33

THE THIRD THOUGHT THE BEST.

I.

Through bright, delicious summer-hours
The golden sun was shining

On mossy banks and beds of flowers
Where, in the wood reclining,

I dream'd, while visions fill'd the air-
The elfin king and queen

And all their folk, in raiment rare,

Were dancing in the sheen:
And then said I-" Afar from strife,

Away from toil and care,

Sure there must be a happy life

Found here if any where :"

Then breathed a voice the greenwood through"THAT IS NOT TRUE!"

II.

Then came the winter long and drear,
And in my hut, alone,

I sat and watch'd the fading year,

And thus began to moan:

"And this is life! if blooms a flower

The frost must cut it down;

Soon fades the beauteous summer hour

At winter's coming frown.

And this is life! a dreary scene

Dead earth and sullen sky

Better had summer never been

Than only bloom to die!"

Then breathed a voice my casement through"THAT IS NOT TRUE!"

III.

But when the spring-time budded out,

Forth from my hut I went,

And, solving many a gloomy doubt,
Thus uttered my intent :-

"Yes, this is life! a constant sky
Shines all the clouds above-

So lives, while signs and shadows die,
An everlasting love!

I'll live in love right faithfully

Through bright and gloomy hours:
The bright shall cheer my constancy,

The dark shall try its powers."—

Then breathed a voice all nature through"AY, THAT IS TRUE!"

D

J. G.

34

A TRAVELLER'S TALE.

The eye is not satisfied with seeing.-SOLOMON.

SUDDENLY-joyously-one brilliant morning, I stepped into the full possession of one of the largest estates in England. In vigorous health, with high spirits, and an imagination full of earth's finest pictures and brightest colours, I paced the lawn before my mansion, gazed on my possessions, and thus apostrophized MAMMON-" Money! great, wonderworking power! Shame fall on the little, envious souls that would breathe a word to thy dishonour! Thou art the maker of men! What should I be without thee? An earth-clod tied down to this spot, or like yon poor peasants, creeping about awhile on the brown soil and then sinking into it. Money! Thou givest me wings. Thou art the greatest of the poets, and where would be our painting, sculpture, and architecture, without thee? Thou openest for me the springs of inspiration. Thou makest all nations to serve my purpose. Rome, Greece, Naples, Egypt, India, all lay their stores before me at thy command. Ah! little yellow idol," said I, poising a sovereign on the tip of my finger, "thou art the talisman of this modern world; but to shew thy magic thou must be put in motion. I would not be numbered amongst the stupid of thy votaries who lock thee up in a chest and so destroy thy power. No: I will be thy spender, and thou shalt carry me to the objects of my ambition." I felt that a great, a wondrous power was put into my hands, and the only question was how I could best unfold the resources of my wealth, so as to yield me the greatest possible measure of enjoyment.

For a few weeks I found ample amusement on my own estate. I passed some mornings in my mansion, gazing on the portraits of my ancestors. Worthy men! what treasures they had accumulated for me! I pitied them when I thought of their bones in the old chancel of Parkby church. "I, too, must be there, some day," thought I; "but before I

die I will live-I will see the world-I will unfold my powers-I will sink into the tomb enriched with the memories of a bright and many-coloured career of life." Then I turned to exhaust the curiosities of the neighbourhood, and discovered its in-door and its open-air beauties. None of them held my attention long. Stay, although I knew it not then, there was one destined to recall me to Parkby after far wanderings in this wide world. By the church lived the old rector in a neat little parsonage. He was a studious man, whose world was a world of books. His only daughter was a gentle creature whom I cannot describe. After I had once seen her, I felt her presence with me continually; but I was unconscious of the true nature and strength of the charm which so often drew me to Parkby. If I had seriously suspected myself of an attachment to Hester, I should have laughed at myself for such an eccentricity. No, no! I had a liberal taste-I could admire many styles of beauty-I liked the quiet English scenery about Parkby, though I was determined to behold scenes more beautiful, more wonderful; and I also liked to look on the gentle face of Hester Morrison; but there was nothing more serious in it. No, no! it was only one of the passing developments of universal taste for beauty.

