Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

VOL. X.J PUBLISH* D EVERY WEDNESDAY MOfcNIKC BY JOSEPH STURG S. OS BKO-1D STREET, OVER ALLEN AND YOUMiS, lI’I.NTOSH ROW. —Subscription, three dollars per an iiiim ayable in advance, or foua dollars, (in all case exacted) where payment is not made before ihe expiration of liic year. No subscription received for less than twelve months, without payment inauvance. aid no paper discontinued, except at the option o: tho Is litors, until all arrearages are paid. A I}Vii;t T[Sii.VIIiNTS conspicuously inserted at o.ve doll ar per one hundred words, or less, for the tirst insertion, and fifty cents for every subse quent continuance. Those sent without a specific i tiouot tlio number of insertions, will bo published until or.i ;red out, and charge I accordingly. 21. Yearly advertisements. — For over 24, and no’ eccee lino st> lines, Jiffy dollars per annum ; for ovr li, and not exceeding id lines, tkirly-Jive dollars per annum-, for less than Id lines, twenty dollars per annum. bl. All rule and figure work double the above prices. Legal Advertisements published at the usual rates, and with strict attention to the requisitions of the law. Itt Sai.es regulated by law, must he made bofori the Court House door, between the hours of 10 in tin morning and 4 in the evening—those of Land in the county where it is situate; those of Persona. Properly,"where the iettcr.-. testamentary, of admin istration or of guardianship were obtained —and are -eqnired to bo previously advertised in some publi< la*otte, as follows: Sheriffs’ Salks under regular executions for thir ty i) ays, under mortgage li fas sixty days, befon the day of sale. Sales of Land and Negroes, by Kxecutors, Ad ministrators or Giiiardiaus, for sixty day's before the day of sale. : ales of Personal Property (except Negroes) forty DA V S. ■ I r YTt INS by Clerks of the Courts of Ordinary, upon Afpi.tc vtion for letters of administration, must he published for thirty days. yl CATIONS upon APPLICATION FOR DISMISSION. f)Y Mxecntors, Administrators or Guardians, month;', for SIX MONTHS. Orders of Courts of Ordinary, (accompanied with :> copy of the bond or agreement) to make titles to land, must lx- published three months. Notices by Executors, Administrators or Guardians of application to flic Court of Ordinary for i.kavt to sell the Laud or Negroes of an Instate, four months. Notices by Executors or Administrators, to the Debt ors and Creditors of tin Estate, for six yweks. Sheriffs, Clerks of Court, &c., will be aliowe.i the usual deduction. pLetters on business, must be post paid to eipilje them to attention. 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