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WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT. – 1796. Salem, Mass. Died 1859. Four great historical works, – “ The Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella; " “ The Conquest of Mexico;" “ The Conquest of Peru;" “ The History of Philip II."

GEORGE BANCROFT. – 1800. Worcester, Mass. Author of the most elaborate “ History of the United States," of which ten volumes are now published; the rest to follow.

RICHARD HILDRETH. - 1807. “ History of the United States," in six vols.; Japan as It Was and Is."

JARED SPARKS. — 1789. President of Harvard University, 1849-1852. “Letters on the Ministry, Ritual, and Doctrines of the Protestant-Episcopal Church;" Editor of “ The Unitarian Miscellany and Christian Monitor;". "Collection of Essays and Tracts in Theology, from Various Authors," six vols.; " An Inquiry into the Comparative Moral Tendency of Trinitarian and Unitarian Doctrines" "Life of John Ledyard;" “The Diplomatic Correspondence of the American Revolution,” twelve vols.; " The Life of Gouverneur Morris," three vols.; “Life and Writings of Washington,” twelve vols.; " The Works of Benjamin Franklin, with Notes, and a Life of the Author,” ten vols.; " Correspondence of the American Revolution, Letters of Eminent Men to George Washington to the End of his Presidency,” fonr vols.; eight of the sixty lives in “Library of American Biography;" and "A History of the Foreign Relations of the United States during the Revolution.”

Josiah Quincy. – 1772-1864. Speeches in Congress, and Orations on Various Occasions; Memoir of the Life of John Quincy Adams;" other memoirs and local histories.

John WINTHROP. - 1587-1649. “Diary of Events in Massachusetts Colony to 1644."

Cotton MATHER. — 1663 – 1728. “Magnalia Christi Americana."

GEORGE TICKNOR. — 1791. “The History of Spanish Literature," three vols.; “The Remains of Nathaniel Appleton Haven, with a Memoir of his Life; " and “Life of Lafayette." WILLIAM WIRT.






Josias QUINCY.

J. Q. Adams.

GEORGE E. Ellis.



J. F. Kirk.






Dr. Kane.
Dr. I. I. HAYES.



The first of living English novelists. No writer of fiction makes us more thoroughly acquainted with his characters. He is the most truthful painter of his times; depicting life, however, in its humbler forms and in its darker shades. Humor and pathos are equally natural to his pen. He has visited Airerica twice. On his first visit, having inet vulgarity, snobbery, and servility, where he expected to find refinement, nobility, and sovereignty, the truthtul portraits of the specimens lie studied, set down in “ American Notes” and “ Martin Chuzzlewit,” did not please his American readers. But our honorable financial dealings with him on his second visit (a reading-tour through our principal cities) moved him to admit, by note to the next edition of his books, that we are neither snobs nor fools nor knayes, taken as a whole. *

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PRINCIPAL PRODUCTIONS. “ Pickwick Papers;” “David Copperfield;” “Nicholas Nickleby;" “ Barnaby Rudge; "Our Mutual Friend;' Little Dorritt;" “Great Expectations; “ Donbey and Son;" “ Uncommercial Traveler; " " Old Curiosity Shop; " " Christmis Books;” “Tale of Two Cities;” “Bleak House;" “Martin Chuzzlewit;" “Sketches by Boz;" “ Pictures from Italy;" “ Oliver Twist;" "Mysteries of Edwin Drood,” now publishing.

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The dull red glow of a wood-fire - for no lamp or candle burnt within the room showed him a figure, seated on the hearth with its back towards him, bending over the fitful light. The attitude was that of one who sought the heat. It was, and yet was not. The stooping posture and the cowering form were there; but no hands were stretched out to meet the grateful warmth, no shrug or shiver compared its luxury with the piercing cold outside. With limbs huddled together, head bowed down, arms crossed upon the breast, and fingers tightly clinched, it rocked to and fro upon its seat without a moment's pause, accompanying the action with the mournful sound he had heard.

The heavy door had closed behind him on his entrance with a crash that made him start. The figure neither spoke, nor turned to look, nor gave in any other way the faintest sign of having heard the noise. The form was that of an old man, his white head akin in color to the moldering embers upon which he gazed. He, and the failing light and dying fire, the time-worn room, the solitude, the wasted life, and gloom, were all in fellowship, ashes and dust and ruin!

Kit tried to speak, and did pronounce some words; though what they were he scarcely knew. Still the same terrible low cry went on; still the same rocking in the chair; the same

* Charles Dickens died suddenly, June 9, 1870; and was buried in Westminster Abbey.


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stricken figure was there, unchanged, and heedless of his pres

He had his hand upon the latch, when something in the form — distinctly seen as one log broke and fell, and, as it fell, blazed up - arrested it. He returned to where he had stood before ; advanced a pace

another — another still. Another, and he saw the face. Yes! changed as it was, he knew it well.

“ Master!” he cried, stooping on one knee, and catching at his hand, — “dear master! Speak to me!”

The old man turned slowly toward him, and muttered in a hollow voice,

“ This is another! How many of these spirits there have been to-night!”

“No spirit, master; no one but your old servant. You know me now, I am sure ? Miss Nell — where is she? where is she?"

“ They all say that!” cried the old man. “They all ask the same question. A spirit!”

“ Where is she?" demanded Kit. “Oh! tell me but that, but that, dear master!”

“She is asleep — yonder - in there." “ Thank God!”

