Tc rnis of Publicallon. TIOGA COUNTY AGITATOR is pub j ptv Thursday Morning, and mailed to snb jiioedev ver y reasonable-price of On* Dol gcfibersa invariably in advance. *■ It is in tend* per* . v* er y subscriber when the term for cd !°t !! has paid shall have expired, by the stamp 3 Out” on the margin of the last paper, will then be stopped until a further re- Ybc P 8!* 6 . fgceived. By this arrangement no man in debt to the printer. d" bc C . ol | a toe is the Official Paper of the Conn ■fh a large and steadily increasing circulation ty.* 1 ., ; n io nearly every neighborhood in the reaches j s free of postage to any Post-office the county limits, and to those living within wito) 0 .,. bnt whose most convenient postoffice may adjoining Gonnty, b® ,D . flesg Cards, not exceeding 5 lines, paper in. .usm- IVIIRI AW M ORE. trj,AO I stood years ago, by nry Miriam’s side, turned on her beauty, with fondness and pride, Af d o c seemed too bright for affliction to Cloud, form all too fair to bo wrapt in a shroud. nCrrbt not of death ; for the lovely and gay 1 “ destined to live tbro a long sunny day, ik eo sweet was the smile of contentment she wore, s?at I scarce dreamed of sorrow for Miriam Mote. v n \ I was no prophet for her coming yeats, v the craves of her kindred she shed bitter tears, id learned the sad lesson life teaches to all, That crief's heavy shadow around us must falL Ad then in the noon of her beauty and pride, Vm “changes and chances” her heart turned aside, £[ joys and the pains of her earth-life were o'er, And death closed the blue eyes of Miriam More. Hut the grave only covered her worn, weary form, A 1 the pure, earnest spirit, the heart true and warm, tel, ting, and acting, and loving us yet, ( r or »£« not the departed who soonest forget. And often I dream, in the stillness of night, That there bendeth above me a vision of light, Xbat those blue eyes are beaming with smiles as of Tore, I dream that the vision is Miriam More. Virginia, gfc. Gallacher on Uncle Tom's Cabin—A Story. BY GEORGE ROY. It’s a very safe advice that my frien’ Mrs. Armstrong gles on a’ occasions, that is, if ye say nae gude o’ a body say naething about them ara. That's the policy that lam gaun to adopt in reference to my acquaintance Mrs. GaUocher, hut there can can be nae harm in my pf in’ you a bit sketch o' what she said to me the itber day, and leavin' you to form your ain opinion o’ her ieddiship. I happened to meet Mrs. Gallacher in the house o' a mutual acquaintance, and in the coarse o’ conversation I happened to spier at Mrs. Gallacher if she had read that wonderful book ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ ‘No,’ quo’ she, ‘nor never intend to read it; if everybody had been as muckle annoyed as I’ve been wl’ that ibominable hook, there would be less fuss about it. ‘Bless me,’ quo’ I, ‘I canna see boo ye can bae been annoyed by sic a hook as that.’— ‘Maybe,’ quo’ she, ‘but I can soon gie you proof positive o’ the fact. The first time I heard o’ ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ was about four months sin’, when a cripple cousin o’ mine wha lives in the country and spends his time in reading luoks and feeding birds, sent our bairns a pair o’ pigeons, a black ane a white ane, wi’ strict injunctions that they were to be taken great care o’, as they were very rare specimens, and he had christened them Eva and Topsy, after those wonderful characters in that wonderful took, ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ Noo, ye see, I neither kent nor cared onything about Eva and Tupsy, but I kent it was the height o’ non sense wastin’ guid meat feedin’ .fat doos, so I very cannily twisted the necks d’ baith Eva and Topsy, and made them into a nice bit pye for Mr. (iaWacher’s supper and mine. For I'm no ane that believes in folk living on tautics and saut when they’re by themsels, and keeping a’ bits o’ niceties to ruak a show at a party. I think if ye are to hae onything nice in the cook ery way, ye should hae’t when ye’re by your sels when ye can get the guid o’t. So when I had my hit pye prepared, I gaed ce en’s errand to the baker wi t mysel, and gied strict injunc tions that it was to be done a beautifu’ broon. Weel, would yc believe it? when the pye cam’ time it was burned to a perfect cinder, per* fectly uneatable, and when I gaed to the baker 1 tomak my complaint, he just laugh’t in my face and said, ‘1 e must really excuse us on this occasion, for every one’s head seems turned vilh that wonderful hook. I entrusted your pyo to my auldest apprentice, a very careful young man in general, but it being in the eve ning, he got so absorbit in ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ tku he quite forgot your pye till* the smell o’t lamin’ wauken’d the youngest ’prentice, wha happened to be sleepiu’ on the bakin’ table.’ That was my introduction to that abominable kwh, ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ Heel, the nest o’t was this:—3lr. Gallacher and me were invited to the examination o’ a Sunday school. No that we take muckle inter- anything o’ that kind. Mr. Gallacher me are baith o’ opinion that the dark places c the earth have been and will be the habita tions o’ cruelty, for a’ that simple folk may ink they can do for them; but there was a dumber o’ our customers interested in this °°k wc kad to gi’e them a subscription; course we rubbit them off wi’ as little as possible, but still we had to subscribe. So * en the examination o’ the school cam’ on, fite baith invited. Mr. Gallacher wasna for but seein’ that we had gien the siller, I Ou o tit best to gang and let oursels be seen. * e £ a^. to the examination, and a very tire- U was * after a’ the classes are j 106( b *kc teacher said that ony o’ the pat* present might, if they pleased, put a few to the scholars. I wanted Mr. Galla v'i? 0 j m^a question or twa, but he said he didn naet k^ D g of the sort. He said he W .k at about ava; so I kem m y se l ; > and askit a big wiselike tciJ -0 a a^'e ke could answer the simple &‘v ha made him V Wi’ that the lad . hands, and turnin’ up the wliite en ’ In a rea l droll sneeviling tone, an- as I knows; I specks I o’ thaW.v e P* ace bein’ onyway asham’d ars ( a n 7'i eS '^ n ? r . ance » baith teacher and schol -1 v * s^ors » burst out into a roar o’ tW j l ter ’ 43 were laughin’ at me. y 1 ao y°n think? The teacher told me Ud(j Q . T- as ea vm’ the school that the boy X jlarg 5 * 10n . Was °ne °* the most advanced titt J? . sc kool, and had been so indig ° m pkcity o’ my question, that he fi-rful t me In the language o’ that won- DC J e Horn’s Cabin.’ ‘Advanced c m they’ll get anither sub l‘ uon tr om me.’ Sfy till T m ° ** a 7 8 a^or this fine examina nt to i to gang to the ka* au’°° i ° r . a house. I aye like to gang *B% and aat ty ,in the season, for if ye gang Wd , cet ln W P a tim’rous body that’s th D ° US f no h® let, and if you can mak J » li, B hkely to stand empty, the h J n uaiClous bargain, whiles, by sub ***** for nollff- you caa h&o your ain saut JCarI bad ,7? m& P rofifc besides. This J ailc up my mind that I was to THE AGITATOR yol. y. For the Agitator. gang to Kilcreggan, for I had aye like to gang to the moat fashionable place. So I had to tak* Nelly wi' me tak' charge o' the -wean. That lassie Nelly’s puzzle to me; for a’ that I’ve done •for her, takin’ her oat o’ the poor’s house, and what not, an’ for a' the blows that lie on her body, she has nae mair respect for me than if I waena her mistress. At ony rate I had to tak* Nelly doon the water wi' me, to tak’ charge o’ the wean. Wee}, when we’re cornin’ near about Greenock, a gentleman, an acquaintance o’ Mr. Gallacher s wha had been nod din several times on the way doon, came up to me, and askit me if I would gang doon to the Stewart’s cabin and get a refreshment (catch me baying anything in the shape o* drink on board o* a steamboat ken ower weel the way they charge —but this is costin’ me naething,) so I agreed to gaug doon, but befora goin’ I gied Nelly •strict injunctions that she was to keep a sharp look-out for Kilcreggan, and to ca’ me up before we cam to the quay. Weel Nelly promised faithfully, and doon we went. The gentleman was verry genteel: he called for brandy. So I sat what X thought was a very few minnits, but it’s wonderful hoo time slips by in such cir cumstances. At last I’m called up an’ landed on the quay, and the boat’s awa, an’ a’ richt as I thocht. Weel when I lookit aboot, whaur do ye think I was ? but a’ the way at Strone Point, fairly on the ither side o’ the water. I was that provokit that I just steekit my nieve and gied Nelly twa or three rattles ou-the aide o’ the head, and she took to the roarin’ and greetin/ An auld lady that had come doon in the boat askit what she had done ? When I telfc her, the auld lady said, ‘Poor thing, you must really excuse her for this time, for she got so interested in her story that she quite forgot till she was past the place/ ‘What story?’ quo’ I. And what do ye think Nelly telt wi’ her ain lips ? that after bearin’ o’ the burnin o’ ; m y P7® she had gane ae en’s errand and bor row’t ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin 7 frae the baker’s prentice; and it was readin that abomonible book that she had landed me on the Strone Point. I was that provokit, that I steekit my ither nieve, and gied Nelly just as muckle on the other side of the head. So a lump o’ a laddie that was starinin' lackin’ on, cam’ forrit to me and said, ‘Wife, were ye gauri to Kilcreg gan to look for a house ?’ I said I, was. ‘Weel,’ quo’ he, ‘ye needna core muckle for bein’ taen past the place; there’s nae houses there for common folk like you; a’ the houses at Kil creggan are for the gentry.’ ‘Gentry ?' quo’ I, and common folk I ye impident monkey, hoo do ye ken whether I’m gentry or common folk T’ Quo’ ee, ‘a body micht be a wee puzzled wi’ some folk, but it’s easy kennln’ the like o’ you.’ ‘What do you think,' quo’ I. ‘lf I could maybe buy some o’ your gentry?’ ‘Ay,’ quo the laddie, ‘yer’e just like a wife that wad buy folk, and sell them tae, but it doesna happen to be the fashion in this country, Mrs. Legree!’ Weel, for a’ I had gien her, Nelly was that weel pleased wi’ the laddie’s impudence to me she roap’d and lauch’t till I thocht she would fa’ owre the quay. It’s my opinion that she would hae fa’en owre the quay if the laddie hadna happen’d to notice her, and cried, ‘Hold on, Topsy, for, ’spose you’re a duck, I ‘specks you would sink/ The last thing the laddie cried owre his shouther to me as he took his depart ure, was, that I should never gang past Green ock when I was gaun to the saut water. So I had just to come awa* hame wi’ my finger in my mouth, a’ in and through that abominable book ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin/ An’ that wasna the last o’t, for I got into mair than ae scrape, through that abominable rolume that very same day. Ye see the sunk flat o’ our land has been let for the last twa years to a black man, a cook in ane o’ the steam boats. Some say he’s married and some say he’s no married; but at onyrate he lives wi’ a woman, and there’s twa-three witty-broon weans; that there can he nae mistak’ about. Weel, it seems our Tommy had been playing in the close wi' ane o’ the whity broon laddies, and it seems our Tommy had taen a peerle frac the laddie, and he had made an awful’ roarin’ and greetin’ about it, and our Tommy’s rather quick in the temper (his father says he taks it o’ me.) So it seems Tommy had flung the peerie doon the back stair, and when the wee laddie ran down after’t, Tommy it seems had flung a brick doon after him, and the hit brick had rather scarfed his heel, and he had gaen in roarin’ to his mither. So up the stair she comes, and just as I’m cornin’ in the close, there’s the black prince’s leddie standing at the head o’ the stair, shakin her nieve at our Tommy, and say ing. ‘0 laddie, laddie, if that passion o’yours is no curbed in your young days, it will bring you to an untimely end.’ Thae were the very words that met me as I cam’ to the close. So X just made answer, ‘Go down the stair wi’ you, you impident randy go down the stair wi’ you; ‘an untimely end 1’ it’ll surely be lang before onybody’s brocht to an untimely end; for flinging a bit brick at a blaokmoor; gang down the stair wi’ you, and see in your excitement and no make such a mistak as to curl your hair wi’ your marriage lines.’ ‘I care nae mair,’ quo’ she, ‘for your vulgar insinuations than for the wind blowin ; they just indicate the rotten state o’ your ain black heart; and doon the stair she went, and up the stair I went, and sortot mysel’ and gaed etruoht awa to the laird to see if decent tenants were to be annoyed wi’ a wheen trash like that in a sunk fiat. Our laird, ye ken passes for bein’ a real gude man in the eyes o’ the world, ‘as wise as a serpent and as harmless as a dove.’ I could swear for the serpent part o’ the business at ony rate. .The laird received me very blandly, and listen ed to a’ I had to say; he then sat back in his chair, put up his specks on his brow, and said, very quietly, ‘I am glad you have called, Mrs. GaUacher, lam glad yon have called. Your visit gives me an opportunity of stating a ter that I felt some delicacy in mentioning. I have always been of opinion that the part of my property that you occupy has been let rather under its value, but X felt reluctant to raise your rent. Now however, that you talk of re moving, I must make a new bargain, so you will know this, Mrs. GaUacher, whether you re main or remove there will be three pounds added to the rent of the house you occupy. And as for the dark people, you certainly have not read that wonderful book ‘Uncle Tom’s Rebates to the Extension of the area of iFrethom anir the Sjimtr of healths Reform. WHILE THERE SHALL BE A WRONG UNRIGHTED, AND UNTIL “MAN’S INHUMANITY TO MAN” SHALL CEASE, AGITATION MUST CONTINUE. WELLSBORO, TIOGA COUNTY, PA., THURSDAY MORNING. JANUARY 27, 1859. Cabin,’ or you would know that great lady, Mrs. Stowe, has drawn a magic circle round that poor unhappy race, which it would be per fect sacrilege to think of crossing. For my own part, I would not only rather part with you but with all’iny tenants, than be compelled in any way to touch one stick of poor ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ He kent perfectly weel that, circumstanced as I was, I couldna flit; so there was me wi’ three pounds added to my rent, a’ in, and through that abominable book, ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ On my way hame frae the laird’s