Terms of Publication. TUE TIOGA COUNTY AGITATOR is pub lished every Thursday Morning, and mailed to sub scriber* at the very reasonable price of On* Dol lar per annum, invariahlyin advance. It is intend ed to notify every 'subscriber when the term for which he has paid shall have expired, by the stamp —••Time Oat,” on'the margin of the last paper. The paper will then be stopped until a farther re mittance be received. By this arrangement no man can be brought in debt to the printer. Tils Agitator is the Official raper of the Conn tv with a large and steadily increasing circulation reaching into nearly every neighborhood in the County. R is seat free of pottageloany Post-office within the county limits, and to those living within th o limits, but whose most convenient postoffice may be in an adjoining Coanty. ' Business Cards, not exceeding 5 lines, paper ih eluded, 9i pet year. The Young Soldier of Seventy-Six. A TALE OP THE BEVOLUTION. Among the youthful, but bold and fearless asserters of American rights during ibis pe riod (the American Revolution) was a young man, or rather we should oalfhinn a boy, by ihe name of Arthur Stewart. He had enter ed the army of the Revolution at the early •age of fifteen. He was born and reared in the good old Bay Stale (a State worthy to claim such a boy). He had manifested very early in life a fearless and warlike ".He ac cordingly joined a company of volunteers, during the disastrous period \ij/ I7tW’76, and during a giealer part of th ary war.jjvas a (he American army which TvasAndflwihe commtuu]x2£«£kffii EahiaiitJ Gapp./Weath er beo commanded the company to whlcmfie Captain well understood t#e warliko_merits of the but he wa/ not personally known to General Putnam, sjf indeed it would have been mere luck and I chance if he had been. He had already sig nalized himself in one or two hard-fought 1 battles, and but for his extreme youth would 1 at the time of which we are about to speak, have been promoted to the rank of ensign or lieutenant. The incidents of the following story occurred just on the eve of the battle of . The British army was lying encamped within two miles of the Americans. The (wo armies had been patching each olher’s movements for several days, without coming to a general engagement. At length, on the eve of the 22d of , ;the Americans and British were making preparations for the night’s rest, expecting on the morrow to try the precarious fortunes of a general fight. The captains of the several American com panies were busily employed in choosing sen tinels, who were to stand guard- during the night. Capt. Welherbee bad already select ed from his own company (we think by lot) all his quota of men except one. He was anxiously engaged in making out the full number, when, as good fortune or bad would have it, we don’t know which, Gen. Putnam passed that way. As he approached, the captain was in the act of calling from the ranks, Arthur Stewart, a beardless boy, to act the part of a sentinel that night. The General, with mingled .emotions"of surprise and contempt, stepped up to the captain, and faking him a little aside, said, “ Captain Welherbee, what is the meaning of this? Are you so thoughtless and imprudent as to take this stripling for a sentinel ?—a boy who has just left his leading-strings, to discharge the responsible duties of a soldier? You know that the British army is almost within gunshot of the American lines ! Are we not in imminent danger of being surprised this night in our camp, or at least of having British spies sent here to reconnoitre us in our sleep 1 I beg you to look a Mule to this.” “Your fears ate entirely groundless,” said Captain Wetberbe: “I know (he boy. I would be willing to sleep under the very guns of a British fort wiili Arthur Stewart for a sentinel! There’s not another soldier in my company that I would sooner trust than him, either for a sentinel or anything else. 1 war rant you he will do good duly to-night.” “Do as you please, then,” said the Gene- Sral, “1 have confidence in you ; and he Sturned upon his heel and left the captain. It ■ happened that this conversation, though in s' tended to be carried .on one side, was over- S heard by the company, and particularly by ■ Stewart. We ; don’t know bow it is, but I there is an unaccountable sensibility in the I organ of hearing, when we suspect we are ■ ourselves the subject of remark, especially I animadversion. “I’ll come up to you for this, old Gene ral,” said Stewart, as he listened with breath less anxiety and anger to hear what was coming next. “You’ll find