feel infinitely cheerful, after the spirit of the _Compleat Angler_; I shall remember that I was once at Ware, and at Amwell, those placid haunts of Walton. A conviction of beauty, and contentment in life will lay hold on me, more than commonly; it is probable that I shall read _The Spectator_, and Addison, rather than Steele, at breakfast. And I know which paper it will be: it will be about _Will Wimble_ coming up to the house, with two or three hazel twigs in his hand, fresh cut in _Sir Roger’s_ woods. Or, if I prove faithful to my great Lucretius: the man, not the book, for I read him in the Giuntine: I will read that marvellous _It ver et Venus_; that dancing masque of beauty. For _L’Allegro_, I do not read that; it is read aloud to me by the morning, with exquisite, bright cadences. After my honey from the flowers of a very rustic farm, and my coffee, from some wonderful Eastern place; and my eggs, marked by the careful housewife as she took them from her henhouse, covered with stonecrop over its old tiles; after all these delicates, now comes the first cigarette, pungent and exhilarating. As the grey blue clouds go up, the ruddy sunlight glows through them, straight as an arrow through the gold. Away they wander, out of the window, flung back upon the air, against the roses, and disappear in the buoyant morning. My thoughts go with them, into the morning, into all the mornings over the world. They travel through the lands, and across the seas, and are everywhere at home, enjoying the presence of life. And past things, old histories, are turned to pleasant recollections: a _pot-pourri_, justly seasoned, and subtly scented; the evil humours and the monstrous tyrannies pass away, and leave only the happiness and the peace. Call me, my dear friend, what reproachful name you please; but, by your leave, the world is better for my cheerfulness. True, should the terrible issues come upon me, demanding high courage, and finding but good temper, then give me your prayers, for I have my misdoubts. Till then, let me cultivate my place in life, nurturing its comelier flowers; taking the little things of time with a grateful relish and a mind at rest. So hours and years pass into hours and years, gently, and surely, and orderly; as these clouds, grey and blue clouds, of tobacco smoke, pass up to the air, and away upon the wind; incense of a goodly savour, cheering the thoughts of my heart, before passing away, to disappear at last. Reiselust By Annie Macdonell NAY, Love, but stay thy blame; For if men have their claim, The day’s but theirs-- Poor gift, the day of heat and cares! Thou hast the night, the calm cool night, When the soul’s garden blooms in sight, With roses tinted by the moon’s soft smile, On that far fringed horizon isle. The night, the long sweet night is thine, Then I awake, and find thee, soul of mine.