of the second and third ingredients of their lives, and, in the end, to many a grievous tragedy. Wayward human nature will rebel against mental sloth. We must act, suffer, or enjoy; or the worst of all torments is ours—such restless agony as old poets figured as befalling a living soul imprisoned in the bark of a tree. We are not born to be cabbages. The lady, waiting at home for her husband, either quaked for fear, or relieved the tedium of protracted absence as she best might, too happy if death or a dungeon were not the result. The young looked down from the hills, and fancied that joy would meet them if ever they could escape to countries beyond. Meanwhile, the peasant in the plain below toiled, and had been far happier than his lord, but for the desolation brought on him by the fierce wars, of which this region was perpetually the theatre.
The peasant, at least, has gained by the change. Hard-worked, he doubtless is; and, probably, poorly fed: but he is secure. We look round for the mansions, which we expect should replace fortified castles, as the abodes of the rich; but find none. It is strange; but, except in Italy and England (and I am told, in parts of France, but in none I ever traversed), the wealthy never seek to enjoy the delights which nature affords; and country-houses, and parks, and gardens, are nowhere else to be found.
