I. ' ! *" I .- . m ‘ "OUll COUNTRY—MAY IT ALWAYS BE EIGHT—BUT RIGHT OR WRONG OUR COUNTRY." -opines -o with''-' .wines ..o.non''- juu I n" must '■ cnD*" ’ me |je '■ ../ na*" .•uuiH - ..m in'' 1 ' wiiv T '' mirk - -o Cl*" en r- r vn«— . mljl' - I -• VOL; 49. AilKiilOAN VOLUNTEER: pCUUSnBD EVERY THURSDAY.UORNIHCI BY JO SIX B* BUATTOM. TERMS. spnscnn'Tioy. —Two Dollars if paid within tho >nd Two Dollars and Fifty Cents, if not paid '•ilii'i ■'•o year. These tonus will ho rigidly nd . ,1 („ in! every instniico. No subscription disr vpti»» u -‘d until all nrrcpragea aro paid unless at f.ptiun of the Editor. A[>vk arts bsi bnts — Accompanied by the cash, and ‘ . exrotidiag one square* will bo inserted throe for One Dollar, and twenty-five cents for each iTlifional insertion. Those of a greater length in wporlipn. ’ jitn-PiUN'nxfi—Such as Ttand-hills, Posting-bills, p.-.mphh*ta, HlanUs, .Labels, Ac.- Ac., executed with ,-oi r :i?v imd at the ahortes notice. , THE \R3SIER’S AViSVXJj ADDUCE TO THE PATRONS OF THE , AMERICAN VOLUNTEER. Jivr do ivc smile'who wept before, "■ffii'lift. our hearts up and we. Bay , "Kindred and friends, we wish you all ,V'happy New-Year on this day ,\nii swiff, the answering er.hn flies, llirnpy Now-Year I niy neighbor cries. I il’.MV.iVVfovjiot that pain arid ill,. , (' Tluit-urimo (ind donth'd-.i'cnrse the earth, li> villTemomKer lively still [s 1 iT<> aiM.jov, and hope and worth. 0. M id’. are not thy praises due- T,i iliia who maketh all things hew ? Tie* little ohild whose sleepless eyes . Kept watch to see the. sunshine rays ■Oil’tills first blessed morn arise, , ■ KoMs-liis plump hands and softly says, ‘‘Who good shall’ he New-Year’s first day, ]!» good shall he Now-Year alway.” Tii'.’ Kcr.Mn maid with s,hiilinn;, head dreamy pillmv, weaves A hi" miiiie: chaplet out of thought All fashioned into huds and leaves, IVlian' lhriUiii"'lan gunge is, for p.VMjfljtefc. , '1 hive you !” (Told 'thin NevV-TmBHJwA) An I old, ngc liy the fireside sits Willi memory n-ilrcnming ton, ll'ldlst the long buried Past,flits hy His soul in pictures till tlio dew, Ort'.'ii.rs.is falling. ITear .him say With fading smile, “ That New-Year day.'”, In mIiI-hare hovels'where the winds. liiwdinligry only looking through I V'ir ernvioes, behold the-poor; ; ■ • Ai Je.sns’ imago 1 ink to'ymi ■ IJortUj tWy;prn;r:Ar, ffr.id grant indeed .AinrYear today !” Tin' pa!i-irirt with soul n fire , ; Cries. “ Hope, my country, liopn thou on, Usher ttuin mountains higher Thy offspring's work shall tower, ’till won Thine aliment- laurels, thou shall see Yet glorious Now-Year ilawn on thee !”■ A inlilicr-on the battle field Shinds pensively anil looks one way Where the far hills lio white 'with snow; Looking one way—his comrades say . In whispers, “ Ah 1 it was not here, tie thought t. 6 bo on last New-Year.” Ol with niost wondrous melody The holy church bolls on the air Call to the Christian “conie!” lie saith “ tt iri Uio Spirit’s Voice to bear longings, that to me soon be given Tliat best, long New-Y’iear up in Heaven.” Snnewhero in closely guarded roorii, The niisi>r laughs to find his hold' All powerless to lift his chests, He counts his future, bags of gold— Ah, wretch ! begin in this New-Year To lay up treasures there, not here. Or pain in hollow whisper sneaks— “ Now-Year? Ah, yes! but not for me— DW weary days, old suffering nights. Old rotton bones, old misery 1 bet it be Now-Year for the well, Hut for,the sick ! When? God will toll; And sorrow bv its graves all dumb WiU-ke ep its'New-l r ear least, nor give The living; ones a single crumb. Know thou, this sleeping dust shall live 1 Sumo New-Year morning yet shall bring Hie Resurrection oh its wing. 'And'worldly pleasure eats and drinks And shouts in ludlow revelry ’Till till the'solemn stars grow dim, Hopeless, and God-forsaken he. On that room’s wall I see appear these words: “Thou fool! thy InstNow-Ycar.” And one sweet soul, before the star Or morning, plumed its wing for flight, Slu’d through death’s vale.and up the path 01 glory to the highest high 01 Paradise. The angels say : ‘ Now take eternal New-Year’s day.” I!t each pledge each in draught divine ot' warmest heart-hlnod, we’ll forget PI lannis of feuds and high will raise ilio rainbow token, higher yet! 1 °w each one give a hearty cheer, Aad cry,. Lung.lire, the new born-Year. Happy Now-fear! the carrier, criesj Hippy Now-Year 1 nor shall ho speak magic words in vain: ho turns ith thankful eye and glowing cheek, ~ ' U| l "»nds well .filled to truly say Ood bless you, one and all, to-day.” Respectfully, - THE CARRIER, for°^,w nco 1 r " in S tho drafting of gamblers n "t ho o/i!’ Y anit y „P |V ‘ r thinks they would ai,, itlioi- t "I- 801 ' T1OO > except in tho case of qaito tlm .V- n outbreak, when it would be le S’ t 0 BIa B ckfeet. briBtlde ° f Bla ° k ' Ohi) ROGER JOHNSON, A TOUCHING! STORY, ‘ Ten cents ! ten cents!’ murmured old Rog er Johnson, fumbling the bit of silver in his palm. ‘ Ten cents,’ ho repeated childishly, a ieeble smile flitting over his lips, with a sick ly glare on his haggered features; ‘ tisn't much, but it will buy mo my supper—break fast, dinner, supper—all in one—and God be thanked for thatl God he thanked for that!’ His words died away to an inaudible whis per, ns hugging his tattered garments around him, lie' tottered along the street It was at the close of a rude winter’s day. The evening dusk.had fallen, and a few flakes of snow fluttered down out of the diirk, gray clo.uds that floated over the city. A? Old Ro ger picked his way carefully .across the icy slabs, a gay young lamplighter passed on bis evening round, sot his ladder against a post close by, mounted.smartly, and touched’with ■a match the eager jet of gas, which cast a yellow radiance all around the old man’s feet. ‘ Hu !’ said Roger, with the very ghost ft laugh flitting airily Iroin his numb, -cold lips, * that’s a good omen. Right, light, gold-, ■cn light, too, all over my poor old ragged shoes. So in my life I have been groping, though Heaven knows I capered as gaily as any schoolboy .once, and walked as proudly .as any youth, afterwards—till now theicohi winter night issetting in, and it’s all nowerful dark before mo—so dark, and chill, mid threatening! But there will come a : glonni ■soon, jnstirfce this whichhrightens-iU [around mo—and—and—’ , - The old nian vyas mumbling again, with a sort of childish, dreamy glee,.when, setting his foot incautiously upon a piece of ice, he slipped and fell helplessly upon the frozen ground. | llillo, old man—you hurt ?’ arried a merry schoolboy', * ifc’s down (here looking after a pin,’ ikughed another, sliding by with asled at-his heels. ■ The hoys passed on. and the old nian strug gled to regain his feet. But he .was" feeble ntjd rhenniatic, and the nigh -«Uaken the life (ait of hifft? .'Wnerf Ire¥(jnme a little to .Id(osclf. lrtp,observed that a kind gcntlenian .wafc^siatmg, gratefully." mr.'; it..wouldn’t hti've boon much riiatter if I had broken my neck. 1 -ain’t of much r-oj-mht in the world —nobody would miss old Roger Johnson.'’ * Have you far to go?’ asked the stranger. . * Mot to-night, thank" Heaven. I live or , .raihcr slay righ t round the corner here, third doin' op the alley.’ ■ , . , • -Well, g.md-niglit to you". Mind and keep your legsinmieryun,'efied the stranger. He passed on, and the old nian,"dragging. Ids sinking limbs into a provision shop on the corner, purchased ii loaf of bretpl with the hit of silver hi which, he had clung .tightly *,*l3 ihe while, then ci-cejmig with unsteady steps '■at..; the. ul|oy. t entered a. dark,, dilapidated doorway., with-lris sapper uriddf hisarm. As ho was stumbling up a dispell old stair : ■crisis,;a sharp feminine voice cried out to liitn from the. Hoor of the first.landing; ■ ‘ Is.that .you,;Johnsoii ‘ 1 suppose it 'more than half believe I aiATsomobodYAelsesl-ve • ilied the old man. ‘■Why didn’t you spealc T. I'd ppened the door so yon could see.’ cried the other. ■ Where does that.light come from?’ asked li, igor. Do you indulge in lamplight before it a d >'dark, Airs. S inn?’’, r ' ‘ Come in. hero and you shall, see. There, you did not expect such a fire as that, did you, .Toll noon ?’ •]{loss you. -woman, that I didn’t. You ere as warm ns toast here. How jolly it is to see a stove all of a glow like that!: . Where did your coal come from?’ ‘ Ohj’ said Airs. Stone, ‘ Sydney 'brought me thi-eo dollars to-day; and the children were all a shivering and a chattering on the little wood fire, so I took it iq my head that these three dollars should go to getting us all warm mice, if wo never got warm again in our lives. So what did Ido hut go and ord br a quarter of a ton of coal, and the .young lines have been as merry as Crickets ever since. .Thcy’ie quite content to go without their supper, sii there’s a good fire for them ■to cuddle down by. ' Come in p it's a free warm, Johnson. As long as the coal lasts I want erbrhody to enjoy it that cap. Yon shall sit with ns this evening—your room is awful dreary, Johnson. The frozen tears thawed in . the old man’s eyes, but his voice was so choked that he could not express his thanks. Seating himself ina rickely old clmir.lie warmed hisooldshins, ■and rubbed his shriveled hands over the stove, patted the children’s heads, and ending by dividing the larger portion of his loaf among' them, reserving but a scanty fragment for himself.. Airs. Stone remonstrated against his gene rosity. But the children seized upon the foud so eagerly that the grateful old man de clared, with tears running down his cheeks, that it did him more good to sec them eat than it would tu sit down to a most buuatii'ul feast. Tlie meagre meal was soon concluded, when heavy footsteps wore heard on the stairs. The poor woman’s heart almost ceased to beat. She turned so pale that the old man observed her change of countenance even in that dim light. ‘ It is father ?’ whispered the children. At.tlmt moment nn angry voice demanded with nn oath why she did not hold a light. ‘ Hush !’ said Mrs. Stone to the cowering little ones. She opened the door, and presently a shab by, frost bitten, middle aged man, came blustering into tho room. It was tho wo man’s husband, who always, when he had money to spend, deserted his family for the grog shop, and Who returned to them for shelter. So the old man was put into a bath ; then hnrberod by a fellow skillful,with razor and shears; and finally clad in garments that would have been respectable on ’Change. Then Roger sat .down in the easy chair which Upton placed for him before the grate, and wept like a child. ‘What is tho matter?' askod his friend. ‘ This reminds' mo of ray better days—it brings such strange things to my memory 1’ muttered the old man. ‘ Is that all ? I thought there might bo something else necessary to your happiness.’ ‘ Nothing—nothing 1’ ‘ Nothing at all 1' Are you sure ?’ ‘ Indeed’—a cloud passed over the old man’s face— ‘ there is one thing I Would like to have mended a little, but I had no thought of asking tho favor from you.’ ‘ Speak out, I toll you old man. I know there was something else.’ . ‘ My lodging is cheerless and cold. I freeze there these raw nights ; and I ain’t euro that throe meals a day and tho warmest clothing will be sufficient to carry happiness into that gloomy hole.’ ‘ What will you have then V ‘ 0, I ask nothing ; but the truth is, if I was able to rent a little more comfortable lodging—’ /■ V . - , ‘What would you fancy ? ’Twill-do no harm to talk.' ■ ' ‘ I am well aware that.only the genuine civilized way of living is to have a house of one’s own—but that of course I am nut fool ish enough to think of.’ • But supposing you were to have a hpuse, what sort of a house would you like ?’ ~ ‘ If you mean just such a house as I would like—-why, I’d say some such a house ns this of yours. Every thing. seems so comfortable here ! A man ought'to ho ns happy us Adair in an Eden like this.’ ‘ Now, I’ll tell you what, old man,’ cried the enthusiastic merchant, 1 I can’t think of turning myself out of doors, even for the sake of philosophy ; hut if you will let me live here and have my own way a little, I’ll give this house to bo your homo as long as you live.’ ■ i , Old Roger Johnson opened his eyes wider with wonder. ' ' ■ / ' ‘lt shall he ns if yon were mv father,’ said the eccentric Mr. Cpton.. ‘ Everything I have shall be at your service. Ymi shell sit with mo at the table-and enjoy three meals a day my baker, my tailor, my servants, arc yours. ’Twill he worth half my .fortune to Lave a happy man in my house. IV.hat do you say to .that-?’ ■ . • Now you are mocking me,’ said the old man, deeply troubled. ‘So yon thought at first-, hut I’ll tench you that I was never more in earnest in my ‘ But I can never pay you.’- ‘.Yuli 1 will, pay me, 1 fell you, by being perfectly hjippy.’ ■ ‘II is too much, too much 1’ - • Not a jot.too 'much, old man. „And take my word for it, it won’t' be.lflng'Hbefore you think (if something else necessary to full and complete bliss. I see by yonr-oye you have already thought of something—am I not' right/’ ‘lndeed,’ said the, old man, letting fall a tear, I can never think of being happy until I know whether my child Edith still lives, of what has become (if her t ‘ Ho, then you have a daughter ?’ ‘ I had a daughter —to know that I have one, and that she is fair, a-nd gVid, and hap ; py, would he worth more than all.the bless! ings yon so lavishly bestow on me ; to know that, is all I ask of Heaven—then I would he content to die.’ • . . ■ ‘".Rut how -could you lose, sight, of your, child T " " ; ,‘Oh, it would take, a loti" story to tell you that ! The poor thing’s mother -married me against the will of her family, who hated me because I was poor. l?ut I was. furtunate'in my lousiness, and in time I was able to invite my to my own house and treat ell as such people ought to bo treated, . Kdith was our third child, and sa|l the dear.er because .she ' crime Jhite to Ml tbe places.of untl .brother aha two sisters who, one alter the other, had been taken from our hearts and hud in the grave. UTien she was thirteen yem*s ohl, aTailure of a. large linn’in whichmy fortunes' and my reputation wore staked' swept away every thing I hud earned; and. loft me penniless. In the midst of the trouble my poor wife ijicd, and necessity compelL'd me. to commit Edith to,the care of her grandparents.’ ‘Oil, the sorrow, of that time!’ snM the old nian, weeping again. ‘To forget it, and tu .retrieve.niy fallenTortunes, X made a voy age to. the East Indies. It would' take all night, to tell you what chances befell me on the sea and land. Lot all that 1 pass. It is enough to say tliat, after an 'absence of twenty years, I returned, with bro ken health, poor as when I went abroad. Tnofi commenced a search.for my child ; but her grandparents bad been dean many years —she. had been thrown, upon the world. I could find no orie-to tell me what bald become' oi lier; no uno I 'remembered her, even.’ -■ And is it so necessary to your happiness that you should find her ?’ asked Air. Upton. ‘ Consider how changed she is by this time, if indeed she still lives.’ .' ‘ I have thought :of that,’ sighed Roger : .* but. dh, she was the sweetest girl! If I could but find her as I left her, still a child, then my cup of happiness would ho full.’ - The merchant arose smiling, n.ible-hrowod radiant with inspiration that'filled him. ‘ Have faith 1’ he cried; ‘have faith, and miracles- may yet ho performed. I have a power to do you ..good beyond anything yet conceived. Speak the word, and it shall be done. Shall I restore your child?’ lie looked and spoke like a prophet. The bid man was thrilled and awed. Ilia lips moved with a feeble murmur ; and on the in stant open flew n door at the merchant’s touch, and into the full flood of light which streamed from the astral lamp stopped the graceful form of u young girl, fresh and beautiful and glad, with bright curls rippling over bCr hCiid rind neck. ‘Sly own child—my own Edith!’ cried the wonder-struck old man. ‘ But it cannot be,’ bo faltered, sinking back upon the chair from which ho had risen in the excitement of the moment, ‘ it cannot he;’ ‘Look nt lifer,’ said the merchant, ‘anfl have faith.’ The old man looked again. Those melt ing blue eyes, that sweet and cherry mouth, those dimpled cheeks, the fair, white brow, and demuie;chin, every feature,was his child’s—his Edith’s. Yet it was nut his child that stood beforb him, else she was something more than human ; else she was an apparition that might at any time vanish into thin air. ‘ Who are you, darling V ho asked, in'bro ken accents. ‘ ‘ I am Edith Johnson,’ said tho child, with a bashful smile. Tho old.man took her in his arms, and bowel his-face over that,fair head, and subbed out his emotion. ‘ 1 understand it now,’ ho said, speaking with an effort, ‘ this is my child’s child—my Edith’s Edith—tho woman, the mother, where is she ?" Already a slender female form was kneeling' at tho old man’s feet'; affectionate lips kissed his hands, affectiunnto eyes bathed them with tears. ‘ Father—father !’ The knpelor looked up. It seemed his lost wife that had come out of the past to embrace him there again 1 0 Time! 0 miracle of life I 0 wondrous divine law! over working in Iho broad day and in the silence and secrecy of tho night,- When we sleep, the same pushing forward tho germ into the plant, from the plant pro ducing flower and fruit, evoking new germs, creating all things new, each hour and each moment in tho day, parent and child, parent and ol.i'd forever 1 Such thoughts whirled and burned in the old man’s brain, as his daughter and grand- SLE, PA., THURSDAY, JANUARY 8,1863. €ARL daughter lay in his arms and his hot tears rained down 'upon theirdieiidg. * How is it that I havd-never found you be fore, dear father V asked; Mrs. Upton, for she was the merchant’s wife. ‘ How I have longed to hear from yoli —to know if you were still olive, I thought you must have died in some foreign land ; hut when my good husband here canitf home this evening and told me bo bad seen an old man calling himself Roger Johnson, something' said to me, deep in my soul, that it was you. I told him of this scar, upon your cheek ; lie observed it arid ,'.to sleep to-night/, mused, the old'man, ‘for fear that when I awake I shall find myself in Mrs. Stone's attic, and this will be ult'd, dream that has passed. But if it isn't a dream, there is one tiling tiroro required to gi|,o. mo perfect peace of mind.’ . 't; . :\*SSjL' lie was a brutal, tyranlyal man.-tlwHplie had not always ' been so,‘sn- sooth- Shis appearance was the signal for gcnbrartfnnb-, le and Tear. It made poop'- old Roger John son’s heart burn in his bosom to hear Jacob Stone demand money of his- wife, and curse her because she had spent all of their oldest son’s earningsfpr fuel; and when the unfeeling father snatched from thehands jif-a sickly child the orusjghat had been giv-. on it to gnaw, the old hiS]f spoke out his in dignation. This led to a Jjiharp quarrel, ;and .he was driven with oaths'Jfroni. .all's-room.— Jacob slammed the door and the feeble lodger crept darkling lip to Ids cold ■and windy attic. ' - . lie sighed as he sat thetjp.in-tho gloom on the uninviting bed. Thejamifort he had just tasted, made the present desolation more hit ter by its contrast. Tlie&ld man huddled himself together, wdth thiffiattered hed-covor-- ing wrapped around him,#jnd sobbed like a little child.- It seemed tfeidarkest of all the dark, dark hours bo ha®yct known.'- ways, until now,'be badtoome little' ra'y of hup, p. when the gloom wn,'ivfgu-k(;st. hut mUiu t tingui’jK to Once Hie old man started, up and cursed himself fur a fuel. , lie was half-famished in a wintry parrot," and thc'-re flection tbathe had given away to the greedy ones' of Jacob Stone nearly the whole of his last loaf, fired him with indignation at his own folly. ‘ I deserve to starve I’ho muttered. ‘The world is all selfishness, and ho who giver an ything is a dull dolt; lot him suffer! - But, oh, this hunger and cold ! Have I deserved so much V , . ■ There were, others well fed and warmed that.night. Roger thought.of them ;ho saw happy-families, with smiling faces, sitting around ■ glowing hearths. Then ho wept again—not now with envy or remorse. He thanked God that-there was comfort in the wprlilj although his lot was to suffer. Ho thought of the man who gave him the money that purchased the loaf; of hint who had lift ed him up when he had fallen, and spoken kind words to him; of the'good, ami patient Mrs. Stone, the mother of the children ho had fed; and for all-his hungry pangs ho felt richly compensated in the consciousness of having done one selUforgetting, charitable act, which made him, in spite of his poverty and rags, a brother to all the good and noble hearts that throbbed .in human clay. The old man’s limbs, meanwhile, grow chill and numb ; (ind he. was wondering if it would be possible for him to got warm if lie wont to bed ; when he heard a step on the stairs,, and presently saw .a, light shining through the wide cracks around the door., ‘ Have you gone to bed. Johnson ?’ . It was Mrs. Stone’s voice,’and the old man abused himself to answer. . , ' ■‘No. I thought I’d try a'sitting frebzo first,’ said ho, with a sad, playful humor.—. ‘An thing wanting?’ ‘ Yes,’ replied the woman ; ‘ there is a man down the stairs \vishoa. to see you.’ ‘ To see mo !’ echoed the astonished lodg er, starting up. ‘ You didn’t moan me! Sirs. Stone did mean him, indeed, and he hastened to shake the coverlid from his shoul ders and. accompany her down-stairs. AH was quiet in her room, Jacob having fr lien asleep by the stove, stupilied by. the heat.— The caller was waiting in the-dark entry-way 1 below, and the woman held the lamp while Huger wont to speak with him. -The old man wih! tremulous with a vague apprehension that something was going to happen him; nor was this feeling entirely dissipated when in the person who took his hand, and addressed him with kindly tones, he recognised the man that bird so lately helped him to regain his footing in the slip pery street. ‘T-was.nfrnid I should not find you,’ said the visitor ; ‘ but from the time tliat I left, your words—‘Old Roger Johnson—around tho corner—third door up the alley,’ kept ringing in my cars, and I was finally com pelled to come hack and look for you.’ ‘ God bless you, sir,’ articulated the shiv ering old man ; '* this is ah hour I don’t know how I have deserved ; you must have made a mistake.’ ‘ Not at nil. I thought you might ho very poor and in need of assistance.’ ‘ Trite, true, I am poor enough,"but— ’ Roger’s voice failed him, ana he began to shake again ns with ague. ‘ You are cold.’ said his new friend.— ‘ Como, let’s step into yonder shop and talk over matters.’ Roger ho Plated. ‘ They turn me out„sir, when I go there to get warm.’ 1 They will not turn me out,’ replied the other. ‘ So come along.' ■ '.they entered a common refreshment sa loon, and by the countenance end P rnto ° t ’ on of his now friend, Roger was perm.tied to en joy a sent near tho stove.’ , ■, J ■* You look like a man who has seen hard times.’observed! fhd stranger. . • X have suffered almost everything, sir, replied Johnson, in a eubdued. unsteadjr, ton*. ‘ I don't know why I am left to hvo. , * But you have some idea of happiness in store for you yet; .no man is without that, you know.’ ‘ I sometimes dream of such a thing. I have, hopes, sir—rainbow colored some of’em are, too. Bui it’s all delusion. My castles are built in the air, and they are forever tumbling down about my ears. I know what would make me happy, sir ; but what’s the use of talking? It’s something I cannot have.’ ‘ Speuk out, friend Johnson,’ cried the stranger. ‘But be careful not to place your expectations too high. The gods love modes ty, you know.’ ’ ‘Well, sir, it is just this—nothing more of less than three meals a day 1’ ‘ Throe meals a day 1’ .‘I know you’d call it extravagant,’ said Roger, with a faint smile. But 1 would Pot mind your rich dishes ; only give mo plenty of bread and potatoes—with now and then a hit of cheese, or salt fish, or may bb a moi sel of dried beef or sninked bacon. Make mo sure of. that day after day, as long ns I live, so that I can. keep clear of the Alms-house, and you'd see me a happy mail, if there, is not another in creation.’ 1 And’haven’t you ns much already ?’ cried the astonished stranger. Roger replied that with his poor health lid had found it so difficult.to got Work that win ter, and,it was so painful for him to ask alms, that his subsistence had not averaged half a meal a day. . . ■ ‘ Good Heaven 1’ exclaimed his friend ; ‘ in all this -wasteful city is it possible that one man .can bo found reduced to such extremes? One, too, whose Imppine.-s would he so cheap ly purchased—three poor meals’a day 1’ ‘Cheap, if one had the money,’ suggested Roger. ‘ I have the money, and by aU .that’s pre cious, I will devote so much of it to a pension that will nfford you this royal,bliss.’ ‘O, sir, don’t jest with me ’ ‘I am nut jesting, friend Johnson 1 To show you how earnest l am—waiter, cook for this man the choicest steak you have. Or would you prefer mutton chops, or anything else on the bill ? Speak for yourself.’ As soon as the Old man had sufficiently re covered from his amazement hi realize his good fortune, he made choice.of some cold fowl,' with hot biscuit and Coffee, because these comforting items could hd most readily .pVneureJ. The. symnatlictic stranger—who, ; hy the way, was a fine looking man , of forty, with tasteful whiskers, and an exceedingly pleas ant eye—seemed to enjoy the meal, although ho had tasted nothing, quite.as much as the famished Roger himself. . • Still the old man was unable to realize that hostvas to have the luxury of suoli living eve ry day. ' It seemed so much like a fairy story,’ or dream!’ ‘ If,you don’t believe mo, look here ; this is my business card 4 '?ou ought to know me— l perhaps you do. I am rich enough to afford any little caprice of this kind, as you will. see by palling at ray store in the morning,’ Hotter .began to .bo convinced. ,_By this time the sfunulus offobcl was 'luffing ’its 'ef fect; and the happiness found expression in deep quiet laughter and tears. ‘ Now are you sure you are going to be perfectly happy ?’. asked Air. Upton. ‘ Throe meals a day—all the world has that, but I don’t know two really happy men. Isn’t there something else you would lilco ?’ , ‘ I forgot my clothes,’ , said Roger. ‘I should like a good warm coat, and warm trousers and slices, for this cold weather ; but then if 1 have plenty to oat I can manage to keep'myself warm. ■ ‘ The clothes you shall have,’ rejoined- the other., ‘ I had forgotten them myself. Wai ter, call a hack for mo. You shall go to my house, friend Johnson, and I’ll.look over my Wardrobe this very evening, and see if I can’t furnish you with an outfit.’ ■ The oid man’s , heart leaped with joy.— Still he seemed to ho more than-half inclined' to believe that it was a trick; even after "Mr. Upton had taken him with him into a hack, • I’-vo made suro of my supper, at any rate,’ said rogbr to himself. ‘ There’s no trick about that.’ .' They alighted before a handsome brick dwelling house, with a silver- knob on the door, and a silver bell handle, and the name of Upton on a silver .plate—as the old .man saw. by a briglit-gas light that-burned before the just painted steps. The merchant entered by means of a night-key, Showing that he felt at home on tho premises, and presently the old man was introduced info a snug little library, where, among other comforts, there was a tire glow ing brightly in the grato. The adventure looked more and more like n reality ; and when, with his own hands, tho merchant brought, from .nn -adjoining room, coats, vests,, pantaloons and shirts, all good -and whole, some scarcely worn'at all, apd told him to choose what suited hini'besb, Ri gor chuckled with a deep, inward joy, scarce clouded with a doubt. ‘But I ought to have a good wash and shave before getting into anything respectable in the shape of clothing.’ 1 1 thought of that, so I ordered a wfirm hath, which will ho ready for you in a few, minutes. I am determined to seo if it is pok i sible to make oho man perfectly happy.’ ‘ You’ve chosen a promising subject’ said Johnson, with a smile of,quiet gleo. ‘ I’vo a good-natured capacity that way ; and if any man is suffered to apprecialo comfort I can set up that modest claim 1’ J I thought as much,’ laughed Mr. Upton. ‘ Speak it out.’ ‘Poor Mrs. Stono and her children—some thing should bo done for them,. Protect her from her brutal husband, and procure her ol dest son a good situation, where his time and his talents will bring ooulfort to th at poor family.’ I ‘That shall be done if there’s apy virtue in money,’ said Mr. Upton. ‘ls there anything else?’ (Nothing—only let mo know yoiir history, my Edith.’ ‘You shall lie down, father, and I will talk to you about myself until you full asleep. Don’t be afraid,’ said the young women, ten derly. ‘ I will take good care that you don t wake in Mrs; Stone's attiol „■ So the old man was conducted to a tom fortnblo chamber; and when he was peace fully ensconced id the soft sheets ot tho couch, his 'dauber came to him and sat by his side’ soothing him with a gentle speech, until all his happiness dissolved, and entered, fantas tically mixed and interfused, into the ftino.es of a dream. Then silently calling down bless ings upon his head, Mrs. Upton softly with drew from his side; and left the chamber. ‘ 0 God!’ she said, 'muy the dear old man never know earthly sorrow morel' . Late the following riiorning she went her self to awaken him. How soundly he slept! His thin hands were crossed upon his breast; his pale check rested calmly on the pillow; there wasa.smileon his wan lips, but not a mption, not teven a breath. Edith touched ms brow; itwas cold. She felt bis lips; they were rigid and chilly. She did not shriek or sob or shod it tear, but with a feeling of awe she turned her eyes upword, and, with elapsed hands murmured: 1 OGod, thy will teflone!' Her prayer .ofsb%Jjf-evious night had been answered- hoped. No more earthly sorrow, indeed, could the old man know. A happy door had been opened to him in his Inst mortal hours, and through that his spirit had passed into the blessed > country whore alone perfect happiness and' peace await us. Edith felt this'when her pious heart re peated. with earnest faith and trust: ‘ 0 God, thy will bo done 1' Scaling the Alpine Peaks. —The only Sniss mountain, and sole peak of the. high Alps which has continued to defy the abili ty and daring of man to scale it, and which t -p is still white with virginal snow, is-that called tho Matterhorn. An attempt. Was made to reach it last summer, by Mr,. Whim-, per, an English,member of the Alpine Club. He reached a higher point than bail hitherto been reached’; but an accidental fall, which may bo truly described as oneofthe mostmi raculbus escapes from instant death on record, ea.used him to abandon all further assaults on tho virgin summit. In ascending the mass of ice and snow, Mr. Whimper, who was alone, was compelled in one place to cut a se ries of steps in'the ice. Knowing there was no further difficulty of that kind to bo feared, ho . left his hatchet liehiued him, and on re turning from his baffled attempt to mount, he found, to his horror, that his steps were gone. The sun had molted them away. As his mtchot could not he recovered, ho leaned over the precipice and began to", prod at the ice with his alpenstock. Some snow gave way, and ho rolled over the ledge, grazing his face and body on tho rocks and ridges, crash, crash, down the-cades of a chasm 800 feet deep 1 By a happy chance he was caught in a rough bed on tho crest precipice scarcely equaled in the Alps, and there re mained for an instant stunned and bleeding, though not seriously hunt. He is slowly re covering from thophockand from his wounds. A few days later, Professor Typhal appeared. Mr. Whimper’s tools and oxperiebce-we.ro placed at his disposal, dud he seV'off Tult of confidence and courage. But hie •courage and endurance wore taxed in vain. Again and again he risked his life. Higher than any Out} has.ever boon up the peak he crept and climbed ; higher than, Mr. Wliimper, but tho steepness of tho highest peak repuls ed him, and the undaunted but unsuccessful mountaineer left the Matterhorn unsealed. Don’t Croak!