12. MRS. CAUDLE ON UMBRELLAS.

This piece illustrates circumflex inflection. It should be read in an emphatic, conversational style.

mas.

1. Bah! that's the third umbrella gone since ChristWhat were you to dó? Why, let him go home in the rain, to be súre. I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could spóil! Take cold, indeed! He does n't look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd have better taken côld, than taken our umbrella.

2. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I sáy, do you hear the rain? Do you hear it against the windows? Nonsense: you don't impose upon me; you can't be asleep with such a shower as that! Do you hear it, I sày? Oh! you do hear it! Well, that's a pretty flood, I think, to last for six weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the house. Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle; don't insult me; he return the umbrella? Anybody would think you were born yèsterday. As if anybody ever did return an umbrella!

3. Thère; do you hear it? Worse and worse. Cats and dogs! and for six weeks; always six weeks; and no umbrella! I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow. They sha'n't go through such weather; I am determined. No; they shall stop at home and never learn any thing (the blessed creatures!), sooner than go and get wet! And when they grow up, I wonder whom they'll have to thank for knowing nothing; whom, indeed, but their father? People who can't feel for their own children, ought never to be fathers.

4. But I know why you lent the umbrella; oh, yes, I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow: you knew that, and you did it on

purpose. Don't tell me; you hate to have me to go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle; no, sir; if it comes down in buckets full, I'll go all the more.

5. Nó; and I'll not have a càb! Where do you think the money's to come from? You've got nice, high notions at that club of yours. A càb, indeed! Cost me sixteen-pence, at least; sixteen-pence! two-and-eightpence; for there's back again. Cábs, indeed! I should like to know who's to pay for 'em; for I am sure you can't, if you go on as you do, throwing away your property, and beggaring your children, buying umbrellas!

6. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I sày, do you hear it? But I don't cáre; I'll go to mother's to-mórrow; I will; and what's more, I'll walk every step of the way; and you know that will give me my death. Don't call me a foolish woman; 'tis you that's the foolish mân.

7. You know I can't wear clogs; and with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a cold; it always 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 should n't wonder if I caught my death: yes, and that's what you lent the umbrella for. Of course!

8. Nice clothes I get, too, traipsing through weather like this. My gown and bonnet will be spoiled quite. Néed n'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 knóws! it is n't often I step over the threshold; indeed, I might as well be a slave at once; bêtter, I should say; but when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go as a lady.

9. Oh! that ràin! if it is n't enough to break in the windows. Ugh! I look forward with dread for to-mor

row! How I am to go to mother's, I'm sure I can't tell, but if I die, I'll do it. No, sir; I'll not borrow an umbrella: no, and you sha'n't buy one. Mr. Caudle, if you bring home another umbrella, I'll throw it into the street.

10. Ha! it was only last week I had a new nozzle put on that umbrella. I'm sure if I'd 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! 'tis all very well for you. 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 creation! pretty lords, when they can't even take care of an umbrella!

11. 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; 'tis not so bad as spoiling your clothes; better lose it; people deserve to lose debts who lend umbrellas.

sure.

12. The children too (dear things)! they'll be sopping wet; for they sha'n't stay at home; they sha'n't lose their learning; 't is all their father will leave them, I'm But they shall go to school. Don't tell me I said they should n't (you are so aggravating, Caudle, you'd spoil the temper of an angel); they shall, I tell you right here, they shall go to school; mark thất; and if they get their deaths of cold, 'tis not my fault. Did I lend the umbrella, Mr. Caudle?-No, I didn't lend the umbrella.

From DOUGLAS JERROLD'S Curtain Lectures.

13. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

1. Oliver Wendell Holmes was born in Cambridge, Mass., in 1809, in the old gambrel-roof house still standing near the colleges, in which the fortifying of Bunker Hill was ordered. The first verses that made Holmes known, the lines to Old Ironsides, the frigate Constitution, were written in the attic of this old house when the poet was twenty years old.

2. After his graduation at Harvard, he pursued his medical studies in Europe, and after his return was chosen Professor of Anatomy at Harvard, a position which he resigned in 1882 after having discharged the duties for thirty-five years. He intends to devote the

remainder of his life to literature.

3. The first thought that strikes us in Holmes is the activity, vigor, and fertility of his intellect. His wit is keen, flashing, inexhaustible. His humor is of the rarest kind; it flows from a most genial and happy nature. His lyrical poems are full of vigor and fire. His prose works, the "Breakfast-Table" series, consisting of three separate volumes: "The Autocrat," "The Professor," and "The Poet-at the Breakfast-Table," are brilliant, witty, and wise, and are interspersed with some of his most beautiful poems.

4. The reader is referred to "My Aunt," "The Last Leaf," "The School-Boy," "Contentment," "Birthday of Daniel Webster," "The Old Man of the Sea," "Aunt Tabitha," "Bill and Joe," "The Smiling Listener," "The Iron Gate," "How the Old Horse Won the Bet," and "Under the Violets."

1. Nothing so vulgar as to be in a hurry.-True, but hard of application. People with short legs step quickly, because legs are pendulums, and swing more times in a minute the shorter they are. Generally, a natural rhythm runs through the whole organization: quick pulse, fast breathing, hasty speech, rapid trains of thought, excitable temper. Stillness of person and steadiness of features are signal marks of good-breeding. Vulgar persons can't sit still, or, at least, they must work their limbs or features.

2. Talking of one's own ails and grievances.-Bad enough, but not so bad as insulting the person you talk with by remarking on his ill-looks, or appearing to notice any of his personal peculiarities.

3. Apologizing.-A very desperate habit,-one that is rarely cured. Apology is only egotism wrong side out.