The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser. — Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1846-01-27 00:00:00

TICAL C from the to her that Must her claims ie of justice— ,ng to labour ; ons which she divine source, 'ire," and that, mean ne shorn lamb." selfish generation ! A sympathies of her ex—weak as herself, ler that she must I earthly comfort, nt to live by the labour scale o ace of her beauty in those cations to which she had she found, too many Mrs. J many p ropic in- or half nothing, to embers of commit- in which the eyesight siopsellers and Jew , with their plate- cost miserable woman, has to pay with her g tears Enter, ye )f misery-purchased ith their low-priced ling which you save, n or in velvets, in bro- )" cassimere—you.. are 3t stich, human life has a and made up amidst t, if there was re- ssof this world, to se whose passion for say- Ting of their weaker and ; to the consequences The poor sempstress cheapness. She had selfish, caleulaing, hollow-hearted, Listed; and famine for s her ow v n lot, stared the We pass over her struggles passionate resolves. Suffice She was not aban- being who watches and 3t of his children. We in a position which ore inißerable than Joseph Smith was the unes. We must, to ndulgent reader to sup ave lapsed, and to gaze twelve months .gnificent hall, was Mrs. J on of the anniversP atroduced the poor semp )f those articles—blankets, es which charitable lhdieS upon the poor in their va !aped before her ; and the with the labour of arrang consciousness of the su- greater opted their distribution. A was in Mrs. Joseph Smith's r, was of a cheap kind. The !se petticoats and wrappers, d cost herself or her lord and It a meal to the distressed of of one sneh resorting ear she had got crime r commodities for no were hundreds of vir- he most scanty pay oil of the impiisOned r sempstress, and others wretche food by tb iselves for employment and :e and the loss of modesty, .niteatiaries without number -tem, and lady patronesses --he found to take them by them their sympathy ; but iserable of the world—those fficiently sunk as to require ;sedly humane—let them toil ;y drives them low enough to contemplation and pity, and lantbropical ! We do not, in is upon humble industry in the bed of death. Modern condemned cell, the pinion would open their doors to t old, middle-aped, and young the hand, and bestow upor the merely d itute a poor bein the protei s who a on of the proles Tuggle on—un become c withal, o the ill-fur led cabin or on er the of the charity and feeli ing root We 1 n, or the fro Old Bailey. tith, in the exercise of her to the contemplation of the iserable apartment, in the outskirts occupant of of the metr e in which we originally saw our poor sempstress ; but a much more wretched and worse furnished one. We cannot call that a bed, in which amen being, coiled up upon the is the child upon whom, a lies a poor, suffer floor in a cover. year ago, she lavished, though suffering herself, so much kindness ? That poor innocent, although the offspring of guilt, sleeps soundly as the child of a more fortunate and sonless parent—dare we say " more sinless ? "—in one of those inhospitable -looking receptacles for the poor, which we see in the outskirts of London, with ungrassed mounds over them, and unblossoming, untested willow, bent over their heads as if in mockery. Cruelly desolate are these churchyards, in the immediate neighbourhood of the wealth which the ill-paid labour of their occupants has created I The child of the poor sempatress has pined and died ; and, with her, has died all the love which the Poor-forsaken being had to the things of this earth. There was a gulf between her and the borne of her youth. This child filled it up. It was the living memento of her fall from virtue ; but it was dear, nevertheless. It was some thing which she had felt belonged to her through long, weary months, when the world seemed to have thrown her off, as not belonging to it, or worthy of its love. She bad toiled for it. The hectic flushing of her face she had upon of her come 1 than she h of her fin unrequ thought cade or in g peso pestl trib more mist of their c lost a frie much pro anthroPiS Her litt pop!' s Seated t ter a Mu. P 0 E It Y. GLANCE AT THE STATESMEN OF THE DAY. the passers by ! ry 'The Debate l!autioaWmin'd ioe'er his back, 1 to thy hack ess canter view Waterloo ; aly prest, the sig art 'stride? ) assign'd ?rophet's crown eeps thrOugh all ; ath to tell, y scorns the glance I he mean. IY-DAY LIFE andard.) me, on d not at h it w D involv , n, wnien al c re ❑res th ice, or selfist , its asr i,d, if urged forwar The poor gi if and - her et bild by iii a penance which st rEelf, as the only or etn the guilt of her fa s pressing upon but it did not pi t ince ;t, from and et Mrs. Joseph S he face g for her not thought of, whilst bathed in the light of its smiles, and consoled, in the weary watches of the night, by its innocent caresses. It has gone, however, to its rest— . o a blessed world—and she, that once fair girl, now coiled up upon straw, is fast following its flight. She is thinner than before—not paler, for the flush of fever is upon her cheek, and nature is gasping to retreat from the frail tenement, which now can barely be said to hold life and consciousuesq. Can we tell what dreams are in that poor girl's mind — what memories are thronging around her heart ? We will not attempt the task. But whose are the feeble steps which enter the apartment in which she lies, and whose the hands which are extending:toher refreshment in her parting hours? They are not thoselof the philanthropic Mrs. Joseph Smith, or of any of her kind. Alas! they are not those of any of the well-to-do in the world. The poor widow, in whose house she has rented that miserable room, and upon whose hands she had been a burthen—an unwilling cue — since her young eyes grew dim, and her strength refused to do the slopseller's work, is giving her of her scanty meal. Oh ! the charity which exists in the hearts of the humble Poor towards each other. How it shames, in its unob trusiveness, alike the charity of the rich and the charity of the state. That poor, dying occupant of a wretched b bed has toiled and has signed. We say to her, in her dy ing agonies, by our practices and by our institutions, that she must toil still more, and sin still more deeply, before we are willing to take upon ourselves the task of upholdipg her in life, or comforting her in cis ath ! Humbler and less ostentatious charity does our work. Need we go on? We need not. 0 " every day life." They who object to it a strained picture, know little of the world in which we sketch is one o THE LATE SIR WILLIAM FOLLETT No one ever ventured to calculate upon Sir William Follett's overlooking a slip or failing to seize an advan tage. Bolus teres Opts rotundus must indeed have been the case which was to withstand his onslaughts. So ac curate and extensive was his legal knowledge, so acute his discriminatiOn, so dexterous we all his movements, so lynx-eyed was his vigilant attention to what was going on, that the most learned and able of his opponents were never at their ease till after victory had been definitively announced from the Bench—from a Court of Error—or even the House of Lords. They were necessarily on the qui vive to the very latest moment. Some short time be tore he was compelled to relinquish practice, a certain counsel was engaged with him as junior in a case before the Privy Council, which it was deemed of great moment that Sir William Follett should be able to attend to. " 1 don't exactly know how I stand in the Queen's Bench to-morrow morning," said he, at the consultation late over night—" but I fear that that long troublesome case of the Railway will be brought on by at the sitting of the Court. I'm afraid I can't get him to put it off—but I'll try : and if he won't, I may yet be abl to settle the case before he has _ will be very strange if all their pros d of Si counsel on both throne! one over into it 4ings are right On this slender chance rested the likelit William's attendance at the Privy Council morning at ten c 'clock, beheld all th sides read " You're not going to bring on the morning, are von ?" whispered Sir William Follett, as soon as he had taken his seat, to his opponent, who was arranging his papers. " I am indeed, and no mistake whatever about it." " Can't we bring it on to-morrow, or some day next week ? It would greatly oblige me—l really have scarcely read my papers, and, besides, want to be elsewhere." see what my clier —arid then he consulted and resumed—' No—my people are peremptory Then keep youx — eyis wid " Very well. _.,pen. I must bring you down as soon as possible, for I want to be else where." " Ah—l must take my chance about that,"—then, turning round to an experienced and learned junior, he whispered—" You hear what Follett says ?