I thocht I would ca’ in and see hoo a dizzen o’ shirts that I had gi’en out to mak’ were gettin on. I had gi’en them to a puir creature that lives in one o’ the closes in the High Street—ane o f thae proud—spirited creature—-owre big to tak ony thiiig aff the parish—and that slaves hersel, night and day, working for hersel’ and a sister’s son, a wee blind laddie that bides wi’ her. I was recommended to her by a Mrs. Scrubber! wha kens geyan weel whar to get onything o’ that kind done. Ye see it was a charity to put work into the creator’s way, and mair than that, she made the shirts for thirteen pence-half-pen ny, and that was three bawbees cheaper than I got the last anes done in Bridewell. Well, when I had climbed the lang stair, of course I clappit at the door, and gettin nae answer, I thocht I would try the sneck. So I opened the door and walked in, and what do you think I saw in the miserable garret, but the puir starved lookin’ creatures sittin owre a wee bit spunky o’ fire; and what do you think she was daein ? Read ing “Uncle Tom's Cabin” to the wee blind lad die, the tears cornin’ drappin’ owre baith their noses. I stood for awhile and said naething. Somehow, at the first, I felt, a kind o’ feared to disturb them, but at last I said, “It’ll be a lang time before that puts muckle in your pouch.’ And then the thin, pale, skinny-lookin’ face was turned up to me so very quietly, and she said, ‘A body shouldna do everything in this world wi’ a direct view to their pouch.’ ‘Them that has plenty,’ quo I, ‘in their pouch doesna need to be so ‘lt’s no what a body has,’ quo’ she, ‘it’s how they are satisfied with what they have. There are some people that are contented with very little, and there are others that would not be satisfied although they had the whole world.’ ‘Ye’ll be ane o’ the satisfied kind,’ quo I.’— ‘I cannot take much credit to myself for that,' quo she, quo’ she; I must say I never had any great anxiety to be possessed of much of that heart hardening substance, money; if I had a wish,’ quo’ she, ‘I would rather have given to the world such a book as ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’ than be mistress of all the gold found at Cali fornia or Australia.’ There was a bonny speech for ye 1 I thocht I would just cut it short by askin’ how she was getting on wi’ my shirts. ‘There’s no a wrang steek in them yet,’ quo’ she. ‘What do you mean ?’ quo’ I. ‘Do you mean to say that ye hinna begun them yet ?’— ‘No,’ ’quo’ she, T have not begun to them; I was astonished to see the way in which the cloth was cut.’ ‘Were ye no pleased wi’ tile cutting o’ them?’ quo’ I. ‘No,’ quo’ she; ‘they’re at least a dozen years bchint the fash ion at the present time. I was astonished at your cutting the cloth.’ ‘Weel,’ quo’ X, ‘l’ll be very plain wi’ you; I’ll tell you how I cut the cloth. I’ve seen when shirts were gien oot to mak, that bits o’ cloth gaed amissin’; so I thocht if ye had every bit cut for its ain proper place, ye could be in no danger o’ bein’ blamed. That’s the way the cloth was cut.’ ‘Oh,’ quo’ she, T understand now;’ and away she went wi’ a’ the dignity o’ a queen, and brocht doon the bundle o’linen, and openin’ the parcel, quo’ she, ‘There, I think are all the pieces just as you brocht them—the bodies, the sleeves, the necks, the wristbands and the gushets.’ I said they were a’ there as I brocht them. ‘That’s well,’ quo’ she, and folded up the parcel very carefully, and puttin 'it into my hands, she said, T would be obliged by your gettin’ some other person to make your shirts. I don’t know what I may be reduced to, but, as yet, I am un der no necessity of doin’ work to any one who takes precautions with me as if I were a com mon thief,’ and, before ye could hae’said six, she was sittin’ reading ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ as if I hadna’ been in the world. I could hae twisted the neck of the impudent ungrateful creature. As I’m cornin’ doon the stair, thinkin’ to my sel’ this is nac doofc a lesson to me on the digni ty o’ labor, as it’s ca’d—the dignity o’ abomin able impudence!—as I’m comin out o’ the close, there’s a big lump o’ a laddie comes up to me and says—‘Wife, I’ll carry your bundle to ye for tippence.’ ‘Gae’ wa wi’ you,’ quo’ I, ‘ye big lump!’ and as I’m gettin’ clear o’ him, there’s a wee white-headed laddie cries—‘Led dic. I’ll carry your parcel to you for a bawbee.’ The bundle had a terrible weight, so I giod it to the wee white-headed laddie, and awa we’re cornin’ alang the Trongatc, when I sees a crowd o' folk lookin' in at a window. I speert at the laddie if he ken’t what they were lookin’ at.