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The husband's tears may be few and brief,

He may woo and win another;

But the daughter clings in unchanging grief

To the image of her mother!




It was evident that something of great importance was in contemplation, but what that something was not even Mrs. Bardell herself had been able to discover.

Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick at last, as that amiable female approached the termination of a prolonged dusting in the apartment. 'Sir," said Mrs. Bardell.

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"Your little boy is a very long time gone."

"Why, it is a good long way to the Borough, sir,” remonstrated Mrs. Bardell,

“Ah,” said Mr. Pickwick, “very true; so it is."

Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting.

"Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes.

"Sir," said Mrs. Bardell again.

"Do you think it's a much greater expense to keep two people than to keep one?"

"La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, coloring up to the very border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger; “La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question?"

"Well, but do you?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.

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That depends "-said Mrs. Bardell, approaching the duster very near to Mr. Pickwick's elbow, which was planted on the table; "that depends a good deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pickwick; and whether it's a saving and careful person, sir."

"That's very true," said Mr. Pickwick; "but the person I have in my eye (here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses these qualities, and has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the

world, and a great deal of sharpness, Mrs. Bardell, which may be o material use to me."

"La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson rising to her cap-border again.

"I do," said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his wont in speaking of a subject which interested him; "I do, indeed; and to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind.”

"Dear me, sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Bardell.

"You'll think it not very strange now," said the amiable Mr. I ickwick, with a good-humored glance at his companion, "that I never consulted you about this matter, and never mentioned it till I sent your little boy out this morning-eh?"

Mrs Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshiped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going to propose-a deliberate plan, too-sent her little boy to the Borough to get him out of the way--how thoughtful-how considerate!

· Well," said Mr. Pickwick, "what do you think?"

"O, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation, "you're very kind, sir."

"It'll save you a great deal of trouble, wont it?" said Mr. Pickwick.

"O), I never thought any thing of the trouble, sir,” replied Mis. Bardell; "and, of course, I should take more trouble to please yo then than ever; but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much consideration for my loneliness."

"Ah, to be sure," said Mr. Pickwick; "I never thought of that. When I am in town you'll always have somebody to sit with you. To be sure, so you will."

"I'm sure I ought to be a very happy woman," said Mrs. Bardell. "And your little boy--" said Mr. Pickwick.

"Bless his heart," interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a maternal sob. "He, too, will have a companion,” resumed Mr. Pickwick, "a lively one, who'l! teach him, I'll be bound, more tricks in a w ek than he could ever learn in a year." And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly.

"O you dear!" said Mrs. Bardell.

Mr. Pickwick started.

“O you kind, good, playful dear," said Mrs. Bardell; and wire t

morc ado, she rose from her chair and flung her arms around Mr. Pickwick's neck, with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs.

"Bless my soul!" cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick; "Mrs. Bardell, my good woman-dear me, what a situation --pray consider, Mrs. Bardell, don't-if anybody should come--"

"O let them come!" exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, frantically; "I'll never leave you—dear, kind, good soul;" and with these words Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter.

"Mercy upon me," said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, “I hear somebody coming up the stairs. Don't, don't, there's a good creature, don't." But entreaty and remonstrance were alike unavailing, for Mrs. Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick's arms, and before he could gain time to deposit her on a chair, Master Bardeli, entered the room, ushering in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass.



Nigh to a grave that was newly made,
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade;
His work was done, and he paused to wait
The funeral-train at the open gate.

A relic of by-gone days was he,

And his locks were gray as the foamy sea;
And these words came from his lips so thin:
“I gather them in—I gather them in—

Gather-gather—I gather them in.

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Many are with me, yet I'm alone;

I'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne

On a monument slab of marble cold

My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold.

Come they from cottage, or come they from hall,

Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all!

May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin,

I gather them in-I gather them in.

"I gather them in, and their final rest

Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast!"

And the sexton ceased as the funeral train
Wound mutely over that solemn plain;
And I said to myself: When time is told,
A mightier voice than that sexton's old,
Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din,
"I gather them in-I gather them in-

Gather-gather-gather them in."



Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!
Will ye give it up to slaves?

Will ye look for greener graves?

Hope ye mercy still?

What's the mercy despots feel?

Hear it in that battle-peal!

Read it on yon bristling steel!

Ask it,-ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?

Look behind you!-they're afire!

And, before you, see

Who have done it! From the vale
On they come!--and will ye quail?
Leaden rain and iron hail

Let their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust!
Die we may,-and die we must:
But, O, where can dust to dust

Be consigned so well,

As where heaven its dew shall shed

On the martyred patriot's bed,

And the rocks shall raise their head,

Of his deeds to tell.


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