—Are we really all right ?" " Oh, pho ! never mind him—we are as right as possi ble." A few moments afterwards, up rose —, and soon got in'o his case, and very soon, also, to the end of it. The case bad not been heard more than half an hour, Sir William Follett at once attentively listening to his oppo nent, and hastily glancing over his own papers, when he rose very quickly and said—" If my learned friend will pardon me, I think, my lord, I can save the Court a very long and useless inquiry—for there is clearly a fatal objection in liinine to these proceedings." " Let us hear what it is," said the Court. Sir William had completely checkmated his opponent ! A statutory requisition had not been complied with ; and in less than ten minutes time the enemy were all prostrate —their expensive and elaborate proceedings all defrated— and that, too, permanently, unless on acceding to the terms which Sir William Follett dictated to them, and at advan " might have bee observed, were this is 100 bad, Foll •ed by his o ,onent, as the case was call " Not at all—why didn't you let it stand over, as I asked you ?" 4 . Oh-y would have done just the same then as you have now." " I don't knoif that," replied Sir William Follett, with a significant style. " But why wont your people be more careful?" And then, turning to his junior, said—" Now for the Privy Council !" And all this with such proyok -Blackwood. ing, easy, smiling nonchalance ! PROGRESS OF SIR ROBERT PEEL (From the Church of England Review.) It may seem strange to the mind of Sir. Robert Peel that his plans are so continually frustrated, and his policy of expediency so constantly recoils upon himself, and that, no sooner has he met one giant difficulty, and ap. parently quieted it, than it assumes another head, an shows him that he has greater and greater obstacle. overcome ere he can effectually silence and allay the corn motion it produces. And if it does at times astonish him, we are at a loss to conceive that a mind so gifted as his own undoubtedly is does not an once perceive one chief and manifest cause why he fails to satisfy the clash ing interests of the country. and brings himself and his measures into contempt. The fact is, for years past, he and his colleagues in power have been progressing with out any distinctive principle to guide them. Time was when we could understand men by their measures, and arrive at their intentions by their actions ; ut that period seems to have passed entirely away, and the fashion is altogether changed. Out of office and in opposition, Sir R. Peel led on an unceasing and persevering attack upon all and each of the measures of the then Government. He was then the active partizan and defender of every existing interest. The Church he strenuously defended from every assault made upon her, and many an attempt to invalidate her influence, and to crush her existence for usefulness, did he nip in the bud by unflinching and un compromising adhesion to her in her hour of peril. No one could be more loud in his denunciation of the mea sures, which were introduced to secure the favour of the pro-Popery party, and many craftily concocted schemes to advance their pretensions were put aside simply from the knowledge that he would certainly use every influence and strain every nerve to cut it off in detail, should it be introduced into Parliament, if he perceived himself unequal to annihilate it by one open and decisiveonslaught. The promoters of change, and the lovers of discord, alike trembled at his vigour in defence of the existing institu tions of the country : and never bad his talents greater opportunity of display, than when night after night, ses sion after session, he fought the battle of the opposition on the left hand of the Speaker's chair in the Commons House of Parliament. Not gradually, but with increas ing rapidity, the popularity he had lost, by introducing the Roman Catholic Emancipation Bill, and by refusing to proceed in a revolutionary course under the name of reform, returned : from being, perhaps, the most un popular man in her Majesty's dominions, if we except the iron Duke, he became the observed of all observers, and instead of meeting with insult from the populace of the metropolis, which he had been accustomed to. upon and for a short time after the passing of the Reform Bill, his presence was hailed on every side with acclamations, both vociferous end hearty. Every class of the peoplelooked to him as the man who should restore the failing commerce of the land ; the monied interests bailed him as the only statesman who could rectify the financial difficulties of his opponents, which every day grew worse and worse ; the clergy, thankful for his zeal in their defence, anticipated from him protection, and security against assault from within and from without. The agriculturists beheld in him an imaginary means of securing their capital and of realising a profit upon their labours, instead of the positive losses they had been year after year incurring. In a word, as the confidence in his opponents declined, so did it i him. He was " the man of the peo- pie ;" and as such, as a proof of their belief in his ty cf purpose, and of his inclination and desire to prove himself the benefactor of his countr, - , they threw away all suspicion of him; they forgot, or at least pardoned, his former tergiversation ; and gave him so overwhelming a m,jority, as a proof and evidence of their returned conviction that he would not again deceive them, as to render any measure he might bring forward secure from the moment it was proposed, and easy to be carried in detail. In every particular, if we excet , t the financial arrangements of tie country, be has f . -fly disappointed the high expectations he had raised. The measures his opponents had introduced, and which he had dereated, now became his o.va ; schemes they shrank from the responsibility of carrying forward, he took in hand, and, with imperious command, demanded the co operation of his followers, who had adhered to him under the impression that he would clog the wheel of revolution. ary motion. At one time threatening them with his re solve to resign cffice unless they held to him, and to throw the country into confusion by the return to office of a Whig-Radical faction,—at another, casting himself by the ultraism of his proposed measures, upon the ne cessary support (for consistency's sake) of his opponents, he has strided on and on, making all things bend before his march, and yielding to his nod of determination. Every s-ssion since his accession to power he has more and more shaken off the trammels of the pledges his conduct in opposition had fastened upon him,—but it remained till the last to behold the crowning act of desertion of former principles completed, and it chewed, however much it was supposed he had deplored the fatal step of 1829, the supposition was but ideal,—inasmuch as be resolved to eclipse that undoing of the Protestantism of Great Britain, by a more decisive and vigorous blow against her princi ples. We were not backward in presenting to our readers and the public how full of danger, how inconsistent with former pledges, how unworthy of a great and powerful statesman, was the conduct of the minister, who passed the Maynooth Endowment Bill with indecent haste through the Houses of Legislature, refusing to give time for the expression of the sentiments of the people.