The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1868-04-04
Sunday Morning.

The following beautiful description of
Sunday morning is peculiarly attractive to
US, and believe it will prove so to our read
| ers.
"Sunday morning once more. Who does
not rejoice to know it? Who fails to exper-
fence an agreeable feeling on awakeing at
the thought-it is Sunday morning. To the
denizens ofthe city, buried for months to-
gether amongst streets and alleys and
wharves and marts of trade where there is
the din of commerce, the racket Of men hur
rying, each after his affairs; the hum, the
dashing, rafting and cangor of a thousand
vehicles-to one existing week after week
in all this excitement and clamer how hap
py thing it is to escape into the country, to
dwell where sweet silence reigns in gentle
meditation, beside gliding streams or gush
ing springs in deep VALVES or woods, shady
woods, or on the brow of the mountain with
silence all around and the awful, everlasting
arch of heaven stretching in unbroken still
ness over head and to the far off horizon
AS the hush and solitude of the country is to
the fevered agitation of the town, so is Sun
day to the week days. The restless, the
perpetual watchfulness and expectation of
the other days, give way to a delicious indo-
lence of the mind on those subjects that from
Monday to Saturday have kept it on the
stretch of activity. There is sweet and
placid languor of the brain that seems to
communicate itself all around. How differ.
emily is the ear struck with silvery vibrations
of the church going bell as compared
with the jerking ring, sharp and swapping,
that comes from the roof of the foundry or
the hurricane deck Of the steamboat The
very birds overhead glide through the air
with an easy flap Of the unhurred wing
The wind sweeps among the bushes with q
lesurely whisper that suggests passiveness
Of spirit and quietude Of heart in the pres
ence of peaceful nature. The stream tnk.
les with slow repeated notes ; the clouds float
as if waited only by the peaceful breath of
angels The house is quict--a hush reigns in
every room the servants speak with subducd
voices only the clock dares tell it's tale of
passing movements with an air that is never
so prominent about it as on Sunday. 1t is
this contrast with the rushing rapid whirl of
the week day tnat gives Sunday its charm.
The roaring torrent, foaming down the worn
and iretted rock, turns the busy mill, but it
is where the stream has subsidized into peace
full flow where the spray and the rushing
billow have been smoothed to placid quiet.
ude, that the beauty of earth's flowers, and
The serenity of heavens blue is reelected
from its gently gliding surface. II is in this
calmness that the soul best communes with
itself-in solemn retrospection, asking of
the departed hours what report they bore
to heaven?' 1t is in silence and in peace, in
quietude and in calm, that man meets his
God and with like selfsurrender leans
OH the bosom of exaustless love for it is in
the rushing wind, not in the pomp OF the
tempest, not in the crushing of the earth
quake, not in the scathng fash, not in the
crushing solo of the thunder, but in the
still small voice that the chosen ones Of, the
world hear the the Universal Parent.