After a few weeks, I had exhausted all the charms of Parkby and its neighbourhood. "Life is short and the world is wide," said I; so I bowed a respectful adieu to the old family portraits one morning, gave my favourite spaniel a farewell patting, and told my coachman to drive me to town. Of my life in London an account may be gathered from many fashionable fictions; so I will say nothing of it here. With all its brilliancy, I felt it was a common-place affair. I was only an average hero among a crowd. I only Idid what others did. The beau monde was not a world large enough for me.

I determined to enter the political world: so I went down to Parkenton, and, of course, was elected, as I deserved to be, for the money I lavished on the place. I helped to push my friends into office, and when that was done, concluded

that I had discharged my duty to my country. I found that the most brilliant oration has only a notoriety of a few days, and determined to find a wider sphere of existence. So I came down to Parkby again, just to collect my thoughts amid its quiet scenes. For some little time I hesitated on the question, shall I choose the material or the intellectual world as my domain? I answered in favour of both. For some days I walked in my garden and mused in my study, and a few poems were the result. I thought it would be something to add the fame of a great poet to my name; but I could not bear to waste time-time that might carry me through the most wondrous scenes of the old world -upon the minute and tedious elaboration of verses and counting of syllables. "No," said I; "my whole life shall be a poem. I will not tie myself down to the exercise of merely two or three of my faculties. I will not scribble only-I will live. There is my poor friend Morrison, beside the church yonder, what does he do? He uses his eyes and his spectacles on Greek type, and exercises his thumb and two fingers of his right hand in penning his notes on Herodotus, which he will be prepared to dedicate to me when I shall be far away. Is that living? No! I will not be a man of the writing-desk"-I shut it up as I said the words-" I will travel-Yes, I will leave Beckford far behind me. I will travel on a wider scale, collect richer observations, and, at last, write a more varied story of my pilgrimage. Whether my course is a short or a long one, it shall be like that of the meteor-rapid-brilliant!" So I called my old steward and arranged with him all my affairs, telling him that I had determined to spend several years in travel. The evening before I left my mansion, I visited the old clergyman, wished him success in his literary toil, and said farewell to Hester. I went to Paris-the metropolis of the modern world, and the source of all great movements for the future, if Parisians are to be believed. The city was in a state of political agitation when I arrived there, and all my intended wanderings were very near being postponed for ever by a pistol-bullet, which whistled close to my left ear,

as I was leaning from the hotel-window to mark the progress of an incipient "emeute." These Parisians are very clever that is the word-in politics, in philosophy-in every thing. They understand every thing very well-in their way. Amid all the Parisian talk of great things for the future, the mission of "la jeune France," &c., &c., I scarcely heard a word of sober good sense about the necessary means of securing an improvement in the social condition of men.

I endured the glitter and glare of the artificial flowergarden of Paris longer than I should otherwise have done, because I knew that I could, at any time, find a relief by crossing the Rhine, and living among the sobrieties of old Germany. I prepared myself for this change by devoting some hours to the study of German music, poetry, and even philosophy. I had great faith in the latter, though it sometimes seemed to me "a palpable obscure," like Milton's "Chaos." I determined to experience the varieties of the intellectual, as well as of the material world. So I tried to realize in my own mind the doubts from which all philosophy must arise. I attended to the question of Kant"What proof have we of any outward world?”—I did not turn away with a rude laugh when I heard another philosopher inquire "do I actually behold the rain, or is it only my imagination raining just now ?" I also listened with solemn respect, when a practical philosopher told me, if I wanted any thing, only to think of it, and that would be as good as having it. For instance, I wanted to see Palestine: “Ha!" said he, "only think of it-there! you have it in your mind -you can have no more if you cross the Mediterranean.' This hypothesis, if generally received, would certainly discourage many of our projected railways.

I travelled from Berlin to Vienna. The Viennese are well known as good-humoured and rather childish, pleased with the amusements of their Prater, and ready to forget all political questions and grievances when they hear Strauss's band strike up a lively waltz.

When I returned from Vienna in the spring, I went to