out, whereas the poor pedestrian may reach home, hours afterwards, foot-sore and discontented, having undergone vexation enough to sour his temper for the rest of the day.

How pleasant are country rides and drives! Now we stop the gig to pluck a beautiful wild flower growing on a high bank just within our reach, and now we drive up close to the side of a hedge to gaze on the sheep with their tinkling bells, and the cattle reposing in the green pasture-lands beyond. Here a blackbird, seen in the retired lane, suddenly disappears in the brake; there a timid hare starts from her form in the furze bush; and yonder, heavily and somewhat majestically, rises the fair-plumed pheasant in the air. Flowers, hedges, meadows, fields, cows, and sheep, blackbirds, hares, and pheasants, all have an interest in our eyes.

At one time we pass a windmill, and enter into friendly conversation with the miller, who is just coming out with his cart loaded with sacks of flour; whether we should do the same thing if we met him in Bond-street, I cannot say, however we are ready enough to converse with him now. He turns out to be a shrewd, companionable man, and we oblige our horse, a fine-built sleek-hided spirited animal, of course, good in his appearance, paces, and everything else, to accommodate himself to the pace of his rougher companion, whom our friend the miller praises to the skies. Of course we gain much information respecting the mill, and the farm-houses in the neighbourhood, and the nearest market, and the lanes and woods, and then turn off upon the miller's recommendation, to the left, where soon the road branches out, as all country roads do, in different directions. We foolishly take the narrowest, for without some mistake, or some little disaster, even a country ride or drive would lose much of its interest. The road suddenly bends to the left, in a way sufficiently circular to admonish us not

to pursue it, unless we desire to return once more to the windmill. Cooped up more narrowly than we like, with a fine, luxuriant, dry, green ditch on either hand, we do our best to turn round our vehicle-we succeed in getting into one of the ditches, and almost in being overturned, though we do not succeed in turning round the gig. Our horse is ardent to go forwards, but instead of this he is compelled to go backwards to the branching off of the lane, which so chafes and exasperates him, that he plays us many a prank in return.

On we go again-now in a deep hollow way, and now on a hill. Now our horse's hoofs scatter the loose stones in places where the road has been mended, and now our wheels rumble over the wooden bridge. Nor do we fail to excite some attention; a countryman touches his hat as we whirl by him; an errand-woman laden with her full basket, mop and broom, drops us a courtesy; a group of children give over their play to admire us; a mother hastily snatches up her bairn by one arm, lest it should be Juggernauted, and the stone-breaker by the way-side suspends his clinking, honours us with his especial regard, and resumes his labour only when we are out of sight.

And now it begins to rain, why should it not! Many worse things in the world than a shower! and this is just such a shower as it should be; just enough to frighten us with the prospect of wet coats and saturated gig cushions; just enough to freshen up the trees and hedges with a deeper green; and just enough to make us enjoy, ten times more than we otherwise should, the sunshine that is about to follow. We pity the poor, half-drowned, draggled-tail pedestrians that we pass, and draw a comparison much in our own favour. The rain at last ceases, the sun breaks out, and we dash on merrily, forgetting our troubles, pulling up

after a delightful ride, at a way-side public-house, the Royal Oak, where all is cleanliness and comfort. The hostler, as if he expected us, stands ready to take our steed; we are won, at once, by the civility of our host and hostess. We cannot make it out why eggs and bacon are always so much better at a public-house than at home, and we wonder how the landlord can "make both ends meet," charging as he does so unreasonably reasonable.

How different is the clean, comfortable public-house, on which we have happily lighted, to the pot-house we remember to have seen.

There sots and drunkards in their brawls,
Have pulled the plaster from the walls,
And ale and gin, and potent fume

Of vile tobacco, scent the room.
There orange-peel is freely spread,

And nut-shells crack beneath the tread ;
And shattered furniture express
Debauch and riot and excess.

Torn all to tatters and unclean

The last week's news perchance is seen,
With benches in disorder laid,
A door be-chalked with debts unpaid,
A table flooded o'er with beer,
A broken jug and backless chair,
Unclean spittoons, a spill-can stored
With brimstone matches, and a board
For cribbage and back-gammon's game;
A ceiling smoked with candle flame;
A pack of cards dispersed around,
The knave of clubs upon the ground,
Where broken pipes together vie,
And songs and saw-dust mingled lie.
Filled with tobacco yonder stands,
Receptacle of filthy hands,

A box, whereon some son of rhyme
Has thus inscribed his verse sublime,
"A halfpenny pay before you fill,

Or forfeit sixpence, which you will."

We leave the public-house, the home-brewed ale has warmed our hearts, the corn has given courage to our horse. Again we are on the whirl! How pleasant are country rides and drives! All disagreeables turn to pleasures; the freshness of the air, the glowing west, the sounds that meet us at every turn, the farm-house, hay-field, meadow, dell and hollow, with the old hovel and crooked crabtree-all have separate charms as we hasten by them.

We have freely parted with a few sixpences, for a girl has opened for us a gate, a boy has picked up our whip, and sundry others have directed us in our course; we have hurried and loitered, and stopped and proceeded, as the whim prevailed, till the sun is setting in all his glory. On we go, crossing the long shadows of the trees; the night-breeze is beginning to rustle among the leaves, and distant objects seen against the red glare of the western sky look dark, and near, and present a distinct outline. On we go; in another hour the picture we gaze on will be illumined no longer; even now

"Heaven unbinding her star-braided hair

Sinks down to repose on the earth and the sea."

How pleasant are country rides and drives!

CHAPTER IV.

FARM-HOUSES AND FARMERS.

Contrast between a country farmer and a city tradesman.-Farm houses. -Stone walls.-Gables.-Pointed roofs.-High and heavy chimneys.— Oaken door studded with iron.-Porch fitted up with settles.-A farmer's homestead, fold-yard, and rick-yard.—Rural picture by Pratt.The farmer and his visitor.-Howitt's description of farm-houses and farmers.-The dinner party.

THERE is this striking difference between a farmer, and a town or city tradesman, that while the latter makes present sacrifices for a future advantage, the former enjoys the best things of life as he goes along. The tradesman will put up from youth to age with small premises, bad air, scanty meals, and late hours, that he may hoard up wealth, all which time the farmer is living in a large house, and enjoying health, peace, plenty, fresh air, pure water, sunshine, green fields, singing birds and flowers. Parks and palaces, and large libraries, and learned men, and picture galleries, and squares and carriages, and gay equipages he wants not; and if he have not the follies, the finery, and the wonderful sights of the city, he reads about them in the newspaper and laughs at them. Give him his friend, his jug of brown ale, his pipe, and the " Farmer's Journal," and he is as happy-aye, and a great deal happier-than the Lord Mayor at the Mansion House. True, he is a