ON TRAVELLING.

Он, 'tis a pleasant thing to travel! I was always fond of it, from my very boyhood; from the time when I used to trudge twice a year to see my uncle and aunt, who lived at a farmhouse, full six-and-twenty miles from our habitation.

And now I find travelling an excellent relaxation from sedentary labour, an encourager of cheerfulness, and, I hope, a means of usefulness, as well as an incentive to praise and bless Him from whom every mercy flows.

'Tis a pleasant thing, when you have health, and strength, and good spirits, to travel on foot: you can stop when you like, and turn round and look at the prospect. You can call at a cottage, and talk to the old lady, as she goes on with her knitting; or loiter in the green lane, pulling down a brier, and plucking the delicious blackberries. You can stand and breathe the fresh air, as it

comes over the blossomed bean-field, or gaze at the lambs at play in the knolly pasture. You can creep into the copse, and gather nuts from the hazel-trees, bunches of bright brown shellers; or make a posy of the violets, the cowslips, or the dancing daffodils. All these things you can do, and a hundred others; and as you go on, and your bosom beats with happiness, you can sing of the Divine goodness and mercy with a cheerful heart.

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'Tis a pleasant thing to travel on horseback, when steed is full of spirit, and yet manageable: when you can walk leisurely, trot fast, canter pleasantly, or gallop rapidly, as it may suit your purpose. I was always fond of riding, from the time when the donkey that my father bought me, used to throw me over his head two or three times a day the donkey was low, the green turf was soft, and I fell gently, so that it did not hurt

me.

Oh, 'tis a fine thing to be mounted on the back of a bright chesnut, or coal-black horse, when he grows warm, and gets full of life, with the white foam falling from his mouth against his broad chest! When you feel as if you were almost a part of him, so capable of controlling him, and so firmly seated in the saddle! Many a pleasant ride have I taken, and many a journey have I

gone on horseback. ciful man is merciful to his beast;" and I am sure we ought to be very kind to so useful an animal as the horse.

It is said that "the mer

Yes; whether we walk, or whether we ride,

Let us act a kindly part;

And wherever we go, and whate'er may betide,
Encourage a grateful heart.

"Tis a pleasant thing to travel by gig; for you are so much at your ease, and have so little to do, that you may journey far without weariness. It is true that you should always keep the reins well in hand, in case of a trip, and be ready in every accident that may take place, to act with presence of mind; but the very watchfulness required, rather adds than takes away from the pleasure you enjoy you would grow weary without it. Travelling by gig is a very pleasant mode of conveyance. You can snatch a glance now and then at the country round you, you can occasionally fling a tract into the road, you can admire your horse as he arches his neck, points his ears backwards and forwards, and lifts up his feet as regularly as clockwork, and you can indulge a cheerful or a sober train of thought. Many an agreeable journey have I made with a horse and gig.

T

When the summer has smiled, and the winter frown'd,

At the spring of the year and the fall,

When the heavens and the earth have been beautiful,
And God has been seen in all.

'Tis a pleasant thing to travel by post-chaise; the rattling of the wheels over the stones, the jingling of the windows, the clattering of the horses' hoofs, the odd figure of the post-boy jumping up and down in his buckskins, cracking his short-handled whip, and the rapid rate at which you dash along, altogether fill you with animation.

I have travelled many a time by this pleasant conveyance, and my spirits have risen with the occasion. Wide open flies the turnpike-gate as you approach; when you rattle under the gateway into the inn-yard, the landlord and landlady make their appearance with smiles, and the waiter turns round the brass handle of the chaise-door in haste, to hand you down the steps. Again, I say, it is a pleasant thing to travel by post-chaise, and hundreds of people agree with me in this opinion.

It is pleasant to travel by stage-coach, or by the mail, especially if you are outside on a fine summer day. You go along at so delightful a rate, and you have nothing to do but to enjoy yourself. The four grey horses, with their bright

brass harness, the coachman with his " upper benjamin" wrapped round his legs, and the guard with his red coat and laced hat, all these are pleasant objects to gaze on. You feel so much at ease, so independent, and so comfortable, that you pity every foot passenger you meet, and you say to yourself, "I wonder how any one in his senses can ride inside, this delightful weather!" Many a hundred miles have I travelled by stage-coach and mail, nor should I be very unwilling to set out on a fresh journey to-morrow. The sound of the horn, and the changing horses, and the towns and villages you pass through, and the workmen on the road, who are sure to leave off work, and lean idly on their spades and pickaxes as you go by; and the guard, flinging down his letterbags as he passes, at the country inn, or the lodge by the park-gate, and the wheels flirting up the dirty water after a shower like so many fountains; the dogs that run after the coach barking, and the locking and unlocking of the wheels, afford a constant variety to the passenger, so that it is a very agreeable thing to travel by the stagecoach or by the mail.

off.

Almost every one must have seen the mail set

The horses start, and the wheels turn round,

And hastily fade from the view;

And 'tis well to reflect while they rapidly run,
That our lives run rapidly too.