Lite fM 13ninth llcmncmt.
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gSusiiieiss fWitts.
HP. COOPER, PHYSICIAN k SURGEON
• Newton Centre. Luzerne County Pa.
RR.AW E LITTLE, ATTORNEYS AT
LAW Ofice on Tioga street, TunkhanneekPa.
II7M. M.PIATT, ATTORNEY AT LAW, O
%\ fice in Stark's Brick Block Tioga St., Tunk
hauneck, Pa.
OL, PARRISH, ATTORNEY AT LAW.
• Office at the Court House, in Tunkhannock
Wyoming Co. Pa.
t&i Jtafjjlic
IIARRISBUHG, PENNA.
The undersigned having lately purchased the
" BUEHLER HOUSE " property, has already com
menced such alterations and improvements as will
render this old and popular House equal, if not supe
rior, to any Hotel in the City of ILirrisburg.
/continuance of the public patronage is refpect-
GEO. J. BOLTON-
HOTEL,
LATE AMERICAN HOUSE,
TUN KHAN NOCK, WYOMING CO., PA.
rlllS establishment ha recently been refitted an
furnished in tbe latest style Ever? attention
mil be given to the comfort and convenience of thosa
srhe patronise the House.
T. B. WALL, Owner and Proprietor;
Euakhanneck, September 11, 1861.
NORTH BRANCH HOTEL,
MESHOPPKN, WYOMING COUNTY, PA
Wn. H. COIITRIGHT, Prop'r
HAVING resumed the proprietorship of the al ove
UoteJ. the undersigned will spare no efforts
Madr the bumae an agreeable place ot sojourn to
all! who ma? favor it with their custom.
3 Win. II COKTRIGIIT.
lane, Ird, 1963
TOWANDA, PA.
p. B- BARTL C ,
(Late i.. n inAisiiD HOUSE, ELMIRA, N. Y.
PROPRIETOR.
The MEANS HOTEL, i-one of the LARGEST
and BEST ARRANGED Houses io the country— It
Is fitted up in tbe most modern and improved style,
and no pains are spared to make it a pleasant and
agreeable stopping-place for all,
v 3, u2l, ly.
jHrv|V
TAILORING SHOP
Tbe Subscriber having had a sixteen years prac
•Sisal experience in cutting and making clothing
,aew offers bis services in this line to the citisens o
mnaoLSo;* and vicinity.
Those wishing to get Fits will find his shop the
•ee to get them.
Jesi., R, lam
v+etf-CBus
Remedial Institute
FOR SPECIAL. CASES.
JVo. JL Hond Street, New York.
.cr Full Information, with the highsst tsstimo
•. also, a Book on Special Distant, in a seal
td envelope, sent free. | JgT Be sure and sendftr
them, and you will not regret it ; for, as adver
lieing physicians are gene ally impostors, without
reference* no stranger should be trusted Enclose
a stamp for postage,and directto DR. LAWRENCE
No, 14 Boad Street. New York. ?4a!6lyr,
-
X%r Our Letter A Family Sewing Ma.
ehliie, with all the new impruvements, is the best,
and cheapest and most beautiful Sewing Machine in
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Th Branch Ooom are well supplied with S' .
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Send for a Pamphlet
THE SfNQgR MANUFACTTTinra COMPANY,
♦vt New York,
Philadelphia Office.
- i B?s? s fc^jr. T, ! UT * T " EBT
fojt's! Snnttr.
THE FOX ANO THE CAT.
The fox and tha eat, aa tbey traveled one day,
Wi'h moral dourB cat ahorter the wy ;
" 'Tia great." aaya the lox, "to make justice our
guide!"
•'How godlike ia mercy," Grimalkin replied.
Whilst thus they proceeded, a wolf from the wood,
Impatient of hunger and thirsting for blood,
Rusht-d lorth as he aiw the doll shepherd asleep,
And aeixed for his supper an innocent sheep.
