awaited him. And Ianthe! - she was to share his success. Oh! the unalloyed, the rapturous joy of that thought! His pace grew quicker: he had already passed the wicket which led to his low habitation -and now he reaches the door. Strange that she meets him not there! On he rushed, shouting his glad tidings. No voice responded to his own. He gained her chamber; her form reposed by an opposite window. Again he spake, and again his voice came in an echo from the low and empty walls. He stood by her side. The hands were lightly closed, the head partly raised, while a calm smile rested on the motionless features. Was it slumber? He listened for her breathings. There was no sound! Ianthe slept the sleep that could know no waking save at the summons of the last trump. What to him now were honor ambition fame-life!

YEARS passed. It was Spring. A number of Athenians had collected around the door of an elegant but unostentatious dwelling-house. By their gestures, and the frequent glances which they directed toward it, they appeared deeply interested in the fate of its inmate. They conversed among themselves for a time, until a young man, richly dressed, broke from the circle, and pressed toward the door of the habitation. He was met by an old and gray-headed menial.

How fares Parrhasius? whispered the young Athenian.

The slave, with a melancholy shake of the head, pointed to a door which led to the room beyond. The stranger passed with a noiseless step across the corridor, and entered the apartment. It was the studio of the artist, and was hung around with many of the choicest gems of art. A form was reclining upon a low stool in the centre of the room; the head rested upon one hand, and the eye appeared riveted upon a picture that was extended before it. The young Athenian gazed upon the countenance. Parrhasius was before him! The eyes were half closed; the lips compressed the whole face pale and soulless the wanness and torpor of death had dimmed each feature. One hand still grasped that painting-the picture of the merchant and his child. The last fond gaze of the dying artist had rested upon that one loved form, until his spirit, released by a welcome messenger, rejoined the loved and lost, in a world that knows neither change nor sorrow.

:

B.

Brooklyn, (L. I.)

SONNET.

He who has travelled through some weary day,
And reached at summer eve a green hill-side,
Whence he can see, now veiled in twilight gray,
The dreary path through which he lately hied,
While o'er his onward road the setting sun

Sheds its sweet beam on every way-side flower,
Forgets his labors ere the goal be won
And in his heart enjoys the quiet hour:

Father and Mother- be it so with you!

While Memory's pleasant twilight shades the past,
May Hope illume the path ye still pursue,

And each new scene seem brighter than the last;
Thus, wending on t'ward sunset, ye may find
Life's lengthening shadows ever cast behind.

THE day was well nigh o'er,

The sun, near the horizon, dimly shone;
And the long shadows of the door-yard trees,
Athwart the yard were thrown.

Before our humble door,
Upon the soft, cool grass,

With bosom open to the evening breeze
Which now and then did pass,

Musing, and dreaming of the spirit's birth,
And its relations to this beautiful earth,
I lay alone

Borne on Imagination's airy pinions,

Far from the world's turmoil, and sordid man's dominions.

And delicate fingers plucked the leaves aloft,
And whirl'd them round and round

In eddies to the ground,

Where I, an humble PAN, with many a wreath was crown'd.

Presently on my ear,

Rang full and deep,

Joyous, and musical, and clear,

A sound, which made my father-heart to leap,
And sent the warm blood to my cheek and brow,
Which, with the recollection warm e'en now.
It ceased, that thrilling tone:

And with it passed my bright but dreamy train
Of thought- and I was but a man again,

Earthly, and weak, and lone.

So slight a touch can jar the spirit's springs-
And e'en a word, or tone, or look, clip Fancy's wings.

Bonnets were in the air,

And bonnet-ribbands scattered on the ground;
Small shoes and pantalettes lay thick around,
And tiny feet were bare:

And frocks were soil'd and aprons rent;
But still they kept their frolic mood,
And laugh'd and romp'd; and when I went
And closer by them stood,
How hard each little elf did try
To win the most of my regard;
Now gazing anxious, in my eye,

And striving still more hard:
The spirit, so it seem'd to me,
The same in the great world we see,
Spurring the warrior on to victory,

And urging on the bard

Each had success as much at heart,
As he who plays in war or politics his part.

'My child!-my child!'

She comes to me:

Her cheeks are flush'd, her hair is wild,
Her pulse is bounding free:

but see!

With laugh and shout she comes
Half way she stops, as still as death;
she hardly draws a breath.
'My child! my own dear child!
Tell me, what aileth thee?'

Her look is sad

'Father!'

she pointed to the moon, On the horizon's shatter'd bound

'Twas rising, full and round.
'Father! I'm coming soon.'

Her other hand now pointed to the West,
Where the dim sun was sinking to his rest.
'Father! are those the eyes of God
Looking upon us here?"

Her knee bent slowly to the dewy sod

And then came tear on tear :

A gush of mingled feeling - wonder, and joy, and fear.

Cincinnati.

W. D. G.

SKETCHES OF TRAVEL.

BY THE AUTHOR OF 'THE PROSPECTS AND DUTIES OF THE AGE.'

ABBOTSFORD-DRYBURGH ABBEY.

