Terms of Publication. THE TIOGA COUNTY AGITATOR i> pbb luhed every ThurocUy Morning, and mailed to sub scribe* at lie very reoionablq pried of One Dot, he per annum, jnaariaiijjinadtwnee. Lit is intend cd to notify every subscriber when the term for which he has paid shall hare expired, by the stamp —“Time Out," on the margin of the last paper. The paper will then be'stopped until a (briber re mittance be received. By this arrangement no man can be broOght in debt to the printer. Tl« Aqitatoe. is the Official Paper of the Coun ty, with a large and Readily increasing circulation, reaching into nearly’ every neighborhood In the ■County. It is sent free of pottage to any Pootofflw within the county limits, and to those living within tha limits,but whose mostconvenient posloffica may be in an adjoining County, ißusiness Cards, not exceeding 5 fines, paper in cluded, $4 per year Seim OLD ROGER JOHNSON. m *ut. canto*. ‘‘ Ten cents, ten cents !’ murmured old Rog er Johnson, fumbling the bit of silver in his pal m ‘Ton cents,’be replied childishly, a feeble smile flittering over his lips, with a sickly glare on his haggard features; ‘ tisn’l much, but it will buy my supper—breakfast, dinner, supper, all in one—and God be thank ful for that—God be thankful for that. 1 ’ His words died away to an inaudible whis per, and hugging his tattered garment around him, he tottered along the street. It was the close of a rude winter’s day.— The evening dusk had fallen, and a few flakes of snow fluttered down out of the dark gray clouds that floated over the city. As old Rog er picked his away carefully across the icy slabs, a gay young lamplighter passed on his evening round, set 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 Ift- ' Ha " said Roger, wiih a ghost of a laugh flitting airly from his numb, cold lips, 1 that’s a good omen. Light, light, golden light, too, all over my poor old ragged shbes I So in my lift I’ve beeii groping, though Heaven Knows 1 canered as gaily as any youth after wards —til’ now the cold winter night’s set ting in and n s an powerful dark before me— so dark and chill and threatening ! But there will come a gleam soon—just like this which brightens all around me—and—and—’ The old man was mumbling again—with a sort of childish, creamy glee, when’selting his foot incautiously upon a clod oC ice, he slip cdand fell helplessly upon the frozen ground. • Hallo, old man— you’ic hurl ?' cried a mrr n schoo. u 'lies oowr, mere looking after pins,’ laughed anotne;, sliding by, with a sled at ins ne-. Tne boys passed on and the old man strug gled to regain his fee, Bu; he was feeble ant rncumaik, and me fall had well nigh sliahen (be life out of inn?. W|\en he came a little io himself ne observed that a kind gentleman was assisting 'him with chee'rmrg wor. " No t am not much aansaged,” said Rog er, gralefulfj 1 Tuans you, ii wouldn’t have been muen matter if! had broken my neck, i ain’t of muen account in this world, nobody would miss old Roger Johnson.’ 1 Have vou tar to go ’’ asked the stran- “ Not 10-oigh',, thank Heaver,. t live, or rather stay, right around l«e corner here, third ooor m> Hie alle - 1 Well, good night le yon. Mind and keep your iegs under you,' cried the stranger lie passed or., and the old'man, dragging his snaking limns into a provision shop on a cornet, purchased a loafofbread with the bit of silver to which ne tiao ciung tightly all me while, men creeping with unsteady steps into me alley, entered a dark, dilapidated door-way wim ms supper under his arm. Ashe was siurajiimg up a dismal old stair case, a sharp feminine voice cried out to him trom the ifioor of Hie first landing, ■ k that you Johnson" ‘i suppose it is, though 1 sometimes more than halfbelieve i am somebody else,’ repli ed me oiu mu.. 1 Where does mat light come from?' asked lioge:. I bo you indulge m lamp light, for it is hardly dart,, Mrs. Slone? 