"Danger ahead!"
We thought it said,

As on the heavy night-train sped.

The black wheels grate!

"Too late! too late!

(How could they stop at such a rate!) The lightning's glow

But served to show

A mangled mass of flesh below!

What did they find!
Tears always blind
My eyes, as I recall to mind
The fearful sight,

Which on that night,

We saw by "the red lantern's" light.

"The bridge is gone

Send some one on!

"Twere worse for hundreds than for one!”

The pleading mild

Came from a child,

Down in the rain that midnight wild.

The stifled sound

Of groans around

Told what a place these words had found, As strong men thought

Of what was wrought,

By his young life which theirs had bought.

To give what-all-could-so well spare."

They raised his head-
He smiled-was dead-

Without one look of pain or dread.
Friends love to trace

His resting place,

Where bloom the lilies-types of grace.

THE JESTER'S SERMON.-WALTER THORNBURY.

The jester shook his hood and bells, and leaped upon a chair; The pages laughed; the women screamed, and tossed their Scented hair;

The falcon whistled; stag-hounds bayed; the lap-dog barked without;

The scullion dropped the pitcher brown; the cook railed at the lout;

The steward, counting out his gold, let pouch and money fall,

And why? Because the jester rose to say grace in the hall.

The page played with the heron's plume, the steward with his chain;

The butler drummed upon the board, and laughed with might and main;

The grooms beat on their metal cans, and roared till they were red,

But still the jester shut his eyes, and rolled his witty head, And when they grew a little still, read half a yard of text, And, waving hand, struck on the desk, and frowned like one perplexed.

Dear sinners all," the fool began, "man's life is but a jest,
A dream, a shadow, bubble, air, a vapor at the best.
In a thousand pounds of law, I find not a single ounce of
love.

A blind man killed the parson's cow in shooting at the dove.
The fool that eats till he is sick must fast till he is well.
The wooer who can flatter most will bear away the belle.

"Let no man halloo he is safe, till he is through the wood. He who will not when he may must tarry when he should. He who laughs at crooked men should need walk very straight.

Oh! he who once has won a name may lie abed till eight. Make haste to purchase house and land: be very slow to wed.

True coral needs no painter's brush, nor need be daubed with red.

"The friar, preaching, cursed the thief, (the pudding in his sleeve.)

To fish for sprats with golden hooks is foolish-by your leave. To travel well,- -an ass's ears, ape's face, hog's mouth, and

ostrich legs.

He does not care a pin for thieves, who limps about and

begs.

EEE

Be always first man at a feast, and last man at a fray.

The short way round, in spite of all, is still the longest way. When the hungry curate licks the knife, there's not much for the clerk.

When the pilot, turning pale and sick, looks up,-the storm grows dark."

Then loud they laughed; the fat cook's tears ran down into the pan;

The steward shook, that he was forced to drop the brimming can;

And then again the women screamed, and every stag-hound bayed,

And why? Because the motley fool so wise a sermon made.

CAUDLE'S WEDDING-DAY.--DOUGLAS JERROLD.

Caudle, love, do you know what next Sunday is? No? You don't! Well, was there ever such a strange man! Can't you guess, darling? Next Sunday, dear? Think, love, a minute—just think. What! and you don't know now? Ha! If I hadn't a better memory than you I don't know how we should ever get on. Well then, pet-shall I tell you, dear, what next Sunday is? Why, then, it's our wedding-day. What are you groaning at, Mr. Caudle? I don't see anything to groan at. If anybody should groan, I'm sure it isn't you. No; I rather think it's I who ought to groan!

Oh, dear! That's fourteen years ago. You were a very different man then, Mr. Caudie. What do you say?—And I was a very different woman? Not at all-just the same. Oh, you needn't roll your head about on the pillow in that way: I say, just the same. Well, then, if I'm altered, whose fault is it? Not mine, I'm sure-certainly not. Don't tell me that I couldn't talk at all then—I could talk just as well then as I can now; only then I hadn't the same cause. It's you have made me talk. What do you say? You're very sorry for it? Caudle you do nothing but insult me.

Ha! You were a good-tempered, nice creature fourteen years ago, and would have done anything for me. Yes, yes,

if a woman would be always cared for she should never marry. There's quite an end of the charm when she goes to church! We're all angels while you're courting us; but once married, how soon you pull our wings off! No, Mr. Caudle, I'm not talking nonsense; but the truth is, you like to hear nobody talk but yourself. Nobody ever tells me that I talk nonsense but you. Now, it's no use your turning and turning about in that way; it's not a bit of- What do you say? You'll get up? No, you won't Caudle; you'll not serve me that trick again, for I've locked the door and hid the key. There's no getting hold of you in day-time--but here, you can't leave me. You needn't groan, Mr. Caudle.

Now, Caudle, dear, do let us talk comfortably. After all, love, there's a good many folks who, I dare say, don't get on half so well as we've done. We've both our little tempers, perhaps, but you are aggravating, you must own that, Caudle. Well, never mind; we won't talk of it; I won't scold you now. We'll talk of next Sunday, love. We never have kept our wedding-day, and I think it would be a nice day to have our friends. What do you say? They'd think it hypocrisy? No hypocrisy at all. I'm sure I try to be comfortable; and if ever a man was happy, you ought to be. No, Caudle, no; it isn't nonsense to keep wedding-days; it isn't a deception on the world; and if it is, how many people do it? I'm sure it's only a proper compliment that a man owes to his wife. Look at the Winkles-don't they give a dinner every year? Well, I know, and if they do fight a little in the course of the twelvemonth, that's nothing to do with it. They keep their wedding-day, and their acquaintance have nothing to do with anything else.

As I say Caudle, it's only a proper compliment a man owes to his wife to keep his wedding-day. It is as much as to say to the whole world, "There, if I had to marry again, my blessed wife's the only woman I'd choose!" Well, I see nothing to groan at, Mr. Caudle-no, nor to sigh at either; but I know what you mean; I'm sure, what would have become of you if you hadn't married as you have done-why, you'd have been a lost creature! I know it; I know your habits, Caudle; and--I don't like to say it—but you'd have been little better than a ragamuffin. Nice scrapes you'd have got into,

I know, if you hadn't had me for a wife.

The trouble I've

had to keep you respectable-and what's my thanks? Ha! I only wish you'd had some women!

But we won't quarrel, Caudie. No; you don't mean any thing, I know. We'll have this little dinner, eh? Just a few friends? Now don't say you don't care-that isn't the way to speak to a wife; and especially the wife I've been to you, Caudle. Well, you agree to the dinner, eh? Now don't grunt, Mr. Caudle, but speak out. You'll keep your wedding-day? What? If I'll let you go to sleep? Ha, that's unmanly, Caudle; can't you say, "Yes," without any thing else? I say-can't you say "Yes?" There bless you! I knew you would.

And now, Caudle, what shall we have for dinner? No--we won't talk of it to-morrow; we'll talk of it now, and then it will be off my mind. I should like something particular- something out of the way-just to show that we thought the day something. I should like-Mr. Caudle, you're not asleep? What do I want? Why, you know I want to settle about the dinner. Have what I like? No, as it is your fancy to keep the day, it's only right that I should try to please you. We never had one, Caudle; so what do you think of a haunch of venison? What do you say? Mutton will do? Ha! that shows what you think of your wife: I dare say if it was with any of your club friends---any of your pothouse companions-you'd have no objection to venison? I say if-What do you mutter? Let it be venison? Very well. And now about the fish? What do you think of a nice turbot? No, Mr. Caudle, brill won't do-it shall be turbot, or there shan't be any fish at all. Oh! what a mean man you are, Caudle! Shall it be turbot? It shall? And now about the soup-now Caudle, don't swear at the soup in that manner; you know there must be soup. Well, once in a way, and just to show our friends how happy we've been, we'll have some real turtle. No you won't; you'll have nothing but mock? Then, Mr. Caudle, you may sit at the table by yourself. Mock-turtle on a wedding-day! Was there ever such an insult? What do you say? Let it be real then, for once? Ha, Caudle! as I say, you were a very different person fourteen years ago.