Some thirty years had now glided away, and only ten remained; but the stealing hand of time had written sundry changes in most legible characters. Raven locks had become grizzled; two or three heads had not as many locks as may be reckoned in a walk of half a mile along the Regent's Can 1 -one was actually covered with a brown wig-the crow's feet were visible in the corner of the eye-good old port and warm Madeira carried against hock, claret, red burgundy, and champagne-stews, hashes, and ragouts, grew into favor -crusts were rarely called for to relish the cheese after dinner -conversation was less boisterous, and it turned chiefly upon politics and the state of the funds, or the value of landed property-apologies were made for coming in thick shoes and warm stockings—the doors and windows were more carefully provided with list--the fire was in more request--and a quiet game of whist filled up the hours that were wont to be devoted to drinking, singing, and riotous merriment. Two rubbers, a cup of coffee, and at home by eleven o'clock, was the usual cry, when the fifth or sixth glass had gone round after the removal of the cloth. At parting, too, there was now a long ceremony in the hall, buttoning up great coats, tying on woolen comforters, fixing silk handkerchiefs over the mouth and up to the ears, and grasping sturdy walking-canes to support unsteady feet.

Their fiftieth anniversary came, and death had indeed been busy. Four little old men, of withered appearance and decrepit walk, with cracked voices and dim, rayless eyes, sat down by the mercy of heaven, (as they tremulously declared,) to celebrate, for the fiftieth time, the first day of the year, to observe the frolic compact, which half a century before, they had entered into at the Star and Garter at Richmond. Eight were in their graves! The four that remained stood upon its confines. Yet they chirped cheerily over their glass, though they could scarcely carry it to their lips, if more than half full and cracked their jokes, though they articulated their words with difficulty, and heard each other with still greater difficulty. They mumbled, they chattered, they laughed, (if a sort of strangled wheezing might be called a laugh,) and as the wine sent their icy blood in warmer pulses through their

veins, they talked of their past as if it were but a yesterday that had slipped by them, and of their future as if it were but a busy century that lay before them.

At length came the LAST dinner; and the survivor of the twelve, upon whose head four score and ten winters had showered their snow, ate his solitary meal. It so chanced that it was in bis house, and at his table, they celebrated the first. In his cellar, too, had remained the bottle they had then uncorked, recorked, and which he was that day to uncork again. It stood beside him. With a feeble and reluctant grasp he took the frail memorial" of a youthful vow, and for a noment memory was faithful to her office. She threw open the long vista of buried years; and his heart travelled through them all Their lusty and blithesome spring,-their bright and fervid summer,--their ripe and temperate autumn,-their chill, but not too frozen winter. Ile saw, as in a mirror, how one by one the laughing companions of that merry hour, at Richmond, had dropped into eternity. He felt the loneliness of his condition, (for he had eschewed marriage, and in the veins of no living creature ran a drop of blood whose source was in his own,) and as he drained the glass which he had filled, "to the memory of those who were gone," the tears slowly trickled down the deep furrows of his aged face. He had fulfilled one part of his vow, and he prepared himself to discharge the other by sitting the usual number of hours at his desolate table. With a heavy heart he resigned himself to the gloom of his own thoughts--a lethargic sleep stole over him-his head fell upon his bosom-confused images crowded into his mind--he babbled to himself-was silent--and when his servant entered the room alarmed by a noise which he heard, he found his master stretched upon the carpet at the foot of an easy chair, out of which he had fallen in an apoplectic fit. He never spoke again, nor once opened his eyes, though the vital spark was not extinct till the following day. And this was the LAST DINNER.

THE DEVIL AND THE LAWYERS.

The devil came up to the earth one day,
And into a court-house wended his way,
Just as an attorney with a very grave face
Was proceeding to argue the "points in a case."

:

Now a lawyer his majesty never had seen,
For to his dominions none ever had been,
And he felt very anxious the reason to know,
Why none had been sent to the regions below.

'Twas the fault of his agents his majesty thought,
That none of the lawyers had ever been caught,
And for his own pleasure he felt a desire
To come to the earth and the reason inquire.

Well, the lawyer who rose with visage so grave
Made out his opponent a consummate knave,
And the devil was really amused

To hear the attorney so greatly abused.

But soon as the speaker had come to a close,
The counsel opposing then fiercely arose,
And heaped such abuse on the head of the first,
That made him a villain of all men the worst.

Thus they quarreled, contended and argued so long,
It was hard to determine which lawyer was wrong,
And concluding he had heard quite enough of the fuss,
Old Nick turned away and soliloquized thus:

"If all they have said of each other be true,
The devil has surely been robbed of his due,
But I'm satisfied now, its all very well,

For the lawyers would ruin the morals of hell.

"They've puzzled the court with their villainous cavil, And I'm free to confess they've puzzled the devil; My agents are right to let lawyers alone,

If I had them they'd swindle me out of my throne."

VERY DARK.

The crimson tide was ebbing, and the pulse grew weak and faint,

But the lips of that brave soldier scorned e'en now to make complaint;

"Fall in rank!" a voice called to him,-calm and low was his

reply:

"Yes, if I can, I'll do it—I will do it, though I die."

And he murmured, when the life-light had died out to just a

spark,

"It is growing very dark, mother-growing very dark.”

There were tears in manly eyes, then, and manly heads were bowed,

Though the balls flew thick around them, and the cannons thundered loud;

They gathered round the spot were the dying soldier lay,
To catch the broken accents he was struggling then to say;
And a change came o'er the features where death had set his
mark,

"It is growing very dark, mother-very, very dark.”

Far away his mind had wandered, to Ohio's hills and vales, Where the loved ones watched and waited with that love that never fails;

He was with them as in childhood, seated in the cottage door,

Where he watched the evening shadows slowly creeping on

the floor;

Bend down closely, comrades, closely, he is speaking now, and hark!

"It is growing very dark, mother—very, very dark.”

He was dreaming of his mother, that her loving hand was pressed

On his brow for one short moment, ere he sank away to rest;
That her lips were now imprinting a kiss upon his cheek,
And a voice he well remembered spoke so soft, and low, and
meek.

Her gentle form was near him, her footsteps he could mark, "But 'tis growing very dark, mother-mother, very dark.”

And the eye that once had kindled, flashing forth with patriot light,

Slowly gazing, vainly strove to pierce the gathering gloom of night,

Ah! poor

soldier! Ah! fond mother, you are severed now for aye.

Cold and pulseless, there he lies now, where he breathed his

life away,

Through this heavy cloud of sorrow shines there not one

heavenly spark?

Ah! it has grown dark, mother—very, very dark.

PAT AND THE PIG.

We have read of a Pat so financially flat,
That he had neither money nor meat,

And when hungry and thin, it was whisper'd by sin,
That he ought to steal something to eat.

So he went to the sty of a widow near by,
And he gazed on the tenant-poor soul!
"Arrah now," said he, "what a trate that'll be,"
And the pig of the widow he stole.

In a feast he rejoiced; then he went to a judge,
For in spite of the pork and the lard,

There was something within, that was sharp as a pin,
For his conscience was pricking him hard.

And he said with a tear, "Will your Riverence hear
What I have in sorrow to say?"

Then the story he told, and the TALE did unfold
Of the pig he had taken away.

And the judge to him said, "Ere you go to your bed
You must pay for the pig you have taken,

For 'tis thus, by me sowl, you'll be saving your sowl,
And will also be saving your bacon."