"In rain, wetche victim, for mercy you bleat,
WheD mutton's at hand (says the wolf) I must eat,"
Grimalkin's astonished—the fox stood aghast,
To see the fell beast at bis bloody r past.
"What a wretch," says the cat, •' 'tis the vileat of
brutes,
Does he feed upon flesh when there's herbage and
roots 1"
Criea the fox. "While oui oaks giro as acorn 9 so
good,
What a tyrant is this to spill in nocent blood !"
Well, onward they marched, and they moralized
stiil,
Till they came where some paltry picked chuff by
a mill.
Sly Reynard surveyed them with gluttonous eyes,
Aid made (spite of morals) a chicken his prize.
A mouse, ton, tbnt chanced from its covert to stray,
The greedy Grimalkin secured as her prey.
A spider that sat in her web on the wall,
Perceived the poor victims and pitied their fill.
She cried, • Of snch murders how guiltless am I!"
So ran to regale on a new taken fly.
MORAL.
The faul's ot our neighbors with freedom we blame,
But tax not ourselves, though we practice the same
DESIRABILITY OF A HOMESTEAD.
Buy a homestead out of your first earn
ings, not alone for the physical comforts
and economy that it insures to you, but for
its domestic and social influence Old
arid familiar is that thought, "There is 1:0
place like home," it enfolds truths that, to
a parent, are next in importance to his re
ligion. The house shelters you and yoltr
family from the cold, the rain, and the ob
trusive gaze of the woi'l ,, A true home
does this and more. It holds witbi its
walls a genial soil wrnre are matured all
those piinciples and sentiments which go
to make up the beautiful child, the usetul
citizen and the true patiiot. How impor
tant, then, that s >ch a home should be
fixed and peimanent If to arv cause m<>re
than another is to be attributed the reac
tions of domestic and social tie' iu modern
society, it is the absence of those influen
ces which exist onlv iti a fixed home. It
is living in rented houses, hired rooms,
and Hotels, temporary and often cherries
retreats, where everything that pertains to
the free-hold in another's—where everv
improvetnei t you make loses its interest,
front the thought that it is yours at the
will of another. The very idea that you
own the sod you tread on, that by your la
bor one spot has been acquired sacred to
your rights, your tasies and interests, be
gets a feeling of independence. Bayard
Tayor, describing an extended view from
high mountains, says that a feeling of re
gret came over him as he remembered
that but one foot of all this broad earth
was his. To a man of family, the purchase
of a homestead is its first step to indepen
dent manhood.
WOMAN A CIVII.IZER.
If God were to take the nin and moon
and stars oot of the heavens, the chances of
husbandry would be what ? If God were
to take woman out ot life, what would be
the chances for refii emeut and civilization
in her heart it spring from her? Her pow
er and influence mark the civilization of
any country. A man who lives in a com
munity where he has the privilege of a
woman's society, and is subject to womanV
influence, is almost of necessity refined,
more than he is aware of; and, when men
are removed from the genial influenee of
virtuous womanhood, the very best de
generate, or feel the deprivation.
There is something wanting in the air
when you get west of the Allegheny moun
tains on a sultry day of summer. The
air of the mountain is supplied with a
sort of pabulum from the salt water of the
ocean, by which one is sustained in the
sultriest days of midsummer Now, what
the salt is to the air, that is woman's lnflu
erce to the virtue of a community. You
breathe it without knowing it. All you
know is that you are made stronger and
better; and a man is not half a man unless
a woman helps him to be. One of the mis
chiefs of camp life is that women are re
moved from it. The men may not know
what it is tha lets them down to a lower
state of feeling, or what that subtle influ
ence was that kept them up to a higher
state of refinement, but it is the absence ot
woman in the one case, as it was the pres
ence of woman in the other. Woman is a
light which God has set before man to
show him the way to go, and blessed is
he who has s< nse enough to follow it !
