patched with paper, or stuffed with old rags;-the men and women and children that I saw looked ragged and wretched, and in short every thing had the mark of desolation and misery. I passed five or six public houses; but though I wanted to bait my horse, and rest myself, I did not like to stop at so uncomfortable a village, and I therefore went gently on to the next, which I was told I should find three or four miles farther on the road. When I came to this village, I was quite delighted with its appearance: every thing looked neat and prosperous, every cottage was clean and well whitewashed, and every little garden seemed in excellent order, well stocked with vegetables, and ornamented with flowers. There was a china rose, or a honeysuckle, or a clematis, or a passionflower creeping over the front of every cottage. A pretty village is to me so pleasant a sight, that I determined to stop here. I however got to the end of the village without seeing a single public house. I felt disappointment; and, whilst I was considering what to do, I observed a respectable looking man working in the garden of the last house in the place. I asked him where there was a publichouse for me to bait my horse at and refresh myself. There is a very good Inn," said he, "about two miles farther on the road, but we have no public-house at all, Sir, in our village." "I am surprised at that," said I, "for there are five or six in the village that I have just passed through, and it seems but a poor place compared with this." "Yes, Sir," he replied, "it is a poor place, and you have hit upon the very reason of it. It is the number of ale-houses that has made it a poor place. These houses hold out such a temptation to a young man, that unless he has a great deal of resolution, and a great deal of right principle, he finds it hard to resist. He perhaps goes in, at first, to get has once been, he will be likely to go again; the half pint becomes a pint, and the pint becomes a quart, and so on; and pray, Sir, what poor man's earnings can stand that? Why, Sir, their families must starve. Think what goes to the alehouse, and then ask yourself what there is left to clothe a man and his wife and his children,-what there is to feed them,-and what there is to keep the house in comfortable and decent repair. If a man is all the evening at the alehouse, what time has he to do any little repairs, to dig in his garden, to plant a few vegetables, or to cultivate any thing that is useful? And then again, Sir, think of the quarrels, and disputes, and fighting that spring from drinking! Why, Sir, there is no end of the work the justices have from that village; things never seem to go right there, and we are constantly hearing of some mischief and some trouble going on; and the people are always grumbling too, and dissatisfied, and complaining of their miserable condition, when it seems to be in truth all their own fault; there is such poaching, and pilfering, and robbing of hen-roosts, and a great deal more that might be mentioned. And all this comes of your alehouses; I am heartily glad we have not a single one in our village.' "I cannot help being glad of it, too,” said I, “if the consequences are so dreadful as you speak of, but I should think you must sometimes feel the inconvenience of being without the accommodation of a house of this kind." O, certainly, Sir, we might sometimes feel it convenient to have a public-house; but we have now learnt how to do without it, and we order matters accordingly. We can buy a little cask of beer; and this does not stand us in much more than half what they pay at an alehouse; and many of the people brew a little for themselves, and this is a much cheaper way still. 1 The Two Villages, 447 But how is it that you have no alehouse at all? I should have thought that one house would have been an accommodation without doing much harm. Why, Sir, we have sometimes thought so, but it is so hard to keep them to their right use, that we think we do better to be quite without them. I am sure we are happier for it; most of the men go quietly to their homes in an evening, and it is wonderful what a deal of comfort there is in all their cottages. Very few of the people have occasion to go to the parish,-and almost all of them are well clothed and as contented and prosperous as one could wish. To be sure there are a few that cannot keep to good ways, and they will go to any of the neighbouring villages and sit at the alehouses there rather than go home; but these are a poor ragged set, and always complaining, and they serve for a warning to the rest. "Yes, and their wives and families suffer sadly for their fault," said I. "O, sadly, Sir, but, however, take us all together, I think there is not a set of more industrious and thriving people any where about than in this village." as "I am sure it is so," said I, "if I can judge by the appearance of every thing about me; however, I wish there had been a public-house just now, my horse and myself both want a bait; however, I think you judge the most wisely; and, as it is so hard to have the use of a thing without the abuse, I shall leave you to the enjoyment of your own comforts, and be contented to walk my horse gently on to the Inn, that you mentioned, on the road." The good man was beginning to offer me such refreshment as his house afforded; but, as I did not wish to trespass on the liberality of so new an acquaintance, I judged it better to go forward to the I had proceeded about two miles on the road, I came to a place where a more public road crossed that on which I was. The inn stood where the roads met; a place where such an accommodation seemed to be wanted. It was well filled with company; there was cleanliness and civilit, and good accommodation. The people of the house all seemed busy in attending to those who, on their journeys, had found it needful to stop there; but I saw none of those idle noisy people who seem to resort to a public house for the sake of wasting their time, and contriving schemes of wickedness, and starving, their families and themselves. I said to myself that here was the use without the abuse. And I could not help thinking, that a house as regular as this, would not be likely to do much harm in any place. But perhaps it is hard to contrive such a thing and my new friend might be right after all. V. EPITAPH. To the Editor of the Cottager's Monthly Visitor. SIR, MANY of your readers may perhaps never have seen the following curious Epitaph, which carries in its tail a very pointed moral. Yours, To the memory of RANDAL RIDER, Gent. who died May 1, A.D. 1729. Aged 91. in the unwearied persecution of creatures ?. he was yet a friend to every sportsman of the human race, a brother to all who were men of bottom, and tender as a parent, to young proficients on the French-horn. Meditations on a Departed Cottager. Adorned, in short, with every virtue under the sun, 1200 brushes, foundered 900 horses, twice his left thigh, his ribs frequently, awaiting a time when all men 449 A MEDITATION ON A DEPARTED COTTAGER. FARE thee well then, my aged friend! whether or not thou art a gainer by death can be clearly known but by thy Maker only. He gave thee in his wisdom; and in his wisdom hath he taken thee away. In human estimation, however, thou art a gainer. Thou hast taken a last and long leave of a world wherein all men, rich as well as poor, encounter more sorrow than gladness, more labour than repose. Thou art now placed far beyond the reach of pain, and sickness, and lingering disease; the dread of ills to be, and the fear of death. Thou art set for ever free from the miseries of age, heavy as they often are, when united to want. In one word, thou art at length liberated from all the evils of this world. To thee, old man, "to die was gain" if death has opened to thee the golden gates of heaven, and displayed to thine eyes the happy fields of paradise, those blessed plains that are only trod by archangel and seraph, and the "spirits |