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Medical Notice.
fV'ING to ba<l health for several years past, I have
’ tp lt but little inclination to practice Medicine, or to
” Anything else—and, if possible, cared less. But I
ara happy to inform my old friends and patrons that
n '.v health is now much better, and if they desire to re
j** our former relations, that they can easily do so
’ vailing on me when my services are needed. I will
t'h’elge myself to serve them to the best ot my skill and
ibility.
• Office at ray. old stand, the Drug Store, now occupied
• W. A. Snell. mar3 R. HARWELL.
, E. A. &A. W. SPIVEY,
La \v ,
•- THOMASTON, GEORGIA, j ,
Aug. 2Y, IBb9. n4l ts.
WM. G. HORSLEY,
A. 11 orn e v at Daw,
i ; • THOMASTON, GA. .
\\U.L practice in Upson, Talbot, Taylor, Crawford,
, Pike and Merriwether Counties.
. . \^s9_ly.
T lib St as BEaIT
altoiine r at XiA w,
THOMASTON, GEORGIA.
f bll 1860— ly
P. W. ALEXANDER,
attorney at law,
THOMASTOtf, ga.
Uoy2s ly
i - Darken. C- T. Goods
WARREN & GOODE,
attorneys at law,
novlß_ tf I>ERRY > HOUSTOiN C0 ’> GA
""gTXmTller,
attorney at law,
. Thomaston, ga.
-A.- C; Moore^
G sident Dentist,
HFPICP thomaston, ga.
VJ of \j r . House (the late residence
to atte-.j “ here I am prepared
Rons. \r.. , a ! classes of Dental Opera
novlßi_ t s * s ra yßeference.
From the New York Century.
Personal Details of John Randolph.
Virginia, July 18, 1859.
In the “Old-Convention” of 1829, which
had assembled to revise the Constitution
of Virginia, there was a member whose ap
pearance attracted and fixed the attention
of every spectator. He was a man of near
ly sixty, but looked older. His face was
almost the color of parchment, and beneath
the thin, gray brows rolled a pair of keen
penetrating eyes, which burned with a
strange brilliancy. lie was clad in mourn
ing, ‘with crape upon his hat and, cm hb
arm, and when some cine asked him, one
day, if he had lost a friend, he replied, “No, |
sir,.l am in mourning for the Old Consti
tution.” Sitting apart from the other
members, and resting his hands upon the
head of his stick, which he passed up and
down from time to time, in a measured
and absent manner, he seemed to take no
interest in the proceedings of the Conven
tion, and for a long time did not open his
lips. One day, however, the citizens of j
Richmond might have been seen hastening
to the Capitol, in which the body held its
session. From every quarter the crowd
poured in eagerly, scarce stopping to an
swer any question. The explanation of the
hurry and curiosity was contained in the
words passed from mouth to mouth, through
the streets of the town : “John Randolph
is speaking.”
Such was the public curiosity and strange
interest felt in this singular man, by his
own fellow-citieens of the native soil.—
What was the source of it ? Many per
sons were as famous. The Convention em
braced two ex-Piesidents—Madison and
Monroe—Chief Justice Marshall, and a
dozen other men of wide celebrity ; but j
when these gentlemen spoke, the citizens
did not hurry thus to hear them. It is
true that when the venerable Madison rose
to address the body, his associates crowded
around him, to catch the whispered tones
of his feeble voice ; but the general curios- I
ity to hear the orator of Roanoke was grea- j
ter even than this. It arose from the sin
gularity of the man, far more than his wide j
fame in the councils of the nation. A Jute j
writer called him, with more point than j
truth, “the abortive child of talent and no
toriety,” but this was only a portion of the
picture. The ] üblie might have been at- !
