entertainment of the bridal guests, no one could fail to read that he, too, had determined to dash the enemy at once and forever from his princely rooms.

Those who were present at that wedding, can never forget the impression so solemnly made. Many from that hour forswore the social glass.

THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER.
HORACE SMITH.

In Broad street buildings on a winter night,
Snug by his parlor fire, a gouty wight
Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing
His feet, rolled up in fleecy hose,
With t'other he'd beneath his nose

The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing,
He noted all the sales of hops,

Ships, shops, and slops;

Gum, galls, and groceries; ginger, gin,

Tar, tallow, turmeric, turpentine, and tin;

When lo! a decent personage in black,

Entered and most politely said:

"Your footinan, sir, has gone his nightly track
To the King's Head,

And left your door ajar, which I

Observed in passing by,

And thought it neighborly to give you notice."
Ten thousand thanks!" the gouty man replied;
"You see, good sir, how to my chair I'm tied ;—
Ten thousand thanks: how very few do get,
In time of danger,

Such kind attentions from a stranger!

Assuredly, that fellow's throat is

Doomed to a final drop at Newgate;

He knows, too, the unconscionable elf,

That there's no soul at home except myself."

Indeed," replied the stranger, looking grave,
"Then he's a double knave:

He knows that rogues and thieves by scores
Nightly beset unguarded doors;

And see, how easily might one

Of these domestic foes,

Even beneath your very nose,

Perform his knavish tricks:

Enter your room as I have done,

Blow out your candles--thus-and thus-
Pocket your silver candlesticks:

And-walk off-thus."

So said, so done; he made no more remark,
Nor waited for replies,

But marched off with his prize,

Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark.

BRIDGET AND THE MATINEE.-ELMER RUAN COATES.

"Well, Bridget, we've been talking, and

We think you're good and true;_

My husband says he's never found
An Irish maid like you.

"We see you're not the giddy girl
That favors quickly spoil,
And we agree that pleasure should
Be blended with your toil.

"Now, Bridget, here are fifty cents-
Dress in a tidy way,

Then go to Ninth and Walnut, and

You'll see a matinee."

Miss Bridget thanked her, dressed and went,
And in a half an hour

Home she came, and threw a smile

With all her fervent power.

"Why, Bridget Leary, how is this?
Some wrong has surely come!
What have you seen?" "The matinee,
As you directed, mum."

"The matinee, and back so soon?
You haven't had the time."
"Indeed I have, and 'pon my soul,
I think it was sublime.

"I tell yez, mum, it was a take;
Such water, wood and sky!

It must be fifty feet across,
And, maybe, forty high.

"And then the faddles and the horns,
And something like the bells;

You should have heard the boys up stairs-
Their stamping and their yells.

"I've not been very long, I know,

But true as true can be,

There's nothing 'bout the matinee
That Bridget didn't see."

"And only half an hour gone!
Why, little girl, explain."
"I'll do most anything to keep
The truth upon my name.

"The boys kept up their fearful noise,
The faddles wouldn't play,

And then they rolled it out of sight."
"Rolled what?" "The matinee.

"Then on a platform came a man,
And a woman tall and shpare;
I quickly saw their fam'ly fuss
Was none of my affair.

"So up I jumped and started home,
And let me truly say:

I thank yez for the money, and
That charming matinee."

THE HOUR OF DEATH.-FELICIA HEMANS.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer

But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power,

A time for softer tears-but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee-but thou art not of those
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain-
But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?
They have one season-all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend,
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath
And stars to set--but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

ANSWER TO "THE HOUR OF DEATH."
MRS. CORNWALL BARON WILSON.

True, all we know must die,

Though none can tell the exact appointed hour;

Nor should it cost the virtuous heart a sigh,

Whether death doth crush the oak, or nip the opening flower.

The Christian is prepared,

Though others tremble at the hour of gloom!

His soul is always ready on his guard;

His lamps are lighted 'gainst the bridegroom come.

It matters not the time

When we shall end our pilgrimage below;

Whether in youth's bright morn, or manhood's prime, Or when the frost of age has whitened o'er our brow.

The child has blossomed fair,

And looked so lovely on its mother's breast,

The source of many a hope, and many a prayer,
Why murmur that it sleeps, when all at last may rest?

Snatched from a world of woe,

Where they must suffer most who longest dwell,

It vanished like a flake of early snow,

That melts into the sea, pure as from heaven it fell.

The youth whose pulse beats high,

Eager through glory's brilliant course to run,

Why should we shed a tear or breathe a sigh,

That the bright goal is gained, the prize thus early won!

Unstained by many a crime,

Which to maturer years might owe their birth,

In summer's earliest bloom, or morning's prime,

How blest are they who quit this checkered scene of earth!

And shall no tear be paid

To her, the new-made bride,-the envied fair,

On whose fond heart death's withering hand is laid, Checking each pulse of bliss Hymen has wakened there?

Joy scattered roses, while

The happy slumberer sank in calm repose

In death's embrace, e'er love withdrew his smile;

And 'scaped those chilling blights the heart too often knows.

Yes! all we know must die.

Since none can tell the exact appointed hour,

Why need it cost the virtuous heart a sigh,

Whether death doth crush the oak, or nip the opening flower?

A YANKEE IN LOVE.-ALF BURNETT.

One day Sall fooled me; she heated the poker awful hot, then asked me to stir the fire. I seized hold of it mighty quick to oblige her, and dropped it quicker to oblige myself. Well, after the poker scrape, me and Sall only got on mid