THE SABBATH IN NEW ENGLAND.-MISS SEDGWICK.

The observance of the Sabbath began with the Puritans, as it still does with a great portion of their descendants, on Saturday night. At the going down of the sun on Saturday, all temporal affairs were suspended; and so zealously did our fathers maintain the letter, as well as the spirit of the law, that, according to a vulgar tradition in Connecticut, no beer was brewed in the latter part of the week, lest it should presume to work on Sunday.

It must be confessed, that the tendency of the age is to laxity; and so rapidly is the wholesome strictness of primitive times abating, that, should some antiquary, fifty years hence, in exploring his garret rubbish, chance to cast his eye on our humble pages, he may be surprised to learn, that, even now, the Sabbath is observed, in the interior of New England, with an almost Judaical severity.

On Saturday afternoon an uncommon bustle is apparent. The great class of procrastinators are hurrying to and fro to complete the lagging business of the week. The good mothers, like Burns' matrons, are plying the needle, making “auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;" while the domestics, or help, (we prefer the national descriptive term), are wielding, with might and main, their brooms and mops, to make all tidy for the sabbath.

As the day declines, the hum of labor dies away, and after the sun is set, perfect stillness reigns in every well-ordered household, and not a foot-fall is heard in the village street. It cannot be denied, that even the most scriptural, missing the excitement of their ordinary occupations, anticipate their usual bed time. The obvious inference from this fact is skillfully avoided by certain ingenious reasoners, who allege, that the constitution was originally so organized as to require an extra quantity of sleep on every seventh night. We recommend it to the curious to inquire, how this peculiarity was adjusted, when the first day of the week was changed from Saturday to Sunday.

The Sabbath morning is as peaceful as the first hallowed day. Not a human sound is heard without the dwellings, and, but for the lowing of the herds, the crowing of the cocks, and the gossiping of the birds, animal life would seem to be extinct, till, at the bidding of the church-going bell, the old and young issue from their habitations, and with solemn demeanor, bend

their measured steps to the meeting-house ;-the families of the minister, the squire, the doctor, the merchant, the modest gentry of the village, and the mechanic and laborer, all arrayed in their best, all meeting on even ground, and all with that consciousness of independence and equality, which breaks down the pride of the rich, and rescues the poor from servility, envy, and discontent. If a morning salutation is reciprocated, it is in a suppressed voice; and if, perchance, nature, in some reckless urchin, burst forth in laughter-"My dear, you forget it's Sunday," is the ever ready reproof.

Though every face wears a solemn aspect, yet we once chanced to see even a deacon's muscles relaxed by the wit of a neighbor, and heard him allege in a half-deprecating, half-laughing voice, "The squire is so droll, that a body must laugh, though it be Sabbath-day."

The farmer's ample wagon, and the little one-horse vehicle, bring in all who reside at an inconvenient walking distancethat is to say, in our riding community, half a mile from the church. It is a pleasing sight, to those who love to note the happy peculiarities of their own land, to see the farmers' daughters, blooming, intelligent, well-bred, pouring out of these homely coaches, with their nice white gowns, prunel shoes, Leghorn hats, fans and parasols, and the spruce young men, with their plaited ruffles, blue coats, and yellow buttons. The whole community meet as one religious family, to offer their devotions at the common altar. If there is an outlaw from the society-a luckless wight, whose vagrant taste has never been subdued he may be seen stealing along the margin of some little brook, far away from the condemning observation and troublesome admonition of his fellows.

Toward the close of the day, (or to borrow a phrase descriptive of his feelings, who first used it), "when the Sabbath begins to abate," the children cluster about the windows. Their eyes wander from their catechism to the western sky, and, though it seems to them as if the sun would never disappear, his broad disk does slowly sink behind the mountain; and, while his last ray still lingers on the eastern summits, merry voices break forth, and the ground resounds with bounding footsteps. The village belle arrays herself for her twilight walk; the boys gather on "the green;" the lads and girls throng to the "singing school;" while some coy maiden lingers at home, awaiting her expected suitor; and all enter upon the pleasures of the evening with as keen a relish as if the day had been a preparatory penance.

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.-MRS. NORTON.

A soldier of the legion lay dying in Algiers,

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears, But a comrade stood beside him, while the life-blood ebbed away,

And bent with pitying glance to hear each word he had to say.