H. W.Beecher.
The following very perspicuous end la
conic manner of telling a plain story may be
instructive to slanders :
"Mother Jasper told me that she heard
Grate Wood's wife say that John Hard
stone's aunt mentioned to her that Mrs
Trusty was present when the widow Bow
man said that Captain Heartall's cousin
thought Ensign Doolittle's sister beliered
that old MraOiby reckoned that Sam Tri
fle's better half bad told Mrs. Spaulding
that sfaa heard John Renner's woman say
that her mother told her that Mrs. Baga
telle had two buabaudd."
••TO SPBAK HIS THOUGHTS IS BYIBY FIHBMAV'S •ICiT, "-Thrall IsffsHn.
9
TUNKHANNOCK, PA., WEDNESDAY, FEB. 20, 1867
NELLIE HAY.
A LOT* r-TOBT.
"Is that Oldtowu Church yonder, if you
please, sir?"
A girl spoke to me. I turned and look
ed at her. There are women at sixteen.
This one was a child. She wore the scan
tiest of cotton dresses, belted at the waist,
a pair of leather boots and a white apron.
Ir. her hand she carried a sun-bonnet, and
her hair, cropped close like a boy's curltd
in black rings about her head. The face
was a baby's face in sweetness and inno
cence—the little brown bands the bands of
toil. No young lady this, yet there was
nothing coarse or vulgar about her, unless
it were those hands.
"That is. Oldtown Church, my dear," I
said. "Are you going there?"
"Ye, sir, to see the wedding. Are
you ?"
I was, more fool I, though I did not say
so to this child. The bridejfor whom the
• ells were ringing, was to be mine once—
would have been but for the accident
which had crippled me and changed her
heart She had done nothing openly
treacherous, but I saw the truth and set
her free. She took her freedom gladly,
and we were two. She had quite forgot
ten me, no doubt. I believed then I never
ceuld forget her,
1 knew exactly how she would look in
snowy silk and lace and coronet of pearls
1 had dreamed of her in bridal robes so
often.
I nodded to the little thing beside me,
trudging over the tall grass almost to her
waiaf, looking at me wistmlly.
"I never saw a wedding," she said.
"No ?"
"No, sir. Grandfather said I might
come. lie didn't care himself. It's a
long walk, too, from the tavern, and he's
very old."
"Does your grandfather keep the tav
ern ?" I asked.
"No, sir. I wi*h he did !" said tbe
child. "He has only his fiddle, and peo
ple half the tme don't care for tunes. —
What else can he do, though! To-night
there's a dance, and he's to play for them
That's why we stopped
A poor fiddler's untaught grandchild—
as poor as decent poverty could be—yet
her presence somehow cheered me. Half
child, half woman, and a child at heart. In
nocent and beautiful and kindly. I en
couraged her to linger at my side. I said
to her;
"I will show you a place where you can
see the bride well. It is tbe gallery.—
Will you like that?"
"I don't know," she said. "I havn'l
been to cbureli often. We pray together
in lonely places, grandfather and I. Will
you be there, sir?'
"Yes."
"I know I should like it."
"Come with me, then," I said, and she
followed me.
I had meant to hide myself in the gal
lery, and see lost l>ve married, quite un
seen. This companionship had not been
in my role at all. But 1 liked it; no friend
no relation, not my own sister, would I
have added besid** me; but tt is elfish
thing was too innocent to fear. I led the
way up the dark old stairs, and toward the
spot quite sheltered from the general view.
Then 1 sat down, and she stood leaning
over the balustrade.
The church was full of bonnets. Eere
and there only a masculine bead. The
minister was in his scat, reading, in a posi
tion taken for effect. He was a handsome
man. and knew it perfectly well.
Girls whispered and giggled, matrons
fanned themselves, and men yawned.
Soon the soft roll of carriages on t'ie grav
el path was hear.l, and the Mial-partv
entered. 1 saw her at last—Aletta.
•'ls that the bride?" haif-sobbed the
girl's voice at my sid&r "Is it a real lady ?
she looks like wax. O how pretty, how
beautiful! Look! look!"
She touched rae with her little brown
hand, and looked at me, her eyes spread
ing :
' Did you ever see her before ?" she
ask<d. "Is she like that in everyday
clothes? O, how pretty ! hw pretty !'
Men have no right to weep. I put my
head duwn upon the cushion of the pew
and hid my oyes. I fait the child creep
clo'-e to me.
"Poor thing, he's tired?" I heard her
whisper, and put her little hand out and
patted me sofily by stealth.
So I looked down into the church again,
and saw Grant Stanton kiss the bride.
"Is it over?" asked the girl.
"Yes, child," I said; "all over,"
"Then I must go," she said. "Thank
vou for being so kind to me, sir. Good
bye"'
"Good-bye," I said, and her little leath
er shoes patted over the aisle and down th
stairs, and 1 had seen, as I thought, the
last of her. Wheu she had gone, I missed
her strangely.
I went home when the church was
quite emptv. It had not been as hard to
bear as I had feared, and oddly enough I
found myself thinking of that child's large
gipsy head, and those beautiful long fringed
eyes. I wondered at myself, but it was so.
"I should like to gee that ohild again,"
I said ; and as I spoke, I spied a crowd
about a tavern door upon the road.
It was a poor place, and poor rough peo
ple made up the group. It was plain no
common quarrel or drinking bout had
bmught them there, for their faces were
all grave and their voices suppressed. I
crossed tbe road.
"What his happened, friend!" I asked
of a tinker near by.
"Only a blind fiddler dropped dead," he
said. "But there's a gal there wild about
it"
And then I passed him and went in. An
old man lay upon the floor, and across his
body a girl had flung herself I knew tbe
gipsy hair and tbe brown neck, the sea'.t
cotton dress and the sun bonnet, flung with
a handful of wild flowers upon the floor,and
I bent over her, touching her despairing
hand.
"My child," I said, "he is happier than
we are."
And she looked up.
"He was all 1 had," she said ; "all, all!"
So had I thought when Aietta gave me
back our betrothal-ring. My heart ached
t<>r ber. I said no other word but I led her
to an inner room, while two men bore tbe
dead man up stairs. She wept wildly, but
my presence seemed to comfort her.
After a while she i'rew closer to me, and
sitting on a low stool, l< aned her forehead
on my knee. Soon her hand rested on it,
and in an hour she had sobbed herself to
sleep.
I said a few words to the landlady when
I arose to leave ; and she promised to
attend to mr orders, enforced by the con
tents of my pocket-buok.
"The yirl shan't go until I hear from you
sir,"' she said "Indeed, I don't know where
she would g". She seems friendless, and.
such a child for her age. Thank you, sir.'
And I went on my way again, thinking
not of Aietta but of the dead fiddler's
grandchild. This sun-browned waif, so
simple and so ignorant, so friendless and
alone.
I was young yet —not five-and-twenty—
and a bachelor, and likely to be one my
life long. I had no proper home to take
her to, and no friend to aid me. At last, in
my extremity I thought of Betty, who had
once been my nur>e, and who loved me as
she might her own son—and in the gloam -
ing I made my way to her poor home. I
found her trimming her vines in the bit of
garden ground, and had my usual kiss
across the fence even belore the gate was
opened.
"I've been thinking of you," she said.—
''l knew it was you as soon as I heard some
one coming. 'Tisu't every young gentle
man w<>u,d trouble himself to see an old
body .ike ine. Sit down, honey, and rest."
"1 come to a-k a favor, Betty,' 1 said.
"Just name it, Master Bertie."
"Will you take a boarder, Betty ?"
"Bless ran ! In my two rooms ?"
"Only a child, Betty."
"A chi d, Master Albert!"
1 told her of the fiddler's death, and of
the girl.
"I have money enough," I said, "but no
female relatives. I can only come to
you."
"You have always been kind-hearted
from a boy," she said. "I'll take the little
girl, Master Bertie."
Theu she put both hands on my shoul
ders. #
"You haven't fretted, have you 1" she
asked.
"Fretted !" I asked. "Why P
"Nay, why indeed ?" said old Betty.—
"Better fish in the sea than ever were
caught y-1." Then in a moment more she
added. "I've been to see the w dding."
