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From the New Orleans Picayune
VVER V LIKE A WHALE!
“Why, Mr. Knobs, what’s th i out there?—
l>ju't you see somethin’ sfMirnii’?”
*• Why really,Mrs. Brown, I think
I does <ee somethin’ squirm’! I '
“ ,Vhere’s Air. Brown?—oh, iooK, MiS Sinahs
VVliat can it bi?—! wish!—
Wliere is the captain?—bless my soul',
’Bpose it should be ujish!”
“A.fiik! oh, tha>’s impossible—
Loo a, amt that soiii.ubin’ black?
1 doesn’t see it now—oh yes. *
Just (here—see it’s otne uaok”—
‘ll sqair s again!—ilrre’u somethin,• now—
Stick n.’ up a like a tail!
Here’s captain— on come here, what’s that?”
“ vVny, ladies, that’s a whaieh’
1 A vvh.il ! oil, captain—hoxv you talks—
A right down wliai ?—oh no!”
” Yes, ladies, there’s a schorl of cm;
1.0 ik Old V lIJW (iley bunv
• slti gracious goodness’ who’d a thought—
I never saw oil* . ruly —
llutl, ‘stl -au—where’s the bub) —brmg
L up to see the whu'ey!”
‘ You see it, Mr. Smile_x ?—Mr.
f> raws, go call your fattier;
W.i’ie gc.Un’ neare.—hlt.su me i’lir
Afrauf there’s nange —r liter
Oap am, don’t try to catch em now;
tvippo e die ship they slave t !
Well, if ihere mi a tail wav < :vt!
Ho.v strangeiy the) he behavin’!”
(t My and ‘:r. they’re young—the captain said
You know there was a school; ’
“That,sl wcry nut—so like me young,
Always so lur'd to rule—
I ’spuse they’re learum h m losxviin,
And practicin’ their divm’
Well, arnt it strange dial livin’things
Water call keep ahve in!”
There tat a school ihat’s sure en, ugh,
And g. nibolin’ they go;
And now above their clumsy heads
The sparkltfi’ jets they thiow;
And how wo crowd the vessel’s side,-
Arid lioxx’ we shout and stare;
And how we does admire ’em, and
Ho'xv xvery much they care:
Look, there goes one!—Lord only seC,
I swear he jumps clear out!
Head la emust and xvn lie goes again,
White xve set up a shout;
Well, that’s the oddest caper that
lias ever met iny eyt —
Who ihough’ to see Leviathan’
Sho w ins a uli y!
He’s disappeared, and only see
Tile waiers loam ai.d splash;
VVliy, uixeUie sound of rollin’ -urf
Subsides the pond'rous dtsti;
But half a mile—liow v rv toain
We. a.I can ti ur ih< gush
Os xvater, winch i'i f imitiuns fretn
Those floatin’ caverns lush.
Wed, every day xve ee revcaied
Somethin’ ol tile Creator;
An 1 every thins is greatest, lid
Capp’d by somethin’ greater!
I’ve seen a many gn at:mugs winch
1 never shall forg t
But a xv hale a throwin’ somersets
Is the greatest tiling as yell
True as Q >sp l! s R A'.vs.
PsOtll t’it Lu tf's £ >uk .
[The following is die “composition’’ to which
was awarded the gold me,ln:, mme Gr.idu
ating Class oi Rutger’s Fein tie inst.u.e m
this city, at its lest coniaiouceuient. The
committee which awarded the prize, con
sisted of the Rev. Dr. Minor, lion. Tneo
dore Frelmghuysen and Mr. Kinney, of
Newark. Than* report was not a little
complimentary. Perhaps more through the
eloquence or the reader ( sir. Kumy) man
froinanyinant of its own, it drew deeply
upon the seus.bilit.es of a very crowded
audience-]
LAST DAY OF EVE.
It approached the evening twilight. The
mother oi mankind was placed oy her deccen 1-
ants in front oi her te.it, reeiuimg on a rude
coach. The western wind ianned her pale
cheek and played amidst her grev locn.s.—;
Near her sat her husband. E.e turned ner i
eye upon him with a look of sadness, yet of
deep affection, and as she saw ins wmik.ed I
brow, bent form, and head of snowy whiteness, 1
f*emed to rail to mnid other days.
Inward y sho reproached herself. “Ah, no
thus was it I saw him, when first given to hen
bv our God. V> here uas vani-ue i iiit ma >
form! where is the elastic step! w.iers the
eve that beamed with brightness! wuere now
the rich and mellow voice! vilas! how villag
er! And it was 1, who temp ed, wno des.rov
ed him—l, the w.lo —the cherished compan
ion—l hade him eat, and now what is h>\ whs
but for me iud known neither paui, nor sor-
row, nor age.
