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"I do."

"Will not one of these keys open that trunk?" The witness was silent. "Never mind! we shall try. As readily as if it had been made for it!" resumed the advocate, applying the key and lifting the lid.

"There may be fifty keys in the court that would do the same thing," interposed the public prosecutor.

"True," rejoined his brother; "but this is not one of them," added he, holding up the other key," for she tried this key first and broke, as you see, the ward in the attempt."

"How will you prove that?" inquired the prosecutor. "By producing the separate part."

"Where did you find it?"

She was

"In the lock!" emphatically exclaimed the advocate. A groan was heard; the witness had fainted. instantly removed, and the innocence of Therese was as clear as the noonday.

MY WIFE AND I.

We never fight, my wife and I,
As other couples do;

Our little matrimonial sky

Is of the brightest blue.

She never beards me in my den
(My study, I should say);
She vows I am the best of men,
But then-she has her way!

Some wives are never pleased unless
They wring from you a cheque,
Wherewith to buy some costly dress
Or jewels for their neck.

My little witch ne'er asks from me
The value of a pin-

She is so good and true, you see,

But then-she keeps the tin!

""Twas not!" "It was!" "It was !" ""Twas not !"

Thus ever scold and fight

Full many a luckless pair, I wot,

From morning until night.
If e'er we have a word or two,
The skirmish soon is past,

The words are mild and very few,
But then-SHE has the last!

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE.-ALFRED TENNYSON.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Of me you shall not win renown:
You thought to break a country heart
For pastime, ere you went to town.
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled
I saw the snare, and I retired:
The daughter of a hundred Earls,
You are not one to be desired.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

I know you proud to bear your name,
Your pride is yet no mate for mine,

Too proud to care from whence I came.
Nor would I break for your sweet sake
A heart that dotes on truer charms.
A simple maiden in her flower

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Some meeker pupil you must find,
For were you queen of all that is,

I could not stoop to such a mind.
You sought to prove how I could love,
And my disdain is my reply.
The lion on your oid stone gates
Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my head.
Not thrice your branching limes have blown
Since I beheld young Laurence dead.
Oh, your sweet eyes, your low replies:
A great enchantress you may be:
But there was that across his throat
Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his mother's view,
She had the passions of her kind,

She spake some certain truths of you.

Indeed, I heard one bitter word

That scarce is fit for you to hear;

Her manners had not that repose

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a spectre in your hall:

The guilt of blood is at your door:

You changed a wholesome heart to gall.

You held your course without remorse,
To make him trust his modest worth,
And, last, you fixed a vacant stare,

And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,

From yon blue heavens above us bent,
The grand old gardener and his wife
Smile at the claims of long descent.
Howe'er it be, it seems to me,

"Tis only noble to be good.

Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere:

You pine among your halls and towers:
The languid light of your proud eyes

Is wearied of the rolling hours.

In glowing health, with boundless wealth,
But sickening of a vague disease,

You know so ill to deal with time,

You needs must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,

If time be heavy on your hands,
Are there no beggars at your gate,
Nor any poor about your lands?
Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read,
Or teach the orphan-girl to sew,
Pray Heaven for a human heart,
And let the foolish yeoman go.

THE SAILOR-BOY'S DREAM.-WM. DIMOND.

In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay,
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind;
But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn;
While memory stood sideways half covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.

Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise;
Now far, far behind him the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.

The jessamine clambers in flowers o'er the thatch,
And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall;
All trembling with transport he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight;
His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear;
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.
The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast;
Joy quickens his pulses, his hardships seem o'er;
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest,-
"O God! thou hast blest me,-1 ask for no more.'

Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye;
Ah! what is that sound which now 'larums his ear?
"Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky!
'Tis the crashing of thunder, the groan of the sphere!
He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck;
Amazement confronts him with images dire;
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck;
The masts fly in splinters; the shrouds are on fire.
Like mountains the billows tremendously swell;
In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save;
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,

And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave.

O sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright,Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss?

O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay;
Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main,
Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay.

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,
Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge;
But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be,
And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge!

On a bed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be laid,—
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.

Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away,
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll;
Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye,—
O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul.

WHOM WILT THOU LIVE FOR?

Live for thyself! let each successive morn
Rouse thee to plans of self-indulgent ease;
And every hour some new caprice be born,
Till all be thrown aside that does not please;
So shalt thou learn how shallow is the fount

Whose glittering waves all wholesome thirst destroy, And, heart-sick, even in youth, begin to count

Springs without hope, and summers blank of joy.

Live for thy fellow-men! let all thy soul

Be given to serve and aid, to cheer and love;

Make sacrifice of self, and still control

All meaner motives which the heart might move;
The sting of disappointment shall be thine;
The meed of base ingratitude be won:
Rare veins of gold illume the labored mine,
And toil and sadness cloud thy setting sun.

Live for thy God! Thine anchor shall be cast
Where no false quicksands shift its hold away;
Through the clear future, from the sunrise past,
Glows the calm light along the even way.
The loss of human hopes shall vex no more

Than the quick withering of earth's common flowers, For well thou know'st, when pain and death are o'er, Eternal spring shall glad the heavenly bowers.

MR. PERKINS AT THE DENTIST'S.-JAS. M. BAILEY.

I think I must have caught cold by injudiciously sleeping on the floor during the period the house was being rinsed out. I had so much room that I must have become careless in the night, and got to trifling with the draft from a door. As I am a little bald the effect was disastrous. Through the day I felt a little stiff about the shoulders, with a sensation between the eyes as if I had been trying to inhale some putty.

I observed to Maria (Mrs. Perkins's name is Maria), that I had caught a bad cold, and would probably regret it in time. But she treated the matter lightly by remarking that I had "caught my granny." As that estimable lady has been dead thirteen years, the reference to my catching her, with such a start in her favor, was of course a joke. Not a joke to be

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