-- whose almost united efforts had placed him on the high position he occupied,—and disregarding the entreaties of THE LIVERPOOL STANDARD. the most pious and holy men of the day before he irre vocably committed himself to a measure fraught with such evident consequences of injury to the religion of the country. It will be fresh in our readers' recollection, that we exposed the progress of that measure step by step, and showed the impolicy, no less than the folly, of at tempting to allay the restless agitation, and the increas ing ferment of one unhappy portion of the British dominions at the expense of the remainder. But, alike blind to remonstrance on the one hand, and to the con sequence that more would be demanded, where so much had unnecessarily been conceded on the other, the mea sure passed into law, and a session, the most momentous that has been seen since the years 1832, 1833, and 1834. ended with the triumph of the individual over the mani fest feeling and conviction of the injury be had done to the Church and to the people. It eleased providence, in his wisdom, during the earlier part of the recess, to visit the land with tempestuous weather, which impeded the gathering in of the harvest, and did much damage to one article, of necessary con sumption, of the food of the poor. A clamonr had been for several years past excited against the protection the Legislature had afforded to the a g ricultural interests; and a tew discontented individuals had raised a' cry against what they termed monopoly and class legislation. Sir R. Peel had resisted their demand for removal of protec tion, and had apparently devised a safe means of meeting any exigencies which an unpropitious season - might occa sion. The present winter, however, from the partial failure of the crops, and from the known continental scarcity, was anticipated as about to be one of extreme suffering to the poorer classes, and therefore offered too good an opportunity to the clamorous for attempting to sweep away the existing corn-laws, and to secure their cherished theory of introducing free trade. Hitherto Sir R. Peel had seemed indifferent to the clamour ; perhaps some feelings moved him for the moment to withstand the pressure made against agriculture by restless agitation, since he could notbut remember the obligation hewas under to the counties of England for the majority they had placed at his command. But distinctive principles have again been given up : theories but a few hours since de nounced as visionary and destructive have been yielded to ; and the result has been a collision between the pre mier and several members of his Cabinet so severe and decisive, that he and they tendered their resignation of office, and retited from the helm of government. The last month has been pregnant - with eventful circumstances connected with this subject. The rninistry, disunited upon this matter, bas broken up; Lord John Russell hrs attempted to form an administration, and has failed. Sir Robert Peel has again resumed the reins of office, with a ministry but slightly modified, and, at the moment of our going to press, the future proceedings, which the country has to anticipate, are unknown, and but prob lematical. We can only, however, draw sup positions from former occurrences, and speculate upon future probabilities from events which have preceded them. No declaration has, it is true, yet gone forth what the intentions of the new Ministry may be ; but if we are to judge upon such grounds what is to be anticipat d, we candidly confess that we expect no safe or good result to any interest from the return of Sir Robert Peel to office. He has annihi lated every prospect that distinctive principles will now be carried out by himself and his partizans, by his conces cessions and by his violation of former expectations that he would govern the country upon the broad and honour able basis of Protestant truth and Christian precept. We have nothing to expect from the man any further. We have seen our best hopes scattered to the winds ; our warmest anticipations have been chilled and frozen by discovering that - words and actions, promises and dealings, have been as opposite as two extremes can possibly be. We believe that Divine Providence is dealing with us at this moment in the events of the time expressly to show us that we put our trust in man rather than in Himself, —that we have imagined human help could avail, when it ought to have been remembered that it is his province alone to secure the safety of a nation, and that He has said, " Cursed is the man that trusteth in man, and maketh flesh his arm." We believe that we are on the eve of decisive changes,—of remarkable occourrences,—of important events. The powers of the earth are being shaken, and the nations of the world are trembling. We hope and pray that the Lord will deliver us out of the dangers with which we are beset, and that He will cause the end to be of permanent advantage to our country. To those who trace his hand in the events of the present times, the assurance cannot fail to be strong that what is being done is for some great, some wise end and purpose. It they wilt only bring us to repentance, and produce in this land a positive turning to Him with prayer, and sor row for our national, as well as for our individual sinful ness, we should indeed hail the signs of the times with rejoicing and hope. But be this as it may, and whatever the womb of time may unfold to us, the conviction of every Chris ian mind—that nothing which occurs hap. Peneth without the permission of Him who reigneth for ever and ever, will allay each fear, and put all dread to rest. " Duties are ours ; event , are God's." In the s'ruzgle that may come,—•which is comiv ,7every risiian man must act vigorously and decisively for God and for his cause, leaving the issue to Him, who can, if le will, keep back the ambitious desires, and restrain the of sinful men, bringing their •defices to He does so or not, will certainly man to praise Him," whilst the re mainder of wrath He will undoubtedly restrain. 1 passio ught ; but wh he wra A LADY'S CALCULATION, OR HOW TO MAKE EIGHT PER CENT.—Make haste, Edward, make haste down, you'll be too late," cried the anxious mistress of a pretty lodge at Kensington, to its hurried, flurried, worried master, as the omnibus that took him to town drove up to his gate the other morning. How Ido hate this omnibus life !" she continued, as after two or three " Now, sirs," from the road, he darted past her, just in time. Only to think of my being obliged to see that dear fellow rush out of doors every morning, as if the house were on fire ! That horrid omnibus ! It doesn't care how husband and wife part 1" And the affectionate creature, left to her self, sat down to meditate on grave matters. Various ab struse and difficult calculations kept her brain in full em ployment until his return, when the result began to un fold itself in this interesting observation:—ln my opi nion, Edward, we could very well afford a carriage !" A slight shrug, a movement of the eyebrows, a rather me lancholy smile, and a decided shake of the head, conveyed the discouraging answer. " Well, but think now," pur sued the lady, "just estimate the expenses. What would a carriage and horses. once purchased, cost in the year?" " Pair of horses? Oh, why, a hundred year; set it down at a hundred certain," was the reply. `• And what, now, does the omnibus cost you, may I ask ?" " Ornnibcs ? Oh, why, eight pounds; about eight." " But this you would save," argued the lady; " for, if we had the car riage, you would not want the omnibus, you know." " That's true ; yes, of course, I should save the eight pounds." " Well, well !" cried the lady, with a look of exquisite simplicity, yet in a tone that implied something of exultation as a discoverer. " Well ; and wouldn't that be getting eight per cent.--Sketehesfrom Life. THE BARBARY ARABS IN ALEXANDRIA.