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^ A REFLEX OF POPULAR EVENTS. Oruotu! to |)vogvcss, t!)c Liigljts of ii)e Sontlj, ?iu> tljc Diffusion of fistful UnotolciiQc nntong oil Classes of lVorlting film. VOLUME III. GREENVILLE, SOUTH CAROLINA, THURSDAY MORNING, APRIL 9, 1857. NUMBER 48^ Cljt J?antt)mt Cuterprisf 19 ISSUED EVERY THURSDAY MORNING, BY PRICE & McJUNKIN. WILL IA M P. P RICE, EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR. C. M. MCJUNKIN, PRINTER. TEKM8. Onk Y>ou.au nn<l Fipty Cum in nilvnncc; Two DOLLARS if delayed. CLUBS of FIVE and upwards, Oxk Dollar, the money in every instance to accompany the order. ADVERTISEMENTS inserted conspicuously nt. the rates of 76 cents per square of IS lines for the first insertion, and 37 J cents for each subsequent insertion. Contracts for yearly advertising made reason able. AGENTS. W. W. Walker, Jr., Columbia, S. C. Pktrr Straolkv, Esq., Flat Rock, N. C. A. M. Pr.nr.v, Fair view P. O., Qreenville Diet. William C. Bailey, Pleasant. Grove, Greenville Capt. R. Q. Anderson, Enoree, Spartanburg. (Driginnl :|3nrtri). WRITTKN foil TIIK KVTSttl'RUK. LINES On the Opening Spring. Come, gentle Spring! thy soothing hours impart; (live incense, raro and heavenly, to the careworn heart; Speak words of peace upon thy gentlest breeze? Soft murmuring echoes thro' the lofty tree*; Blend harmony, unspeakable, with contrite love, And gathor freshness from the fet lie rial realms above ; Sing peace, in accents lovelv to the car; Stamp freedom on each heart from wordlv earc; Cool fevered brows with waving zephyrs gay, And cause birds to sing the live-long day, In melody so wild, so full of endless joy, Which frowning clouds and boisterous winds cannot destroy. Thro' sunny climes let every creature sing: A welcome thrice a welcome, to retnrnino ? ? ' o Spring. Come, floral Spring! with scented breezes soft, Enhancing scenes where poets mused aloft, And, soaring swiftly on imaginative power, Reclines, enchanted, in some Persian bower, Gazing in wondrous admiration on the beau, ty rare, Ami instinct whispers softly?Spring is here. Too, gently soft the streamlets, murmuring low, Fall on bis ear, like gathering heaps of snow, Only to melt the senses and invite the heart That clings to NatuYq when allured by Nature's art ; For when they ripple o'er the hard and rocky sod, Each murmuring sound points up to Nature's God. Then come, sweet Spring! burst Winter's icv band ! Come, and stretch forth thy erer bounteous hand ! Let every leaf spring forth, and every bud shall tell That Spring has come, while Winter bids f'lrou'^ll I . CLIN A. Furroan University, Greenville, 8. C, , Civtmty is a Fortcnk.?Civility is a fortune in itself, for a courteous man always succeeds well in life, and that even when ! persona of ability sometimes fail. The fa rnotis Duke of Marlborough is a case in point. It waa said of him by one contemporary, i that his agreeable manners often converted < an enemy into a friend *, and, by another, t that it was inore pleasing to be denied a fa I vor by bis Grace, than to receivo one from ; other men. The gracious manner of Charles i James Fox preserved him from personal dislike, even at a time when he was politically j the most unpopula. man in the kingdom. The history of our eountry is full of examples of suocess obtained by civility. The experience of every man furnishes, if we but recall the past, freousnt instances where conciliatory manners have made the fortune of physicians, lawyers, divines, politicians, merchants, and, indeed, individuals of all pursuits. In being introduced to a stranger, bis affability or the reverse, creates instantaneously'a prepossession in his behalf, or awakens unconsciously a prejudice against him. To men, civility is, in fact, what beauty is to a woman?it Is a general passport to favor \ a letter of recommendation written in a lan. ^ - A 4? gunge that every stranger understand''. The I be?t of men have often injured themselves i by irritability and consequent rudeness, as i the greatest scoundrels have frequently sue- < ceeded by their plausible manners. Of two mon equal in all other respects, the courte- I ous 0110 has twice tho chance for fortune. i [Philadelphia Ledger. i Tift f>kttrl)fs nub Jflinrcllantj. Coacoochee's Talk. We publish the following Indian talk as a fine specimen of the native eloquence of the sons of the forest. It also shows how the love of friends and relations may dwell in the same breast with hatred for foes? how tender the heart may bo towards ono. al the same time its vengeanco is burning towards another. We shall, ere long, furnish a chapter on the philosophy of these conditions. rl ho 44 talk of Coacoochee, or Wild Cat," to Colonel Worth and tt> his own people, exceeds, in poiut of pathos and deep feeling, anything we ever heard : A captive, and in irons, he had been told by Worth, that he had been