CXCIV.-MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE ON SHIRT-BUTTONS. DOUGLAS JERROLD.

1. THERE, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you were this morning. There, you needn't begin to whistle: people don't come to bed to whistle. But it's like you: I can't speak, that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were the best creature living: now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest? No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long: it's very hard if I can't speak a word at night; and it isn't often I open my mouth, goodness knows!

2. Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must almost swear the roof off the house. You didn't swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know what you do when you're in a passion. You were not in a passion, weren't you? Well, then I don't know what a passion is; and I think I ought by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that.

3. It's a pity you haven't something worse to complain of than a button off your shirt. If you'd some wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm never without a needle-andthread in my hand; what with you and the children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks? Why, if once in your life a button's off your shirt-what do you say? I say once, Mr. Caudle; or twice or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are better looked after than yours. I only wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married! I should like to know where were you buttons then?

4. Yes, it is worth talking of! But that's how you always try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and then, if I only try to speak, you won't hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to yourselves: a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in. A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of but her husband's buttons. A pretty notion, indeed,

you have of marriage. Ha! if poor women only knew what they had to go through! What with buttons, and one thing and another! They'd never tie themselves up to the best man in the world, I'm sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle?-Why, do much better without you, I'm certain.

5. And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt: it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something to talk about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, for any thing! All I know is, it's very odd that the button should be off the shirt; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's buttons than I am. I only say it's very odd.

6. However, there's one comfort: it can't last long. I'm worn to death with your temper, and sha'n't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may laugh! And I dare say you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's your love: that's your feeling! I know that I'm sinking every day, though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second wife will look after your buttons! You'll find out the difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, then; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back.

CXCV.-LEGEND OF LAKE SARATOGA.

1. A LADY stands beside the silver lake:

JOHN G. SAXE.

"What," said the Mohawk, "would'st thou have me do?"

"Across the water, Sir, be pleased to take

Me and my children in thy bark canoe."

2. "Ah!" said the Chief, "thou knowest not, I think,
The legend of the lake-hast ever heard

That in its wave the stoutest boat will sink,
If any passenger shall speak a word ?"

3. "Full well we know the Indian's strange belief,"
The lady answered, with a civil smile;

"But take us o'er the water, mighty chief:

In rigid silence we will sit the while."

4. Thus they embarked, but ere the little boat
Was half across the lake, the woman gave
Her tongue its wonted play !—but still they float,
And pass in safety o'er the utmost wave!

5. Safe on the shore, the warrior looked amazed,
Despite the stoic calmness of his race:
No word he spoke, but long the Indian gazed
In moody silence on the woman's face.

6. "What think you now?" the lady gayly said:
"Safely to land your frail canoe is brought!
No harm, you see, has touched a single head:
So superstition ever comes to naught!"
7. Smiling, the Mohawk said, "Our safety shows
That God is merciful to old and young:
Thanks unto the Great Spirit !-well he knows
The pale-faced woman cannot hold her tongue ! ”

CXCVI.-ODE TO MY NEW BONNET.

1. SOFT triangle of straw and lace

That curves around my blushing face
With such a coy, bewitching grace,
No mortal man would dream your place
Was on my head.

2. Your airy touch can scarcely press
The shape from curl or flowing tress,
So light, so next to nothingness,
You surely could not well be less
And be a bonnet.

3. A bit of straw adorned with leather,
A yard of lace, a spray of heather,
Some bugles and a tossing feather,
These trifles shaken altogether-
Thus were you made.

4. No cape with starchy netting lined,
No buckram crown projects behind;
But streamers flutter in the wind,

There flows, in silken mesh confined,
My waterfall.

5. Yet most your dainty form I prize,
As sweeping back above mine eyes
It lets the drinkled hillock rise,
Where underneath in ambush lies
My pair of mice.

6. But when rough Autumn winds sweep past,
And all your laces shake aghast,

Then can you shield me from the blast,
And round my neck a shelter cast
To keep me warm?

7. Alas, a summer friend are you,

And only kind while skies are blue:
I long have known the saying true-
Old friends are better than the new
When trouble comes.

8. So ere the dog-day heats be fled
Let me your flimsy glories spread;
For soon as Winter whistles dread
I'll tie once more about my head
My old scoop bonnet.

CXCVII-POETRY NOW-A-DAYS.

1. How very absurd is half the stuff

Called "Poetry," now-a-days!

The "Stanzas," and "Epics," and "Odes," are enough To put every lover of rhyme in a huff,

And disgust the old hens with their "lays."

2. There's one sighing for "wings to soar o'er the sea," And "bask in some distant clime,"

Without ever thinking how "sore " he'd be,
After flying away on such a spree,

With nothing to eat, the meantime.

3. Another insists on being a "bird,"

To "fly to his lady-love's bower,"

When he knows that the "lady" to whom he referred Don't own such a thing; for (upon my word)

In a "yaller" brick house, up in story the third,

She's living this very hour.

4. One asks but "a cave in some forest dell,

Away from the cold world's strife."

Now, the woods in fine weather are all very well,
But give him a six weeks' "rainy spell,"
And he'll soon cave in" in his forest cell,
And be sick enough of the life.

5. Another one wants his "love to go

And roam o'er the dark blue sea:

Perhaps he don't think, if there "comes on a blow," That they'd both be sea-sick down below,

And a wretched pair they'd be.

6. Another young man would like to die

"When the roses bloom in spring."

Just let him get sick, and he'll change his cry:

His "passing away " is "all in my eye; ""

Of "dreamless sleeps " he gets quite shy:
It isn't exactly the thing.

7. Another would "die and be laid in a dell,
Beneath some murmuring rill."

Now, in poetry's jingle, it's nice to tell;
But a nasty, wet place !-so why not as well
Have a nice, dry grave on the hill?

8. One "loves"-how he loves!" the glittering foam And the mad waves' angry strife."

Just take the young genius who wrote the pome,
Where the "billows dash and the sea-birds roam,"
And he'd give all he had to be safely at home:
He'd stay there the rest of his life.

9. Another young "heart-broken " calls on his "own, To cheer him with one sweet smile;

Then he follows it up in a love-sick tone,

With his "bosom pangs: " (if the truth was known,)

It isn't the "love" that causes his moan,

But a superabundance of "bile."

CXCVIII.-ALL TIPSY BUT ME.

1. OUT of the tavern I've just stepped to-night-
Street! you are caught in a very bad plight:
Right hand and left hand are both out of place-
Street, you are drunk: 'tis a very clear case.