—There is a vindictive desperate class of Arabs, many of whom are soldiers, in the employ of the Pacha of Egypt, prowling about Alexandria. These fellows are prone to insult the frank portion of the population whenever an opportunity offere--fcr example, our consul in Alexandria, Mr. Stud dart, is in the habit of walking for some distance bryond the gates of the city in the mornings. Frequently on passing the gate which is on the road to Rosetta. he had been sneered at by the idlers about the gate, who are of the class above-mentioned • but on one occasion they called him a kelp, (dog,) efrit, (devil,) &c. Mr. Stod dart turned to note which of them had uttered the insult ing expressions, when one of the defenders came up and deliberately spat in his face. Our Conant replied to this delicate favour by thrashing him soundly with a stick he held in his hand. The Arab shouted, the guards were called out, and the crime appearing so great, i.e., a dog of a Christian beating a Mussulman, Mr. Stoddart was taken into custody, and was escorted down to the Basha Guard (a place like our bridewell) by a troop of soldiers. In passing the house of Mr. Larren Bey, the "borval," or door-keeper, came out and asked them what was the matter; they replied, a dog of a Christian had been beat ing an Arab. He said, "Do you know who you've got a it's the English Consul !" They stood aghast •, wanted to give up the charge, but the worthy Englishman re plied, " No, I insist upon being taken before the Divan," and away they went. Arrived at the guard-house, all the authorities were sent for, it being a very uncommon thing for a Consul, especially the English one, to be under ar rest. Atam Bey, the Paella's prime minister, arrived, the insult and the punishment was proved, and immediately the consul was released, an apology made for the inconve nience he had suffered, and in an hour afterwards the Arab, who had insulted him, received a hundred lashes on the soles of his feet. —From Memorandums of a tour in Egypt, by Geo. Keet. SCRIPTURE ILLUSTRATED BY MODERN PRACTICE.— This description of the Hadji caravans that travel yearly to Mecca bears so close a resemblance to the far-famed journey of the Israelites through almost the same exten sive deserts, that, as the arrangement of those vast tra velling bodies seems to have undrgone no material altera tion for nearly four thousand years, it aff)rds the best possible commentary illustrative of the Mosaic narrative of the Exodus. Like them the immense body of Israel itish emigrants, while the chief burden devolved on Mo ses, was divided into companies, each company being un der the charge of a subordinate officer, called a prince. Like them the Hebrews made their first stage in a hurried manner and in tumultuous di-order; and like them, each tribe had its respective standard, the precise form and de vice of which, among the conflictin ,, accounts of the Rab bins, it is not easy to determine ; but 6 which, of whatever description it was, was pitched at the different stages, or thrust perpendicularly into the ground, and thus formed a central point, around which the struggling party spread themselves during their hours of rest and leisure. Like them the signal for starting was given by the blast of a trumpet, or rather trumpets; and the time of march and halting was regulated by the same rules that have been observed by all travellers from time immemorial during the hot season. Like theirs, too, the elevation of the standard, as it was borne forward in the van of each com pany, formed a prominent object to prevent dispersion, to enable wanderers to recover their pbce within the line or division to which they belonged. The banda of Jewish i ilgrims that annually repaired fromsevery corner of Judea to attend the three great festivals in Jerusalem, wanted this government and distribution into distinct companies —but as their country was divided into tribe: who lived in the same hamlet or canton would be mole or less connected by family ties—it is easy to understand how the young Jesus might mingle groups of his kindred and acquaintance, who, captivated with his precocious wisdom and piety, might be fond to detain him in their circle, while his mother, together with Joseph, felt no anxiety at his absence, knowing the grave and sober chat acter of their companions in trouble."— Kitto's Cyclopeedia of Biblical Literature. CHARACTER OF WM. PITT.—Not only the favourite son, but the cherished pupil of Chatham, who united greater popular veneration with more grandeur of heart and mind than any preceding or subsequent British states man, William Pitt was happily born for bringing his vast talents to perfection. In his early youth his future great ness was confidently predicted by his parent; and so great were the pains taken with his education, that his precocity was attributed to art. Thus the poet Coleridge derisively maligned him in a philippic, in which there is more elo quence than justice :—" The influencer of his country and his species was ,a young man, the creature of another's predetermination, sheltered and weather-fended from all the elements of experience ; he was cast rather than grew ; a palpable election—a conscious predestination contra( d the free agency, and transfigured the individuality of his mind, and that which might have been, compelled into that which he was to be." Bat the chief influence of Lord Chatham upon his son was, in directing his mind to poli tics. Neither in intellect, moral nature, or acquired cha racter, was there any resemblance between the men. The father's mind was imaginative and poetical ; the intellect of Mr. Pitt was strictly logical, qualified to excel in ab stract science. The disposition of Lord Chatham was vehement, warm, and enthusiastic; his impulses sponta neous, his energy desultory. Mr. Pitt was cold—[not inwardly so, as many actions of his life demonstrate] — stately, impassive, uniform in his deportment, inflexible in his purposes. And as they were not similar in their minds i viewed abstractedly, or in their features, taken ethically, so were their personal characters totally unlike, when weighed by a moral standard. Lord Chatham was pompous in his carriage, and ceremonious in his manners; at home, or in the senate, he was theatrical in his style •, travelled with a large retinue, and loved the gauds of rank and office ; in Mr. Pitt's conduct, publieand private, was to be seen Spartan simplicity. The father had a passion for fame in all its forms, both present notoriety and post humous renown ; the son grasped at power, guided his course by his own opinions, and had none of his parent's ambition of mere applause." "Making all reasonable al lowance for the pains taken by his father, there was a marvellous precocity in his mind and character, and a sus tained strength in his abilities, which placed him above the ordinary great men of the political world. The indivi duality of his intellect was most visible in his masterly power of abstraction, and in his intuitive perception of moral relations. With his singular art of generalising, and his capacity for severe thinking, his genius might have signalised itself in the speculative sciences, if, in stead of being devoted to politics, his large general powers' had been accidentally determined in that direction.' In addition to the mental requisites he was amply endowed with the physical qualifications for oratorical success. His voice, unequalled for its !illness of tone, was the finest ever heard in parliament. His physiognomy had little expression, save the calmness of one who felt his power, and rarely betrayed emotion beyond occasional displeasure with his followers, and withering contempt for his oppo nents But his forehead was large and capacious, and gave dignity to his otherwise plain features. As he stood before his audience, there was a total absence of nervous haste; he appeared, even in the most trying crisis, certain of success." " But even at this earliest period of his life, he was a greater thing than a great orator—he was a great man. Inflexible and self-reliant, he had that power of affecting others, without stooping to their sympathies, which always indicates one born to command. The strength of his mind was even more remarkable than the symmetry of his faculties, rare in their separate excellence, won derful in their special combination.' Bold, prompt, and decisive, there was nothing vague or wandering in his na ture. He possessed at once the discretion which pre serves a man from making difficulties, and the energy of spirit which enables him to surmount them, when coming from without. Inaccessible to the approach of all ignoble passions—constantly devoted to vast objects, without the follies and vices of his contemporaries—lofty—distant— solitary—be had many admirers, without seeking for them, and a few friends, whom he carefully selected. Ambitious of pawn., not covetous of office, despising mo ney, to rank indifferent, austere in his tastes—his charac ter, far