And men, taught wisdom from the past, In friendship joined their hands, Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, And sang, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain! Our stanch good friend is he; And, for the ploughshare and the plough, But while oppression lifts its head, Or a tyrant would be lord, Though we may thank him for the plough, We'll not forget the sword." MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE ON SHIRT BUTTONS. Douglas Jerrold. THERE, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you were this morning. There, you need n't begin to whistle: people don't come to bed to whistle. But it's like you; I can't speak, that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were the best creature living: now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest? No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long : it's very hard if I can't speak a word at night; and it is n't often I open my mouth, goodness knows! Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must almost swear the roof off the house. You didn't swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know what you do when you're in a passion. You were not in a passion, wer'nt you? Well, then I don't know what a passion is; and I think I ought by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that. It's a pity you hav'nt something worse to complain of than a button off your shirt. If you'd some wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm never without a needle-andthread in my hand; what with you and the children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks? Why, if once in your life a button's off your shirt-what do you say "ah" at? I say once, Mr. Caudle; or twice or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are better looked after than yours. I only wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married! I should like to know where were your buttons then? Yes, it is worth talking of! But that's how you always try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and then, if I only try to speak, you won't hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to yourselves: a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in. A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of but her husband's buttons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha! if poor women only knew what they had to go through! What with buttons, and one thing and another! They'd never tie themselves up to the best man in the world, I'm sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle? -Why, do much better without you, I'm certain. And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt; it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something to talk about. Oh, you're aggravat ing enough, when you like, for anything! All I know is, it's very odd that the button should be off the shirt; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's buttons than I am. I only say it's very odd. However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. I'm worn to death with your temper, and shan't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may laugh! And I dare say you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's your love; that's your feeling I know that I'm sinking every day, though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second wife will look after your buttons! You'll find out the difference, then. Yes. Caudle, you'll think of me, then; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back. THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATHA. John G. Whittier. A LEGEND OF "THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE.' A. D. 1154-1864. A strong and mighty Angel, The cross in blended red and blue Upon his mantle white! Two captives by him kneeling, Sang praise to God who raiseth Dropping his cross-wrought mantle, "Wear this," the Angel said; "Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its signThe white, the blue, and red." Then rose up John de Matha In the strength the Lord Christ gave, And begged through all the land of France The ransom of the slave. The gates of tower and castle The drawbridge at his coming fell, The door-bolt backward drew. For all men owned his errand, At last, outbound from Tunis, But, torn by Paynim hatred, "God save us !" cried the captain, "Behind us are the Moormen ; Then up spake John de Matha: They raised the cross-wrought mantle, The blue, the white, the red; And straight before the wind off-shore "God help us!" cried the seamen, Then up spake John de Matha: "My mariners, never fear! The Lord whose breath has filled her sail So on through storm and darkness And lo! the third gray morning shone And on the walls the watchers And the bells in all the steeples To welcome home to Christian soil So runs the ancient legend With rudder foully broken, Before her, nameless terror; The hope of all who suffer, The dread of all who wrong, But courage, O my mariners! While up to God the freedman's prayers Is not your sail the banner Which God hath blest anew, Its hues are all of heaven- The whiteness of the moonlit cloud, Wait cheerily, then, O mariners, Sail on, sail on, deep freighted Behind ye, holy martyrs Take heart from John de Matha !- Sweep on through storm and darkness, Sail on! The morning cometh, The port ye yet shall win; The good ship bravely in! A PSALM OF LIFE.-H. W. Longfellow TELL me not, in mournful numbers, Life is real! life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul. |