timacy which followed, and were closed by his death. A ight frame, so fragile that it seemed as if a breath would overthrow it, clad in clerk-like black, was surmounted by a head of form and expression the most noble and sweet. 5 His black hair curled crisply about an expanded forehead;

his eyes, softly brown, twinkled with varying expression, though the prevalent feeling was sad; and the nose slightly curved, and delicately carved at the nostril, with the lower outline of the face regularly oval, completed a head which 10 was finely placed on the shoulders, and gave importance and even dignity to a diminutive and shadowy stem. Who shall describe his countenance, catch its quivering sweetness, and fix it for ever in words? There are none, alas, to answer the vain desire of friendship. Deep thought, 15 striving with humor; the lines of suffering wreathed into cordial mirth; and a smile of painful sweetness, present an image to the mind which it can as little describe as lose. His personal appearance and manner are not unfitly characterized by what he himself says in one of his letters 20 to Manning, of Braham, "a compound of the Jew, the gentleman, and the angel.”

MY LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER*

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

ET. 19. Tender-eyed blonde. Long ringlets. Cameo pin. Gold pencil-case on a chain. Locket. Bracelet. Album. Autograph book. Accordeon. Reads 25 Byron, Tupper, and Sylvanus Cobb, Junior, while her mother makes the puddings. Says "Yes?" when you tell her anything.

A a

*From The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company.

*

THE

MR. MICAWBER*

CHARLES DICKENS

HE counting-house clock was at half-past twelve, and there was general preparation for going to dinner, when Mr. Quinion tapped at the counting-house window, and beckoned to me to go in. I went in, and found there a stoutish, middle-aged person, in a brown surtout and black 5 tights and shoes, with no more hair upon his head (which was a large one, and very shining) than there is upon an egg, and with a very extensive face, which he turned full upon me. His clothes were shabby, but he had an imposing shirt-collar on. He carried a jaunty sort of stick, with 10 a large pair of rusty tassels to it; and a quizzing-glass hung outside his coat,-for ornament, I afterward found, as he very seldom looked through it, and couldn't see anything when he did.

"This," said Mr. Quinion, in allusion to myself, "is he." 15 "This," said the stranger, with a certain condescending roll in his voice, and a certain indescribable air of doing something genteel, which impressed me very much, "is Master Copperfield. I hope I see you well, sir?” I said I was very well, and hoped he was. I was sufficiently ill at 20 ease, Heaven knows; but it was not in my nature to complain much at that time of my life, so I said I was very well, and hoped he was.

"I am," said the stranger, "thank Heaven, quite well. I have received a letter from Mr. Murdstone, in which he 25 mentions that he would desire me to receive into an apartment in the rear of my house, which is at present unoccupied-and is, in short, to be let as a-in short," said the *David Copperfield, Vol. 1, Chap. xi.

5

stranger, with a smile and in a burst of confidence, “as a
bedroom-the young beginner whom I have now the plea-
sure to❞—and the stranger waved his hand, and settled
his chin in his shirt collar.

"This is Mr. Micawber," said Mr. Quinion to me.
"Ahem!" said the stranger, "that is my name.'

"Mr. Micawber," said Mr. Quinion, "is known to Mr. Murdstone. He takes orders for us on commission, when he can get any. He has been written to by Mr. Murdstone, 10 on the subject of your lodgings, and he will receive you as a lodger.

"My address," said Mr. Micawber, "is Windsor Terrace, City Road. I-in short," said Mr. Micawber, with the same genteel air, and in another burst of confidence15 "I live there.'

I made him a bow.

"Under the impression," said Mr. Micawber, "that your peregrinations in this metroplis have not as yet been extensive, and that you might have some difficulty in pene20 trating the arcana of the Modern Babylon in the direction of the City Road-in short," said Mr. Micawber, in another burst of confidence, "that you might lose yourselfI shall be happy to call this evening, and install you in the knowledge of the nearest way."

25

25

I thanked him with all my heart; for it was friendly in him to offer to take that trouble.

"At what hour," said Mr. Micawber, "shall I-"
"At about eight," said Mr. Quinion.

66

‘At about eight," said Mr. Micawber. "I beg to 30 wish you good day, Mr. Quinion.

longer."

I will intrude no

So he put on his hat, and went out with his cane under his arm: very upright, and humming a tune when he was clear of the counting-house.

THE LADIES OF LLANGOLLEN*

JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART

WE slept on Wednesday evening at Capel Carig, which

Sir W. supposes to mean the Chapel of the Crags, a pretty little inn in a most picturesque situation certainly, and as to the matter of toasted cheese quite exquisite. Next day we advanced through, I verily believe, the most 5 perfect gem of a country eye ever saw, having all the wildness of Highland backgrounds, and all the loveliness of rich English landscape nearer us, and streams like the purest and most babbling of our own. At Llangollen your papa was waylaid by the celebrated "Ladies," viz: 10 Lady Eleanor Buller and the Honorable Miss Ponsonby, who having been one or both crossed in love, forswore all dreams of matrimony in the heyday of youth, beauty, and fashion, and selected this charming spot for the repose of their now time-honored virginity. It was many a day, 15 however, before they could get implicit credit for being the innocent friends they really were among the people of the neighborhood, for their elopement from Ireland had been performed under suspicious circumstances, and as Lady Eleanor arrived here in her natural aspect of a pretty girl, 20 while Miss Ponsonby had condescended to accompany her in the garb of a smart footman in buckskin breeches, years and years elapsed ere full justice was done to the character of their romance. We proceeded up the hill, and found everything about them and their habitation odd 25 and extravagant beyond report. Imagine two women, one apparently seventy, the other sixty-five, dressed in heavy blue riding-habits, enormous shoes, and men's *From Letters of John Gibson Lockhart. 1825.

hats, with their petticoats so tucked up that at the first glance of them, fussing and tottering about their porch in the agony of expectation, we took them for a couple of hazy or crazy old sailors. On nearer inspection, they 5 both wear a world of brooches, rings, etc., and Lady Eleanor positively orders-several stars and crosses, and a red ribbon, exactly like a K. C. B. To crown all, they have crop heads, shaggy, rough, bushy, and as white as snow, the one with age alone, the other assisted by a 10 sprinkling of powder. The elder lady is almost blind, and every way much decayed; the other, the ci-devant groom, in good preservation. But who could paint the prints, the dogs, the cats, the miniatures, the cram of cabinets, clocks, glass-cases, books, bijouterie, dragon-china, nod15 ding mandarins, and whirligigs of every shape and hue— the whole house outside and in (for we must see everything in the dressing closets), covered with carved oak, very rich and fine some of it—and the illustrated copies of Sir W.'s poems, and the joking, simpering compliments about 20 Waverley, and the anxiety to know who MacIvor really was, and the absolute devouring of the poor Unknown, who had to carry off, besides all the rest, one small bit of literal butter dug up in a Milesian stone jar lately from the bottom of some Irish bog. Great romances, i. e., 25 absurd innocence of character, one must have looked for; but it was confounding to find this mixed up with such eager curiosity, and enormous knowledge of the tattle and scandal of the world they had so long left. Their tables were piled with newspapers from every corner of the 30 kingdom, and they seemed to have the deaths and marriages of the antipodes at their fingers' ends. Their albums and autographs, from Louis XVIII and George IV, down to magazine poets and quack-doctors, are a museum. I shall never see the spirit of blue-stockingism again in