Book 1 — COTTAGE PIETY.

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BY JEREMY SHORT, ESQ.

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“Early had they learned

To reverence the volume that displays

The mystery, the life which cannot die.”

Wordsworth.

There is no piety like that in our cottages. Go through the land from one end to the other,—enter, if you will, at every door you pass,—seek out the dying in lordly hall, and lowly dwelling,—and you will find that the humble tenants of the humblest roof, are often the most acceptable in the eyes of their Maker, and that in the words of Holy Writ, “not many wise, not many noble are called,” but “God hath chosen the weak things of this world to confound the mighty.” And there is a philosophy in this. The rich have wherewithal to enjoy themselves in this life, and what care they for the one to come? but the poor find no peace from toil on earth, and gladly hail the message which bids them to a better and a brighter world, where “the weary are at rest.” Then, too, the Sabbath of the cottager! They who live in cities, or dwell in stately palaces in the country, have no idea of the soothing calm, of this day, to the poor man. All through the weary week, in summer or in winter, amid cold and rain and heat, he is compelled to toil for the scanty pittance which barely keeps his wife and little ones alive—and when the Sabbath morning comes, and he sees all so tidy about him, while the sun smiles pleasantly through the casement, and there is an eloquent stillness on all without, a feeling of freedom and of untold peace, comes stealing over his soul, such as those who have never shared his toils cannot imagine. If he has a heart it is melted into gratitude. If he is a godly man—and do not these very things purify his heart insensibly?—he will call his little ones around him, and, together, they will lift up their thanksgivings for the blessings of another week. Oh! how often—in some old country house, far, far away from the crimes and cares of the town—have we listened to the morning hymn, sweetly rising on the air, and seeming to go up to heaven all the sweeter for the songs of birds and the murmurs of the stream, with which it mingled. Yes! we love

“The sound of hymns

On some bright Sabbath morning, on the moor

Where all is still save praise; and where hard by

The ripe grain shakes its bright beard in the sun;

The fresh green grass, the sun, and sunny brook—

All look as if they knew the day, the hour,

And felt with man the need of joy and thanks.”

Yonder is a cottage, down in the glen. If you will come and stand with us beside the casement, you can just see the white walls of that humble home, smiling through the embowering foliage. There live a daughter and her parents, and if you would see piety, go into that cottage. Shall I tell you how their Sunday is spent? It will be a lesson to us all.

When breakfast is over, the little family, attired in their best, set forth to church, the daughter walking betwixt her aged parents, and kindly supporting their steps, while every thing around them soothes their hearts for the duties of the day. It is a September morning, and all Nature is filled with harmony. Not a leaf that rustles on the air, nor a brook that babbles by, nor a bird that whistles in the wood, nor the voice of a child singing from the overflowing gladness of its heart, but is sweeter to their ear, and more soothing to their souls, than the music of a Garcia. And when they reach the old church how every one will make room for them! And so, after service, will they return home.

And in the afternoon, they will gather around the little table, beneath the open casement, through which float gently the hum of bees and the fragrance of flowers, and there they will sit, listening to the word of God, as their daughter reads it aloud. There is such a quiet, a soft dreamy quiet around, that it soothes them insensibly to a holy calm. The very clock seems to tick less audibly; the cat sits purring in her lowest tone; the bird, from his cage, looks silently down; the sunbeams fall hushed on the clean, bright floor; and the rose-leaves by the window, that now and then float to the ground, strike with a faint low sound on the earth, like the foot-fall of a fairy at moonlight.

Every word of that sacred volume the listeners drink in eagerly, for are they not “athirst for the waters of life?” Aye! they drink it in the more eagerly because read by her, whose voice, to them, is softer than that of a cherub.

And such is Cottage Piety. The proud may sneer at it—the rich may regard it as a fiction—the dwellers in town may look on it as an enthusiast’s picture; but the great God who made us all, and who notes every deed, beholds thousands of such scenes, every Sabbath of the year.