d and called of God. Such were the reflections
that passed through his mind before he could be induced to perpetrate
this serious violation of the settled rules of a life, this single blot
and stain on a career of unbroken self-abnegation. With a sigh, he took
his seat in the omnibus.

It was his last ride.

In a cold, desolate, dreary, brick building, constituting almost the
only visible sign of the existence of the town of McDonoghville, situate
on the right bank of the Mississippi, opposite to the centre of
New-Orleans, and in a large room, the furniture of which was
old-fashioned, worn, and time-stained, there lay on a small hard
mattress the gaunt figure of the millionaire, tortured with pain and
fast sinking under the ravages of that terrible disease, the Asiatic
cholera. The only beings near were negroes; no white persons were ever
allowed to spend the night under that roof. Those negroes were the rich
man's slaves in law, but companions and friends in fact. His immense
business, his vast estates were administered through them. Even his
documents were copied by them. They were true to him in his moment of
distress and sickness. All that their limited knowledge of medicine
could suggest was done for his relief. At last, in disregard of his
command, a physician was brought from the city, who pronounced his
condition a very critical one. The doctor's first demand was for brandy.

'Massa, there an't bin no brandy in this house for twenty years,' was
the reply of an old, gray-headed domestic.

A servant was dispatched to the nearest grocery; but it proved to be too
late. The dying man perceived his condition, and requested that his
lawyer should be sent for. In an hour that gentleman arrived. He was
just in time.

'Roselins,' he said, addressing one of the most eminent of the lawyers
of the New-Orleans bar, as he held his hand, 'You see I am going; you
see I am not afraid to die. Take care of the estate; 'tis not mine,'tis
God's and the poor's.' And thus, without a struggle, the soul of John
McDonogh passed to its Maker.

His death was truly a desolate one. No devoted relatives or friends
gathered around his couch to cheer his last moments with those tender
tokens of love and sorrow which so sweeten the otherwise bitter cup of
death. No soft hand of woman smoothed his pillow or relieved the agony
of pain and suffering by the timely opiate or emollient. No weeping
little ones were there to cheer his heart with t