et of
railways and canals, the region where Luther spoke, where Goethe sang,
and Mozart once held the sceptre of harmony! Great names shine there,
in science and in art, names that are unknown to us. One day devoted
to seeing Germany, and one for the North, the country of Oersted and
Linnaeus, and for Norway, the land of the old heroes and the young
Normans. Iceland is visited on the journey home: the geysers burn no
more, Hecla is an extinct volcano, but the rocky island is still fixed
in the midst of the foaming sea, a continual monument of legend and
poetry.

"There is really a great deal to be seen in Europe," says the young
American, "and we have seen it in a week, according to the directions
of the great traveller" (and here he mentions the name of one of his
contemporaries) "in his celebrated work, 'How to See all Europe in a
Week.'"

THE BOND OF FRIENDSHIP.

We have just taken a little journey, and already we want to take a
longer one. Whither? To Sparta, to Mycene, to Delphi? There are a
hundred places at whose names the heart beats with the desire of
travel. On horseback we go up the mountain paths, through brake and
through brier. A single traveller makes an appearance like a whole
caravan. He rides forward with his guide, a pack-horse carries trunks,
a tent, and provisions, and a few armed soldiers follow as a guard. No
inn with warm beds awaits him at the end of his tiring day's journey:
the tent is often his dwelling-place. In the great wild region the
guide cooks him a pillan of rice, fowls, and curry for his supper. A
thousand gnats swarm round the tent. It is a boisterous night, and
to-morrow the way will lead across swollen streams; take care you are
not washed away!

What is your reward for undergoing these hardships? The fullest,
richest reward. Nature manifests herself here in all her greatness;
every spot is historical, and the eye and the thoughts are alike
delighted. The poet may sing it, the painter portray it in rich
pictures; but the air of reality which sinks deep into the soul of the
spectator, and remains there, neither painter nor poet can produce.

In many little sketches I have endeavoured to give an idea of a small
part of Athens and its environs; but how colourless the picture seems!
How little does it exhibit Greece, the mourning genius of beauty,
whose greatness and whose sorrow the stranger never forgets!

The lonely herdsman yonder on the hills would, perhaps, by a