that life has burdens, not only to be carried when sent, but to be rigorously sought for when withheld, is Robert Herrick. He is the true singer of Cakes and Ale, or rather of Curds and Cream; for in that pleasant Devonshire vicarage, where no faint echo of London streets or London taverns rouses him from rural felicity, his heart turns easily to country feasts and pastimes. It is true he rejoices mightily in
"wassails fine,
Not made of ale, but spicèd wine,"
yet even these innocent carousals are of Arcadian simplicity. He loves, too, the fare of Devon farmers,—the clotted cream, the yellow butter, honey, and baked pears, and fresh-laid eggs. He loves the Twelfth-Night cake, with "joy-sops,"—alluring word,—the "wassail-bowl" of Christmas, the "Whitsun ale," the almond paste sacred to wedding-rites, the "bucksome meat and capring wine" that crown the New Year's board, and, above all, the plenteous bounty of the Harvest Home. In his easy, unvexed fashion, he is solicitous that we, his readers, should learn, not "to labor and to wait," but to be idle and to enjoy,
