the present time as his own day. "God keep us in his fear, God graft in us the true knowledge of his word, with a forward will to follow it, and so to bring forth the sweet fruits of it; and then shall he preserve us by his grace from all manner of terrible days. The remedy of this doth not stand only in making good common laws for the whole realm; but also, and perchance chiefly, in observing private discipline every man carefully in his own house: and namely, if special regard be had to youth, and that not so much in teaching them what is good as in keeping them from that which is ill. Therefore, if wise fathers be not aware in weeding from their children ill things and ill company, as they were in grafting them in learning, and providing for them good schoolmasters, what fruit they shall reap of all their cost and care, common experience doth tell." TRAVELLING AND INNS. good riders. The latter, on several occasions, rode in man's apparel. There were coaches for the infirm and sick, or for occasions of state. Queen Elizabeth rode in one on some state occasions. Sir William Cecil, chancellor of Cambridge, rode thither in a coach, to attend the queen in 1564, having hurt his leg; but it was thought disgraceful for a man to ride in a coach if in health. These coaches were only ornamented wagons. They had neither springs nor glass windows; but were often richly carved, and had canopies and curtains. At the sides were projecting seats called boots, usually occupied by attendants. A privy seal of queen Mary describes "one wagon of tymbre work for ladies and gentlewomen of our prevye chamber, with wheeles and axeltrees, strakes, nayles, clowts, and all manner of work, theretoo apperteyninge, fine redde cloths to kever and line the same wagon, fringed with redde sylke and lyned with_redde buckerum, paynted with redde colours; collers, drawghts of red lether, hamer clothes with our armes and badges of our colours, and all other things apperteininge unto the same wagon.' Hired wagons were sometimes used for travellers; but regular stage conveyances were not known. Relays of post horses were kept on the great road for the accommodation of travellers, who could proceed on horseback with toler During the sixteenth century, travelling was mostly on horseback; the state of the roads generally was too bad for wheel carriages. Females usually rode behind their servants. Even queens, if not good horsewomen, rode behind their officers. Margaret, daughter of Henry VII., the young queen of Scotland, thus made her first entry into Edinburgh, She travelled part of the way from Lon-able rapidity when the weather was fine, don in a litter, or close carriage, but was usually mounted on horseback when passing a city or large town. and the roads good. Essex came post from Ireland, when he heard that the queen was displeased by his proceedings, and arrived before any intelligence of his design had been received. Among other particulars relative to travelling, may be mentioned sir Robert Cary's winning 2000. by wagers gained by his going on foot in twelve days from Lon From the expenses of Henry VII., it appears that six new chariot horses cost 10.; they would be cart horses now. 11. 5s. 8d. was paid for hire of a chariot, (a wagon,) with the driver and six horses, for fourteen days. During one of this king's progresses, was paid "todon to Berwick. yomen riding in the countre for to serche for the sekenes, 13s. 4d." That is, to inquire whether there was any infectious disease in the direction whither the king was going. Also October 1, 1497, paid for a guide from Wells to Bath, in reward, Is. 8d. These items show how imperfect the communications in the country were at that period. In 1555, the first general law for repairing the highways of England was passed. It was followed by six more in the reign of Mary, and nineteen in that of Elizabeth. Both Elizabeth and Mary Stuart were At the commencement of the sixteenth century, a great part of travelling was in pilgrimages; sometimes matters of business were connected with these journeys, but they were more frequently excursions of pleasure and even of immorality. Latimer and Erasmus have fully described the real character and results of pilgrimages. After the abolition of monasteries, travellers had no places of resort, excepting inns; of these the larger ones usually retained the form of an open courtyard, with galleries around, communicating with the various ranges of apartments. The innkeeper now became a personage of considerable note and importance in the town. In country places, where the living was a scanty provision for the incumbent, sometimes that personage also was the tavernkeeper, and entertained travellers. Harrison says, that before the Reformation it was common for those who desired good wine to purchase it from "the cleargie and religious men," as it was known that they would neither drink nor be served of the worst; and that the merchant would fear future punishment, if he served them with other than the best. A writer of the latter part of the century, enumerates the many attentions a traveller receives at an inn. He closes with saying, "Should he object to any charge, the host is ready to alter it." Harrison, in 1586, describes that "ech commer is sure to lie in cleane sheets," no charge for his bed was made to a horseman, but a foot traveller had to pay a penny. He says, Every man may use his inn as his own house in England." In large towns there were as many as from twelve to sixteen inns; in some instances, 307. or 407. was expended in "gorgeousness of their verie signes," to tempt travellers. 