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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