from fascinating, was certainly august. For personal purity, disinterestedness, integrity, and a love of his country, I have never known his equal,' was the testi mony of a discerning and faith-worthy witness, Wilber force. Without any vanity, he had excessive pride; but, free from ostentation, he despised the showy splendour ;reh captivates the vulgar great. He was never dazzled, unless by the brilliancy of his rivals, Burke and Fox ; for, spurning at mediocrity, be disdained to notice the second rate, whether in men or things. Nor was he at any pains to conceal his scorn for the mob, amongst whom (like Henry Fielding) he included a vast part of the peerage and commonage of England. Like his father he stood alone ;' to use the words of his brilliant pupil, Canning, As the sturdy warrior, leaning on his own battle-axe, conscious where his strength lay, he did not readily look beyond it.' With his range of powers, his many personal gifts, and his towering spirit, he might have played any parts in life, save those of a poet or a lover ! Viewing the forms of the two Pitts, father and son, as they stand in history, what different emotions their images call forth ! The impassioned and romantic father seems like a hero of chivalry starting forth to thrill the English people with the inspiration of by-gone times, and electrify their hearts with the sentiments of their Tuetonic ancestry ; while the stately and classical son, filled, not with Gothic senti ments of freedom, but with the lust for imperial power; existing only to sway; blending his own pride with the arrogance of his conquering country, yet preserving sim plicity in the splendour of his elevation, appears as a Ro man Dictator, compelled into the dimensions of an Eng lish Minister.—Hislory of the Axle of Pitt and Fox. THE JEWS.—II is found by experience that no uncon verted Jew can translate the Hebrew Scriptures, so as to render them intelligible as a mere book : something is felt to be wanting—there is a deficiency of sense in the most important passages. A person. ignorant of Christianity, on reading such a translation, would say that it must be wrong—it is destitute of meaning; there is a great parade of preparation ; but no result appears, or the conclusion is so lame and impotent as to appear ridiculous. We say unconverted Jew," that we may limit the assertion to times subsequent to the incarnation ; since no Jew before their rejection of God, because they had rejected Christ, was in that dreadful condition of professing to believe in a revelation from heaven, and finding the book thereof to be sealed, and groping after a meaning as for bid treasure, yet utterly unable to find any rational, any satisfactory, sense.—Church of England Quarterly. THE TERM " CATHOLIC. "— In the second place, be cautious in the adoption of terms which have become the symbols of a party. Thus the term "Catholic" as applied to our Church, cannot be objected to. The boast of our Reformation was, that we had, by that blessed event, cor rected all the manifold abuses of the Church of Rome, and brought our Church back to what we believe to have been nearly the universal practice of the primitive Church. In this state we pray in the Liturgy for the good estate of the Catholic Church, in which passage, to avoid ambi guity, it were to be wished perhaps that the term "uni versal" had been preferred ; but when it is recollected that this is, I believe, the only passage in the Liturgy in' which this term is used (for the creeds can hardly be con sidered as part of the Liturgy), is there not an affectation in applying it on every occasion to our Protestant Refor med Church ?—and does it not betoken a disposition to overlook, as much as possible, the distiqations which have been proved to exist between the two Churches ? In like manner we have been taught to disclaim the term " Protestant," derived as it was from the first Reformers who protested against the errors of the Church of Rome, as if we had no longer cause to protest against such errors. The use or disuse of particular words in treating upon re ligious subjects may indeed be justly considered as trifles; but alas! it has been found by experience that "hce nugce seria ducent in mala." We may call ourselves Catholics, and disclaim being Protestants, till it appears as if both Churches formed but one vineyard, and that, consequent ly, it is a matter of little import in which part of it our ministerial] labours are employed. It has been my ob ject in the present charge to point out to you that this is not the case, and that, however charitably we may view, and ought to view, the errors of our Roman Catholic brethren—however disposed to consider them as a branch of the universal Church of Christ, and even to extend their means of usefulness among their own people —we should be cautious how we modify the distinctions bet ween us till they become almost evanescent quantities, and thus dispose our own minds, as well as those of our people to the seduction of that son of perdition who is ever on the watch for unstable souls.--Bishop of Llandaff. THE ROADS NEAR PARIS.—In the Daily News, the first number of which appeared on Wednesday, is a slash ing letter from Charles Dickens (Boa). The letter is the first of a series which are headed " Travelling Letters." The following description of the first portion of the road from Paris to Boulogne is highly characteristic of the writer of Pickwick :—" There is liitle more than one va riety in the appearance of the country for the first two days. From a dreary plain to an interminable avenue ; and from an interminable avenue, to a dreary plain again. Plenty of vines there are, in the open fields, but of a short low kind, and not trained in festoons, but about straight sticks. So one don't care much for them. Beggars in numerable there are, everywhere • but an extraordinarily scanty population, and fewer children than I ever encoun tered. I don't believe we saw a hundred children between Boulogne and Chalons. Queer old towns, draw-bridged and walled, with odd little towers at the angles, like gro tesque faces, as if the wall had put a mask on, and were staring, down into the moat; other strange little towers, in gardens and fields, and down lanes, and in farm-yards : all alone, and always round, with a peaked roof, and never used for any purpose at all ; ruinous buildings of all sorts ; sometimes an hotel de vine, sometimes a guard house, sometimes a dwelling-house; sometimes a chateau with a rank garden, prolific in dandelion, and watched over by extinguisher-topped turrets. and blink-eyed little casement:; are the standard objects, repeated over and over again. Sometimes we pass a village inn, with a crumbling wall belonging to it, and a perfect town of out houses : and painted over the gateway. " Ecurie pour soixante chevaux ;" as indeed there might be stabling for sixty score, were there any horses to be stabled there. anybody resting there ; or anything stirring a place but a dangling bush, indicative of the wir whiet- • d, in I -- ' or bout the g with every old age, And ,n flutters idly in the %inc., azy keep. thing else—and certainly is never in a gree, though always so old as to be dropping to pieces. all day long, strange little narrow waggons, in string ix or eight, bringing cheese from Switzerland, andfre quently in charge, the whole line, of one man or even boy —and he very often asleep in the foremost cart—come gingling past: the horses drowsily ringing ti e bells upon their harness, and looking as if they thought (no doubt they do) their great blue woolly furniture, of immense and those weieht and thickness, with a pair of grotesque horns out of the coil h too warm for th Midsummer weather." SINGULAR DISPUTE BETWEEN TWO LORD CHANCEL LORS.