the indulgence of such fears, and have come at last to persuade themselves there is a degree of delicacy and refinement in them, must go on to the end under the penalty due to their folly; that of tormenting themselves, and annoying others. But as my whispers are for the ears of those with whom nothing is yet too late; I would represent to them the absolute inconsistency of such fears with good sense and a rational mind. All extravagance is folly; because sound sense mainly consists in giving to things their due degree of importance, and proportioning the sentiment to the occasion that calls it forth. Fear, therefore, beyond the occasion, must be folly, even when some degree of danger exists: and though as a passion inherent in our nature, we cannot but be subject to it, we believe it will generally be found greater or less in proportion as the mind is strong or weak. The unreasonable indulgence of fear-we speak now of that fear which has a real object and occasion-is surely not consistent with the calm and humble trust we profess to repose in a superintending providence; without whose knowledge, harm cannot by any means befall us. If it be urged that we ought to foresee and provide against danger, that is true; but fear, so far from accelerating this provident care, usually unfits us for using the means we have of avoiding or resisting evil; the courageous will escape, where the timid must inevitably suffer. But that sort of fear, if for want of another term, we so must call it, which is our present subject of reprehension, has nothing, whatever, to do with danger-call it timidity, sensibility, or whatever we may, it is nothing but weakness and folly; and we may depend upon it, that being purely selfish, it is always unpleasing. It is constitutional in some minds, no doubt, more than in others; but if we have a constitutional weakness of frame, we use all means to overcome it, and often with success. Then why not so with this our mental weakness? But, in fact, much more depends on habit and education than on nature. Some children are absolutely taught it, and others are foolishly humoured in it, till it is no longer in their own power, or in the power of any one, to subdue it. I am certainly inclined to make an exception in those very extraordinary and wonderful cases of natural antipathy, of which the existence is too certain to be disputed, and too inscrutable to be understood: where an instinctive horror of some one particular thing gives such a keen perception of its presence as nothing can baffle or deceive. This, perhaps, it may be impossible to conquer. But this bears no analogy whatever to the various fears, and horrors, and dislikes, of which we have been speaking; by which reason and good sense are offended; selfishness fostered and indulged, and the feelings and convenience of others generally sacrificed to our own. Addressing myself exclusively to my younger friends, I would induce them to consider that most of those living things for which they have conceived a horror, are in themselves beautiful, and should be objects of our admiration. I believe there is not in the whole creation, a thing that can properly be termed disgusting. It may be troublesome and annoying, if it obtrudes itself where comfort and cleanliness forbid its entrance, and may justly be removed, or, if necessary, destroyed. But in themselves, both reptiles and insects are most curiously and exquisitely wrought: and instead of shrinking from them with senseless horror, we may accustom ourselves to look at them with sensations of extreme pleasure, as the works of Him whose wisdom and power they manifest, and of whose bounty they partake, in the enjoyment of the existence he has bestowed on them. It is to some persons, and might be to all, if they would cultivate the feeling, a source of infinite delight to watch the swarms of insects that people the whole creation in the midday of a summer sun. There are those who receive as much pleasure from the insect that settles on their finger, as from the wild-flower that blossoms under their feet. This complacent feeling in the contemplation of nature's living works, and that of persons who shrink from them with disgust, are merely habits of mind: the one may just as well be cultivated as the other. In respect to the fear of accidents and injuries from our fellow-creatures, I believe the best cure for it is an abiding sense of the ever-present providence of God: and if we are constitutionally timid, we cannot better subdue it than by cultivating this consciousness of the Divine protection, in such a manner that it may recur to our minds on the first movement of alarm. In short, so as to become influential on our habits and sensations, and make a part of all our thoughts and feelings. THE SABBATH. Is there a time when moments flow, It is of all the times below, A Sabbath eve in summer-tide. EDMESTON. It was a Sabbath evening in the height of summer. The sun had been a half hour gone, but his beams still lingered in the clear horizon, and still the fleecy cloud was tinged with a fading touch of red. The blue vault had not yet deepened into gray, nor the landscape become obscure in the growing twilight. And yet there was a mellowing tint upon the scene, that gave of softness what it stole of splendour; like the brilliant and gifted spirit that religion has chastened into stillness. The flower that had drooped, and the leaf that had withered in the noonday heat, were already recovered by the evening's freshness; while the thrush prolonged her song, and the redbreast lingered on the bough, as if unwilling to part from such a day. Peace and repose were the character of the scene, and fancy might almost picture that the task of life was done, and all things ready for an eternal rest. In all there seemed a fitness for the day, and for the feelings, with which I was returning from the worship of the Sabbath. The words of love and peace had dropped like holy balm upon the bosom, and put to rest its agitating cares. Shame and contrition had sunk the soul too low for opposition, and mercy had won it into a grateful acquiescence. At peace with God, because it had drunk deeply of his grace and truth; at peace with the world, because it seemed no longer worth contention; at peace with itself, because self was degraded and dethroned; the spirit partook of the evening's Sabbath hue, and only wished it could be always so. "And will it not be always so," I thought as I walked slowly homeward, "when our life's working-days are over, and the eternal Sabbath dawns upon our souls? A little while, and what is now but a brief foretaste, a passing semblance of celestial peace, will be an eternal and unchanging reality. A little while, and the smile of our Father will no more be averted, the world renounced, will no more resume its power, and self submitted, will no more rebel. And if there be such pleasure in an earthly Sabbath, interrupted as it is with our coldness, and carelessness, and earthliness, what will be the bliss of that eternal Sabbath for which we are preparing?" And then I considered the goodness of God in this institution, by which one day in seven is separated from the rest, to be employed in making happy what the occupations of the other six too often tend to make wretched; and to sanctify what they are too well fitted to corrupt. Prone as we are to sin, and subject as we are to sorrow, our most lawful occupations are fraught with anxiety and danger. What a comfort, then, that there is one day in which it is our duty to neglect them, to forget them, and give up ourselves entirely to thoughts and pursuits of which the fruits are love, and holiness, and joy: to have nothing to do but to acquaint ourselves with God and be at peace. I passed the day-labourer in his clean Sunday dress, with his Bible under his arm, and thought how VOL. I. F |