“And what remains of her on whose beauty
he then gazed with unsatiated de ighl! A
trembling, wr.ukled form, just sinking into
the grave.
“Where is now that paradise with its nc.i
fruits —tiiat balnilv air which brought on every
breath a tribute Xo each happy sense—those
rays which warmed but never scorched! And
satider, sadder still, wiiere now is that blis-fu.
intercourse with Hun, who made us rich in
the happiness of living! voice is no longei
in our'ears—driven from bliss—from scenes
lovely—the earth cursed—sin, sorrow, anu
deafh, the inheritance of our children.”
Ottr mother was overcome by tho rush ot
recollections. Her eyes, long dry, found new
fountains, and her aged form snook with deer
emotion.
11,I 1 , may be that Adam had been indulging ::
mus.ngs not unlike to these, for he was s.ar-
Ued as il from a rever.e by the emotions u:
his wife. ‘J'he old man placed h inseif beski.
her. iShe laid her head oa ihe bosom whicl
had so of.ea socthed its throbbir.gs.
“What moves thee, Eve?”
“x_)b, my husband, how canst thou show
kindness to her who has done all this? Thou
‘•vast young and knew only happiness, and ah
around was iormed to delight our every sense;
and I, who should have strengthened thy vir
tue, fell, and dragged thee with me, the part
ner of my sin, to the depth of ruin. And aiter
a lew years of toil and anxiety, we are about
to lay these worn out frames in the dust
“Hut for sin we had lived in perpetual
youth, and feared no change. The threatened
death has worked slowly but surely, and now
With us his work is nearly done.
“The first to sin, it was meet that 1 should
first return to dust Had the guilt and the
curse been only mine, I might endure it. Bu
1 see thee now, and 1 compare thee with what
thou wast as it seem£ to me but yesterday.
“A few days will lay thee low. Let our
children place us side by side in ihe cold earth-
I know not why it is, yet it seems to rue there
wiii be comfort in our bodies dissolving to
ge Hr.-, if there were something of concisous
ne.-s ia the Iheless dust.
“Little of comfort is now left in life, yet I
cannot endure the thought that 1 shaii utterly
c : :e to be!
“Adair, thou hast often given me words o
consolation, is there aught can cheer rne,
now I am to bid thee fareweii?
“ Thou scost yonder sun —thou wilt again
see h m rise and set, he is bidding me a i ,st
ad.eu. Sense shall soon cease forever, and
no light shall again enter these eyes.”
The old man wiped the tears which fell on
Ihe wrinkled brow of his partner. A sudden
light, was on his countenance as if anew
lamp had been lit up in his soul. Eve saw if,
and it brought to her a gleam oi hope; sne
gazed on Ins lace as if death had lent new
powers to her faded vision.
“First of women,” said Adam, “claim no
pre-eminence in guilt-—together we sinned—
together we have borne the punishment.
“But there is redemption—there ts hope.
“Whilst thinking of the fearful change
which betokened to my heart that its partner
was about to be taken away, a heavenly light
beamed on my thoughts, and taught me to un
deretan.'l the visions which have so often visit
ed me ou my couch.
“We shall not die—there is a costly ran
som provided—we must sleep under the cold
earth, but we will rise again in the freshness
of ‘that youth which we first enjoyed; ami
purified trorn all sin, we sh.dl walk in our
Eden.seven times more beauti til than when
we firs’ roved amidst fruits and flowers. And
there will be the thousands who, inheri’ii’g
our evil natures, will have found a powerful
Physician. And there will be that mighty
Physician whose presence shall wake ten
thousand ha.ps to melody.
“ ritis earth, too,’ so long, so grievously
cursed for our sin, wilt come forth more than
purified from every stain, and in more than
lie beatfty of its pristine youth.
“ I'hou will go a little before me tolhe grave,
but we shall rire together with the glad shout
of gratified jubilation; and with us millions on
millions of cur posterity ransomed from the
curse.”
Adam paused; his eye fell on the face of
h : s wi’e—a smile assumed to play in the
fcs .'ghoiess of hope on her pale lip, but the
heart had c-eaied to beat, and that sleep had
fa Men on her which the trump of the arch
angel only shMi and ;st nrh.
a picture" of home influence.
EY MRS. FOLLEN.
Tiie beauty and moral truth of the follow
ing picture oi Home influence, and woman’s
leaning to ihe right, will be acknowledged by
ail.
“Dear Edward!” sftid his wife, “you have
something on your mind; your brow locks
troubled; what is it!”
“Only anxiety about business, Amy, How
often have 1 wished that 1 had not been brad a
merchant! But ray mother said it was a fa
vorite wish of my father that I should be an
aceomplishe and merchant.”
“I have sometimes wished so, too,” answer
ed bis wife; “and then again, l remember that
the very evils which belong to your profession
may be turned into good, lie that has it in
h s power to do wrong with impunity, though
he gams by it, yet chooses th* r g it, t>y wh'ch
be losses, is the most eloquent preacher of
ri. htoousuess.”
“Very true, Amy; but sometimes this is in- j
fie*? cut*ing off Lie right hand, and plucking 1
oct the right eye; and then thinking always
about • \ouey and Bargains has such a contract- I
i.i r influence upon one’s mind.”
“Ait how often, Edward, have I hoard you |
ir.v that no man has such wide and various
c ur> \T>us with the human race, as a well
educated, upright, and active merchant. Every
p .rt of the world sends him its tnbut.*of know
ledge, as well as of riches. He sees men un
ifier ad aspects, and while lie may, wi ha cer- |
tain degree ot security, indulge in dishonesty,
a id be the enemy of his fellow men, perhaps j
no man can be so true, and self-sacrificing,
and efficient philanthropist, as the Chris.am j
mer h'nt.”
“It is not. always so easy as you may ima- !
gine, for a merchant to act as remembering 1
that tie is under his great Taskmaster’s eye?”
“Not for ail, or some men; but for you Ed
ward, the difficulty would be to act otherwise.
When I th nk of your profession, it gives me
pleasure 10 notice that merchants, in genera ,
as they acquire property more easily, are most
disposed to spend it liberally.”
“Yes” said Edward, and its eye kindled ?t
the thought: the greater portion of o ir public j
e lef ic’ors have been merchants. Their mo
ney has given eyes to the blind, and ears to
the dea f , heaiiii *o the sick, and peace and
comfort to the forsaken; it feeds and instructs :
he ignor mt an I jxicr; it sen is the glad tidings !
of- viio ito tae unbeliever aid .mpeuiten;;
ir. Vses lin.'e children in its arms and blesses
h j’ii. i?ti: ail this glorious power supposes
we It e, A ay.”
‘•A . 1 you, dear Edward, are rich enough to
m. us h ghost of all privileges, the dis
j.s ‘.t of g sod toothers. You have cause
: v for ihv.demines?. Rut the poor, unsue- !
em u! nver.hov, whose sp.ri's are broken
■ .w a by fa.lures, and \vh >se empsr is soured
• v wca he cous.ders the injustice or Jishon
•* tv o: others, perhaps even of ids own fr ends;
,e,s die mem who, perhaps may be excused
or na smg f\alt With ins protessioa. My heart
t has for him.”
E iward started up, and walked hastily
ba k ward and forward through the room, as li
ae had been seized with some sudden and m
loierab’.e pun.
“What is the matter?” said h.s wife. “Are
you hi!” , .
’ “Oh, nothing, notmng of consequence,
sad Edward. “I happened to think of some
thing rather unpieasaut iiien. It is iate nova,
I relieve, and my head aches.”
They retired for the night The next day,
Edward looked depressed and thoughtful, as
if’ he had passed a sleepless night. Amy was
‘ro ibhd by his s-ieec*. tms Wie ltrst
• WE HOLD THESE TRUTHS TO BE SELF-EVIDENT, THAT ALL MEN ARE BORN EQUAL.’
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 2, 1840.
cloud that had rested on her husband’s brow
since they w ere married.
“He has,” she said to herseif, “he has a
i ways confided every thing to me. lie will tell
me whjit it is that hangs so heavily upon his
-p.rits. lie will never shut me out from his
orrows, any more than his joys.”
She thought when he returned from the
tun ing house for the day, that he looked
more free and happy, thougii he was silent
and thoughtful.
“Come and sit by me, Amy,” said Edward
‘o her, when they were alone in the evening.
Amy sat down by her husband.
“Do you not enjoy, Amy, our handsome
house and pictures, and carriages, doc.?”
“Purely, Edward; I take great pleasure in
he.->9 things. But why do you ask?”
“And you love to have money enough to
give to those who want it?”
“Why, what a question, Edward! You
know 1 value this power more than I can
tell.”
“And can you voluntarily resign all these
iuxure-, Amy?”
“Why should I voluntarily resign them Ed
ward? What makes you so enigmatical?—
i’ed me what you mean.”
“Suppose, that all tho money which enables
us to iudu ge ourselves in these luxuries, is
not truly our own; what would you have me
d<>, Amy?”
“Is it you, Edward, that asks me whether I
would be dishonest?”
“But suppose, according to the law of the
land, ami the c i.stoms ot society, and the tacit
onseiit of those most interested, tins properly
was secured to you!”
“When lam satisfied,” sad Am}', “that I
■an ple<td the law of the land, the customs of
soc-efy, and the op.nions of the world, l efore
he judgment sea', oi Ge i, as a a excu 2 for
violating that higher law, winch he has wr.t
len on my heat; when 1 have plate’ the
opinion of ihe world m the scales against my
own seif respect, and iound i the weigh; est,
hen, Edward, I might he. ia e Bu why ask
me each questions? Why do you not speak
plainly?”
“I will, Amy,” answered the husband
“When 1 failed in business before our mar
riage, 1 made a settlement with my creditors,
by which I paid them seve by-five cents on a
dollar. They knew that 1 paid them all l had,
a 1 signe i a release from all further claims.
Os late my mind ha 3 been troubled about
’hese debts, for such I consider them. A few
days since, one of my creditors brought his
son to me, a fine fellow, and asked ros to take
him into my store. He mentioned in course
of conversation that he intended to send his
son to College, for the boy had a thirst for
iearnhthat he was in act filttexi 0 enter;
but that he found tha he was too poor. ‘lf,*
sad the father, ‘by denying myself every
Ith tig ‘out the necessaries ot life, i could fee l
] ray boy’s mind, I would thankfully do it; but
! I cannot honestly ind :ige myself even in this
luxury.’ I felt smitten to tne heart. When
I failed, I owed that naan STd,OOO. 1 paid
him but nine. I now, of course, owe him
three, and (he interest upon it. That sum
wou'd enable him to give his son the advan
tages which he so much desir* s. I have been
thinking over the whole subject and studying
it Tr'y. Dymond’s Essay would satisfy me,
if I were not convinced before of what is
righu”
“And you will, of course, do it, Edward,
there can be no doubt?”
“I knew you would say eo, Amy; but you
must think over it calmly. You know upon
the subject of property, as well as of other
things, we have no mine and thine, as we
have one interest and du'y, so we have equal
righ'S. I cannot take ties step, without your
f ill approbation and con-ent”
“Is*that all that has troubled you for these
| few days past?” said Amy, as she looked into
her husband’s face, with an expression of joy
ous relief.
“All,” said Edward.
“And why not speak to me at first, about it?
Why not let me share every trouble as it
rises?”
“Q, Am?, I felt it. only on your account. I
hn’ed to deprive you or all these luxuries.—
: You know With what delight 1 seo you doing
good, real good, with money.”
! J “Never again, Edward, do me the injustice
to suppose that I prefer the lower virtue of
j charity ?o the higher o.ie of justice.”
Exp nres of Matrimony. —We copy the
following irom the Notscioso of the 11th. A
haodsom” a id discreet lady has politely com
municate ! to u the following interesting c?.i
culation: Expense of marrying in Havana
Ist. A man whose fortune does not allow him
i to keep a gig, but has a mere cabin with three
; windows to tiie street, the expense will be
IJtJOOU —to buy slaves, furniture, clothing, and
! other things necessary. It ought always to
b 1 borne in mind, that it is not absolutely safe
! to marry at ail without a gi--, especially as the
! do ir is in the rear ot the dwelling. 2 L To mar
ry with a gig, and !:\e in a cab.., with a. < each-
I man, c oak, a id two serv a its to attend, and fur
niture to correspond, sfjUoo; it being distinctly
; understood t hat the gig is not to have on it
a\y ornaments, nor the bride to have gold ;
spectacles. 3d. The gsndem tn who marries
a widow, having ail these things on hand, will
only lie required to pay 81030, six bitts and a
h If. 7th To marry off h iud without any set
| rleinenf, 86 50 for the parish tax; but, if
done before six in the miming, the tax will
|be 805. ft, may be iruiy said, that life and
ni: r.in n.y are dear things in Havana—but
s me think that the bachelor state is still
! dearer. We have an old proverb which says
“the best always costs the most.”
An Army Drunk —The whole French ar
my was drunk the night after the battle of
\Vagram. It lay m v.neyards; and in Austria
i.iie ce.iars are situated m the grounds upon
wa.ch the wine is grown. The vintage was
good, the quantity a undant—the soldiers
urank immoderately; and the Austrians, had
they but known tha we were overcome with
! liquor and sleep, and made a sudden attack
upon us in the night, might have put us com
i eve vto the route. It would have been im
yo s oie to make one tenth of the soldiers be- j
la.-ce themseives to arms. On what threads 1
hang the destinies of empires! All night that!
day have been changed— he filth act of the j
groat drama which has ueen so long perform
ing m Europe might have had a wine cedar
:or denouement. — Napier's Military Life.
Progression of liitssun Society. —An arne
n >i.iihim is inking p ace u me Conditio •ol me
iovver classv-s oi Ru-s.a; iiie power oi stiluig
se is wiiiioui me laud is now den ied, tiioug.i
i fiances sail occur oi its being done, and
, meimies under very shameful cireiimsianc s
Nit Io g ago, a :i lend ol mine, a Cou>ui a!
Odessa, n id, in in-, capac iv oi aoiiiiiiisiraiur l
if a deceased couniiyman’s eiiecis. the uu- J
p>ea>ani duly of selling an enure family, sep- j
ir.ueiv. to ttie high, si biddeis. i’ ie posses- i
-.on of sen's is very onerous to the small pm-j
[ir etors. as they must Iced and cioiiie them,
tapped what may; and the aged and i. e i
leipless areal liieir charge: they caunoi free
Hem, because t eir property consists in seri',
md in a thmiy-peopled country they might
mid it ihij)oss:b.e io hire mborers to till their
kinds. A gradual emancipation is, however,
going on. Siiriiige is rare )n llie coloniee on iky
Southern and Easlcrn frontiers, and runaway
setls arriving in .hem from oilier parts ate
raieiv asked any questions, and may remain
qually as sefilers if their conduct is proper.
This is owing to the anxiety of ihe Govern
ment to amalgamate Ros-baris with the wiid
t’-ib 3on the frontiers. The example of tbe
German and Bulgarian settlers in New Rus
sia is very advantageous to the Russian peas
ant ; and will, I imagine, tend to introduce a
sen eof the rights of min among ttie latter.
A corresponding amelioration is taken place
m the trading By the ukase of 1536, a
merchant who has been ten years in the lir-o
guild, may on payment of a gi ven sum once
for ail, obtain the rights of citizenship lor him
self and children. He does not acquire ail the 1
privileges of nobility—such as the right of pos- |
sessing setfs, bi t lie is freed from the Ita bililies
of the peasant, and may ride in a carriage ami
four with long traces. Before that year, the
merchant in Russia was a citizen only while
he paid an anual capitation lax; failing to do
that, he became reduced to the condition of a
petSMit. liable, himself and sons, to the knout
and to theconscr ption* Tbe commencement
of a middle class m Russia is here visible.—
There was previously no medium between tbe
noble and the peasants —between es Laoans
and les b il l us—This new class will tend to
relieve ihe Government from th embi ras -
merit, f it more every year, caused hv lie dif
ficulty of providing lor the sons ol the artifi
cial nobility, since rhey may no,v enter trade
without il rogation and loss of rights.
THE YELLOW FEVER IN NEW
YORK, OF lko3.
From the Democratic Review for October.
THE LATE EDWARD LIVINGSTON
The citizens of New York, desi
ring to testify to their representative
the profound sense which they enter
tained of the services rendered by
him in Congress to the cause of the
people, chose Livingston, in the year
1803, the Mayor oft heir city, though
he was at the same time invested
wit li the functions of United States
District Attorney, to uhich he had
been appointed by President Jeffer
son. He accepted this flattering
evidence of the esteem of his imme
diate constituents, and entered up
on the office at the vtry moment
when the yellow fever, which in
those times was wont to ravage al
most annually the American citis,
broke out in New York with a vio
lence unexampled in the history of
that terrible disease. The dread
of the contagion soon caused to dis
appear from the (ityall those wi ose
fortune afforded them the means of
ing. The indigent class alone re
mained exposed to tbe fury of the
epidemic, and this class in the Uni*
ted States is chiefly composed of
emigrants recently arrived, who are
always most ituble to the contagion.
Livingston devoted himself to the
performance of the duties of his mu
nicipal magistracy. He visited eve
ry day the most destitute of the sick.
He conducted the physicians wherev
er lie knew that misfortune claimed
the cares and the aid which indi
gence could not command.
‘ I never remember,” he said to
trie, in talking of this great calami
ty, “to have experienced a greater
fullness of health than at this peri
od. There is something healthful
to man in the consciousness of a
duty well discharged. Notwithstand
ing the number of sick whom I saw
every day, my recollection of their
sufferings, of their distress, of the
interest attaching to their families,
to their various relations, did not
present itself to my mind only in
the mass: 1 k new each one individ- j
tmlly. I identified myself with each
one of the sick, for I could call each,
with the physician; my patient. I
shared in the regrets of the family
of each victim, the joy of the wife,
the children, of each convalescent
restored to life, to labor, to the ten
derness of family affections. After
tlie first fears of t lie contagion were
surmounted, 1 ceased to experience
the slightest apprehension of dan
ger. My confidence was not fatal
ism—(my soul has always regarded
with horror that cruel slavery of
man to necessity,)—hut a profound
sense of the task of humanity which
Providence had assigned me. It ,
was the unfavorable turn of an al
ternative contract (to speak the lan
guage of the law) which I had sign
ed, in accepting the Chief Magistra
cy of a great city, then populous
and flourishing. This contract must
he executed in its letter and in its
spirit.”
Livingston loved to retrace this
epoch in his life, and he used to le
cur to it as frequently us to the (lays
of his childhood. He felt that he
hud fought there for his country with
not less patriotism and devotion,
than under the walls of New Orleans
in ISI4-J5. “I often used to meet,
especially in the obscure retreats
where were piled together the Irish
emigrants, a Catholic priest.” (Li
vingston gave his name, but my im
perfect memory for names has not
retained this venerated name—“al
ways at prayer by the bed side of
the unfortunate. There was some
; thing of the apostle in the simplici
ty of this virtuous ecclesiastic, some
thing of the missionary of Breda in
the eloquence o: his exhortations,
I and oftener the mild and persuasive
| sweetness of Fenelon in his impro
visations of prayer. I felt then,
that, in the celih cv of the Catholic
clergy, it is not all peril and danger
‘on the part of the individual, and
policy and ambition on the part ol
Rome. The married priest has
not that devotion, that sublime self
denial of the unmarried. Il is hut
natural. To ask the father of a
fa mil)'to go and impregnate himself
with contagious and fatal miasmata
hv the bed side of the sick, to scat
ter the germs of death among his
wife and children, is asking human
weakness what it cannot every day
grant. That species of heroism
man may command for his single
self, but it is not permitted to have
it for one’s self when it endangers
the existence of those who are en
trusted to our care, and from whom
we cannot exact a doctrine which
the sense of a moral obligation
does not awaken in their hearts as
i:i ours.”
In confirmation of this opinion
which he had formed of the relative
positions of the Catholic priest and
the Protestant minister, Livingston
related to me the followinganecdote:
“J’he violence of epidemic was be
ginning to abate; its attacks were
indeed not less numerous than be
fore, but the proportion of its vic
tims was diminishing. I had a few
minutes at iny own disposal, and I
had gone one evening, in a carriage,
a short distance from the city, to
breathe the pure air of ihe country,
when I met on the road, at tiie very
moment when 1 wasahoutto return
toward the city, a Protestant minis
ter—married, and the father of a
numerous family. He, like the rest,
had fled the fatal contagion. He
was a man truly pious, of exempla
ry life, and presenting in his own
person to his flock, an example of
the Christian virtues which he
preached to them with sincerity and
eloquence. And yet in the hour of
danger, he had not remained, like
the old soldier of the spiritual le
gions of the new Rome, firm to the
post where his chiefs had stationed
him. He had fled before the dan
ger—not for himself'—he had been
carried away by the panic with which
his family had been seized. ‘What
is going on in town, Edward? Is the
sickness abating?’ ‘We are doing
all we can, my reverend friend. We
are taking care of the sick. ‘The
physicians are discharging most no
bly their glorious mission—but w hat
can vve do for men’s souls? The
proper material succors abound, for
never was charity more lavish of its
offerings; but the bread of the word
is wanting. The wretched ask in
vain for those physicians of the mind
diseased, whose consolations Can
cure the wounds of the spirit and rob
death of its terrors. VVell—what
do you vay? Here is room for you
in my carriage. Come in—the ripe
h rvest is falling to the ground, and
there tire no reapers to gather it.”
My friend pressed my hand point
ed me to his wife and children at the
door of a small house near the road
—and walked away in silence.”
Livingston was always happy to
render a signal justice to the greater
number of the municipal officers, his
colleagues. He did not say, himself,
what the whole city proclaimed, that
it was his zeal that had inspired the
faithful, strengthened the weak, re
doubled the zeal of the most coura
geous. I remember our having been
both invited, many years after this
great calamity, to dinner, at the
house of a rich baker, of Scotch or
igin, who used every year to give a
grand entertainment to all his
friends. Every one was surprised
to st-e the worthy citizen rise, fill his
glass, and announce that he was
about to give a toast.
His attitude indicated his inten
tion of making a speech, and as the
worthy Mr. L did not pass’
foi much of an orator, the result of;
’ his unaccustomed attempt, on his
j part, was awaited with some unea
siness. “Gentlemen,” lie said, with
an agitated voice, “Igivethe health
of Edward Livingston, Mayor of;
New York, at the period when this
city was ravaged by the yellow fe- ■
ver—ihe health of the man who!
then saved my life! You do nol
remember it, my friend, but I—l
have never forgotten it. Poor,
with no prospects of fortune in my j
native country, I had come to seek;
it m the United States. Two days’
<ifter my arrival at New York, I
felt the attack of the terrible pesti
lence which was then decimating its
population, I scarcely knew what
occurred after l had been trans
ported to one of its hospitals, where
; the destitute sick were received.
Bui I remember, on recovering my
senses, experiencing so keen a cold
—it was in the beginning of Novem-1
| her—that the* life which had before!
flowed in full current through my i
veins, seemed now to suspend its
course—when I saw you enter, you, 1
my preserver! Y r ou were accompa-j
tiied by several men, bending be-1
neath the burthen of bundles of!
blankets. You came yourself to
me; you spread two of those blank
ets on mv bed; you took care that
all my limits were well enclosed in
lire covering. I felt myself revive.
The favorable crisis of the disease
was relieved from all obstacle to its
work of health. The next day, Ma
deira wine, nourishing food, ull
brought by you my friend, soon re
stored me to health and strength.
Gentlemen, all the sick who did not
receive warm blankets to protect
them from the first cold, were dead
the following morning. That next
day, is the day whose anniversary I
celebrate every year, with a heart
overflowing with gratitude to God,
and to you, Mr. Mayor—l will style
you thus—who were to me the in
strument of tiie divine protection.”
One must have seen for himself
till the movement and activity that
prevail in a great commercial city
n America, to appreciate the spec
tacle which Now York then present
ed to the eye which had beheld it in
the days of prosperity, in the early
period of its vigorous adolescence,
when it was springing forward with
the ardor of youth, toward that op
ulence, that immense commerce,
that indefatigable eagerness of en
terprise, of which it had already the
presentiment, and which destiny
was already preparing for it, to ap
preciate the mournful gloom of those
empty streets—those houses left
open and fully furnished, from which
the owners had fled—that forest of
shipping, deserted and silent as
those of the western winds. On
the masts of some of these vessels
hung the still unfurled sail. The
seamen, who had brought them to
their port, through the dangers of
every ocean—fearless, equally un
der the fire of the British battery,
and in tbe midst of the tempest—
bar! felt their courage fail them, in
meeting, face to face upon these
wharves, that ghastly phantom,
whose very name makes the child
of the sea to tremble, the Yellow
Fever! All had fled to the country.
Even the instinct of the sailor, that
instinct which attaches him to the
seashore, as the Highlander to his
hills, ceased to have any effect upon
them—they had plunged far into the
interior of the country. You tra- 1
versed the length of whole
without meeting a single individual.
Ori the wharves might often be seen
the Imles of merchandise which ter
ror had left there. There was no
danger of their being carried off;
no such objects had any value to
those who were, at every instant,
playing for the stake of life with the
dice which death hadioaded. There
were jot to be seen, during that hor
rible calamity, as at Florence or
Marseilles at the time when the
plague was desolating those great
cities, hands of robbers adding to
the horrors of ihe pestilence the hi
deous spectacle of guilty cupidity.
The deserted houses were not inva
ded: every thing remained as it had
been left by tbe fugitive owner. The
physician, the nurse, alone entered
the houses, and nothing was carried
from them but the bodies of the
dead.
Livingston kept a list of the hou
ses in which the sick lay. Every
day he made (he round of them with
an indefatigable exactness. Tbe
courage of the physicians displayed
itself on this occasion as it has since
displayed itself, in Europe, during
ihe ravage of ihe new scourge which
has arisen within our days, as though
to mow down with a more terrible
energy the generations which the
yellow fever had spared for twenty
years—animated with that noble
bravery which silences the instinct
of self-preservation in competition
with the execution of their sacred
ministry. The municipal treasury
was exhausted. Ijvingstou gave
all his fortune. He did more—he
gave his future, by contracting debts j
which botmd him to long and ardu
ous toil for their discharge. llis
patrimonial fortune, his house, his
equipages, his lands, whose increa
sing value promised him soon a for
tune commensurate with the prodi
gal generosity of his heart—his
| hooks even, those masters of his
; youth, those friends of his maturity,
those silent monitot s front whom he
had learned every thing, even to
sacrifice themselves to humanity, to
duty, to honor—all was sacrified,
■ without a regret beyond the very
moment of the loss.
