The Lancaster ledger. [volume] (Lancaster, S.C.) 1852-1905, 1856-04-16
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LANCASTER H, SOUTH CAROLINA WEDNESDAY MORNING APRIL m 1856

but | felt no fear, so grand did the music
make me, and SO brave did become
when | saw the waving plumes, and the
g'tter,ng arms. But for all that was
melancholy, for my thoughts were busy
with the death of James Bourne.
When | re urned to my room found
that my old friend Simpkins had been
there during my absence, and had left a
note, wherein he asked me to go with
him to the funeral. Smpkins lives oppo.
site me, | can look into his attic from my
own, so never make distance an excuse
tor not visiting him. wish you were nc.
quainted with Simpkins, or | wish that
some better "uthor had the task of de-
scrlbing him to you. He is tail and thin,
with an awkward stoop in his gait; has
large hands and feet, rather protruberant
eyes, and no hair to speak Of. He gene
rally dresses in black, and looks secdy.
His elbows arc shiny and white, and the
legs OF his pantaloons show the bulge of
his clumsy knees. The edges of his shirt
collars are often frayed, ani his wrist
bands are mapped with archipelagoes of
ink. lie wears large old.lashioned sill
yer hunting watch in his fob, and at the
end Of its broad black ribbon brass KEY,
and massive cornclian seal, the latter of
reddish gold. A PLAIN gold ring on his
fttle fnger-ihere is one like it on the
third finger of his wife's left hand-com-
pletes his personal effects. But why cx
pose the poverty Of my friend Simpkins'
wardrobe! He would dress better,
dare say, il he were able. But no dress
could make him other than he is-an
old-fashioned, supplemented man. I
have never asked his age, but l should
guess him to te about fifty. HIS head is
bald. very bald, and his forehead i, iull of
wrinkles, the first burrows Of that sri,u old
ploughmsn, who drives his share alike
over human Lrows, and the ruin of e::-
pires. He is poor, very psor, is John
Simpkins,-at least ! should be So. with
seven children. and six hundred a year,
such aye 3ohn's membranes, but he
appears neither to feel it, nor to know it.
lie is content with his lot, or il not con-
tent, he has long since ceased to repine.
stepped across the street to Johns
dwelling, and was let in before l could
KNOCK, by John himself lie extended
his bony hand in the doos way, and shook
mine kindly, smiling and sighing at the
same time.
Good morning Mr.. Simpkins. We
have not met lately. see you quite of
ten from my front attic in the morning,
and have half miad to run oyer apd
take breakfast with you. But think it
would grieve my landlady, for she saws
am Yunctual in one thing only--my
meals! She laughs at my expense, and
1 eat at hers, so we are quits. But this
IS a sad business" ! added, seriously; for
! was afraid my light mood might have
shocked the serious book keeper.
He nodded an affirmative, and led me
into the parlor. "Wait minute" said
he, "and | will call Martha. She wan, :
ed me TO when you came" Martha is
,he wife Of his bosom.
Several minutes elapsed before she ap,
peared, during which time mentally da-
guerreolyped the Parlor. Let me pain,
!, for YOU. There is black hair cloth
sofa behind the door, q numbering ma.
hogany sofa Of the old time. Its back
ends in an elaborate carved scroll; brass
nails illuminate the edge Of the hair-cloth;
It's feet are crooked lions claws. Six ma.
hogany chairs, also Of black hair cloth,
stand in their usual places, Two at each
window, aod one on each side Of the white
folding door. A square mahogany card
table, on which stands a paper card bas-
ket and common astral lamp, 6Ils the
niche on the right Of the chimney; on
the left is small mahogany book case
with green silk curtains. am not ac-
qnainted with the contents Of the book.
case, except an auri!srous copy Of my
thrilling romance, "The Gold Digger OF
the Gila," Ia book no library should be
without,) but l fancy the sliel<es groan
with school books. A pair OF plated sill
yer eandlesticks, crowned with green wax
tapers, which are never to be lighted,
beauties the mantle piece, also pair OF
plated snufiers, and u bronze match box.
Over the match box and snuffers hangs
the portrait of an Ordinary looking man,
pilloried in the stiff standing collar OF, fifty
years ago. II is Simpkins, the elder, IA
ther Of John. Faded damask curtains
with yellow bindings, mufle tie light OF
the Windows. The floor is covered with
ingram carpeting, Of the usual imagina.
tive pattern. II resembles bed Of mon
sIous tulips in the last stages Of dropsy,
on a bank Of Pre- Adamile crabs, with
more than their share of claws--red and
green are its prominent colors. Il is,
grant You, an absurd attempt at a parlor
but il is the best that John can do. You
may not think it, but, there are times
when, It really looks cheerful-for in
stance, in the lsag winter evenings when
tie astral Iamp is lighted, and there is a
iire IN The grato. and the book keeper sits
IN. The blaze saving on his violin. Aud
have seen il when it was as solemn as a
sepulcbre. Il was so last summsr, when
there was death iu the family.
We sat in the parlor, John, and Mar.
tba, and ], and talked Of many things,
but chiefly Of death, beginning with the
death ,6f James Bourne. and gliding into
reninlAcencies Of deaths nearer home, the