— No'! no! friend, Whatever jveak an .1 unmanly things you do; don’t croak. It’s a bad habit, a useless habit, a pernicious habit,and in a period like the present, positive ly sinful. if tinies are hard, croaking don’t better theni. If business is dull, work the harder and smite the more. Your neighbors will thank you for it, your children will ' lliank you for it. ; ;.It is impossible to ruin a man who works,lfaril, is always cheerful and , ITAYuaVi ima gines every stfiiw;that r lies in his way an im passable barrier, or, when his path becomes really difficult, sits., down on the nearest curbstone, arid-goes id;!,blubbering over In's “ bad luck” instead effecting himself brave ly and ebeerfully. to sflrmount the obstacle and change the.“luck,” lie cahnbt of b’ridrsc expect to succeed. Such a man not only fails himself, but discourages.his neighbors, and helps to pull them down. Croaking is 3s contagions ns the measles, and twice as estruotive to manly vigor and health. No man has any more right to introduce the one malady than the other. Socioty'instinct ivdly'sliuns a sour face,, and always fee|&jkind ly* towards a pleasant society is rh/ht. - Intelligence and Liberty.— The Phil adelphia Daily ' News in. closing an article in regard to the rebellion,’ 'says: ' -‘lt should have been the care of the intel ligent and ii fhiehtial among us, that in every part of. the Union the people should ho .thor oughly educated in all the duties of citizens, and made to know how to enjoy and exercise those rights, which Constitutional G >vcrn morits are intended to secure to every one. , Intelligence and virtue are the chief pillars of the Temple of Liberty;.and virtue are. un less they bo diffused through the whole land, ana made toinfluoneo the sentiments and ac tion of all men, how can wo hope to perpetu ate our free institutions ? Tt has been well and truly said that ‘ Righteousness exalteth a nation and it is only by correct deport ment and the exercise of truly Christian feeling that we can hope - to prosper, and to make those who shall come after us worthy of tno heritage of freemen. Watty Morrison, a Scotch clergyman, was a man of great wit and humor. On a certain occasion ho entreated an officer at Fort George to pardon a poor fellow that,was sent to the hnlbeart. The nffiber offered to grant his request if lid Would in return grant him the firrt favor ho would ask. M,r.’ Mor rison agreed to this, and the officer immedi ately demanded that the ceremony of baptism shoiild be performed on a puppy.. , Thti cler gyman agreed to it; and a party of gentlemen assembled to witness the novel haptisnl.—i Mr. Morrison desired the officer to hold up the dog, as was necessary in the baptism of children, and said; ‘ As I am a Minister of Scotland, I must proceed according to the ceremonies of the church. ’ ‘ Certainly,'said the Major, ‘I want nil the ceremony.’ . ‘Well, then, Major, I begin by the ques tion—do you acknowledge yourself to bo the father of this puppy f' A ronr of laughter burst from the crowd, nnd the officer throw tbo candidate for bap tism away; ' . 'Not She I—Dean Ramsey tells a story of a Scotch old maid of the last'century, who, on being importuned to subscribe to raise sold iers for the king, indignantly replied: ‘ln deed. I’ll do noe nao sic thing ; I never could raise a man for myscl, and I’m no going to raise mender King George. fT~y The prayer ol deeds is oltener answered than the prayer of words. [C7*Tho two best books for a child, are a good mother’s face and life. [C7* If you would have a blessing upon your riches, bestow a good portion of them in charity. O” Evil thoughts are enemies than lions nnd tigers, for wo can keep out of the way of wild boasts, but bad thoughts uin their way everywhere. The cup that is full of good thoughts, bad thoughts find no room to enter. - O’- The .camel, whoso hump will pass through e needle’s eye, can thread tbo pass age without difficulty. Timely Scrubbing. Abigail ! water soap towels quick 1 —a brush—get me his tooth brush, nail-brush, scrubber, anything I Oh! fill his mouth plaster it in—the nasty, filthy stuff! ‘Hold him. James! hold his mouth open, head’ back —fast, James !' and all this in a perfect tem pest of excitement; and hastily throwing a towel around the boy, and foiling up her sleeves, she entered upon the cleaning opera tion. * Good gracious! Miss Osborne, what is the matter ? You’re goin’ on drofful,' said Abi jail, hardly knowing whether to laugh or to cry at the strange catastrophe. ‘ Has he hurt himself, Miss Osborne ?’ ven tured to inquire James, holding , the' strug gling boy in his firmegrasp. ‘ Has he got thß toothache? What ails you, Willie?’ ‘ Tobacco ! . Janies; tobacco!’ eagerly fo ’snmed Mrs. Osborne. * Our boy outdfft illie, chewing pig tail I—had his mouth full—teet v all black—tongue all dirty—breath—ah I pah ! shall I ever get it clean V And in went the soap and the clipping brush, until tho child’s mouth looked like a shaving pot, and he Was nearly strangled in his efforts Id re sist,the offensive application. ..‘.Hold still, child, hold still,’ she exclaimed; * soap’s clean, but tobacco isn’t 1 Ah 1 the dir- 1 , ty poison stuff!’. Hold still; I’ll scrub it off if I can. There, now, rinao your mouth; rinse it well; gargle the water in your throat; and the mother, suffering the flurry to sub side. sank into a 'chair.- The three witnesses stood by amazed. ' •’ ‘ If ever?! seed sich a time T said Miss Ah- ■ ignil, as shij returned, laughing, to her cook ing-stovc. : ‘ Soap’s healthy ; they say it cures bile/ remarked James, dryly, ns he proceeded to his ordinary routine of business : ‘ but I de clare ’tain’t so pleasant to have it chucked down yimr throat of that rate;’ ‘ Rinse it well, Willie.’ said his mother; ‘ take plenty of water—three, four, a dozen, times.’ . , There was no need of that exhortation, for more rinsings and gurglings than could bo counted were necessary to take the taste of that strong, coarse soap out of the poor child's mouth.- At lust, gaspings and swallow ings innumerable, bo recovered bis speech, while tears of ii ngeir, frigh t. surprise or shame, or perhaps"all together, flowed freely down his cheeks. ‘ you’re too bad, mother ; you 'most killed me. ’Twau’t pigtail lit all—'twas lioney dew.’ ' ‘ "Twas tobacco, child, tobacco ,- that’s what it was, and that’s enough. No matter how much they .honey and sweeten it up ; ’twas tobacco, the. filthy, poisonous w.eed.i in my Willie’s mouth.. What do you think father’ll say ?’ , •■■■ ; ’That was an unanswerable question;— Willio didn’t like even to think about it.' So his mother, who, liy this time, had resumed, her" usual tranquility, wiped the boy’s face; and leading him back to the sitting soOm, an swered it for him. ‘ lie’ll say, A'Villie, that he Ja aslmmed f . inoVuncd! tlmf a child of his should ddsuch a course, vulgar, dirty thing. He’ll say* that he is grieved that you,, knowing what his I opinion arid.practice lire about'the use of to- I hneep, should go contrary to his wishes, and disobey and dishonor him by chewing it.— lie’ll bp surprised, perfectly astonished, that, after what was said upon the subject only the other night, you should slyly and deceitfully commit such a fault. Willie, he’ll under stand now, and so'shall I; why you - did not. join the society in school, and why you wore not willing to remain and hear your teacher’s lecture. • O Willio! my son, my dear child; I would not have believed it possible thatyoit should have acted so wickedly.’ The mother, was silent, and' her face was sad. Willie stood looking earnestly into the fire,' the big-, tears rolling down his cheeks. . . Romantic Love Scene. —’Tie past tha hour of midnight. . The golden god of. day,, when yesterday drove his emblazoned chariot through the heavens, Inis ceased shining on the earth, and a black pall reigns over the .lower section of our city. Nothing is heard save the distant stop of the melancholy hill pbstcr as ho pursues his.homeward Way 1 Sud denly a sound monks the stillness—it is tho voice of Frederick William calling in plain tive tones upon his beloved Florence Amelia. ‘Throw open the lattice, love, and look down upon tho casement; for I, your dour Frederick ani here;’ ‘What brings Uico at this time of tho night, when all is till and gloomy? ‘ 1 oomo to offers thepmy heart. Upon my soul I love thee—truly; Wildly, passionate ly love thee.. Dost thod reciprocate ? The maiden hluslied tvs she hesitated, . ‘ Ah,’ cried he, and tho face of our hero lit up with a sardonic smile, ‘ thou lovest anoth er!’ , ‘No 1 no ! no !’ cried Florence. ‘ Then why not rush to this bosom that l* bursting to receive time ?’ ‘ Because,’ replied the innocent, but still trembling-damsel, ‘ I am undretsedl' Washington at My dearly beloved hearers,’ said a very popular preaolier down south, when hafangueing his hearers on tho importance of perseverance and forti tude during tliopresont war, ‘you must do what General Washington done at the battle of Waterloo. In the heat of the.skirmisli hi« horse.was killed by a British capnon hail.-—■ Did Washington give up his horse to the ene my? Not ho. lie sung out at the top jif his voice. ‘A horse, ahorse! my kingdom fori horse!’ A horse was instantly brought him by Frank Marion, and ho drove the British (rom the field, and secured tho liberty of South Carolina.’ . To Young Men.—Two young then Com - monoed the sail making business at Philadel- - phia. ■ They bought a lot of ducks from-Ste phen Girard on credit, and a friend had en gaged to endorse for them. Eaoh caught a roll nhd was carrying it off when Girard’ ro'- marked : ‘ Had you not bettor got a dray ?’ ‘No, it is not far, and wo can carry it curt selves.’ - j. ‘Tell your friend ho needn’t endorse,youp note. I'll take it without.’ [C7~ The ‘Down East Debating. Society,’ having dismissed the question ‘ where does uro go to when it goes out? have got a-new and more exciting.one up; .when a house is destroyed by fire, does it burn down or burn up f There will probably ha a. warm debate on this question. ■ O" At a recent conference meeting 19 Pennsylvania, the members were asked ‘how many brethren can yon accommodate at your house ?’ One lady arose saying ‘ I can Mean two, but I can eat os many as you will send along.’ Xj* Debts are troublesome, a? “ **,l.* . rule in those days, they don't giro halt •• much trouble to debtors as to creditors. . NO. SO.