An amusmg story is told of the poet Whittier, who is as modeït ag he ia giiited. He was in New York not long sinoo, and went io hear the Eev. E. 'S. Chapín speak a lecture somewhere uptown. ÏLe cla-rgyman was eloqi'er.t as usual ; his discoarse, iuterlavded with highlywrought yassagea of rhetoric, closing with a stirring poetical quot.ition, bo well dcüvered that the Quaker bard applauded with tho rest. Some one sitting near hiin inquired, " Do you Know, Mr. Whittier. who is tho author of tnat extract V" " No : I do not. It sounds familiar, and I like the sentiment." " Why, the lines are yours, Mr. Whittier. You must remembor thein. They are from your famous nnti-slavery odes." " So they are," said Whittier, after a little reflection, anti bluehing like school girl caught reading her first love-letter. " I really did not rcall thora. Indeed, they sounded bo nrach better than they e eer sounded before, that it is not stranga I failed to recognize them." The poet, thoroughly sincere, did not recover for some time from the embarrassnient of outwardly Rcclaiming his o cnmpofition ; liut has now come to regard it as üo good a joke that he teils it of himselt.