rJjLUR PER ANNUM INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE. TOWANDA : tftornitin, 3nue 21, 1355. .irltctcb Ipoetrn. gone away. ! l„ krin house, red and old, ' Above its roof the maples sway ; rat hills behind are bleak and cold ; ' The aiad comes up and dies away. , , ve into each empty room, Aiil n 1 X*" * g nav v' u K pain •/in my heart, at thousht of those iV&j ne'er will pass the doors ai?ain. And, strolling down the orchard slope. (So wide a likeness grief will crave.) £jfh dead leaf seems a wither'd hope, I Each u. >ssy hillock looks a grave. Ti,v will not hear me if I call; j ' The y will uot see these tears that start ; : autumn-autumn with it all— Aad worse thau autumn iu my heart. oleaves,w dry. and dead, and sore ! ! can recall some happier hours. When summer's glory lingered there. And summer's beauty touched the tlowcm. I Adowa the slope a slender shape Danced lightly, with her flying cnrls. And manhood's deeper tones were bleat With the gay laugh of happy girls. o stolen meetings at the gate ! 0 lingerings at the open (1 jjr . 0 moonlight rambles, long and late ! My heart can scarce believe them <> or. Aid ret the silence, strange and still, I The air of s.viue-s and decay. The moss that grows upon the sill- Yes, love and hope have gone away! go like, so like a worn out heart! Which the last tenant finds too cold. Ani leaves, for evermore, as they Have left this homestead, red and old. i 1 or empty house ! poor lonely heart 1 Twere well if bravely, side by side, I You waited, till the hand of Time Each ruiu's mossy wreath supplied. 1 ban upon the gate, and sigh ; Some hitter tears will force their wsy ; And then 1 hid the pla-e good-bye Tor many a long and weary day- T eross the little ice-bound brook, (Iu summer 'lisa noisy stream.] Tara rouud to take a last fond look. And all has faded like a dream. Stledti ®ah. (From the New York Albion.) YEARS AND YEARS AGO. " T :tes res choses sent pas-c-e# Cmuue Tumbre et coiume le vent !'*— Vicinr Hugo. . thing- have passed upon their mournful way, b.st the wild wind, and like shadows grey. Suzanne was not sixteen, and I was barely r.ieteen, when we first met She was the diiighter. the only child, of a poor I'rotestant pastor nenr La Ilochelle, one of the chief and j ; >t strongholds of the French It formed ; i.huHi. I At that time I was about as wild a senpe- f race as you would sec iu any place I could ! !i.:ne at this moment. I had been expelled j 'roai school for heading an insu Tection against j tic proper authorities ; I had got into end- ; less scrapes in every position in which my poor i father had tried to establish me ; had finished j when I was eighteen by throwing off ull res-1 'mint, crosdiig the water, and, with knapsack 1 '•n mv back, starting on a pedestrian tonr 1 * iroigh some of the French provinces, not ; * t:i any definite aim or object, or in pursu- i *ice of any settled plan, but to exercise my i raniqn-d liberty, and to get riJ. of some of the i *njicrfiiiott3 life that would not let iiu rest. — j 0; adventures I had ulenty ; but the relation '■ tlif-e is little to the point now. At La Ro- | '"htile, chance, as I called it then, threw Su 'rane in my way. Whether she was b auti- L! or not, I hardly knew. She was utterly j ike any one I ever saw before or since ; a t'tle thing with a pair of eyes that prevented j "'>ur seeing any thing else when they were be 're you ; a pair of eyes which, like tho-c of !: >e German fairy, were not only one barh-y --"otn bigger (I think they were two barley corns bigger/ than any body else's eyes in the *°rhl ; but which loved you, repulsed you, 'fl pitied and scorned you, and laughed with } .j, and cried for you, and made you wild * ; fli delight, and desperate with despair, tweu times a day. from the first time I saw her, I pursued or without ceasing ; and vvc often met by toose accidents that occur when two people do their best to aid fate in her arrangements. A' the back of the presbytery was a garden • !i : of roses, and iillies, and jesamines, and all s °fts of beautiful old fashioned flowers that - *' any where you mnv plant them, but that r tn no more get common or worthless for all , ie ' r bounteous blooming, than if they reqnir 'jio be watered with champagne. Beyond "'e garden is what is called a chataigneruic ; blazing in sunshine aud flowers. On this my ; eyes would fix till the angel should come to give it a holier light. Sometimes I waited through the long hours in vain ; sometimes I saw her pass and repass, coining and going like alternate sun and shadow as the place seemed brightened or darkened with her pres ence and departure. Then, how my heart did beat ; how I watched, how I listened !