— The laddie said he thought they were lookin’ at Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ So when I cam forrit, this is a draper’s window wi’ a lot o’ beautifu’ boxes in’t and on the lids o’ the boxes there’s beautifu’ pictures o’ Eliza crossin’ the ice, ‘Un cle Tom writin’ his letter,’ ‘Master George,’ ‘Eva an’ Topsy,’ and a’ the like o’ that. So I stood for awhile admirin’ the pictures, when I bethinks myseT to look if the wee laddie was a’ richt—and, would ye believe it ?—I had seen my last sicht o’ that weewhite-headed laddie and my dizzen o’ guid linen shirts! Is it ony wonder that I bate the sicht o’ that abominable book ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin ?’ Going Home. —Californians are all “going home.” No one expects to die here, but that before his “summons comes” he will see rela tives and kindred, in the eastern lands, and that he will renew with them delightful associations of other years, before he lies down with them in the dreamles sleep, under his native heather, and the flowers he loved when a child will bloom over his grave. This is almost every universal sentiment, yet as a fact, scarce one in a thousand will realize this hope, but will be dwellers in the cities of the dead which will mark these hills with little mounds—cottages of the poor, and monumental marble—palaces of the rich, —XecaJa Xalional. From Harpers Magazine. SAILT JONES Nathan Jones, a small farmer in our vicinity had a daughter, as pretty and buxom a lass as ever thumped buttermilk in a churn; and whe ther you saw her carrying eggs to market on a flea-bitten mare, or helping to stir apple-butter at a boiling frolic, or making a long reach at a quilting, or sitting demurely in a log-meeting house on a Sunday—in short, wherever you saw her, she always looked as pretty, if not pret tier than she had ever done before. Notwithstanding her attractions, it will scarce ly be credited that Sally had reached the mat ure age of eighteen without a suitor. Admir ers, nay lovers, she had by the score; and whenever liquor was convenient, many a sober youth drunk because of her, and many a sigh ing bachelor would 1 willingly give his riding horse, or even a share in Dad’s farm for her. There was indeed no lack of will on their part; the dificulty was in mustering up cour age to make the proposal. Mankind seemed for once, to he impressed with a proper sense of its own unworthiness. Now, far he it from any one to infer from this that Sally was prudish or unapproachable. On the contrary, she was as good humored as comely, and disposed to be as loving as she was lovable. Poor Sally! it is a great misfortune for a girl to be too handsome; almost as great as to be too ugly. There-she was, social and warm hearted as a pigeon,| amiable as a turtle dove, looking soft encouragement, as plainly as maiden modesty permitted, to her bashful company of admir ers, who dwaddled about her twiddling their thumbs, biting the bark of their riding switch es, and playig a number of other sheepish tricks, hut never saying a word to the purpose. Sally was entering her nineteenth year, when she was one day heard to observe that men were the meanest, slowest, cowardliest, omar iest creatures; in short, good for nothing but to lay under an apple tree with their mouths open, and wait until the apple dropped into them. This observation was circulated from mouth to mouth, and, like the riddle of the Sphinx, waa deeply pondered by Sally’s lovers. If any of them had wit enough to solve its meaning, certainly no one had pluck enough to prove the answer. Not of this poor spirited crowd was Sam Bates, a stalwarth youth, who stood; in winter, six feet two inches in his stockings, (in sum mer he didn’t wear any.) Sam was not handsome in the ordinary sense of the term. He was freckled, had a big mouth, and carrotty hair. His feet—Hut no matter— he usually bought number fourteen and a half, because they fitted him better than sevens or eights. Sam was a wagon-maker by profession owned a flourishing shop and several hundred acres of unimproved land, which secured to him the reputation of independence. For the rest, he was a roystering blade, a good rider, a crack shot with a rifle, and an accomplished fiddler. Bold to the confines of imprudence, he was a great favorite of the fair; with a heart as big as his foot, fist like a sledge hammer, he was tie acknowledged cook of the walk, and preux chevelier. of the pine hill country. Mr. Bates met Sally Jones for the first time at a quilting and at sixty seconds after sight he had determined to court her. He sat beside her as she stitched, and even had the adaucity to squeeze her under the quilt. Truth is mighty, and must be told. Although Sally did , resist the impertinence by a stick with her needle, she was not half so indignant as she ought to have been. I dare not say she was pleased, but perhaps I should not be far from the truth if I did. It is un deniable that the more gentle and modest a woman is, the more she admires ‘ courage and boldness in the other sex. Sally blushed every time her eyes met those of her new beau, and that was as often as she looked up. As for Sam, the longer he gazed the deeper he sank into the mire of love, and by the end of the evening his heart and his confidence were both completely overwhelmed. As he undertook to see Sally homo, he felt a numbness in his joints entirely new to him, and when he tried to make known his senti ments as he had previously determined, he found his heart so swelled up that it closed up his throat and he couldn’t utter a word. ‘What darned sneak was 11’ groaned Sam. ns ho turned that night on his sleepless pillow. ‘What’s come over me, that I can’t speak my mind to a pretty gal without a chokin ? 