was known, you were glad to see it broken for that very

reason.

"Every way, I've been insulted. I should like to know who it was who corked whiskers on my dear Aunt's picture? Oh! you're laughing, are you? You're not laughing? Don't tell me that. I should like to know what shakes the bed, then, if you're not laughing? Yes, corked whiskers on her dear face,—and she was a good soul to you, Caudle, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself to see her ill-used. Oh, you may laugh! It's very easy to laugh! I only wish you'd a little feeling, like other people, that's all.

"Then there's my china mug,-the mug I had before I was married—when I was a happy creature. I should like to know who knocked the spout off that mug? Don't tell me it was cracked before-it's no such thing, Caudle; there wasn't a flaw in it-and now, I could have cried when I saw it. Don't tell me it wasn't worth twopence. How do you know? You never buy mugs. But that's like men; they think nothing in a house costs anything.

"There's four glasses broke and nine cracked. At least that's all I've found out at present; but I dare say I shall discover a dozen to-morrow.

"And I should like to know where the cotton umbrella's gone to and I should like to know who broke the bell-pulland perhaps you don't know there's a leg off a chair,-and perhaps"

"I was resolved," says Caudle, "to know nothing, and so went to sleep in my ignorance."

DOUGLAS JERROLD.

[From "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures."-By kind permission of Messrs. Bradbury,

Agnew, & Co.]

HIGH ART-MUSIC.

I have been studying the horn to some extent myself. Nothing is more delightful than to have sweet music at home in the evenings. It lightens the burdens of care, it soothes the ruffled feelings, it exercises a refining influence upon the children, it calms the passions and elevates the soul. A few months ago I thought that it might please my family if I learned to play upon the French horn. It is a beautiful instrument, and after hearing a man perform on it at a concert I resolved to have one. I bought a splendid one in the city, and concluded not to mention the fact to any one until I had learned to play a tune. Then I thought I would serenade Mrs. A. some evening and surprise her. Accordingly, I determined to practice in the garret. When I first tried the horn I expected to blow only a few gentle notes until I learned how to handle it; but when I put the mouth-piece to my lips no sound was evoked. Then I blew harder. Still the horn remained silent. Then I drew a full breath and sent a whirlwind tearing through the horn; but no music came. I blew at it for half an hour, and then I ran a wire through the instrument to ascertain if anything blocked it up. It was clear. Then I blew softly and fiercely, quickly and slowly. I opened all the stops. I puffed and strained and worked until I feared an attack of apoplexy. Then I gave it up and went down stairs; and Mrs. A. asked me what made me look so red in the face. For four days I laboured with that horn, and got my lips so puckered up and swollen that I went about looking as if I was perpetually trying to whistle. Finally, I took the instrument back to the store and told the man that the horn was defective. What I wanted was a horn with insides to it; this one had no more music to it than a terra-cotta drainpipe. The man took it in his

hand, put it to his lips and played "Sweet Spirit, Hear my Prayer," as easily as if he were singing. He said that what I needed was to fix my mouth properly, and he showed me how.

After working for three more afternoons in the garret the horn at last made a sound. But it was not a cheering noise; it reminded me forcibly of the groans uttered by Butterwick's horse when it was dying last November. The harder I blew, the more mournful became the noise, and that was the only note I could get. When I went down to supper, Mrs. A. asked me if I heard that awful groaning. She said she guessed it came from Twiddler's cow, for she heard Mrs. Twiddler say yesterday that the cow was sick.

For four weeks I could get nothing out of that horn but blood-curdling groans; and, meantime, the people over the way moved to another house because our neighbourhood was haunted, and three of our hired girls resigned successively for the same reason.

Finally, a man whom I consulted told me that "No One to Love" was an easy tune for beginners; and I made an effort to learn it.

After three weeks of arduous practice, during which Mrs. A. several times suggested that it was brutal that Twiddler didn't kill that suffering cow and put it out of its misery, I conquered the first three notes; but there I stuck. I could play "No One to- -" and that was all. I performed "No One to- over eight thousand times; and as it seemed unlikely that I would ever learn the whole tune, I determined to try the effect of part of it on Mrs. A. About ten o'clock one night I crept out to the front of the house and struck up. First, "No One to" about fifteen or twenty times, then a few of those groans, then more of the tune, and so forth. Then Butterwick set his dog on me, and I suddenly went into the house. Mrs. A. had the children in the back room,

and she was standing behind the door with my revolver in her hand. When I entered, she exclaimed

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come home! Somebody's been murdering a man in our yard. He uttered the most awful shrieks and cries I ever heard. I was dreadfully afraid the murderers would come into the house. It's perfectly fearful, isn't it?"

Then I took the revolver away from her-it was not loaded, and she had no idea that it would have to be cocked-and went to bed without mentioning the horn. I thought perhaps it would be better not to. I sold it the next day; and now if I want music I shall buy a good hand-organ. I know I can play on that. MAX ADELER.

I VANT TO FLY.

During the last war there were a number of French officers in an inland town on their parole of honour. Now, one gentleman was tired with the usual routine of eating, drinking, gambling, smoking, &c., and therefore, in order to amuse himself otherwise, resolved to go a fishing. His host supplied him with a rod and line, but being in want of artificial flies, he went in search of a fishing-tackle maker's shop. Having found one, kept by a plain, painstaking John Bull, our Frenchman entered, and with a bow, a cringe, and a shrug of the shoulders, thus began :—

99

"Ah, Monsieur, Anglaise, comment vous portez vous?" "Eh, that's French," exclaimed the shopkeeper, not that I understand it, but I'm very well, if that's what you mean." "Bon, bon, ver good; den, sare, I sall tell you, I vant deux fly."

"I dare say you do, Mounseer," replied the Englishman, "and so do a great many more of your outlandish gentry; but I'm a true born Briton, and can never consent to assist

the enemies of my country to leave it—particularly when they cost us so much to bring them here."

"Ah, Monsieur, you no comprehend; I sall repeate, I vant deux fly, on de top of de vater.

"Oh! what, you want to fly by water, do you? then I'm sure I can't assist you, for we are, at least, a hundred miles from the sea-coast, and our canal is not navigable above ten or twelve miles from here."

66 Sare, you are un stup of de block. I sall tell you once seven times over again—I vant deux fly on de top of de vater, to dingle dangle at de end of de long pole."

"Aye, aye! you only fly, Mounseer, by land or water, and if they catch you, I'm mistaken if they won't dingle dangle you, as you call it, at the end of a long pole."

"Vat you mean by dat? You are un bandit jack of de ass, Johnny de Bull. Ba, ba, you are affronte, and I disgrace me to parley vid you. I tell you, sare, dat I vant deux fly on de top of de vater, to dingle dangle at the end of de long pole, to la trap poisson."

"What's that you say, you French Mounseer-you'll lay a trap to poison me and all my family, because I won't assist you to escape? Why, the like was never heard. Here, Betty, go for the constable."

The constable soon arrived, who happened to be as ignorant as the shopkeeper, and of course it was not to be expected that a constable should be a scholar. Thus the man of office began :

"What's all this? Betty has been telling me that this here outlandish Frenchman is going to poison you and all your family? Aye, aye, I should like to catch him at it, that's all. Come, come to prison, you delinquent."

"No, sare, I sall not go to de prison, take me before dewhat you call it de ting dat nibble de grass?"

"Oh, you mean the cow."