How they shouted! What rejoicing!
How the old bell shook the air,
Till the clang of freedom ruffled
The calmly gliding Delaware!
How the bonfires and the torches

Lighted up the night's repose,

And from the flames, like fabled Phoenix,
Our glorious liberty arose!

That old State-House bell is silent,
Hushed is now its clamorous tongue

But the spirit it awakened.

Still is living-ever young;
And when we greet the smiling sunlight
On the fourth of each July,

We will ne'er forget the bellman
Who, betwixt the earth and sky,
Rung out, loudly, "Independence!"
Which, please God, shall never die!

MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE.

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!

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, wer'n'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.

It's a pity you hav'n'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 needleand-thread 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 shirtwhat do you say "ah" at? 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 your buttons then?

But that's how you

Yes, it is worth talking of! 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.

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 aggra

vating enough, when you like, for anything. 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.

That's your
I'm sinking
And when

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! love; that's your feeling! I know that every day, though I say nothing about it. 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. DOUGLAS JERROLD.

OTHELLO'S APOLOGY.

MOST potent, grave, and reverend seigniors:

My very noble and approved good masters:
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her:
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent; no more.

Rude am I in speech,

And little blessed with the set phrase of peace:
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,

Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used
Their dearest action in the tented field;

And little of this great world can I speak,

More than pertains to feats of broils and battle,
And therefore, little shall I grace my cause,
In speaking of myself.

Yet, by your patience,

I will, a round, unvarnished tale deliver,

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic

For such proceedings I am charged withal

I won his daughter with.

Her father loved me; oft invited me;
Still questioned me the story of my life,
From year to year: the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I had past.

I ran it through, e'en from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances;
Of moving accidents by flood and field;

Of hairbreadth 'scapes, in the imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,

And with it all my travel's history.

All these to hear,

Would Desdemona seriously incline;

But still the house affairs would draw her thence,
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear,
Devour up my discourse. Which, I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate;
Whereof by parcels, she had something heard,
But not distinctly.

I did consent;

And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke,
That my youth suffered. My story being done,

She gave me for my pains, a world of sighs.

She swore in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange,

'Twas pitiful; 'twas wondrous pitiful;

She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished

That heaven had made her such a man.

She thanked me,

And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. On this hint I spake;
She loved me for the dangers I had passed;
And I loved her that she did pity them.
This is the only witchraft which I've used.

SHAKSPEARE.

DEATH OF LITTLE NELL.

Y little and little, the old man drew back toward the inner chamber, while these words were spoken. He pointed there, as he replied, with trembling lips,

"You plot among you to wean my heart from her. You will never do that-never while I have life. I have no relative or friend but her-I never had-I never

will have. She is all in all to me. It is too late to part

us now."

Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he went, he stole into the room. They who were left behind drew close together, and after a few whispered words, not unbroken by emotion, or easily uttered,followed him. They moved so gently, that their footsteps made no noise; but there were sobs from among the group, and sounds of grief and mourning.

For she was dead.

at rest.

There, upon her little bed, she lay The solemn stillness was no marvel now.