0 Lord! but she was too pcetty to live on this airth. Well lam a going to church with her to-morrow; and if I don’t fix matters afore I go back, then drat me.’ It is probable Sam Bates had never har kened to the story of ‘Rasselas, Prince of Aby sinia,’ or he would have been less credulous while thus listening to the whispers of fancy, and less ready to take it for granted that the deficiencies of the day will be supplied by the to-morrow. To-morrow came, and in due time Mr. Bates, tricked off in'a new twelve dollar suit of Jew’s, clothes, was on his way to meeting beside the beautiful Sally. His horse, bedecked with a new saddle with brass stirrups, looked a£ gay as his master. As they rode up to the meeting-house door, Sam could not forbear casting a triumphant glance at the crowd of Sally’s adorers that stood around filled with mortification and envy at his successful audacity. Sally’s face was roseate with pleasure and bashfulness, ‘Stop a minute, now Miss Sally; I’ll just git and help ye off!’ Sam essayed to dismount, but in so doing found that both feet were hopelessly fast in the stirrups. His face swelled and reddened like a turkey gobbler’s. In vain he twisted and kicked; the crowd was expectant; Sally was waiting. ‘Gosh dam the stirrup ! exclaimed Sam, en deavoring to break the leather with his tremen dous kick. At this nnWonted eiclamation Sally looked up and saw her beau’s predicament. The bystanders to snicker. Sally was grie ved and indignant. Bouncing oat of her saddle in a twinkling she handed her entrapped escort a stone. ‘Here Sammy, chunk your foot out with this!’ 0 Sally Jones, into what an error your heart betrayed you, to offer this untimely civility in the presence of the assembled county—admir ers, rivals and all. Sam took the stone and struck a frantic blow' at the pertinacious stirrup, but missing his, 1 aim it fell with crushing force upon a soft corn that had come from wearing tight boots. ‘Whoa, darn ye I cried he losing all control I of himself, and threatening to beat bis horse,s i brains out with the stone. 1 ‘Don’t strike the critter Sammy,’ said old Jones,’you’ll give him the poll evil. Butjist let me ongirth the saddle, and we’ll git you loose in no time.’ In short the saddle was unbuckled, and Sam ! dismounted with his feet still fast in his stir rups, looking like a criminal in foot-hobbles, j With some labor he polled of his boots, squee zed them out of the stirrups, and pulled them! on again. I The tender Sally stood by all the while man ifesting the kindest concern ; and when he waq finally extracted, she took his arm and walked him into church. • 1 But this unlucky adventure was too much for Sam ; he sneaked out of the meeting dur ing the first prayer, pulled off his boots, and rode home in his stockings. j From that time Sam Bates disappeared from society. Literally and metaphorically, he shut up shop, and hung up his fiddle. He did not take to liquor, like a fool, but took to his axel and cleared I don’t know how many acres of ragged, heavy timbered land, thereby increas ing the value of his tract to the amount of sev eral hundred dollars.' Sally indirectly sent him divers civil - mess{- ages, intimating that she took no account of that little accident at the meeting-house, and at length ventured on a direct present of a pair of grey yam stockings knit with her own hands. | But while every effort to win him back to the world was unsuccessful, the yarn stockings were a great comfort in his imposed exile. i Sam wore them continually, not on his feet, as some matter-of-fact body might suppose, but in his bosom ; and often, during the inter vals of his work in the lonely clearing, would he draw them out and ponder on them till a big tear gathered in his eye. j Oh! Sally Jones, Sally Sones, if I had only had the spunk to have courted ye Saturday night, instead of waiting till Sunday morning, things might have been different. And then he would pick up his axe, an d whack into the next tree with the energy of despair. j At length the whole country was electrified by the announcement that “Farmer Jones had concluded to sell out and go West.” On the day appointed for the sale, there could not have been less