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[148] me in Philadelphia, whose name was Henry Griffin, whose craft was door-keeping, whose desire was legislation. A shrewd fellow, thirty-five years old, and yet obliged to mind a door for bread, Griffin thought the time had come for him to rise. His neighbours shared the public spoil-why should not he? Hence, to the amusement of his employers, he was running as a candidate in the seventh ward of Philadelphia.

“On which side in politics do you stand?” I asked the candidate.

“ Republican, Sah.”

“Republican! Then you are running against Bardsley and Patterson, men of your own opinions, giving your enemies, the Democrats, a chance of slipping in?”

“ Guess that's so,” he answered; “but we like to have our share, and the Republicans cheat us every way.”

“Indeed! I thought they gave you liberty, and fought for you against their brethren in the South?”

“Guess that was long ago. That dead and buried. I am speaking of to-day. We coloured people vote the Republican ticket. When they get ”

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