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teen minutes before midnight. To aunt Par
mela, who was standing by his bed-side, be
said, **Mistress, I am going to die now, and
I'm mighty uneasy for fear you won’t have
anybody to wait on you like I did. When
they carry me off in the grave-yard and bury
me, you musn’t forget to come and see me
sometimes. I don’t want you to forget me.
But I can’t get up out of the grave to fix you
a seat in the shade, so that y<m may rest
yourself after you get there.” This last
thought seemed to give him a good deal of
trouble, until at last his countenance beamed
as if some pleasant idea had awakened in
his mind, which he expressed thus: turning
to uncle Simon, he said: “Master, please
sir, have me buried close by mammy's grave,
and then have that big flat rock lying close
by there rolled to the head of my grave for
Mistress to set on when she comes to see
me.” All that he requested was promised by
my uncle and aunt, who did and said all they
could to comfort him in his dying hour. He
still, however, seemed unhappy at the thought
that he was about to leave his mistress, whom
he believed no one could serve as well as he.
Finally 7 , every obstacle to his passage across
the river of death was removed by the con
clusion that he would precede aunt Parmela
into the other world, and prepare everything
for her reception by the time she made her
departure from earth. He expressed this
thought to my aunt, and at the same time
told her that •“ he would ask the good Lord
where she would stay when she got to Hea
ven, so that he might get everything ready
against she got there; and then,” he added,
“how happy I shall be to meet you, and show
you your house, where I shall serve you for
ever.” He then bade us all good-bye, and
as he shook hands with each of the negroes
around his bed, exhorted them all to be faith
ful and good servants to his Mistress and
Master. Doing this, he breathed his last.
Several things struck me in the last say
ings of poor Ephraim, as exhibiting some
prominent traits ever attendant upon human
nature, under all circumstances. He express
ed a wish not to be forgotten. This was that
desire for posthumous fame which is alike
characteristic of the poet, philosopher, states
man, warrior, and menial slave. The idea
that oblivion will overshadow us when we
are gone from earth—that the heart, upon
which sorrow inflicted the deepest w 7 ound
by our death, will soon be healed by the balm
of joy springing from some other sources, and
will be possessed by an object of affection
fully as dear as, perhaps dearer than, our
selves, is a thought from which the contem
plation turns with a sensation peculiarly
blighting. This desire to be remembered af
ter death, which is found in every heart, is
wisely planted there by the Creator, to ex
cite us to virtue, and to deeds of noble daring:,
while the tendency to forget those who are
dead, is as wisely planted there to prevent
our affections clinging to inane objects, which
would thereby crowd off other objects of love
that might turn our grief into joy. Did we
not all possess some desire for posthumous
tame, one incentive to a virtuous life would
be taken away; and did not a tendency to
forget those who are dead exist in human
nature, the death of a friend would render
our stay on earth miserable.
1 also observed in poor Ephraim’s case, as
* ave done in many others, that the idea of
Heaven adapts itself to the capacity of dif
ferent beings, according to their pursuits on
earth, and the idea that they here have of
Perfect happiness. Heaven, to every man,
the full realization of the circumstances
give him most enjoyment on earth.—
he poor red man of the forest believes that,
m another world, the Great Spirit will grant
d'n a country where there is an abundance
0 game, in hunting which, he can sate him
,e f with that pleasure, of whose fulness he
had but a foretaste on earth. The good old
fthodist woman, whose chief enjoyment
SBSTFiagiaiH s a a i irtg[EAta¥ ©assififs*
here is in pouring out her heart to God in
songs and shoutings, imagines that Heaven
will be one continued round of love-feasts,
prayer and camp meetings. The philosopher
believes that, in eternity, he will employ him
self in seeing
Avd travelling far along the endless line
Os certain and of probable ; and make,
At every step, some new discovery,
That gives the soul sweet sense of larger room.”
T he poor African slave believes, as was evino
ed in the case of Ephraim, that he will spend
his time in living an humble and devoted ser
vant. Would the heaven of either of those
whom I have mentioned be a heaven to the
other ? Is not God great ? Is not Jehovah
wise I His hands that formed the human
heart, know they not skillful cunning 1
But lo return to poor Ephraim. The eve
ning after his death, we buried him just as
he desired, and all offered at the shrine of his
memory a votive tear. As the last clod had
been returned to its place, the following lines
from Poll ok came forcibly across my mind:
“ The word philosophy he never heard,
Or science ; never heard of liberty,
Necessity ; or laws of gravitation ;
And never had an unbelieving doubt.
* * * * * *
He lived—
Lived where his father lived —died where he died—
Lived happy, and died happy, and was saved.
