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164 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*