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the next, and the next; but one day he hap
pened to have no money.
“ So, neighbor,” said the wine-seller, “ you
don’t take a drop, to-day.”
“Why, to tell the truth,” replied the cob
bler, “ 1 would if 1 had the change.”
“Never mind,” said the wine-seller, “come
and take a drink; you can pay me some oth
er time.”
But the cobbler’s paying time never came,
and the wine-seller dunned him over and over
again, and got nothing but promises—the
cobbler drinking every day as usual; “for it
is a pity to lose so good a customer,” thought
the wine-seller.
Every body knows (which every body
means all one’s acquaintance,) that on Sun
day all Parisians, high and low, dress in their
best, and find amusement where they can.—
Now, our cobbler’s best suit was a gray coat
with plated buttons, sky-blue pantaloons, shi
ning boots, and a white hat; and the merci
less wine-seller found means to get the latter,
together with the gray coat with plated but
tons, into his possession, and swore that he
would not give them up until he was paid
every sous. The cobbler prayed, begged, en
treated him to release them but for that day,
for he had contracted to dance the first cotil
lion with his sweetheart, and was engaged to
dine at his cousin’s. But it would not do;
the wine-merchant bid him go about hisbusi
siness, which the cobbler literally did, for he
went home and began to work and sing with
all his might, to drown the noise of his neigh
bor’s violin ; and at night he went to bed as
melancholy as any cobbler in Paris. u La
vengeance est le plaisir des dieux ,” says the
proverb, and our cobbler awoke the next
morning as gay as ever, for he* had thought
of a way to revenge himself. He threw out
before his door some bits of bread, which his
neighbor’s fowls very kindly picked up. The
next day the same thing, with the same suc
cess, and the third and fourth days the fowls
were willing to enter his shop, and to save
him the trouble of feeding them without. No
sooner all within, than the fowls were pris
oners, and the cobbler fell to work and filled
a pillow-case with feathers, which he plucked
clean off the poor creatures, one by one, and
then sent them perishing home, naked as they
were born. One sleeps well on a good con
science ; but the cobbler found his pillow of
revenge quite as soothing, for he slept sound
ly upon it. The wine-seller, however, soon
wakes him with a loud knocking.
“Halloa, neighbor, somebody has been
plucking my fowls, and they say they were
been coming nut of your shop.”
“Pray, neighbor, who told you so ?” ask
ed the cobbler.
“Why, the apple-woman and baker’s
wife.”
“They arc right,” said the cobbler.
“May I presume to ask who plucked my
sow ls,” asked the wine-seller.
“No presumption at all,” replied the cob
bler, “you may ask.”
“ And can you tell rre who plucked them?”
“Nothing easier. I did it.”
“ What, you 1”
“Yes.”
“ And may I ask why you took the liberty
of undressing my fowls?”
r “Certainly you may, and I will answer.
You must know that, for something less than
a week, your fowls have lived at my ex
pense, without paying me a sous, and that is
the reason why I undressed them, as you call
it. When I get pay for my bread, they shall
have their feathers.”
“But this is horrible cruelty,” said the
wine-seller.
“ Not more so than undressing mo last Sun
day,” said the cobbler.
“But what have you done with the feath
ers?”
“ Made a capital pillow.”
“ Then I’ll 6ue you,” said the wine-seller.
“Do as you please,” replied the cobbler,
“and how the 6uit will end, nobody knows,
not even the lawyers.”
“ Where is tne hoe, Sambo ?” *’ Wid de
rake, massa.” “Well, where is the rake?”
Why, wid de hoe!” “Well, well—where are
they both ?” “ Why, both togedder, massa—
you ’pears to be berry ’ticular dis morning !
A negro, undergoing an examination
at Northampton, Mass., when asked if his
master was a Christian, replied: “No, sir, he’s
a member of congress !”
“Boy, what is your name ?” Robert,
sir.” “Well, what is your other name ?’’
“ Bob.”
30 and a quarter square yards make
a perch, how many will make a shad ? If 40
perches make one rood, how many will make
one polite?
S ® ®‘tFGa (S M Oafllf MAM ©ASHTFITB,
Sketches of £ifc.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
MY UNCLE SIMON’S PLANTATION ;
—OR
SKETCHES OF SOUTH ER N LIFE.&C.
BY ABRAHAM GOOSEQUILL, ESQ.
DEATH OF EPHRAIM.
“ Pallida mors aequo pulsat pode pauperura taber
nas, Reguraque turres. — Hor. B. 1., O. 4.
“Pale death advances with impartial tread
To strike the menial, and the royal head.”
