The weekly Union times. [volume] (Union C.H., South Carolina) 1871-1894, 1881-02-11

|
lshed letter from II. Nj. L. Hunter, Vir.
ginia senator, says: Mr.. CalSoun's death
was eminently simple, calm add unaffected
no display or prctenson, nothing for stage
effect. He knew that his mortal sickness
was upon him, but he did not expect to die
so soon. The evening before his death he
had his mail read to him, commented upon
some Of the letters, aud directed bis son to-.
clear up his table, as was his won't every
night. In the night when he. Pund he
was dying, he directed his son sRzback up
his papers aud watch, .and to givs' his
pencil to his son Andrew. When speech
left him he still showed consciousness by
signs ; and beckoning to his son, squeezed
his hand and expired, without fear. He
had always said to me previously, and to
others through his sickness, that he had no
apprehensions of death; that it was an event
in relation to which he felt that he had no
right to entertain wish. He was man of
few quotations, but one which ne often used
to me was that there was "the same Provi-
dence on the fatal as the natal hour" He
was not consulted as to his birth, nor did he
believe that his wishes ought to weigh or
even exist as to his death such / suppose
to have been his meaning. He had great.
er faith in his distractions, one and all,
than any other man ever saw, and this was
his abstraction Gas [ think) about DEATH
"But," Mr. Hunter, went on to say, "you
must not whisper it to any one; believe
that he died under the firm impression that
the South was betrayed and gone. Indeed,
he told me it was betrayed the last time
ever saw him. Do not mention this, how
ever. One of the last things he ever said
to Judge Butler was, Don't despond. Judge;
DcvcI despond And if we mean to fight
the battle we must not despond or, if We
do, we must not let tho people see it until
all is manifesty useless. Clays course aud
Foote's eternal talk about compromise have
done more to let down the tone of South
crn feeling than everything else put togeth.
or. Had Clay not taken the course he did
and had Foote and every Southern man for.
borne to press compromises on those who
talked cf nothing of the sort themselves,
VIC might have gotten, think, a fair COM
promise, say the line of $500 through to
the Pacific, with a recognition of slavery
South Of that line. Such, at least, is my
oplnion. Buchanan would have been will
ling to agree to this, believe, and think
| know others in the North who would have
agreed to the same. The North would not
have severed the Union sooner than submit.
to such proposition" Mr.. Cahouu's
death elected glowing culogics in both
houses Of Congress, but the most impressive
was that Of Henry Clay. Evidently stand
ing on the brink Of his own grave, he went
on to say: Il was his senior, Mr. Pres.
dent, in years-in nothing else. According
to the course Of nature, L ought to have
preceded him. 1t has been dccrced other.
wise but know that shall inger here
short time, and shall soon follow him."
Our HIDDEN LIFE-Thcre is much in
the past lives of all Of us that We would cover
with the mantle Of charity, something that
We would not reveal, and would perhaps de.
sire to blCt from memory aud from sight !;
some folded page or turned down leaf in
our lilc-book, which we would gladly revise
and correct. But VIC cannot reverse the
wheels Of time, or change or improve the
msdecds Of the past that arc now absorbed
in eternity and become a part of the record
which shall be revealed as it is, when the
books shall be opened and the secrets Of our
hidden lives shall be divulged
We find here and there 4 word a thought,
a deed, revealed by the waning light of re-.
trospection, but we turned aside hopeful of
oblivion closed the book and laid it by with
an indifferent air as if we did not care, but
we did, and felt the sharp rang of remorsc
The lcttered page and the folded leaf wei G
hid away from sight, yet We could not bar
the gate OF memory or stop the wheels Of
thought, and the ghosts of murdered hours
aid forbidden deeds would haunt our drear,s
nt 4 bn p,iA i,Yht
wakeful sleep, in yielding to tho reproots
arG entrcaties Of 'thc still small VOICE" We
, would murmur q prayer for forgiveness
which we had s,itled aud suppressed in our
waking hours.
IF we could turn back the pages of The
sealed book, how many careless, thoughtless
deeds would We fnd there recorded that We
would gladly erase with contri ion, or blot
out with peni'cntial tears Some bitter
word, some sharp reply that might have
paihed aud wounded the sensitive nature of
some friend or relative, and the scars oi
which the sunshine and the rain of alte,
years could ever fully effacc How pain
lul it must be to stand at the grave Of one
we have wronged, or even panied by cross
or careless word, and gaze upon the pale
face over which the cold earth must soon
close forever and sec the white hand cross.
cd over pulselcss breast, and feel that it is
too late to ask forgiveness
The wife, the child, or some dear friend
that sits with us by the evening fire or in
the social family circle, may have heart
sorrow they cannot TELL a leaf turned down
in the record Of life, secret something in
their history which they alone may bear,
and none can help. There may be aaut,er
Of the pulse, moisture in the eye, a shadow