The service in Kemerton Church is performed in some respects very simply, in others, one might say, elaborately, for most of it is sung. There is no organ, and the singers are plain farmers and village-lads, yet they have places in the chancel, and wear surplices, and sing with very agreeable effect. When Morning Service was over, I proposed a quiet ramble through the fields, with my friend, for my heart was quite full of the solemnities of which the Holy Communion formed a part. As we were about to leave, we observed the bell-ringers taking their stand under the tower, which opened into the Church, with great reverence and propriety in their behaviour. The Archdeacon informed us that they were all worthy parishioners, who understood the nature of the humblest office in the house of God, and who rung the bells with a sense of serving the temple, and sounding forth the glory of the Lord. When we had gone about a quarter of a mile from the Church, we heard the bells ringing, accordingly, and sweet music did they discourse. They seemed indeed full of Sabbath blessing; full of peace and good will to men. “This, dear V——,” said I, “This is enchanting, and more, ’tis heavenly! Shall I ever forget this peaceful Sunday noon in England?” As I looked around, all seemed, as the Gospel would make the whole earth appear, if only sinful men would let it; all blossomed as the rose. A church but a few rods in one direction—and another less than a mile before us—and many others near us, all around! All _churches_ too—not so many tokens of religious strife and schism, but each to its own little nest of villagers, the centre of one faith, of one baptism, and the worship of one Lord. Ah—here is the true glory of England! Mile after mile, in some counties, seems to be marked by church after church; each beautiful in its kind, the monument of ancestral piety among its rural worshippers, and the tutelary of their rude forefathers’ graves, that cluster beneath its eaves. One wonders what a dissenter is made of, when he beholds these rural churches, and their happy influence over a rustic population. We extended our walk to Overbury Church, an old Norman structure of small dimensions, beautifully restored, and in perfect repair. The congregation had just withdrawn, and the breath of prayer seemed lingering in the sanctuary. My ramble was completed before the Evening Service began, and certainly never saw I Sunday so liveried before, to celebrate the holy tide. The hawthorn was everywhere in flower; butter-cups, daisies, lilacs, cowslips, and every variety of contemporary blossom, were to be seen in all the fields and cottage-gardens; and the very sheep and cattle, resting in the shadow of the trees, seemed to know it was the holy day. Where else, save in England, is holy tide ever so entirely what holy tide should be?