the supreme benediction of the noblest mind, this calm was once
breathed over the whole land as often as sounded the last stroke of
weekly toil; on Saturday at even began the quiet and the solace. With
the decline of old faith, Sunday cannot but lose its sanction, and no
loss among the innumerable that we are suffering will work so effectually
for popular vulgarization. What hope is there of guarding the moral
beauty of the day when the authority which set it apart is no longer
recognized?--Imagine a bank-holiday once a week!

V.

On Sunday I come down later than usual; I make a change of dress, for it
is fitting that the day of spiritual rest should lay aside the livery of
the laborious week. For me, indeed, there is no labour at any time, but
nevertheless does Sunday bring me repose. I share in the common
tranquillity; my thought escapes the workaday world more completely than
on other days.

It is not easy to see how this house of mine can make to itself a Sunday
quiet, for at all times it is well-nigh soundless; yet I find a
difference. My housekeeper comes into the room with her Sunday smile;
she is happier for the day, and the sight of her happiness gives me
pleasure. She speaks, if possible, in a softer voice; she wears a
garment which reminds me that there is only the lightest and cleanest
housework to be done. She will go to church, morning and evening, and I
know that she is better for it. During her absence I sometimes look into
rooms which on other days I never enter; it is merely to gladden my eyes
with the shining cleanliness, the perfect order, I am sure to find in the
good woman's domain. But for that spotless and sweet-smelling kitchen,
what would it avail me to range my books and hang my pictures? All the
tranquillity of my life depends upon the honest care of this woman who
lives and works unseen. And I am sure that the money I pay her is the
least part of her reward. She is such an old-fashioned person that the
mere discharge of what she deems a duty is in itself an end to her, and
the work of her hands in itself a satisfaction, a pride.

When a child, I was permitted to handle on Sunday certain books which
could not be exposed to the more careless usage of common days; volumes
finely illustrated, or the more handsome editions of familiar authors, or
works which, merely by their bulk, demanded special care. Happily, these
books were all of the higher rank in literature, and so t