I felt my face fiush. "Shall I bring the
girl to-mrrow, after her grandfather's
funeral ?" I ask>-d.
"When you please,'' said Betty. "But
Master Albert, what do you mean to do
with her ? You are doing all this iu a hur
ry. Just think a bit."
"I mean to adopt this child," I said "It
will make me happy to have a young thing
to care for."
Betty laughed. "You'll have young
things of your own, please God, some day,"
she said.
" IFhy, at your age, life is before you.'
"I shall never raarrv, Betty," I said.
She caught my fingers in a clasp with
her horny, hard-wotking hands.
"I wish you were hack again a baby on
my knee, Master Bertie," she said. "I'd
like to sing vou to sleep as I did then.—
Ah ! it's a grief to us old women to see the
young we nourished grow up so tall and so
old, with their troubles so shut up in their
own h arts that we can't comfort them.—
Going ? Well, then, good night! I'm ready
for the child when you will. I'm ready
for anything that will cheer you, Master
Bertie. I ought to say Master Albert al
ways now, I suppose ; but the old times do
come back so!"
I left her leaning OV-T her gate,hooking
wistfully after me. knowing, as a mother
trri' f which I had buried in my
heart. A' dif her words had given me a
pang, it was like 9ome ointment which
mak< s the wound sm <rt in its very healinsr.
It was something to be loved so, even by
an old nurse.
Late the next day I led my young charge
from her grandfather's grave to Betty's
cottage. She kept my hand upon the toad
as a little child might. I hsd no thought
but that she was one until old Betty's cry
of "Goodness, Matter Bertie, I thought
you said a young child. Why, this is a
grown girl!" startled me into conscious
ness.
♦•lt doesn't matter, does it, Betty!" I
asked. She turned to the girl,
"Take off your bonnet," she said, a little
grimly. "I want to look at you. What is
your name!"
The girl obeyed. u Fm only Nellie Hay,"
she said and stood to be looked at. Betty
looked sternly at first, then phyiogly.
I Matter don't matter; 1
she said. "I don't see any harm in her
There's • peg behind the door, child. You
can bang your bonnet on thai." And I
left the two together.
Not long, though; every day found
some new errand to take me to me to the
cottage, I put on elderly airs; gave ad
viee, I had her sent to school, and went
through grave examinations on Saturday
afternoons, I told old Hetty that when I
was a man of middle age I should take my
little daughter home, and she should keep
house t'.r us. And I began to fancy, very
soon, that there could be no such happi
ness as that a parent felt. The girl was
growing tall, it is true, and I was only ten
years older than she was; but when she
cheeked her light tread to keep pace with
me, when the childish laugh bubbled and
rippleJ at something that could only make
me smile, I felt that years are not. the on.y
things which age us.
1 was woiking hard at my profession,
too—l had heart and hand* full. In a
year I fo nd that 1 could pa,*s Aietta on
her husband'* arm without a pang. In a
year more, I wondered whether she had
really changed, or whether I farcied black
c urls more limn I did golden bands; for I
found myself thinking my little daughter
much the prettiest.
In the sultry evenings I used to leave
red tape and parchment, and go out to Bet
ty's cottage to lake tea with her and my
adopted chil l. Then, while she polished
up the cups, Nelly Hay and I used to walk
down to the river side. Tall as she was
growing, I had away of holding her hand
still; and we had such pleasant talk! such
cold, unworldly chatter! Those walks
and simple tea-drinkings rested the brain,
w.ariedwith law business, q larrels and
quibbles aud stratagems, more than I can
lell.
The rough hands had grown softer now,
the waist taper, -he bust full. The sweep
of woman'B robes, ihe tread of woman's
1 ghtly-sbodfeet had taken the place of clam
ping leather boots and scant cotton skirts.
