he republic which proclaims itself
the refuge for the oppressed of all nations--the one spot on earth where
every man is entitled alike to life, liberty and the pursuit of
happiness. The only people in the world to whom it denies these rights
are not its quondam slaves, not pagans, not runaway convicts, not the
offscourings of any nation however degraded, but the original owners of
the country.

The legal disability under which the Indian is held is as much of an
outrage on human rights, and as bald a contradiction of the doctrines on
which our republic is based, as negro slavery was.

R.H.D.

A LITTLE IRELAND IN AMERICA.

The humorous side of life was never more vividly brought before me than
while living a few years ago in the vicinity of an Irish settlement in
one of the suburbs of New York. What we call "characters" were to be
found in every cottage--the commonplace was the exception. Indeed, I do
not remember that it existed at all in "The Lane," as this locality was
called.

Perhaps among the inhabitants of The Lane none more deserved distinction
than Mary Magovern. The grandmother of a numerous family, she united all
the masculine and feminine virtues. About the stiff, spotless and
colossal frill of her cap curled wreaths of smoke from her stout
dhudeen as she sat before the door blacking the small boots of her
grandchildren, stopping from time to time to remove the pipe from her
mouth, that she might deliver in her full bass voice a peremptory order
to the large yellow dog that lay at her feet. It was usually on the
occasion of a carriage passing, when the dog would growl and rise. Very
quickly out came the pipe, and immediately followed the words, "Danger,
lay by thim intintions;" and the pipe was used as an indicator for the
next movement--namely, to patiently lie down again upon the ground.

Mary Magovern kept a drinking-shop behind the living-rooms of her
cottage, and the immense prestige she had in The Lane must have had some
foundation in the power which this thriving business gave her, many of
her neighbors being under the obligation of debt to her.

Mike Quinlan would have been her most frequent visitor had it not been
for the ever-open eye of Mrs. Quinlan, which caused her husband to seek
his delights by stealth at a village a mile away. Mike was an elderly
and handsome man, but his wits had ebbed out as the contents of the
wine-cup flowed in, and the beauty that had won so remarkable a