That there are alehouses enough of an objectionable character, where neither the host nor his usual customers can reasonably lay much claim to sobriety or morality is certain, but the quiet, thriving, old-fashioned, well-conducted roadside Village Inn, is not to be spoken of in so light a

manner.

Houses of this latter description, in the midst of their endless variety have some general features, of so agreeable a kind that few people are altogether proof against their attractions. They may stand on a flat or a sloping green, or on a gentle rise, a little removed from the road. They may be called the King's Head, the Green Dragon, the Golden Crown, the Royal Oak, or the Malt Shovel. The painted sign may be fastened over the door, or suspended from two high posts, or swing from one that resembles a gallows, or it may have for its support the large spreading tree growing in front of the house. There may be, or there may not be, a malt-house attached to the premises, with stables for horses and a shed for a spring-cart or two, or a chaise. In these things they may differ, but in others they are sure to agree.

Whether they are large or small, timber-framed, whitewashed, stuccoed or brick, they are tolerably certain to have an attentive host and hostess; a good fire in the kitchen; a clean, quiet, cheerful parlour; a neat bed-room; a comfortable bed with snow-white sheets; fowls, bacon, fresh eggs, butter and vegetables, with a good garden well stocked with gooseberry and currant trees, and a pleasant arbour.

Who is there who has not spent an agreeable day or two at one of these rural caravanseras, where "good entertainment for man and horse" is provided on reasonable terms? Who has not been bowed in by the bare-headed Boniface, and welcomed with a smile by the good-tempered hostess

and her daughter? And who has not marvelled again and again at the freshness of the air, the brightness of the fire, the cleanliness of the rooms, the excellence of the meat, the sweetness of the bread, the fineness of the ale, the thickness of the cream, and the low charge that has been made for them all?

At such houses as these, magistrates often meet, sportsmen and fishermen drop in for a meal, and, now and then, there a new-married couple take up their temporary abode. Being in one of these wayside Village Inns now, I will give a poetic sketch of poor Mary.

Mine host is much to mirth inclined,

In manner and deportment free;
Mine hostess vigilant and kind,—
A kinder creature cannot be !
But 'tis not manners free and fair,
Nor all their kind officious care;
Their crackling faggot's cheerful blaze,
Their wholesome food and cleanly ways;
Nor yet the flavour of their store
That lures me to the Pot-house door :-
To gaze, with mingled hope and fear,
Mary! thy form has brought me here.

"Tis not of health the blooming flower
That fills the stripling's heart with glee,

"Tis not the momentary power

Of beauty that enamours me;
For though a secret, silent grace,
Tempt me to gaze upon her face,
Yet every charm that draws me near,
Sorrow and pain have planted there.

Not twenty summer's suns have roll'd
Their radiant glory round her head,

Yet Mary's earthly years are told,

And all her youthful charms are fled. What though her wants may be preferr'd, And now and then she quits her chair, Her silent footsteps are not heard,

Her voice scarce undulates the air.
No smile on Mary's face may cling,-
A listless, lifeless, living thing.

While yet of tender years and weak,
Affliction bade her frame decline;
And, legibly upon her cheek,

Consumption wrote " The maid is mine!"

There is, when earthly troubles cease,
A world of light, and love, and peace,
And boundless joy-and long ago
Poor Mary! I have told her so ;-
Yet still, so free from hope and fear,
My voice she hardly seems to hear :-
Nor seeking joy, nor fearing pain,

No warning words have waked her brain :
Though I have watch'd her well, and stood,
Fostering in sympathetic mood,

Emotions strong as I do now,

No thought has settled on her brow,
And not the slightest, faintest streak
Of inward feeling stain'd her cheek.

I never saw a face so pale;

I never knew a form so spare ;
It seems as though her body frail
Would melt and mingle with the air.

There is a soul-absorbing smart,
A pensive pang that thrills the heart,
When, gazing on our kindred clay,
We see it hourly waste away :-
But Mary, with an earthward eye,
Steals to the grave so silently,

One might suppose, so calm her breath,
That life had nought to yield to death.
The spring and summer gales have blown,
But they are over, past and gone;
And winter's warring winds are near,
For autumn's dropping leaf is sere,

And Mary's lot is symboll❜d there.

But, I must mount my weary beast,
Though anxious thoughts disturb my breast.
Poor Mary! well, it must be so !
A little more of weal and woe,
Of shine and shade, of joy and pain,
Will pass, and I shall call again.

Yes! I shall call again with fear,
And gaze upon a vacant chair,
And of mine hostess kind, inquire
Why Mary sits not by the fire?

And I shall hear the dame reply,
A tear-drop starting in her eye,
While mournfully she shakes her head,
"Ah! well-a-day! Poor Mary's-

-dead.'

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CHANGE AND VARIETY IN RURAL SCENERY.

Rural Changes.-Reflections.-The frosty morning.—The elm, the birch, and the holly.-The copses, the sand-bank, and the valley.-Horses, cattle, sheep, colts, and pointer dog.-The covered waggon.-The stage coach. The pedlar and the Irish tramper.-Boys sliding.-Tracks in the snow. Peggy and her patten.-The hawthorn and spring.-The pollard oak.-The field, the lane, the coppice, and the common.

THOUGH the country in its general features is ever the

same, yet it is ever changing. Its hills, its woods, its brooks, and its farm-houses are, for the most part, stationary, but its fields present us with a continual variety. The mattock, the spade, and the plough, tear up the earth where stood the coppice, and where grew the clustering nuts that we gathered with delight. which we gambolled at one time, is and stocked with cattle at another. waved gracefully in the autumnal spreads its verdant leaves, and the high picturesque hedges in which the pie-finch built her nest, are made monotonously low and regular. Some changes afford us joy, while others induce reflection. Let me for a moment indulge my thoughts.

The sunny hay-field in covered with buttercups, Where the golden grain breeze, the green turnip

In a world that is given to change, we should prepare for changes. Folly sees no wisdom in this, but wisdom sees much folly in neglecting it. Though we discern our path by day, we require a lantern by night. Though we go thinly clad in summer, we stand in need of a thicker garment in winter.