Since my last, the King of Terrors has paid
us a visit, and borne off another victim to the
silent mansion of the dead. But why should
I call death the King of Terrors? I have al
ways thought that instead of looking upon
the grave as a place of gloomy wo, and drea
ry desolation, we should look upon it as the
couch upon which to rest our weary bodies,
tired down in the race of life—to regard it as
a pillow upon which to lay the aching head,
where throbbing pain may no more disturb
our repose—to feel that it is the bosom of our
parent Earth, where our hearts, broken with
sorrow, may rest as they did in the days of
our childhood upon the breast of our mother,
and no more feel the wound that destroys our
peace.
The man who leads a virtuous life, and, all
through the journey of existence, comes as
near being a disciple of the meek and lowly
Jesus, as frail, fallen human nature will al
low him to be, though he must often mourn
that he cannot live in a holier and higher state,
all along feels that
“ There is a calm for those who weep ;
A rest for weary pilgrims found.”
That calm and that rest are found in the
grave.
Poor Ephraim, one of the favorite negroes
of both my uncle and aunt, has gone “where
the wicked cease from troubling, and the wea
ry are at rest.” He died, not like a philoso
pher, but like a Christian. In his last mo
ments he showed that mercy and salvation
are not for the high alone, but that even the
poor negro, who is compelled to serve in bond
age for a short time in life, is equal to the
monarch in death.
When Ephraim was a babe, his father and
mother both died, and my aunt Parmela had
him brought to the kitchen, and daily, had a
good portion of food administered to him un
der hei own eye. He grew finely; and by
and by after he had gotten so that he could
walk about, he did not play over the yard
with the other little negroes, but took his seat
every day upon the steps of the porch, near
where my aunt was seated employed in sew
ing, and amused her with his prattle. When
ever she went to the hen-house to get eggs,
or in the garden to get vegetables for dinner,
Ephraim would insist upon his right to wad
dle along by her side and offer her any assist
ance in his power. When he had arrived at
the age of five or six years, he was in reality
a good deal of assistance to his mistress, and
his help increased as he grew older. When
meal time came, Ephraim was certain to have
some of the best the table afforded, as a re
ward for his fidelity, and the love he bore to
wards his mistress. This, he thankfully re
ceived, not because he really thought himself
entitled to it; he looked upon it only as a fa
vor. His greatest happiness seemed to con
sist in being able to serve aunt Parmela, and
that service carried with it its own reward.
Not only was aunt Parmela very much at
tached to Ephraim, but uncle Simon also lov
ed and petted him. I have mentioned my un
cle’s fondness for feeding stock. Whenever
a hog or sheep is missing from the feeding
place, he mounts his horse with a little bas
ket of corn swung on his arm, and never stops
until he finds the stray one of the flock, if in
the land of the living. In these excursions,
Ephraim used to ride behind him, which de
prived aunt Parmela of 60 much enjoyment
during his absence, that she never would have
consented to his thus going away, had it not
been a* pleasure to both him and my uncle.
Another reason why she would let him ride
out with my uncle, was, that he seemed to
have his cup of happiness filled so much full
er than usual when he returned to take his
seat at her feet, and tell over in his childish,
simple way, the adventures he met with in his
search for the stray hog or sheep. Uncle Si
mon seemed to enjoy these recitals as much
as aunt Parmela; for Ephraim was almost
certain to have noted something which pass
ed by the old man unnoticed; and even when
this was not the case, there was so much of
naivete in his manner of telling things that it
would have amused any one to hear him.
After the poor boy had finished a narration
of what he had seen, he would then add : “ I
am so glad to see you, Mistress —heap glad
der than if I had not gone away.” And is
not the force of the truth contained in what
he uttered, consoling to the heart of every
one ? We are forced to part with friends
near and dear as our own hearts in this land
of pilgrimage; but at the same time, we are
made glad in the thought that this very sepa
ration will be conducive to our happiness
when we meet again. When poor Ephraim
was lying upon his dying pillow, and his chief
concern seemed to be that he was doomed to
part with his fond master and mistress, I could
but picture in my own mind the joyful meet
ing that would take place in another world,
between the humble slave and those whom
he so faithfully served on earth. The ex
pression which this negro servant so often
uttered to aunt Parmela, when he returned
from his excursions with uncle Simon, then
first came across my mind in all its force. I
fancied that I could see my aunt and her sable
friend eagerly grasping each other’s hand in
the world where parting is no more, and he
uttering, in the language of that world, the
sentiment contained in the expression : “ I
am so glad to see you, Mistress—heap glad
der than if I had not gone away ; and as my
fancy dwelt upon the picture, a truant tear
trickled down my cheek in spite of my deter
mination never to weep in public when I can
help it.
