But the mayor liked his company
so well, and was grown so intimate, that he pursued him hastily,
and, catching him fast by the hand, cried out with a vehement
oath and accent, "Sir, you shall stay and take t'other bottle."
The airy monarch looked kindly at him over his shoulder, and
with a smile and graceful air, repeated this line of the
old song--

"He that's drunk is as great as a king,"

and immediately returned back, and complied with his
landlord.--_Spectator_, 462.

* * * * *

CURIOUS STONE PULPIT.

(_For the Mirror_.)

The pulpit in the church of St. Peter, at Wolverhampton, is formed
wholly of stone. It consists of one entire piece, with the pedestal
which supports it, the flight of steps leading to it, with the
balustrade, &c., without any division, the whole having been cut out
of a solid block of stone. The church was erected in the year 996,
at which time it is said this remarkable pulpit was put up; and
notwithstanding its great age, which appears to be 832 years, it is
still in good condition. At the foot of the steps is a large figure,
intended to represent a lion couchant, but carved after so grotesque a
fashion, as to puzzle the naturalist in his attempts to determine its
proper classification. In other respects the ornamental sculpture
about the pulpit is neat and appropriate, and presents a curious
specimen of the taste of our ancestors at that early period.

This is a collegiate church, with a fine embattled tower, of rich
Gothic architecture, and was originally dedicated to the Virgin, but
altered in the time of Henry III. to St. Peter. It is pleasantly
situated on a gravelly hill, and commands a fine prospect towards
Shropshire and Wales.

A CORRESPONDENT.

* * * * *

LAST DAYS OF, AND ROUGH NOTES ON, 1828.

(_For the Mirror_.)

It was but yesterday the snow
Of thy dead sire was on the hill--
It was but yesterday the flow
Of thy spring showers increased the rill,
And made a thousand blossoms swell
To welcome summer's festival.....
And now all these are of the past,
For this lone hour must be thy last!

Thou must depart! where none may know--
The sun for thee hath ever set,
The star of morn, the silver bow,
No more shall gem thy coronet
And give thee glory; but the sky
Shall shine on thy p