“Ay, thank God!” returned the old man. “I have prayed to him many and many and many a livelong night when she has been asleep, he knows. Hark! Did she call ?

“ I heard no voice."
" You did. You hear her now. Do

tell me that


don't hear that?" He started


and listened again. “Nor that?" he cried with a triumphant smile. body know that voice so well as I? Hush ! hush !”

Motioning to him to be silent, he stole away into another chamber. After a short absence during which he could be heard to speak in a softened, soothing tone), he returned, bearing in his hand a lamp.

“She is still asleep!” he whispered. “You were right. She did not call, unless she did so in her slumber. She has called to me in her sleep before now, sir. As I have sat by, watching, I have seen her lips move; and have known, though no sound came from them, that she spoke of me. I feared the light might dazzle her eyes and wake her: so I brought it here.

He spoke rather to himself than to the visitor; but, when he had put the lamp upon the table, he took it up, as if impelled by some momentary recollection or curiosity, and held it near his face. Then, as if forgetting his motive in the very action, he turned away, and put it down again.

“She is sleeping soundly," he said; " but no wonder. Angel


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hands have strewn the ground deep with snow, that the lightest footstep may be lighter yet; and the very birds are dead, that they may not wake her. She used to feed them, sir. Though never so cold and hungry, the timid things would fly from us. They never flew fronı her!

Again he stopped to listen, and, scarcely drawing breath, listened for a long, long time. That fancy past, he opened an old chest, took out some clothes as fondly as if they had been living things, and began to smooth and brush them with his hand.

“Why dost thou lie so idle there, dear Nell,” he murmured, “when there are bright red berries out of doors waiting for thee to pluck them? Why dost thou lie so idle there, when thy little friends come creeping to the door, crying, “Where is Nell

, sweet Nell ?' and sob and weep because they do not see thee? She was always gentle with children. The wildest would do her bidding. She had a tender way with them; indeed she had.”

Kit had no power to speak. His eyes were filled with tears.

“Her little homely dress, her favorite,” cried the old man, pressing it to his breast, and patting it with his shriveled hand. “She will miss it when she wakes. They have hid it here in sport: but she shall have it; she shall have it. I would not vex my darling for the wide world's riches. See here,

these shoes, how worn they are! She kept them to remind her of our last long journey. You see where the little feet went bare upon the ground. They told me afterwards that the stones had cut and bruised them. She never told me that. No, no, God bless her! And I have remembered since, she walked behind me, sir, that I might not see how lame she was; but yet she had my hand in hers, and seemed to lead me still."

He pressed them to his lips, and, having carefully put them back again, went on communing with himself, looking wistfully from time to time towards the chamber he had lately visited.

“She was not wont to be a lie-abed ; but she was well then. We must have patience. When she is well again, she will rise early, as she used to do, and ramble abroad in the healthy morning-time. I often tried to track the way she had gone; but her small footstep left no print upon the dewy ground to guide me. Who is that? Shut the door. Quick! Have we not enough to to do to drive away that marble cold, and keep her warm ?”

The door was indeed opened for the entrance of Mr. Garland and his friend, accompanied by two other persons.

These were the schoolmaster and the bachelor. The former held a light in his hand. He had, it seemed, but gone to his own cottage to replenish the exhausted lamp at the moment when Kit came up and found the old man alone.

He softened again at sight of these two friends, and, laying

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aside the angry manner (if to any thing so feeble and so sad the term can be applied) in which he had spoken when the door opened, resumed his former seat, and subsided by little and little into the old action, and the old, dull, wandering sound.

Of the strangers he took no heed whatever. He had seen them, but appeared quite incapable of interest or curiosity. The younger brother stood apart. The bachelor drew a chair towards the old man, and sat down close beside him. After a long silence, he ventured to speak.

" Another night, and not in bed?” he said softly. "I hoped you would be more mindful of your promise to me. Why do you not take some rest?"

* Sleep has left me,” returned the old man. “ It is all with her.”

“It would pain her very much to know that you were watching thus," said the bachelor. “You would not give her pain ?”

“I am not so sure of that, if it would only rouse her. She has slept so very long! And yet I am rash to say so.

It is a good and happy sleep, eh ?”

“ Indeed it is !” returned the bachelor; "indeed, indeed, it is !” “ That's well. And the waking ? " faltered the old man.

“ Happy too, — happier than tongue can tell, or heart of man conceive."

They watched him as he rose and stole on tiptoe to the other chamber where the lamp had been replaced. They listened as he spoke again within its silent walls. They looked into the faces of each other; and no man's cheek was free from tears. He came back, whispering that she was still asleep, but that he thought she had moved. It was her hand, he said, a little, a very, very little; but he was pretty sure she had moved it, — perhaps in seeking his. He had known her do that before now, though in the deepest sleep the while. And, when he had said this, he dropped into his chair again, and, clasping his hands above his head, uttered a cry never to be forgotten.

The poor schoolmaster motioned to the bachelor that he would come on the other side, and speak to him. They gently unlocked his fingers, which he had twisted in his gray hair, and pressed them in their own.

“ He will hear me," said the schoolmaster, “I am sure. He will hear either me or you if we beseech him. She would at all times."

“I will hear any voice she liked to hear,” cried the old man. 6 I love all she loved."

“I know you do," returned the schoolmaster: “I am certain of it. Think of her; think of all the sorrows and afflictions you have shared together, of all the trials and all the peaceful pleasures you have jointly known."

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