Year: 1867

Sunday morning once more. Who does not
rejoice to know it? Who fails to experience an
agreeable feeling on awaking at thought-it is
Sunday morning. To the denizens OF the city,


buried for months together amongst streets and
alleys and wharves and marts OF trade; where
there is the din of commerce. the racket of men


hurrying, each after his affairs; the hum, the
lar, the crush, the eager jostllng OF the crowd;


the dashing, rafting and clangor OF thousand


yehicles-to one existing week after week In all


this excitement and clamor, how happy a thing
it is to escape into the country, to dwell where


sweet silence reigns In gentle meditation, beside
gliding streams or gushing springs, IN deep
vallies 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 stiffness over head and to the tar OFT
horizon As the hush and solitude ofthe coun-
try is to the fevered agitation OF the town. so Is
Sunday to the week days. The restlessness, the
perpetual watchfulness and expectation OF the
other days, give way to delicious Incidence OF
the mind on those subjects that from Monday
to Saturday have kept 1T on the stretch OF
activity. There is sweet anu se,d T.c languor Of
the brain that seems to communicate itself all
around How differently is the ear struck with


the sivery 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 unhmried wing. The


wind sweeps among the bushes with leisurely
whisper that suggests passiveness of spirit and
| uuietude of heart, In the presence of peaceful
nature The stream tinkles with slow repeated
notes; the trees wave with languid grace; the
doves coo soft and low; the clouds float as if
| waited only by the peaceful breath of angels
The house is quiet-a hush reigns in every


room; the servants speak with subdued voices;
only the clock dares tell it's tale of passing


movements with an air Of business, an air that
| is never so prominent about it as on Sunday.


1t is this contrast with the rushing, rapid whlrl
of the week day that gives Sunday its charm.
| The roaring torrent, toalning down the worn


and fretted rock, turns the busy mill, but 1t IS


where the stream has subsided into peaceful


flow; where the spray and the rushing billow


have been smoothed to placid quietude, that
the beauty of earth's flowers, and the serenity
of heavens blue Is reflected from Its gently
gliding surface. It 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 child like


self.surrender, leans on the bosom ofexhaustles 8


love tor it is not In the rushing wind, not In


the pomp Of the tempest, not IN the crushing


of the earthquake, not in the scathing fiashs not
in the crushing solo of the thunder, butin the


still small voice" that the chosen ones OF the


world hear the Universal Parent.