decked with their noble antlered heads upraised to gaze at the approaching stranger—through the intricacies of the tangled, uneven cliff, and the smoothness of the quiet lane-over the commanding hill-top which overlooks the whole scene, where, here and there, stands the whitewalled village or peaceful hamlet, with the humble spires or humbler towers, intervened by fields of corn, and sunny meadows, and peaceful pastures. Oh! how beautiful and harmonious is all this visible world! One universal freshness breathes around, as if the earth, with its thousands of years, had just come forth from the hand of its Great Creator, impressing upon the mind the powerful conviction, that, imitating the example set by heaven, we should be unchangeable in all that is good, and throw around our path the light of mercy and of forgiveness, and clothe ourselves in the garb of love and of all sweet affections.

Over this scene of surpassing loveliness, on the right hand and on the left, comes the sweet music of the Village Bells, with their light and joyous chime, rendered, if possible, more attractive by the deep diapason notes from the distant borough town-calling the denizens of the scene to the house of prayer, to the sanc

tuary of devotion, to the font of praise, to the

altar of thanksgiving.

"Sundays the pillars are,

On which heaven's palace arched lies;
The other days fill up the spare

And hallow room with vanities.

They are the faithful beds and borders

Of God's rich garden: that is bare
Which parts their ranks and orders."*

And behold, in the distance a troop of little girls from the village Sunday school, clothed in their best attire, under their teachers' care, are wending their quiet way up the steep path which climbs the neighbouring height, until they are gradually lost to the sight amid the thicker foliage. Over the peaceful field-path, small bands of villagers are slowly moving to the same holy destination, with a cheerfulness of aspect, and with a calm-heartedness of feeling, which seem to indicate that "path or no path, what care they"-now lost beneath the shade of the old thorn-trees with their perfumed robes of snowy whiteness, and then threading their way onward through a mass of golden broom. The hardy yeoman, with his sons and daughters, contented and happy in

* The pious Herbert.

their own little community-the aged matron, bowed down with the weight of age and of affliction-the mournful widow, drooping over the wreck of happiness and the desolation of blighted hopes and blighted affections-the village girl, all heart and joyousness, bounding over the ancient stile, beneath the old yew whose record none can tell, with a step as light and as elastic as the dappled roe, and with hopes as bright and warm as the sun-beams which light up this delightful Sunday morning scene;- these, obeying the call of the Village Bells, give to the picture its peculiar animated touches-those striking characteristics which cause the heart to gush with the deepest feeling and the mind to indulge in countless associations.*

* Hone remarks that ringers have been called "youths" in all ages, adding, that in the advice given to a "youth," in a work called "Clavis Campanalogiæ," he is recommended to "avoid all ungraceful gestures and unseemly grimaces, which, to the judicious eye, are both disagreeable and highly censurable." England is proverbially called “the ringing Island.” All our true poets, including our matchless Shakspeare, frequently allude to the bells.-Charles Lamb, upon the subject of Sabbath bells, thus expresses himself:

"The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard,
Strike pleasant to the sense, most like the voice

If the sound of the Village Bells be extremely grateful to the ear of all-the denizens of the scene over which they throw their sober melody-how much more so must it be to him who has been a wanderer over the face of the wide waters, and who, having visited far distant lands, has returned to the scenes of his boyhood, and heard once more their joyful chime! The companions of his school-days may have left their usual haunts and homes, and formed new connexions, and indulged in new associations and new feelings. All things around may have undergone the silent operation of changeful time; but the sound of the Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear Of the contemplant, solitary man,

Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure

Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft,

And oft again, hard matter, which eludes

And baffles his pursuit-though—sick and tired

Of controversy, where no end appears,

No clue to his research, the lonely man

Half wishes for society again.

Him, thus engaged, the Sabbath bells salute
Sudden! his heart awakes, his ears drink in
The cheering music; his relenting soul
Yearns after all the joys of social life,

And softens with the love of human kind."

Village Bells is still the same, as when his own youthful lips first moved in prayer, and, pure and uncorrupted, he had neither marked the trail of earthly error, nor felt the heart-breakings of this heartless world, nor indulged in thoughts of sadness, nor dwelt in the silent cells of melancholy feeling, uncheered by one ray of hope, and uncharmed by one word of consolation, of comfort, or of confidence :

"Sweet day, so calm, so cool, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,

Sweet dews shall weep thy fall at night—

For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave—

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows you have your closes―

And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like seasoned timber, never gives;

But when the whole earth turns to coal

Then chiefly lives."*

* Herbert.