—did she guess I was there ?—did she wish to come? —was it timidity or indifference that prevent ed her turning her steps this way ? Useless. She would not come to-day ; and, cross aud sick at heart, I left the wood, aud wandered homeward to mine inn,—the bare, hot cham bers of which, with tho old fumes of bad stale ! tobacco, were little calculated to soothe the uerves that had been stung and fretted and ruflled in the green, cool, perfumed chestnut wood. Next day all would be joy- aud hope again. Back once more to the sylvan temple, where I hoped to meet the shy goddess. An hour, —two, —would pass, and then she floated to and fro across that bit of sunshine, gathering a flower here, —tying one up there, —watering, trimming, dipping further on, —wondering, as she has since told me, and as I little guessed then, if I were there in the wood watching her. Presently, with a basket on her arm, she would turn into the shady walk ; nearer and nearer caine her footstep, fuller and fuller throbbed tny heart ; then, with hand on the wicket, she would pause : had she changed her mind ? would she go back ? and at that thought my soul so yearned for her, that it seemed the influence must act to draw her to wards me ; and sometime:* I almost thought it did so, as, opening the gate, she stepped in to the wool, and slowly, with downcast eyes, roved to and fro, in search, as I believed, of. the yellow mushrooms that grow in the chest- , nut woods in France. A few moments more, and we were togoth-1 er, she still pursuing her search, though many a mushroom was passed, many another trod den on ; I, pacing by her side, speaking low, and at intervals, while she sometimes answer ed without looking up, sometimes gave me a glance of those miraculous eyes in lieu of other \ answer ; till at last youth and love, and soli- ! tnde encouraging, the hand that at first dare not touch hers, wound round, her waist, the lips that trembled to pronounce her name, pressed hers unforbidden And now, shall I tell the truth ?—a truth that many and many a time since has not on ly stung ine with remorse,but with cue thought, tuat perhaps Well, well, that may or may not have been. But to my confession : Young as I was, Suzanne was not the first woman I fancied 1 had loved ; and though the feeling I had fur her was widely different from that with which I had regarded others, stiil it was then pure, and deep, and fervent ' as it ought .o have been. At first, much as I loved her. uracil as I desired to obtain her love, I had no thought of indissolubiy uniting my destiny to hers ; I had no idea of marriage. I contented myself with letting tilings run their course, whatever they might tend ; with taking no thought, and making no engagement for the future. At lar-t our meetings in the chataigneruic became things of daily occurrence ; and we needed no subterfuges of sketch book aud mushroom baskets to color them Sweet, pure, darling Suzanne ! Who, in her position, at her age, could have withstood the dangers of the situation as she did ? She loved me with all the dentil and warmth of a profound and passionate nature ; yet in the midst of her abandon, there was a purity, a startling, in stinctive shyness—a turning of the flank of danger, as it were, while appearing unconscious of its vicinity—that at once captivated and re- < pel led mo. And days drew on to weeks, and still our relative positions remained unaltered. One day we were in the chataigneraie to getiier, strolling side by side, her hand in mine, when the unusual sound of foot-Ops rustling 'mid the last year's leaves, startled us. We turned round, and at a little distance beheld her father. He was a man -till in the prime of life.— But indifferent health, and a ceaseless activi- > ty in the arduous duties of his calling, gave i to his spare figure and line face a worn, and ! prematurely aged look. L shall never forget him, as after a moment's pause he advanced and confronted us, the veins in his bare tem ples swollen aud throbbing with the emotion lie sought to control, his face pale aud rigid, i and his lips compressed. There was a dead silence for some seconds, i Then his kindling eyes flashed on his da ugh- j ter, and pointing to the house, he said in a j low, stern voice: 14 Go in, Suzanne." She went without a word. " And thus, young man," he said, when she ; was out of hearing, 41 thus, for the gratifica tion of a passing fancy, to kill tho time you know not how to dispose of, you blot an hon est and hitherto stainless name. You break a father's heart ; you turn from her God—you destroy body