We hope not to bring down the charge of
Sabbath-breaking on Mr. Barclay, if we venture
to inform our readers, that his mode of passing
Sunday differed, in some important particulars,

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from that which generally obtains in the religious
world. His whole family, whatever the
weather might be, attended public worship in
the morning. He was anxious early to inspire
his children with a love of going to the house of
God, and with a deep reverence for public worship,
which (with one of our best uninspired teachers)
he believed to be “agreeable to our nature,
sanctioned by universal practice, countenanced
by revealed religion, and that its tendencies are
favorable to the morals and manners of mankind.”

Happily his pastor was beloved by his children,
and Mr. Barclay therefore had none of the
frivolous pretexts and evasions of duty to contend
with, which are as often the fault of the shepherd
as of the flock. Mr. Barclay loved to associate
in the minds of his children the word and works
of God, and after the morning service was closed,
the father, or mother, or both, as their convenience
served, accompanied the young troop to the
Battery, the only place accessible to them where
the works of God are not walled out by the works
of man. There, looking out on the magnificent
bay, and the islands and shores it embraces, they
might feel the presence of the Deity in a temple
not made with hands, they might see the fruits of
his creative energy, and, with sea and land out-spread
before them, feel that


“When this orb of sea and land
Was moulded by His forming hand,
His smile a beam of heaven imprest
In beauty on its ample breast.”

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Mr. Barclay certainly would have preferred a
more retired walk. On Sunday, more than any
other day, he regretted the sequestered haunts
of Greenbrook, where he might have interpreted
the religious language of nature without encountering
observation or criticism. But he would
not sacrifice the greater to the less, and he was
willing to meet some curious eyes and perhaps
uncharitable judgments, for the sake of cultivating
in his children that deep and ineffaceable love
of nature, which can only be implanted or rather
cherished in childhood. He was careful in these
Sunday walks to avoid the temptations to frivolity
in the way of his children, and he never encouraged
remarks upon the looks, dress, and gait
of those they met.

Restricted as they were by their residence to
a single walk where the view of nature was unobstructed,
their topics were limited; but children
will bear repetition, if the teacher has a gift
for varied and happy illustration. A walk on
the Battery suggests many subjects to a thinking
mind. A few of these would occur to a careless
observer. The position of the city at the mouth
of a noble navigable river, — a position held sacred
by the Orientals; Long Island, with its inviting
retreats for the citizen, and its ample gardengrounds
seemingly designed by Providence to
supply the wants of a great metropolis; Governor's
Island, with its fortifications and military
establishment, — a picture to illustrate the great
topic of peace and war, on which a child's mind
cannot be too soon, nor too religiously

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enlightened; the little Island where the malefactor
suffers his doom, an object to impress a lesson of
his country's penal code; Staten Island with its
hospitals and quarantine ground, to elicit important
instruction concerning these benevolent institutions,
and their abuses in ill-governed countries;
the telegraph, the light-house, and the ship,
the most striking illustration of man's intelligence,
industry, skill, and courage; the lovely
shaded walks of Hoboken, over which the sisters
Health and Cheerfulness preside; and, finally, the
Narrows, — the outlet to that path on the great
deep, which the Almighty has formed to maintain
the social relations and mutual dependence of his
creatures.

There may be some who think that these are
not strictly religious topics, nor perfectly suited
to the Lord's-day. But perhaps a little reflection
will convince them, that all subjects involving the
great interests of mankind may be viewed in a
religious light; and, if they could have listened
to Mr. Barclay, as, leaning over the Battery
railing, he talked to the cluster of children about
him, they would have perceived that the religious
light, like the sun shining on the natural world,
shows every subject in its true colors and most
impressive aspect.

At half past one, the Barclays returned invigorated
and animated by the fresh sea-breezes
to a cold dinner prepared without encroaching
on the rest of Martha's Sabbath. The dinner
was only distinguished from that of other days by
being rather simpler and more prolonged, for

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they dedicated a part of this day, in the emphatic
words of Jesus, “made for man,” to social intercourse.
That, to be happy, must be spontaneous
and free.

“I wonder,” said a lady, on one occasion,
to Mrs. Barclay, “that you don't take your children
to church Sunday afternoons. It is the best
way of keeping them still.”

