But why should such striking collapse of this world's artificial grandeur sadden the mind that rejoices in the unobtrusive station, and simple unenvied delights--ever the best--of every-day life? In truth it does not; as we pass out into the pleasant daylight, the olden opulence and state of the departed Cheneys fades into the past as a dream, for a much more healthful sight is before us. To-day is the little rural town's holiday, and its inhabitants are enjoying themselves with unrestrained pleasure, while the fine peal of bells in the tower is also adding melodious tribute to the passing hour. Their delightful cadence follows our retreating steps for a long distance, and as their sweet sound dies to the outward ear, our walk continues to be beguiled with this vagrant inward echo to their
Of poets song, inspirer oft,--yet still Many of thy sweet changes wait unsung,-- Differing as are the hearts thine echoes fill, As various the thoughts then through them rung:-- Who may define these pleasures that arise Within the soul by quickening spell set free? As lief may hand essay to paint the skies, Whose passing glories change eternally.
Is it because we know not whence they come, And only feel the magic of their power? Outside our ken, from some Elysian home, Spring the delights that charm the passing hour; And heaven itself, beyond thought's bounding line, Lies pictured still as wishful hearts incline.
Thus ends our visit to what was once the grand earthly home and possessions of '_the extravagant Lord Cheney_'--one more strange, but not altogether uncommon phase of human life. How many of these historic apparitions have crossed the path of our desultory wanderings over the west-country, flashing like meteors through the gloom of the past, when summoned by the wizard hand of research, and as quickly fading and disappearing when its sympathetic power is withdrawn. In the glance of their happier, or more fortunate, transitory radiance, may shine the pre-eminent glory of the crown, the mild lustre of the mitre, the bold glow of the rod of office, or brilliant flash of the sword; yet thickly interspersed albeit with the lurid gleam of the axe, and perchance, as to-day, with the pitiful, hasty flicker of the spendthrift.