Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers,
        And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil: 
    Nor yet too many, nor too few their numbers,
        Corruption could not make their hearts her soil: 
    The lust which stings, the splendour which encumbers,
        With the free foresters divide no spoil: 
    Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes,
    Of this unsighing people of the woods.

The essay on Worry is followed by an interesting conversation on the same subject, at the close of which we are heartily obliged to Blanche for suggesting one pleasant thought; to wit, that children for the most part escape that sad infliction; it is the special heritage of comparatively mature years.  And Milverton replies:—­

Yes; I have never been more struck with that than when observing a family in the middle class of life going to the sea-side.  There is the anxious mother wondering how they shall manage to stow away all the children when they get down.  Visions of damp sheets oppress her.  The cares of packing sit upon her soul.  Doubts of what will become of the house when it is left, are a constant drawback from her thoughts of enjoyment; and she confides to the partner of her cares how willingly, if it were not for the dear children, she would stay at tome.  He, poor man, has not an easy time of it.  He is meditating over the expense, and how it is to be provided for.  He knows, if he has any knowledge of the world, that the said expense will somehow or other exceed any estimate he and his wife have made of it.  He is studying the route of the journey, and is perplexed by the various modes of going.  This one would be less expensive, but would take more time; and then time always turns into expense on a journey.  In a word, the old birds are as full of care and trouble as a hen with ducklings; but the young birds!  Some of them have never seen the sea before, and visions of unspeakable delight fill their souls—­visions that will almost be fulfilled.  The journey, and the cramped accommodation, and the packing, and the everything out of place, are matters of pure fun and anticipated joy to them.

We have lingered all this while upon the first chapter of the work:  the second contains an essay and conversation on War.  Of this chapter we shall say no more than that it is earnest and sound in its views, and especially worthy of attentive consideration at the present time.  The third chapter is one which will probably be turned to with interest by many readers; it bears the taking title of A Love Story.  Dunsford, a keen though quiet observer, has discovered that Ellesmere has grown fond of Mildred, though the lawyer was not likely to disclose his love.  Dunsford suspects that Mildred’s affections are get on Milverton, as he has little doubt those of Blanche are.  Both girls are very loving to Dunsford, whom they call their uncle, though he is no relation, and the old clergyman determines to have