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Light on a dark subject.

Vanity Fair, in its last issue, has an excellent hit at the ‘"intelligent contrabands, "’ who figure so largely in the correspondence of the press from the various seats of war, and at the verdancy of editors and readers who believe one word in twenty spoken by the colored individuals in question. Here is part of V. F.'s squib:

‘"You b'long to de army, Mars'r?"’ asked the intelligent contraband, uneasily.

"Yes. That is — I am — yes; I am with the army, sir, replied the Tribune correspondent; ‘"and I would like, sir, to ask you a few questions. Where is Beauregard, at Corinth or at Richmond?"’

Intelligent Contraband.--‘"Yis, Mars'r."’

Tribune Correspondent.--‘"Where at Richmond?"’

Int. Con.--‘"Yis, Mars'r."’

Trib. Cor.--‘"And how many men has be?"’

Int. Con.--‘"Niggers, Mars'r !"’

Trib. Cor.--‘"No. Soldiers !"’

Int. Con.--‘"Bout Sixty Hundred Thousand, I specs."’

Trib. Cor.--‘"What ! Are you sure ! Aren't you mistaken !"’

Int. Con.--‘"Yis, Mars'r."’

Trib. Cor.--‘"Well, when did he arrive here?"’

Int. Con.--‘"O, two tree four munfs ago."’

Trib. Cor.--‘"You mean weeks, don't you?"’

Int. Con.--"Yis, Mars'r"

Trib. Cor.--‘"Do you think the rebels will evacuate Richmond !"’

Int. Con.--‘"O, yis, Mars'r; dey'll fite like de debbil !"’

Trib. Cor.--‘"You don't understand me, sir I mean, will they run away !"’

Int. Con.--‘"Yis, Mars'r; dey ollers runs away,"’

Trib. Cor.--‘"But if McClellan had attacked the city three weeks ago, he could have killed them all, couldn't he !"’

Int. Con.--‘"Yis, Mars'r, he killed 'em all, I specs. I got under a fence, an' he didn't saw me."’

At this point of the chat, the mind of the intelligent contraband seemed illuminated by the vague splendor of some familiar memories, for he screwed his not very expressive visage into a grin, and added; ‘"Now, Mars'r, couldn't yer gib dis nigger a drop o' rye? I orful dry, torkm', Mars'r."’

The Tribune correspondent expressed an opinion that alcohol was a poison, and that nothing could be more terrible than the effects of drunkenness. To which the intelligent contraband replied:

‘"Now, Mars'r, dat's jes' what I want."’

‘"Whose slave were you?"’ asked the correspondent, after a paase.

Int Con.--‘"Mars'r Davis's."’

Trib. Cor.--‘"What, Jeff Davis !"’

Int. Con.--‘"Yis, Mars'r."’

Trib. Cor.--‘"And he treated you with great brutality, no doubt?"’

Int. Con.--‘"Yis. Mars'r, treat me fu' rate."’

Trib. Cor.--‘"But you want your freedom, don't you?"’

Int. Con.--‘"O, yis, Mars'r."’

Trib. Cor.--‘"How would you like to go North?"’

Int. Con.--‘"Putty cold Norf, ain't it?"’

Trib. Cor.--‘"O no. Ever been North?"’

Int. Con.--‘"Yis, Mars'r."’

Trib. Cor.--‘"To what place?"’

Int. Con--‘"To Florider, Mars'r."’

Trib. Cor.--‘"Florida!"’

Int. Con.--‘"Yis, Mars'r"’

Trib. Cor.--‘"Why, did Jeff, Davis ever live in Florida?"’

Int. Con.--‘"O, yis, Mars'r; he lib dar some forty fifty year, I spec's."’

The evidently untrustworthy nature of the replies of this man and brother began to strike the correspondent about this juncture, and he shut up his note-book and retired.

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