1 Come in here, ana you’ll see? There you didn’t expect such a fire as that; did you, Johnsc. ' 1 liiess you, woman, mat 1 didn't I You are as warm as toast hern. How jolly it is 10 see a stove all of a glow like that. Where dm your coal come from? 1 o,’ said Mrs. Slone, ‘ Sydney brought me three dollars lo day ; and me child ten were all a shivering and chattering on the lillle wood fire, I took it into my head that these inrce dollars should go lo getting us all warm once, if we were neve’- warm again in our iivei So what did Ido bul go and order a ouartcr of a ton of coal and (he young ones nnve been as merry as crickets ever since.— The v’re omle comen;’lo g n without t heir sup per, so mere s a good fire for ihem lo huddle down by Come in it’s a free warm Johnson. As long as the coal lasts I want everybody lo enjov it that car. you shall sn wiih us this evening, your room is awful dreary, John -80” The frozen tears thawed in the old man's eves; but his voice was so choked that he could not express his thanks. Seating him selrin an old ricketv chair, he warmed his cold shins, and rubbed his shrivelled hands over the stove, patted the children’s headsand cnued dv dividing me larger, portion of his toat among tnem, reserving hut a scanty frag ment for irnnsei.'. Mrs. btono remonstrated against hisgener ost;,. children seized upon the food so eagerly that me gratefu. old man declared with tears running uown h.s cheeks, that it uid him more gooa to see them eat, iban io,- him to sit down ana eat a most bountiful Tne meagre meal was soon concluded when heavy footsteps were beard upon the stairs. The poor woman’s heart almost ceased to uea. She turned pale lhai the old man ob served per cnange 01 countenance, oven in ■nai dim ligh. ‘lt is father! 1 whispered the children. At that moment on angry voice demanded, * , | n “ °alh, why she did not hold a light, hit ” aa M rs - Stone, to the cowering- Sne opened the door, and presently a shah u. ■ irosi- bmci.. tmddic-ogco man came blue rr Tj r 11:11 j aehotya to the Bptmato* of the 3m of iFveehom anh the .aimeaa at stealths Stfoom' COBB, STURRQCK & CO., VOL; B. terjog iinlo the. room; it was the woman’ B husband, who, always, wjien he had money to spend, deserted his family for the grog-' shop, and who returned to them for shelter. He was a brutal, tyranical man, though he had not always been so, in sooth—and his appearance was the signal for general trouble and fear. It made poor old Roger Johnson’s heart burn in his bosom to hear. Jacob. Stone demand money of his wife, and curse her because she had .that day spentall their oldest son’s earnings for fuel; and when the unfeel ing father snatched from the hand ofa sickly child, (he crustlhal had been given it to gnaw, the old man spoke out his indignation. This led to a sharp quarrel and he was driven, with oaths from the room. Jacob slamed the door after him, and the feeble lodger crept darkling up to his cold and windy attic. He sighed as he sal there in the gloom, on (he uninviting bed. The comfort he had just tasted made the present desolation more biller by the contrast. The old man huddled himself together with the tattered bed-clothing wrapped around him, and resting his elbows on his knees, wept and sobbed like a child. It seemed the darkest of all the dark, dark hours he had yet known. Always till now, he had some little ray of hope when the gloom was (he thickest, but in the present anguish, nothing was left him but to die. Once the old man started’up and cursed himself for n fool. He was half famished in a wintry garret; and the reflection that be had given away to the greedy ones of Jacob Slone, nearly the whole of his last loaf, ! fired fyim with indignation at his own folly. 1 1 deserve to starve,’ he muttered. ‘ The world is all selfishness, and he who gives is a dull dolt—let him suffer" ButO! this bun -ger-and cold I Have 1 deserved so much V There were others well fed and warmed (bat night. Roger thought of them ; he saw hap py families with smilling faces silling around glowing hearths. Then he wept again—not now with envy or remorse. He thanked God that there was comfort in the world, though his lot was to suffer. He thought of Ihe man who gave him the money that purchased the loaf; of him who lifted him up when he had falleh, and spoken kind words to him; of the goptf and patient Mrs. Stone, the mother of the children he had fed; and for all his hun gry pangs, he fall richly compensated, in the consciousness of having done one seif, for get ting charitable act, which made him, in spite of his poverty and rags, a brolher to all the good and noble hearts.that throb in hutnan clay. The old man's limbs meanwh'ile'gVew chill and numb; and he was wondering if il wo’d "be possible for him to gel warm if he Went to bed, when he heard a step on the emirs, and presently saw a light shining through the wide tracks around Ihe door. * Have you gone to bed, Johnson ?’ Ml was Mrs. Slone’s voice, and the old mani aroused himself lo answer. ‘No ( I thought I'd Iry a sitting frethse first,’said he, with a sad, playful humol'.— ‘ Anything wanted ?' • Yes,' replied the woman. 1 There’s aVrian downstairs that wishes to see you.’ ‘ To see me ?’ echoed the astonishdd lodger, starting up. ‘ You didn’t mean meV ■' Mrs.jStdno did fnetrn him indeed ; and ha hastened to shake the coverlid from his Shoul ders, and accompany her downstairs. All was quiet in her rbonfi, Jacob having fallen asleep by the stove, stupdfied by the fire.— The caller was wailing in the dark entry be low ; and the woman held the lamp while Roger went down to speak with him. The old man was tremulous with the vague apprehension that something was going lo happen lo him ; nor was this fear dissipated when in the person who took his hand and addressed him with kindly tones, he recogni ed (he man who had so lately helped him lo regain his fooling in the slippery street. ‘ I was afraid I should not find you,’ said fhe visitor. 1 But from the lime I left you, your words, ‘Old Roger Johnson—aronnd the corner, third door up the alley,’ kept ring ing my ears, and [ was finally compelled to come back and look for you.’ • God bless you sir,’ said the shivering old man. ‘ This is an honor I don't know how 1 have deserved ; you must have made a great mistake.’ ‘Not at all, I thought that you might be very poor, and in need o( assistance.’ • True, true, I am poor enough, but ; Roger’s voice (ailed him, and hd began to shake again ns will! the ague. ‘ You are cold,’ said his new friend. ‘Come let’s step into yonder shop and talk over mat ters.’ Roger hesitated. ‘ They turn me out, sir, when I go there to get warm.’ , • They will not turn md out,’ replied the other. 1 Come along.’ i They entered a common refreshment sa loon, and by the countenance arid protection oC his new friend, Roger was permitted to enjoy a seat by therstove. I You look like a man who has seen hard limes, 1 observed the stranger. ‘ 1 have suffered almost everything sir,’ re plied Johnson, in n subdued, unsteady tone. 1 1 don’t know why 1 atn left to live.’ ‘ But you have somel idea of happiness in store for you yet; no jnan is without that, you know,’ ' I I sometimes dream of such a thing. I have hopes, I have hopes, sir— rainbow col ored, some of ’am are 100. But its all delu sion. My casilea-nre built in the- auvbul they re forever falling down abput apyears. I know-what would make me happy, sjr. but what’s the use of talking? Ifa something I cannot have.’ . ‘Speak it out, friend Johnson,’ cried the, stranger, 1 But bo careful and not place your Trrrrrs \Vhl.l,Sßoßot.(in, TIOfiA fOCSTV, TA,, THURSDAY MORATSG, JAM'.VHV Cm expectations too'higH. The gods love 1 tiibdes ly, you knipw/’ , ‘ • * ’*" ;' ' ~ 1 Well', sirj U.is this—nothing more nor (ess than three meals a day/ Three mealp'aday!’ ~ ‘I knew you’d calf ‘fifextravagant,’ said Roger, with pi faint smile, Bui 1 would not mind your rich dishes, only give me plenty of bread and potatoes—With now and'then a bit of cheese, or may be a morsel of dried beef or smoked bacon; make me sure of that, day after day, as long as 1 live, so that I can keep clear of the almshouse, and you would see me a happy man, if there is not another,in creation's* * And.haven't you as much already T cried the astonished stranger. Roger replied, that with his poor health, he had found it difficult to gel work that winter, and it was so painful for him to ask alms, that his 'subsistence had not average half a meal a day. ‘ Good heavens!’ exclaimed his friend; ‘in all this wasteful city is it possible that one man can be lound reduced to such extremes 7 One, too, whose happiness would be so cheap ly purchased—three poor meals a day!’ ‘Cheap, if one had the money,* suggested old Roger. ‘I have the money, and by all (hat’s pre cious, I will devote so much of it to a pension, that will afford you this royal bliss,* 1 0, sir, don't jest with me! ‘I am nol jesting, friend Johnson 1, To show you how earnest I am—waiter, cook this man the choicest steak you have. Or would you prefer mutton chops, or anything else on the bill ? Speak for yourself.’ As sopn, as the old man had sufijijienlly recovered from his .amazement to realize his good fortune, he made choice of some cold .fowl, with hot biscuits and coffee, because these comforting items could be most readily procured. Tne sympathetic stranger, who, iby the way, was a fine looking man of fory, with tasteful whiskers, and an exceedingly plea sant eye—seemed to enjoy the meal, although ~he had tasted nothing, quite ns'much as the famished Roger himself. Still the old man was unable to realize that he was to have the luxury of such, living every day.. It seemed .so. m.u?h like glairy story,or dreamt • If you don't believe me, look here, this is my business card. You ought to know me-rperhaps you do.- 1 am rich enough to afford any little caprice of this kind, as you will see by calling at mjnatore tn the morn i“g.’ Roger began to be convinced,. By Ibis rime the -stimulus of food was having its effect, and his happiness in deep quiet laugh* ter and teats.- ... * Now are you sure you are going to be perfectly happy?’ asked Mr. Upton— * three meals a day—all the ;world has (hat, but I don’t know (wo really happy men, Isn’l there something else that you would like?’ 1 1 forgot my clothes,’ said Roger. ‘1 shoflld like a' good warm coat, and whole trousers and shoes, for this cold weather j but then, if I have plenty to eat, I can man age to keep myself warm.’ 1 • -‘The clothes you-shall have,’ rejoined the other. ‘ I had forgotten them myself. ■ Wai ter, call a hack for me. You shall go to my house, friond'Johnaon, and PI) look over my wardrobe this evening, and"see' if I cannot furnish you with an outfit.’ The old man’s heart leaped with joy. Still he seemed to be more than half incli ned to believe it was a trick, even after Mr. Upton had takeh him with him into the hack. ‘ I’ve made Sure of my supper, at any rate,’ said Roger to himself. ‘There’s no trick about that.’ They alighted before a handsome ' biick 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 bright gass-lighl that burned before the just painted steps. The merchant entered by menus of a night key, showing that he fell at home on the pre mises, and presently the old man was intro duced into a snug little library, where among other comforts, there was a fire glowing brightly in the grate. The adventure looked more and more like a reality ; and when, with his own hands, the merchant brought from an adjoining room, coals, vests, pantaloons and shirts, ail good and wholesome, scarcely worn at all, and told him to choose what suited him best, Ro ger chuckled with a deep inward joy, scarce clouded by a doubt. ‘ But 1 ought to have a good wash and shave before getting into anything respecla-i hie in the shope of clothing.’ ‘ I thought of that, and’ so I ordered a warm bath, which will be ready in a few minutes, lam determined to see if it is pos sible to make one man perfectly happ.ja’ 1 ' ■ • ‘ You’ve! chosen a promising subject,’said Johnson, with a smile ol qniet glee. -‘ I’ve a good natural capacity (hallway, and if any man is. suffered'to appreciate comfort,! 1 can set up that modest claim !’ So (he old man was’ put into ihe bath ; (hen barbered with a fellow skilAil with the razor and shears; and finally clad in garments that would have been-respectable on change. Then Roger sat down in an easy chair which Uptoa placed for him before thegrate, and wept like a child. ‘ This reminds me ol my better days—it brings such strange things to my mend ary !’ muttered the old than, . * is 'that alii'< I .thought there might be something else necessary to your happiness I .’ ‘ Nothing—nothing I’ i ‘ Nothing at all, are you sure ?’’ . ‘ cloud- passed. over the old man’s face—' there’s one tiling that I would f L A<i IT A I ,C iiOl ’.Vj'iHll *”i JI»’ f, " THE AGITATION OP THOUGHT IS THE BEGINNING OP WISDOM.” What is the matter)’ askedhia friend. TTT < tt T~77TTTTTT like 'to have n 'liltle. bdt I haVd no favordryoU.’ ! ’ ' L ' ; * Speak out.Ttellyhii, old man. I kneW there 'wiH efse.’ ' I My lodgirigli cheeVtess and cold, ! freeze there tlieSera wnigtila; aqd I airiVsiirelhat the warmest ctdlljrng will be sufficient to har ry my happiness ‘into that gloomy bole.’ ‘ What will you haye then.’ ‘ 0, I ask' nothing, but the truth is, if I was able to rent a more comfortable lodging— ’ ‘What would you fancy? ’Twill do no harm to talk.’ I I am well aware* that the only genuine civilized way of living is to have a house of one’s own ; but that of course, I am not fool ish enough to think of.’ ‘But suppose you were.to have a house, what sort of a house would you like ?’ '■ If you mean just such a bouse as I would like, why I’d say some such a house as this of yours. Everything seems so comfortable here. A man ought io be ns happy as Adam, in an Eden like this.’ ■ 1 Now I’ll tell you what old man,’ cried the enthusiastic merchant, ‘ I can’t think of turn ing myself out of doors, and even for the sake of philosophy ; but if you will ilet me live hero, and have my own way a little, I’ll give ibis house to be your home as long as you live.’ Old Roger Johnson opened his eyes wider with wonder. ‘ It shall be as if you were my father,’said the eccentric Mr. Upton. ‘ Everyting 1 have shall be at your service. You shall sit with me at my table and enjoy three meals a day ; my baker, ray tailor, my servants, ate all yours. So you will have nothing to do but to be happy. ’Twill be.worth the half.pf ray fortune to have a happy .man in! my bouse. What do you say to that 1’ t -r -‘Now you are-mocking me, ’ said lire old man, deeply troubled. j ■ ‘ So you thought at first, but I’ll leach you that 1 was never in more earnest-in all my life.’ , 1 Bui I can never pay you.’ ■ ■ ‘You will pay me, I tell' yon, by being perfectly happy.’ • • ■ 1 it is too much, too much !’ ‘ Not a bit tod much, old man. And lake my word for it, it won’t be long before you'll think of something else necessary to full and complete bliss. • 1 see by your eye yott have already thought of something; am I right?’ 1 Indeed',’ said the old man,- letting drdp 'a' (enir, ‘i can never think of being happy until I know whether my child'Edith siillitves, or what 1 has become of her.’ ‘ Ho, then you have a daughter ?’ ( ‘ I had a daughter j to know that 1 have one, and that she is fair, and good, and hap -t>y .wxi»ld be worth more than all those bles sing* you so lavtsmy Ste.,y- >q know that, is all I ask of Heaven—then 7 would be content to die.’ ‘ But how could you lose sight of your child V ‘ O, it would take a long story to tell you that. The poor thing’s mother married me against ihe wilf of her family, who hated me because 1 was poor. But I was fortunate in 'business, and in the course of time f was able to invite my wife’s proud parents to my own house and treat them os we!! as people ought to be treated; Edith was our third'chifd, tffld all the dearer betause she came late to fill the place of one brother and two sisters,’ Who One after the olhdr had been taken from obr hearts and laid in the grave. VVheh She was thirteen years old, the failure of a largo firm in which-my fortune and reputation were slaked swept away every thing I had earned and (eft me penniless. In the midst of trou ble my poor wife died, and necessity com pelled me to commit Edith to the care of her grand-parents. t ‘ O, ihe sorrows of that lime,’ said (be old man, weeping again. ‘To forget it, and to retrieve my fallen fortunes, I made a voynge to the East Indies. It would take all night to tell you what chances befell me on sea and land. Let all that pass. It is enough to say (hat after an absence of twenty years, I re turned with broken health, poor as when I went abroad. Then commenced a search for my child; but her grand-parents had been dead many years—she had been thrown upon ihe world.. I could find do one to tell me what had become of her—and no one remem bered her even.’ ‘ And is it so necessary to your happiness that you-should find her I’ asked Mr. Upton. 1 Consider how changed she ib by this-time, if indeed she.lives.’ i ‘ I have thought of that,’ replied Roger, ‘ but 0, she was the sweetest little girl. If I could but find her as 1 left her, still a child, then my cup of happiness would be full.’ The merchant arose smiling, noble browed, radiant with the inspiration that filled him. ‘Have faith,’ he cried, ‘have faith, aftd miracles may' yet be performed. I have, power to do you good beybno anything jfbru have yet conceived. Speak the word and it shall be done. Shall I restore your child V ■ He looked and spoke Ifltb a prophet,* ; The old nion ■'fead' lhriliecf anti 'awed. His lips moved wilh a Tcoble rnurmur Land on the In stant, open'flew a door I 'at the merchant’s toqch and iqto the full Hood of light,, which streamed frorp the astral Ipmp, stepped the graceful form of a young girl fresh and beau tiful, and glad - , with cufjs rippling ovyr her head and. neck. *My own child—my., pwp Edith I.’, cried the wonder qtrucli old fnnn. ■ ‘ But it-cannot be,’ he falle/ed< sinkingsbpck upon the chair from which he had risen in the ettqilemeni.of the moment, ‘ it cannot be.’ ‘Look nr her/ said the merchant, ‘and have faith.’ The old man looked again. Those melt ing blue eyes, (hat sweet and cherry mouth those dimpled cheeks, the fair wjiite brow, ITT '0 'T>' V ill PUBLISHERS & PROPRIETORS.' and demure chiti, every feature was the 'child’s—Hib Eijfiih’s. Yet U was not his child that stood before .HiirT;Jitse, she was an ap. parition (hat might at any time' vanish into the air.'- . * Who are you darling/ he said in broken accents. ■ -■ ; 1 1 1 Um Edith Johnson,’ said the child with a-bashful smile. •" The old man took her imp his" arms, and bowed his face over that fair head, and sobbed out his emotion. 1 1 understand U now,’ he said, speaking with an effort, * this is my child's child—my Edith’s Edith—the woman, ihe mother, where is she 7’ Already a slender female (brm was kneel ing at the old man’s . feet; affectionate lips kissed bis bands; affectionate eyes bathed them in tears. . ‘ Father—Father!’ The kneelei looked up. It seemed his own lost wife (hot had coma up out of the past to embrace him there again I O Time! O miracle of life l 0 won drous divine law ! ever working in the broad day and in the secrecy and silence of the night, when we sleep, the some pushing for ward the germ into the plant, from the plant producing flower and fruit, envoking new germs, creating alt things news, each hour and each moment of the day, parent' and child, parent and child forever. Such thoughts whirled and burned in the old man’s brain, as daughter and grand daughter lay in his arms and his hot tears tained downward upon their heads. ‘ How is it that I have never found you be fore, dear father?’ said Mrs. Upton, for she was the, merchant’s wile. ‘ How' I have longed to hear of you, 10, kno>y if you were}, alive. I thought you,must,have died in gome .-foreign land, but, when , my good husband here came bonne this evening and told me he bad heard a-man calling.himself Rogerjobn ,-aon something said to mo deep in-my soul, that it was. you. ‘ 1 told him of this soar upon yonr cheek ; he had observed it, and had’no longer any ■doubt that you were my father. ■ How 1 wished lo go with him when he went back to try to.find you. But he.said the truth must be disclosed id you carefully and by de grees, for he thought you ill aud feeble ; ,so I have waited patiently for this moment, when I could safely throw myself at your feel and call vou father.’ ‘ls it not a dream I It is real; yes, you are; you are my- child I’ said the excited old "man. O God beohanked. •Amen,’ responded the-generous-hearted merchant, who stood looking on with glisten ng/Cyes. ‘ Don’t weep, father,’ pleaded Edith, weep ing herself, the while, ’ your trials ate now arfu»o..> ' ' You have every wish or j U „r heart, and at! you hava to do is ip be perfectly ‘happy,’ added her husband. • Yes,yes,’ said the old man, ‘ bpt why,’ putting his arm around his grandchild’s neck with lender playfulness, ‘ why dicj you (ell me your name was Edith Johnson V ■ 1 That is.my name,’ said (ha young girl, ‘ Edith Johnson Upton. , And if you are my grandfather, 1 am so glad, I,shall love you iso much.’ ‘ I shall be afraid to go to sleep to night,’ mused the old man, ‘ for fear that When I wake I shall find myself in Mrs. Stone’s attic, and this will be a dream that has passed.— But if all of it isn’t a dream, there Is one thing required to give us perfect peace of mind.’ * Poor Mrs. Stone and her' children, some thing should be done for them. Protect her from her brutal husband, and procure her eldest son a good situation, where his time and his talents will bring comfort to that poor family.’ ‘ That shall be done if there is any virtue in money,' said Mrs. Upton; ‘-is there any thing else!’ { ‘ Nothing: oply let me know your history, my Edith.’ ; ‘ You shall lie down, father, and 1 will talk to you about myself until you-fell asleep.— Don’t be afeaid father,’ said the young woman tenderly. ‘ I twill take.good care that you-do wake in Mrs. Slone’s attic.’ So the old man was conducted to a com fortable chamber, and when he.was peace fully esconced in the soft sheets of a couch, his daughter! came lb him and sat by his side, soothing him with gentle speech until all this happiness dissolved and mixed and interfused into the fancies of a dream. Then silently calling down blessings upon his hepd, Mrs. Upton spf lly withdrew from his side and left the chamber. „ ‘0 God,’ she said, ‘may the dear old man never know earthly sorrows more.' Late the following morning she went her self to awaken him. How soundly he slept. His thin hands were crossed upon his breast j his pale cheek rested calmly on thepiilow ; there was a smile on bis thin n lips, but libt a motion, not even a breath. Edith touched his brow; it was cold; She fell his lips; -they were rigid and chill. ' She did no! shriek or sob, or shed onu tear, but a feeling of owe came ovdr her ; she turned her eyes upward, and with a clasped 'hnnds mumfhured: ‘O'God, thy will bo done!’ Her prayeW of tfid' previous night had been 1 answered not tts she had hoped. No trioW: trouble’would” the’old man know. A happy door Had been iri'hts. last'mbrtal'hou/s, and through (hat his’ ,, spii i it had ’passed inw the blessed ,'tobnlry where alone'perfect peace Slid' happiness await us. Edith (ell this when her pious h'eart'repeal ed with earnest faith and trust ; ‘ 0 God, thv’ will be done.* Protts Abstraction;—Having your pocket picked while at church Rate* of Advertising, will te charged 81 perwoaw of fourteen liner, fobenSfor three inlertlons, tnd 95 cenUfw.eserysohSequerUineortian. All adrertise meats of less then fourteen lines Considered U | •juaie. The following rates will be chirred for Quarterly, Half-Yearly end YdaHy adrertlsin g 9 montSh. 6 months, 12 mb’# 1 Square,(l4line*,) . 83 50 84 50 MOD 1 Square*,. ..... 400 600 . 800 column, . .... ... 10 00 15 00 90 00 'column.. - . . .1800 30 00 +0 00 i*l M 1 ... > .!» Alladvertisements not having the number or in. sertions marKed upon idem, will bo kepi in nntil or dered anti end charged accordingly. .Posters, Handbills, B)ll,and Letter Heads, and ail Kinds of Jabbing done in country establishments, executed deafly and promptly. Justices 1 , Consta blea’ and other BLANKS, constantly on hand and •printed, to order. 1 i ' NO. 26. one experiences now-a-daya in. getting hold of reliable news, when every polnfcarpartisan paper finds its interest, jn teeing a good story for its own side, reminds us of an incident related.by an old sea-cap lain, some'lweniy years ago. He says: “It was coming from Calcutta in a good ship fl then commanded; 1 had been away from home eleven months, during whidh lime 1 had heard no news from thence, either pub lic or private. OS’ Barnegat.we fell in with a fishing-smack, having on hoard a man and boy, father and son. U’e wanted soma fresh fish, and the father,coming aboard, we then made a bargain with him, receiving ip exchange for a real India bandanna hand kerchief, a plentiful supply. “ Well, skipper,” said I, after the barter was over, “ what’s the news?” He nodded his head thoughtfully fora moment,and said, potatoes is twenty-five cents a bus’hei.” “ Is it possible ?” I asked. “ But the news, friend, what’s the news I” Wal, there was a great crop on ’em last fall,” said he. “ Never m'md the potatoes,” I replied, tell us the news—what’s going on in the political world ?” ■ Politikil I’ said the fisherman, standing silently for a few moments,/ Politikil! d’ye see that fellow in. my boat therel' pointing to a mop-headed foljlow of eighteen. ‘ WaJ, captain, (hat 'archsp made two hundred doi-> lars last winter!’ Thero.wasno getting anything out of him, so we parted. Three or four years after ward. on my relurn-from another voyage, on the'same coast, 1 again met the same fisher man. tie remembered'me, took the identic, al'bandanii I had given him, waved it with a cheer above his, head, and s»id I should have the biggest and best fish he had. 1 made an other purchase of him and was again anx ious for (he news. ■ VVbat's the news!’ 1 enquired, ‘Who’s .President V —lt was just after a general elec tion. / Dfye recollect the boy that 1 had in the smack with me, the one that made the two hundred dollars V said the fisherman. ' Yes, 1, sold T. " 1 Wal,’ he replied, his hard eyes becoming watery, ‘ the little cuss is dead !’ ‘ ,\nd that is all 1 ever got out of the fish erman of Baroegat, 1 said the captain. The late Dr. Boyinton was once disputing with a farmer about the ease - with which a minister earned his money. “ Now,” says the farmer, 11 when vou are cailed upon to marity a couple you never expect a ■ ■ lees sum than three dollars, and you sometimes get ten dollars—this for a few minutes’ service.' 1 “ Pooh !” replied the doctor, “ 1 would agree to give you half of my very next mar riage fee for a bushel of potatoes." Well,” said the larmer, “I’ll taka your offer, and send you the potatoes. A few days afterwards, the doctor wS* called on to splice a loving couple at Dog town, a place about lour miles from where he lived. When the ceremony was over, the bridegroom said to>the worthy minister : Well, parson, I Sp'ose I must- fork over somelhing for your trouble. What say you to taking 1 one of my terrier pups 1 The best breed,4 tell you m the country. Shocking nice to have in the barn. Worth full five dollars,' and I epose a figure two would do for the slice, eh 1 The doctor took the pup with joy. The joke was 100 good; he hastened to the far mer, saying, now, friend, here is my fee— how shall We divide it 1 The farmer relished the joke so well, that he increased the Potatoes to half-a-dozen bushels, - Antics of tub Widows. —Do you think moire antique becoming on a widow /” said young widow to Mrs. Partington, as she exhibited a morning dress, elaborately trimmed and a bonnet of ihe latest mode. The old lady scanned her attentively through her glasses before she could answer. '“More antic 1" said she at length, and her finger was raised up like a note of exclamation, “ I should think less antic would be more becom ing in a widow. Widows more antic must be them spoke of by Paul lo Timothy, w(v> wax wanton and will marry. Well, well, let ’em, tho’ where a woihan has once mar* ried with a' congealing and warm heart— looking straight at the rigid profile of the cor pora! on the wall —one that bents responsible to her own, she wilt ncv.er want to enter the maritime state again. ll There Was a tremu lousness in Her voice, a glistening in her eyo like a dew drop on a morning 1 glory, the firi ger fell td her side, and she tarried to look but of thfe window after Ike; who was sailing a shingle boat- id a mb of rain water, with a garden' mad ns passenger. And the young widow withdrew lo read what Papl had said, evidently disgusted with the : dame's misap prehension of herquesiion, though there was a lesson to her ih lhe blunder. A mon;' (he many errors into which- hu manity is marc than apt to tall, is that of magnifying ThefauKs and dc'pmcidiirig the ' virtues' of their 1 neighbors, entirely forgetful hf Iheil'owti smsi A Soluibs in one of iha hospitals of the Crimea, what he.hadlosay of Miss Nightingale, .the- philanthropic- nurse, fljs apsvyer : was—“ I•. hopb she.will go to heaven.without dying*’ „ . , With many readers, brilliancy of stylo passes for 'affl(iehob‘o’r thought ft hey mistake bolfercnps irr the grass ‘ for Immeasurable gold mines under the ground. Getting the Neva, The Marriage Fee.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers