PICTURE-WORSHIP, AND IMAGE-ADORATION, &c., &c. It was on a beautiful autumnal afternoon that I formed one of a small party in a walk to the little village of Preston. It was a day which I shall always remember with great pleasure, for not only was there much to delight the eye in the scenery around, and much that was enjoyable in the bright sun and the keen, bracing, healthy air-but, above all, I was with companions whose hearts were open to all the kindly influences of nature-to whom the whole visible creation was as a living commentary on the Word of God, written by Himself. They were A persons, who, while they were above displaying that loud and vulgar admiration which generally betrays its own unreal hollowness by the unfortunate choice of its object, or the inappropriateness of its remarks, could yet appreciate and admire all that was around them; could see beauty in the green field or the peasant's cot; could sympathise with and take an interest in the rustic swain himself; could read a moral in a blade of grass, or learn holiness from a flower. The little village of Preston is prettily situated on the roadside, and presents the rare phenomenon of a country village standing close to a large and populous town, and yet retaining its simple and rural appearance. He who comes suddenly upon it from the downs above, and sees it lying nestled in its little valley, snugly sheltered by many and large trees, can scarcely persuade himself, so quiet and rustic is the scene, that he is but a short mile from the noise and bustle of a great watering place, and from the margin of the sea. When he descends into the road which runs through the little hamlet, under the peaceful shadow of the broad trees, everything about him still serves to keep up and strengthen the delusion. He almost doubts the possibility of its being but half an hour ago that he was hustling his way on the crowded pavements of a gay and fashionable town: he feels as if he had been suddenly and quickly transported from where he was, and at once put down a hundred miles inland, in some sequestered and retired village. Here are pretty rustic cottages-crazy, picturesque, tumble-down old buildings, with rough tiles, many hued and tinted by the hand of time-here are country figures moving about, country-looking children playing by the roadside -here is a large barn, thatched and well stored, opening into the very road, and through its wide doors may be seen the busy laborers within, the loud whirring of whose winnowing machine, and the ceaseless clanking of whose flails tell of industry and plenty-and here is the little church, with its tower peeping through the embowering foliage, and the squire's house, and further on the neat parsonage, standing in its pretty flower garden—and here is even the regular village shop, into whose dark recesses are crammed in mighty confusion all sorts of goods, wares, stores, and vendibles, an olla podrida of the necessaries or comforts of life, "tea, coffee, snuff, and tobacco," hats, shoes, shirts, ribbons, treacle, cans, pots, candles, coats, nails, needles, string, thread, bobbin, and buckets. Curiously arranged in it's narrow window and round its door-posts, are the most showy and inviting of its articles. Here are hats, self-styled Parisian, with a warm coating of long fur, now carefully preserved in white paper. Here are coats, fustain or black velveteen, with horn buttons and vast pockets. Here the gaping plough-boy stares with wistful and with wondering eyes at the gorgeous hues of rainbow-colored waistcoats with small brass buttons, and longs for the moment when he shall be able to call one of them his own. Here, in his estimation, is collected all that wealth could |