est," said Philip.

"Pray, of what kind?"

"Every kind. Historical, industrial, mechanical, natural, and artistic.
But I grant you, Tom, that was not why I went there. I went there to
get out of the ruts of travel and break new ground. Like you, being a
little tired of going round in a circle for ever. And it occurs to me
that man must have been made for somewhat else than such a purposeless
circle. No other creature is a burden to himself."

"Because no other creature thinks," said Tom.

"The power of thought can surely be no final disadvantage."

"I don't see what it amounts to," Tom returned. "A man is happy enough,
I suppose, as long as he is busy thinking out some new
thing--inventing, creating, discovering, or working out his
discoveries; but as soon as he has brought his invention to perfection
and set it going, he is tired of it, and drives after something else."

"You are coming to Solomon's judgment," said the other, leaning back
upon the cushions and clasping his hands above his head,--"what the
preacher says--'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.'"

"Well, so are you," said Tom.

"It makes me ashamed."

"Of what?"

"Myself."

"Why?"

"That I should have lived to be thirty-two years old, and never have
done anything, or found any way to be of any good in the world! There
isn't a butterfly of less use than I!"

"You weren't made to be of use," said Tom.

"Upon my word, my dear fellow, you have said the most disparaging
thing, I hope, that ever was said of me! You cannot better that
statement, if you think an hour! You mean it of me as a human being, I
trust? not as an individual? In the one case it would be indeed
melancholy, but in the other it would be humiliating. You take the
race, not the personal view. The practical view is, that what is of no
use had better not be in existence. Look here--here we are at Murano; I
had not noticed it. Shall we land, and see things by moonlight? or go
back to Venice?"

"Back, and have dinner," said Tom.

"By way of prolonging this existence, which to you is burdensome and to
me is unsatisfactory. Where is the logic of that?"

But they went back, and had a very good dinner too.

CHAPTER XXIX.

AN OX CART.

It happened not far from this same time in the end of August, when Mr.
Dillwyn and Tom Caruthers came together on the Piazzetta of St. Mark,
that another meeting took place in the far-away regions of Shampuashuh.
A train going to Bost