Cold and stormy, with dashes of snow. Have just heard of the death of John Goteman, a baker by trade and a retailer of ale. After some years, commenced a small grocery establishment. After some years of a successful run of business, amassed considerable property. He was vain of his possessions, having been nicknamed, Rothchild. With his increase of property, he grew in dimensions himself, for he was a great lover of ale. When I last saw him, he was quite disfigured from its use, a perfect bloat. His wife is equally defamed from the same cause. Her face wears the appearance of the full moon, almost twice its usual size and full of blotches. It would seem impossible that human beings could be so disfigured by drink. I am told he is almost a petrified mass, and can scarcely be handled. He is a Lutheran, but paid little attention to the interests of his soul. His son is rapidly following in his foot steps. Sitting before my comfortable fire, I reflect on the miseries of the world, and the less fortunate which causes me to think of friendships, of which there are very few that are true ones. Let a man become degraded by no fault of his own, and see how few recognize him. But let his prosperity become evident, and he has countless friends.