You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry;
It makes me wild to think of the change!
What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? you find it strange?
I had a mother so proud of me!
'Twas well she died before
If the happy spirits in heaven can see
The ruin and wretchedness here below?

Do you know

Another glass, and strong, to deaden
This pain; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing, in place of a heart?

He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,
No doubt, remembering things that were,

A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,
And himself a sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now; that glass was warming.-
You rascal! limber your lazy feet!
We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.

Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,

And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ;---
The sooner, the better for Roger and me!

CARDINAL WOLSEY, ON BEING CAST OFF BY KING HENRY VIII.-Shakspeare.

NAY, then, farewell,

I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness;
And, from that full meridian of my glory,

I haste now to my setting: I shall fall

Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.

So farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow, blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him:
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And, when he thinks-good, easy man-full surely
His greatness is a ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory;

But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride.
At length broke under me; and now has left nie,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have.
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again!

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.

Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention

Of me must more be heard,—say, then, I taught thee,--
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me!
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition!
By that sin fell the angels: how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't?

Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee,-
Corruption wins not more than honesty;

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truth's: then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the king;

And,-Prithee, lead me in:

There, take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,

And my integrity to heaven, is all

I dare now call mine own. O, Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not, in mine age,
Ilave left me naked to mine enemies!

DEATH OF JOHN Q. ADAMS.-By I. E. Holmes. MR. SPEAKER: The mingled tones of sorrow, like the voice of many waters, have come unto us from a sister state -Massachusetts, weeping for her honored son. The state I

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have the honor in part to represent once endured, with yours, a common suffering, battled for a common cause, and rejoiced in a common triumph. Surely, then, it is meet, that in this the day of your affliction, we should mingle our griefs.

When a great man falls, the nation mourns; when a patriarch is removed, the people weep. Ours, my associates, is no common bereavement. The chain which linked our hearts with the gifted spirits of former times has been suddenly snapped. The lips from which flowed those living and glorious truths that our fathers uttered are closed in death. Yes, my friends, Death has been among us! He has not entered the humble cottage of some unknown, ignoble peasant; he has knocked andibly at the palace of a nation! His footstep has been heard in the halls of state! He has cloven down his victim in the midst of the councils of a people. He has borne in triumph from among you the gravest, wisest, most reverend head. Ah! he has taken him as a trophy who was once chief over many statesmen, adorned with virtue, and learning, and truth; he has borne at his chariot wheels a renowned one of the earth.

How often we have crowded into that aisle, and clustered around that now vacant desk, to listen to the counsels of wisdom as they fell from the lips of the venerable Sage, we can all remember, for it was but of yesterday. But what a change! How wondrous! how sudden! 'Tis like a vision of the night. That form which we beheld but a few days since is now cold in death!

But the last Sabbath, and in this hall he worshipped with others. Now his spirit mingles with the noble army of martyrs and the just made perfect, in the eternal adoration of the living God. With him, "this is the end of earth." He sleeps the sleep that knows no waking. He is gone-and forever! The sun that ushers in the morn of that next holy day, while it gilds the lofty dome of the capitol, shall rest with soft and mellow light upon the consecrated spot beneath whose turf forever lies the PATRIOT FATHER and the PATHO SAGE.

THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.-Byron.

STOP! for thy tread is on an empire's dust;
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchered below!
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so.

As the ground was before, thus let it be.

How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields, king-making Victory?
There was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men:
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose, with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again; And all went merry as a marriage-bell.

Bat hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knel!!

Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street:

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined!

No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet!-
But, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before.
Arm! arm! it is, it is the cannon's opening roar!
Within a windowed niche of that high hall

Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,

And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear:
And when they smiled because he deemed it near
His heart more truly knew that peal too well,

Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Weat pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar,

And near, the beat of the alarming drum

Roused up the soldier ere the morning-star;

While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb,

Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! they come! they come !"

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life;
Last eve, in beauty's circle, proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife
The morn, the marshaling in arms-the day,
Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it; which, when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent.

JOSH BILLINGS ON COURTING.

COURTING is a luxury, it is sallad, it is ise water, it is a beveridge, it is the pla spell ov the soul. The man who has never courted haz lived in vain: he haz bin a blind man amung landskapes and waterskapes; he has bin a deff man in the land oy hand orgins, and by the side ov murmuring canals. Courting iz like 2 little springs ov soft water that steal out from under a rock at the fut ov a mountain and run down the hill side by side singing and dansing and spatering each uther, eddying and frothing and kaskading, now hiding under bank, now full ov sun, and now full ov shadder, till bimeby tha jine and then tha go slow. I am in faver ov long courting; it gives the parties a chance to find out each uther's trump kards, it iz good exercise, and is jist as innersent as 2 merino lambs. Courting iz like strawberries and cream, wants tew be did slow, then yu git the flaver. I hav saw folks git ackquainted, fall in luv, git marrid, settel down and git tew wurk, in 3 weeks from date. This is jist the wa sum folks larn a trade, and akounts for the grate number ov almitey mean mechanicks we hav, and the poor jobs tha turn out.

Perhaps it iz best i shud state sum good advise tew yung men, who are about tew court with a final view to matrimony, az it waz. In the fust plase, yung man, yu want tew git yure system awl rite, and then find a yung woman who iz willing tew be courted on the square. The nex thing is tew find out how old she is, which yu kan dew bi asking her and she will sa that she is 19 years old, and this yu will find won't be far from out of the wa. The nex best thing iz tew begin moderate; say onse every nite in the week for the fust six months, increasing the dose as the pasheint seems to require it. It is a fust rate wa tew court the girl's mother a leettle on the start, for there iz one thing a woman never despizes, and that iz, a leettle good courting. if it is dun strikly on the square. After the fust year yu will begin to be well ackquainted and will begin tew like the bizzness. Thare is one thing I alwus