—In early times the king used occasionally to deli ver to the chancellor several seals of different materials, as one of gold and one of silver, but with the same im pression, to be used for the same purpose ; and hence we still talk of " the seals being in commission," or of a par ticular individual being a " candidate for the seals," meaning the office of Lord Chancellor; although with the exception of the rival great seals used by the King and the Parliament during the civil war in the time of Cherles 1., there has not been for many centuries more than one great seal in existence at the same time. When, on a new reign, or on a change of the royal arms or style, an order is made by the Sovereign in Council for using a new great seal, the old one is publicly broken, and the fragments become the fee of the chancellor. This being the general rule, an amicable contest, honork causa, arose upon the subject between two of the most distinguished men who have ever held the office. Lord Lyndhurst was Chancel lor on the accession of William IV., when by an order in Council a new great seal was ordered to be prepared by his Majesty's chief engraver, but when it was finished and an order Iwas made for using it, Lord Brougham was chancellor. Lord Lyndhurst claimed the old great seal on theground that the transaction must be referred back to the date of the first order, and that the fruit must therefore be considered as having fallen in his time ; while Lord Brougham insisted that the point of time to be re garded was the moment when the old great seal ceased to be the "anis regni", and that there was no exception to the general rule. The matter being submitted to the king as supreme judge in such cases, his majesty equitably ad judged that the old great seal should be divided between the two noble and learned litigants, and as it consisted of two parts for making an impression on both sides of the wax appended to letters patent—one representing the so vereign on the throne, and the other on horseback—the destiny of the two parts respectively should be determined by lot. His majesty's judgment was much applauded, and he graciously ordered each part to be set in a splendid silver salver with appropriate devices and ornaments, which he presented to the late and present keeper of his conscience as a mark of his personal respect for them. The ceremony of breaking or " damasking" the old great seal consists in the sovereign giving it a gentle blow with a hammer, after which it is supposed to be broken, and has lost all its virtue.—Lord Campbell's Lives of the Lord Chancellor. SUNDAY AMONGTHE INDIANS GP ORIALLA (Berbice.) —Sunday, the wished-for day, came. Notice having been previously given that there would be divine service, it was pleasing to see the Indians with their squaws and children. coming down from the heights, and others in the light canoes gliding on swiftly,—all converging to the spot appointed for the worship of the Great Spirit. They came in their best attire. The women were prettily dressed,—if they may be called dressed, who were only covered from the waist downwards. They have beautiful heads of jet-black hair, glossy and shining, which upon this occasion was divided over the forehead, drawn behind the ears, and plaited and twisted in European style, at the back of the head. They wore a profusion of necklaces and armlets made of different-coloured beads. The men were not so particular, the dress of each being Indian ala mode, confined to a simple covering. They were, however, clean, and behaved with the greatest decorum. There were between sixty and seventy present : some sat upon the green sward, others upon logs of timber, while I took my stand beside the trunk of a venerable tamarind tree, with a rude table as desk and pulpit before me. This majestic tree spread its immense branches over the whole congregation, who were screened from the midday sun in its ample shade. The commissioner acted as clerk, while I read the beautiful liturgy of our Church in the hearing of those simple children of nature. Most of them understand, and some of them can converse in En glish. They listened with becoming attention while I endeavoured, in as plain a language as possible, to direct their thoughts to the love of God in the gift and sufferings of his beloved Son. At the conclusion of the service eleven of their little ones were presented for baptism. Some few years since, Bishop Coleridge, on the same spot, dedicated about forty of their offspring to the Almighty by the same divine right. They, with pleasure, told the circumstance. On this calm Sabbath the sight and the services were delightful. In the front, the noble river was sweeping onwards, reminding me of that graphic passage in the Acts, where it is said, "and on the Sab bath day we went out of the city by a river side, where prayer was wont to be made, and we sat down and spoke to the women who resorted thither." On every side the orange, the lime, the coffee, the banana, and the mang o trees were in bloom, interspersed with the majestic wild locust, the sand box, and those living Corinthian columns, the magnificent palms, which, while looking down from their towering altitude upon their lowly fellows of inferior growth, protected them in their parental shadows from the scorching rays In the rear was the primitive dwelling of the old man, who, with his family, were amongst the audience. All nature seemed to accord in the solemnity of the occasion : the air was cool and re freshing, charged with odoriferous fragrance from the spicy hills. Overhead the rolling clouds occasionally passed by, and threw their dark shadows down to solemn ise the scene; and the innocent birds springing from spray to spray, chimed in with their sweet notes, while we sung one of the sacred songs of Zion.—Simmonds Col. Mag. It is calculated that the number .of churches in the United States is 40,074, the number of ministers 32,563, and the number of communicants 4,456,544. It will be seen by our advertising columns, that Rod well, the musical composer, poet, dramatist, and novelist, commences a new work of fiction on the 31st. We un derstand it is to be in a perfectly different style to that of his amusing " Memoirs of an Umbrella;" but be it in what style it may, there is one thing we venture to pre dict, namely, that it will work to a moral end, and be re plete with the kindest feelings of the heart. It is not generally known that Rodwell is the author of that univer sally known farce called " Teddy the Tiler." --....,..-- THE STEAM VESSELS OF THE UNITED STATES.—But to return to the magnificent steamers on the north and east rivers. They are as , truly surprising in their dimen sions as they are convenient. and profuse in their decora tions. Fifteen steam-boats make a mile : this is a new rule of arithmetic, only found out in America, and I mention it because it is much more easy than to remem. her that they are three hundred and fifty feet long each. The Americans of all classes are a travelling people, emi nently so as confined to their own country ; but they nothing of any other countries. The United States gh, they think, to satisfy the most greedy of kn is large en filers, and the price of travelling is so cheap that, as the whole population lives in boarding-houses, it is as cheap to be travelling as to be stopping at home, if you can apply such a word as home to a boarding-house. For instance, in these moving places, which go twice a-day to Albany, one hundred and fifty miles, as far as Margate and back again, I paid two shillings, but I might have gone the same day for one shilling, by another boat not quite so new and splendid. Only think, to Margate and back for one shilling ! We sate down two hundred to dinner, and an excellent dinner we had, but it was two shillings each, rather a high price. 1 noticed that every body drank water. I hardly remember one single cork being drawn during the whole dinner; perhaps there was not one ! Now, here is a fact as truly astounding as the vast proportions and magnificent fittings of the steamer, and I thought to myself, who can stop the progress of a natton that, to an unlimited extent of fertile land, adds these two grand auxiliaries of steam and temperance ? Steam has done wonders for America, and is only in its infancy ; and yet omnipotent as it is for developing the power and wealth of the growing states, yet the univer sal diffusion of temperance is calculated to secure the greatest amount of ipdividual happiness.