and soul—a mere child, mother-, less and unprotected. I will not tell you what Suzanne has been to uie ; how I" have reared her, worked, hoped, prayed for her, loved and trusted her. All these things are doubtless tume, and commonplace, and contemptible to you. But if you had no fear of God or con | sideration for man before your eyes, could yon j not have bad a little feeling, a .little pity, an | atom of respect for a father • and daughter, situated as you know us to be ? Knowing, ! moreover, that it is uot in the heart or in the 1 hand of the minister of God to avenge the 1 wrong and shame done him, by the means other dishonored fathers adopt V' Utterly abashed and conscience stricken, I strove to explain ; but my emotion, and the suddeu difficulty that came over me in express ing myself adequately in a foreign language— fluently as, under ordinary circumstances, I spoke it—were little calculated to reassure him. PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. O'MEARA GOODRICH. 44 REGARDLESS OP DENUNCIATION FA.OM ANY QUARTER." " No," lie said, 44 I know all. Your duily meetings, your prolonged interviews, a certain embarrassment I have lately noticed iu child, hitherto so frank and fearless ; her altered looks and manner—even note the demeanor of both when I surprised you—what can I conclude from such indication ?" " I swear to you," I at length found words to explain, " that your daughter is wholly and perfectly innocent. Think of ine as you will, but at least believe me in this, and assure your self that your child is sinless." He looked at, me scrutinisingly, for some , seconds ; then his face and voice relaxed. " I believe you ! There is but one tiling you can now do, it you are sincere in your wish to re- 1 pair this evil. Promise me you will never see Suzanne again, and that you will, as soon as possible quit this neighborhood." I promised, and we parted. How I passed that night it needs not now to tell, nor all the revolution the thoughts it brought worked in my heart and in my ideas. 1 The immediate result was, that next morniug at dawn I rose from ray sleepless bed, and wrote to the pastor, asking his daughter's hand ; not concealing the difficulties of mv po sition, but adding that if lie would overlook present and material disadvantages lie might : trust that no sin of omission or commission on my part should ever cause liiiu to regret his having accorded his sanction to our marriage ! and that I feared not but that with time, pa- : tience, and perseverance, I should be able to i secure a means of existence. At nineteen it is so easy to dispose of these questions of ways and means ; to obtain eve rything and to dispense with everything. The answer came quickly, brought by the pastor in person. " You arc an honest lad," he said. I will not now enter into the question of your youth and that of Suzanne :—my child's reputation is at stake, and she is deeply attached to you. That of your prospects is one we have yet to discuss ; but the first subject to lie entered upon and fully explained is the one of your father's consent to the marriage. In the first place, by the law of France, which is, I be lieve, different to that of England, no man or woman, even if of aire, can marry without pro ducing proof of their parents' acquiescence.— In the second, even were the law otherwise, I should hold myself bound for conscience sake, not to take advantage of the most desirable proposal, if it were made against the wishes and without the sanction of yours. Are you likely to obtain this t" Here was difficulty I had neither anticipat ed nor provided for. I had thrown off all au thority, deeming my own sufficient for my go vernance, and here, at the first important cri sis of iny life, I found its inefficiency to tret me through ray earliest difficulty. Supposing I made np my mind tacitly to admit my mis take, and a.-k my father's consent to my mar riage, wits it in the least likely that he would, under all the circumstances, accord it ? Never mind, I must make the attempt and so admitting to the pastor that I had not as yet provided for such a contingency, he left me towrite to my father. A week of agonising suspense passed, during which 1 in accordance with a promise made lo Suzanne's father, never songht*to meet her— nay, to avoid a shadow of suspicion, never went to our chestnut woo 1, to get a peep of her in the garden. At last the letter came, and sick with agita tion, I tore it open. It was brief, grate. some what stern, but yet. not different to what I de served, and what I expected. My father said lie had reflected much on my demand : —that he saw many