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* In the month of November this year died Prince Rupert, in the sixty-third year of his age. He had left his own country so early, that he had become an entire Englishman; and was even suspected, in his latter days, of a bias to the country party. He was for that reason much neglected at court. The duke of Lauderdale died also this year.
There are not a few reminiscences associated with the name and history of Mr. Robert Dalglish, the senior representative of Glasgow, that must tend to render a record of his life peculiarly interesting to his constituents. Born at Glasgow in 1808, he is now in his sixty-third year. His father was emphatically one of the pioneers of Glasgow's industrial prosperity.
When it was the Seven Hundred and Sixty-third Night,
The last lover that the wonderful Binetti killed by excess of amorous enjoyment was a certain Mosciuski, a Pole, whom fate brought to Venice seven or eight years ago; she had then reached her sixty-third year! My life in Venice would have been pleasant and happy, if I could have abstained from punting at basset.
Recalled from exile, on the death of Alexander, he roused himself for the deliverance of Greece, without success, and, hunted by his enemies, he took poison in the sixty-third year of his age, having vainly contended for the freedom of his country, one of the noblest spirits of antiquity, spotless in his public career, and lofty in his private life.
In the mean time, Peter, Ray and Ogden had come together over their grub, much as if it was a legal rather than an illegal trouble to be dealt with. "Where were you?" asked Peter. "At the Sixty-third Street terminals," said Ray. "We didn't have any fun at all. As quiet as a cow. You always were lucky! Excuse me, Peter, I oughtn't to have said it," Ray continued, seeing Peter's face.
All the machine tools used in his establishment were designed by himself, and he was most careful in the personal superintendence of all the details of their construction. Mr. Murray died at Leeds in 1826, in his sixty-third year.
"I got to see a party. I forgot." He made the car step in two long strides; had swung himself up. "So long!" The car door slammed after him. Miss Bauers, in her unavailing silks, stood disconsolate on the hot street corner. He swayed on the car platform until Sixty-third Street was reached. There he alighted and stood a moment at the curb surveying idly the populous corner.
"Why do you always tarry before 'The Descent from the Cross?" the sacristan once asked of him. "I am waiting till those men have brought the body of our blessed Lord down the ladder." Murillo answered. His wife had died, his daughter had become a nun, and all that was left to him was his dear son Gaspar, when in his sixty-third year he began his last work, "The Marriage of St. Catherine."
Taking the colours of the Sixty-third, and bearing them aloft, Sir Henry mounted with the stormers.
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