Mrs. Barclay smiled; and Mary answered, “I
am sure you would not think so, Mrs. Hart, if
you were to see Willie; — he fidgets all the
time.”

“No, — no, Miss Mary,” spoke up Willie,
“mother says I sit very still when they sing;
but I do get tired with the preaching part, —
I wish they would leave that out!”

“So do I,” said Mary; “I own, when I go in
the afternoon I cannot help going to sleep.”

“Then you never sleep in the morning,
Mary?”

“O no, — never.”

“I thought you never went in the afternoon.”

“Sometimes,” said Mrs. Barclay, “when I am
not well, I send her with the little ones, as I
suppose other mothers do, to get them out of the
way, and into a safe place. I am sorry ever to do
this, for the heart is apt to be hardened by an
habitual inattention to solemn truths, — by hearing
without listening to them.”

“You must have a pretty long, tiresome afternoon.”

“Tiresome!” exclaimed Mary, “I guess you
would not think so, if you were here, Mrs. Hart.

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Sunday afternoon is the pleasantest of all the
week. Is not it, Willie?”

“Yes, indeed, 'cause mother stays with us all
the time.”

“And reads to us,” added Mary.

“And shows us pictures,” said Willie, “and
lets Patrick and Biddy come and see them too.”

“They are Bible pictures, Mrs Hart, and so
mother reads something in the Bible that explains
them.”

“And sometimes she tells us Bible stories,”
said Willie; “and sometimes stories of real live
children, — real, — not book children, you know.”

“And sometimes,” continued Mary, still eager
to prove to Mrs. Hart, that the Sunday afternoons
were not tiresome, “mother writes a little sermon
on purpose for us, not a grown-up sermon. Then
she teaches us a hymn; then she teaches us to sing
it; and when she wants to read to herself, she sets
us all down, Willie and Biddy, and all, with our
slates to copy off some animal. I wish you could
see Willie's, — his horses look like flying dragons.”

“O Mary!” interrupted Willie; “well, you
know mother said your cow's legs were broken,
and her horns ram's horns.”

“This is a singular occupation for Sunday,”
said Mrs. Hart.

Mary perceived the implied censure. “O
but, ma'am,” she said, “you don't know what we
do it for. After we have finished, mother tells
us all about the animal, — how its frame is contrived
for its own happiness, — how God has prepared
its food, for you know the Bible says the

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young ravens cry unto him and he feedeth them;—
and then she explains what she calls the relations
between man and animals, and Pat Phealan
says mother makes him feel as if the dumb creatures
were his first cousins, — Pat is so droll.
He says he never throws a stone at a dog now,
and he can't bear to see the men cruelly whip
their horses, — `he won't, plase God he ever
owns one;' you know Pat is Irish. No, Mrs.
Hart, you would not think it was wicked for us
to draw pictures Sunday, if you were to hear
mother teach us about them, or to see our little
books of natural history, where we write down
what she says.”

“Wicked, my dear! I did not say it was
wicked.”

“No, ma'am, — but — ”

“If I did think so,” added Mrs. Hart, rightly
interpreting Mary's hesitation to speak, “I think
so no longer. I too am learning of your dear
mother, Mary. I should like to know how the
rest of your family pass the Sunday afternoon.
May I question Mary, Mrs. Barclay?”

“Certainly, we make no secret of our mode
of passing Sunday, though we do not wish to
proclaim it. We do not expect to reform the
world, even if we should be satisfied with the
result of our experiment. To tell you the truth,
Mrs. Hart, we have long thought it would be
better to have but one religious service on Sunday, —
that people satisfy their consciences by
just sitting down within the four walls of a
church, no matter how languid their attention,

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how cold their hearts, when they get there, —
that much most precious time is thus wasted, the
only time that the great mass of the working
world have to consecrate to spiritual subjects
and active charities. We think clergymen would
preach better and their people hear more, if there
was but one sermon. These being our opinions,
our duty is plain, and we therefore quietly follow
the course conscience dictates to us, hoping to
be kindly judged by those from whom we differ
with all humility, and being well aware that those,
who depart from the received usages of the religious
world, should be diffident of themselves.
Do not, I beseech you, think that we underrate
or distrust the value of public worship. We
reverence it as one of the most important and
dearest of all social institutions, and we are
therefore most anxious that its effect on our
children's minds should not be impaired. Now
if you are not tired out with my long preface,
ask Mary what questions you please; if she cannot
answer them, I will.”

