THERE is no season of the day or year which gives me such pure and exquisite pleasure as that of a summer's sabbath evening, when the heart has been soothed and the spirit elevated by recent acts of devotion; and when over every mountain and valley, forest and river, a holy tranquility reposes, as if inanimate nature were conscious of the sanctity of the day of rest. To an observer of feeling and imagination, the contemplation of nature is a source of continual enjoyment: the budding Spring inspires him with hope; the full blown Summer fills him with joy; the decaying Autumn speaks to him of his own decay, like the soothing voice of a parent that invites him to repose after the labours of the day; and the desolating Winter gives intimation of his death, when, like the faded flowers, his body shall be withering in the dust, and his spirit, like the birds of passage that follow the genial seasons in their journey round the globe, shall have winged its way to a better and happier region. But a summer's sabbath evening is the season of the most exalted enjoyment: it is then that there seems to be an intimate communion between earth and heaven, and we feel as if partakers of the pleasures of both worlds:

it is then that their confines seem to meet, and we feel as if by one step we could pass from time into eternity.

On a beautiful sabbath evening, about the middle of June, I pursued my walk along a narrow path that stretched through an extensive wood, to enjoy alone and undisturbed, that calm contemplation, which is to me sweeter than all the merriment of the world. The sun had just set-the twilight star was twinkling-and the thrush was pouring forth his vesper hymn on the topmost twig of the tall larch tree, as if he thought his song would sound the sweeter, the nearer he could make his perch to heaven. It was to me a scene of peculiar interest on the one side stood the home of

my father and mother, brothers and sisters, the affectionate beings who appeared to me parts of my own existence, without whom, without one of whom, I could not live; and on the other side lay the grave-yard, where my forefathers slept in "the narrow house," and where my kindred and myself were in all likelihood to sleep-one of us, perhaps, in a few days, for my mother was at that time sick-the being who gave me birthwho nourished me on her bosom in infancy --who condoled my sorrows in manhood ;the thought of her death was distressing.

But my mind was soon called from its agonizing anticipations by the tremulous tones of a plaintive voice; when, on looking around me, I saw a man kneeling beneath a branching fir, and praying loudly and fervently. It was not, however, the prayer of the Pharisee, in the corner of the street, where every eye might behold him the person before me was unconscious that any eye beheld him but that of his Creator, whom he was so earnestly supplicating. I never saw a more affecting picture of devotion. I have seen the simple child bend its head at its mother's knee, and lisp out its evening prayer; and the father of a family kneel in the midst of his domestic circle, and ask the blessing of God to be upon them and him I have seen the beautiful maiden, whisper the silent prayer in the public assembly of worship; and the dim-eyed matron endeavour to mingle her quivering voice with the sublime symphony of the holy song:-all these I have seen, and felt the propriety of each; but the sight of this solitary worshipper affected me more deeply than all I had previously seen. His knees were bent upon the green earth, where his Bible lay on one side of him, and his hat on the other; his hands were lifted up, and his eyes were raised to heaven; yet I saw, or