that lam not the cabbage slump you take me to be,” mut tered Arthur to himself, his eyes all the while snapping with scorn and fury. “I’m a boy it is true, but old Put may know before he [dies that boys don’t always work at boy’s [play.” Stewart had taken his post as sentinel dur ing the former part of the night. It so hap ped that Gen. Putnam had occasion to pass le the lines. On his way out he did incounter Arthur Stewart, but another tel, who, ascertaining it was (he Gene- 1 immediately allowed him to pa,ss without lountersign. After being absent a short he made towards the lines, as though he ] ided to return. In coming in he unfor tely encountered Arthur Stewart. ho goes there 1” says the sentinel, ien. Putnam,” was the reply, ft e know no Gen. Putnam here,” says sentinel. mi I am Gen. Putnam,” said he by this growing somewhat earnest. Give me the countersign!” says Stewart, so happened that the officers of the had only a day or two previous adopt new countersign, and the General had iwfaat unaccountably forgot what it was, : least could noil at this moment' of his .’nifty call it to mind. 1 have forgotten it,” was the reply. p is 18 a pretty story from the lips of utnam. You area British officer sent pare as a spy,” returned Stewart, well mg who he was, for the moon was shin c l ,er strength, and revealed to him r . es Gen. Putnam i but he had j ,D " ,s own hand, and he meant to warrant you I am not,” said the Gene -10 he made a motion as though he Id pass on. ass that line, air, and you are a dead tillered Stewart, at tfie time cocking THE AGITATok jprtjotciy to ttjr of tiyt of iFmOom t&e SpreaO of f&tnltijg Jlrform. _ * WHILE THEBE SHALL BE A WHONO UNSIGHTED, AND UNTIL “HAN’S INHUMANITY TO MAN” SHALL CEASE, A'GITATION MOST CONTINUE. yoL.xv. his'gun. “Stop where you are, or I’ll make you stop,” said the sentinel. The General disregarded him as before. Hastily drawing up his gun, and taking a somewhat deliberate aim, he snapped; but the'gun, from some unaccountable reason or other, refused to discharge its contents. “Hold! bold!” said the General. “I do hold,” says Stewart. “The gun holds its charge better than I meant to have it,” immediately priming his gun for another encounter. “You are not priming that gun for me?” said the General. “That entirely on circumstan ces; I warn source more not to pass those “But I atiT said Putnam. ‘T deny it can give me the countersign, the young man. Here the General was balked. He strove with all his might to recall the word, but in 'vain. , ' - ‘\Boy,” said he, “do you know me? I’m Gem Putnam.” f officer more like. If you are 'JSen; Putnam, as you say, why don’t you the countersign ? So sure as lam imy son.'rf you attempt (o pass the *fine, Itwiilinake 4pld meal of you. I’m a setinel. / I know duly, though there bo some people io thrf world marvelously in clined to question itiy , At allShis the General finding further par ley useless, desisted, ajhd the boy deliberately shouldering his gun, Began with a great deal of assumed haughtiness.to pace the ground as before. Here was redoubtable Gene ral Putnam, the hero of a/hundred battles, kept at bay by a stripling of seventeen. This, if we mistake not, would have formed a fine subject for a painthr’a pencil. . Gen. Putnam, finding vlhat the boy was in earnest, for he had alarming proof of it, durst not for his life proceed a step further. He waited until Stewart was relieved, who finding that he was in truth Gen. Putnam, allowed him to pass without the countersign. But the General’s feelings were terribly ex cited. He knew In his inmost soul that the boy had done nothing but his duly, still he felt he had been most egregiously insulted. Had Stewart permitted him to pass without the countersign, and he had proved to be a British officer, the boy, according to the rules of war, would have heen shot for his pains. Putnam’s intellect reasoned, but his feelings by no means coincided with his reason. It is a terrible warfare when a man’s feel ings thus come to an open rupture with his sound judgment, and such cases are by no means rare. Gen. Putnam threatened, on returning to his quarters, to severely punish the boy ! but after a night’s rest over the subject, he felt somewhat different about it. A sense of honor and justice returned, and calling the boy to him on the morrrow he said : “You are the young man who stood senti nel at ,” naming the place. “I was,” replied Stewart. “Did you know the man who encountered you there last night 7” “I suspected who he might be,’’ returned the boy. “Why did you not let him pass 7” “I should have forfeited the character of a sentinel had I done it,” said the boy. “Thai’s right,” said the General “you did just as I would have done myself had I been in your place. We have nothing to fear from the British or the enemies with such a sentinel as you are,” and taking a piece of gold from his pocket be presented it to the boy, at the same lime charging him never to forfeit the character which he had already acquired. Shortly after he was promoted to the rank of ensign. Shingling a House. —James H , was a young man who commenced life with every flattering prospect, and a wife and chil dren soon blessed him. Unhappily, by slow degrees be became—to make a long matter short—a drunkard. One evening he left his wife in tears, as was too common, repaired to the house of a man who sold him the poi son, and drank so much that he sank down in a kind of stupefaction easily mistaken for sleep. All his companions had deserted him. Near midnight the landlord’s wife came into the bar-room and said to him : “ I wish that man would go home, if he has one to go to.” “Hush! hush!” says the landlord, “be will call for something else directly.” “ [ wish he would make haste about it then, for it is time every honest person was abed,” said his wife. “ He’s taking the shingles off his house and putting them on ours,” said the land lord. At this time James began to come to his senses and commenced rubbing his eyes, and stretched himself as if ho had just awoke, and said he thought he would go home. « Don’t be in a hurry, James,’ said (he landlord. “ O, yes, I must go,” said James, and off he started. After an absence of some weeks, the land lord one day met and accosted him. “ Halloo, Jim, why haven’t you been to see us T” “ Why,” said James, “ I had taken shin gles enough off my house, and it begun to leak,so I thought it was jime to stop the leak and I have done it.’ The tavern-keeper, astonished, went homo to tell his wife about it, and James ever since has let rum alone and attended his business. He is now a happy man, and his wife and children are happier than ever. Honesty—a term formerly used when a man paid for his newspaper. WELLSBORO, TIOGA COUNTY, PA., THURSDAY MORNING. DECEMBER 31, 1857. Reader, have you ever been dead 7 I have been. I will tell you the story, of death.— Dr. Benajab W. Somers, of Essex county, New Jersey, was my physician. I shall not curse him now. Time has taught me that it is better to bless than to curse. And 1 feel, bitter as my malison might be, that a mere miserable condition were not possible to him than the consciousness of his murderous wan tonness must bring upon himself, hardened as I fear bis nature is. But let that pass. I will tell you the story of my death. I died at the age of twenty-three. A stal wart man, who on my father’s farm mowed my swath or hoed my row with the best, in an unfortunate hour I became the victim of the practice of medicine which then prevailed, but which now, happily, is nearly disused.— 1 had some sort of fever. No doubt I was ill enough. From my right arm one day the physician took ounces of blood—how mgpy I knew not; certainly, in liquid measure, a gallon of the red fluid flowed. I did not mend that .day; at least, 1 suppose I did not, for on the next day he cut my left arm and thence a like measure—the crimsom measure of half a life. I was a dead man then. But a shudder or two always must come before the conscious soul lets go its hold upon the frame. Wiih me the shudders were in the shape of cold sweats. There were three of them. By the clock—so, some one at my bed whispered—the chill and sweat lasted six hours. Six dim, dark centuries they were to me. The third—its commencement, its fierce chill, its dead cold compared with which ice were a pleasing warmth—its dread slow march, I remember, but nothing more. In the midst of it, I lost all sense of life and its pains. The great gates of the valley of death rolled on their ponderous, hinges and shut me in. I do not recollect the circumstances of fu neral and interment. In fact, Ido not deem that I was buried. The weight I Pelt above me 1 knew was no more than ten feet of earth, in a quiet nook, with daises springing from it. The mountains were, resting on me. I realized their weight. Straight up to the light—if light existed—as under the centre of the central mountain I lay, it was many miles through solid rock. I was not imbed ded in the rock, tike a cold toad, caught in during the formative era of the geologists.,— It lay upon me. I fell all its weight. Sense had gone, but consciousness was with me.— Oh, how I suffocated and smothered I But dead ns I was, consciousness cruelly clung to me. I had died—why could I not cease t<\ be ! Time had passed away ; there was no day, no night. But if mortal measure could indicate the period I lay alone, and dark, and sufiocated> beneath that weight, centuries might have flown above my head. The silence was as dread as the suffocation was terrible. There was no sound. All was still, dark and hopeless. Had the mouniaio roared as it crushed, it would have been an alleviation. But it did its work without sound, without remorse, like Fate, grim silent. . I have said there was no measure of time to tell how long this measureless weight press ed me down. There came a relief. A sense of bearing came to me, or, the internal fires of earth had rolled nearer to me. I heard (heir voice, distant as yet, like the wind in the leaves of ten thousand fofesls—like the surge of a thousand unseen oceans- I felt its heat. But it was far away. A new sense of suffo cation came upon me. This suffocating force now surrounded me, came within me, and pressed me out., The suffocation within me was like some vast expanding force, but it did not lift the weight of the mountain that was upon me. That still held its awful pres sure. But I heard the Titans breathing as (hey fed the fires. This state lasted—who shall say how long? Then came —was it true? —could I believe it I—a dim sense of sight. I saw, dimly and afar, the forms of those giants who fed the central fires of the planet. They moved si lent and grim, watching their work and when a rill of molten rock glided apart from (he mass, they staid it with their ponderous feel, and scooped it back to its place with vast hands. Then the mountain began to lift and swell. It seemed slowly to rise—the hundreth part of an inch. Then, part of the way back it sank. It might have been a year in rising that little space. But at the lime I could feel that it was rising. Into the chinks it made as it rose, pressed, hot and| fierce, vapors of sulphur from the fires. These enveloped me more closely than even the mountain’s weight. I prayed that (he mountain would again shut down and press them out. Its black, lead suffocation, with all its eternal weight, was belter. But the vapors thinned as the mountain slightly, almost imperceptibly, lifted. Great God ! I felt the touch of a human finger—. a live finger. It lay beneath my arm, in the arm pit. I felt it plainly—the artery throb bed against it. Was there life 1 Was it life ? No, no. The touch died away. I'had no arteries—no human sensation. It was a dream of the sleep of death. I awoke from it—awoke to eternal death, the mountain’s weight, and the hot fiery vapors. Unyield ing, they pressed me still within and without. Again—was it a'gain a dread dream? 1 had a sense of light, veiled and clouded light, as through a sleeper’s unopened lids. The light, dim as it was, was steady and contin ued. I watched it long—long ! Ages were the only measure, if measure beyond the grave there could be. But so dim it was that hope grew sick, and died, and rotted within me; and 1 fell back into the old, desolate suf focation—the eternal, the varying pressure From Emerson’s and Putnam’s Magazine. The Story of Death. of ihe mountain’s weight. Mqrp ages went by. The ill at r- light, and p . .»en all at once was light, and a voice, and a, human band. Light, sound, touch, Sashed at once upon me. How they mingled and throbbed with the dead suffocation. It was too much. Now, on the eve of relief. I had my former prayer answered. Sensa tion passed away. 1 was not. Annihila tion had now come. From annihilation—or from the utter blank of consciousness—f awoke, with pain and fa tigue, and still the sense of weight unutter able, to find that there was indeed light and hearing. The touch—it was a live hand— a human hand. God I the merciful and kind I it was my own father’s hand. It was his finger beneath my armpii. Now I feel it meet the artery;,! myself felt, in sympathy with him, the throb, I had come back to life. Death was over. Though it was no dream, this awakening —I knew it to,' be real, yet for hours I held but a slate of semi-consciousnes. But I knew that death was over—rl knew I Jived. I rec ognized the various members of my family in my room. I heard my father’s voice, sub dued, but joyful, proclaiming his unwavering faith, during all, that I was alive. Then the doctor came. He entered the room where I lay. “The boy is alive, doctor !” exclaimed my father. “Nonsense !’’ was the heartless knave’s re ply—this devil of a doctor. At times I feel I must hale him, this doctor who had college warrant on parchment to murder and bury beneath mountains. “He does live, doctor V’ persisted my fath er. “Feel beneath his arm !” The doctor pul his hand—his faithless, cold skilless hand, beneath ray arm. The little life there was to me recoiled from the contact, fled back to its sources, and gave no response to his murderous touch. “There is no beat there,” said he, con temptuously, turning to my father. “It was all your fancy.” My father put his hand beneath my own again. Trembling, faith shaken, wavering— his touch told all that, as he pressed the ar tery long, and no thr.qb responded. The lit tle rill of life was too faint and weak to flow. Long he held his finger there, and through it I could feel his hope die away. He with drew it at last, and he gazed on the face of his dead son. He looked long. He was a kind, good father. I know where the grass grows above his grave. He gazed long, and turned away as one who bade farewell. An hour passed. He came back resolute, hope dauntless in his eye, as if some inspired frenzy made him hope against hope, and bear his faith into the presence of despair. He touched again the artery beneath my arm. He felt the throb. It was fuller and faster, as hope seized and animated me and him together, The pulse was clear, small, and weak, as it might be, it was still marked and clear. He felt it, and knew it was no fancy. He brought wine, and put a teaspoon filled with it to my lips. The palate and nostrils felt the sensation. They slightly moved.— The shadow of a color came into my face. He knew 1 lived. My recovery was slow. For three days my sustenance was a halfleaspoonful of wine passed to my lips every two hours. After that they gave me a whole teaspoonful at the same intervals. I gained strength slowly.— At length 1 was able to get up. Bull was a cripple forever. From that hourj have not been able to lift my right arm from~my_side.j Below the elbow' the limb is powerlessT'"My left hand I cannot raise above my head. I was bledhin both of my arms. -t Sometimes, without thought, I make an ef fort to raise one arm or the other beyond the line which the paralysis has fixed. Then on a sudden all grows dark before me; my head swims, and for on instant I feel the awful mountain’s weight upon me. The spasm passes away, and I ITve again. 1 commenced no action for damages against the doctor. Aside from the lad that he did not then possess means to respond to the pos sible verdict, my friends with the prejudices of lime, would have dissuaded me from suing him at the law. Courts and the “faculty,” in those days believed in blood, and the lat ter took it when it would. '■ Do not deem, reader, that the foregoing is any tale of imagination. It is a story of the baldest fact. 1 live in New Jersey, be tween Plainfield and Westfield, in Union (for merly Essex) county. My name I am free to impart—it is John R. Miller. Thirty-four years have passed ; but the memory of every hue and circumstance of those dread ages of death is distinct and vivid still. For often, even now, a thoughtless movement of either crippled limb brings their terrors bodily back, and once again, thank God it is but for a mo ment —I lio suffocated and pressed beneath the mountain’s breast. “Common talers,” said Mrs. Partington to herself, as she waked out of a little nap in which she had been thrown on Sunday by a soporific preacher. “What has common talers to do with the gospel ? The preacher had alluded to some commentators, the odd sound of which tickled her ear and awakened her. “Common taters” she continued, “Well all sort of taters are bad enough, and many of them are rotten clean through, and if he is calling his hearers such names heaven knows where he will stop. Common taters, indeed I I’ll send him up a peck of uncommon ones to-morrow and show him that all of them ain’t alike.” She left the bouse with a very indefinite idea of what he meant but deter mined to set him right on the potato question. ©tur eomasoufrence. Hudson, Wis., Dec. 1857, Friend Cobb : It has been a long time since 1 have encroached upon! either your valuable columns, or upon the; patience of your readers. This seeming j delinquency may, or may not require an explanation ; be that as it may, I shall take the liberty of say ing that my remissness has been caused by my having been for the last months en gaged in personally'experimenting on the therapeutical effects of various medical agents in an abnormal condition of the physical sys tem ; and the occupation has engrossed my attention to the exclusion of other and less scientific pursuits ; but having completed my experiments, at least for the present, 1 again resume my'pen, and now “ to the resuU.” In the matter of general newjs I can g ve you nothing, inasmuch as youf receive such ere we do here—at least during the winter months—owing to the almost {otaf 4 want of proper facilities for receiving our mafls from the South,and East. True, Government has contracted with one M. O. Walker, of Chic ago, for a daily mail by 4 horse stagecoach from Prairie Du C?hien to this place, St. Paul, &c., but it is notoriously as true that said Walker, in all essential points| fails to fulfil such contract; and that not only are large quantities of mail matter for, this vicinity in store at Prairie Du Chien, but(thal in addi tion to this, mail bags are frequently thrown off by his drivers for the purpose of taking on an extra passenger, which is said to pay better than carrying the mail.i These bags we sometime may get, bull I fear not. I have not had an Agitator fdr'lhe past four or five weeks, as we have had no through paper mail during that time.' ;But the worst feature of the case is, that the authorities have full knowledge of this} delinquency, yet make no effort for our relief. It is but two days’ staging to Prairie Du Chien, and from daily serviceiwe should get at least a weekly mail, which) is more than we average now. Complaints are useless. Government must sustain Douglas and Dou glas must sustain his satellites; hence, said Walker must be suffered to take his time. This is but a drop ) in the bucjret of our sor rows, for what with the constitutional climax of injustice in Kansas, the attempted frauds id Minnesota, the blind and ruinous Mormon policy, the rotation in the Patcjnt Office and a multitude of minor grievances, the day of retribution is at hand—the' judgment of an Outraged people must redress lour wrongs in the campaign of 1860. ; In looking over our late eastern papers, I discover that Colonel Forney (denounces the Lecompton fraud in appropriate terms. Can this be a ray of light in the political horizon j of the East! or is it to blind! the masses of the parly in Pennsylvania; «*ho have been | told that Kansas was to befreerin any event? We shall see. The Chicago Times, Douglas’s home organ, also denounces tlie fraud in un mistakable terms. Douglas is between Scyl ia and Chary belt's, politically, [for should he endorse that fraud he cannot be elected Sen ator next fall, while he must Ipse caste in the South should he denounce it. ] In either case his prospects for 1860 will suffer. 1 hope he will stand by Justice and tbps earn the re spect of right-minded men of fall parlies. We have elected Randall; Rep., Govern or of this Stale, by a small njajotily, togeth er with a portion of the Republican Slate of ficers and we have a majority in the Legisla ture. j The affliction of the East, f‘ Hard Times” has also reached this remolej corner of the Stales, but not to such an extpnt as it has af fected you. We have still plenty of employ ment for our laborers and plenty of commod ities to pay with except cash! As the poor can neither eat nor wear money, they do not particularly need it. There -iq enough to do and provisions plenty and cjteap in- propor tion to the wages paid. Common laborers get SI per day, while flour jis from S 2 to $2,50 per cwt., potatoes 35 Jo 40 cents per bushel, oats 75 cents, corn 80 cents to $l, with an abundant supply in the country, re ports to the contrary notwithstanding. ‘ A few isolated settlements far back in the inte rior will need supplies, but the older settle ments have enough and ,tof spare, and the needy will be supplied. The principal suff erers will be those who are in debt and must have money even at ruinoui rates, and this class, I am sorry to say, is quite numerous. Hundreds who were in reality well off", have bought largely beyond their means to pay during the present stringency, and hence must be nearly or quite rumed. There is al so another class thrown entirely out of em ployment, to wit—fancy paper town specula tors. There is positively no sale for such properly, and it is hoped, fofr the good of the community and the country that there will never Ije again. These men have done more to destroy the credit of the West than all other causes combined. The intrinsic value of properly will now rule and the buyer will now receive an equivalent for his money. Farms will be improved at# also town prop erly in good locations. The spirit of reck less