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vating enough, when you like, for anything. All I kuow 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 sha'n'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.



M OST potent, grave, and reverend seigniors :
NI My very noble and approved good masters:
That I have ta’en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her:
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent; no more.

Rude am I in speech,
And little blessed with the set phrase of peace:
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used
Their dearest action in the tented field;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broils and battle,
And therefore, little shall I grace my cause,
In speaking of myself.

Yet, by your patience, I will, a round, unvarnished tale deliver, Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magicFor such proceedings I am charged withalI wou his daughter with.'

Her father loved me; oft invited me;
Still questioned me the story of my life,
From year to year: the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I had past.
I ran it through, e'en from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances ;
Of moving accidents by flood and field;
Of hairbreadth 'scapes, in the imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,
And with it all my travel's history.

All these to hear,
Would Desdemona seriously incline;
But still the house affairs would draw her thence,
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear,
Devour up my discourse. Which, I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate;
Whereof by parcels, she had something heard,
But not distinctly.

I did consent;
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke,
That my youth suffered. My story being done,

She gave me for my pains, a world of sighs.
She swore iu faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange,
'Twas pitiful; 'twas wondrous pitiful;
She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished
That heaven had made her such a man.

She thanked me,
And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. On this hint I spake;
She loved me for the dangers I had passed ;
And I loved her that she did nitr them.
This is the only witchraft which I've used.



PY little and little, the old man drew back toward the D inner chamber, while these words were spoken. He pointed there, as he replied, with trembling lips,

“You plot among you to wcan my heart from her. You will never do that-never while I have life. I have no relative or friend but her-I never had, I never will have. She is all in all to me. It is too late to part us now."

Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he went, he stole into the room. They who were left behind drew close together, and after a few whispered words,-not unbroken by emotion, or easily uttered, followed him. They moved so gently, that their footsteps made po noise; but there were sobs from among the group, and sounds of grief and mourning.

For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay at reste The solemn stillness was no marvel now.

She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived and suffered death.

Her couch was dressed with here and there, some winter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. “When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always.” These were her words.

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird-a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed—was stirring vimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute and motionless forever.

Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings and fatigues? All gone. This was the true death before their weeping eyes. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness were born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.

And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes. The old fireside had smiled on that same sweet face; it had passed like a dream through haunts of misery and care; at the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold, wet night, at the still, dying boy, there had been the same mild lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty, after death.

The old man held one languid arm in his, and kept the small hand tight folded to his breast for warmth. It was the hand she bad stretched out to him with her last smile the hand that had led him on through all their wanderings. Ever and anon he passed it to his lips, then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now; and as he said it he looked, in agony, to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help


She was dead and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was ebbing fast—the garden she had tended the eyes she had gladdened—the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtless hour—the paths she had trodden as if it were but yesterday—could know her no more.

" It is not,” said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on her cheek, and give his tears free vent—"it is not in this world that Heaven's justice ends. Think what it is compared with the world to which her young spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish expressed in solemn terms above this bed could call her back to life, which of us would utter it ?”



m o us, citizens of America, it belongs above all others

I to show respect to the memory of Washington, by the practical deference which we pay to those sober maxims of public policy which he has left us,-a last testament of affection in his Farewell Address. Of all the exhortations which it contains, I scarce need say to you that none are so emphatically uttered, none so apxiously repeated, as those which enjoin the preservation of the Union of these States.

On this, under Providence, it depends in the judgment of Washington whether the people of America shall follow the Old World example, and be broken up into a group of independent military powers, wasted by eternal border wars, feeding the ambition of petty sovereigus

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