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 ;
<t little wood, carpeted with the close turf,
C( ; SS , and wild flowers, overshadowed with inag
oifieent chestnut trees, each of which might
irm a study for a landscape painter. Only a
paling and a wicket separated the garden aud
wood ; and, the latter being unenclosed,
' ". v one had a right to wander there at will,
~ a privilege of which tiie peasants in the
-'rbborhood, having other means of employ
's their time, seldom availed themselves ; and
was, except at the chestnut gathering, geoe
r*7 deserted.
bo there I used to repair in the glowing Ju
d days, with a sketch-book, to look busiuess
e a;id, lying on the grass, or leaning against
' tree, myself half hidden, watch for Suzanne.
,J * ii is all before me now—before rue now,
', ln "ie, and about me, good Heaven, how
' —after all these years !
t a " broad rugged trunks of the trees ; the
-"Rug/it streaming with a soft, green light,
through the leaves ; the warm, ripe, still heat!
that quivered before my half closed eyes ; and
there, there beyond, through a narrow vista, '
au opening, as it were, iuto heaven, in the j
guise of a little bit of the pastor's garden, >
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 <i very excellent reputa'iou for their
method of doing business, wLat ever amount
( might be transacted.
Inability to spell correctly exposes ono to
pecuniary loss It is, however, uu obstacle to
I en advancement to honorable statiou.— Com
' mm Schid Teachers.
SQf An unfledged theologian has been "as
tonisliing the natives" in Cambridge Massachu
setts by preaching, of which the following u
a specimen :
"Viewing this subject from the esoteric
1 standing point of Christian csegetieal analysis,
; agglutinating the polys vnlhetical ecto blast of
' homogenious asoetisin, we perceive at oncotha
absolute individuullity of this entity. While
; from tho other standing point of incredulous
, synthesis, which characterize the Xiuocralio
I hierarchy of the Jews, we arccoustautaneQusly
impressed with the precisely antisperitactio
| quality thereof."
Cardinal Maz irin was dictating a fet
ter to his secretary. The latter,overcome with
j incessant work, fell asleep, and the Cardinal
. continued dictating, while pacing up and down
j the roo n. When ho came to the conclusion,
he turned to the Secretary, Raving, " End as
usual." He then perceived that the first lines
jof the letter were only written. To awnk*
him, he gave him a box on tho ear : the Sc
! ere nry in fury returned tlie blow. The Cnr
i dinal, without showin : the least cmoti m, said
! coolly, " Now, sir, we are now both awake, —
let us proceed with our letter."
If 24 grains make one pennyweight, how
1 many wiil make a hundred wait ? If 10 drum*
| make one ounce, how many will make
j drunk ? It 5 1-2 yards make a- perch, how
many will make a henroost ? If 40 rods make
' one rood, (rude) how many will make ono
! saucy ? If 40 feet of timber in ike a cord, how
j many will make a cable? If 24 hours make n
' Dry, how many will make a Sultan ? If T
days make one week, li >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.