brought back from New Oilcans to Tampa Hay for the purpose of aiding in biinging the war to a close at once. He was told that he might select five of his companions, who should bo permitted to go to his band, then in the swamps, and induce them to come in.? " Name the time," said Worth ; 44 it shall be granted ; but I tell you, as I wish to tell your friends, that, unless they fulfil your de mands, yourself and these warriors now seated before us shall l?e hung to the yards of the vessel when the sun sets on the day appointed. with the irons on your hands and feet. I tell you this, that we may understand each other ; I do not wish to frighten you ; you are too brave a man for that; hut what 1 say I mean, and I'll do it. It is for the benefit of the white man and the red man. This war must end, and von must end it." Coacoochee rose, and turning to Colonel Worth, said, in subdued t rues, 41 I was once j a boy. Then I saw the white man afar off, I hunted in these woods with a bow and arrow, then with a rille. I saw the white j man and was told he was my enemy. I' could not shoot him as I would a wolf or j bear; but like these he came upon me? | horses, cattle ami fields, lie innlr ~ i I He said ho was my friend ; ho abused our' women and our children, and told us to go j from the land. Still lie gave me hift hand in friendship : we took it; whilst taking it i he had n snake in the other ; his tongue was < forked like a serpent ; he lied and stung us.! I I asked but for a small piece of these lands, enough to plant and live upon, far south, a < spot whore I could place the ashes of tny kindred, a spot sufficient to lay my wife and child upon. This was not granted me. 1 was put into prison ; I escaped ; I have again been taken ; you have brought me back ; I am here, I feel the irons in ray heart. 1 have listened to your talk, you and your officers have taken us by the hand in friendship. I thank you for bringing ine back; I can now see ray warriors, my women and children ; the Groat Spirit thanks you?the heart of the poor Indian thanks you. Wo 1 know but little ! we hnve no books which tell all tilings ; but we have the Groat Spirit, moon and stars; these told me last night you would be our fiicnd. I give you my j word ; it is the word of a warrior, a brave, 1 a chief?it is the word of a Coacooohee. It is true I have fought like a man; so hare iny warriors; but the whito man was too i strong for us. I wish now to have my band around me and go to Arkansas. You say I i must end this war ! Look at, these irons! I Can I go to my warriors ? Coacoochec chained ! No ; do not ask mo to see them, i 1 never wish to trend upon my land unless T i am Free. If I can go to them unchained. I they will follow uic in ; hut I fear they will < not obey rao when I talk to them in iron*. They will any my heart is weak, I am afraid. < Could I go free, they will surrender and cin- I igrate." 1 lie was told in the most impressive man- ' ner that he could not bo liberated until his 1 entire band was collected at Fort Brooke. Then he might go on shore and meet them ! unshackled. He saw that his fate was in- I evitable. The vessel was two miles from t diore, sentinels were posted in every part of i the shjg, and escape by eteaith or contriv ance was impossible. As the reality forced f itself upon his mind that there were hut two alternatives, ho bccamo sad. dejected. He i gathered his warriors about him, and select- t ed live who wero to go to his hand and in* I form them of tho straight in which their t chief and his fellow prisoners wore placed. < " Has not Coacoochee," said ho, " sat i with yon by the council fire when the wolf and the white man was around ust Have i I not led tho war dance and sung the song I of the Seminole! Did not the spirit of our i mothers, our wives and our children stand t around us f Has not my scalping knife I been red with blood, and the scalps of our enemy been drying in onr camps? llare < I not made the war path red with blood, and has not the Seminole always found a i home in tuy entnp ? Then will the warriors 1 of Coacoochee desert him! Mo I If your'i . ?? ... hearts are bad let me see tlicin now ; take < ibein in your hands and let me see that they t are dark with bad blood, but do not, like a dog, bito me so soon as you turn your backs. ' If Coacoocheo is to die, he enn die like a I maq. It in not my heart that shakes ; no; I it never trembles ; but I feel for those now in the woods, pursued night and day by the I soldier; for those who fought with us until I we were weak. The suu shines bright to- 1 day, the day is clear, so let our hearts be; 1 the Great Spirit will guide you. At night, ' when you camp, take these pipes and lobac- ( co, build a fire, when the moon is up and bright, dance around it, then let the fire go v..