New York Daily Tribune

and we hope no dead person, can equal him. Our bark has lost its rudder; our key-stone has dropped its arch; our walls exhibit alarming fissures; the foundations of the Republic are rocking; Washington and Adams cannot save us; down we must come into a heap of undistinguished remains, leaving no trace behind save Mr. Choate speeches, and a few windows in the ruined Capitol for the melancholy foxes to gaze pensively out of. To the dismal roll of Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, Mr. Choate obstinately persists in tacking the name of the United States of America, just as a remorseless clerk in his office would tack one murderous mortgage to another. Clearly this is a nice sort of person to deliver a Fourth-of July oration. He will be as appropriate as a death's head at an ancient banquet. He will point out to the revelers the Damocles sword suspended over each of them. He will put rue in their plates and wormwood in their cups; and, after a solemn oration, send them, in spite of unlimited Heidsick, weeping to their beds, affording a melancholy confirmation of the remark of somebody that "our chief comforts often produce our greatest anxieties." This will be the only celebration quite independent of the rain, for as Mr. Croaker remarks in "The Good-Natured Man" "What signifies what weather we have in a country going to ruin like ours?" If Mr. Choate but does his duty, and sufficiently dilates on "the increase and progress of earthquakes," there will not be a dry eye in State street for three days following.

The youthful population, the future hope of Boston, may not relish this doleful style of things, and may think that "red and green are prettier colors than all this mourning." It is well for them, however, lightly sporting in the sunrise beams of their young and innocent lives, while the heart of childhood is beating perhaps too hopefully with primrose anticipation of the future, and all before them is prismatic with the colors of hope, destined may be to fade into Cimmerian darkness, and the night of chaos, anarchy, revolution, ruin, destruction, overthrow, and dismay, to pause, rest, stop and consider, reflect and think of the vicissitudes which a somber, relentless, pitiless, stony-fronted, inevitable and ruthless Fate, envious of their privileges and angry at their felicity, may have in keeping for the hapless victims of a dissolute and wavering government, falling into decrepitude and old age in its infancy, the victim of unbridled passion, of unchecked license, of unrestrained venality, of insane philanthropy, of frightful speculation, etc. etc. --This last gigantic sentence is extracted from Mr. Choate's intended oration, and has been procured by us at a great cost for the ponderation and profit of our readers.