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will never stand exposed to the artifices of courts; I will never pant for public honors, nor disturb my quiet with the affairs of state.' Such was my scheme of life, which I impressed indelibly upon my memory.

9. “The first part of my ensuing time was to be spent in search of knowledge', and I know not how I was diverted from my design! I had no visible impediments without', nor any ungovernable passions within' I regarded knowledge as the highest honor, and the most engaging pleasure'; yet day stole upon day, and month glided after month, till I found that seven years of the first ten had vanished', and left nothing behind' them.

10. “I now postponed my purpose of traveling; for why should I go abroad', while so much remained to be learned at home'? I immured myself for four years, and studied the laws of the empire. The fame of my skill reached the judges: I was found able to speak upon doubtful questions, and I was commanded to stand at the footstool of the caliph. I was heard with attention; I was consulted with confidence, and the love of praise fastened on my heart.

11. “I still wished to see distant countries; listened with rapture to the relations of travelers, and resolved some time to ask my dismission, that I might feast my soul with novelty'; but my presence was always necessary, and the stream of business hurried me along. Sometimes, I was afraid lest I should be charged with ingratitude; but I still proposed to travel, and therefore would not confine myself by marriage.

In my fiftieth year', I began to suspect that the time of my traveling was past; and thought it best to lay hold on the felicity yet in my power, and indulge myself in domestic pleasures. But, at fifty, no man easily finds a woman beautiful as the houries, and wise as Zobeide. I inquired and rejected, consulted and deliberated, till the sixty-second year made me ashamed of wishing to marry. I had now nothing left but retirement'; and for retirement I never found a time', till disease forced me from public employment'.

13. “Such was my scheme', and such has been its consequence'. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge', I trifled away the years of improvement'; with a restless desire of

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seeing different countries', I have always resided in the same city'; with the highest expectation of connubial felicity, I have lived unmarried'; and with an unalterable resolution of contemplative retirement, I am going to die within the walls of Bagdat'."


| The gay helles of fashion may boast of cxcelling

In waltz or cotillon, at whist or quadrille;
And seek admiration by vauntingly telling

Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill:
But give me the fair one, in country or city',

Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart,
Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty',

While plying the needle with exquisite art:
The bright little needle, the swift-flying needle,

The needle directed by beauty and art,

2. If Love have a potent, a magical token'.

A talisman, ever resistless and true',
A charm that is never evaded or broken',

A witchery certain the heart to subdue',
'Tis this'; and his armory never has furnished

So keen and unerring, or polished a dart;
Let beauty direct it, so polished and burnished',

And O! it is certain of touching the heart":
The bright little needle, the swift-flying needle!

The needle directed by beauty and art!
3. Be wise, then, ye maidens', nor seek admiration',

By dressing for conquest, and flirting with all\;
You never, whate'er be your fortune or station',

Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball',
As gayly convened at the work-covered table,

Each cheerfully active playing her part!,
Beguiling the task with a song or a fable',

And plying the needle with exquisite art:
The bright little needle, the swift-flying needle,

The needle directed by beauty and art.


FROM DICKENS. CHARLES DICKENS was born at Portsmouth, England, in 1812. He is one of the most popular writers of the day, and is admired as a graphic delineator of human character. He has published numerous interesting works. The following is from “The Old Curiosity Shop."

1. She wās dēad. 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.

2. Shē wās dēad. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead". Her little bird, a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed, was stirring nimbly 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'. Sorrow was dead, indeed, in her; but peace and perfect happiness were born, imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.

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

4. The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight folded to his breast for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile'; the hand that had led him on through all their wanderings'. Ever and anon he pressed 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 her.

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

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

7. She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time, knowing that the end was drawing on. She died soon after day-break. They had read and talked to her in the earlier portion of the night; but, as the hours crept on, she sank to sleep. They could tell by what she faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of her journeyings with the old man; they were of no painful scenes, but of people who had helped them, and used them kindly; for she often said “God bless you!" with great fervor. 8. Waking, she never wandered in her mind but


and that was at beautiful music, which, she said, was in the air. God knows. It may have been. Opening her eyes, at last, from a very quiet sleep, she begged that they would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old man, with a lovely smile upon her face, such, they said, as they had never seen, and could never forget, and clung, with both her arms, about his neck. She had never murmured or complained; but, with a quiet mind, and manner quite unaltered, save that she every day became more earnest and more grateful to them, faded like the light upon the summer's evening.

9. The child who had been her little friend, came there, almost as soon as it was day, with an offering of dried flowers, which he begged them to lay upon her breast. He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her being restored to them, just as she used to be. He begged hard to see her: saying, that he would be very quiet, and that they need not fear his being alarmed, for he had sat alone by his young



brother all day long, when he was dead, and had felt glad to be so near him. They let him have his wish; and, indeed, he kept his word, and was, in his childish way, a lesson to them all.

10. Up to that time, the old man had not spoken once, cept to her, or stirred from the bedside. But, when he saw her little favorite, he was moved as they had not seen him yet, and made as though he would have him come nearer. Then, pointing to the bed, he burst into tears for the first time, and they who stood by, knowing that the sight of this child had done him good, left them alone together.

11. Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the child persuaded him to take some rest, to walk abroad, to do almost as he desired him. And, when the day came, on which they must remove her, in her earthly shape, from earthly eyes forever, he led him away, that he might not know when she was taken from him. They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed.

12. And now the bell, the bell she had so often heard by night and day, and listened to with solemn pleasure, almost as a living voice, rung its remorseless toll for her, so young, so beautiful, so good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy,—on crutches, in the pride of health and strength, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life, gathered round her. Old men were there, whose eyes were dim and senses failing, grandmothers, who might have died ten years ago, and still been old, the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied, the living dead, in many shapes and forms, to see the closing of that early grave.

13. Along the crowded path they bore her now, pure as the newly fallen snow that covered it, whose day on earth had been as fleeting. Under that porch, where she had sat when Heaven, in its mercy, brought her to that peaceful spot, she passed again, and the old church received her in its quiet shade.

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