* * * * * COTTAGE PIETY. BY JEREMY SHORT, ESQ. “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.”