speculation is checked, and in spile of the general stagnation that !ong to him; also ’ditional, boy wars only one par shoes a year, ’an deys good at the eend of it; lakes keer on his close partick ler, an’ neber goes coning ; don’t go to sleep ober his work, is ’pectful an’ ’bedienl; is six feel tree inches high, weighs two hundred and twenty pouns, an can do more work ”10 the house or fiel dan any oder nigger. Step up hyar, Sam, an’ show yourself to dese gem men ! —Libely now ! Dare he is, gemmen ! ’Mire him for yourselves !” > And the sable auctioneer pointed with tri umphanl gesture to the subject of this extrav. agant eulogium, a scrubby, knotted, runted, gray headed specimen of a field hand, about four feet and a half high, who mounted the box beside him, amid vast roars of laughter from the crowd. “Dar he is, gemmen! ’xamine him an’ start him at suftin, for ha ?must be sole ! What does you say !” Several colored gem inon mouuled ihe stand and proceeded to “xamine” him. One violently pulled his momh open and reported—“dis nigger not sound—one jaw toof gone.” Another tried to straighten out a lock of his wool, with “don’t dis h’r kink too much—nigger lazy I” Another pretended to discover something be sides ideas running through his wool, and concluded “nigger’s head 100 pop’lar” An other said “nigger’s foot too long and slim— long foot nigger will steal and run away ; long foot nigger ain’t worth jail fees.” An other “nigger’s toe nails 100 long—scratch paint off’r my parlor floor. No wants dis nigger! Yah 1 Hy-ah! Yah ! Yah !” “ Well, gemmen! is you done looking at that nigger I Is you satisfy ? He is a prims lot ! What do you say for de boy 1 Start him at suffin ! He’s got to be sole—prump lory sale !’’ “Ten cent!” came from ihe laughing crowd. “Ten cent—ten cent! Going at ten cent— ten—ten.” “One dime,” from the crowd. “Tank you, sar! One dime, one dime—goin’ at one dime—d-i-m-e ! Too bad, gemmen, make me sacrifize dis arlikel dat way ! Say ’leb en?” “One bit,” from the crowd. “Much ’bliged sar ! and bit—one bit—bit—goin’, goin’— won’t nobody sas ’leben for dis. Al, war ranted, &c., boy goin’ at one bit—goin’ goin’ gone at ten cent ! Yours, sar, and dog sight more dan he’s worf!’’ And he “knocked down” the property to the quasi purchaser with a tremendous blow on the head with the barrel stave he used as a hammer, which broke it in the middle, and “knocked down” the sold property off the box without' apparently feeling the blow, so massive was the confirmation of his crani um. That was the greatest auction sale that ever we saw. An End to Kissing. — A short while since the affectionate public was astonished by the story of a young lady whose neck was dis located in consequence of the ill advised re sistance which she offered to the amicable salute of an admirer more ardent than dis creet. Our exchanges from Europe now match this tale with another of an inquest held at Leeds on the body of a young man of 21, who fell down stairs and killed him self in the course of an attempt to snatch a kiss from the unwilling lips of a girl of'fif teen. Some of our colemporaries deduced from the fjrst of these occurrences the whole some moral that young ladies should never oppose the advances of their admirers. In common fairness we are now bound to infer from the second accident that no man should ever attempt to take a kiss until it is offered to him. Between the two lessons there is reason to fear that an ancient and not alto gether disagreeable custom may be summa rily abolished. A Family not Acquainted. —The Jour nal of Commerce tells the following reply of a boy to his mother:—“The father was of the keep your children at a distance class, and the boy wanting a new suit, very natu rally asked the mother to intercede for him. “V\ hy don’t you ask your father yourself, my son ?” said the mother. “Why, mother, I would ask him, only I don’t feel well enough acquainted with him was the reply The above reminds us of a boy who •» intimately acquainted with his father, t lal he calls h'irri.Sßill,.” This is going to lia oppo site extreme..- “How did-you like that J [ am song 1” asked an old lady of her AUShter, n s they stepped with the crowd °P en air after a popular concer" . ' Qm song !” ex claimed the youne 10 “Stonishment. “Whv, what dr refer 'o, another ?” “Why the firr n one he sung!” “Oh ! you mean ‘Shel' , d .°” 1 y° u > moll, er 7” “Well, y/' - sa d the old lad y. ‘ Ido think that w' ’! l Was something about clams you knotvl like cJamsso well ! pj l you like it 7” Bates of AUvcrUsins. A Negro Nock Auction.