This, of course, told better in the midst of political excitement; but still, at all times, we must admire it as a specimen of our friend’s ready wit. We used often to look up at him in boyish wonder and admiration, as he cracked his jokes, and his filberts, and his bottle all at the same time. And one thing particularly struck us. He never led the laugh at his own jests, but looked as grave as a judge, and far more knowing, through his spectacles, while “setting the table in a roar.” O, for another Hamlet! to say for us, “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him well, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy,” etc. Of Mr. Richmond’s family, one went into the navy, and another into the army. They were both fine young fellows. The soldier, called after his father, distinguished himself and was wounded in the last, we hope that it will always be the last, American war. But we spoke of Mr., _alias_ “Joe,” Daltera just now, as one of the circle of wits in the former days which are slipping from our memory. He was a regular character in his day and in his way. He was brought up to be a solicitor, and at one time was in partnership with the late Mr. Topham. He had abilities to have raised himself to the greatest eminence in his profession, but he wanted business habits. He had no application, no attention, no steadiness of purpose. In short, he was of a jovial, convivial turn of mind, full of fun and frolic and glee, was fond of company, and greatly preferred shining in society to poring over parchments. He was a terrible sitter at a party. He never sung, “We’ll not go home till morning,” but practically it was impossible to get rid of him until long after the short hours had set in; and, in truth, he was such a pleasant companion, so overflowing with sparkling conversation, “full of mirth and full of glee,” as we said before, that no one ever made the attempt. Steady old fellows at whose houses he used to visit would say, before he arrived, “We will be rude to that Daltera to-night, and give him a hint that shall send him home in decent time.” But when the appointed hour had struck, and long after, these same steady old boys, fascinated by Joe’s wonderful powers of jest and anecdote, were the loudest in pressing him to keep his seat, a pressure which he never resisted. He thought, with Dibdin’s famous song, that there was “nothing like grog,” or, as he and his familiars called it, “rosin.” Often, when you thought that at last he was really going, he would suddenly exclaim, instead of “one glass more,” “Now, lads, rosin again, and then we’ll positively go.” He could not use his pen like Richmond, but he was quite his match in wit and repartee. Countless were the stories told of his sayings and doings. Once the watchman found him in the street quite unequal to steer his course home. This friend in need wished to place him in a wheelbarrow, and to carry him to his house in this kind of