1 know this ; but Nellie was a child to
me all the same. Was I not by adoption
her father? Of course, she would always
be young to me ; and why I felt so angry
if by chance some gay young farmer chat
ted with her over the fence, or some neigh
bor saw ber home from church. I could
not tell. "An old man's temper, I suppose,"
I said, and sighed like a young one.
So three years passed. At the end of
that time, Aletta's husband died They
had quarielled, and she had made him wo
fully jealous, it was said ; and all his prop
erty, >ave a mere pittance, was wilied to
strangers.
One day a lady in black walked into my
office ; •h. n she lifted ner veil I saw it wa>
Aletta Stanton's face, closer tome than it
hak been since we parted My heart gave
no wild throb ; I felt as thougn I were a
mere stranger.
Courteously and quite calmly I heard
her business. She intended to contest the
will, and needed advice. I gave her what
I could. I refer red her to a brother law
yei as the only one who would best espouse
ber cause. As for myself, I to'd ber truly
that my time was too completely occupied
to undertake anything more -nd I wished
her success.
She looked at me wistfully with her
great blue eyes full of tears as she arose to
go.
"It was cruel of him," she said—"very
cruel to leave me so poor; but he was nev
er kind, never—not even in the honey
moon "
"I regret to hear it," I said.
"I could expect nothing more," she said;
•'I did not love him—l never loved but
one, and that one —"
She paused and looked at me.
"Tnatone I love 5t.11," she said.
And Heaven koows no feeling of revenge
or petty triumph was in my heart when I
looked in Alett.it Stanton's eyes as if I did
not understand her, and courteously bowed
her out
"Did I ever care for that woman?" I
thought; "or is it all a dream !"
I took my adopted child to the theatre
that night, and we saw "The Lady of Ly
ons'* together. It was her first play-going
experience, and she enjoyed it lmm -nsely.
She wore a white dress and bonnet, and
the coral drops I had fastened a few days
before in ber little ears. I ••as very proud
ot her. I could not help looking into her
eyes, touching her hami witb mine. When
1 left her 1 kissed her.
"Good night, mv child," I said.
And she answered "Good night," with a
cheek dyed on the instant deeper scarlrt,
and ran away as Betty came out to chat
with xe.
From that night I dated an odd change.
My adopted child seemed shy of letting
me keep her hand—shv even of chatting
at she did, She was graver, more woman
ly. I fancied she did not care for ine ks
6he did • Perhaps some of those farmers
who leaned over the g*te at sunset, gome
of those young fellows who so often eacor
tcd her home from church, had won her
from me. I grew a little moody. I found
myself in brown studies when I should
have been at work. At last I determiued
to discover whether I was really to lose
my child, and wnt down to the cottage. —
I found ber there sitting at work with Bet
ty.
After all, it was no easy task. I could
not do it as I had hoped. I tried jesting,
and spoke ot one and of the other of the
j young fellows near. "We shall hare Nel
lie stolen from us, I suppose ? I said.—
| "There is nothing so easily lost from a
j ffttni yM pretty daughter. But who fc
i ' Master Albert,'* she said, "whatever
she was when she came here, Nellie is no
. child now. 0, Master Allwsrt, I can't be
i licve you've done it on purpose? You
i couldn't —such a sweet innocent thing!
but it is done. All I can say is, go away,
or let her go, and may be the wound will
heal, I ou^lit to have spoken m time I
was an old fool. O, how could you, Mas
ter Albert ?—-How could you ?"
"What have 1 done?" 1 cried. "I wo'd
rather die than harm her."
" And yet you've made her love you,"
said Betty, sternly. "You who knew you
, uever would love her. 1 ru've been very
selfi.-h, Master Albert."
A new light dawned upon me—a radi
ance brilliant bevond my hopes.
"Betty," said I, "you are dreaming.—
She must think me old enough to be a
grandfather, with my long lace aud bald
crown and this crutch. I've had one dream
broken ; don't set me dreaming again for
Heaven's sate!"
