pale, dirty Ransy-Sniffle-looking boy, who was crying spasmodically, and blubbering out between his paroxysms, "Hain't-got-but-one-time-to -die!" The elderly man would reply, "Not here, not now." The whole secret was, Ransy had been insulted in the street, and overcome with rage and whiskey, had made up his mind to die-but not here, not now. The circumstance taught me a new lesson on human nature. Like Ransy, we must all die; but we are not ready here and now. We all intend to do many great and good things; but not here, not now. As I was leaving the street for the day, a noise as of forty cats engaged in a free fight, drew my attention to one of the indispensables of the public gatherings, The Ginger-Cake Woman. She was screaming at the top of her voice, and articulating so rapidly that I could not understand a word. A drunken negro was steadying himself by resting both hands upon her table, and ever and anon as the screams would somewhat lull, was muttering, "I holds you 'sponsible; I holds you 'sponsible." Mistake in change, criminations, recricinations and whiskey! I left the street with the impression that salesday is a demoralizing institution. I met with several men whom I had long known and honored as sober men, who were considerably intoxicated. I said to an acquaintance, "I did not know that Mr. ever drank." "Oh," said he, "he generally takes a little on salesday." I said to a lady that night, “I wouldn't like to raise my boys in Spartanburg." She replied, "Why, all the drunkenness you see here on public days is among the country people." I hadn't thought of that. Is it so? Well, somebody is 'sponsible. A PREACHER'S MANHOOD. Address Delivered at Warrior Creek Church on the Occasion of the Memorial Services Held in Honor of Rev. Silas Knight, July 22, 1883. I love to think and talk about the dead. The dead are our treasures, and though they were laid away in sorrow, they are yet the objects of the fondest hopes of life and of a steady, abiding faith that lights up even the darkness of the tomb, and reveals the land of reunion that lies beyond the "valley of the shadow of death." I love to think of the young and beautiful that passed away, -Just as the rainbow of promise came, I love to contemplate all that was bright and promising, all that was pure and holy and loving in their lives; for my faith is strengthened as I in stinctively grasp the conclusion that those beautiful young lives have not vanished like the things of this earth. They must and will be completed in a higher and holier sphere; in a clime more radiant than earthly sunshine and more congenial to their development. Oh! ye, who like me have had your homes made desolate, who have seen the light and the joy and the hope of your households all buried in the grave!-rise from the ashes of your desolation, anoint yourselves with oil and look up joyfully; for there is cheer for you and me. Somewhere in God's glorious kingdom-sometime in the near march of ages, we shall meet the cherished ones. We shall see them, and know them, and love them again. I love especially to contemplate such a life as we have before us to-day;—a life not of promise, but of fulfillment, that began away back in the misty past, that took in the vicissitudes of three generations, and after having been rounded and perfected, passed beyond the line of mortal vision, just as the sun goes down, to rise upon some fairer shore. That life is before us to-day not in part like those just mentioned. Theirs passed this earth like the rapid comets that show us only an insignificant arc of their glorious orbits, and then flee away beyond the range of our vision and leave us gazing in awe and wonder into the silent depths of viewless space; his is before us in all its fullness, in all ts wide arbit, in all its grand outlines. God meant it to be looked at and studied, and somebody will be to blame if we do not gather from it this day spiritual strength and both earthly and heavenly wisdom. I appreciate it reverently because I reverenced him who lived it; I shall handle it lovingly, because he is now lying in the grave; and I shall speak of it candidly, because were I to speak words of fulsome flattery, I should almost fear that the spirit of Silas Knight would come down and rebuke me. In order to appreciate fully the character of Silas Knight, we must acquaint ourselves with the times in which he lived, we must draw a picture of seventy-five years ago; we must go back to the time of our fathers and grandfathers; we must exhume materials that have long lain buried under the tide of progress; and we must chase into the darkness men and things that like the birds of night fled away at the first rays of light that streaked the morning dawn of modern civilization; we must visit the log cabin in the woods; we must tread the narrow foot-path that winds over hills and hollows; we must interest ourselves in the tobacco patch, for it furnishes the staple commodity of the country, in the flax patch, for it furnishes material for clothing; and if we wish to visit the metropolis of the State, we must take our chances along with the rolling hogshead of tobacco directed by a party of rough, semi-savage looking back-woodsmen whose wealth is the contents of the rolling hogshead and whose presiding genius is the jug of whiskey on the frame above it. We must visit the school house, a little log hut in the depths of the forest, with open cracks for windows, with sawed slabs or hewed logs for furniture, with a birchen rod and Fowler's Arithmetic for apparatus. We must witness the birchen rod enforcement, listen to the oracular demonstrations of the teacher and notice , the ebullitions of this curious chemical compound of vanity, ignorance and whiskey. Above all we must visit the still-house, the standard institution of the country, the symbol of wealth, a prime factor in the problem of American civilization. If we go to the homes of the better classes of the people, we must smother whatever notions of temperance or total abstinence we may entertain, for the decanter and glass are the implements of hospitality, and he who refuses to use them is guilty of an impropriety in social life which society will hardly excuse. Perhaps these circumstances or conditions suggest a picture which is too highly colored in some of its particulars; if so, you may still ely upon the outlines as being correctly drawn. Where are we to look in such a picture for the materials out of which men are made? Where are we to look for those influences which refine and elevate and ennoble mankind? Where are we to look for the germ of that stern and rugged manhood, which towers before us to-day like some grand pillar wrapt in the shadows of the past? Where for |