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does; but what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up, for what you care, as I dare say I shall; and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. I hope there will. It will teach you to. lend your umbrellas again. I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death: yes, and that's what you lent the umbrella for. Of course!
5. Nice clothes I get, too, traipsing through weather like this. My gown and bonnet will be spoiled quite. Needn't I wear 'em, then? Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I shall wear 'em. No, sir; I'm not going out a dowdy, to please you, or anybody else. Gracious knows! it isn't often that I step over the threshold :—indeed, I might as well be a slave at once: better, I should say; but when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go as a lady.
6. Oh! that rain-if it isn't enough to break in the windows. Ugh! I look forward with dread for to-morrow! How am I to go to mother's, I'm sure I can't tell; but if I die, I'll do it.-No, sir; I won't borrow an umbrella: no; and you shan't buy one. Mr. Caudle, if you bring home another umbrella, I'll throw it into the street. Ha! And it was only last week I had a new nozzle put to that umbrella. I'm sure if I'd have known as much as I do now, it might have gone without one. Paying for new nozzles for other people to laugh at you! Oh! it's all věry well for you; you can go to sleep. You've no thought of your poor patient wife, and your own dear children; you think of nothing but lending umbrellas! Men, indeed!-call themselves lords of the creation! pretty lords, when they can't even take care of an umbrella !
7. I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me. But that's what you want: then you may go to your club, and do as you like; and then nicely my poor dear children will be used ; but then, sir, then you'll be happy. Oh! don't tell me! I know you will: else you'd never have lent the umbrella !—You have to go on Thursday about that summons; and, of course, you can't go. No, indeed: you don't go without the umbrella. You may lose the debt, for what I care-it won't be so much as spoiling your clothes-better lose it: people deserve to lose debts who lend umbrellas!
8. And I should like to know how I'm to go to mother's without the umbrella. Oh! don't tell me that I said I would go; that's nothing to do with it,-nothing at all. She'll think I'm neglecting her; and the little money we're to have, we shan't
have at all;-because we've no umbrella.-The children, too! (dear things!) they'll be sopping wet: for they shan't stay at home; they shan't lose their learning; it's all their father will leave them, I'm sure! But they shall go to school. Don't tell me they shouldn't (you are so aggravating, Caudle, you'd spoil the temper of an angel!); they shall go to school: mark that! and if they get their deaths of cold, it's not my fault; I DIDN'T
LEND THE UMBRELLA.
DOUGLAS JERROLD was born in London on the 3d of January, 1803. His father, Samuel Jerrold, was manager of the two theaters of Sheerness and Southend, and in these sea-places much of his childhood was passed. His school-days were few, and the results of his studies unimportant. At eleven years of age he became a midshipman in the British navy, and served about two years, thus acquiring nautical experience, which he used in writing "Black-eyed Susan," one of his most successful plays. A mere boy when he came ashore, he went to London, became an apprentice in a printing-office, and went through the ordinary course of a printer's life. At this time, though the hours of labor were long, he studied very hard, and wrote pieces for the magazines. Emboldened by success, he wrote numerous plays for the theaters before he was twenty years old. Among the greatest and maturest of his comedies are "The Prisoner of War," "Bubbles of a Day," "Time works Wonders," "St. Cupid," and "The Heart of Gold." His chief brilliant and original prose writings, except "A Man made of Money," were first prepared for magazines. "Men of Character" appeared in "Blackwood's Magazine," "The Chronicles of Clovernook," in the “Illuminated Magazine," of which he was founder and editor,—and “The Story of a Feather," "Punch's Letters to his Son," and "The Caudle Lectures" in "Punch," of which he was the originator. The last literary event in his life was his assuming the editorship of "Lloyd's Newspaper," which rose under his hand to great circulation and celebrity. He died, from disease of the heart, on the 8th of June, 1857.
10 him, who, in the love of nature holds
A various language; for his gayer hours,
1 Thăn`a töp′sis, this Greek word means a view of, or meditation on, death.
And gentle sympathy that steals away
Of the last bitter hour, come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
To nature's teaching, while, from all around,
"Yet a few days, and thee, The all-beholding sun shall see no mōre,
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
Shalt thou retire, ălōne-nor couldst thou wish
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales,
The venerable woods: rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadow green; and poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man.
"All that tread
The flight of years began, have laid them down
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
"As the long train Of ages glide ǎway, the sons of men,
The youth, in life's green spring, and he, who goes In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, The bowed with age, the infant, in the smiles
And beauty of its innocent age cut off—
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side,
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
Thou go, not like the quarry-slave at night,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams!" W. C. BRYANT. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT was born in Cummington, Massachusetts, on the third day of November, 1794. He gave indications of superior genius at a very early age; and fortunately received the most careful and judicious instruction from his father, a learned and eminent physician. At ten years of age, he made very creditable translations from some of the Latin poets, which were printed in a newspaper at Northampton. At thirteen, he wrote "The Embargo," a political satire, which was never surpassed by any poct of that age. Bryant entered an advanced class of Williams College in the sixteenth year of his age, in which he soon became distinguished for his attainments generally, and especially for his proficiency in classical learning. He was admitted to the bar in 1815, and commenced the practice of his profession in the village of Great Barrington, where he was soon after married. He wrote the above noble poem"Thanatopsis "-when but little more than eighteen years of age. In 1821 he delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard College his longest poem, "The Ages," which is in the stanza of Spenser, and in its versification is not inferior to "The Faerie Queene." "To a Waterfowl," "Inscription for an entrance to a Wood," and several other pieces of nearly equal merit were likewise written during his residence at Great Barrington. After passing ten years in successful practice in the courts, he determined to abandon the uncongenial business of a lawyer, and devote his attention more exclusively to literature. With this view, he removed to the city of New York in 1825, and, with a friend, established "The New York Review and Athenæum Magazine," in which he published several of his finest poems. In 1826 he assumed the chief direction of the "Evening Post," one of the best gazettes in this country, with which he has ever since been connected. In the summer of 1834, Mr. Bryant visited Europe, with his family, where he remained till 1836, when the illness of his partner and associate, the late William Leggett, caused his hasty return. A splendid edition of his complete poetical works was published in 1846. His last volume entitled "Thirty Poems," appeared in 1864. He is a favorite with men of every variety of tastes. He has passages of profound reflection for the philosopher, and others of such simple beauty as to please the most illiterate. He has few equals in grace and power of expression. Every line has compactness, precision, and elegance, and flows with its fellows in exquisite harmony. Mr. Bryant is the poet of nature. He places before us, in pictures warmly colored by the hues of the imagination, the old and shadowy forests, the sea-like prairies, the lakes, rivers, and mountains of our own country. To the thoughtful critic every thing in his verse bclongs to America, and is as different from what marks the poetry of England as it is from that which most distinguishes the poetry of France or Germany.
ETHINKS, when on the languid eye
When evening's shadows veil the sky,
1 Euthanasia, (yu` than à ́zî å), an easy death; a mode of dying to be desired.