morals of the people.

I was travelling in the west of England a summer or two back, and
was induced by the beauty of the scenery, and the seclusion of the
spot, to remain for the night in a small village, distant about
seventy miles from London. The next morning was Sunday; and I
walked out, towards the church. Groups of people--the whole
population of the little hamlet apparently--were hastening in the
same direction. Cheerful and good-humoured congratulations were
heard on all sides, as neighbours overtook each other, and walked
on in company. Occasionally I passed an aged couple, whose married
daughter and her husband were loitering by the side of the old
people, accommodating their rate of walking to their feeble pace,
while a little knot of children hurried on before; stout young
labourers in clean round frocks; and buxom girls with healthy,
laughing faces, were plentifully sprinkled about in couples, and
the whole scene was one of quiet and tranquil contentment,
irresistibly captivating. The morning was bright and pleasant, the
hedges were green and blooming, and a thousand delicious scents
were wafted on the air, from the wild flowers which blossomed on
either side of the footpath. The little church was one of those
venerable simple buildings which abound in the English counties;
half overgrown with moss and ivy, and standing in the centre of a
little plot of ground, which, but for the green mounds with which
it was studded, might have passed for a lovely meadow. I fancied
that the old clanking bell which was now summoning the congregation
together, would seem less terrible when it rung out the knell of a
departed soul, than I had ever deemed possible before--that the
sound would tell only of a welcome to calmness and rest, amidst the
most peaceful and tranquil scene in nature.