66 conveyance for letters. They were sent by such opportunities as offered, or by the carriers of goods. In cases of importance, special couriers were employed. In 1577, the expense of sending lord North's sister in a litter from Kirtling, near Newmarket, to London, was 37s. 9d. The expense of a foot post from the same distance, varied from 3s. 6d. to 4s.; but the messenger was at least two days on the route: the letter would now be carried for a penny in a few hours! A large expense was incurred by the numerous communications of the government during the reign of queen Elizabeth, especially with Scotland. There were postmasters at different stations on that line, who were responsible for the forwarding of the despatches. The superscription of the letters is often curious, urging the messenger to use the utmost haste. In his northern correspondence, lord Burghley had the covers regularly marked with the time of the arrival of the messenger at the different post stations. One instance is as follows: 66 To sir Raff Sadler and sir James Crofts, knights at Barwicle W. Cecill, for liff, liff, liff, 25th of November, at Westminster. Received at Styelton, the xxvi day of November, at six of clocke at nite. Received at Neverke the xxvii day of November, at ix of the clocke in the morning. the xxviii day of November, at ii of the clocke at afterA The danger to travellers from thieves was considerable. We read in 1599, of both horsemen and footmen, "disguising themselves with beardes that they carry about them in their pockets, which do frequent and use about Layton and Snaresbrook, near London." Salisbury plain was very dangerous, from the resort of thieves and highwaymen. particular account of robbers at Gad's hill, near Rochester, in 1590, shows that Shakspeare describes the robbers connected with prince Henry, from his own times. The leader wore 66 a vizard grey bearde;" he administered an oath to the persons robbed, that they should not raise the hue and cry, and gave them a watchword to pass other thieves of the same company. There were companies of thieves in other counties. The carriers of Ludlow were robbed of 300l. A party of twenty clothiers were set upon in Berkshire, but they lost not more than 107. In other places, from Cambridge across the country to Somersetshire, were similar gangs of robbers. In Warwickshire, a robbery was committed on a Mr. Spencer in his own house, wherein about twenty-four persons were concerned. There was no regular speedy, national Received at noon. Received at Newcastell, the first of December, at xi of the clocke before noon.' A letter now posted at Westminster at six o'clock on the 25th of November, would reach Newcastle soon after midnight of the next day, or in about thirty hours; and this for the cost of one penny, while the speed is likely to be still farther increased. A letter from the council at Greenwich to the earl of Shrewsbury, in May 1550, has this inscription, Hast, for thy lyf, post, hast, for thy lyf, post, hast, hast, for thy lyf, hast, hast, hast, for thy lyf, post, hast." This was only to tell the earl to prepare suitable entertainment for the marquis de Mayne, afterwards duke of Guise, who was shortly to pass through the north on his way to Scotland. Such injunctions, as they became more numerous, would by degrees, lose their effect. WINTER AN EMBLEM OF DEATH. THE seasons of the year have been aptly compared with the various stages in the life of man. Spring, when nature bursts into new life, and with such grace unfolds its growing charms, amidst alternate smiles and tears, beautifully shadows forth the period of infancy and youth; summer, with its full-blown beauties, and its vigorous powers, represents the maturity of manhood; autumn, when the golden harvests are reaped, and the fields are stripped of their honours, and exhausted nature begins to droop, is a striking figure of the finished labours, the grey hairs, and the advancing feebleness of old age; while winter, cold, desolate, and lifeless, indicates, with an accuracy not more remarkable than it is affecting, the rigid features and prostrate energies of the human frame in death. This dismal month of December, which closes the year, seems peculiarly calculated to remind us of human decay. The vital powers which produced and sustained vegetation are withdrawn; the forests are leafless; hill and dale mourn their faded verdure; a dismal gloom covers the face of the sky, and cheerless desolation reigns. Recollections of the past, and anticipations of the future, oppress the sensitive mind. Let us turn our thoughts, then, on the congenial subject of death it is the common lot of every thing that lives. From the microscopic insect to man, the lord of the earth, all must die. Each has its spring, its summer, and its autumn; each, also, has its winter. With some, life is literally but a single day-or less, a single hour, perhaps; others survive the common period of human existence; but the various stages of life belong to the ephe-. mera, as well as to the elephant; and the former fulfils the end of its being, as well as the latter; while the minutes of the one are perhaps as equally pregnant with incidents, as the days of the other. Death is gloomy and revolting, if we look only at its externals. Who, that has seen a lifeless corpse, has been able to remain unmoved, by the affecting contrast to its former self, which it exhibited? The closed and sunken eye, which erewhile beamed with intelligence, or sparkled with delight; the motionless