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enter, as far as possible, upon a voyage or journey, with a resolution to cast away every preconceived bias of an unfavor able character, and to judge for themselves of the nations they visit for the first time.

2. And one of the most certain methods of rubbing off the crust of prejudice, is to enter fully into conversation with fellow-travelers. Reserve and taciturnity, whether originat ing in pride, modesty, timidity, or excess of caution, are fatal to an accumulation of accurate and extensive knowledge, and often deprive the traveler of the opportunity of making pleasant acquaintances. On the other hand, too much freedom and volubility are only productive of the acquisition and communication of superficial knowledge. A discreet mind will know how to draw the distinction; but it will be better, as a rule, to err on the side of freedom and familiarity than to learn nothing by preserving a starched and cold de

meanor.

3. It is the almost invariable practice with the new arrival in any great town in Europe, to put himself in the hands of a commissioner or valet de place, who is to show him everything and manage his affairs during his stay. This should be avoided, if possible, and there is no reason why it should not always be avoided. The expense of having such an article as a vulgar, ignorant, and obtrusive lackey tied to you and your wife (if you have one) is very considerable, and if he is intrusted to make purchases or pay bills for you, the chances are that you will be plundered considerably.

4. But this is not the worst feature of a traveler's dependence on such a person. He is pretty sure to carry you only just where he pleases, and to tell you so much as suits his convenience. If you are desirous of visiting a place of which some account has been given by a friend, or in some work

you have read, it is not improbable that the valet will immediately attempt to depreciate the place and deny the authenticity of the description, unless, indeed, he is inclined to accompany you, and expects to profit by the transaction.

5. Equally distrustful and inconvenient with these persons are the guides, or ciceroni, attached to certain palaces and other public places of attraction. They either gabble on with their rote description, or are morosely silent until asked questions, when they give the briefest replies in broken English or broken French, neither of which is very intelligible to the hearer. In Great Britain, of course, you get tolerably pure English from those people, but they are not free from the vice of telling their story rapidly-it is the same tale to everybody, delivered in the tone of an individual who is heartily sick of repeating the same thing a dozen times a day for months. together. Interrupt any one of them with a proper question, and the thread of the story is broken-the question only answered with "I don't know," and then the narrative is recommenced, that the narrator may get back with safety to the place whence he or she departed.

6. I remember visiting Melrose Abbey, in Scotland, celebrated in Walter Scott's beautiful poem, "The Lay of the Last Minstrel." As the guide was deliberately telling the story of the visit of William of Deloraine and the monk to the tomb of Michael Scott, the Wizard, I ventured to interrupt him with some remarks on the apocryphal character of the tale, upon which he turned round upon me and fiercely exclaimed, “It's a' true, for it is written in Walter Scott's buik"! It was some time before he could recover his temper and the course of his narrative; and when all was over I pointed to a pile of stones, among which was a carved head of the Savior. "That,” said he, "is a head of Jupiter, found here among the ruins."

"Nonsense," I irreverently replied; "Jupiter was a heathen god, and the monks would never have had his image here." "And what for no?" rejoined my irascible guide. "Were not a' the monks heathens? Isn't their religion heathenish?"

7. There was no battling with so obstinate a zealot, so I held my peace. At Abbottsford there are old guides, pensioners of the Scott family, who are as deaf as posts, and to half the questions put to them by inquiring and curious visitors, reply, "I dinna ken-I never heard." What satisfaction can result from such guidance? It is as bad in France. If the description of the contents of the Gallery of Versailles be not read before a person goes to that glorious place of art, he will come away as wise as he went, for all he may get from the chape

ron.

XXIII. THE LYRE.

MILTON Ward.

1. There was a lyre, 'tis said, that hung
High waving in the summer air;
An angel hand its chords had strung,
And left to breathe its music there.
Each wandering breeze that o'er it flew,
Awoke a wilder, sweeter strain

Than ever shell of mermaid blew
In coral grottoes of the main.

2. When, springing from the rose's bell,
Where all night he had sweetly slept,
The zephyr left the flowery dell,

Bright with the tears that morning wept,
He rose, and o'er the trembling lyre

Waved lightly his soft azure wing;

What touch such music could inspire!
What harp such lays of joy could sing!
The murmurs of the shaded rills,
The birds that sweetly warbled by,
And the soft echo from the hills,
Were heard not where that harp was nigh.

3. When the last light of fading day,
Along the bosom of the west,
In colors softly mingled lay,

While night had darkened all the rest,-
Then, softer than that fading light,
And sweeter than the lay that rung
Wild through the silence of the night
As solemn Philomela sung,

That harp its plaintive murmurs sighed Along the dewy breeze of even;

So clear and soft they swelled and died, They seemed the echoed songs of heaven.

4. Sometimes, when all the air was still, And not the poplar's foliage trembled,

That harp was nightly heard to thrill With tones, no earthly tones resembled. And then upon the moon's pale beams, Unearthly forms were seen to stray,

Whose starry pinions' trembling gleams Would oft around the wild harp play.

5. But now the bloom of summer fled,In earth and air it shone no more;

Each flower and leaf fell pale and dead, While skies their wintry sternness wore.

One day, loud blew the northern blast,
The tempest's fury raged along;-

Oh for some angel, as they passed,
To shield the harp of heavenly song!

6. It shrieked,-how could it bear the touch,
The cold, rude touch of such a storm,

When e'en the zephyr seemed too much
Sometimes, though always light and warm.
It loudly shrieked,-but ah! in vain;
The savage wind more fiercely blew;
Once more, it never shrieked again,
For every chord was torn in two!

It never thrilled with anguish more,
Though beaten by the wildest blast;
The pang that thus its bosom tore
Was dreadful, but it was the last.

And though the smiles of summer played
Gently upon its shattered form,

And the light zephyrs o'er it strayed,

That lyre they could not wake or warm.

Questions.

What is the lesson taught by this selection? Meaning of the expression, "shell of mermaid"? Why were not the rills and the birds "heard where that harp was nigh"? What is "Philomela"? Why called "solemn "? "zephyr"?

Meaning of

XXIV. THE SOCIAL MEETING.

O. W. HOLMES.

1. I was sitting with my microscope, upon my parlor rug, With a very heavy quarto and a very lively bug;

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