-., ?.v. jujl uciuie me ureaa 01 uay, when 1 tho deer sleeps and the inoon whispers to ! the dead, you will hear tho voices of those 1 who have gone to the Great Spirit; thev 1 will give you strong hearts and heads to carry the talk of Coacoochee. Say to my band that my feet nro chained, I cannot walk, yet I send them inv w-ord as tun? from my heart as if I was on the war path or in the deer hunt. I am not a boy; Coacoochee can die, not with a shivering hand, but as when grasping the rifle with my warriors around me. 14 My feet are chained, but the head and heart of Coacoochee reaches you. The great white chief, (l'ocar ger,) will be kind to ti?. He says when my band como in I shall walk my land free, with my band around me. lie has given you forty days to do this business in ; if you want more, say so : I will ask for more; if not, bo true to the time. Take these sticks, hero arc thirtynine, one for each day ; this, inuch longer than the rest, with blood upon it, is the fortieth. When the others are thrown away, and this only remains, 6ay to my people that with the setting sun Coacoochee hangs like a dog, with none but white men to bear bis last words. Come, thon ; come by the stars, as I have led you to battle 1 Come, for the voice of Coacoochee speaks to you 1" Say this to my wife and child, lie could not continue. Sobs choked bis utterance as he thought of those loved ones, and lie turned away to hide the tears that coursed dow n his cheeks. Not a sound disturbed the silence, the chains wore removed from the five messengers, and they prepared to dopart. As the last one was going over the side, lie removed from his neison ? Imn.l. kerch'of and breast pin. and giving tliem to him. told him to baud them to bis wife and child. Forty days and nights were passed by 1 the chieftain, as well as by the ofticers, in i the most intense anxiety, and it was nearly as much to their relief as to that of Cos coochee and his fellow prisoners, when the sun rose on ihe fortieth day and found the en- I tiro number, seventy-eight warriors, sixty- i four women, nnd forty-seven children, en camped within the bounds of Fort Brooke. [From the Waverly Magazine.] A Life Sketch. JJY ANNA MOUSE. It was an bumble rooui; there was neither birds, flower* or music ; aud the cold December wind blew through the crevices and fanned an infant's cheek. But though everything around bore the unmistaken impress of poverty, yet there was tho air of Heamcss . and taste which is seldom seen in that unhealthy street, crowded with foreign popula- ] lion. The young girl who was busily employed at her needle, watching the flushed cheeks and fitful suirts of her young sister j at her side, was very pale and careworn, and now and then a tear would roll down her cheek. She was dressed in deep mourning,! which contrasted strangely with the bright i sunny hair which fell in ringlets over her i neck. It is lato at night, very late; but; < weary and fatigued as she is, she cannot yet! ] retire to rest, for it is a cold, severe winter,! i nnd there is food and clothing to provide for' the wee thine at her side, and no snr>iiK^? : i jonsidered too great tbut can procuro her' join fort; and so Mary Prentiss toiled un-| i jomplaiuing on; though sho did, at times, i :ind it haul, when disappointed in tlie pay- I ment of some work, the proceeds of which I went to pay tho rent of her attic room, or | 'urnish bread for herself aud little Carrie. i " Ob, Mary, do come here, my head aches < 10 bad. There, how nice and cool your i rand is?and my throat so soro, please, sis- , er Mary, can you not give me something to < nuke it well ? and now, I am so cold again J ?all but ray he?d. Oh, Mary, I am so i lick." Mary Prentiss took her sister in her arms tnd carried her to the fire, after having put til her remaining coal in the stove, and af:e seati lg herself, laid her head on her bok>m ; u j strove to calm her to sleep, but it was all in vain ; her mind was soon wanderng in all the delirium of a fevor. " Mother, dear mother," she murmured ; tnd she would reaoh forth her tinv arms as: ihough they would clasp some loved object,! tnd then they would drop powerless At her ) tide, and then again ahe would raise them 1 Lo her aching head, moaning piteously. " Oh, it is so hard to he poor ; and can ane he poorer than we are t Dear Carrie; what will become of her ? she needs a physician, but how am I to procure one? I know of no one in all this street to whom I can apply, and the inhabitants of this house ?