traded by his “talent,” and stimulated to j
curiosity by his “notoriety,” hut his person- i
al traits were the real causes of the getter- i
al interest. His person was a standing 1
theme for gossip ; every movement which
he made was watched and commented on. j
His Well known and striking career dwelt I
in the memories of all, and would have |
made him the “observed of all observers j
but in addition to all this, behind all lay
the man, John Randolph—a human being
unlike any other person of his time, per
haps of all time. Let us glance at him,
apart from his political career —recall fedhic ;
of the peculiarities of his his man- j
Deis and his habits—and notice, in pass- |
ing, art anecdote or two which illustrate j
his character. They may serve to present >
the orator of Roanoke as he lived and mov- !
ed, and the picture, rigidly trite to life as
it will be, may not prove destitute of in
terest and value. i
Let me introduce the brief sketch I de
sign making, with a contrast. Over the
fireplace of one of the apartments at Roan
oke, hung, not many years ago, the por
trait of a boy of twelve, by Gilbert Stuart, j
In the rosj r complexion, the bright plump !
cheeks, the laughing eyes, and beautiful ,
lips of the boy, you saw and felt the fresh
charm of youth, the innocence and sweet
grace of childhood. One who knew the
origiual once held up his hands and ex
claimed, “1 never saw such a beautiful
boy !” Ilis skin was peculiarly thin and
delicate, and the warm blood played visi
bly beneath. In the happy eyes and inge
nious lips, every emotion was distinctly re
vealed. Such was Randolph at twelve
years of age. What was he at fifty, or even
forty ? I examined his portrait some time 1
since with melancholy interest. The keeh
ejes fixed coldly and steadfastly on the be
holder defied every attempt to read the
thought of the brain beneath. The hair,
parted in the middle ahd gathered behind
the fekrs; had lost the youthful gloss of old
days, and was stiff and intractable. The
bright cheeks had become fallow and
shrunken. Those two terrible enemies, ttge
and misfortune, Had matched over the
countenance once so blooming and beauti
! fill’ They had trodden down the flowers
in the rosy eheeks—ploughed trie smooth
forehead into heavy furrows, they had sow
ed the rank seeds of suffering and care. —
Bitter tears had dimmed the bright eves
once so brilliant ; midnight agony and
groahs httd ivasted the round cheeks —be-
tween the smiling portraits of Gilbert Stu
art and the picture I looked on of the aged
man, there was scarcely any resemblance
to be discovered. John Randolph sq beau
tiful in youth/ with such high hopes and
bright thoughts of the future, had become
thus in time, and from sickness and suffer
ing quite another being—a sad and sor
rowful ff r ure-~tlie mark of jests or wonder
—of pity or admmßl? n ; or dislike. His
figure, like his face, was full oieCCeutncitv.
Tall, angular, thin as a shadow, he resem
bled rather some ghost from another world,
than a veritable being of flesh and blood.—
His limbs were wonderfully slender, and
the fashion of the time served to display
this peculiarity to its fullest extent. He
wore Sm&ll clothes so tight that they seem
ed to be a part of his person; and the snow
white stockings, fastened at the knees by
a small gold buckle, fitted as closely as the
THE UNION OF THE STATES; DISTINCT. LIKE THt BILLOWS ; ONE, LIKE THE SEA.”
THOMASTON. GEORGIA, SATURU* Y .MIHiMNC. JULY J, im.
cuticle almost. Over these, and reaching
about midway the calf, were a pair o*f
course, country-knit yarn stockings, or
“hose,” as they were then called. His shoes
were of the old revolutionary fashion, with
huge buckles—his coat ample, and button
ed tightly around his slender, woman-like
waist ; his chin half buried itself in the
folds of a great white cravat, and the dry
flaxen hair was surmounted by a fur cap.
