turning and turning about in that way; it's not a bit of What do you say? You'll get up? No, you won't, Caudle; you'll not serve me that trick again, for I've locked the door and hid the key. There's no getting hold of you in daytime; but here you can't leave me. You needn't groan, Mr.

Caudle.

Now, Caudle, dear, do let us talk comfortably. After all, love, there's a good many folks who, I dare say, don't get on half so well as we've done. We've both our little tempers, perhaps, but you are aggravating, you must own that, Caudle. Well, never mind; we won't talk of it; I won't scold you now. We'll talk of next Sunday, love. We never have kept our wedding-day, and I think it would be a nice day to have our friends. What do you say? They'd think it hypocrisy? No hypocrisy at all. I'm sure I try to be comfortable; and if ever a man was happy, you ought to be. No, Caudle, no; it isn't nonsense to keep wedding-days; it isn't a deception on the world, and if it is, how many people do it! I'm sure it's only a proper compliment that a man owes to his wife. Look at the Winkles: don't they give a dinner every year? Well, I know; and if they do fight a little in the course of the twelvemonth, that's nothing to do with it. They keep their wedding-day, and their acquaintance have nothing to do with anything else.

As I say, Caudle, it's only a proper compliment a man owes to his wife to keep his weddingday. It is as much as to say to the whole world,

"There, if I had to marry again, my blessed wife's the only woman I'd choose!" Well, I see nothing to groan at, Mr. Caudle,-no, nor to sigh at, either; but I know what you mean; I'm sure, what would have become of you if you hadn't married as you have done-why, you'd have been a lost creature! I know it; I know your habits, Caudle; and I don't like to say it—but you'd have been little better than a ragamuffin. Nice scrapes you'd have got into, I know, if you hadn't had me for a wife. The trouble I've had to keep you respectable!—and what's my thanks? Ha! I

only wish you'd had some women!

But we won't quarrel, Caudle. No; you don't mean anything, I know. We'll have this little dinner, eh? Just a few friends? Now, don't say you don't care; that isn't the way to speak to a wife, and especially the wife I've been to you, Caudle. Well, you agree to the dinner, eh? Now, don't grunt, Mr. Caudle, but speak out. You'll keep your wedding-day? What? If I'll let you go to sleep? Ha, that's unmanly, Caudle; can't you say, "Yes," without anything else? I say can't you say, "Yes"? There, bless you! I knew you would.

And now, Caudle, what shall we have for dinner? No, we won't talk of it to-morrow; we'll talk of it now, and then it will be off my mind. I should like something particular,—something out of the way, just to show that we thought the day something. I should like-Mr. Caudle, you're not asleep? What do I want? Why, you

know I want to settle about the dinner. Have what I like? No; as it is your fancy to keep the day, it's only right that I should try to please you. We never had one, Caudle, so what do you think of a haunch of venison? What do you say? Mutton will do? Ha! that shows what you think of your wife. I dare say if it was any of your club friends-any of your pot-house companions -you'd have no objection to venison. I say if What do you mutter? Let it be venison? Very well. And now about the fish. What do you think of a nice turbot? No, Mr. Caudle, brill won't do; it shall be turbot, or there shan't be any fish at all. Oh, what a mean man you are, Caudle! Shall it be turbot? It shall? And now about the soup. Now, Caudle, don't swear at the soup in that manner: you know there must be soup. Well, once in a way, and just to show our friends how happy we've been, we'll have some real turtle. No, you won't? you'll have nothing but mock? Then, Mr. Caudle, you may sit at the table by yourself. Mock-turtle on a weddingday! Was there ever such an insult? What do you say? Let it be real, then, for once? Ha, Caudle! as I say, you were a very different person fourteen years ago.

And, Caudle, you look after the venison! There's a place I know, somewhere in the city, where you'll get it beautiful. You'll look at it? You will? Very well.

And, now, who shall we invite? Who I like? Now, you know, Caudle, that's nonsense; because

I only like whom you like. I suppose the Prettymans must come. But understand, Caudle, I don't have Miss Prettyman: I am not going to have my peace of mind destroyed under my own roof if she comes, I don't appear at the table. What do you say? Very well? Very well be it, then.

And now, Caudle, you'll not forget the venison? In the city, my dear! You'll not forget the venison? A haunch, you know,—a nice haunch. And you'll not forget the venison ?. (A loud snore.) Bless me, if he ain't asleep! Oh, the unfeeling men!

Douglas Jerrold.

A MODEST WIT.

A SUPERCILIOUS nabob of the East,-
Haughty, being great,-purse-proud, being

rich,

A governor, or general, at the least,

I have forgotten which,

Had in his family a humble youth,

Who went to England in his patron's suite,

An unassuming boy, and yet in truth

A lad of decent parts and good repute.

This youth had sense and spirit;
But yet, with all his sense,

Excessive diffidence

Obscured his merit.

One day at table, flushed with pride and wine, His honor, proudly free, severely merry, Conceived it would be vastly fine

To crack a joke upon his secretary.

"Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade

Did your good father gain a livelihood?"
"He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said,
"And in his time was reckoned good."

"A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek,
Instead of teaching you to sew!
Pray, why did not your father make
A saddler, sir, of you ?"

Each parasite then, as in duty bound,

The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. At length Modestus, bowing low,

Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), "Sir, by your leave, I fain would know

Your father's trade !"

My father's trade? Bless me, that's too bad! My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you

mad?

My father, sir, did never stoop so low :
He was a gentleman, I'd have you know."

"Excuse the liberty I take,"

Modestus said, with archness on his brow, "Pray, why did not your father make A gentleman of you?"