“Thank you. Well, Mary, what do Charles,
and Wallace, and Alice, Sunday afternoon?”

Mary bridled up with the conscious dignity of
a witness giving testimony in a matter of high
concernment. “Father says, ma'am, that as
Sunday is the Lord's day, we ought to be faithful
servants and spend it in his service; and he
thinks that those who have more knowledge than
others, should give it to them, just as the rich
give their money to the poor. So we have a
little school here Sunday afternoons, ten

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children, sometimes more, from father's families” —

“`Father's families!' what means the child?”

“The families father takes care of, — sees to,
you know, — that is, he visits them, knows all
about their affairs, advises the parents and instructs
the children, and the parents too I guess
sometimes, and now and then helps them, and
so on.”

“And sometimes he goes a sailing with them,”
interposed Willie.

“Sailing!” Mrs. Hart rolled up her eyes with
irrepressible astonishment.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Barclay in explanation, “he
has, upon some occasions, done this. When he
has found the parents exhausted by their labors,
people that could not read, and thus refresh their
minds at home, or, as is often the case, the children
pining for fresh air, — he has taken a little
party of them down to Whitehall, and gone over
with them to some quiet spot on Long Island; and
while they have been regaling on the fresh, sweet
air, he has found opportunity to speak a word in
season to them. And a word goes a great way
with them, from those that show an interest in
their little pleasures, and share them, as if they
really felt that these poor creatures in their low
condition, were their brethren and sisters, and
children of the same father. It makes a great
difference whether you do them a kindness to
discharge your conscience of a duty that presses
on it, or from an affectionate interest in them.”

“This is a new view of the subject to me,”
said Mrs. Hart, “but I 'll think on 't. Well,

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Mary, how do the children manage the school? they
are rather young for such a business.”

“O, they don't do the managing part. Father
and mother do that; and Grandmama or Martha
sits in the room to see that all goes on smooth.
Aunt Betsey tried it, but” —

“My dear Mary!”

“Mother, I am sure Mrs. Hart knows Aunt
Betsey. Two of the children,” continued Mary,
“teach, and one goes with father to see his families,
and they take turns; and father and mother
come in and talk to them.”

Mrs. Barclay helped out Mary's account with
some explanations: “Some of the children,” she
said, “are Catholics, and of course would not attend
church in the afternoon. The Catholics are
shy of sending their children to the public schools,
but they have not manifested any reluctance to
trust them to us, probably from our intimate
knowledge of them at their homes, and from having
realized some advantage from our instruction
there; for we have done what we could to improve
their domestic economy. Home influences,
even among the poor and ignorant, are all in all
for good and for evil, for weal and for woe. We
have some tough subjects, as you may imagine;
but patience; `Patience and hope' is our motto.
Besides, we really get attached to them; and love,
you know, lightens all labor.”

“Yes, mother,” said Mary; “that is just like
what father read us out of Shakspeare last evening:

`I do it
With much more ease, for my good will is to it.”'

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“The children,” continued Mrs. Barclay, “are
quite competent to hear the lessons of their
classes. We spend our time in talking of whatever
the occasion may suggest. Sometimes we
elucidate or impress a passage of Scripture, —
sometimes we strive to deepen and fix a sentiment.
As most of their parents are Irish, they
are quite ignorant of the history, government, and
laws of their adopted country. Mr. Barclay endeavours
to enlighten them on these subjects. He
tries to make them feel their privileges and duties
as American citizens, and to instruct them in the
happy, exalted, and improving condition of man
at the present time, and in our country, compared
with what it has been heretofore, or is elsewhere.
I take upon myself the more humble, womanly
task of directing their domestic affections, and
instructing them, as well as I am able, in their
every-day, home duties. We wish to make them
feel the immense power and worth of their faculties,
and their responsibility to God for the proper
use of them.”

“Truly,” said Mrs. Hart, “your time is spent
quite as profitably as it would be at church; but
do you not get excessively wearied?”

“The weariness soon passes off.”

“And the compensation remains?”

“Yes, it does; I say it not boastfully, but with
thankfulness to Him who liberally rewards the
humblest laborer in his field.”

“And then, Mrs. Hart, our Sunday evenings
are so pleasant,” said Mary; “do, mother, let
me tell about them.”

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