Be not surprised : —he loved and served his God.”
JTomgn Comsponbcnce.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
LETTERS FROM SCOTLAND—NO. 1.
Edinburgh, August 10, 1848.
My Dear R .• I have been in this beau
tiful city a whole week, and this is really the
first interval of leisure that I have been able
to find for resuming my correspondence with
you : and were it not that I feel myself more
than half pledged to the readers of the “Ga
zette” for a letter from this place, I should be
tempted to defer writing until after my re
turn hither from the Highlands.
In company with my friend D , his
wife and daughters, and also our mutual
friends, H and his wife, I left London on
the 20th ultimo. Our route hither has been
circuitous and leisurely. D desired to
visit Liverpool on some commercial business,
and I, of course, had no objection. We
spent three days in Liverpool, which reminds
me more of New York than any English city
I have yet seen. It is the most commercial
place in the kingdom —being the great port of
the manufacturing districts. There, too, ar
rive the majority of merchant ships from all
parts of the. world. Its fine position on the
Mersey gives it a preeminence as a naval de
pot over all other towns. The appearance of
business in Liverpool is very striking. The
quays are thronged with grain, cotton, and
other imports, as also with the innumerable
exports of the United Kingdom. I cannot
sufficiently express my admiration of the Li
verpool docks, which far surpass in extent
and solidity, as in facility for loading and un
loading ships, all others in the world. By
human ingenuity and skill, the only obstacle
to making Liverpool accessible to the largest
ships—which was the vast fluctuation of her
tide waters —has been overcome, and now in
her wonderful docks the mighty ship is main
tained at a suitable elevation for receiving or
discharging her cargo, irrespective of the state
of the tide in the river. These docks are
very numerous and of vast extent, and no
greater proof could be adduced of the prince
ly wealth of the merchants of that city. I
will not detain your readers with even a
glimpse at Liverpool. The city is not par
ticularly attractive, apart from its grand com
mercial features. It has many splendid build
ings, however, among which the Exchange
and the Town Hall are conspicuous.
From Liverpool we proceeded by rail-way
to Manchester. The English rail-way sta
tion-houses, or depots as we term them in
Yankeedom, arc generally specimens of elab
orate architecture, and not always in the best
of taste. The one at Liverpool, however, is
very imposing—presenting a facade of Co
rinthian columns over 300 feet in length. An
English rail-road as far surpasses those in our
country, in all its appointments, as our North
River and Eastern steamboats exceed those of !
the Thames. Perhaps I ought not to say in ;
all its appointments, for the third and fourth, !
and even the second class cars on nearly all
English rail-ways, are as uncomfortable as
they can possibly be made; and the aristo
cratic tendencies and prejudices of the coun
try demand this distinction between these
and the first class carriages, to which last,
however, our loads present nothing compara
ble. The luxuriance of a first class presents
a contrast with the inconvenience of the third
class, as great as that between the peer and
the peasant. The former is furnished with
elegant arm chairs, three in a row, into one
of which you may withdraw yourself, if you
be so disposed, from all about you. Lamps
burn at mid-day, but only visible in the other
wise gloomy depths of a tunnel. The head
has its cushions movable at pleasure—the
feet their cushioned stools, and in short, lux
uriance marks every arrangement. But wo
to the unfortunate wight who, with a notion
of economy in his head, enters a third class
car —I may no longer say carriage. It is a
box, scarcely better-looking than our freight
cars, with windows at intervals The benches
are uncushioned, and the head and hands and
feet uncared for. A few degrees better is
the second class, into one of which I felt at
first resolute to enter, in a fit of democratic
independence. I could not persuade D ,
however, who -was up to rail-way customs;
and so we bought tickets for the first class
cars, and w 7 ere ushered into an elegant apart
ment by a polite conductor, instead of being
allowed to make our entrance unnoticed into
much such a box as is usually fitted up for
conveying extra crowds on our American roads
It has taken me some time to get into the
cars at Liverpool, but never mind, we shall
go fast enough when once started. The tun
nel into which w r e plunged almost at the
start, leads for a mile and a half under the
city, and was a costly enterprize. The whole
road from Liverpool to Manchester, a distance
of 32 miles, was built, the conductor inform
ed me, at an expense of little less than a mil
lion of pounds.
An hour’s rite brought us to Manchester,
where we tarried a day, and I fatigued my
self by endeavoring to see everything of note
in that brief period.
Our next stage was to the ancient city of
York —and ihere we tarried two or three
days, and found them quite insufficient to en
able us to appreciate all its attractions. Not
the least charm of York, to my eyes, was its
absolute completeness. I mean completeness
as opposed to the progressive character of
our own cities. A friend once remarked to
me of New York, that “it would be a great
place when it w T as all done and fenced in .”