lips, which gave utterance to sentiments of wisdom and of piety, or, perhaps, of reckless, folly and unblushing falsehood; the heart, which beat with feeling, and the head which meditated, planned, and formed conclusions-what are they now? A heap of lifeless clay; a mass of corruption; food for worms! But, when we look deeper, and regard death with the eye of reason and religion, it assumes a very different aspect. The body is but the house of the soul. The feeble tenement has fallen into decay, and its living inmate has removed. It is but the covering in which the chrysalis was confined; the time of its change has arrived, and it has burst its shell, to expatiate in a new life; or rather it is the instrument with which an intelligent being performed its work; the task is finished; the instrument is worn out and cast away; the artificer has gone to other labours. Such is the conclusion of reason, and the analogy of nature gives countenance to the view. Nothing is annihilated. Every thing, indeed-organized matter above all-grows old, corrupts, and decays; but it does not cease to exist, it only changes its form. The herbs, the flowers, and the leafy pride of spring and summer, wither, fall, and are mingled with their parent earth; but from their mouldering remains, elements are furnished which clothe a new year with vegetable life, as fresh, and abundant, and lovely as before. Nature is not dead, but sleepeth. The seeds, roots, and buds of the year that are past, are preserved, through the winter, with admirable care, till the voice of a new spring calls them once more into life, that the seasons may again run their course, and autumn may again spread her liberal feast. Neither does the soul perish. It has "shuffled off its mortal coil," but it has not ceased to live. This is a conclusion at which we confidently arrive. What, then, has become of this ethereal spark? Reason cannot tell; but conjecture has been rife. Some have imagined, that the disembodied spirit passes into other bodies, and runs a new course of birth, life, and death, in new forms; that all living things, from the lowest to the highest grade, are possessed of souls, which either have animated, or may yet animate, human frames; and that a constant change from species to species, and from individual to individual, is taking place, regulated, in some mysterious way, by the law of retribution. This ingenious fancy, which has been called the doctrine of metempsychosis or transmigration, has been widely disseminated through the extensive regions of the East, and has given a very peculiar mould to the practices, and even to the moral character of those who receive it. A prouder and more metaphysical philosophy, which prevails in the same quarter of the world, has offered another solution of the question. All life, it is said by the followers of this sect, is but an emanation from the great fountain of existence; a drop from the universal ocean of life. Death comes, and the emanation is absorbed; the drop returns to the ocean, and mingles, undistinguished, with its parent element. Another doctrine, well known, because associated with all our classical recollections, is that of Greece and Rome; which assigns to souls a separate state of existence in the infernal regions, where rewards and punishments are awarded, according to the good or evil deeds of a present life. The puerile fables, false morality, and fanciful traditions, which are mingled with this doctrine, tend to debase and render contemptible, what might otherwise be considered as the germ of a purer faith. All that history records, or modern discoveries have ascertained, of the belief of mankind on this subject of vital importance, tends to show the impotence of human reason; and shuts us up to the revealed word of God, as the only source of light and of hope, as regards the future destiny of man. The soul survives the grave, but where does it go? What new forms of being does it assume? What conflicts and what tri umphs are reserved for it? These are questions which curiosity, that powerful principle, unites with every selfish and every ennobling feeling of the human heart, to urge on the attention. And what is the answer which the Divine oracles return? Man is a sinner, and "the wages of sin is death." Such is the appalling response. And what is death? Not the separation of the soul from the body merely, but the separation of both soul and body from God for ever. And is there no remedy? Not in the power of man, but in the grace and mercy of God. "God so loved the world, that he sent his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth on Him might not perish, but have everlasting life.' The incarnate Son of the eternal God is our Saviour. He came to earth, and assumed our form and nature, that He might take away sin by the sacrifice of himself. His own words are, "I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die," John xi. 25, 26. 