The movements of this singular figure were
as unique as the costume. In walking
Randolph followed the Indian fashion’
placing the foot straight in front—the toes
inclined neither inward or outward. A fan
ciful mind might have attributed this pe
culiarity to his Indian blood, for he was de
scended in the seventh degree front the
Princess Pocahontas. Moving, quickly and
slowly, by starts, with head thrown back,
and the keen eyes sparkling beneath the
rim of his dark, fur cap, often muttering
to himself, to wake suddenly to a consci
ousness of the world around him, stride on
rapidly to his lonely apartment—This sin
gular figure was •minently calculated to
attract the attention of every one, whether
it moved over the familiar court greens of
Virginia, or in the streets of Washington
or London. In both of these cities lie was
the “observed of all observers.” The me
tropolis of England, where physical pecu
liarities and eccentricities are met with in
cessantly, could furnish nothing stranger
than the form of the orator of Virginia. In
Washington, Baltimore, Philadelphia and
Richmond, he was the mark of all eyes—
to be pointed out with the finger. Boys
often followed him, but rarely laughed, or
indulged in th ose practical jokes so conge
nial to the mischievous minds of youth.—
They trooped after m ßandolph, as one who
witnessad the sight declares, “in silent and
curious wonder.” This notoriety annoyed
him, but led to no alternation in his cos
tume. His clothes, like his principles, seem
ed a part of him. He felt doubtless as the
great statesman of “Marshfield” did, when
he said that he could more easily change
his political convictions that the mode of
wearing, or the fashion of his shirt collar-
Randolph doubtless clung to his eccentric
mode of dress—for he was always far be
hind the fashion in a portion of his cos-
his intense attachment to ev
ery Virginian. His old neighbors still ad
hered to the fashions of the past in a great
degree ; and if among these he could wear
his swallow-tailed coat, with lofty collar,
when the mode was fantailed with no col
lar at all, why should he not do so in the
streets of Wa'shington or London? He
had a keen relish for all that was charac
teristic of his native soil, and in travelling
followed the old fashion of his colonial
forefathers. He always made use of his
private vehicle —either a coach dragged on
ward by four blooded horses, or a sulky
drawn by a fast trotter. He was generally
driven by Jupiter, his body servant —“Ju-
ba” was his familiar name ; warm hearted
and faithful retainer, who loved his master
with extreme affection, and clung to him
in sickness and health, iu joy and sorrow.
On a par with his singularity of dress
and personal appearance, were the manner
of Speaking tone of voice, gesticulation in
public address, and habits in general of the
individual. Ilis voice was high-pitched,
and under strong excitement rose to a shrill
key, which penetrated to the furthest lim
its of the greatest crowd, and was heard
above the loudest uproar. There was a
satirical and ironical deliberation in the
shrill invective thus uttered, which pro
duced a curions impression upon the lis
tener. Once heard in his moments of cold
passion, if I may so speak, Randolph was
never forgotten. The use which he made
of his long, thin fore-finger, is well known.
He would sometimes stand for several mo
ments perfectly silent, with his penetrating
eye riveted upon the person whom he ad
dressed, or of whom he spoke, and the
ghostly finger and long angular arm mov
ing slowly up and down—when those who
were familiar with his habit knew that he
was selecting and arranging iu the depths
of his mind the very words and turns of
phrase of the sarcasm or invective illicit
he designed. Many anecdotes are related
of the effect produced by the voice and sin
ger —as when, after a violent denunciation
of his character and career from a young
member of the House, he rose quietly, and
stretching out his arm, said in calm, in
different tones, “Mr. Speaker, who is that
gentleman ?” It was impossible not to be
interested iri his speeches, for they were
exquisitely choice in their phraseology ;
and no sentence passed his lips which had
not first been framed and polished careful
ly, so to speak, in bis mind. Often his
when he rendered up his public trtist, af
ter the old Convention of which 1 have
spoken. “It is time for me to retire and
stand before another and a higher tribu
nal,” he said solemnly, “where a verdict
of acc[iiittdl frill be of infinitely more im
portance than any ftetri an earthly tribu
nal. Here is the trust which you placed
in my hands twenty-eight years ago”—
then stooping forward and extending his
arms as though he rolled a great weight
toward his hearers, “take it back ! take it
back !” he said, and mounting his horse
without further words rode off. Through
out hie entire life, from the day in March.
