Chapter IV
The thick curtains were drawn around the windows, excluding the sight, if not the sound, of the tempest without, and the cheerful group again encircled their warm and glowing fire, but much lamenting the absence of Herbert. Charles, with much animation, informed his mother that everything was well sheltered from the storm. “Philip has shut up old Brindle, snug and warm,” said he, “and I have helped him fill Robin’s crib.” “That is well, my good boy,” said his mother, “and now, after taking good care of your dependents, you can enjoy the comforts of a pleasant fireside.” Susan now recurred to the circumstance of the shipwreck and Mrs. Wilson read part of a little poem written on the occasion.
“I like the ballad style of poetry,” said Mary; “it is so natural and so many little incidents may be introduced which touch the feelings and delight the fancy.” “I am an admirer of poetry,” said Mrs. Wilson, “but I have not patience to read much of the sickly sentiment, dignified by that name, which is beginning to be the style of the present day, and I much prefer the old English ballad, with all its homely simplicity.”
After a pleasant and lively conversation the evening was closed and they retired.
The storm had gradually subsided during the night and the morning sun shone clear. The turbulent waves had receded from the shining sands, a fresh and mild breeze dispersed every vapor and the Sabbath morning, in all its calm and peaceful stillness, was again welcomed. There is no feeling more delightful to one whose taste is in unison with it than the lovely quiet of a peaceful Sabbath morning. Even nature seems hushed, the wind lulled into more tranquil murmurs, and the notes of the birds on a summer day sound sweeter and more subdued. After the breakfast table was arranged in due order Philip and Phoebe presented themselves in their Sunday attire and smiling faces, prepared to join the family in listening to the reading of the Bible, and the day was spent in the usual Sabbath duties. “Mother,” said Charles, “I liked the sermon this afternoon very much because it was about Ruth.” “It is a story of much interest,” said Mrs. Wilson, “and read in connection with other parts of the Bible, of much profit.” “Was the country of the Moabites very rich and fertile at that time?” “There is no doubt of it, my son, but it is now accursed of God and almost deserted by man. Formerly it was a land abounding in wealth and all the luxuries of life, and through its thickly populated country ran a high road where were continually passing immense caravans loaded with rich merchandise, and travellers from different nations, thus distributing wealth throughout the whole territory. But the sound of trade and commerce has long since died upon its borders, the once fruitful soil no longer yields its treasures, and the wandering Bedouin gains but a miserable subsistence amidst its sandy deserts, which now echo only the heavy trot of his camels. We can hardly recognize in the description of late travelers the land of plenty which gave refuge to the famished Bethlehemites. I will read you a few lines of a poem entitled “Ruth.”
“It has been a very pleasant Sabbath, dear Aunt,” said Mary, “so peaceful and quiet.” “I like to remember the Sabbaths of my youthful days,” said Mrs. Wilson. “Let me repeat some lines referring to them and you will remember, dear, that in those days lived many of our old Puritan ministers, so many of whom have now gone to their rest.”
SABBATH MORNING.
After retiring for the night, “Well,” said Mary, “what has become of our sad forebodings for the winter?” “Do not say our forebodings, dear sister, they were mine, and I am heartily ashamed of my discontented repinings. I never worked or studied with so much interest, and since the letter arrived informing us of the great improvement in our father’s health, I have been perfectly happy.” “I never knew,” said Mary, “the full meaning of our old theme before: