where
that amiable and greatly-abused angel reproaches her inhuman spouse with
loaning the family umbrella:

"Ah! that's the third umbrella gone since Christmas! What were you to do?
Why, let him go home in the rain. I don't think there was any thing about
_him_ that would spoil. Take cold, indeed! He does not look like one o'
the sort to take cold. He'd better taken cold, than our only umbrella. Do
you hear the rain, Caudle? I say, do you _hear the rain_? Do you hear it
against the windows? Nonsense; you can't be asleep with such a shower as
that. Do you _hear_ it, I say? Oh, you _do_ hear it, do you? Well, that's
a pretty flood, I think, to last six weeks, and no stirring all this time
out of the house. Poh! don't think to fool _me_, Caudle: _he_ return the
umbrella! As if any body ever _did_ return an umbrella! There--do you hear
it? Worse and worse! Cats and dogs for six weeks--always six weeks--and no
umbrella!

"I should like to know how the children are to go to school, to-morrow.
They shan't go through _such_ weather, _that_ I'm determined. No; they
shall stay at home, and never learn any thing, sooner than go and get wet.
And when they grow up, I wonder who they'll have to thank for knowing
nothing. People who can't feel for their children ought never to _be_
fathers.

"But _I_ know why you lent the umbrella--_I_ know, very well. I was going
out to tea to mother's, to-morrow;--you _knew_ that very well; and you did
it on purpose. Don't tell me; _I_ know; you don't want me to go, and take
every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Caudle! No; if
it comes down in buckets-full, I'll go all the more: I will; and what's
more, I'll walk every step of the way; and you know that will give me my
death," &c., &c., &c.

-------------------------------------

The satire of the following lines, upon that species of sentimental
song-writing which prevailed a few years ago to a much greater extent than
at present, is somewhat broad; but any one who remembers the feeble and
affected trash which has hitherto been set to music, and sung by
lachrymose young ladies and gentlemen, will not consider it one whit too
much deserved.

I.

"My lute hath only one sad tone,
It hath a mournful twang:
Its other strings are cracked and gone,
By one unlucky bang!
You ask me why I don't restore
Its early sweetness, and fresh cord it;
Oh, no! I'll play on it no