^? lo not look very kindly iijxin me ; but some- ] liing must be done or she will die before! morning. She carried her sister to the bed. j which wan in the corner, covered her with ;hc onlv blanket ; for a moment she stood i ooking at the invalid, and knelt in prayer. j 44 Oh, father," she murmured, 44 spare her I :o nre, she is all I have, the onlv one that | loves nie in this wide, unfriendly world ; spare her, and I will no more murmur at my lot; oh, if it ho thy will that she go hence, I submit; and the cup thou preparest enable me to drink." She went to the door of an old woman, who lived on the same floor with herself, and besought her to come ami stay with her sister, who she feared was seriously ill. while die went for a physician. The woman raised herself from her chair, and teplied : 41 It is late in the night, and I cannot he broken of iny rest." 44 IJut sho is dying, she will die before] morning comes ; " and she reached out her hands, imploringly. The woman at length arose and slowly followed her conductor, who run wildly on before. She gave one glance at the sick child, and shook her head ominously. Mary rushed into the street, she heeded not the wild raging of the tempest, or the drifts of snow which impeded her progress; she stopped not until she had reached the physician who had attended her mother in her last illness. She reaches out her hand, graspes the bell handle, and drops powerless on the large stone steps. Dr. L has just returned from a visit to one of his patients, and there is a shade of annoyance for an mstant upon his brow ; but it's ouickly vanished, for he is a kind, humane physician, and has, long since, learned to practice self denial. lie opens the street door himself, but starts back tor a moment as be sees the girl stretched motionless on the pavement. lie raises tho senseless creature in his arms and carries her into the Bitting room, after a few moments she gazes wildly around at tho attendant and physician, and then suddenly remembers the object for which she had braved the taging storm. " Come to my sister?she is ill, very ill, but perhaps you can s.-rve her?do not delay ?1 am well, now?come, and heaven will forever bless you." To procure a warm shawl and have his horse in readiness, was the work of a moment, and Dr. L . ami his young charge, were soon on their way to C street. lie ascended the rickety stairs behind Marv Prentiss, and glanced at the couch where little Carrie was tossing wildly in her" fever, sometimes moaning pitifully, ami then again, wild, blight fancies would tlit across Iter brain. She reached as her sister went to her bedside, and said, " Mamma has been here, Mary, she wanted nie to go with her to a beautiful home? to heaven?you know I could not go when you were gone, but she will come again and we will both go then; wili wo not, sister Mary ?" Mary Prentiss looked anxiously in the physician's face, with tearful eyes, while he took the little hand in his own and counted llie throbbing pulse. " Is there hope ?" she faintly strove to inquire; but the sound died away on her lips. The doctor seated himself and took her hand withiu his own. " There is one who doeth all things well ; your sister is in his hands ; I cannot give you hope, for 1 fenr there is not much ; but can you not bow in resignation to a Father's ; will I" For a moment thcro was a look of unut-' terablo anguish on the orphan's countenance,! and then the priceless tear of resignation fell ilovvn her checks, and from the parted lips a prayer, in a noble strain, broke upon the inidniirht stillness. It i? morning; the sunshine streams through tho attic windows, and there was an All-seeing eve bent down 011 tho youthful mourner. Tho child is very still and white ; no smile parts its lips, no wailing cry, caused L?y pain, broaks forth to sadden a sister's lieart. Her infant soul has winged its flight to a nobler, purer world, where sin and sorrow aud want never come, where the shadows of poverty and unkindness never enter, rnd where desolation may never gather uound the weary pilgrim. Could thou wish to call an angel back ? A Heavenly Father lias taken her borne, and there is a lew gem in the Saviour's crown. The Drunkard's Death. What a spectacle is this ! What a lesson loes it teach ! The destruction of man's cormreal frame is not pleasant under any cirnimstances. The taking down his "clay abernacle," even when the hopes to enter a ' building not inAde with hands," in tho up>er skies, has something melancholy in it. dut when we seo a mortal stretched upon lis dying couch whose life has been spent in lebauchery and revelry, what is there conlected with hiin or his, either past or pretent, or future, that does not present tho most lorrible and forbidding Aspect ? Life is jone?property wasted ?character Wasted? wife and children beggared?there he lies jpon his bed of straw, with parched lips, [floated countenance, and blood shot eyes, [ha very personificatiou of ruin. Tossing upon his hard and comfortless couch, pant ing for breath, and calling i'?>r help, hut all in vain. Death marks him for his victim ; and now, if for a while he is relieved from frightful ghosts and demons which hitheito haunted hia disordered imagination, conscience, the sleepless monitor, with redoubled vigor assails his still conscious soul, and brings up before him every act of worthless life, to blast all hope, to plunge him in deeper agony, and to hurrv his affrighted spirit into the presence of his God. How loudly and bitterly does he complain of hint self, of life, of friends, of God. He prays, but it is the angry imprecation of a doomed spirit, demanding of bis Maker a speedier discharge. The wild glare of his scorched eyes, his restless tossing, his retching hiccough, nnd his deep hollow groans, tell us how hard it is for a drunkard to die. The very presence of once loved wife and children, kindle in his bosom, in advance, the very fires of hell. The soothing voice of mercy and the plaintive prayer of the man of God kneeling by bis bedside, ado fuel to the already raging flame, ile calls for water ! water ! water! now, ere lie takes up his habitation where "one drop" will not be allowed him ; but, ah ! the cool draught only adds force to the devouring fire. Friends gathci around to take a las: farewell, and his tremulous hand is extended to bid them adieu?thoughts of the pas', and of the future send their withering arrows, barbeil with the poison of death, tc his bursting heart; and with one strong, agonizing struggle, his ruined soul staggersinto the spirit land, to receive its sentenre. Pity, compassion, humanity, would let the veil drop hero, and cover up till the great assize the doom of the deluded, misguided wretch; but Divine truth has said, "All drunkards shall have their portion in the lake that burnetii with fire and brimstone." [ Spirit of the Jgc. Village Aristocracy Many are the follies and weaknesses ol human nature; but none are more con temptible than those acted out by tho scrub aristocrats of our towns and villages. These are to be found in all the relations of life. A young man, whose father was a hard working mechanic, either has a moderate fortune left him, or he marries a thousand dollars, and forthwith puts on airs, perfectly disgusting to all who are acquainted with his" rise and progress" in the world. Such young men regard as beneath their dignity, the vo cation of their parents, and not {infrequently avoid letting it be known that they sprang from such sources. We have even met with some who looked upon tho vocation of an humhlo mechanic as beneath tho dignity ol a gentleman, forgetting, meanwhile, that the taint of the father attaches to tho son ! Pride of this kind never finds a resting place ?.V .. "vnn. Wl.tlll, mm lUUUlICSIS USClI 11) a perverse temper. There are many young men in our towns and villages, (and some young ladies, too 1] who seem to be proud of the wealth oftheii parents?while their own reputation would bo soiled by associating wiih the sons o ! mechanics. In their strange infatuation, il never occurs to them that their fathers inadf all their property by down-right stealing, cheating, and lying?while their grandfathers were sold at public auction, in our seaports, to pay their passage across the ocean ! See the number of young men in our conn trv, who, endowed with scarcely common sense, and no sort of love for genuine republicanism, resort to the study of learned professions, such as law and medicine, while every mark about them declares, in terms which cannot be misunderstood, that the God of Nature intended them bricklayers, housecarpentcrs, and blacksmiths. Many of these ought now to abandon their profes sions for the more profitable and equally honorable fields of labor, where their fathers made money enough to educate them, and thus elevate them to stations in which they never can move with ease and grace. God deliver us from the bastard aristocracy of our little villages, and codfish aristocracy of our lower towns ! Among theso hateful fungeses of society, respectability is based upon the naturo of man * vocation, instead of the manner in which his duties are per formed. The only sentiment which well regulated society recognizes, is in the sound limvini " Anl well ihv nnr#?~l> ?i-~ ..v ?J K'M mviu an Hit honor lies." Position in Sleeping. It is bettor to go to sleep on the right side, for then the stomach is very much in the position of a bottle turned up?ido down, and the contents are aided in passing out by gravitation. If one goes to sleeep on the left side, the operation of emptying the stomach of its contents is more like drawing water front the well. After going to sleep, let the body take its own position. If you sleep on your back, especially soon after a hearty meal, tho weight of the digestive organs, and that of the food, resting on the great veins of the body, near tho baok hone, compresses it, and arrests the flow of blood more or less. If tho arrest is partial, the sleep is disturbed, and there are unpleasant dreams. If the meal has been recent or hearty, the arrest is more decided, and the various sensations, such hs falling over a precipice, or the pursuit of a wild beast or other impeuding danger, und the desperate effort to gel rid of it, arouses us ; that sends on the stagnating blood, nnd we wake in a fright, or trembling, or perspiration, or feeling of exhaustion, according to the degree of stagnation, and the length and strength of the danger. Hut when we arc not able to escape the danger, when we do fall over the prctipice. when the tumbling building crushes us, w bat then ? That is Death ! Thai is the death of those of whom it is said, when found lifeless in their bed in tho morning, u They were as well as they ever were the day before ; " and often it is added, and ate heariicr than usual! This last, as a frequent case of death to ibose who have gone to bed well to wake no more, we give merely as a private opinion. The possibility of its trutii is enough to deter any rational man from a late and hearty meal. This we do know with certainty, that waking up in the night with painful diarrhoea, or cholera, or billious colic, ending in death in a very short time, is properly traceable to a late large meal. The truly wi.-e will take the safer side. For persons who eat three times a day, it is amply sufficient to make the last meal of cold bread and butter and a cup of some warm drink. No one can starve on it, while a perseverance in the hahit oi?Aw * , .v o....,, ii viyuruus appetite for breakfast so promising of a day of comfort. [7/??/fV Journal of Health. 1 A Quaker Visit.?A friend says that going once to visit some Quaker relations who lived in an old fashioned country house, he was shown to his bed-room, and advises) 1 to prepare for an immediate gathering of 44 Friends," who were coining to tea in houor of his arrival. Cousin John's apartment was so situated ' that it was frequently used as a passage into the garden; of this, however, he was not aware, and he had already commenced a t ?ilet, intending to be irresistible to some blooming Quakeress, when the bum of voiI" cea and a rustling of silks warned hit? of a visit from the already assembled guests. 1 What could he do? The other door was t securcdy fastened on the outside, and every moment brought the catastrophe neaier. With the energy of despair he sprang into bed and closed his eyes, i They came pouring in ; hot, at the sight of his reclining figure, their faces assumed ' various expressions of condolence. " Why. what's the matter with cousin John ?" and 44 poor cousin John must be sick!" greeted Iris ears on all sides. ; Hut one old lad)', more curious than the i rest, caine close up to the bedside, and peeping at him over her spectacle, said : 44 Cousill John ? * ? ........ . .uvu uvuer irv a little bone-set tea ?" lie opened liis eyes to enconnter a pair at the end of the room that were " darkly, I deeply, beautifully blue," and burly dancing. I with mirth. lj The blue eyes understood his prcdicaI ment, and John could not contain himself r any longer, lie laughed out, and his nstonI islied guests dispersed. I When John told us this story there was a t pair of eyes, not far from him, answering to liis description exactly, that beamed with an , expression which seemed to t>ay their owner knew something about it. The Whole Hi:sinkss or Lifr.?The amiable and gifted Jane Taylor, the last time she took up her pen?it was on the day preceding her death?wrote as follows: " O, mv dear friends, if you knew what thoughts I have now, you would see as I do, that the whole business of life is preparing for death." IIow much time is spent in preparing to live ! How little in preparing to die! One who had lived moro than fifty years, add. a* %hc hand of death was upon him, 44 1 have all my days been getting ready to live, And now I must die." Would men but spend as much time m preparing to die, as. 111 ?y spend preparing to live, the physical agonies of death would not so frequently he heightened by the agonies of despair. ' The whole business of life is to prepare for death." Thousands of death beds?? death-beds of rejoicing and death beds of despair?have borne w.oiess to this truth. The render will bear witues? to it perhaps at an early day. In view of this truth, this vory day should be spent in preparing to die. ^hir chief attention should this day be given to things which shall prepare us for the closing day of lifo. In the same way should all our coming days Ire spent. Sucn a course would not render life o dreary waste. Far from it. That man best enjovs life who is best prepared to leave if. i,':. . f .t .1. ? ? *i. in n mkuiinun mougtu, iqhi in au probability, some reader of these lines will meet death without being prepared for its dread realities. Mora Sponok Caks.?One quarter of a pound of butter, one of sugar, th?-ee eggs, one half a pint of milk, one even teaspoonful of soda, three coffee oflps of flour, one heaping teaspoonful of cream tartar, a little salt, and1'essence of lemon. This will make two loaves. Hake in a quick but not tou hot oven.? Country Oentlcmau. <49