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A FUNERAL SERMON IN

GEORGIA.

I PUT this funeral sermon on paper in no spirit of ridicule, for though I have enjoyed many a laugh in its recollection, there was so pathetic a side to the scene, that I listened to the discourse, absurd as it was, without a smile. I felt more like weeping with those who wept.

The church was in the forests of Central Georgia. The congregation was very large, and the minister was very learned for those parts. He could read a little. He had in some mysterious way picked up a few Latin phrases, and also some quotations from Shakespeare, which he used as his memory served him. I entered the church during the singing, and was somewhat surprised to receive from the pulpit an invitation to take a seat near the remains. This I declined to do, and sat instead upon the stairs leading to a sort of loft in the building. Through the tall pines the winds played, making an Eolian music, now the faintest pianissimo, swelling into a sound like the roaring of an angry surf, and dying away into the lowest moan. Similarly the emotion swept over that congregation, as the minister went on, producing now a low cry, prolonged sometimes into a wail, which often rose to a very shriek. The turbaned heads of the negresses bobbed up and down and about, and the old darky men swayed their bodies to and fro in their seats. At times the mourners," who occupied the space about the altar, lay prone upon their faces. I must confess in all modesty that the little children regarded me rather than the service. White ladies, and especially Yankee ladies, were rarely seen in their house of worship.

I can give but an extract from the sermon, and will skip the firstly and secondly,

My bredren, dis yer good brudder, whose mortal remains is a-lyin' in our midst, and whose soul is safe wid de angels, is a mighty loss to Pineville; for he war a powerful example ob de power and de light ob religion. He's dun gone off mighty sudden too. Done

you 'member how he walked down dis yer aisle only last week, so full ob de glory dat he walked over de very benches? Oh, I see him now! Done yer all see him wid yer mind's eyes? Yer see, de departed were not only a believer, but he did a heap ob good in dis yer town, and in dis yer meetin' house.

Now dere's some 'll tell you dat good works is nuff to take yer to heaven; and dere's oders, dey say all yer want is faith. Now, I tell yer, yer wants bofe. Dey's like de cart and de mule, one is necessary to bofe. And dat ar point I'll'splain and 'lustrate, so 's you'll nebber forget it.

Let dis yer leg, firm and straight, rep'sent good works, and let dis pore, feeble member, all doubled up and weakly, stan' for faith, or radder de want ob it. And now, observe how I trabble. And dat 's de way a man walks who 'pends on good works, and no faith to carry him along to hebben. And wiser worser, it am all de same. But let dat ar leg represent good works, and a heap ob em too, and dis yere one faith, bofe powerful as de legs ob Sam's son (ob whose fader Sam we know nothin'), and dat ar's de way to walk to glory. Maybe yer's noticed dat when a nigger goes roun' after dark among de hen roosts, whar de chickens ain't quainted wid him, he goes 'long all kinder shakey, and weak in de knees like; and dat's de way a man walks who ain't got no faith, an' done do no good works. My bredren, de dear departed walked on de legs ob faith and good works bofe, and done yer forget his blessed 'zample.

(Dose boys dar in de fofe seat from de front need n't 'zsmine der legs no mo'. I's using a figger of speech which dey's much too young to comprehend.)

I tole yer at de beginnin' of dis funeral discourse over what's left below ob the angel Brudder Jones, dat I'd preach from the text "An' five ob dem were wise, and five ob dem were foolish," meanin' virgins. And now I'll tell yer de story ob dem virgins. Dere were ten ob dem. Five war mighty wise, and five war mighty foolish. Dem foolish virgins, jiss as dey were a-goin into de kingdom, dey

