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"Gracious Heaven!" said the middle-aged ma'am" [here Mr. Pickwick gave it a trelady; "what's that?" mendous tug in proof of the statement]., "It is evident to me, ma'am, now, that I have mistaken this bedroom for my own. I had not been here five minutes, ma'am,

"It's it's only a gentleman, ma'am,” said Mr. Pickwick from behind the curtains.

"A gentleman!" said the lady, with a when you suddenly entered it." terrific scream.

"It's all over," thought Mr. Pickwick. "A strange man!" shrieked the lady. Another instant and the house would be alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed toward the door.

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Now, although Mr. Pickwick was not actuated by any definite object in putting out his head, it was instantaneously productive of a good effect. The lady, as we have already stated, was near the door. She must pass it to reach the staircase, and she would most undoubtedly have done so by this time had not the sudden apparition of Mr. Pickwick's nightcap driven her back into the remotest corner of the apartment, where she stood staring wildly at Mr. Pickwick, while Mr. Pickwick in his turn stared wildly at her. Wretch!" said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands. "What do you

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"If this improbable story be really true, sir," said the lady, sobbing violently, “you will leave it instantly."

"I will, ma'am, with the greatest pleasure," replied Mr. Pickwick.

"Instantly, sir," said the lady.

"Certainly, ma'am," interposed Mr. Pickwick, very quickly—“ certainly, ma'am. I -I am very sorry, ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, making his appearance at the bottom of the bed, “to have been the innocent occasion of this alarm and emotion-deeply sorry, ma'am."

The lady pointed to the door. One excellent quality of Mr. Pickwick's character was beautifully displayed at this moment under the most trying circumstances. Although he had hastily put on his hat over his nightcap, after the manner of the old patrol, although he carried his shoes and gaiters in his hand and his coat and waistcoat over his arm, nothing could subdue his native politeness.

"I am exceedingly sorry, ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low.

"If you are, sir, you will at once leave the room," said the lady.

"Immediately, ma'am ; this instant, ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, opening the door, and dropping both his shoes with a loud crash in so doing.

"I trust, ma'am," resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his shoes and turning round to bow again-"I trust, ma'am, that my un

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blemished character and the devoted respect I entertain for your sex will plead as some slight excuse for this "

But before Mr. Pickwick could conclude the sentence the lady had thrust him into the passage and locked and bolted the door behind him. Whatever grounds for self-congratulation Mr. Pickwick might have for having escaped so quietly from his late awkward situation, his present position was by no means enviable. He was alone in an open passage in < a strange house in the middle of the night, } half dressed; it was not to be supposed that he could find his way in perfect darkness to a room which he had been wholly unable to discover with a light; and if he made the slightest noise in his fruitless attempts to do so, he stood every chance of being shot at, and perhaps killed, by some wakeful traveller. He had no resource but to remain where he was until daylight appeared. So, after groping his way a few paces down the passage, and, to his infinite alarm, stumbling over several pairs of boots in so doing, Mr. Pickwick crouched into a little recess in the wall, to wait for morning as philosophically as he might. He was not destined, however, to undergo this additional trial of his patience; for he had not been long ensconced in his present concealment when, to his unspeakable horror, a man bearing a light appeared at the end of the passage. His horror was suddenly converted into joy, however, when he recognized the form of his faithful attendant. It was indeed Mr. Samuel Weller, who after sitting up thus late in conversation with the Boots, who was sitting up for the mail, was now about to retire to rest.

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Mr. Weller stared at his master with the most emphatic surprise, and it was not until the question had been repeated three sever-; al times that he turned round and led the way to the long-sought apartment.

"Sam," said Mr. Pickwick as he got into bed, "I have made one of the most extraordinary mistakes to-night that ever heard of."

"Wery likely, sir," replied Mr. Weller, dryly.

"But of this I am determined, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick—“that if I were to stop in this house for six months, I would never trust myself about it alone again."

"That's the very prudentest resolution as you could come to, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "You rather want somebody to look arter you, sir, wen your judgment goes out awisitin'.'

"What do you mean by that, Sam?" said Mr. Pickwick. He raised himself in bed. and extended his hand, as if he were about to say something more, but, suddenly checking himself, turned round and bade his valet "Good-night.”

"Good-night, sir," replied Mr. Weller. He paused when he got outside the door, shook his head, walked on, stopped, snuffed the candle, shook his head again, and finally proceeded slowly to his chamber, apparently buried in the profoundest meditation.

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THANATOPSIS.

TO him who in the love of Nature holds

Turns with his share and treads upon. The

oak

Communion with her visible forms she Shall send his roots abroad and pierce thy

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Make thee to shudder and grow sick at Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; the

heart,

Go forth under the open sky and list

To Nature's teachings, while from all around-
Earth and her waters and the depths of

air

Comes a still voice: Yet a few days and thee

The all-beholding sun shall see no more

vales

Stretching in pensive quietness between ;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and poured

round all

Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man.
The golden sun,
The planets-all the infinite host of heaven-

In all his course; nor yet in the cold
ground,
Where thy pale form was laid with many Are shining on the sad abodes of Death

tears,

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall
claim

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering

up

Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod which the rude

swain

Through the still lapse of ages. All that

tread

The globe are but a handful to the tribes.
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, traverse Barca's desert-sands
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon and hears no sound
Save his own dashings, yet the dead are
there;

And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them

down

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So live that when thy summons comes to Scarcely waked as her sentinel

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