her sainted ones—she sang in tones of the gentlest melody that beautiful hymn of Watts—
"There is a land of pure delight,
Where saints immortal reign;
Infinite day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain."
At its close, she relapsed into a train of animating, devotional contemplations, admirably fitting the mind for the duties of that day, on which the Redeemer, whom she loved, ascended from the tomb.
Around the fire of her domestics, quietness and comfort, though of a different nature, predominated. The clean-wash'd floor, well-brush'd shoes, and preparations for a Sunday s dinner, shewed that the householders of that time provided, in their domestic regulations, that their servants also might attend the worship of the sanctuary, and enjoy the privileges of a day of rest. Neatness and order, in which the ancient house-keeping matrons certainly yield not the palm to their daughters, or granddaughters, prevailed throughout the simply-furnished apartment. The dressers, unpainted, but as white as the nature of the wood permitted them to be, sustained the weight of rows of pewter, emulous of silver in its beautiful lustre.
A long oaken table in their vicinity, once used at refections, when the family comprised many more members, but now summoned to do service only on ironing days, emitted as much lustre as the strength of a brawny arm
- Isaac Watts, There Is a Land of Pure Delight.