heard of, though there was a vague rumour that he had been seen somewhere in the Valley of the Euphrates, or some such unlikely locality. All his friends were distressed for him. Several months elapsed, and at last a letter arrived from him to say that he was in England, that he would be at home immediately, and that he would bring a new wife with him. Here was a surprise! There was no time for preparation, but his faithful old housekeeper did what she could, and by a great effort she succeeded in getting rid of everything that could possibly remind him of his terrible loss.

The old house was made as cheery as possible.

The day arrived, the carriage drove up, the bride descended. She was handed out by her husband. He still wore the hat he had carried at his first wife's funeral, and the weeper was still hanging from it! This Scot, to say the least of it, had an imperfect appreciation of the fitness of things.

Here is another Scottish story. It may be called a Drawback.

A lady went to call on a young woman who had been in her service, and who had got married. The girl was out, but she saw her mother, who did the honours, showing her over the house, which was very neat, and clean, and comfortable; and the lady said, 'Really, how very nice, I am sure Fanny must be very happy;' to which the mother replied, 'Ou, ay, but

there's joost ane little drâback.'

She was shown the

garden; the same remark was made, and the same. reply; and then the poultry-house, &c., and again the same reply. On which the lady very naturally said, ' But if your daughter has such an exceedingly nice home, and is so very comfortable, what, may I ask, is this drawback you speak of?' It was then that the mother spoke out, exclaiming energetically, 'SHE CANNA BIDE HER MARN!'

Here is even a queerer story, this time of a widow, perhaps the same lady after she was quit of her

encumbrance.

A lady in a widow's cap, and possessed of a certain amount of fascination, startled a gentleman in whose company she was unexpectedly thrown, by bursting into tears. 'Why do you weep, madam?' politely asked the gentleman. 'Oh, sir,' replied the lady, gazing at him through her tears, 'you do so remind me of my poor dear husband.' Upon the gentleman inquiring with still politer, and, perhaps, warmer sympathy, 'Dear madam, am I then so very like him?' she replied, with a fresh gush of weeping, 'Oh, dear, no, sir, it is because you are the very hopposite of him.'

This was Thomas Fuller's notion of what a good wife should be: She is none of your dainty dames who love to appear in a variety of suits, every day new; but our good wife sets up a sail according to the

keel of her husband's estate, and, if of high parentage, she does not so remember what she was by birth, that she forgets what she is by match.'

One word more,—I have a well-considered opinion as to the proper ages for man and wife. A wife should be half the age of her husband with seven years added. Thus, if the gentleman is twenty, his wife should be seventeen. If he is thirty-six, she should be twenty-five; and so on. No lady of the ripe age of fifty-seven has a right to indulge in the luxury of a spouse who (even though he may not be a magnificent ruin) is less than a century.

BARLEY BROTH.

(Cumberland Dialect.)

'If tempers were put up to seale,
Our Jwohn's wad bear a duced preyce;
He vow'd 'twas barley i' the broth,—
"Upon my word," says I, "it's reyce."

"" I mek nea faut," our Jwohnny says,
"The broth is guid and varra neyce ;

I only say it's barley broth."

"You says what's wrang," says I, "it's reyce."

""Did ever mortal hear the leyke !
As if I hadn't sense to tell!

Tou may think reyce the better thing,
But barley broth dis just as well."

"And say is mud, if it was there;
The deil a grain is i' the pot;

But tou mun ayways threep yen down,—
I've drawn the deevil of a lot!"

""And what's the lot that I have drawn?
Pervarsion is a woman's neame !

Sae fares-te-weel! I'll sarve my King,
And never, never, mair come heame."

'Now Jenny frets frae mworn to neet;
The Sunday cap's nae longer neyce !
She aye puts barley i' the broth,

And hates the varra neame o' reyce.

'Thus treyЯles vex, and treyfles please,
And treyfles mek the sum o' leyfe ;

And treyfles mek a bonny lass

A wretched or a happy weyfe!'

Susanna Blamire (1747-1794).

This lady's Poems were collected and published

in 1842; some of them are well worth reading. This

is by no means the best of them.

A RUSTIC LOVE-LETTER.

'Dear John,' the letter ran, 'it can't, can't be,— For father's gone to Chorley Fair with Sam, And mother's storing apples. Prue and me

Up to our elbows making damson jam:
But we shall meet before a week is gone,
'Tis a long lane that has no turning, John.

'Only till Sunday next, and then you'll wait
Behind the white thorn, by the broken stile,
We can go round, and catch them at the gate,
All by ourselves, for nearly one long mile.
Dear Prue won't look, and father he'll go on,
And Sam's two eyes are all for Cissy, John.

'John, she's so smart; with every ribbon new,
Flame-coloured sac, and crimson Padesoy,
As proud as proud, and has the vapours too,
Just like my lady! calls poor Sam a boy,
And vows no sweetheart's worth the thinking on
Till he's past thirty. I know better, John.

'My dear, I don't think that I thought of much
Before we knew each other, I and you;

And now, why, John, your least, least finger touch Gives me enough to think a summer through. See, for I send you something! there, 'tis gone! Look in this corner; mind you find it, John.'

Austin Dobson.