66 Blessed assurance! But does it belong to all? Alas, no! It belongs only to believers. All else are excluded. What, then, is the portion of unbelievers? There is only one answer, Spiritual death.” Their inheritance is, the undying worm, and the unquenchable fire. The offer of life has been freely made, and they have rejected it. It has been urged upon them by every motive; it has been enforced by every sanction, and yet they have rejected it. The means of grace, the warnings and lessons of Providence, in the varied occurrences of life, have all been employed in vain. They have chosen death, and have sealed their own doom. But to you, who close with the offered redemption, it is not less secure, than it is glorious in the means employed, and unspeakably gracious in the blessings bestowed. By the vicarious sufferings of the Son of God, sin is punished, and the sinner absolved; eternal justice is satisfied; and infinite holiness is reconciled. From the horrors of impending destruction, the guilty descendant of Adam is introduced to anticipations of everlasting life; the child of Satan has become an adopted child of God; the heir of hell, a joint-heir with Christ of the blessedness of heaven. What, then, is death? It is to the Christian but the passing away of a feverish dream, and an awaking to the glorious realities of an endless and unclouded day. This at least it is, as far as regards his soul. But his body goes down to the grave, and, for all that we can perceive, is finally resolved into its native elements. Yet it is not so. A germ remains. It is like seed buried in winter, by the sower, beneath the sluggish soil, that it may undergo a mysterious change, and rise again to life, in a new season, under a more propitious sky. The spring of an eternal year will come. It will breathe on the dry bones, and they shall live. Then shall the soul be re-united to its material frame, "sown a natural body, but raised a spiritual body;" and this mysterious re-union, which seems essential to the perfect happiness of human beings, will consummate the appointed period, when death, I HAVE already introduced to the readers of the Visitor my uncle's neighbour, Mr. Kennedy, who was as famous for the eager adoption of every thing new, as was Mr. Dormer for his rigid adherence to every thing old. Meet with him when and where you would, he was sure to be full of some new project, and the newest was invariably the best that ever entered the mind of man. It was, however, a matter of no unfrequent occurrence for the wheel of his opinion so completely to change its position and aspect, that in less than six months the project which had been exalted as the very best was degraded as the very worst. I will mention a few instances of his versatility. "My dear sir," said he to my uncle, "have you heard of this new plant, the mangel-wurzel?" "Yes," said my uncle, "I have heard it well spoken of, and intend to give it a trial. I have ordered a small piece of land to be parted off for the purpose. I was in company the other day with a practical agriculturist, who strongly recommends it for the use of cattle.' "Oh, not for cattle merely. It is useful for ten thousand purposes, and by far the most profitable crop that can be raised. I intend to devote the whole of my land to it; in fact, all hands are at this moment employed in getting it in; and I should strongly recommend you to do the same. If all agriculturists were as sensible of its value as myself, there would be many thousands of acres immediately devoted to its growth.' 'Perhaps more than could well be spared from other purposes. I hope that in your zeal for mangel-wurzel, you modern farmers will not forget that wheat, barley, oats, and beans also are useful." 66 No fear of their being forgotten while yourself and old Dormer are conservatives for the county of every thing that is old-fashioned. I have been arguing with Dormer these two hours and more, but he is as stubborn as a mule. He will not sow even an ounce of the seed on all his extensive grounds; and why? just because it is new." "I don't agree with my friend Dormer there; though it is new, it may be good: that remains to be proved. Meanwhile I prefer for the present year trying the experiment on a small scale; then, according as it turns out, I shall be able to form a judgment to what extent it may be desirable to cultivate it in future." 66 Well, I am no half-and-half man; when I do take up a thing, I go into it with all my heart. Let me earnestly recommend you to devote at least a few acres to it. It is sure to answer. When you see the produce of your small piece of land, you will regret that you had not ten times as much.' "Then it will be easy to increase my stock another year; meanwhile, there are enough of you eager experimentalists to try the matter on a larger scale, and I most sincerely wish you all the success you anticipate." "Well, Mr. Kennedy," said Mr. Dormer, some months afterwards, "how comes on your new-fangled crop of mangel-wurzel? I suppose you clear cent. per cent. more than by the old staple growth." My uncle, who was present, observed that the subject did not appear particularly agreeable to Mr. Kennedy, and endeavoured to spare him the embarrassment of a reply by saying that he had a little plot of the plant, and was much pleased with it. The produce was very satisfactory, and it appeared to answer the purposes for which it had been recommended. He thought that on suitable lands it would be found a valuable variety of crop. It was his intention another year to have a larger quantity, and also to recommend it to the notice of his tenants. Mr. Kennedy complained of the badness of the seed, and the stupidity and negligence of his men, who, although he gave them a pamphlet containing every particular as to the soil required, the preparation and mode of culture, had not attended to half the directions given, but had gone on with the land just in the way to which they had been accustomed for other crops. "In other words," replied Mr. Dormer, 66 your experiment is a failure, as all new-fangled experiments are. Nothing like keeping to the old things, which we know are good." The fact was, that Mr. Kennedy had |