—Rambles in the States. EVIL RESULTS OF LONG ENGAGEMENTS. — " Yes— yes—they wear the heart out. They are very, very bad— nothing worse," said Carrington, "1 admit—were I a parent, nothing would ever induce me to suffer these con tracts, for Heaven only knows the amount of misery which they involve. Well—well—we talk sagely now ; young people often do "—he continued more cheerfully— perhaps when we grow old, we, too, shall talk wisely about ' prudential considerations.' It is a remarkable thing, Rivers, that these prudential people shoul d con stantly be doing such very imprudent things. I know nothing more imprudent than to permit an engagement betwe - en two young people at opposite ends of the world." " Prudence, like ambition, often ' overleaps itself, and falls on the other " said Rivers, " How badly do old people calculate—they are the worst reckoners in the world—they shake their heads, and talk very solemnly about the ultimate happiness' of the young. The ` ul timate happiness,' those were the words which were so often in the mouth of her father. It was very painful, he knew—separation always is painful—but to secure our eventual—our ultimate happiness—and God knows he was right, too, but not in the sense in which he desired his words to be understood. He was right—the very prudential old man ! he was right—for be did secure the ultimate happiness of his daughter—He made her happy before her time—perfect happiness—perfect peace—among the angels in heaven." Carrington felt that it would be idle to attempt to calm the deep passion of his friend with any common offerings of consolation. What could he say ? Better he thought to give free vent to the tide cf emotion—to suffer its force to expend itself. So he sat silent in his sympathy, and Rivers continued Old people, I say, are very prone to make dire mistakes. They know not—they have forgotten what youth is—and when they handle young hearts, they are utterly undon scions of the delicacy of the materials composing them. At three-score we arc apt to forget that the coldness of old age has grown upon us, not grown with us ; and when we make laws for the young, we are oblivious of the kind of people we are legislating for. It went do, Carrington —it wont do. You may sever loving hearts, and tell them to be happy—talk of prudential considerations and eventual happiness—but whilst the young hearts are learning these bitter lessons, their education is cut short by death—perhaps we might discipline our hearts in time, but they break beneath such hard schooling. So it was— so it was with her—she died—she was not strong enough —she was always very delicate—very sensitive—almost morbidly sensitive—ever apprehensive of evil—of a most excitable temperament. You could not have conceived a person less able to bear up against such trials. She said she could not bear up against them—but prudential consi derations—eventual happiness—the solemn barbarity of three-score. It was as certain, though less merciful p. l immolation, than if the old man had sacrificed his daugh ter with a sharp knife. It was agreed at last that I should return to India—that something should be done to in crease the scanty store of my poor subaltern's pay—a staff appointment—or, failing in that, promotion must come sooner or later—could not be so very far off. They say that she never smiled—that the little, it was very slight, bloom upon her cheek forsook it then—and there was not even a tinge—all so white—until there came a little round spot. And time passed. She wrote very long letters—was always writing letters—it was her only work —her only consolation—and upon this she might have lived for some time—might have been still living—but for this accursed war. When she knew I was in Affghanis tan, she ceased to hope. They did not tell me how much worse she was—nor did she ever complain—but still her letters revealed the truth. I could see, every month, that the handwriting was more feeble more tremulous—. and they were shorter, too—those dear letters — written with painful effort—and in such a strain—the letters, Arthur, of a departing saint.- And then one month, I was prepared for it, the letter was written by her mother—and I knew that she had gone to heaven—l knew that her ' eventual happiness' bad been secured." —Chapman and Hall's Monthly Series. Jan. 27, ISI6. Zfrtbs, Alarriages anti Drati)Ot BIRTHS. Aabia. Lately, the wife of Alexander Oswald, Es q ., M.P. cf cruive, of a daughter. lad' e of On the 14th instant, at Clift on -p ar k, Ch es hi re , the Captain th eW. Christian, of a son. On 16th instant, Mrs. George Robert Glover, Percy S' of a son. On the 20th instant, at Devonshire-terrace, Mrs. The 9359 Arnott, of a daughter. ie3 co4 On the 21 st instant, at Astley Hall, the wife of Thos. - Lea, Esq., High Sheriff of Worcestershire, of a son. of‘ Same day, in Mount Pleasant, Mrs. Robert Roca. , daughter. Same day, at Glasgow, who are all do. Mrs. D. Gibson, of three datighteP MARRIE Lately, at St. Philip's Church, by the D. Rev. R. L. Tov , 3„ " ,pd Mr. W. Hayes to Mrs. Shaw. On the 2nd ultimo, at the Cathedral, Bombay, by the 1,141 rable the Archdeacon, Thomas Edward Tanner, E s q ., tO Catherine, eldest (laughter of the late Theodore E. lic° 1 1:00 On the sth instant, at Castletown, county Tipperary, Mr. George Hemming, of Birmingham, toJesse Rose, )' 1 " daughter of Mr. Putland, of this town. On the Bth instant, the Hon, of the late Lurd VVrotteslev o George Rush, Esq. Elsenhan Edward Bennet, younges:o Ilen Charlotte, third dau' D e , -hall, Essex; and Farthing lodge, Northamptonshire br -ame day, at St. Giles's Church, Northampton, the gee' Kermode, incumbent of Ramsay, Isle of Man, to Jan`,,'Aire daughter of William Bishop, Esq. of Shelton-hall, Staifor; . ,: o rge Same day, at St. Michael's Church, Toicteth-park, `' l l 3 o Henry Stubbs, to Sarah, fourth daughter of the late Mr. _ . . Haybrooke, of her Majesty's Customs. ty On the lath instant. at Si. Patrick's Catholic Chapel, bld Rev. W. Parker, Mr. John Richardson. professor of 01 riaf this town, to Ann, daughter of Mr. John Stirrup, o f • War ton. _ Inlls On the 11th instant, at St. Nicholas's Church, l'ar" Davies, baker, to Frances Wilton, both of this town. to p On the 12th instant, at the Catholic Chapel attached , 0 0 lerton-park, Yorkshire, the seat of Lord Stourton, 0 1 ' sour, third son of Sir Edward Vavasour, Bart., of Hailer` , st<'hall, Tadcaster, to the Hon. Miss Mary Constantia Cliff° , coud hter of Lord Clifford, of Ugbrooke. ticef J a • On the I2th instant, at Wartnington, by the Rev. J. ~1 0 , Mr. Marshall to Sarah Garn, Fansor. The parties had 1 10 ',0: married many hours before an old sweetheart made his aPr g ia ance ; the wife, on seeing him, immediately pulled off 1 10 0 arid threw it at her husband, told him she had quite cro h him; did not intend to have anything more to do with and immediately left the house with her old beau, f Same day, at St. Nicholas's Church, Captain Campbell, vm: barque Jane, to Maria, eldest daughter of Mr. A. Dicgs° Dumfries. - —Ade. On the 13th instant, at Rayne, Essex, the Rev. Ales.:oo Fletcher, D.D., of Finsbury Chapel, London, to Lydia, da ub of Richard Baynes, Esq., of Rayne Lodge. Same day, at Rosthernley, Mr. Henry Dutton, of Tarri ° ' Jessie, daughter of the late Mr. M. Adciie, of this town. i . i g r d On the 15th instant, at Manchester, Mr. Edward Picke r ' this town, to Miss Elizabeth Davies, of the former place' Same day, at Hale Church, Mr. James Allen, surge'',sot Hale, to Dora Wilson. eldest daughter of the late Danie l M.D., of Dalston, Cumberland. Same day, the Rev. Robert Couper Black, M.A., elde.' l o S :fol 4P J. Black, Esq., of Wig town, N. 8., of Worcester College, 40 and High Leigh, Cheshire, to Elizabeth Anne, fourth da l_ " , ' Re f ) {id the Rev. W. C. Wilson, of Castel ton-hall. Same day, at St. George's Church, Everton, by the )1 , W. Ewbank, Mr. Thomas Hou.ker, solicitor, Preston, t° Cooke, of Kirkdale. On the lath instant, in St. Philip's Church, by tbe,_, tie Iliff, D.D. Mr. Augustus Tippmen Isaacson to xt e daughter of Mr. J. Furnival, leather-manufacturer. . 5 0 4 On the 19th instant, at Christ Church, Mr. Wm. Stav es watch Stanley-street, to Ellen Talbot. H. fo , "' Same day, at the Catholic Chapel, Burscough, Mr. of this town, to Miss Ann Harsnip, of Burscough. ti o On the 20th instant, at Walcot Church, Bath, by tie H. Widdrington, Rector, William Henry, se con d so n o Brooks, of this town, to Emma, fourth d a u g ht er o f Mr. Clarke, of Bennet-street, Bath. Same day, at St. Mary's Church, Ayles__ Uhthoff, Rector of limptingfield, the Rev _ _ _ bury, by the R e ' rs 4 Arthur P ea ,0 a, second chug Rector of Springf %, to Mary Isa' of Thomas Tindal, Esq., of the former place. ricll c4 Same day, at Cabra House, cou n ty o f D own, th e r es,:- r e the bride's father, by the Titular Bi s hop o f Dromore, Ge%tef Gartlan, Esq., of Carrickmacross, to Mary, e ld e st clang Alexander M'Mullen. Esq., J.P. Same day, at St. Philip's Church, . , Mr. James Cooper to Itti Agnes Gr On the 21st instant, at St. George's Church, Hanoverl,f London, Walter Long, eldest so n o f W a lt er L ong , e I of Road Ashton, Wilts, to Harriet Averina, only child of r e. . John Owen Herbert, Esq., of Dolforgan, Montgomerysl ev ! Same day, at Daresbury Church, Thomas R o bi n son, ," Warrington, to Fanny, daughter of the late J. Gleave, Moore. Same day, the Hon. and Rev. W. T. Law, charcel:or ofy o tf diocese of Bath and Wells, son of the late Lord Ellenho r o ., to Matilda, second daughter of the late Sir Henry 0 * , gomery, Bart, On the 22n at Daresbury Church, near IVarr,l, by tue Rev Mary, daug .. Shearley, Mr. John Antwis, of this to`;. ;hter of the late Mr. Hollinsworth. of Reckw l b,"o instant, at Altcar Church, by th e Rev. de Mr. William Warner. ARcar.hall, to Ann, of Mr. Richard Goore Balshaw, Altcar. On thi Fc rshan DIED On the 15th November 1 st, by falling overboard 1 5 Essequebo Riven James Ikl'C°l'll he had been for the benefit of h ui unz ~..e , Drn eerara It T e io ielancholly: ffl.„dej portunities of observir, Te his most obl :ging temper friendly manner 6" and the John 0 , 0 r , ,nd son of the la` On the 3rd December, at China, or n his 26th year flichard Fell, currier. rae s On the 16th December, on bo - trd the ship Alfred, ••3 to tt Boddy, of Penzance, on his passage from Ne w Orleacs port. Pi On the 6th ultimo, at Barbadoes, in the 63rd year of 13i9 James Pairman, Esq., late Postmaster of the island. of On the 17th ultimo, at Niagara, West Canada, aged s "' Lieutenant-Colonel William Elliott, K.H., in command Majesty's R,yal Canadan Rifles. fet id On the I.Bth ultimo, suddenly, whilst preaching a e4 l , sermon in the Pan h Church of Spaxton, of which place 1 1, 0 1 sector, in the 51st year of his age, the Rev. Wm. Henry fide, Same day, at Naples, Dr, John Clarke, KAI ,of SP AI Dumfriesshire, and Deputy Inspector-General of the Hospitals. On the 7th instant, at the Pieta, Malta, in the 87 age, the Right lion. Jhn Hookam Frere. On the 13th instant, John Hookam 'rere. On the 13th instant, in Old Halls-street, of abscess of tn- a e Charlotte Dean, relict of the late Richard Dean, grocer , lingering illness of four months, during which she void quently the subject of severe sufferings, but ever PO c h ei l i rich consolations of union wiih Christ by faith. In life s o eminently devoted to the service of God. She died as t e liever in Jesus desires to die—possessing the blessefle 11 year oI dying in the Lord. On the 14th instent 480 1 l'e ... feel, Isle of Man, in an - his Age, deeply regretted, Wm. Kinley, Esq., advocate , member of the House of Keys. da O ug n ht t e h r e of ls tl t i h e l i a n t s e tl ß n ig t ht M li rs On . Frances George et t RO Se ' Same day, in Hyde Park Gardens, London, Sir ° Comp.on, Knight, late chief justice of Bombay. lt Same day, at Bruton, in the hosp tal of Hugh SeXer II Biss, who was with, a few days of completing her 06 0 having been born 2nd of February, 1738. fd On the ifth instant, at Bath, Ann, widow of Fletcher I, Esq., of Pulteney.street, London ; numerous charities r ie e„ don felt her munificence, and she founded the c°' c iaf Bath for the reception of widows and dau g ht ers o f the , d other professions, _. ....F' Same day, at his residence, Bretlands, Surrey, Cha s ' Esq., son of the late Charles Win. Blunt, third baronet.. 4, Same day, at Foden.bank, Macclesfield, Cheshire. Al";,ei of W. S. r ewhold, Esq., and third daughter of the late Loxham, Rector of Halsall. Same day, at Kirkdale, aged 41 years, Mr. John Binns' officer of her Majesty's excise. On the 17th instant, at Cork, Redmond O'Driscoll, „ had for thirty years, up to February, 1844, been the P„'t 9 o of the Cork Southern Reporter, and who was well know n highly respected by all connected with the Irish press. 4, 7 Same day, at Tr gayan, aged 80 years, Robert 1 ,1°) Vice-Admiral of the white. ar.il Same day, at Selattyn, near Oswestry, in the 60th Y e ,,ir age, the Rev. G. N. K. Lloyd, A.M, Rector of that 1 , "" A nearly 35 years, 141% uay, at Preston, in the 7;st year of his age, - Rishton, corn-merchant. fSe t ; Same day, at his residence, Mont-le-Grand, near to j 7 7 th year,Captain Gilbert Wakefield, late of her '- .Dth Foot. Same day, Mr. Richard Kelly, attorney. On the lath and 20th instant, from the e rfe c ts of 5 4c -01; 0 0' 3 of Dr. 3' Tydesley, near Leigh. 1 C 0467 e 1 On the 18th instant aged c 7 years, Mr. E. J. N.-• o cri surgeon of the barque Celt, of this port, formerly of N 13 , 3 ,4 4 ', Same day, aged 43, Ann, wife of J. Smith, Esq., of "0 4 street, and eldest daughter of the late K. Tomlinsoo , forthwith. 6 5 Same day, Frederick, infant son of Mr. D. flowlan , i - , 0 Same day, at Preston, Mrs. Clarkson, wife of Wr. J. 4 , _ ~ . of this town. fr On the igth instant, at Aix-la-Chapelle, i n the 88tP ii is age, Sir John Rousellet Whit e : oo rd, Kt., K.H. D OI Same day, in Saville-row, London, Lady CunYog Al Milncraig day, in Hope-street, aged 68 years, it Abbotsford Hotel, Se acom b e , Capt— io Gordon. Same da), Oman. 04 , Same day, in her 21st year, Jane, wife of Mr. J. Loddington Hall, Northamptonshire, second daugh'Xf til Routledge, Esq., of Wavertree, and granddaughter v Very Riv. Wm. Routledge, Dean of Same day, et Salford, su denly, ar Ile maintained his mental and ieasoniug moment. ged 93, Mr. Jer e ti ) • e_ to ~ities ' of Same day, at Everton, aged 60, Elizabeth, wif e 1 1,, Tetley. On the 2nth instant, at her residence, Bedf r--stre et Abereromby square, Mrs. Wa dington. S: me day, at Everton, aged 57 years, Mr. Georg brewer. O P Same : day, at Rusholme, Aline Waite, wife of 011 g A Esq., of this town. 9 Same day, in Westbourne-st ree t , Cheltenham, a-ff ed NO Miss Parkington, daughter o f t h e l ate S i r Her bert x of W:estwoocl-park, Worcestershire. der Same day, Mr. Th mas Mottersh ea d, provision - , Chester. , _ Same day, at fathom, aged 64, Mr. John Bimsoo• Je e p Same day, at Acomb, near York, in his 77th Ye s. 9, Wilkinson, Esq„ formerly manager of the York, Ho" theatres, On the 21st instant, at her house, in the Circos.;o4 82 years, Charlotte, relict of the late Lieut.-G eil o si,;(o Cameron, and daughter of the late Sir William Gn r d Same day, deservedly respected, in her S2nd yea r ", 1 - . 3) relict of the late Mr. Thomas Leftwich, of LOW ' dp London. wil e On the 22nd instant, aged 36 years, Harriet, vri ~pr Lee, plumber, Essex-street, Toxteth-park. • rb' Ov *.a? Same day, at Derby Cottage, Bootle, Mrs. Eliza of Duke-street, relict of the late Mr. John Gunn ill J Same day, at his residence in Wilton.street, in b l 5 0 Henry Gardner, Esq. 50 , rh Same day, aged 28 years, Mr. G eo r g e Hunterrft. o 4)1 1 lessor of music, of this town. Vail Same day, Anne Eliza, infant daughter of M r * cf' St. J ude's.tert ace. liter dila infant ,,, Same day, aged In months, Emily, the ilq Brooks P. Bilborough, of Myrtle-street South. ria, which he bore with Christian fortitude, Hog e e), Same day, at Newton-in-the-Willows, after a „ 1 . ,t aged 6 ' d ' . ,tfrji Robert Picton, of the firm R. and I. Picton, 11 °_ A ° wile n I demy, in this town. He was esteemed and belov e d .0 I and his death is sincerely regrette d . Mr. Same day, aged 3 years, G. Singleton, son o f e r i Sharpies, of Crown-street. ~,,.ups''' I On the 23td instant, at his residence, 3 1 , m — fir ; Mr. Robert Lemon, aged 66 years. A 5B, .ffeu ....v On the 24th instant, suddenly, of apoplexy, m. - IP, Wilson, Esq.. Old Swan, West Derby. / mope On the 25th instant. aged 2 years and • , r . in ate- sr- Alfred, son of Mr. William Parr, Grey-street , l ie d Same day, aged 43 years, Charlotte Eleanor, Vi I E. Evans, vicar of Lianarmon, near Ruthin. A -1,44R144 V 4 iso. 844(le: 't ot 81, 0 , * lti l J oi (IN syt Si ngs ay, E r , y ak 17th , ha vin tit th Al a ac fo r t 4 ' l ark and l 0 a Li u v h4el,•tai Pw, La~ w ~ ( to Ito Wards VEs Oft Ca I " tat talent AliceJos :1•0r, Tha Cob and trot Er A len nary for 6