Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires
Honour and reverence evermore have raign'd.
MARLOWE'S Tamburlaine.

DURING my residence in the country, I used frequently to
attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles, its
mouldering monuments, its dark oaken panelling, all reverend
with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt
of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country, is so holy
in its repose -- such a pensive quiet reigns over the face of
Nature, that every restless passion is charmed down, and we
feel all the natural religion of the soul gently springing up
within us.

"Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky!"

I cannot lay claim to the merit of being a devout man; but
there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid the
beautiful serenity of Nature, which I experience nowhere else;
and if not a more religious, think I am a better man on
Sunday, than on any other day of the seven.

But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back
upon the world, by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms
around me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel
the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian, was a poor
decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of years and
infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than
abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible

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