than one hundred r horses teth ered in the barnyard. Sam Bates was there, looking as uneasy as a pig in a strange corn-field, i Sally might have been a little thinner than usual, just enough to heighten rather than to diminish her charms. | It was generally known that she was adverse to moving West. In fact she took no pains ito conceal her sentiments on the subject, and her pretty eyes were evidently red with recent weeping. She looked mournfully around at each famil iar object. The old homestead, with its chinked and daubed walls; the cherry trees, under which she had played in childhood ; the flowers she had planted; and then to seo the dear old fur niture auctioned off—the churn, the apple-but ter pot, the venerable quilting frame, the occa sion of so many sociable gatherings. ! But harder than all it was when her own white cow was put up; her pet, that when a calf, she saved from the butcher; it was too much, and the tears trickled afresh down Sal ly’s blooming cheeks. i ‘Ten dollars, ten dollars for the cow!’ ‘ ‘Fifty dollars 1’ shouted Bates. ! ‘Why Sammy,’ whispered a prudent neigh bor, ‘she ain’t worth twenty at the outside.’; ‘l'll gin fifty for her/ replied Sam, doggedly. Now, when Sally heard of this piece of gal lantry, she needs thank the purchaser for the compliment, and commended Sukey to his'es pecial kindness. Then she extended her-plump hand, which Sam seized with such u devouring that the little maid could scarcely suppress a scream. She did suppress it, however, that <die might hear if he had any thing further-to say; but she was disappointed. He turned dumb, swallowing, as it were, great hunks of grief as big as dumplings. t When every thing was sold off, and jlinner was over, the company disposed itself about the yard in groups, reclining on the grass, or seoltcd on benches and dismantled furniture. j The conversation naturally turned on |the events of the day and the prospect of the Jones family, and it was unanimously voted a that so fine a girl as Sally Jones should be per mitted to leave the country against her will. ‘Haln't none of you sneaking whelps the sperit to stop her V asked a white headed miller, addressing a group of young bachelors lying near. j The louts snickered, turned over, whispered to each other, but no one showed any disposi tion to try the experiment. The sun was declining in the west. Some of those who lived at a distance had gone to har ness up their horses. To-morrow the Belle of Casapon Valley would be on her way to Mis souri. | Just then Sally rushed from tho house, xyith a face all excitement, a step all determination. Arrived in the middle of the yard, she mounted the reversed apple-butter kettle. ' j‘l don’t want to go west—l don’t—l don’t want to leave old Virginia—and I won’t leave, if thers’s a man among ye that has spimk enough to ask me to stay 1’ I But where is Southern chivalry ? Withered beneath the sneers of cold-blooded malignity?— chbked by the maxims of dollar-jingling prr dence ? distanced on the circular race coursjc of Rates of Advertising. Advertisements will be charged SI per square of fourteen lines, for one,or three insertions, cents for every subsequent insertion. AIT advertise ments of less than fourteen lines considered ss a equate. The following rales will be charged for Quarterly, Half-Yearly and Yearly advertising:— 3 months, 6 months. 13 mo’s Square, (14 lines,) ■ $2 50 54 50 $8 00 SSquares,- .. -400 600 800 J column, . . . - 1000 15 00 20 00 column, - - - - -18 00 30 00 40 00 All advertisements not having the number of in sertions marked upon them, will be kept in until or dered out, and chargeiiaccordinglv. Posters, Handbills, Bill,and Letter Headland all kinds of Jobbing done in country establishments, executed neatly and'promptly. Justices’, Consta bles’and other BLANKS, constantly ob hand and printed to order. NO. 26. progress ? bankrupt through the tricks of coun terfeiting politicians ? Hearken to the sequel of Sally Jones. Scarcely had she finished her patriotic nd-j dress; when there was a general rush. The less active were trampled over like puffed goat skins at a bacchanalian festival. ‘Miss Sally, I axes you/ ‘Miss Sally, I spoke first.’ ‘X bespeak her for my son Bill,’ squeaked an octogenarian, struggling forward to seise her arm.; Toj hide her confosion, Sally covered her face with her apron, when she felt a strong arm thrown around her, and heard a stentorian voice shout— ‘She’s mine, hy golly!’ • Sam cleared a swath as if be bad been in a grain, field, bore his unresisting prize into the bouse, and slammed the door on the cheering crowd. Tie wedding came off 'that night, and on the following morning Sam rode home, driving his white cow before, and carrying his wife behind him.