city spread before them in all their magnificence and glory, with one accord they all fell on their knees and sang a psalm. So said Sismondi, the friend of the oppressed, the defender of freedom, the man truly good and great, exclaiming afterwards, according to Miss Sedgwick, "Ce sont les choses qui me meuvent le plus; je ne peux jamais en parler." It is with a similar impulse that the lover of rural life and rural sights and sounds is actuated when he leaves the sickly town, or the smoky, the noisy city, the haunts of greedy gain and greedy speculation, with a mind free and uncontaminated and a heart generous and open, he flies to his favourite haunts, full of the purest emotions of gladness, of praise, and of thanksgiving. Away, then, to the country-the healthy, the pure, the lovely country! Mountain and valley-hill and slope-river and rivuletspring and torrent-wood and down-these, though always varying, are still the same. They come forth in the morning as fresh and as beautiful as on the day of their creation. Their loveliness is eternal. They are all the handiwork of the Great God of Heaven; and . he said, that they were good. And they are good. Away to the uncontaminated country! Let us dive into the depths of the solemn woods, the sylvan sanctuaries, with their long-drawn magnificent aisles, and trace what is spread around-all objects from the giant oak to the dwarf lichen-from the raven to the wren. Let us stroll along the quiet old green lanes, where the ancient thorn trees, without changing their form or size for countless years, have witnessed generation after generation pass away, leaving no line of record to tell their names or history. Let us mount the highest eminence, and observe, attired in its sunny brilliancy, the landscape wide spread before the eye-cultivated fields of golden corn-peaceful green pastures where cattle and sheep are feeding or ruminating-distant spires and towers, hall and grange-and scattered villages, with their white-washed walls shining in the sunbeam-all forming a scene which this great country can alone present. Let us pass into the woodland valley, where the brook stream is singing its song of gladness, and where the willow, enamoured of the sound, is bending over its pure bosom, and many a flower is looking at its own beauty, as the winds of heaven breathe freshness around, and the sunlight is dancing through the merry leaves. Let us visit the retired village, the secluded hamlet, the pleasant grange. Let us linger in and around the village church, venerable in its high and revered antiquity; and the quiet village church yard, redolent of countless associations -of family and of kindred, from father to grandchild, whose memory is still beautiful even in death; and the peaceful parsonage where dwells the village pastor. Let us visit the snug homestead of the farmer, the good old English yeoman; the old orchard and the old croft; the ancient secluded path with its antique stiles; the cottage of the labourer and his little garden; the village inn and the village commonall objects, from the loftiest to the most humble, which, with their living characters, various in station and in degree, make perfect the picture of rural life and rural scenes. THE OLD GREEN LANES. In the subarbe of a town, quod he, CHAUCER. The Chanones Yemannes. The trees and bushes by the streets' sides, doo not a little keepe off the force of the sun in summer for drieng vp the lanes.-HOLINSHED. Desc. of Britaine. If we cannot tread "the starry threshold of Jove's court" above, we can, at least, find out below many a spot-many a delightful locality, snug hollow or sunny slope-if not, "a region mild of calm and serene air," in every part of this fair land-during the delightful youth of spring, the splendid beauty of summer, or the rich maturity of autumn; and amongst the rest, along the Old Green Lanes of England. Who, indeed, at all acquainted with rural life, and all its many blessings and enjoyments—its health, its hilarity-its absence from the excitements, frivolities, and animosities which belong only to the crowded city and the dense marts of trade, and its possession of the purest pleasures and most unalloyed attractions and delightswho loveth not these Old Green Lanes, which, although they may, in some instances, create associations of a somewhat mournful character, remembering their former use in by-gone years, form one of the most marked features of the country, and present paths of pleasantness and of peace? True it is, that the principle of change accompanies all the labours of man, like his own shadow. He piles up the magnificent, the sacred edifice, which catches the first matin beam and the last vesper ray. It is doomed to become a splendid ruin. He rears the stately monument to genius, to renown, to patriotism. The same fate awaits it:-the obelisk "slopes its head to the foundation." He cuts inscriptions on marble and emblazons the escutcheon, and thinks them everlasting. The finger of Time rubs them out, or dims their lustre. Yet he has done mighty things in the olden timemightier than in our modern days. How mighty? Let the enormous imposts on the lintels of the temple of Karnac answer. mechanical power known at the present day could lift them there! No All is change-change-in systems, in belief, in opinions, in creeds, in manners, in |