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drals and baronial halls, which, surviving the lapse of ages, and the shocks of revolution, teem with the traditions of a buried race.

Another unutterable gratification to the enthusiastic traveller, is the sight of the living, who by their deeds or writings have made mankind wiser and happier. We seek this privilege with the greater zeal, from the consciousness that it must be fleeting, and the apprehension that it may not be accorded to us again. Grey hairs are seen sprinkling the heads of the masters of the lyre, and we feel that another year might have been too late to clasp their hand, or catch the music of their voice. The statesman, the hero, the philanthropist, bend beneath the weight of years, and we thank God that we came before the cold marble should have told us where they slumbered. We find clustering roses blooming in the garden of the man of genius, who so oft led us captive, while time passed unheeded. But where is he? Where? No reply, save a sighing sound through the trees that he planted, and we drop the tear of the mourner in his deserted halls.

Among the advantages of travelling, it is common to allow a high place to the knowledge of human nature. A still higher accession might be mentioned, the knowledge of ourselves. By remaining always at home, we are involuntarily led to magnify our own importance. Our daily movements may be points of observation to the villagers who surround us; our