The dying soldier falter'd, as he took that comrade's hand,

And he said: "I never more shall see my own-my native land!
Take a message and a token to the distant friends of mine,

For I was born at Bingen-at Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around
To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground,
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done,
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun;
And midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars,
The death-wound on their gallant breasts-the last of many scars.
But some were young, and suddenly beheld Life's morn decline-
And one had come from Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age,
For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage;
For my father was a soldier, and even when a child,

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty board,

I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword!
And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,
On the cottage wall at Bingen-calm Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my sisters not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,

For their brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die!

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name

To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;

And to hang the old sword in its place-(my father's sword and mine,) For the honor of old Bingen-dear Bingen on the Rhine!

"There's another-not a sister, in happy days gone by,

You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;

Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning

O, friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her the last night of my life-(for ere the morn be risen,

My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison)—

I dreamed I stood with her and saw the yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along-I heard, or seemed to hear,
The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk; And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine—

But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved Bingen on the Rhine!

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was childish weak,
His eyes put on a dying look-he sighed, and ceased to speak;
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled-
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead!
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn !
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!

THE DELAWARE WATER-GAP.-MRS. E. F. ELLET.

Our western land can boast no lovelier spot.
The bills which in their ancient grandeur stand,
Piled to the frowning clouds, the bulwarks seem
Of this wild scene, resolved that none but Heaven
Shall look upon its beauty. Round their breast

A curtained fringe depends, of golden mist,
Touched by the slanting sunbeams; while below
The silent river, with majestic sweep,

Pursues his shadowed way-his glassy face

Unbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swan
To float in pride, or dip his ruffled wing.
Talk ye of solitude!—It is not here.

Nor silence. Low, deep murmurs are abroad.
Those towering hills hold converse with the sky
That smiles upon their summits; and the wind
Which stirs their wooded sides, whispers of life,
And bears the burden sweet from leaf to leaf,
Bidding the stately forest-boughs look bright,
And nod to greet his coming! And the brook,
That with its silvery gleam comes leaping down
From the hillside, has, too, a tale to tell;
The wild bird's music mingles with its chime;
And gay young flowers, that blossom in its path,
Send forth their perfume as an added gift.
The river utters, too, a solemn voice,
And tells of deeds long past, in ages gone,
When not a sound was heard along his shores,
Save the wild tread of savage feet, or shriek
Of some expiring captive-and no bark
E'er cleft his gloomy waters. Now, his waves
Are vocal often with the hunter's song;
Now visit, in their glad and onward course,

The abodes of happy men, gardens, and fields,
And cultured plains-still bearing, as they pass,
Fertility renewed and fresh delights.

The time has been-so Indian legends say-
When here the mighty Delaware poured not
His ancient waters through, but turned aside
Through yonder dell and washed those shaded vales.
Then, too, these riven cliffs were one smooth hill,
Which smiled.in the warm sunbeams, and displayed
The wealth of summer on its graceful slope.
Thither the hunter-chieftains oft repaired

To light their council-fires; while its dim height,
For ever veiled in mist, no mortal dared,

'Tis said, to scale; save one white-haired old man,
Who there held commune with the Indian's God,
And thence brought down to men his high commands.
Years passed away: the gifted seer had lived
Beyond life's natural term, and bent no more
His weary limbs to seek the mountain's summit.
New tribes had filled the land, of fiercer mien,

Who strove against each other. Blood and death

Filled those green shades where all before was peace,

And the stern warrior scalped his dying captive

E'en on the precincts of that holy spot

Where the Great Spirit had been. Some few, who mourned The unnatural slaughter, urged the agéd priest

Again to seek the consecrated height,

Succor from Heaven, and mercy to implore.
They watched him from afar.

He labored slowly

High up the steep ascent, and vanished soon
Behind the folded clouds, which clustered dark
As the last hues of sunset passed away.
The night fell heavily; and soon were heard
Low tones of thunder from the mountain-top,
Muttering, and echoed from the distant hills
In deep and solemn peal; while lurid flashes
Of lightning rent anon the gathering gloom.
Then, wilder and more loud, a fearful crash
Burst on the startled ear; the earth, convulsed,
Groaned from its solid centre; forests shook
For leagues around; and, by the sudden gleam
Which flung a fitful radiance on the spot,
A sight of dread was seen.

The mount was rent

From top to base; and where so late had smiled

Green boughs and blossoms, yawned a frightful chasm,

Filled with unnatural darkness. From afar

The distant roar of waters then was heard;

They came, with gathering sweep, o'erwhelming all

That checked their headlong course; the rich maize field,

The low-roofed hut, its sleeping inmates-all

Were swept in speedy, undistinguished ruin!
Morn looked upon the desolated scene