went to sleep. No doubt dey thought dar war time 'nuff to get ready after dey 'd slep' a spell; but when dey woke up, it war too late, and dar war heap trubble den sure enough. Yer see all dose virgins was to march into de kingdom, like a pine-torch procession, very imposing like, and all in keepin' wid de glory ob de place. But when dem pore foolish virgins woke up, dar war dere lamps, de wicks was all in dem, de chimneys, dey war all on, and dar war a heap matches ob de best qual'ty lying right dar. But what war lacking?-oil. Dose lamps war empty. Dey done make an awful time den I 'sure yer. How dey howled in der distress! Dey'd hab giben eberyting dey had in de world for oil, but dar war n't no time to get to de fust sto' and get back agin. Dey knew what de feast inside war to be. I's minded of that famous King Third, whose first name was Richard. "My kingdom," he cried, "my kingdom for a mule!" Dese foolish virgins would hab giben kingdoms, if dey'd had em, for jess oil nuff to make a flicker, to light 'em into dat feast. And den dey came an' kep knocking and aknocking, and de bridegroom he come to de do', and he says, "Go way dar, I done know ye!" and de wise virgins dey lit up, and dey all went in a-blazing, and kind o' scornful like, I would n't be surprised, cause der wa' n't no more 'scuse for de foolish virgins dan dar is for you to neglect yer soul's salvation.

And now I comes to de nub of my discourse. My bredren, dis yer brudder who's gone war a wise virgin. His lamp war full and running over and flaring up, and dis yer minute he's a-lyin' on Abraham's bosom. Oh, I see him a-smiling up into his face!

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minute. Yer can't hab no klar idea of hebben. Done spect yer to. Dar's more in it dan yer dream ob on yer philosofys, or in yer beds. But if dar's white folks dar who don't like to associate wid us, dey 'll hab to move out. For de black man is to hab his harp; and up dar we 's to be men, wid all de curse ob de chain taken away! Yes, and all de memory of it. Dis brudder called another man master for fifty years, though he died free; but dere's but one Master in hebben, and maybe we'll know better how to serve Him up dar, dan folks who's had no serving to do on earth. Done ye cry no mo'.

And now a word to de careless bredren here, be wise virgins. Pears to me dat I'd change my ways for de sake of making yer final exits to dat barn from whence no trabbler returns, a pleasure to de friends who come togegder to listen to yer funeral discourse. For I tell yer now, yer'd be 'shamed, some ob yer, to show yer faces if yer could see a few ob de funeral sermons I's got ready to be used if yer don't get yer lamps filled. Make me heap ob trubble to change em, but I's willin'! Oh, I's willin' for de sake of yer souls to forget dey's ebber composed! Debilitate on yer ways, and lay in yer oil, and gib me de opportunity dat de departed hab giben me to-day, to hole yer up as a shining examble, and already aplayin' on yer harp, and I'll preach yer funeral sermon wid joy and thanksgiving.

MARGERY DEANE.

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THE following story is told of a distinguished Edinburgh professor. Desiring to go. to church one wet Sunday, he hired a cab. On reaching the church door he tendered a shilling, the legal fare, to cabby, and was somewhat surprised to hear the cabman say, "Twa shillin', sir." The professor, fixing his eye upon the extortioner, demanded why he charged two shillings; upon which the cabman dryly answered: "We wish to discourage travelling on the Sawbath as much as possible, sir."

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Along his path there moved a funeral,

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Gray spectacle of poverty and woe,
A wretched sledge, dragged by one weary

man,

Slowly across the snow.

And on the sledge, blown by the winter wind,

Lay a poor coffin, very rude and bare; And he who drew it bent before his load, With dull and sullen air.

The Emperor stopped and beckoned to the

man;

"Who is 't thou bearest to the grave?" he

said.

"Only a soldier, sire!" the short reply;

"Only a soldier, dead.”

THE MATCH BOY.

DEAN STANLEY, in one of his sermons to children at Westminster Abbey, has told a very touching little story. He said, —

