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“How long before we can reach there?”
“Three-quarters of an hour at our present rate of steain."
“Is there any danger?”

“Danger, here—see the smoke bursting out-go forward, if you would save your lives."

Passengers and crew-men, women and children-crowded the forward part of the ship. John Maynard stood at the helm. The flames burst forth in a sheet of fire; clouds of smoke arose. The captain cried out through his trumpet:" John Maynard !”

Aye, aye, Sir!" “Are you at the helm ?"

Aye, aye, Sir !" “How does she head ?” “Southeast by east, Sir.” “ Head her southeast and run her on shore," said the captain.

Nearer, nearer, yet nearer, she approached the shore. Again the captain cried out :

" John Maynard !”
The response came feebly this time, “Aye, aye, Sir!"
“Can you hold on five minutes longer, John ?” he said.
“By God's help, I will."

The old man's hair was scorched from the scalp, one hand disabled, his knee upon the stanchion, and his teeth set, with leis other hand upon the wheel, he stood firm as a rock. He beached the ship; every man, woman, and child was saved, as John Maynard dropped, and his spirit took its flight to its God.


“HAVE you any thing to say ?" demanded Squeers again: giving his right arm two or three flourishes to try its power

and suppleness. “Stand a little out of the way, Mrs. Saneers, my dear; I've hardly got room enough."

“Spare me, Sir ” cried Smike.



“Oh! that's all, is it?" said Squeers. “Yes, I'll flog you within an inch of your life, and spare you that.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Mrs. Squeers, “that's a good 'un.”

“I was driven to do it,” said Smike faintly; and casting another imploring look about him.

“ Driven to do it, were you,” said Squeers. “Oh! it wasn't your fault; it was mine, I suppose--eh?”

A pasty, ungrateful, pig-headed, brutish, obstinate, sneaking dog,” exclaimed Mrs. Squeers, taking Smike's head under her arm, and administering a cuff at every epithet ; "what does he mean by that ?”

“Stand aside, my dear,” replied Squeers. “We'll try and find


Mrs. Squeers, being out of breath with her exertions, complied. Squeers caught the boy firmly in his grip; one desperate cut had fallen on his body-he was wincing froin the lash and uttering a scream of pain--it was raised again, and again about to fall when Nicholas Nickleby, suddenly starting up, cried “Stop!” in a voice that made the rafters ring.

“Who cried stop ?” said Squeers, turning savagely round. “I,” said Nicholas, stepping forward. 6. This must not go


“Must not go on!” cried Squeers, almost in a shriek. “No!" thundered Nicholas.

Aghast and stupefied by the boldness of the interference, Squeers released his hold of Smike, and falling back a pace or two gazed upon Nicholas with looks that were positively frightful.

“I say must not,” repeated Nicholas, nothing daunted; “shall not. I will prevent it."

Squeers continued to gaze upon him, with his eyes starting out of his head; but astonishment had actually for the moment bereft bim of speech.

“You have disregarded all my quiet interference in the miserable lad's behalf,” said Nicholas; “returned no answer to the letter in which I begged forgiveness for him, and offered to be responsible that he would remain quietly here. Don't blame me for this public interference. You have brought it upon yourself; not I.”

“Sit down, beggar!” screamed Squeers, almost beside himself with rage, and seizing Smike as he spoke.

"Wretch," rejoined Nicholas, fiercely, "touch him at your peril! I will not stand by and see it done ; my blood is up, and I have the strength of ten such men as you. Look to yourself, for by Heaven I will not spare you if you drive me on.”

He had scarcely spoken when Squeers, in a violent outbreak of wrath and with a cry like thé bowl of a wild beast, spat upon him, and struck him a blow across the face with his instrument of torture, which raised up a bar of livid flesh as it was inflicted. Smarting with the agony of the blow, and concentrating into that one moment all his feelings of rage, scorn, and indignation, Nicholas sprang upon him, wrested the weapon from his hand, and, pinning him by the throat, beat the ruffian till he roared for mercy.

The boys--with the exception of Master Squeers, who, coming to his father's assistance, harassed the enemy in the rear-moved not hand or foot; but Mrs. Squeers, with many shrieks for aid, hung on to the tail of her partner's coat and endeavored to drag him from his infuriated adversary; while Miss Squeers, who had been peeping through the keyhole in expectation of a very different scene, darted in at the very beginning of the attack, and after launching a shower of inkstands at the usher's head, beat Nicholas to her hearts content, animating herself at every blow with the recollection of his having refused her proffered love, and thus imparting additional strength to an arm which (as she took after her mother in this respect) was at no time one of the weakest.

Nicholas, in the full torrent of his violence, felt the blows no more than if they had been dealt with feathers; but becoming tired of the noise and uproar, and feeling that his arm grew weak besides, he threw all his remaining strength into half-a.dozen finishing cuts, and flung Squeers from him, with all the force he could muster. The violence of his fall precipitated Mrs. Squeers completely over an adjacent form, and Squeers, striking his head against it in his descent, lay at his full length on the ground, stunned and motionless.





You ought to have had a slave-yes, a black slave, and not a wife. I'm sure, I'd better been born a negro at once—much better. What's the matter now? Well, I like that. Upon my life, Mr. Caudle, that's very cool. I can't leave the house just to buy a yard of ribbon, but you storm enough to carry the roof off. You didn't storm ?—you only spoke ? Spoke, indeed! No, sir; I've not such superfine feelings; and I don't cry out before I'm hurt. But you ought to have married a woman of stone, for you feel for nobody: that is, for nobody in your own house. I only wish you'd show some of your humanity at home, if ever so little --that's all.

What do you say? Where's my feelings, to go a shopping at night? When would you have me go? In the broiling sun, making my face like a gipsy's? I don't see any thing to laugh at, Mr. Candle; but you think of anybody's face before your wife's. Oh, that's plain enough ; and all the world can see it. I dare say, now, if it was Miss Prettyman's face-now, now, Mr. Caudle ! What are you throwing yourself about for? I suppose Miss Pretty man isn't so wonderful a person that she isn't to be named ? I suppose she's flesh and blood. What ? You don't know ? Ha! I don't know that.

What do you say ? For the love of mercy let you sleep? Mercy, indeed! I wish you could show a little of it to other people. Oh

yes, I do know what mercy means; but that's no reason I should go shopping a bit earlier than I do—and I won't.--No; you've preached this over to me again and again; you've made mne go to meetings to hear all about it: but that's no reason women shouldn't shop just as late as they choose. It's all very fine, as I say, for yon men to talk to us at meetings, where, of course, we smile, and all that-and sometimes shake our white pocket-handkerchiefs--and where you say we have the power of early hours in onr own hands. To be sure we have; and we mean to keep it. That is, I do. You'll never catch me shopping till the very last thing; and—as a matter of principle- I'll always go to the shop that keeps open latest.






It was a noble Roman,

In Rome's imperial day,
Who heard a coward croaker,

Before the battle, say,
" They're safe in such a fortress:

There is no way to shake it—"
“Onl on!" exclaimed the hero,
"I'll find a way, or make it!”

Is fame your aspiration ?

Her path is steep and high :
In vain he seeks the temple,

Content to gaze and sigh!
The shining throne is waiting,

But he alone can take it,
Who says, with Roman firmness,

"I'll find a way, or make it."
Is learning your ambition ?

There is no royal road;
Alike the peer and peasant

Must climb to her abode;
Who feel the thirst for knowledge,

In Helicon may slake it,
If he has still the Roman will

To "find a way, or make it !"

Are riches worth the getting ?

They must be bravely sought;
With wishing and with fretting

The boon cannot be bought;
To all the prize is open,

But only he can take it,
Who says, with Roman courage,

“I'll find a way, or make it!"

In Love's impassioned warfare,

The tale has ever been,
That victory crowns the valiant,

The brave are they who win ;

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