1799, when he mounted the rostrum front
which Patrick Henry had just descended,
to his sorrowful death in May, 1833, his
peculiarities of speaking, acting, dressing,
and living, attracted universal attention.
The flannel dressing-gown in which he
went on the field to fight Henry Clay, is
1 still in existence, with the mark of thepis
fui ball under the arm. The partk^dars
ot this affair are so characteristic of the
man, and present hifn in alight soamiable
and attractive, that they may fitly find a
brief space in this sketch ; The night pre
ceding the duel, General Hamilton went
to see him, when Randolph said to him :
“Hamilfon, I have determined to receive
without returning Clay’s fire ; nothing shall
induce me to harm a hair of his head. 1
will not make his wife a widow, orhis chil
dren orphans. Their tears would be sited i
over his grave ; but, when the sod of Yir- j
giuia rests on tny bosom, there is not in
this wide world one individual to pay this :
tribute to mine.” The eyes of the speaker
filled as he thus referred to bis lonely life,
but he soon grew composed again. Iu spite
of Hamilton’s rein oos trance, he adhered to
bis purpose, requesting his friend, howev
er, not to inform Colonel Tattnal, bis sec
ond, whb he feared would take the studs
and refuse to go out with him. Hamilton,
however, informed the Colonel, and at
midnight they went together to Randolph’s
lodgings. He was reading Milton, and
commenced an enthusiastic criticism upon
the passage which engaged him. Colonel
Tattnal soon came to business, and oppos
ed strongly the design of his principal not
to return Clay’s fire. A compromise final
ly resulted from Randolph’s declaration,
that if he saw “the devil in Clay’s eye,”
and any “malice prepense” to take his life
he would return his fire. They met on the
next evening, on the banks of the Poto
mac, just as the sun was setting “behind
the blue hills of Randolph’s own Virginia.”
While Colonel Tattnal was loading his
principal’s weapon, Hamilton approached
and took Randolph’s hand, in which he
says, there was “not the quickening of one
pulsation.” Randolph then said, “Clay
is cal in, but not vindictive.’ I hold my
purpose in any event ; remember this.”—
To his second he said, as the pistol with
the hair trigger spring was presented to
him, “Tattnal, although I am one of the
best shots in Virginia, with either a pistol
or gun, 1 never fire with the hair trigger ;
besides, I have a thick buckskin glove on,
which will destroy the delicacy of my touch,
and the trigger may fly before I know
where I am.” It happened as he expect
ed ; but at the second fire he discharged in
the air, whereupon Mr. Clay hastened to
him and exclaimed, “I trust in God, my
dear sir, you are untouched ; alter what
has occurred,gl would not harm you for a
thousand worlds.” Thus ended this fa
mous encounter, in which Randolph as
suredly acted with noble feeling. This
circumstance, doubtless, went far to disarm
those bitter enmities which he had aroused
by hhvearcer on the floor of Congress. But
to return for a brief space to the personal
details which were designed :
It was in his retirement at Roanoke, far
away from political, turmoil, and among his
old neighbors that Randolph lived the more
pleasant days of his life. There be read
arid wrote, and mused, with the murmur of
the forest in his ears—in the midst of a
solitude almost, for a large part of the
time. He paid great attention to his cor
respondence with those bosom friends whom
he loved long and faithfully. I saw, some
years ago, a paper written by him, in
which lie lamented that he and his dear
friend Mr. Tazewell had grown to twenty
without knowing each other. He had lost
all those years, he said, of bis friend’s so
ciety. On this correspondence he lavished
all his thoughts and leisure moments. It
remains in large part unpublished, spite of
the two volumes of his life by Mr, Garland;
and I have often read the colored letters to j
an old and beloved friend, with deep inter- j
est. The love of reading disputed with !
this fondness of writing. He read every
thing, from works on divinity and elabo
rate books of history, to novels, plays and
poetry. Ilis favorites were the “gods ofj
song”—Homer, Shakspeare and Milton, of
which he imported exquisite London copies.
