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ladies gave an involuntary sigh of relief when they saw me go, and quite brightened up for a moment. Poor girls ! they had better have put up with me. The man they had now got was a jolly, light-hearted, thick-headed sort of a chap, with about as much sensitiveness in him as there might be in a Newfoundland puppy. You might look daggers at him for an hour and he would not notice it, and it would not trouble him if he did. He set a good, rollicking, dashing stroke that sent the spray playing all over the boat like a fountain, and made the whole crowd sit up straight in no time. When he spread more than a pint of water over one of those dresses, he would give a pleasant little laugh, and say:

“I beg your pardon, I'm sure ;” and offer them his handkerchief to wipe it off with.

“Oh, it's of no consequence,” the poor girls would murmur in reply, and covertly draw rugs and coats over themselves, and try to protect themselves with their lace parasols.

At lunch they had a very bad time of it. People wanted them to sit on the grass, and the grass was dusty; and the tree trunks, against which they were invited to lean, did not appear to have been brushed for weeks; so they spread their handkerchiefs on the ground and sat on those bolt upright. Somebody, in walking about with a plate of beefsteak pie, tripped up over a root, and sent the pie flying. None of it went over them, fortunately, but the accident suggested a fresh danger to them, and agitated them, and, whenever any body moved about after that, with anything in his hand that could fall and make a mess, they watched that person with growing anxiety until he sat down again.

“Now, then, you girls,” said our friend Bow to them cheerily, after it was all over, “come along, you've got to wash

up!"

They didn't understand him at first. When they grasped the idea, they said they feared they did not know how to wash up.

“Oh, I'll soon show you,” he cried; "it's rare fun! You lie down on your — I mean you lean over the bank, you know, and sloush the things about in the water.”

The elder sister said that she was afraid that they hadn't got on dresses suited to the work.

“Oh, they'll be all right,” said he light-heartedly; "tuck

'em up."

And he made them do it, too. He told them that that sort of thing was half the fun of a picnic. They said it was very interesting.

Now I come to think it over, was that young man as denseheaded as we thought? or was he — no, impossible! there was such a simple, childlike expression about him!

MODERN ART TREASURES.

All our art treasures of to-day are only the dug-up commonplaces of three or four hundred years ago. I wonder if there is real intrinsic beauty in the old soup-plates, beer-mugs, and candle-snuffers that we prize so now, or if it is only the halo of age glowing around them that gives them their charms in our eyes.

The “old blue” that we hang about our walls as ornaments were the common every-day household utensils of a few centuries ago; and the pink shepherds and the yellow shepherdesses that we hand around now for all our friends to gush over, and pretend they understand, were the unvalued mantel ornaments that the mother of the eighteenth century would have given the baby to suck when he cried.

Will it be the same in the future? Will the prized treasures of to-day always be the cheap trifles of the day before? Will rows of our willow-pattern dinner-plates be ranged above the chimney-pieces of the great in the years 2000 and odd ? Will the white cups with the gold rim and the beautiful gold flower inside (species unknown), that our Sarah Janes now break in sheer light-heartedness of spirit, be carefully mended, and stood upon a bracket, and dusted only by the lady of the house? ...

The “sampler” that the eldest daughter did at school will be spoken of as “tapestry of the Victorian era,” and be also priceless. The blue-and-white mugs of the present day roadside inn will be hunted up, all cracked and chipped, and sold for their weight in gold, and rich people will use them for claretcups; and travelers from Japan will buy up all the “Presents from Ramsgate,” and “Souvenirs of Margate,” that may have escaped destruction, and take them back to Yeddo as ancient English curios.

DOUGLAS WILLIAM JERROLD.

DOUGLAS WILLIAM JERROLD, a celebrated English dramatist, journalist, and wit, born at London, Jan. 3, 1803; died there, June 8, 1857. His father was the manager of a small provincial theater, was unsuccessful, and in 1818 the son was apprenticed to the printer of a newspaper. His first comedy, "More Frightened Than Hurt," was successfully produced in 1821 ; and he was engaged as a writer for the paper upon which he had worked as a printer. He also wrote for the stage, and his drama, “Black-Eyed Susan," produced in 1829, ran more than three hundred nights. In 1836 he undertook the management of the Strand Theater, but was not successful. He had, however, written largely for various periodicals, and upon the establishment of Punch, in 1841, he became one of its favorite contributors. In 1843 he started The Illuminated Magazine, and afterward The Shilling Magazine, neither of which was successful. Subsequently he became editor of Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper. In all, he wrote some thirty or forty dramas. Of his other works, many of which appeared originally in Punch, the principal are “Punch's Letters to his Son” and “Punch's Complete Letter Writer" (1843); “The Story of a Feather" (1844); "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures,” his most famous work (1845); “Chronicles of Clovernook” (1846); “Men of Character" (1850); “St. Giles and St. James” (1851); “ Cakes and Ale” (1852).

MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT FIVE POUNDS TO A FRIEND.

(From "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures.") “You ought to be very rich, Mr. Caudle. I wonder who'd lend you five pounds ?

five pounds ? But so it is: a wife may work and may slave! Ha, dear! the many things that might have been done with five pounds. As if people picked up money in the street! But you always were a fool, Mr. Caudle! I've wanted a black satin gown these three years, and that five pounds would have entirely bought it. But it's no matter how I go, — not at all. Everybody says I don't dress as becomes your wife — and I don't; but what's that to you, Mr. Caudle ? Nothing. Oh, no!

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