reasons why he should refuse it, yet he was so anxious to meet my wishes when they pointed to any course that was not likely to lead me into moral ; mischief, and that afforded me a chance of obtaining steadiness of conduct, that if I could provide him proofs of my intended bride's , character and position being such as I repesen- | ted them, he would not withhold iiis perrnis- ; sion. This was easily done ; proud and elate, I boldy presented myself at the presbytery, and within a month, we were married, despite all the delays and difficulties that the French laws, which seem especially framed to throw every possible obstacle, hindrance, and petty vexation in the way of the impatient lover, could find to circumvent us. I look back now to the time, and see through * my spectacles—though a little dimmed, now and tlien—not myself, and my Suzanne, ' the wife of my youth, as I saw her in those , days ; but a boy and girl I remember to have , known then. A hopeful, happy, foolish pair ; brimful of youth and life and love ; seeing all things, each other included, quite other than they were ; yet so confident in themselves, in their experience, their ideas, their impressions: —living from day to day, like the birds on the branch, as if all the world were their store house, and no tomorrow were before them.— Quarrelling and making sweet friends again ; fretting about a look or a word, jesting nt questions involving the most important material interests ; averted looks and murmured repro aches over a flower presented and lost ; not a thought or a care for gold squandered. The place was so endeared to me, and Su zanne anil her father felt so reluctant to part, that I resolved—my father, who made us a small, though respectable allowance, not ob jecting—to settle, for a time, at nil events, in the neighborhood of La Ilochelle. So we too a little house in the midst of a gardeu within five minutes walk of the pres bytery, and there wo set up a household, served by a plump Ilochellaise damsel, whoes clear starched capot and gold earrings, heart and cross, were on Sundays, the admiration of the piace ; and a lad emancipated from sabots, to work in the garden, and help Nannie in the rougher occupations of the house. He fell in love with her, I remember, and he being some years her junior, and she being rather a belle ; and virtnous withal, she was moved, by all these united considerations, to box his ears on his attempting to demonstrate the state of his feelings by trying to kiss her; when uttired as above record, her beauty shone forth too res- plendent for him to succeed iu controlling his youthful passion. Before a year was out the two children hud a doll to put in the baby house, and to play with from morning till night. They nursed it alternately, and worshipped it, and had mo ments of jealousy about it. and wondered over it, and found it a miracle of genius aud intellect when to stranger eyes it was capable of nothing but sleeping and sacking uud stretching its toes before the fire. When it should walk ! 0 when it should walk, and when it should speak it mother's name ! When it did, the child mother lay in her grave iu the Protestant cemetery at La Rochelle, and the boy father took it there to strew flowers on the turf. When 1 first awoke from the stunning effect of the blow, 1 was like the ship that, struck full by a tremendous breaker, stands for a mo ment paralyzed aud grieving, then staggers blindly on, without rudder or compass, both swept away in the general ruin. The wild spirit within me, which the peace ful and innocent happiness of the ian two years had scothed and stilled, broke forth again,and my first impulse was to rush from the scene of my lost felicity, and in a life of reckless ad venture seek to lose myself and all the recoi lection of all I had won, I had beeu bereft of, in that short space. Thank God ! I had the child that saved me. And now at twenty-one, when most men have hardly made their first start in life, I, u father and a widower, had passed the first sta ges of manhood's career, and was about to gather up the scattered fragments of my youth's hopes and prospects, and try to patch them to gether to carry me through the rest of it. At first my father, now all affection nnd sympathy, since the change my marriage had brought, urged my returning with the child to England. But this,a strange feeling, partaking perhaps more of jealousy than any thing cKe, made me decline doing. On .Ma bel—" Ma belle," as Susanne used to call her, half-believing that that was really the transla tion of the name—had now concentrated all the love and interest of my life. Here she was all my own, I was all hers ; nothing, nobody, could lay any claim to the love, the time.or the attention of either, so as to distract it from the other. No one could exert influence or author ity over either, to the exclusion or prejudice, in however slight u degree, of the other. My child had no mother ; no one else, there fore, however near or dear, should in any de gree, supply her place but myself. 