Li the “Iliad,” He.ctor arid net Achilles,
was his favorite. When a mere child he
was taken to the Bermuda Islands, he says
in one of those old MS. letters to which 1
have referred, where he read the “Tem
pest,” in the midst of the scenes which the
master-mind contemplated when he wrote
it. This sojourn in the lovely islands, lost j
far away in the Atlantic, has been little
considered ; and yet it must have strongly
influenced the poetical and imaginative
child. We may fancy him stretched on the
sod beneath the great palmettos, with the
orange and pomegranate clustering around,
and reading the Calibati ahd Ariel where
once the former rolled on the yellow sand,
and the gentle spirit soared beneath the
moon. No one had a greater 3estfor poet
ry. It was his lifelong delight—if any
thing disputed it, except his correspond
ence, it was heraldry. Randolph was born
with a natural and ingrained feeling of
caste. He never was, and never could have
been a Democrat. His ancestors had ruled
in the old colonial days, and he was jealous
! of all which tended to obliterate the line of
distinction between himself and the mass,
lie could never endure Mr. Jefferson’s “lev
; elliug doctrines,” and inveighed against
them bitterly. One of his favorite books
was the “English Peerage,” and his famil
iarity with it was very striking. His own
family he traced back step by step, in a
little MS. book, to Ranneph or Rulf, a
leader cf the Danish invaders of France in
the dark ages. • In placing so much stress
upon blood and decent, he was only follow
ing the dictates of his character, his train
ing and his position. He was the last of
his branch of the Randolphs, aod thought
with bitter distress of its probable extinc
tion after all the splendid past which it
could boast. Thus he clung to the claims
and honors of his race with iutenser tenac- i
ity, and grew at last to be a sort of master
of Ravenswood, greater and more noble in j
his own opinion, for this ivektiiou, and in
the depths of his lonely weakness, dowered
with all the glory and dignity of the past.
This sentiment was no doubt fostered by
the high social position and great public
services of his kindred, but it was in his
blood when he was born, and grew with his
suffering and misfortune. Delicate, nerv
ous and sensitive, it might almost be said
that he indeed exhibited the indications of
what is technically called “blood,” iu ani
mals ; that, unfitted for the systematic and
regular toils of life, he yet accomplished
what none but the racer can accomplish.
On those public occasions when his unique
endowments astonished the world, he gain
ed for himself an immense fame, and prov
ed of vast service “Dy hfc Watchful opposi
tion to patties in power ; but, to return to !
the simile, what a weary race was his life!
It was full ot feverish triumphs, and pros- ;
trating languor. lie was alternately dis
gusted by the struggles of the political
arena, and by his lonely retirement. Wash
ington harassed and wore out his energies
—lie craved the solitue of Roanoke. Roan
oke wearied him with its silence and erYvui
—he looked again toward the scene of his
triumphs. It was his fate to fight to the j
last, however. Ho died in harness at most. ,
When be bad raised his voice against the
Proclamation, his long fight wasended ; he j
had spoken his hist word for the rights and 1
sacred altars of the Sovereign States ; and
was soon laid in his grave at Roanoke. He
died in Philadelphia, itt May, 1833, worn
out in mind and body, and far from his be
loved Virginia. That he passed away from j
the world in which lie had been so unhap
py, with the comfort of a certain faith, I
verily believe, after a full consideration of
every circumstance.
Titus ended the career of a very extraor- j
dinary man, whose life and character must
always present to the thinking mind a cu
rious problem. The singularities of the
great orator grow upon the mind, and are
of inexhaustible attraction. This attrac
tion is sad but profound. No personage in
our national annals lias left upon the minds
of men a more distinct impression of his
mental and physical characteristics. Hun
dreds of aiWcuofea remain of him, but they !
are often so doubtful that I have refrained i
from repeating them in a sketch which j
aims at rigid historical accuracy and faith- !
fulness. The omission may disappoint
some of those who read these lines, expect
ing amusement and food for iattghter; but
others will perhaps feel satisfaction at the
absence of such matter. Those floating
bon mots, epigrams arid sarcasms, ill au
thenticated for the moot part, and often
very bitter, would prove of little .interest
to the thoughtful reader. Muck more
averse is the writer of these lines to gay
employment of his subject for the purposes
of amusement. He disdains tt> lay bare
the shuddering nerves of this famous and
unhappy man to the mirth and ridicule of
the thoughtless crowd. There was little
to amuse in the jests of John Randolph.
They were the utterances of a man whose
mind and body were both cruelly affected,
and should fill us with sadness rather than
mirth. No laughter accompanied them
when they were uttered, unless it were the
triumphant applause of those who hated the
object of his sarcasm, The sharp and pen
etrating barb upon their brilliant tips
struck deep and festered, arousing rage and
hatred, amusement. I prefer toletthem
rest in the obscure newspaper, or the idle
: jest book, and to leave ihe subject of the
! life and character of Joint Randolph, as I
approached it, in a mood of grave reflec
tion, most becoming in the student of his
career. Turning away from all such things,
I look upon him as so many of those good
men whom he wounded did when lie had
passed away—with charity.fpr his faults,
and due recognition of the lifelong services
he retidered to the constitutional rights of
ail the States. He had much to sour and
embitter him—sickness, suffering and ter
rible misfortune. Black care rode ever be
hind him in that feverish life-race which he
ran, and the incubus never vanished, lie
| sleeps after many sorrowful and distressing
years—after heart-burnings, tears, and di
vers woffe which racked him cruelly \ let
I him sleep in peace. The two great pines
which stretch their arms above his grave in
the Roanoke woods, are ihe solemn guar
dians of his ashes. J. E. C.
i “ • At •
. ; t
Not an Uncommon Case.— A traveller
from Virginia, as his appearance indica
! ted, stopped at a comfortable wayside inn
l in Kentucky, one night years ago. The
1 landlord was a jovial, wholesouled fellow,
as landlords were in those days, and gave
the stranger the best entertainment his ta
ble and bar could afford, as well as his own
merry company to make him glad.
Early in the morning the stranger was
up and looking around, when he espied a
1 rich bed of mint in the garden. Ilestraight
way sought Boniface, and indignant at
I what he supposed his inhospitality, in set
: ting plain whiskey before him when the
; means of brewing nectar was so easy of ac
! cess, he dragged him forth to the spot, and
pointing with his finger at the mint, he
! exclaimed :
“I say, landlord, will you begood enough
to say what this is ?”
“A bed of mint,” said the somewhat as
tonished landlord.
“And will you please tell me what it is
used for ?”
“Well, don’t exactly know, ’cept the old
woman dries it sometimes with the other
Payable in Advance.
yarbs.”
The Virginian almost turned pale at the
enormity of the nscertion.
“And do you mean to tell me that you
do not know what a mint julep is 9” •
“Not ; ’eept it is something like sago
tea, stranger.”
“Sage tea ! Go right along to the house,
get a bucket of ice, leaf sugar and your
best liquor.”
The landlord obeyed, and the stranger
soon made his appearance with a haudfm
of fragrant dewy mint, and then they
brewed and drank, and drank again ;
breakfast was over, and tlie stiangcr’iJ
horse was brought out only to be ordered
back.
Through the livelong dav they brewed
and drank ; one or two neighbors droped
in who were partakers, nml late in the
night their orgies kept up ; ere they made
it r hed time, the landlord and the Virginia
guest, who hud initiated.Jiiui iato theplea
sant.'uVystertf3 o* mint l jr.Uqf, Were sworn
brothers, and when the latter departed
next morning. Boniface exacted a pledge
that he would stop on his return, and stay
as long as he pleased free ot cost.