Its ancient godfather is “ done and fenced
in !” The hand of Improvement is no long
er busy in its streets —repairs only are made
—the restoration of the old ! York has no
“ building lots to be sold or leased !” The
sensation I experienced on traversing its quiet
streets —quiet as contrasted with those of Lon
don or Liverpool—was much like that which
I have felt in an old forest, w'heie the stamp
of ages was visible on the stern trunks of the
giant trees, but which were still dressed in the
verdure of summer. No city of the ‘ New
World,’ and no other of ‘ Old England,’ could
possibly awaken kindred emotions —strange
and yet pleasing. York Castle is no longer
a place of defence, but is now used as the
County Hall and Prison. I shall not under
take to describe at length the celebrated Ca
thedral of York, commonly known as the
Minster, but to pass it by unnoticed would be
absolutely unpardonable, especially as we
lingered in the city over the Sabbath, on pur
pose to worship within its solemn aisles and
beneath its fretted vaults. The entrance
alone bewildered me, and I really felt, for a
while, stunned and overpowered, when after
passing through long, columned vistas, cfimly
lighted through stained windows, I stood at
length in the magnificent choir of the church,
where the congregation assembles. I stood
entranced almost, as I gazed upon the world
renowned screen of sculptured stone that sep
arates the choir from the nave. I cannot de
scribe it in scientific phrase,- but its splendor
astonished me. It comprises fifteen statues
of the Kings of England, the whole exhibit
ing a gorgeous and highly florid style of
sculpture. The organ is above this screen,
and is a truly splendid instrument, having
some pipes over thirty feet in length. My
impressions of the scene are still imperfect,
from their vastness. I stood amid a forest
of lofty pillars—above me were massive
arches, sculptured groins, mighty domes, airy
pinnacles—around me altars, canopies, pul
pits, monuments, and, apparently lost in the
vast space, at least a thousand fellow-wor
shippers. The services were all in keeping
with the splendor of the place. 1 could not
help feeling, however, that there was less of
spirituality than show—and 1 thought of
Bryant’s lines, illustrative of the difference
between primitive worship and the cathedral
service of our days. You cannot but remem
ber them:
The groves were God’s first temples. Ere man learu’d
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them : ere he framed
The lofty vault to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems : in the darkling wood,
Amid the cool and silence, ho knelt down
And otfered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplication. * * * Ah! why
Should we, in the world’s riper years, neglect
God’s ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Only among the crowd and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised 1”
York Minster, seen from without, is the
1 most imposing, overwhelming architectural
j monument I have ever seen; anti when I was
speeding away from the venerable city in the
1 “rapid car,” I strained my eyes to catch the
latest possible glimpse of its glorious turrets
and lofty pinnacles, rising heavenward in the
hazy atmosphere of a summer afternoon,
while no other trace of the city lingered above
the horizon.
Through New Castle on Tyne, famous for
its collieries, I pass without chronicling our
“sight-seeing,” though it was neither meagre
nor without the charm of novelty. Gliding
over the substantial rail-way in a luxurious
“ first class,” an expensive piece of aristocra
cy by the way, our party entered Berwick
upon Tweed. At the sight of that river, my
heart beat with an audible pulse, for was it
not the border line of the land of Bums and
Scott and Wilson 1 “Berrick,” as it is com
monly called, is a singular town, from the
fact that it owns neither English nor Scottish
jurisdiction, and stands decidedly “ per se.'’
Our stay there was a brief one. We found
agreeable entertainment at the Red Lion,
where we passed the night. The next day we
viewed the fortifications of the place—took a
peep at the salmon-fishing upon the opposite
side of the Tweed—admired the lovely scene
ry of the valley, and in the afternoon resumed
our journey. Flying over the forty miles of
delightful country that lie between Berwick
and Edinburgh, we entered the latter at dusk,
and were sooq in delightful quarters at an el
egant hotel on Prince street, where I will bid
your readers adieu.
Ever your’s and their s, E. F. G.
Early Rising. —Some one thus holds forth
about early rising : “1 was always an early
riser—happy the man who is! Every morn
ing, day comes to him like a woman’s love,
full of bloom, and purity, and freshness. The
youth of nature is contagious like the glad
ness of a happy child. I doubt if any man
j can he called old so long as he is an early
walker. And oh, youth! take my word of it
—youth in dressing-gown and slippers, dawd
ling over breakfast at noon, is a very decrepid,
ghastly image of that youth which sees the
sun blush over the mountains, and the dews
sparkle upon the blossoming hedge-row.”
165