Old Betty looked at me; and then caught
i my face in her hands and kissed me.
| "Master B. rtie," said she, "I shan't tell
yon a woid more. The child is under the
i grapevine out yor.der; go and find out
what you want to kuow for yourself. You
silly, handsome, good-for-nothing fellow !**
I found my child uuder the grapevine,
her face wet with tears. I sat down by
her and put my arm about Iter waist.
"Nellie," said I, "don't shrink frvm me.
lam your tiue ftiend. Your friend, what
ever answer you may give me now. lam
older than you. lam not vain enough to
think myself a young gill's bean-ideal.—
But I love you dearly, Nellie. Can you
love me enough to be my w.f ? If you
cannot, if another claims your heart, do not
say yes from gratitude. Tell me the trutb r
and still retain a father's, brother's, friend's
affection. Neilie f I bent over her, and
my life seemed ID her keeping. Until that
moment 1 had not known myself. I loved
' her madly, 1 felt it now lettrr, far better,
than in my youth I had loved Aletta Stan
. ton.
She spoke no word,
" Nellie ?" said 1, "Nellie ?" and a brown
hand was laid of its own accord in mine,
and beneath my gaze the daik eyes dared
not lift themselves, but bid their sweetness
on my breast. Nellie was mine.
1 sat with her beating heart so near my
own, and thought it all over, I remember
ed the child in her cotton gown standing in
the gallery of the church, that wedding. 0
mo n ; I remembered the child whom I
had taught; the girl with whom 1 bad
passed such happy hours; and felt that this
living love, sprung, phoenix-like, from the
ashes of the dead one, was the purest feel
ing ot my life.
So my old saucy of keeping house with
my child came true at last; onlv when she
crossed the threshold of my home with me
I called her wife. And still the touch of
that brings comfort with it; still her sweet
voice is better to me than all the music in
the world. Ami, as in mv youth I fancied
myself old, surely in ray age I shall believe
myselfy<ung; for while we love and ate
beloved youth can nevei die, and while we
live 1 aud my Nellie must love each other.
ULTRAISM. The Negro Suffrage bill,
passed over the Prcs dent's veto, admits
the whole muss of ignorant negroes, in
Washington, (over 30,000,) most of them
loafing about in idleness, since they aban
doned tlie plantations, upon a very short
residence. The Jacob ns r< 'used to insert
the reading qualifications. The Back Ke
publican patty applaud them. They al
low negroes to vote ou qualifications that
do not admit white men to the ballot box
in Connecticut. Nor did the Jacobins pay
any regard to "the voice of tl e people," in
passing that lull. They claim to be gov
ern< d l>v that "voice." In ibis negro bnsi
ntss they totally disregard it. The Jaco
bins s.-em to be wary in their impeachment
scheme, and for the present they lie rather
low upon it. Tbeir Judiciary C'oinmtlee
has resolved to be SECRET in its move
ments, and threatens to punish anybody
who discloses any paitolits proceedings in
relation to the impeachment pr.j. ct. What
do they mean by this ? Cau any of their
friends tell ?
JSOP* Congressman Went worth declar
ed, in a recent speec'i, that "this Country
is in more dang, r to-day from extravagance
; and corruption than it ever was from the
| rebellion." and that "never were the signs
iso ominous of u powerful combination to
increase the public debt and postpone its
payment, to continue the suspension of
specie payments, to denote money to ques
tionable railroad companies, who already
have large grants of land, and to make ex
travagant appropriations to questionable ob
jects.'. Here we have the testimony of a lead
ing Black Republican.
A certain Mr. Coffin once being blrmnd
by the birth of a son, a friend offered one
': hundred dollars foi the privilege of nam
" iog him. The offer waa, however, declined
when it was proposed to chrisUa the child
| j Mahogaey. *
' w v
VOL. 6 NO. 28.
to hare yoo, Nellie f"
She looked at me as children took be
fore they burst into tears —her chin quit
ering, her throat swelling—then she
dropped her woib, and stole from the
room without answering me.
"What ails the child, Betty ?" I asked.
"Hare I off nded her!"
Old Betty stood before me, sturdy and
stern— a look in her face I bad never be
fore seen there.