1 would be all and everything to her ; and if she never missed her mother, to me alone should she owe it. ± foolish thought, perhaps ; perhaps a selfish one—yet who shall say, seeing from what it has d übtless saved me ? Happily the child was healthy, swect-tem psml, and really, all paternal illusions apart, singularly beautiful and intelligent. My baby, my little Queen Mab ! I see iicr now, as in her black frock and straw hut I used to carry her forth at first iu the still warm evening-, when the glow aud the glare of the day Lad passed by, and the sea-breeze stirred the roses in the garden. With her 1 did not feel quite so frightfully alone : her signs, her attempts at speech, her wilfulness, her caresses, her ceaseless claims ou my aid and attention, withdrew rue as noth ing else could from constant brooding over mv loss. Later, when I could bear it—d could not, for a long time—l used to take her to the chataigneraie, where I was wont to watch for Susanne, and sitting there as of old leave her to play on the grass beside me, while with half-shut eyes, I gazed on the glowing spot at the end of the green waik, dreaming, dreaming, with a gnawing at uiy heart, of # the shadow that used to cross it, of the foot-step that used to come along that shaded alley, of the pause with the hand on the wicket. Then 1 remcm bered tint now all the yearning ami craving of my soul ecu Id, ns 1 fancied it did of old, bring her one step nearer to me : and then my grief and desolation would find vent in passionate tears, and the child, who was too well used to see me weep to be alarmed, as children mostly are, would climb upon my breast, and Law my hands from before my face, and kiss and soothe rue with her sweet baby caress. It was a great though secret joy to me, that though gentle and tractable to all, sire could be said to love no one but me. I think the excellent pastor guessed the existence of this feeling ;for fond he was of the child,and strung and natural were his claims to her affection, he ever avoided to put them conspicuously forward, or to attempt in way, to interfere with her management. For this, even more than for his many other proofs of regard and kindness, I was deeply grateful. I encouraged the child to be tumiiiur with him. But though she showed deference and duty, and even re turned his caresses, I could see with secret tri umph that her heart was uoL in lnr acts, and that as soon as she thought she ought,without offence, return to me, she would glide from his knee, and stealing to mine, nestled on my breast, content to rest there till we were alone again. Then the repressed spirits would break forth, and she was once more gleeful and joy ous. Early in the morning I would awake, and behind the half-drawn curtain watch her play ing, silently, lest she should disturb me, in the dewy garden. Wandering to and fro,with Iter hands crossed behind her, now pausing before this or that flower, smelling it, sucking the pearled drops that lay in its cup ; then racing away suddenly, wild with strong young life, prancing aud plunging in imitation of a high mettled steed, or chasing the kitten that was not more graceful or lithe of limb than she. And so on, till the opening of my lattice an nounced that I was astir. O, the"sunshine of the radiant face ! She had her mother's wondrous eyes, bat with a fine fair English complexion, and warm, light brown English hair. Then pit-a-pat up the narrow staircase came the quick step, the door was flung open, and in two -bounds she was on my bed,hugging aud kissing me, laughing, patting my cheeks, laying her sweet cool face against mine, and chattering the strange dialect between Eug lish aud French, that was sweeter in iny ears than purest Tuscan. Then off again, like a butterfly, opening tny books, putting my watch to her ear, and look ing solemnly curious nt the sound ; turning over my clothes, scribbling wild flourishes on my paper with pen or pencil ; cud, quick as flight of bird, away again to announce to Nan nie that 44 le grand chere," the great darling, was awake, and so hungry, so lraugry for bi breakfast. And so through the day, however, I might be occupied, she was never away from me for an hour. Light and restless, like