Sir R. I hate the business of the morning. Don't you

see we are engaged in discussion. I tell you, I hate the Lusiness of the morning.

Hum. No, you don't.

Sir R. Don't I? Why not?

Hum. Because it's charity.

Sir R.

Pshaw! Well, we must not neglect the business,

if there be any distress in the parish: read the list, Humphrey.

Hum.

[Taking out a paper, and reading.]

of Muck Mead, is put in prison for debt."

"Jonathan Huggins,

Sir R. Why, it was only last week that Gripes the attorney, recovered two cottages for him by law, worth sixty pounds. Hum. Yes, and charged a hundred for his trouble; so seized the cottages for part of his bill, and threw Jonathan into jail for the remainder.

Sir R. A harpy! I must relieve the
Fred. And I must kick his attorney.

poor fellow's distress.

Hum. [Reading.] "The curate's horse is dead."
Sir R.

Pshaw! There's no distress in that.

Hum. Yes, there is; to a man that must go twenty miles every Sunday to preach for thirty pounds a year.

Sir R. Why won't the vicar give him another nag?

Hum. Because it's cheaper to get another curate already mounted.

Sir R. Well, send him the black pad which I purchased last Tuesday, and tell him to work him as long as he lives. What else have we upon the list?

There's one Lieu

Hum. Something out of the common. tenant Worthington, a disabled officer and a widower, come to lodge at farmer Harrowby's in the village; he is, it seems, very poor, and more proud than poor, and more honest than proud. Sir R. And so he sends to me for assistance.

Hum. He'd see you hanged first! No, he'd sooner dio

than ask you or any man for a shilling! There's his daughter, and his wife's aunt, and an old corporal that served in the wars with him, he keeps them all upon his half-pay.

Sir R. Starves them all, I'm afraid, Humphrey.
Fred. [Going.] Good-morning, uncle.

Sir R. You rogue, where are you running now?
Fred. To talk with Lieutenant Worthington.

Sir R. And what may you be going to say to him?

Fred. I can't tell till I encounter him; and then, uncle, when I have an old gentleman by the hand who has been disabled in his country's service, and is struggling to support his motherless child, a poor relation, and a faithful servant in honorable indigence, impulse will supply me with words to express my sentiments.

Sir R. Stop, you rogue; I must be before you in this business. Fred. That depends on who can run fastest; so, start fair, and uncle, here goes. [Runs out.]

Sir R. Stop, stop; why, Frederick a jackanapes to take my department out of my hands. I'll disinherit him for his

assurance.

Hum. No, you won't.

Sir R.

Won't I? Hang me if I — but we'll argue that

point as we go; so come along, Humphrey.

LESSON CI.

THE LAST HOURS OF WASHINGTON.- CUSTIS.

1. Many years have passed since an interesting group were assembled in the death-room, and witnessed the last hours of Washington. On the morning of the 13th of December, 1799, the General was engaged in making some improvements in the front of Mount Vernon. As was usual with him, he carried

his own compass, noted his observations, and marked out the ground. The day became rainy with sleet; and the improver remained so long exposed to the inclemency of the weather, as to be considerably wet before his return to the house. About one o'clock, he was seized with chillness and nausea, but having changed his clothes, he sat down to his in-door work,— there being no moment of his time for which he had not provided an appropriate employment.

At

2. At night, on joining his family circle, the General com plained of a slight indisposition; and, after a single cup of tea, repaired to his library, where he remained writing until between eleven and twelve o'clock. Mrs. Washington retired about the usual hour, but becoming alarmed at not hearing the accustomed sound of the library door as it closed for the night, and gave signal for rest in the well-regulated mansion, she rose again, and continued sitting up, in much anxiety and suspense. length the well-known step was heard on the stair, and upon the General's entering his chamber, the lady chided him for staying up so late, knowing him to be unwell; to which Washington made this memorable reply: "I came as soon as my business was accomplished. You well know, that through a long life it has been my unvaried rule, never to put off till the morrow, the duties which should be performed to-day."

3. Having first covered the fire with care, the man of mighty labors sought repose; but it came not, as it long had been wont to do, to comfort and restore, after the many earnest occupations of the well-spent day. The night was passed in feverish restlessness and pain. "Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep," was destined no more to visit his couch; yet the manly sufferer uttered no complaint, would permit no one to be disturbed in their rest on his account; and it was only at daybreak he would consent that the overseer might be called in, and bleeding resorted to. A vein was opened, but no relief afforded.

4. Couriers were dispatched to Dr. Craik, the family physician, and Drs. Dick and Brown, as consulting physicians, all of whom came with speed. The proper remedies were administered, but without producing their healing effects; while the patient, yielding to the anxious looks of all around him, waived his usual objections to medicines, and took those which were prescribed, without hesitation or remark. The medical gentlemen spared not their skill, and all the resources of their art were exhausted in unwearied endeavors, to preserve this noblest work of nature.

5. The night approached,— the last night of Washington; the weather became severely cold, while the group gathered nearer the couch of the sufferer, watching with intense anxiety for the slightest dawning of hope. He spoke but little. To the respectful and affectionate inquiries of an old family servant, as she smoothed down his pillow, how he felt, he answered, “I am very ill." To Dr. Craik, his earliest companion in arms, longest tried, and bosom friend, he observed: "I am dying, sir,- but I am not afraid to die."

6. The patient bore his acute suffering with fortitude, and perfect resignation to the Divine will, while, as the night advanced, it became evident that he was sinking, and he seemed fully aware that his hour was nigh. He inquired the time, and was answered, a few minutes to twelve. He spoke no more,the hand of death was upon him, and he was conscious that his hour was come. With surprising self-possession, he prepared to die. Composing his form at length, and folding his arms upon his bosom, without a sigh, without a groan, the father of his country died. No pang nor struggle told when the noble spirit took its noiseless flight; while so tranquil appeared the manly features in the repose of death, that some moments had passed, ere those around could believe that the patriarch was no more.

U

EULOGY ON JOHN C. CALHOUN,a-WEBSTER.

1. Mr. President:-I hope the senate will indulge me in adding a very few words to what has already been said. My apology for this is the very long acquaintance which has subsisted between Mr. Calhoun and myself. We are of the same age. I made my first entrance into the house of representatives in May, 1813. I there found Mr. Calhoun. He had already been a member of that body for two or three years. I found him then an active and efficient member of the assembly to which he belonged, taking a decided part, and exercising a decided influence, in all its deliberations.

2. He was a man of undoubted genius and commanding talent. All the country and all the world admit that. His mind was both perceptive and vigorous. It was clear, quick, and strong. Sir, the eloquence of Mr. Calhoun, or the manner of his exhibition of his sentiments in public bodies, was part of his intellectual character. It grew out of the qualities of his mind. It was plain, strong, terse, condensed, concise; sometimes impassioned,- still always severe. Rejecting ornament, not often seeking far for illustration, his power consisted in the plainness of his propositions, in the closeness of his logic, and in the earnestness and energy of his manner.

3. These are the qualities, as I think, which have enabled him through such a long course of years to speak often, and yet always command attention. His demeanor as a senator is well known to us all,- is appreciated, venerated by us all. No man was more respectful to others; no man carried himself with greater decorum; no man, with superior dignity. I think there is not one of us but felt, when he last addressed us from

Mr. Calhoun died in the city of Washington, March 31, 1850, in the sixty-ninth year of his age. He was a member of the United States senate, from South Carolina.