THE DOUBLE ANNIVERSARY. "He died on the very day his younger brother completed his fourth year." -From a father's letter. SATURDAY EVENING AT DAVID ELLINGTON'S. ONE can hardly picture to himself a more grateful scene than is presented by the close of Saturday afternoon in the country. Every thing seems to indicate satisfaction at approaching repose. The labourers, as they return to their homes, bearing the implements of toil, and attended by their cattle, carry in their very movements signs. of pleasure that their toils are ended. The weary oxen, as they step sluggishly along, appear conscious of their weekly respite, and the softening light of the west sympathises with the feelings of the sentient creation. As one looks upon such a rural scene at the close of a bright summer's day, while the increasing stillness intimates that it begins to draw toward the first day of the week, he may well be reminded of Southey's beautiful description of the "holy night:" "When all created things know and adore The Power that made them; insects, beasts and birds, Flows from the righteous with intenser love, A holier calm succeeds, and sweeter dreams It was on such an evening, when the sun had just given his parting look to the blooming and weary world, that David Ellington had come home from his work and was seated with his little family at the evening meal. The day had been sultry and the air was close and oppressive. Jane had therefore taken the table out from the confined apartment into the open air, and spread it under the shadow of the great tree behind the house. There they sat in the cool of the calm twilight, their spirits as even as the hour; and some philosophers might be puzzled to know, whether the expression of the scene without. had done most to give the temper to their minds, or the state of their minds bestowed its beauty on the scene. David and Jane were no philosophers; but the thought naturally occurred to them, and they gave the question their own solution. * Thalaba, IX. "One would almost fancy," said Jane, "that the very sky and air were full of feeling and thought; how can they have so much expression of the soul without any soul?" "He who made them," replied David, "cannot but give an expression to all that he makes; it all bears the mark of his hand; it is therefore adapted to excite feeling in the souls who observe it. The works he has made are suited to the souls he has made." "And it seems to me that they address the heart just as words do. They mean something, and the eye receives their meaning as the ear does the meaning of words. It seems to me there is no difference, excepting that words are more distinct." "In that respect the beauty of such an evening as this is like poetry, which suggests sentiment rather than distinct thought; or perhaps more like music, which brings on a certain state of feeling, and not a definite train of ideas. A piece of music stirs my feelings or puts me in a reverie, and so does a beautiful prospect or a sweet summer's evening." "That reminds me of what we read of Wilberforce the other day. Speaking of flowers, he said that they seemed to him like the smile on the Father's countenance. earth is like the smile of God; the person just as certainly as for the expression I spoke of. this loveliness without being conscious that it is a Divine presence which makes it lovely." So all the beauty of the sky and the and a smile shows us the disposition of any words he can use. This accounts One cannot sit down in the midst of "As Cowper says," pursued David, "His presence, who made all so fair, perceived, 'Makes all still fairer.' But if one perceive not his presence, a great element of beauty and pleasure is gone." "The beauty remains and the divine expression is in it; but the capacity is wanting to perceive it. If we had no eyes, we should know nothing of it; if we had only eyes without feeling, we should know little of it; and we know most of it at those hours when our hearts are most softened by holy thoughts and devout affections. There is never so much beauty in it as on the Sabbath, or perhaps Saturday evening, when we are enjoying the luxury of a passage from toil to repose." But it will not do to repeat all that was said, though it might help to show how easily the simple and thoughtful can turn to a spiritual channel the conversation suggested by casual circumstances. If men would speak out more freely what is passing within them, there would be less idle talking. It was not long before they were interrupted by the arrival of their neighbor John Smith. John had evidently been making an effort at improvement since his morning conversation with David; and he occasionally sought an opportunity to renew the talk with him. So he dropped in now, as he said, just to pass away an hour in friendly chat, for he really did not know what to do with himself. "The fact is," said he, "Saturday evening is the hardest night in the week to get rid of. 'Tis not exactly reputable or proper to be pushing about in the same way as on other evenings, and yet one does not like to be moped up at home. It's neither work day nor Sunday." "What is it then," said David. "Why, it's something between the two." "That's the beauty of it to me," said David, "and the very reason why I like it. It is particularly delightful to have a little season of transition between the common affairs of the world and the sacred duties of the sabbath. I should not like to rush suddenly and without preparation from the one to the other; and this quiet evening is an excellent time for preparation." "But for my part," answered Smith, "I do not see that any par ticular preparation is necessary; and I have heard you say a hundred times, that a good man will live so as to have every day a sabbath as well as Sunday, and be ready at one time as well as another to join immediately in prayer." "Not a hundred times, John; perhaps two or three." "Well, not exactly a hundred, to be sure," said Smith, smiling at David's precise way of correcting his extravagance in speech; "not exactly a hundred times; but I am sure I have heard you say so, and I have heard it from the pulpit." 66 Very true; and I will not take it back. A man should make every hour holy, and be every minute prepared for worship or for death. But very few men have ever reached such a perfection; and therefore we have no right to act as if we had, and put aside special occasions of preparation. We need them so much the more now, because we hope by and bye to need them less." "But don't you suppose that one would get on faster if he were to begin with making all days alike?" "No, not at all; and for this reason;-if he were to begin so, he would make Sunday like a week day, and not the week days like Sunday; he could not avoid this. And just so it has happened with all that I ever knew attempt to act on this principle. It was perfectly impossible for them to live every day a life of sober, devout, contemplative deportment, such as belongs to the sabbath and to heaven; they were not advanced enough in holiness for that; and therefore all they could effect toward making all days alike, was to make Sunday a common day. By this means they did make all alike, but they deprived themselves of a great aid to religious improvement, and their characters perceptibly lost ground. Instead of getting six more sabbaths in the week, as they pretended to do, they lost the one they had.” "Then I don't see but that you would give up the six days to the world, and confine religion to the seventh." "I did not say that, did I? And you don't suppose I meant it, do you?" "Why perhaps not; but I don't see why it does not follow. For you allow men to be less religious on other days than on Sunday." "No, that is not what I mean. A man is never allowed to be any thing else than a religious man; he may not be irreligious any day. But then, when he is in the midst of business, and so forth, in common life, he is likely to have his thoughts diverted, and his feelings ruffled, and to be put off his guard, and be tempted in a hundred different ways. He must be very strong and confirmed in a holy life, to be able to get through it all without offence. And how is he to become strong enough? By the help of the sabbath; by resting, thinking, reading, worshipping, on that one day, away from the world and in communion with God. He will then go back to the world stronger and stronger every week, and thus make every week more and more like a perpetual sabbath. Just suppose, if you please, that a man were once a week taken away from the earth and transported into heaven; that there he joined in the pleasures and conversation of its pure inhabitants, and learned to make an exact comparison between their condition and that of men upon earth. How would he feel on returning to the world? Would he not look on it with different eyes? would he not go about its business with his thoughts full of that better world, and would he not be anxious to live so as to become worthy of possessing it here |