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MRS CAUDLE HAS TAKEN COLD.-DOUGLAS JERROLD.

I'm not going to contradict you, Caudle; you may say what you like, but I think I ought to know my own feel. ings better than you. I don't wish to upbraid you, neither; I'm too ill for that; but it's not getting wet in thin shoes; oh, no! it's my mind, Caudle, my mind that's killing me. Oh, yes! gruel, indeed-you think gruel will cure a woman of anything; and you know, too, how I hate it. Gruel can't reach what I suffer; but, of course, nobody is ever ill but yourself. Well, I-I didn't mean to say that; but when you talk in that way about thin shoes, a woman says, of course, what she doesn't mean; she can't help it. You've always gone on about my shoes, when I think I'm the fittest judge of what becomes me best. I dare say, 'twould be all the same to you if I put on ploughman's boots; but I'm not going to make a figure of my feet, I can tell you. I've never got cold with the shoes I've worn yet, and 'tisn't likely I should begin now.

No, Caudle; I wouldn't wish to say anything to accuse you: no, goodness knows, I wouldn't make you uncomfortable for the world-but the cold I've got I got ten years ago. I have never said anything about it—but it has never left me. Yes; ten years ago the day before yesterday. How can I recollect it? Oh, very well; women remember things you never think of; poor souls! They've good cause to do so. Ten years ago, I was sitting up for you-there now, I'm not going to say any thing to vex you, only do let me speak; ten years ago, I was waiting for you, and I fell asleep, and the fire went out, and when I woke I found I was sitting right in the draught of the key-hole. That was my death, Caudle, though don't let that make you uneasy, love; for I don't think that you meant to do it.

Ha! it's all very well for you to call it nonsense, and to lay your ill-conduct upon my shoes. That's like a man, exactly! There never was a man yet that killed his wife, who couldn't give a good reason for it. No: I don't mean to say that you've killed me, quite the reverse; still, there's never been a day that I haven't felt that keyhole.

What? Why don't I have a doctor? What's the use of a doctor? Why should I put you to the expense? Besides, I dare say you'll do very well without me, Caudle; yes, after a very little time, you won't miss me much... uo man ever does.

Peggy tells me Miss Prettyman called to-day. What of it? Nothing, of course. Yes, I kuow she heard I A little indecent, I

was ill, and that's why she came. think, Mr. Caudle; she might wait; I shan't be in her way long; she may soon have the key of the caddy now.

Ila! Mr. Caudle, what's the use of your calling me your dearest soul now? Well, I do,-I believe you. I dare say you do mean it; that is, I hope you do. Nevertheless, you can't expect I can be quiet in this bed, and think of that young woman-not, indeed, that she's near so young as she gives herself out. I bear no malice towards her, Caudle-not the least. Still I don't think I could lie at peace in my grave if-well, I won't say any thing more about her, but you know what I mean.

I think dear mother would keep house beautifully for you when I'm gone. Well, love, I won't talk in that way, if you desire it. Still, I know I've a dreadful cold; though I won't allow it for a minute to be the shoes-certainly not. I never would wear 'em thick, and you know it, and they never gave me a cold yet. No, dearest Caudle, it's ten years ago that did it; not that I'll say a syllable of the matter to hurt you. I'd die first.

It

Mother, you see, knows all your little ways; and you wouldn't get another wife to study you and pet you up as I've done a second wife never does; it isn't likely she should. And after all, we've been very happy. hasn't been my fault, if we've ever had a word or two, for you could'nt help now and then being aggravating; nobody can help their tempers always-especially men. Still, we've been very happy-haven't we, Caudle?

Good-night. Yes-this cold does tear me to pieces; but for all that, it isn't the shoes. God bless you, Caudle; no-it's not the shoes. I won't say it's the keyhole; but again I say, it's not the shoes. God bless you once more, - But never say it's the shoes

SHALL WE KNOW EACH OTHER THERE?

WHEN we hear the music ringing
In the bright celestial dome
When sweet angels' voices, singing,
Gladly bid us welcome home
To the land of ancient story,
Where the spirit knows no care
In that land of life and glory--
Shall we know each other there?

When the holy angels meet us,
As we go to join their band,
Shall we know the friends that greet us
In that glorious spirit land?
Shall we see the same eyes shining
On us as in days of yore?
Shall we feel the dear arms twining
Fondly round us as before?