The stranger's busings’, bcweve**, dev
tained him longer than ho expected, and
it was the next summer befo-e he came
back.
Hiding up late in the evening he gave
his horse to an old negro who was at the
gate and at the same time inquired :
“Well, Sam, how is your master ’ /•
“Yonder he come,” said the negro,
pointing to a youth who wasapproaching.
“I mean your old master, fool.”
“Old massa ! him done dead dis three
months.” > n • u
“Dead ! What was the matter with
him ? He was in fine health when I left
him.”
“Yes ; you see, massa stranger, onb 6\
deni Virginny gemmans, come ’long here
las’ year, and sliow’d him how to eat grass
in Jtis ticker : he like it so well, ho done
stuck to it till it kill him,” said the dar
key, shaking his head.
Pk .nticia?a —Ti e Washington States
thinks that its candidate, Mr. Douglas,
will soon reap the ire ward olUl*. .ids patri
otic labors and saciifices. We that
the crop is not so extensive that lie has
need to employ ap itent reaped \\ 3 friends
Sickles will be implement enough.
The editor of N. H. Democrat r\ays, that
when he has been a candidate for Congres
sional nominations, lie hits, been twice toil
ed in convention by his political fyiends by
a tie Let him take heed to his life, or “w
tie” will ultimately be the death of him.
A Washington correspondent,
the Democratic party has suffered ship
wreck and is now floundering desperately
for life in the midst of the ocean. Wo
I don’t know but we shall have to throw it a
! hencoop.
r
I , The Baltimore Convention travels with
a crooked motion of its body, hisses con
! tinually, ai'd is full of venom. What sort
l of an animal can it be ? Should not tlie
“seed of the woman bruse its head ?”
The Deusocrutic party can swallow any-
I thing. If Jonah had been* the
1 party, he would have sv,’allowed the Whale
; instead of waiting to bo ev/a! loved by it.
Mr. Dougla ‘ Chicagoorgali calls liia op
ponents things. Undoubtedly there are a
! great many things against him.
John Mitchell thinks thhb.our govern
ment ougot to be smashed. f That’s exact
ly what a good many people think about
him.
Trouble Brewing Among theChero-*
kees — W hat Does it Mean ? The Fort
Sui ith ( Ark.) Timcs says:
“We noticed a week or Uvd d&o that
there was a secret organization going on in
the Cherokee nation, and that it was among
the full-blooel Indians alune. Wo are in *
formed by good authority that the organi
zation is growing and extending daily, and
that po half or mixed blood Indian is tak
:eu into this secret organization. The
: strictest secrecy is observed, and it is
death, by the order to divulge the objectof
the society. They hold meetings in the
tk'cbets, and every secret place, to initiate
members. We are told that the mixed
bloods are becoming alarmed, and . every
attempt to find out the object es ibis Se
cret cabal has thus far proved abortive.—
The Joneses are said to be the leaders iu
the work, and what these things are tend
ing to, no one can predict. We fear that
something horrible is to be enacted on the
j frontier, and that this secret work will not
stop among the Cherokees, but will extend
j toother tribes on the frontier. The gov
ernment should examine into this matter,
before it becomes too formidable.
Jfc£Tlf the victory were “always to the
strong ” the polecats irj, high places at
Washington would have nothing to fear.
One Douglas editor says that the scce~<
dels from the Charleston Convention “will
be booted out of the Baltimore Convention
if they make their appearance there,” and
’ another says “they will be set down in
short order.” If they are severely booted,
it will be cruel to set them down too soon
afterwards.
When a friend once told Plato what
scandalous stories his enemies had perpe
trated concerning him—“l will live so,”
replied the philosopher, “thatnobody shall
believe them.”
Number 31.