ABBOTSFORD takes its name from a ford over the Tweed, near at hand, which formerly belonged to the abbots of some neighboring monastery, I suppose. It is well worth visiting, independently of the associations which make it what it is what no other place can be. The structure too the apartments—the furniture-are altogether in keeping with those associations. Every thing is just what you would have it, to commemorate Walter Scott. The building is a beautiful Gothic structure. You will not expect a description from me of what has been already so minutely and so well described. You remember the hall of entrance, with its stained windows, and its walls hung round with ancient armor, coats of mail, shields, swords, helmets all of them, as an inscription imports, of the 'auld time;' the dining and the drawing rooms; the library and the study; the curiosities of the placechoice paintings, curious old chairs of carved work the rare cabinet of relics, Rob Roy's musket, pistols from the dread holsters of Claverhouse and Bonaparte-and all surrounded and adorned with oaken

wainscoting and ceilings, the latter very beautifully carved, yet very simple every thing, indeed, wearing the appearance of great dignity and taste: well, I have seen it all- I have seen it! But the study! before the desk at which he wrote, in the very chair, the throne of power from which he stretched out a sceptre over the world, and over all ages, I sat down - it was enough! I went to see the cell of the enchanterI saw it; and my homage. was silence, till I had ridden miles from

that abode of departed genius.

I am tempted here to give you an anecdote, which has been mentioned to me since I came to Europe. An American lady of distinguished intelligence, had the good fortune to meet with Scott frequently in Italy, till she felt emboldened to express to him something of the feeling that she entertained about his works. She told him, that in expressing her gratitude, she felt that she expressed that of millions. She spoke of the relief which he had brought to the heavy and weary days of languor and pain; and said, that no day so dark had ever risen upon her, that it was not brightened by the prospect of reading another of his volumes. And what, now, do you think was his reply? A tear rolled down his cheek: he said nothing! Was it not beautiful? For you feel that that tear testified more than selfish gratification; that it was the silent witness of religious gratitude.

I must pass by the well-known and often-described beauty of Melrose Abbey, three miles from Abbotsford, and ask you to go on with me a few miles farther to Dryburgh- the place where the wreck of power' (intellectual) is laid down to rest. If I were to choose the place of his body's repose, from all that I have ever seen, it would be this. The extent, antiquity, and beauty of the work; the trees growing within the very walls of the abbey; the luxuriant shrubbery waving from the tops of the walls and from parts of the roof here and there remaining; the ivy, covering over the work of ghastly ruin, and making it gracefulhanging from 'the rifted arches and shafted windows,' and weaving festoons from one broken fragment to another; the solemn, umbrageous gloom of the spot; the perpetual sound of a waterfall in the neighboring Tweed all conspire to make this spot wonderfully romantic; it throws a spell over the mind, such as does no other ruin that I have seen. Conway Castle is more sublime: Melrose Abbey is more beautiful in its well preserved, sculptured remains: but Dryburgh is far more romantic. What place can be so fit to hold the remains of Walter Scott!

Before crossing the Tweed, and while yet on Scottish ground, I wish to drop one thought which I have carried more than seven years, I believe, without ever finding the proverb to avail me at all. And that is on the striking resemblance between the character of Scotland and of New-England. The energy and vehemence of the Scottish character, the perfervidum ingenium Scotorum, is universally acknowledged. Fier comme un Ecossais, is a proverb. And yet the Scotch are accounted a singularly wary and cautious people; reserved in manners, exact in speech, guarded in communication, and keen and close in the transaction of business. The Scotchman has the singular fortune to stand as a proverb for the most opposite qualities, and I suppose that they really exist in him. The same qualities are found in the New-England character. The Yankee-it will not deny' — is sharp at a bargain.

He is cold in manners. The deep reserve of a New-England boy, especially if living retired in the country, perhaps no one can understand who has not experienced it. It seems as if his heart were girded with a stronger band than any other, and certainly such as is not natural or befitting to the ingenuousness of youth. I do not wonder that the result of a cursory observation has been to pronounce the New-Englander a being, to whom 'Nature has given a double portion of brains and half a heart.' And yet nothing could be more untrue. is, in fact, one of the deepest excitement and enthusiasm. The whole The New-England character history of the people proves this, from the landing at Plymouth to this hour. Every species of enterprise, political, commercial, literary, religious, has been developed in New-England to a degree, I am inclined to think, unprecedented in the world. All America is filled with the proofs of it. And private life in New England will exhibit the same character to all who become intimate with it. The two races whom I am comparing have also had the same fate of general misconstruction and opprobrium. The Scot is regarded, on the south side of the Tweed, very much as the Yankee is south of the Hudson. I will not inquire into the causes of this; but it certainly seems a very hard case on either hand. A people in both instances, industrious, virtuous, religious, almost beyond example — carrying popular education to a point of improvement altogether unexampled in the world, till the Prussian system appeared and furnishing far more than their respective quotas to the noblest literature of their respective countries—would seem to have deserved more respect than has been awarded to Scotland and NewEngland.

NEWCASTLE-YORK MINSTER

SACRED ARCHITECTURE.

As you approach Newcastle, it becomes evident that you are in the region of collieries. The smoke of the country goeth up as the smoke of a furnace.' It is not the smoke of its destruction however. It is the indication of life, and not of death-ay, and of life that has gone down far into the bowels of the earth; for it proceeds from the chimneys of steam engines, employed at every pit, for the double purpose of pumping out water and raising coal.

YORK is a queer old place, worth coming a good many miles to see for its own sake. But the minster! - it is worth a pilgrimage to see it. It is the only building I have ever seen in a city that stands up and out so completely from the surrounding mass of buildings, that it is, from every quarter, distinctly presented to the eye. The minster, amid the city of York, stands like the elephant in a menagerie. Its proportions, too, are so perfect, its character is so unique, that it makes upon the mind one single impression. You take in the whole object, and feel all its overpowering grandeur, at the first glance of the eye. to me, that if I were to live in sight of it a thousand years, it would lose And yet it seems none of the indescribable charm with which it first entranced me. deed I shall attempt no description. I dare not bring my measurements here. Nay, it appears to me that the impression here does not depend on any exact idea of size or of parts. It is a whole; it makes its impression as a whole; and you can no more receive that impression from

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