The southern enterprise. [volume] (Greenville, S.C.) 1854-1870, April 09, 1857, Image 1
^
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