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MRS, CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES. MES. CAUDLE WISHES TO KNOW IF THEY'RE GOING TO THE SEA-SIDE, OR NOT, THIS SUMMER—THAT'S ALL." Hot ? Yes it is hot. I'm sure one might as well be in an oven as in town this weather. You seem to forget it's July, Mr. Caudle. I've been waiting quietly-have never spoken; yet not a word you said of the sea-side yet. Not that I care for it myself-oh, no: my health isn't of the slightest conse- quence. And, indeed, I was going to say— but I won't-that the sooner, perhaps, I'm out of this world, the better. Oh, yes; I dare say you think so-of course you do, else you wouldn't lie there saying nothing. You're enough to aggravate a saint, C'audle but you vex me. No; I've made up my mind, and never intend to let you vex me again. Why should I worry myself. Kut all I want to ask you is this do you intend to go to the sea-side this summer? Yes ? you'll go to Gravesend? Then go alone, that's all I know. Gravesend ? You might ns well empty a salt-cellar into the New River, and call that the sea-side. What? Jt's handy for business 1 There you are again I can never speak of taking a little enjoyment, but you fling business in my teeth. I'm sure you never let business stand. in the way of your own pleasure, Sir. Caudle- not yon. It would be all the better for your family if you did. You know that Matilda wants sea-bathing; you know it, or ought to know it, by the looks of the child and yet-I know you, Cauclle--you'll have let the summer pass over, and never said a word about the matter. What do you say? Margate's so expensive ? Not at all. I'm sure it will be cheaper for us in the end for if we don't {io, we shall all be ill—every one of us—.n the winter. Not that my health is of any consequence I know well enough. It never was yet. You know Margate's the only place I can eat a breakfast at, and yet you talk of < Jravesend But what's my eating to you ? You wouldn't care il I never eat at all. You never watch my appetite like any other husband, otherwise you'd have seen what it's come to. hat do vou say ? IIow much will it cost? There you are, Mr. Caudle, with your meanness again. When you want to go yourself to Blackwall or to Greenwich, you never ask how much it will cost ? What? You never go to Blackwall ? Ila I don't know that and if you don't, that's nothing at all to do with it. Y ps, you can give a guinea a plate for whitebait for yourself. No, sir; I'm not a foolish woman; and I know very well what I'm talking about-nobody better. A guinea for whitebait for yourself, when you grudge a pint of shrimps for your poor family. Eh? You don't grudye'em anything 1 Yes, it's ve;y well for you to lie there and say so. What will it cost ? It's no matter what it will cost, for we won't go at all now. No; we'll stay at home. We shall all he il1 in the winter- every one of us, all but you and nothing ever makes you ill. i'vo no doubt we shall all be laid up, and there'll be a doctor's Mil as long as a railroad but never mind that. It's better- much better—to pay for nasty physic than for fresh air and wholesome salt water. Don't call me woman,' and ask what it will cost.' I tell you, if you were to lay the money down me on that quilt, I wouldn't go now-certaiiti- not. It's belter we should all be sick yes, then you'll be pleased. That's right, Mr. Caudle go to sleep. It's like your un- feeling self! I'm talking of our all being laid up; and you, like any stone, turn round and begin to go to sleep. Well, I think that's a pretty insult How can Nott sleep with such a splinter in ywir Jiesh > I suppose you mean to call me the splinter ?—and after the wife I've been to you But no, Mr. C;,udle, you may call me what you please you'll not make me cry now. No, no I don't throw away my tears upon any such person now. What.' Don't' Ha! that's your ingratitude! Hllt none of you men deserve that any woman should love you. INI v poor heart! Everybody else can go out of town except us. Ha! if I'd only married Simmons—What ? Why didn't I ? Yes, that's all the thanks I get. Who's Simmons ? Oh, you know very well who Simmons is. He'd have treated me a little better, I think. He icas a gentleman. lolt ca,t't fell? May be not hut I can. With such weather as this, to stay melting in London! and when the painters are coming in! You won't have the painters in ? But you must; and if they once come in, I'm determined that none of us shall stir then. Painting in July, with a family in the house We shall all be poisoned of course; but what do you care for that ? Why can't I tell you what it will cost 1 How can I or any woman ten exactly what it will cost ? Of course