secluded one, and the elm trees around it give it a character of rural repose.

I stood

I went there alone, and in company. in silence in that treasure house of death, while a fond and bereaved parent bent and bowed down over the resting-place of a beloved child. To her the spot was doubly dear; and to any one reproaching it as a gloomy one, her spirit would have replied―

O passing stranger, call this not
A place of fear and gloom :
I love to linger o'er the spot;
It is my baby's tomb.

Here morning sunbeams brightly glow,
And here the moonbeam shines;

While all unconsciously below
My slumbering babe reclines.

His little waxen rosy face,

I know will soon decay;
And every charm and every grace

Will moulder fast away.

But when the sun and moon shall fade,

My baby shall arise,

In brighter beams than theirs array'd,

And reign above the skies.

With a Christian friend I visited the neighbouring villages, and rambled both in frequented and unfrequented pathways.

The holly walk, though goodly trees are yet

growing there, is not the holly walk of days gone by. The high hedge has disappeared; mansion after mansion has sprung up in the neighbourhood, and trespassed on that retiredness and seclusion which constituted its principal charm.

In the wilderness, or a little beyond, we met a barefooted Irish labourer, who was wandering about in search of employment. In answer to some inquiries, he told us that he did as the priest told him to do, he prayed to God and to the virgin Mary, who had given him luck the last time he came to England. Poor fellow! if he could have read the Holy Scriptures, he might have found the words of the Saviour, "Verily, verily, I say unto you, Whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, that will I do," John xiv. 12, 13; but he must have looked a long while before he could have found the same thing said of the virgin Mary.

Long did we linger on the Newbold Comyn Hills; for not only are the natural beauties of the place seductively enchanting, but the villages around, the turrets of Warwick Castle, and the imposing tower of St. Mary's Church, are strikingly interesting.

We threaded the serpentine mazes of Lover's Walk, while gaiety and gravity were alternately

allowed to take the lead. There is a great delight in colloquial discourse, when we feel that we can give way to the liveliest sallies of a buoyant spirit without the risk of being misunderstood. There is no freedom in conversation, where we must weigh our words in a balance before we utter them. An agreement on the deep and solemn realities of Divine things, an unfeigned reverence for God's holy word and will, and an unreserved conviction that Jesus Christ is able to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him," impart a mutual confidence, leaving almost without restraint the unpremeditated influences of the heart.

Lillington, like most of the adjacent villages, is rendered interesting by the stillness and seclusion of the neighbourhood around; the same scenery of homesteads and fields, and oaks and elms, is to be met with in all directions, imparting quietude and tranquillity to the mind.

We wended our way in the direction of Offchurch; and while seated on a stile, a decent looking, neatly dressed cottager's wife came up. In helping her with her loaded basket over the stile, I was struck with the cleanliness and simplicity of her appearance. She was a perfect contrast to the dirty drabs that so frequently meet the eye in a crowded city.

F

The brook was bubbling its way over the stones, and through the sedgy grass; and the young purple dragon-flies were on the wing. It is related, I think, of Lord Byron, or of Shelley, that being fond of sailing paper boats across a pond, he, on one occasion, through want of other materials, formed his little bark of a fifty-pound note. Being better provided as paper boat-builders than he, we had no necessity to resort to so hazardous an experiment as the one I have recounted.

We took the road to the park, and had scarcely entered it under the guidance of two female cottagers, returning home from their marketings, when a long-winged heron sailed by at a little distance. It reminded me that I once sat down to a country breakfast where a hot roasted heron was placed upon the table.

My companion talked with the women, in the very spirit of Christian kindness, and gave them books for their children. One of them showed her thankfulness by offering to gather a nosegay of roses from her cottage garden.

It does us good to mingle with the poor,

For much is gathered from their plain remarks;
And oftentimes the knowledge of their griefs
Teaches us patiently to bear our own.

Offchurchbury is a mansion of great anti

quity, and its Gothic grandeur is very imposing. Had Offchurch no other recommendation, the stately palace of the Mercian king Offa, that once stood there, has clothed the place with olden associations.

The reflecting visitor can hardly walk through the place of sepulture attached to the church of St. Gregory, without drawing comparisons between the past and present, and musing on the solemnities of the future.

Whitnash, Tachbrook, Princethorpe, and Cubbington, are all places of more or less interest, on account of their retired situations, and the rural scenery around them. At Cubbington, the gift of a few little books to the cottage children, gathered a motley tribe of young people around us, so that we walked through the village to the churchyard with a numerous retinue at our heels. My companion spoke kindly to them, and questioned them; and having ascertained that there might be from one to two hundred children in the immediate neighbourhood, he promised to give a book to every one of them, which promise was faithfully performed in a subsequent visit.

The rosy-faced churchwarden who attended us in our visit to the church and the old manorhouse, where he lived, did not profess to be