her peaceful footsteps homeward, with her thoughts turned to other scenes and other prospects, as she beholds with a patient eye the quiet village churchyard-the last resting place where many of her kith and kin are sleeping the sleep of death beneath the daisied turf, and where she herself, full of heavenly hope and humble confidence, must speedily follow, and be laid in the narrow house?

Blessings rest upon the Village Stile and the Village Footpath, full, as they are, of many delightful associations, which flow through the peaceful mind, like a bright streamlet through the woodland valley, singing the song of truth and constancy, of goodness and affection, of purity and peace!

THE TURN OF THE LANE.

Yet dear to fancy's eye the varied scene

Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook between;
Yet sweet to fancy's ear the warbled song,
That soars on morning's wing the vales among.

COLERIDGE.

THE journey of life at the present day-at any past period in the progress of the mighty stream of time, which has swept away empire after empire-Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage -and which is yet destined to leave behind the devastation of all human institutions, whilst nature herself, for ever changing, is still the same-still as beautiful, still as attractive, and still as youthful, as on the first glorious dawn of creation-the journey of life, with all its pleasures and enjoyments-its toils, and trials, and difficulties-would, after all, be a journey of sadness and weariness, if it were entirely without a turn. Hope, it is true, comes to all; and throws around every object

its own peculiar, and, in many instances, gorgeous hues. Hope is the bright courier of life -but like the rainbow itself, however resplendent and beautiful, is too often found to be as transient. Still there is, generally speaking, more pleasure in the prospect of change than meets with acknowledgment-more delight in the anticipation of some fancied good, than is admitted, even by those to whom sorrow and trouble appear wholly strangers.

It is an old saying, that "it is a long lane that has never a turn"-an expression which, however antiquated or homely, has attached to it many forcible meanings. Truly, though the desert, with its scorching winds and overwhelming sand-storms, present the idea of extreme weariness, and sorrow, and desolation, yet the traveller pursues his way, hoping to arrive at more favoured regions; thus, through life, the prospect of change is enlivened by the rays of brighter gladness. Pleasure derives a zest from variety alone; for while the mind is freed from the sadness of continued sameness, the scene which is about to open before the expectant eye possesses that peculiarly fascinating power to which both mind and heart are disposed to cling with a pertinacity of feeling,

which, bounding from the scene which is about to be left behind, enters upon the new prospect with renewed vigour.

It is said by the true lovers of a country life, that every single rural sight or rural sound is fraught with interest and delight, or calculated to awaken the most gratifying associations. Let us attempt to prove the truth of this assertion, by taking the most simple of all subjects -THE TURN OF THE LANE.

Modern iron highways, with which the face of the country is scored, possess of themselves little beauty, however attractive may be the scenes through which they occasionally pass. They are far more indicative of extreme fleetness than of any other quality; and so far from having in themselves anything which could possibly embody the notion of picturesque grandeur, they seem to be secured to the earth, not truly by the "sleepers" of the spirit of Mammon-but more by the "bolts and keys" of the presiding majesty of commercial enterprise.

For the enjoyment of the attractive beauties of the country, the turnpike affords greater facilities than the railway, not merely from the lesser speed upon the former, but also from the

circumstance, that, as the course is more devious than the rails, the opportunities of recurring changes in the prospect are more frequently presented. But there is this insurmountable drawback, from which the railway is free—the bespattering mud of winter and the choking dust of summer, without mentioning a whole host of other annoyances.

So far, indeed, as the enjoyment of the beauties of the country can be taken into the account, both the railway and the turnpike must yield to the humble, yet peaceful byelanes, which can be traced from almost time immemorial, before the beam of the steamengine had stretched forth its giant arm, and which abound in almost every locality, where cultivation has planted its foot, and in every direction where their formation has been required. If, indeed, the tourist-and especially the foreigner-is desirous of giving a faithful picture of the character of the face of the country, he must leave the great lines of transit, and bend his course by devious paths into the very heart of each district—a course, by the adoption of which he will not only be presented with the opportunities of witnessing the fairest of scenes, but of acquiring that correct