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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 <nr* longer ana any doubt that you wore
indeed my father. How l wished to go with
him when ho went back to find you. But
he-said the truth must bo disclosed to you
.‘carefully and by degrees;; for he thought you
HI ’and feeble ; so l Imveyvaitejl patiently tor
this moment, when I could safely throw my
self at your .feet and father 1’ ..
* It is not all a dreamt’lt is all veal—'yon
are, you are my child!' said the excited old
mnn—'O, God be thanked 1’
‘Amen!’ responded the generous-hcarte.d
merchant, 'looking on with glistening e3 T es.
‘ Don’t weep,-father/ pleaded Edith, weep
ing herself the while’; ;*/our trials are now
all over,’ . i
.;‘3T*ou' have every wishrof your heart, and
all you have to do is to be perfectly happy/
added her husband.
’•■Tevyesr said the old. man ; ‘but why/'
patting his with tender
playfulness, ‘ why did ybt| tell me your name
was Bißth Johnson ?’ *- r v
* That is my nniue/i.replied (ho young
girl,—‘ Edith Johnson UpTpn.,-Amlifyou are
my grandfather, 1 am soCglatil I shall love
you so much !'. f-’
,* I shall* be afraid to gi>,'.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.