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THE GRAVE-DIGGER WHO DUG A GRAVE FOR

HIMSELF.

N a village in the north of Ireland, I was startled early one morning by a mournful cry, which every moment seemed to come nearer. At once rising up, I went to the window, which looked out on the street of the village. In a moment or two afterwards a company of people appeared on the opposite side, and among them four men carrying a door, on which lay something as of human form, covered over and screened from view; close in the rear a distracted female ever and anon lifted up her voice, and wailed. The burden proved to be the remains of a young man whom I had seen the preceding day in the vigour of health and strength, and the frantic woman was his mother, and she was a widow !

At three o'clock on the day before, I was summoned to read the Burial Service at the interment of a corpse from another parish. Poor W. H. had been employed to dig the grave, and by some mistake he dug it in the wrong place. Another was therefore opened, and in the mean time the corpse was brought into the church, where, after reading the usual service, I addressed those assembled on the uncertainty of life. I afterwards learned that W. H. went in the evening on some business to a neighbouring town, three miles distant, and returned to a friend's house in the village at nine o'clock, and that about eleven o'clock he left, under the influence of drink, to go home to his mother's house, half-a-mile distant in the country. After proceeding a short distance along the high road, a pathway struck across the fields, past a lime-kiln, which was in full work. It is conjectured that he sat down to light his pipe at the fire, and that, not being sober, he fell asleep or became stupified with the fumes of the burning lime, on the verge of which he was found at break of day a charred and blackened corpse, which half an hour afterwards I had seen carried past my residence.

I can never forget the piteous sight of forlorn grief his widowed mother presented, when she came to my door, as one stricken down and demented by the sudden calamity; nor can I describe the feelings with which I committed the remains of her hapless son, two days afterwards, to the grave, yet unclosed, he himself had digged for another! Here was a young man, strong and active, who had been to the Crimea in the service of the Land Transport Corps, and had escaped the perils of land and sea, killed by drink near his native village, after unconsciously digging, but two days before, his own grave!

Oh, the cursed alcohol! What misery, what wretchedness, what deaths, does it occasion! How many a promising flower has it blighted; how many homes has it desolated! The husband it turns into a brute, making him cruel to the wife of his bosom and a terror to his children; and many a mother's heart it fills with life-long sorrow.

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PARSON TOBEY'S COURTSHIP.

FTER Samuel Tobey was ordained Pastor of the church in Berkley, Nov. 23, 1737, being rationally convinced of the truth of the scriptural doctrine that "it is not good for man to be alone," he very naturally looked about him to find a remedy for his isolation; and in this search he of course had the help and best wishes of his fair parishioners in general.

Under these circumstances he became a frequent visitor at Mr. Crocker's, whose house was graced by the presence of four blooming daughters. Three of these daughters were usually in the room, dressed in their best, and ready to receive the young parson when he came, and to make his visits as agreeable to him as they were acceptable to them. The fourth daughter, Basha,' he seldom saw. Whether cumbered with much serving, or shy of company, or what not, she managed to keep out of sight most of the time, though he would occasionally get a glimpse of her dress as she disappeared through the door on his arrival.

His curiosity was awakened by her shyness, and he thought, as he expressed it, that he would like to see more of this " coy bird;" he therefore sought an interview with her, the result of which was, the three sisters who sat in the parlour with him, had the honour of having the parson for a brother-in-law; while the parish register, still extant, bears the following record in Parson Tobey's own hand writing: "Sept. 6th, 1738, I was married to Bathsheba Crocker."

They lived long together, and she became the mother of twelve children, among whom some rose to high honour; and her grandchildren, who are still living, are among the merchant princes of Boston;-of all of which we may say, as Parson Tobey said of his marriage, "I do not know as this would have taken place had she not been so shy."

The price of a virtuous woman "is above rubies;" but she is not apt to fetch it if she is forced on the market. It is rarely that we buy the goods that the shopkeeper shows first, and seems most anxious to sell to us. We are more likely to look farther, even if by so doing we sometimes do fare worse.

Let girls learn how to make bread and keep house, and not dress themselves so closely that they will fade out and turn sour before they get their growth; and they can afford to wait till flirts and fools have made their market, assured that some one will come along who knows a good thing when he sees it, and who will be proud to give the highest price for an article that has not been offered to every buyer. H. L. H.

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MORNING HOURS.

MAN of average duration of life (thirty years) sees about ten thousand mornings in the course of his existence. He begins ten thousand days; and, as the after-issues and conduct of the day depend so much upon the beginnings, we wish to say a few practical words on beginning every day with God. Morning piety has much to do with household piety, and with the whole current of one's every-day religion.

1. Every morning gives us (in a limited sense, of course) a new birth and commencement of life afresh. Sleep is the twin-sister of death. We lie for hours mute, motionless, and irresponsible. The outward world is a blank; the mind is virtually a silent chamber, through which incoherent dreams sometimes flit to and fro; life is suspended as to thought, action, and moral agency.

After a few hours of deep slumber-practically as devoid of activity as a sleep in the grave would be-the rosy finger of the morning touches us, as the Divine Restorer touched the motionless form of the dead maiden in Jairus' house, and says, Arise! In an instant life sets its wheels again in motion. We leap up from that temporary tomb, our bed. We awake refreshed, restored, made anew for a fresh start on the life-journey. Was yesterday a sick day? Sleep, like a good doctor, has made us well. We left our aches and pains in the vale of dreams. Was yesterday a sad day? Sleep has blunted the edge of our grief and soothed the agitated nerves. Was it (like too many of its predecessors) a lost day? Then our merciful Father puts us on a new probation, and gives us a chance to save this new-born day for Him and for the holy purposes of our existence.

Do we lose the morning, either by long sleep, indolence, or aimlessness? Then we commonly lose the day. One hour of the morning is worth two at the sun-setting. The best hours for study, for invention, for plans, and for labour are the first hours which the mind and the body have after their resurrection from the couch of slumber. Napoleon-who, above all generals, knew the value of time-seized the early dawn. Walter Scott wrote nearly all his popular works before breakfast, and achieved a literary immortality while his guests were sleeping. To the student, to the artist, to the merchant, to the day-labourer, the most useful hours are reached before the sun climbs to the meridian. I am well aware that a vast deal of traditional stuff has come down to us about the "midnight lamp." But I have generally found that those who use most the "midnight lamp," either for study or dissipation, burn their own lamp of life out the soonest. Make it a rule, then, that he who would begin the day aright must seize and save its

earliest hours. How often do we see some poor, careless, dilatory fellow rushing in blundering haste through the whole day, in a vain chase after the hour he lost in the morning!

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2. Every day should be commenced with GOD, and upon the knees. "In the morning will I direct my prayer unto Thee, and will look up," said that man who was after God's own heart." He begins the day unwisely who leaves his chamber without a secret conference with Christ, his best Friend. The true Christian goes into his closet for his armour; before night he will need "the whole" panoply (Eph. vi. 11, 13). He goes to his closet for his spiritual "rations" for the day's march. As the Eastern traveller

sets out for the sultry journey over torrid sands by loading up his camel under the palm-tree shade, and by filling his water-flasks from the cool fountain that sparkles at its roots, so doth God's wayfarer draw his morning supplies from the unexhausted spring. Morning is the golden hour for devotion. The mind is fresh. The mercies of the night provoke to thankfulness. The buoyant heart, that is in love with God, makes its earliest flight, like the lark, toward the gates of heaven. Gratitude, dependence, love, faith, all prompt to early interviews with Him who, never sleeping and never slumbering Himself, waits on His throne for our morning orisons. We all remember Bunyan's beautiful description of his Pilgrim who "awoke and sang" in the Chamber of Peace, which looked toward the sunrising. If stony Egyptian Memnon made music when the first rays of the light kindled on his flinty brow, a living Christian heart should not be mute when God causes the out-goings of his mornings to rejoice.

3. Closet devotions are the precursor to family worship. Family religion underlies the commonwealth and the Church of Christ. No Christian government, no healthy public conscience, no Biblephilanthropies, no godly church-life, can exist without their roots beneath Christian hearth-stones and family altars. No prelude to the day is so fitting, so impressive, so powerful in its sacred influence, as the union of household hearts around the throne of grace. When a cheerful morning hymn is sung, even the youngest can join their carol; and what might be tortured into a penance is transformed into a delight. Morning worship at the family altar is a "strong seam" well stitched on the border of the day, to keep it from ravelling out into irreligion, indolence, contention, and sin. Wise is that Christian parent who hems every morning with the Word of God and fervent prayer !

4. When the early devotions of the day are over, and a distinct plan of useful labour laid out, then let us shoulder up the day's load cheerfully. God will make the load light if we ask Him. And the happiness and serenity of the whole day depend much on a cheerful start. The man who leaves his home with a scowl on his brow, with a snap at his children, and a tart speech to his wife, is not likely to be a very pleasant companion for any one

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through the day, or to return home at night less acid than a vinegar cruet. But more than cheerfulness is needed for some days, whose advancing hours come loaded with unexpected sorrows. For such days let us make ready every morning, by putting ourselves under the wing of a Saviour's loving care. We know not how soon the last sunrise may light us on our way, nor how soon we shall hear on earth the last "Good morning."

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C.

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WILL YOU ROCK ME, FATHER?"

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Y little boy is dead," said a friend, as we met upon street. "We have just been to bury him." with tender words which came so readily from the fond father's bleeding heart, he went on to speak of his darling boy, his opening mind and affectionate heart, his last painful sickness, the closing scene, and the vacancy of home now he is gone. "But," he added, and as he spoke his face lighted up with true submissive peace, "he taught me one lesson before he died." "And what was that?" I inquired. He replied, " As my boy grew very sick, the medicine was exceedingly disagreeable to him, so much so that he refused to take it. But I told him he must. Doctor had so ordered, and he must. Then lifting his eyes to mine, he said, ' If I drink it, will you rock me, father, and sing to me?' 'Yes, yes, my good boy; take it, and I will.' With that assurance, summoning all his flagging powers, he drank the bitter draught. Then laying his burning cheek on mine, he said, ' Now, father, rock me, sing

to me.'

"The lesson my dying boy taught me is this: when my Heavenly Father mingles a bitter cup, and, pressing it to my lips, says, 'Drink it,' I will obey. Then will He rock me in His strong arms of love, and sing to me the precious words of His promises. Oh, how sweet!"

Afflicted one, is it not a truth, a great and blessed truth, declared in the Word of God and confirmed by Christian experience, that "Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him"? And when the humble disciple can follow the Master into the soul's Gethsemane, and there repeat His words, "O my Father, if this cup may not pass from me except I drink it, Thy will be done," then will He rock him in the tender arms of His love, and sing to him words of promise sweeter than ever fell on angel's ear.

"As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you: and ye shall be comforted in Jerusalem " (Isa. lxvi. 13).

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