
an indulgent father of
KIOT3,
and a firm friend
of
REUFI.I.TOX.
The tender plant that north winds chiHed",.
Has drooped and withered in its prima j
But what the enowy ballot killed,
ilay flourish in a warmer clime.
Says the Bedford Inquirer of
inst.. one James Buchanan, who. " 3d
asserts that he was once Pres: j'1' 1S8a'd,
United States, arrived at t?eaoi.'b
Springs one day last we' ' 12? ?-eFor&
ual in question u vet 0Jd and his hZ t
cination of wind aaj attribatej
tage, ' Vrt'rS;.1
: )
1
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