legislation!" what a fund of speculation for the denizens of the
stock-exchange, and newspaper press!--all may now be embodied in that
little word--the _past_; and only serve to fill up and figure in the
pages of the next "Annual Register!"--sic transit gloria--"but the
proverb is somewhat musty." One, two, three.... ten, eleven, twelve,
and now "methinks my soul hath elbow room."

Those versed in the lore of Francis Moore, physician, which must
doubtless include most of our readers, are aware that our veteran
friend, eighteen hundred and twenty-eight, has been for some time in
what is called a "galloping" consumption, and it is certain cannot
possibly survive after the bells "chime twelve" on Wednesday night,
the thirty-first of December,--


"--as if an angel spoke,
I hear the solemn sound,"


when he will depart this life, and be gathered to his ancestors, who
have successively been entombed in the vault of Time.

Well, taking all things into consideration, we predict he will not
have many mourners in his train. "Rumours of wars" have gone through
the land, and the ominous hieroglyphics of "Raphael" in his "Prophetic
Messenger," unfold to the lover of futurity, that "war with all its
bloody train," will visit this quarter of the globe with unusual
severity the coming year--and we have had comets and "rumours" of
comets for many months past, while the red and glaring appearance of
the planet, Mars, is as we have elsewhere observed, considered by the