This last expression demands an
explanation. I have never known
any person who curried to the same
degree with Livingston that kind of
philosophy which consists in deci
ding promptly and energetically for
the future after loss, a disappoint
ment, or a mishap of whatever na-
ture. lie called into play all the
strength, the resources, the energy
of his powerful understanding to
ward off the event; hut if in spite j
of all the misfo.tune arrived, the’
event once encountered, no more j
vain regrets, no more idle recurrence !
to the past, no more frivolous con
jectures of the means which might
have led to a better result. He
drew a veil over the past, and then
| sprang forward towards ihe future,
with a bound the more vigorous, as-
pirations the more ardent. He com
menced the rebuilding of the edifice
of anew fortune with the industry
of the bee driven from its task, i
say fortune—he wanted one, not for
himself-—what did he want, he, with
’ the childlike simplicity of his tastes,
and purity of his spirit? A book—
(and sometimes some work of ima
gination was sufficient for him to
amuse his thoughts)—the society
of a friend with whom he could tab;
or he silent according to his mood
of the moment, whom he could leave
or rejoin—trees to plant—earth to
dig—ingenious machinery to con
struct —(he had a genius for tfio
mechanical sciences, a genious
which Brunei, with whom ho had
been intimate in his youth, had per
haps contributed to develope)—a
child to play with--or when his
mind after repose required to re
sume its high struggle with subjects
suitable to keep into activity its * n
ergctic vigor, profound meditations
on society, on the laws that govern
it—to interrogate the legislation of
nations that are dead, after the man
ner of Montesquieu—to probe all
the wounds of nations thtt are liv
ing hut diseased, with the patient
and minute investigation of Benth
am. I have said that he had given
his inheritance food to the yellow
fever—that he wished fora fortune;
he wished it, but for his children’.',
sake, whom lie reproached himsch
for having deprived hitn of ths’
which he had already made for them,
and which he had just lost—he wish
ed it, to enjoy at his ease that lei
sure which he would devote to sci
ence, to art, to letters, to friendship,
to the affections of the heart.
The means of acquiring this for
tune in a few years, he thought he
saw in a great event which had just
distinguished the Presidency of
Thomas Jefferson. I mean the ces
sion of Louisiana to the United
States, by a treaty which a brother
of iiis, Chancellor Livingston, and
Mr. James Monroe, had recently
signed with Barbs Marbois, pleni
potentiary on the part of France.
The history of this treaty has
been written by Barbe Marbois with
so much truth and impartiality, that
it would be difficult for me to add
any thing to the narrative of that
memorable negotiation, notwith
standing all the details 1 have gath
ered from the lips of Livingston
himself, who had in his hands all
I his brother’s manuscripts, Living
ston determined, after making an
exact review of the condition of his
affairs, to establish his residence in
New Orleans. He saw that that
rich province, vivified by commer
cial industry, would make rapid ad
vances in wealth and importance.
His knowledge of the French lan
guage, the only one then spoken in :
Louisiana, and of the Spanish, in
which had been written a!l the pub
lic acts passed for forty years, and
the profound study to which he hud
devoted himself to the Roman law,
and of the French and Spanish sys
tems of jurisprudence, both sprung
from the code of Justinian, offeted
him great advantages in the prac
tice of his profession in the new ter
ritory, whose inhabitants were not,
however, strangers to his reputa
tion as a statesman and jurist.
The epidemic was near its close,
when Livingston was himself at
tacked by it. “It was then,” he of
ten repeated to me, ‘‘that I received
the reward of what I had done for
the people. As soon as it was known
that I was in danger, the street in
which my house was situated was
blocked by the crowd, who pressed
even to my chamber to receive in
telligence of my condition. The
young people took turns hour by
hour, in the care of watching by
my bed of suffering. The crisis
was violent, hut of short continu
ance, \ good constitution, and a
mind composed, and rather inclined
by nature to hope than to fear,
which, if it did not aid the vital
principle, at least left it undisturbed
in the effort it always makes to re
pel disease,triumphed together over
the alarming symptoms which the
physicians had announced as thu
precursors of death. Soon conva-
lescent, the doctors, neatly ali at
that day disciples of Brown, decla
red that they would not answer for
a relapse, if some very old Madeira
could not he procured for me. Mv
cellars were as empty as my purse.
But as soon as it was known in town
that I wanted some good wine, from
every direction I saw arrive the best
wines 1 have ever tasted. No, my
friend, the people is not ungrateful.
Do not receive as an established
| tact that old maxim set afloat by
i aristocracy. It is, on the contrary,
| profoundly grateful not only towards
, those who render it glorious and
memorable services, hut equally to
wards those who, like me, have dono
| no more than to fulfil faithfully the
trust that has been confided to them,
The gratitude of the American peo
ple, has it not followed Washington
from camp apd mupcii into the l+r
fNO. 41