Yes, my earth-worn soul rejoices,
And my weary heart grows light,
For the thring angels' voices
And the angel faces bright,
That shall welcome us in heaven,
Are the loved ones long ago;
And to them 'tis kindly given
Thus their mortal friends to know.

Oh ye weary, sad, and tossed ones,
Droop not, faint not by the way!
Ye shall join the loved and just ones
In that land of perfect day.
Harp-strings, touched by angel fingers,
Murmured in my rapturous ear ;--
Evermore their sweet song lingers--
"We shall know each other there."

LIFE FROM DEATH.-HORATIUS PONAM.

THE star is not extinguished when it sets
Upon the dull horizon; it but goes
To shine in other skies, then reappear
in ours, as fresh as when it first arose.

The river is not lost, when, o'er the rock,
It pours its flood into the abyss below;
Its scattered force re-gathering from the shock,
It hastens onward with yet fuller flow.

The bright sun dies not, when the shading orb
Of the eclipsing moon obscures its ray;
It still is shining on; and soon to us

Will burst undimmed into the joy of day.

The lily dies not, when both flower and leaf

Fade, and are strewed upon the chill, sad ground; Gone down for shelter to its mother-earth,

'Twill rise, re-bloom, and shed its fragrance round.

The dew-drop dies not, when it leaves the flower,
And passes upward on the beam of moru;

It does but hide itself in light on high,

To its loved flower at twilight, to return.

The fine gold has not perished, when the flame
Seizes upon it with consuming glow;
In freshened splendor it comes forth anew,

To sparkle on the monarch's throne or brow.

Thus nothing dies, or only dies to live:

Star, stream, sun, flower, the dew-drop and the gold, Each goodly thing, instinct with buoyant hope, Hastes to put on its purer, finer mould.

Thus in the quiet joy of kindly trust,

We bid each parting saint a brief farewell;
Weeping, yet smiling, we commit their dust
To the safe keeping of the silent cell.

Softly within that peaceful resting-place
We lay their wearied limbs, and bid the clay
Press lightly on them till the night be past,
And the far east give note of coming day.

The day of re-appearing! how it speeds!
He who is true and faithful speaks the word.
Then shall we ever be with those we love-
Then shall we be forever with the Lord.

The shout is heard; the archangel's voice goes forth;
The trumpet sounds; the dead awake and sing;
The living put on glory; one glad band,

They hasten up to meet their coming King.

Short death and darkness! Endless life and light!
Short dimming; endless shining in yon sphere,

Where all is incorruptible and pure

The joy without the pain, the smile without the tear.

AMERICA.-CHARLES PHILLIPS.

SEARCH creation round, where can you find a country that presents so sublime a view, so interesting an antici pation? What noble institutions! What a comprehen sive policy! What a wise equalization of every politicaladvantage! The oppressed of all countries, the martyrs of every creed, the innocent victim of despotic arrogance or superstitious frenzy, may there find refuge; his industry encouraged, his piety respected, his ambition animated; with no restraint but those laws which are the same to all, and no distinction but that which his merit may originate. Who can deny that the existence of such a country presents a subject for human congratulation! Who can deny that its gigantic advancement offers a field for the most rational conjecture! At the end of the very next century, if she proceeds as she seems to promise, what a wondrous spectacle may she not exhibit! Who shall say for what purpose mysterious Providence may not have designed her! Who shall say that when in its follies or its crimes, the old world may have buried all the pride of its power, and all the pomp of its civilization, human nature may not find its destined renovation in the new! When its temples and its trophies shall have mouldered into dust,-when the glories of its name shall be but the legend of tradition, and the light of its achievements live only in song; philosophy will revive again in the sky of her Franklin, and glory rekindle at the urn of her Washington.

Is this the vision of romantic fancy? Is it even improbable? Is it half so improbable as the events, which, for the last twenty years, have rolled like successive tides over the surface of the European world, each erasing the impressions that preceded it? Many, I know there are, who will consider this supposition as wild and whimsical, but they have dwelt with little reflection upon the records of the past. They have but ill observed the progress of national rise and national ruin. They form their judgment on the deceitful stability of the present hour, never considering the innumerable monarchies and republics, in former

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