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No . II , We speak of the changes of nature , but what are they compared with the mutations in the spirit of man ? On such a day as this we come to such a place as this , and , while treading on the decayed leaves of a former year , we point to the bursting buds around us , and say , * ' How many seasons are there in the life of one man ! " But is there not a voice in this solitude
which tells a different tale ? Is there not here a character of stability which there is nothing in mortal life to rival ? If these trees could whisper as they wave the history of all that has ' passed beneath them , would they not speak of creation , change , and progression , such as human experience knows not of ? This aisle of columnar trees , —how long is it since they arose side by side , and interwove their topmost boughs , making a sanctuary where twilight may flee to rest at noon-day ? How long is it since the ivy matted the ground ,
and climbed these living pillars , and hung its garlands to the breezes on high ? Perhaps the cowled devotee retired hither to pay his debt of devotion , to transfer his prayers fronx his girdle into the care of his saint . Perhaps , as he stood beneath this shelter , some wandering breeze came to sweep aside the foliage , and give him a glimpse of the wide champaign studded with hamlets , speckled with flocks and herds , and overspread with the works of man ' s busy hands . Perhaps he crossed himself , and thanked heaven that he was
not like these busy men , destined " to fret and labour on the plain below , " but rather withdrawn into the stillness of retreat , where the songs with which the reaper cheers his toil could never come to disturb the orisons of the devout . Perhaps the Puritan has stood on this spot , trampling the snowdrop under foot , while looking up to the waving tracery , lamenting its likeness to the cathedral aisle , and wishing for power to uncover the verdant roof , and let in dust and glare . Here , while mourning over the unconverted , he perhaps turned away from the scent of violets , and would fain have hushed
the cooings of the wood-pigeon . Since those days a better homage than that of the devotee and the fanatic has doubtless been offered ; there may have been a progression from the idol worship of ignorance to that devotion under whose influence truth springs from the earth among the flowers , joy comes in the flickering lights , and praise is uttered in all the stirring harmonies around . Thus while , from season to season , Beauty has passed through this grove and vanished , Wisdom may have made it her abode , and may now be ready to whisper her experience from the days of her weak childhood to this time of comparative maturity .
Nor has she less to tell of the progression of an individual spirit than of that of generations ; and her record of such a progression has she confided to these silent witnesses around me . To me there was ever a sabbath in this place : ever something awful in the invariableness of its character . It teems , therefore , with my Sabbath thoughts and feelings alone . In the winters of my childhood I loved to come when the neighbouring mansion
was deserted , and the trackless snow shewed the solitude to be complete ; and to this alley I first bent my steps , stopping only to gather the single rosebud drooping under its little burden of snow . When the scarce disclosed entrance between the laurels was reached , when I opened my rustling way , how darkly green was the covert , carpeted and tapestried with ivy as now ! None crossed my path but the startled hare ; nor did the momentary alarm reveal to me what I have since learned , that the hour was to me a
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SABBATH MUSINGS .
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Citation
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Monthly Repository (1806-1838) and Unitarian Chronicle (1832-1833), April 2, 1831, page 235, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse.ac.uk/periodicals/mruc/issues/vm2-ncseproduct2596/page/19/
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