some wing ed thing,die was to and fro, up and down in the house aiid garden, nil the livelong day danc ing. singing and talking to herself when I was too occupied to attend to her : no more dis turbing me in my busiest hours than the sun shine that streamed in ull my window, or the swallows that buiit and chirped iu the.eaves above it. Long walks wo used to take together, she bounding by my side, now clinging to my hand, now springing off after wild flower or berry, till lap und arms were full ; ail beaming and joyous until a beggar came in sight ; then the bright face would lengthen, the step slacken, and the small money 1 always carried in mv pocket to provide against such emergencies was brought into request, and given with wil ling hand and gentle words of pity and condo lence, nn 1 for some paces further the little heart and brain wi re yet oppressed with the impression of the sight of the suffering. Iu the evenings, by the dying sunlight or the winter fire, she would climb to my knee, claiming a story ; or improvised some original one, she sat, with raptured face, gazing iu mine, those eyes so full of wondering interest, those ru'iy lips apart, showing glistening teeth; putting in now and then some earnest question, pausing lorg at the close of the narrative to muse over it and fully digest certain points that had made a deeper impression than the rest of the tale. Then, as the light fell and the stillness of the evening deepened into night, the head drooped on my bren-t, and, like a folded flower, the blossom that brightened and perfumed my lonely life slept quietly, while I, sad aud silent, wandered mournfully, over the past. I look back now to that period of my life, and again it is not I whom I sec silting there before me. It is one I knew, whose affections, cares and troubles were as my own to iuc; but whose thoughts, opinions, and aspirations were quite other than those I now had, and on which I now act. The child seems liardlv real, distinctly as I remember every—the slightest —detail concerning Imr ; -he comes before me in my lonely hours like the remembrance of some vivid drenin dreamed long ago ; some vi sion sent to cheer and brighten my pathwav through soin; long j a-t stage of existence that then seemed drawing on to its close. AN o know so little wdiat we can live through and over, till the present is emerged in '.ho tilings that have been ? till the pages on whicii are inscribed iu black the great griefs of our lives arc turned, and those that coutniu pleasauter passages are laid over them I Mabel had achieved her tenth year before I had reached tny thirtieth birth-day ; and all that time we had never been a day separated : hud never lived any other life than the life 1 have been describing. I had taught her to read and write, Nannie had taught her to sew ; but other accomplish rnents she had none. Partly that strange jeal ousy of other interference, partly a honor I could not control of subjecting my fairy to the drudgery of learning, made ine shrink from call ing iu other aid to advance her education. It was better that it should Le so. lam always glad now to think that 1 did as I had done My child had been lent me, not given. For ten years her blessed and soothing, purifying, and holy influence was granted to tame and save me. For ten years, God spared one of his angels to lead me through the first stages to Heaven ! The task accomplished. He saw tit to recall the lo in. It is thirty years and unwards now, since Mabel died. 1 have buried another wife since then, and two fair children ; and lour more yt t remain to mc. They arc good, dear children to mc, none better, and handsome boys and girls too. But tliey arc none of them like my Mab, iny little fairy queen ; —aud 1 um not sorry, it is as well as it is. EsjT* " Did you ever study grammar ?" 44 1 did, sir," 41 What ca.-c is Mr. I).?" 44 He's an objective case." 4< llow so?" 44 Because he objected to pay his subscription that's been owing for over three years and a half."— 44 Right. What's a noun?" 44 Don't know, but 1 know what renoun is." 44 Well, what is it?" 44 Running off without paying the printer, and getting cn the black list as a delinquent." 44 Good. 44 What is a conjunc tion ?" 44 A method of collecting outstanding subscriptions in conjunction with tho constable, never employed by printers until the last ex tremity." "That's right. Go to your and quit shooting paper wads at the girls." When Marivntix was extremely ill, Fon tenelle called upon liiin, and having reason to suppose that he who neve.* laid by any money, might he in want of it at such an emergency offered him his purse. " Perhaps," said he, 44 more may he convenient than you lmv? by you ; friends should never wait to be solicited; here is a purse with a hundred iouis d'ors. which you mu-t pern-it me to leave at vour disposal." 44 1 consider them," said Marivaux, 44 as received and used * permit me now to re turn them with the gratitude such a tavor ought to excite." EST No man can be a gentleman who wound or mortify another. No matter Low refined, how cultivated he may be, he is in ; reality coarse, and tlie innate vulgarity "f his nature raaifests itself here. Uniformly kind, i courteous, aud polite treatment of all persons, is one mark of u true gentleman. VOL. XIX. NO. 3. B d Spelling and its Consequences. Some years ago a teacher presented himself as a candidate for the mastership of a school, of which the salary was fifteen hundred dol lars. His qualifications were deemed satisfac tory in all respects, czcpt in sptliivg. On ac count ol this deficiency he was rejected. Sen now, what ignorance in this elementary branch i cost him. In ten years Lis salary would bare j amounted to fifteen thousand dollars, throwing ' out of the calculation the increase which by j good investment might heve accrued from in terest, Besides, the salary of the same school ! lias been advanced to two thousand dollars.— ! Hut lie might have remained in this position i twice or three times ten years, ns other teach ' ers in the same place have done, and that largo i amount, consequently, have been increased 111 ' proportion. A gentleman of excellent reputation as a J scholar was proposed to lil! n professorship In one of oar New England Colleges, not many ; years sii.ee ; but in his correspondence so much j bad spelling was found, that it is name was drop ! ped : and an honorable position was lost by him. The corporation of the college conclud ed that, however high his qualifications as a professor might be in general literature, tho orthography of his correspondence would not i add much to the reputation of the institution. A prominent manufacturer in a neighboring town received a businpss letter from un indi vidual who had contracted to supply him with a large quantity of stock ; but so badly was it spelled, and so illegible the penmanship, that the receiver found it nearly impossible to deci pher the meaning. An immediate decision must be given in reply ; and yet, so obseuro was the expression that it was impesibioto de termine what should be the answer. Delay would be sure to bring loss ; a wrong decision would lead to a;still more serious rc-suit i Perplexed with uncertainty, throwing down tho letter, he declared that this should bo the last j business transaction between him and the wri ter of such an illiterate communication ; "for," i said he, " I am liable to loose mure in this ! trade alone, than I can make in a lifetime of i business with hiui " ; A gentleman who had been u book-keeper . some years, offered himself as a candidate for ; the office of secretary in an insurance com pany. Although a man of estimable clmrac i ter,possessed of many qualifications,he failed of : being elected because lie was in the habit of leaving words mis>pe fi d 0:1 his Look. The po sition would require him to attend to a portion of the correspondence of the office, and it \\a* i thought incorrect spelling would not insure thu ! company w many will rank* two weak ? It 30 rfigc.s make one sign, how ! many will make twenty pnt down their names' j li 10 dollars nmkr an (agio, how* many will j make a crow ? i &5V When George IV. went to Ireland, one of the *' p'sintry," delighted with his affa bility to the crowd on landing, said to the toll j keeper, a> the King passed through, " Och, ; now 1 nnd Irs majesty—God olesfi him !—ne ! vcr paid the turnpike ; an' how's that ?" "Oh? ' kings never does ; we let 'em go free," was I tlie atiswar. "Then there's the dirty money for ye," say? Pat; "It shall never be said that the Kmg came and fourd nobody to pay the turnpike for hiui." CO* A Conference preacher one day wont | into the hou. ; of a Wesley an Reformer, and saw .su'pend. 1 om tho wails the portraits of i three expelled lnm. stcrs. "What,'' said he. " have you them there ?" ' Oh yes, they aio> there," was the hasty answer. " Bat one is wanted to complete the set." " Prav, who is : that" Why. tlie devil, to be sure " "Ah," 1 said the Reformer, "he is not yt exptiled | froru the Conference." f sTIt has been tli ught that people are oe get crafiiig, because they don't live as long as in the days of .Methuselah. But the fact if. j provisions arc h high that nobody run at i ford to live vcrv long at the carrrut prices.— 1 Ex.