A friend once said to me that he would not
mind dying, if all his friends could go with
him into the world of futurity; but, that the
thought of leaving behind those who were
near and dear made death the King of Terrors
to him. My friend had never fully felt the
force of the sentiment contained in the expres
sion of the negro philosopher, whose life my
pen both joyfully and mournfully commem
orates. Even upon the verge of the tomb vve
may find some consolation in the thought,
that in another world, one of the elements
which will go to make up our happiness, will
be our long absence from friends whom we
shall there meet.
Time passed on, and Ephraim became a
field hand. Whenever he had a moment of
leisure, however, he would spend it in the
dwelling-house, or as near it as possible. At
meal times he still made his appearance to
partake of the bountiful cheer always pre
pared for my uncle’s table. On Sundays he
would insist upon driving Aunt Parmela to
church—a right which was very readily
granted him by the regular carriage-driver,
who improved the opportunity thus afforded
him to pay his fellow-servants of the neigh
borhood the visits which he had been devising
during the week. After his return from
church, Ephraim would spend his time with
my pious aunt, who read the Bible to him,
and guided his feet in the ways of holiness.
’Tis true, my aunt does not possess a knowl
edge of the Hebrew, and therefore does not
make such a commentator upon the Word of
God as Dr. Doddridge or Dr. Clark. But
then she could explain the sublime simplici
ties of Gospel truihs to Ephraim’s compre
hension, in a manner which would perhaps
have surpassed either of the learned Doctors
whose names I have just mentioned. This i
a remarkable feature which I have always
noted in the Word of Eternal Truth :it is all
things to all men, and contains different mean
ings to men of different capacities. To the
man who can barely read, it speaks in the
language of simplicity, which is unsurpassed
by any book in existence; while to the
learned man and the philosopher, it thunders
in tones of eloquence which never responded
to the touch of a Homer’s lyre, or waked to
life upon the tongue of a Demosthenes or
Cicero. It is at the same time the plainest
and the most abstruse, the simplest and
sublimest book that ever did, or ever will
lend its pages to delight the fancy, and give
practical lessons in life, present and eternal
The poor African slave, under the instruction
of my aunt, received from it both pleasure
and instruction.
One day my aunt had gone off in the
neighborhood to see a friend, and stay all
night. That evening Ephraim came home
with a burning hot fever, and laid down to
rest upon his bed, which proved to him the
bed of death. He complained of extreme
pain in the head and stomach, and all night
tossed from side to side upon a sea of fevered
excitement. It was in vain that the family
physician was sent for, and all done that hu
man means could invent to ease his sufferings.
His fever increased and the pain in his head
and stomach grew -worse. Next morning
aunt Parmela came home, and he seemed
overjoyed to see her, forgetting for a while
the suffering consequent upon his attack.—
He told her that he was very sorrow that she
was not at home the night before, for although
everything had been done for him that he
could wish for, it wms not done as she could
have done it. He complained that Dr. Plain
speech was too rough with him, and that the
medicine which he gave him, tasted so much
worse than it did when he received it from
her hand.
All that could be done for the poor invalid
gave him no relief. Aunt Parmela was as
unintermitting in her attentions to him as if
he had been her own child, and all her efforts
were seconded by those of uncle Simon. On
the third or fourth day of his attack, it be
came evident that he must die. It is useless
for me to describe the various scenes of the
sick bed. The night of the ninth day was
the time of his dissolution. The clock had
struck eleven, and Ephraim just then aroused
from a slumber which he had been enjoying
for nearly an hour. The night was clear,
and the moon was shining in all her loveli
ness. Everything was still except tne chirp
ing cricket, and a light breeze that fluttered
through the foliage of the large oaks in my
uncle’s yard, sporting with the silvery moon
beams, that stopped on the wav to dally with
the quivering leaflets. As it left the oaks, it
was next heard in a low, murmuring moan,
among the pine-tops not far off. The old
watch-dog lying on the steps, as if conscious
that
“The angel of death spread his wings on the blast,”
gave one or two low, doleful howls, and
then sunk again to his slumbers, while a
horned owl in the neighboring swamp gave
three hoots, and was then silent. The howl
of the dog and the voice of the owl awaked
the negroes from their sleep, and at the same
time awoke superstition in their bosoms; so
that when it was announced one hour after
wards that Ephraim was dying, they were all
prepared for the event.
After Ephraim had aroused from his slum*
her, he desired that the curtain, which had
been kept down, might be thrown aside, in
order for him to look once more upon the
moon and the stars. A.bout this time, a few
fleecy clouds passed over ‘ the lesser light,’and
threw their shadows in fitful darkness upon
the opposite wall. Ephraim gazed upon the
scene which unfolded itself through the win
dow, and while thus gazing again fell asleep*
He slept about half an hour, and awaked fif*