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mind with daily and nightly anguish; assuring her of realities she had often laboured to disbelieve, and fastening the conviction of her own unspeakable loss.

In the moments of delirium she recounted early associations with wonderful accuracy and truly appalling earnestness. I would gladly have retired, but dare not leave a helpless child where I could hardly myself remain. But the scene changed. She became tolerably calm and conscious. Her little daughter drew near her for the last time. Seizing a Bible I had left on the bedside, the dying mother bade her turn to a chapter more than once quoted in her delirious ravings, the twenty-fifth of Matthew., The girl obeyed, and began to read. At the conclusion of the tenth verse, a voice, as from the borders of the pit, interposed, "Child! the door is shut; the Master has just risen up and closed it, and I am shut out!" A loud laugh of absolute and undisguised frenzy finished this dreadful spectacle; she sunk down, and immediately expired.

Dear reader, such was the end of one who had listened to the warnings of Jesus unmoved, while a deceitful heart was able to turn aside the unwelcome truths, or steel itself against their solemn import. His voice still echoes in her ears with a more fearful sound than that of a dissolving world.

But the Saviour speaks to us also, and in equally admonitory tones. Let us hear his words as they were repeated on that dismal night, in that dark chamber of despairing death. They teach us, what was there learned too late, that opportunity, however fair, is but transient, —that the season is short, and, more than all, irrevocably fixed. When once the Master of the house has risen up and shut too the door, are we excluded? It is for ever! He waits our presence,-he chides our tardy steps, he urges us "to hasten, for all things are ready." But, at the same time, he has kindly, and solemnly, and sincerely declared, that there is a day and an hour, to all but himself unknown, when these gracious entreaties shall cease to be heard, or this unfading glory to be offered,-when the open gates of the celestial paradise, which now encourage our approach, shall, frowning, close on their everlasting hinges,-when the tongue, so long eloquent to all with the gentle-Come, will say to every waiting soul Depart!

THE DRUNKARD'S FUNERAL.

It was on the morning of a cold chilly day in the month of April, that I was thus interrupted in my studies by one of my children: "Pa, there is a queer-looking man in the parlour, who wants to see you." On entering the room, my eye lit upon a man who was queerlooking indeed, because his dress, face, and whole appearance, proclaimed him a drunkard. He rose on my entering the room, and with

that constrained and awkward politeness, amounting to obsequiousness, which the half-intoxicated often assume, he thus addressed me:"I come, Sir, to ask you to attend a funeral this afternoon." "Who," said I, "is dead ?"

"A friend of mine," he replied, "by the name of S

; and, as he has no particular friends here, I thought I would come and ask you." "Where did he live?" I again asked.

"Why," said he, "he lived at no place in particular, except at the groggery of Mr. H-." This Mr. H- was the keeper of a groggery of the very lowest character, which had often been presented as

a nuisance.

I again asked, "Of what disease did he die ?"

"Why," said he, dropping his countenance, and lowering his voice almost to a whisper, "I hardly know; but, between you and I, he was a pretty hard drinker.”

After a few more enquiries, to which I received answers in keeping with those given above, I dismissed him, promising to attend the funeral at five o'clock.

At the hour appointed I went to the house of death. There were ten or twelve men present, and, with two exceptions, they were all drunkards. I went up to the coarse pine coffin, and gazed upon a corpse, not pale and haggard, but bloated, and almost as black as the raven's wing. There were two brothers present, both inebriates, and as unfeeling as if the body of a beast lay dead before them. From the undertaker I gained the following narrative as to the deceased.

He was the son of respectable but irreligious parents, who, instead of spending the Sabbath in the house of God, either spent it in idleness or in doing "their own work." When desecrated, the Sabbath is usually a day of fearful temptation. Sabbath sins make deep impressions on the soul. Whilst yet young, he became a Sabbath vagrant,-joined profane companions,-acquired the habit of drinking; and so rapidly grew the love of drink into a ruling passion, that at mature years he was a confirmed drunkard. His parents died, and the portion of property that fell to his lot was squandered. “And for years," said my informant, "he was drunk every day.”

"But how," I asked, "did he get the money to pay for the liquor ?" "He has been employed," he replied, "by Mr. H. to shoot squirrels in the woods, and to catch water-rats in the marshes; and for the skins of these he has been paid in whisky. Nobody would see him starve; and he usually slept in a garret over the groggery. Yesterday he was taken sick, very sick, in the groggery. Mr. H. instead of giving him a bed, turned him out of the house. He was then in a dying state; and, at a short distance from the house, fell in the street. He was taken into a negro hut, and laid on the floor, where he died in less than an hour. The negroes were very ignorant and superstitious, and were afraid to have the corpse in their house.

It was carried to a barn.

This poor but pious family hearing the circumstances, took the corpse to their house, and have made these preparations for its burial."

I read a portion of the Scriptures, and for a few moments discoursed to them on the effects of sin. I dwelt on the hardening and fearful effects of intemperance. But there was no feeling. I prayed with them; but there was no reverence. They all gazed with a vacant stare, as if their minds had evaporated, and as if the fiery liquid had burned out their consciences. They were obviously past feeling. The coffin was closed and placed in the hearse. We proceeded with slow and solemn pace to the house appointed for all living; and a feeling of shame came over me, as I passed along the street, to be followed by half a dozen pair of inveterate topers. The coffin was placed upon the bier, and was carried by four drunkards, who were actually reeling under their load, to a secluded spot in the grave-yard, where, without a tear being shed, without a sigh being uttered, it was covered up under the cold clods of the valley; and the two brothers went back to the house of death, the grog-shop, to drink, and to die a similar death, and to go early down to the same ignoble grave. The others, after lingering for a few moments, as if arrested by the thoughts that the grave would soon be their house, followed. I stood for a short time over the grave after all had retired, pondering the deeply impressive scenes through which I had so rapidly passed. "And is this," said I to myself, "the grave of the drunkard ?" And the prayer almost unconsciously rose from my heart to Heaven, "O God, save my children's children, to their latest generation, from making such a contribution as this to the congregation of the dead! "