lodgings—and at Margate, too—are a little dearer than living in your own house. Pooh! You know that ? Well, if you did, Mr. Caudle, I suppose there's no treason in naming it. Still, if you take 'em for two months, they're cheaper than for one. No, Mr. Caudle, I shan't be quite tired of it in one month. No: and it isn't true that I no sooner get out than I want to get home again. To be sure, I was tired of Margate three years ago, when you used to leave me to walk about the beach by myself, to be stared at through all sorts of telescopes. But you don't do that again, Mr. Caudle, I can tell you. What will I do at Margate ? Why isn't there bathing, and picking shells and arn't there the packets, with the donk'evs and the last new novel—whatever it is, to read-for the o'nlv place where I really relish a book is at the sea-side. No it isn't that I like salt with my reading, Mr. Caudle! I suppose you ca!! that a joke ? You might keep your jokes for the day- time, I think. But as I was saying—only you always will interrupt me—the ocean always seems to me to open the mind. [ see nothing to laugh at; but you always laugh when I say anything. Sometimes at the sea-side-specially when the tide's down-l feel so happy quite as if I could cry. "When shall I get the things ready? For next Sunday? What will it cost > Oh, there—don't talk of it. No we won't go. I shall send for the painters, to-morrow. What ? I can go and take the children, and you'll stay? No, sir you go with me, or I don't stir. I'm not going to be turned loose like a hen with her chickens, and nobody to protect me. So we'll go on Monday ? Eh ? "JYhat will it cost ? What a man you are Why, Caudle, I've been reckoning that, with buff slippers and all, we can't well do it under seventy pounds. No I won't take away the slipper- and say fifty; it's seventy pounds, and no less. Of course, what's over will be so much saved. Caudle, what a man you are Well, shall we go on Monday? What do vou say— You'll see There's a dear. Then, Monday." "Anything for a chance of peace," writes Caudle. "I con- sented to the trip, for I thought I might sleep better in a change of bed." Q READERS.—Coleridge divided readers into four classes. The first he compared to an hour-glass, their reading to be as the sand it I uns in and runs out, and leaves not a vestige behind. A second class, he said, resembled a spcnge, which imbibes everything, and returns it nearly in the same state, only a little dirtier. A third class he likened to a jelly-bag, which allows all tlat is pure to pass away, and retains only the refuse and the dregs. The fourth class he compared to the diamond miners in Golconda, who, casting aside all that is worthless, preserved only the pure gem. LORD BROUGHAM AND MR. HUDSON.—Lately the above noble lord seeing Mr. Hudson in conversation with some peers, stepped up to the place and said, Make way, my lords, that I may be introduced to the king of railways," then addressing Mr. Hudson, he observed" Ladj" has written to me to say, that I have done her a great deal of mischief by my chattering in the House, what would you advise me to do in that case, Mr. Hudson 1" "Cease vour 'chattering. was the pithy reply. Knowing how impossible that is, the noble lord looked very blank, and, mirabile dictu, was silent for once. A "CASUS BELLI."—There was a huntsman who hunted the wild beasts in the desert, and one dav he entered a cave in a mountain and found in it a hollow which was filled with honey. So he collected some of that honey in a water-skin that he had with him then he carried it upon his shoulder, and conveyed it to the city haying with him a hound that was dear unto him. And the huntsman stopped at the shop of an oilman to whom he offered the honey for sale and, the*shopman agreeing to buy it, opened the water-skin, and emptied from it thp hnnpv to see it. But there dropped from the skin a drop of honev and a bird pounced down upon it; and the oilman had a c t' and it sprang upon the bird and the huntsman's dog Saw it and sprang upon the cat and killed it; and the oilman spran" upon the huntsman's dog and killed it; and the huntsman sprang upon the oilman and killed him and the oilman was of one village, and the huntsman of another, and the people of these two villages heard of this event; so they took their weapons and arms, and rose against each other in anger; the two ranks met, and the swords ceased not to be brandished about among them until there died of them a great multitude, the number of whom none knoweth but God, whose name be '■xuited.—Knight$weekty Volume (Lane's Arabian Tales find Anecdotes,)



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Glamorganshire Summer Assizes.'.