The daily national Whig. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1847-1849, 1847-09-13
A DAY DURING THE EPIDEMIC.


continue, we regret to have it to state, says the
New Orleans Delta OF the I'd inst. in unmiti-
gated force. The avenues Leading TO the city
cemeteries continue, from early morning ul
days latest hour, an unbroken succession Of
funera! trains. The shaking of the black plumes
of hearse after hearse, as ii numbers along with
lis lifeless occupant, the victim OF lew hours
sickness, seems 10 admonish the healthy and
the quick Of how sudden is the transition from
vigor and life 10 death and ~ grave!
What pervadng picture OF sorrow, sick,
ness, and mortality, is there around us! All,
all tc ne epidemic's death doings. Every
whcr e footsteps Of the destroying angel
may be traced There is the young widow,
whose bridal ties had been suddenly sundered
ere her first marriage moon had waned-tLere
now is she, instead OF being attired in joys
robes Of spotless whitennss, dressed in her sable
suit of wo. The craped arm Of almost every
man one meets, tells Of the sudden dissolution
of some lamented brother, linked with the
wearer in fellowship's bonds, whose warp and
wool friendship, love, and truth.
Let us paint the sorrowing panorama Of one
day. See that poor widowed Irishwoman.
Solitary and alone she follows the hearse fur
nished by public charity, in which is The corpse
of her husband, TO the Po,ter's Field. How
plainiive her cry! how painfully sincere her
sorrow! "2
" 0 ,ri,ra sthrue," she says, or ratl er sings,
in her own peculiar, plaintive, and naturally
poetic style Of lamentation--
O uirra sitrue, was il for this
That crossed with you the salt says!
o, sure if we sted and even starved at home,
Wouldn't the praist say mass for your sow,
Ard wouldn't the neighbors cry at your wake.
o Nlick, a cushla If the fayver took me,
Wouldn't l in death be happy by your side;
But now, your Roses heart you've left TO withcr,
Far away from the bush on which il grew"
So she continued her mouody, needless Of
where she was, and no, caring who heard her,
I'LL she passed from our sight turning up the
Bayou road. She was uuaccUmpanied by a
human being, save the negro who slowly
drove the hearse; and had Sterne, or My
Uncle Toby, seen that honest son of Africa,
it would be no longer question Of doubt with
him, if the negro have soul7 The big tears
that trickled down the round, black, polished
cheek Of that poor fellow, on hearing the
stricken Irishwoman's song of sorrow, settle
The question. The negro has soul.
Here we meet an honest Dutchman, within
whose stolid exterior there beats kind heart,
oveIhowing with all the domestic affections.
See, he carries on his shoulder, like another
ST. Andrew, a rudely constructed and still
more rudely painted small wooden Cross, He
is taking it to the graveyard to place i, at the
head OF his wife, who died Of the epidemic
and whom he buried yesterday The inscrip.
ton on it is in the tongue of lader-land il
bespeaks the husbands hear,-s,roke, and is
brief, touching, and simple.
But who IS this man whom we meet now,
that steps quick and unlike almost every one
else that one sees; has busting, business
kind OF air about him 4? 1t is the undertaken
Business with him is at its briskest point
Death mows down an abundant crop, and he
gamers the gains His hay, he feels, is not
made while the sun shines, but while the
clouds OF mortality lower over the city /; and
ne improves the occasion, as perhaps he
should, 10 swell the profits Of his business.
That gentleman who, smoking his segar, so
Ieisurely rides along in his gig, is one of our
city physicians. He seems well pleased with
himself and the world: no, because his pres.
ent professional services bring him in ample
lucrative returns, but because he feels he has
just now rescued fellow being from the
grave, and the luxury Of doing good is TO him
true enjoyment
He that hurries along with the small, oblone.
well polished mahogany box under hi, arm, is
"a phlebotomis,, and is equally an adept al DE.
plelins the system and the pocket He is
physically and financially bleeder.
Hdrk! there is music. How strangely il
sounds in a city Of mourning! No, now tina,
1t is more distinctly heard, not discordantly
strange for It's solemn. slow, prolonged no,e.
Tell that il is not meant to inspire the living
with miuh, but TO atiune the mind to regre
for lie dead See it is corps Of our citizen
soldiers, following to the grave a comrade sud
dealy stricken from their ranks, and called Il
muster before TIE INSPECTION OFFICER Of tn
Universe. How changed the tone of the drum
ln'iead OF being hoarse as the cry of the war
charge, II Is full, mournful, and sonoro us
and the ear-piercing fife is transformed into al
instrument Of pity exciting, plaintive music.
Who is this numerous band that we mex
meet, seeming half citizen and haIfesOldier
whose costume, appearance, and pS6vess
remind one OF the invincble Roman lcgions
See, their colors are craped, and stern regre
pervades their features. They are our cit!
firemen, or portion Of them, who are paying
This last token Of rsspect TO victim Of The
epidemic--a brother 6seRsn. u
How cherries seem tSes,reets! Aud the
Exchanges, where men were wont 10 d5ngre
xa,e. how deserted! Yonder, and yonder