LET me avail myself of your good nature, reader, for I am a man who would not artfully conceal truth to the injury of a friend; but I am, at the same time, conscious of the heavy penalty incurred in speaking the honest, unembroidered truth of some of our well tailored heroes, who open and shut like sunflowers under a vertical sun, and present an excellent object to attract the admiration of your fine ladies in Broadway. Heaven knows I appreciate the true hero, and am ready to favor an honest purpose with a joyful heart; but your political general of militia is a model of coxcombry, a creature ready to faint when you want service of him, and the best imposture known at this day. I, however, hold it not well to turn the wheel too far against men who are harmlessly inclined, and in whose marching and countermarching up Broadway (with the pomp and circumstance of men about to face blood and flames) the juvenile and other lighthearted portions of the community find an excellent fund of amusement. Indeed, I remember that others may love what I have no taste to appreciate; and that when fortune turns against me, which is the case at this moment, I had better keep my thumbs out of my neighbor's finger glass. Nor would I knowingly wound with my remarks on General Benthornham's merits as an officer, the pride of one of his many admirers. Suffice it to say, then, (as the learned Doctor Easley would say,) that although his coat had received a rent or two in the back, no sooner was his truant horse brought back to him than he mounted with the daring of a book publisher, and, after evincing no small desire to ride over the brigade a dozen times, and putting it through a series of intricate evolutions, which the various regiments forming it performed with great credit to themselves, he ordered them dismissed and sent home, there to look well to their good behavior during the rest of the day. And for this last and very kind service, they thought him the bravest general history had any account of. In accordance, then, with this parental admonition, they betook themselves home, well fatigued, but as ready to fight as any good men ought to be when satisfied that arms were necessary to the maintenance of law; which, however much I may blush to acknowledge it, was the case in Gotham, which was in sad disorder-not from any bad spirit between its citizens, but merely the curious antics of a very ambitious mayor. Having made an amende I hope will prove ample, let us turn to the patient at the New York Hotel.

Major Roger Potter, who I forgot to mention had been dubbed a General on the preceding evening, lay in a state of stupor, though with evident signs of life, for some hours. Being the guest of the city, no little anxiety was evinced by the physician, who, after exercising great skill in feeling for broken bones and cracks in his skull, declared that he could find neither bruises nor broken bones; but, if appearances were to be taken, he had received such internal injury as must soon put an end to his usefulness in this world, and send him to a better. He therefore got out his lancet, and, after nearly draining his veins of blood, was about to apply a monster plaster to his head, when the patient suddenly opened his eyes and began to give out such extraordinary signs of life that the doctor as suddenly changed his mind, and, laying aside the plaster, at once declared he had the most sanguine hopes of his recovery. Meanwhile a report got over the city that Major Roger Potter was thrown from his horse, and lay a corpse at the New York Hotel. And the newspapers added to this report by inserting the mournful event as a fact. Indeed, the city fathers, who evinced a strange passion for mournings, were well nigh voting a respectable sum to pay proper respect to his remains, for they held it no disgrace to vote sums for melancholy purposes; which, however, they invariably spend in night suppers, over which they give one another bloody noses and black eyes-a distinguishing motto with divers hard headed councilmen. But the major was resolved not to be sent to his long account in so mean a style, and remained with his eyes wide open, and so clearly in possession of his rational senses, that the bystanders, who were all gentlemen of quality, (there not being an opera singer among them,) declared that his power of endurance was without bounds. In truth, it was proven that no amount of battering and bruising could kill so famous a warrior. But, if he opened his eyes, he spoke not a word until the physician was gone, when his lips slowly resumed their power of motion, and he said, in a voice scarcely intelligible, "Quantibus, moribus, canibus, omnibus, ma dormibus."

"Pray, what does he say?" inquired the bystanders of one another.

"Lambabus, Jehovabus, cananius," resumed the major, following the effort with a deep sigh.

"He speaks Latin," replied one of the bystanders; "and as I have a little of that language at my fingers' ends, I recognize that he says, 'Blessed is he who dies in a noble mission.' Yes, there! he repeats it again, and I have it exactly."

The major continued muttering several incoherent sentences, interlarding them with words of intelligible English, which doubly confused his auditors, another of whom declared that though he never had read a verse of Latin in his life, he was sure it was not that, but some strange tongue, in which the sufferer, being a profound scholar, desired to make his "dying declaration." They all finally came to this opinion, and agreed that a priest and a parson be called, as they were not quite sure as to his religion, and it was only necessary to have some one who knew Latin by heart. A druggist was suggested by another; but an objection was interposed on the ground that the Latin of druggists was not to be depended upon. Again, it was said the priest and the parson would get to quarreling over some nice point of doctrine, or as to the exact style of sending him to heaven, which would make it extremely unpleasant for the worldly minded lookers on. "It is just come into my head," spoke a young man of genteel appearance and sympathizing looks, "that there lives in the neighborhood one Orlando Tickler, an Irish gentleman............