Not long ago, in Edinburgh, two gentlemen were standing at the door of a hotel, one very cold day, when a little boy, with a poor thin, blue face, his feet bare, and red with the cold, and with nothing to cover him but a bundle of rags, came and said, "Please, sir, buy some matches." "No, don't want any," the gentleman said. "But they are only a penny a box," the poor little fellow pleaded. "Yes, but you see we don't want a box," the gentleman said again. "Then I will gie ye twa boxes for a penny," the boy said at last, and so, to get rid of him, the gentleman who tells the story says, “I bought a box; but then I found I had no change, so I said, I will buy a box to-morrow.' 'Oh, do buy them to-night, if you please,' the boy pleaded again; I will run and get ye the change, for I am verra hungry.' So I gave him the shilling, and he started away. I waited for him, but no boy came. Then I thought I had lost my shilling; still there was that in the boy's face I trusted, and I did not like to think bad of him. Late in the evening I was told a little boy wanted to see me; when he was brought in I found it was a smaller brother of the boy who got my shilling, but, if possible, still more ragged and poor and thin. He stood for a moment, diving into his rags, as if he were seeking something, and then said, ‘Are you the gentleman that bought the matches frae Sandie?' 'Yes.' Weel, then, here's fourpence out o' yer shilling. Sandie cannot 1 This incident is narrated by a lady who was living come; he 's very ill. A cart ran ower him in Moscow when it took place. and knocked him down, and he lost his bon

"Only a soldier!" musing, said the Czar ;
"Only a Russian who was poor and brave.
Move on, I follow. Such a one goes not

Unhonored to his grave."

He bent his head, and silent raised his cap;
The Czar of all the Russias, pacing slow,
Followed the coffin as again it went
Slowly across the snow.

The passers of the street, all wondering, Looked on that sight, then followed silently;

Peasant and prince, and artisan and clerk,

All in one company.

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net and his matches and your sevenpence. And both his legs are broken, and the doctor says he'll die; and that's a'.' And then, putting the fourpence on the table, the poor child broke down into great sobs. So I fed the little man, and I went with him to see Sandie. I found that the two little things lived alone, their father and mother being dead. Poor Sandie was lying on a bundle of shavings. He knew me as soon as I came in, and said, 'I got the change, sir, and was coming back; and then the horse knocked me down, and both my legs were broken. And oh, Reuby! little Reuby! I am sure that I am dying, and who will take care of you when I am gone? What will you do, Reuby? Then I took his hand, and said I would always take care of Reuby. He understood me, and had just strength to look up at me as if to thank me; the light went out of his blue eyes. In a moment,

"He lay within the light of God,

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Like a babe upon the breast, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.'"

PAY AS YOU GO.

[From the New York Observer.]

THE best of all rules for successful housekeeping and making both ends of the year meet, is "pay as you go." Beyond all countries in the world, ours is the one in which the credit system is the most used and abused. Pass-books are the bane and pest of domestic economy, a perpetual plague, vexation, and swindle. Abused by servants at the store and the house, disputed constantly by housekeepers and dealers, they are temptations to both parties to do wrong. "I never had that; "We neglected to enter this;" "I forgot to bring the book; "Never mind, we 'll make a note of it ;" and so it goes. But the worst of it is that housekeepers are tempted to order what they have not the means to pay for, and when the

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month or quarter comes for settlement they are straitened. A family can live respectably on a very moderate income if they always take the cash in hand, and buy where they can buy to the best advantage. Then they will be careful first to get what is necessary. Extra comforts will be had as they can afford them. But it is bad policy to buy on credit. No wise dealer sells so cheaply on credit as for cash.

The table is the place for economy. Good wholesome food costs little compared with unwholesome luxuries.

The dress of a family is so much a matter of taste, that it need hardly be said it is just as easy to be respectable in clothing that costs little, as in that which is expensive. To dress according to one's means is the only respectable style.

One must have a home, and in every place there are dwellings suited to the ability of the tenant or the purchaser. When the rent, the food, and the clothing are kept within one's income, the margin for benevolence, for luxury, and for pleasure may be measured and used. In these, as in other matters, "Pay as you go."

Having made no debts at shops or store, and especially having paid servants, workmen, and work women promptly their dues, it is well also to carry out the same punctuality and caution in donations. If you would endow a professorship, and have the means, do so; but do not give your note for it, promising to pay the interest. That is not an endowment, it is a promise to make it such. If your circumstances are changed by the force of events beyond your control, you cannot redeem your promise. We can point to many colleges, seminaries, and other institutions falsely supposed to be endowed, and the basis proved to be promises worth no more than the scrap of paper on which they are written.

In all things "Pay as you go." Keep out of debt as you would keep out of prison. Try this plan through the year 1879, and see how well it has worked when you review the subject in the beginning of 1880.

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