Drunkenness is thus characterised by Watson, an old Puritan divine: "There is no sin which doth more efface God's image than drunkenness. It disguiseth a person, and doth even unman him. Drunkenness makes him have the throat of a fish, the belly of a swine, and the head of an ass. Drunkenness is the shame of nature, the extinguisher of reason, the shipwreck of chastity, and the murder of conscience. Drunkenness is hurtful to the body-the cup kills more than the cannon. It causeth dropsies, catarrhs, apoplexies; it fills the eyes with fire, and the legs with water, and turns the body into an hospital. But the greatest hurt it doth is to the soul; excess of wine breeds the worm of conscience. The drunkard is seldom reclaimed by repentance, and the ground of it is, partly because by this sin the senses are so enchanted, the reason so impaired, and lust so inflamed; and partly it is judicial, the drunkard being so besotted by his sin, God saith of him, as of Ephraim, He is joined to his cups, let him alone; let him drown himself in liquor until he scorch himself in fire." Oh, reader, beware of drunkenness! it is a degrading, damning sin. Remember the fearful funeral of the drunkard!

Varieties.

THE MORALITY OF THE BIBLE.-Examine in all its bearings the morality of the bible, and then say, is it not the true economy of human happiness? We challenge the whole race of infidels to say, whether all the schemes for ameliorating the lot of man which have been devised or attempted,-all the plans for remedying the social, political, and moral evils which afflict us, even bear any comparison with the moral system taught by Christ, which, if carried out through the length and breadth of the world, would almost transform it into Eden again. How happy were the people in such a case! How happy that people that should have the Lord for their God! What little of solid happiness and sound virtue we have we owe it to the bible. The less men live according to the bible, the less you can trust them, and the less happy they are. Strangers to peace, they are strangers to purity of heart. It is remarkable that infidels themselves are aware of this fact. I once had the painful task to attend the death-bed of an infidel, the most accomplished for his standing, and the most intense in his malignity, that I ever encountered. He died, as he had lived, a blasphemer of Christ; but he said, with horror, to me, when I spoke.of his children, "I would not for the world have them imbibe my sentiments, I would not for the world have them read my infidel books;" and he left it in solemn charge to his wife that she should burn them when he was gone; for he said, however they might be good for him, he knew that they would be injurious to them, and that the bible, false or true, was the best code of morals, and the best guide, that he could leave to his fatherless daughters in a sad and selfish world. How forcible such indirect testimonies wrung from the lips of unbelievers! "Their rock is not as our Rock, even our enemies themselves being judges." We conclude, therefore, that the morality of Scripture must have been the offspring of God.—Hugh Stowell.

YESTERDAY. It was ours once, and we improved, or misimproved, it. We crowded it full of good or evil, and made it a blessing or a curse. But such as it was, it has gone from us. Not one hour, not one minute, can ever be recalled. It is numbered with the returnless past, and its work cannot be undone. No river of tears can erase its record; no ocean of water can wash away its errors. To-day I may improve; to-morrow I may secure; but yesterday is not mine. I had it, but, like a shining icicle, it melted in my hands. Like a cloud it rolled away and left me standing on TO-DAY, to feel how little I had gained or lost. Reader, thy present will soon be changed to past-to-morrow will be yesterday, and thus life will slip away, and time will become eternity.

A Page for the Young.

KEEP YOUR TEMPER.

When we were children at home, each of us had a small space in the garden, which we called our own; and very anxious we were to make the most of our little allotments. We then resided in a town, so that a garden was a luxury. I was extremely fond of flowers, and a friend from the country had brought me a beautiful peony, which I planted in the centre of my flower-bed. I was delighted to find that it thrived, and was coming into flower; and I watched the buds every day grow larger. One day as I was watering a box of mignonette at my window, I saw one of my sisters run a spade through the root of my treasure in three different places! I felt greatly irritated, but said nothing till we met in the evening to work in our gardens. I then reproached her for her unkindness. She instantly denied my accusation, and struck at me, by which I was so enraged, that, thinking of nothing but my injury, I seized the top of a watering-pot, and threw it at her. It hit her forehead, and the blood flowed freely; she fainted, and oh, never, never shall I forget the agony of that moment! I thought I had killed my sister; and as she lay senseless before me, a thousand dreadful thoughts struggled in my bosom. The scene is fresh before me even now, the high walls which enclosed us, the gravelled walks of our gardens, and the paved court overhung with laburnams. At this juncture my father came up; he gently put me aside, raised my sister from the ground, and after ascertaining that she was not seriously hurt, and seeing her in good hands, he summoned me to him, and most earnestly warned me against giving way to my temper, telling me that if I allowed my passions thus to gain the ascendancy, I should one day become what he shuddered to think of. I trust I shall never forget that solemn lesson. My sister quickly recovered, having received but a slight wound; but from that day to this, whenever I feel the risings of passion, the scene in the garden and my father's tender admonition rise in my memory, and all angry thoughts and intentions vanish.

Do any of my young readers indulge in bursts of passion? or allow angry and revengeful thoughts to kindle in their bosoms? If so, I would entreat them to check their first rising, or they may gain strength, and impel them to do some serious sin, which may make them and their friends unhappy all their days. Pray for help to keep down temper.

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