|, MM U INI CATIONS. ICO For tho Agitator. | Look on the Bright Side. Look on the bright side young man ! What tho’jobstacles surround you—still bear up, strug gling on. Faint not if you would accomplish anything. “Faint heart never won fair lady,” neither did faint heart ever win the laurels of fame, —and it ought not. Piteous must bo the sight of a discouraged man. Buckle the armor of jjerseverence and impenetrability firmly on, keep your heart and hands clean and bid defi ance to failure. Friends will forsake you.— Falsehood and detraction are the irievitable eon sequences of trying to be somebody. Your name will bo lisped by enemies. But be pre ■pared for all this. You cannot expect to please everybody —it is an utter impossibility. Gold must be tried in a furnace and so must a man’s principles. When a particular friend steals in to your private sanctum and says,—My good fellow, I’ve heard a bad story about you —Mrs. A. or B. says this or that; mind you look im penetrable ; dont be simple and retaliate by re pealing another piece of gossip; but be sure you don’t let your temper get the mastery, for if -you do the worse is your own. News car riers never lessen a story. “Be sure you are right .then go ahead." Look on the bright side young lady ! Let not the rose on your cheek grow pale by secret sorrow; cultivate a happy disposition; take, the world as it is; use your influence always right, knowing you are not placed here an iso lated being, but for the good pleasure of your associates. If you sometimes feel alone, doubly alone, in this to yon, cold, friendless world, borne down by your oppressors —Rise above it! Cast it as a mantle off, and cherish no ill-feel ing. There are moments in every one’s life when the way seems all dark. Then be doubly wajtchful. Keep your eyes wide open,—placing your whole dependence on Him who hath said, “Ijam with you always, even to the end.” But neper give up. For there is another and a mpre trying time ;—when honied words are breathed into your oft, too willing ear—when smiles wreathe lips for your eye only—when the quick throbs of your heart tell yon of the cltjse proximity of one whose presence is rather feljt than seen, then beware!—for every look, every word, every smile, or the glance of your eye will be misconstrued, and the next thing your particular friend informs you, “that you are in love, and that of course its not recipro cated.” So goes the world. Still look on the bijight aide. Pure gold seldom lies on the sur fape, and you may be deceived by the glitter, bipt if you are strike deeper and be not discour aged ; cull the sweet of every passing breeze; strive earnestly, for there is nothing like know ing yourself pure to make you disregard the idle gossip of the day. Then do not seek soli tude and court the unhealthy influence of mel ancholy, but resolve that if there is such a thing on earth as pure simplicity and uprightness of heart, it shall be yours. ;Dark must he the cloud that has no silver lin ing, and if you will not, you need never see tljat cloud. Look on the bright side ! Father 1 mother! you know not what the future of that darling son—that loved daughter may be. But keep home pleasant. Let nothing shake their confidence there; be to them an elder brother and sister; crush not their high aspiration-', and by example and precept teach them that “earth hath no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal,” and that a pure heart must be joyous.— Ay, look on the bright side, for the earth is full of joy, and then you may reasonably expect that by and by you and yours shall reap the golden grain. [Yes, one and all, look on the bright sid and let each morning find you better prepared to find that something good in every heart, hy do ing “unto others as you would that they should db unto you.” Then there will be no dark shades to mar the beauteous prospect, and nil •\yill be the bright side. G. M. j Obfuscate Scintillation's. —One of the spea* kers'at a late anniversary of the Young Men's Christian Association in Philadelphia, exclaims; ‘When I think of this organization, with its complex powers, it reminds me of some stupen dous mechanism which shall spin electric h-inda of stupendous thought and feeling, illuminating the-vista of eternity with coruscations of bril liancy, and blending the mystic brow of eter nal ages with a tiara of never-dying heautv, whilst for those who have trampled upon the blood of Christ it shall spin from its terrible form-toils of eternal funeral bands, darker and darker, till sunk to the lowest abyss of destiny/ j An old Widow, when her pastor saidjto her -|~“God has not deserted you jn your old ago/* replied, “No, no; 1 have a vbry good appetite still.” i Some stupid says that “if a fee were charged to see the sun rise, nine-tenths of the world would be up in the morning.” j I advise thee to visit thy relations and friends; but advise thee not lu live too near them.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers