streams and shadowed by surrounding hills, presents to us the very perfection of nature's revelations.

Two pictures of this character the Vega of Granada and the plain of Olympia-have a foremost place in our memory. There are vignettes and smaller sketches very precious and very dear to us, but these are our chef-d'œuvres, our art-pieces.

The beautiful Vega! in its beauty a silent idyll-in its romantic associations a grand epic! We see it now as it first appeared to us. A mass of sunshine hung o'er the earth, wavy with dancing mote and shot with rays and beams, which seemed as though they might have been the pathways of angels in their passage to and fro from heaven to earth. A broad long plain, encircled by a mountain rampart, lay basking in this sunshine, bathed in it, flooded with it. The sunshine lay everywhere on patches of red soil now lying fallow, on the tree-tops, deepening the autumn tints of their leaves; on the waters of the Xenil, which passed with a silver gleam by towns and cities, through farmyards, vineyards, pasture-lands, now disappearing under masses of foliage, now darting again into the light. It fell on the mountain-sides with a mild gentle gleam, like the fading away of the more gorgeous brightness below; it glanced on the snow-heaps on their summits, making them shine like silver crowns, and passed in a stream through the dark passes and gaps which stood as gateways in the mountain-barrier. This sunshine followed us on and on, though mingling gradually with the shadows of the hills, as we drew nearer and nearer; until at last there stood before us, in all its beauty and grandeur, the city of the Moor.

The picture was most unique and picturesque in itself, and had been the scene of a history as unique and picturesque as ever was annalled in the records of man.

It was a scene on which the eye loved to linger; on which it would have wished to open and close nightly and daily-one which the soul would have chosen for the closing years of its commune with earth. And here it was that Gonsalvo de Cordova

spent the eve of his great day; not in seclusion or privacy, but surrounded by magnificence, hospitality, and courtesy, setting amid the radiance of former glory. After having lived the great life and done great deeds, to pass onwards into repose with the halo of achievement resting on him, and bearing still the impress of former state, is, we think, the grandest end of a great man-grander even than death on the battle-field. It is better than Yuste, with its scourges, eel-pies, and clocks better than eremite cell-better than courts, with their petty intrigues and etiquette. Few seek such an end, fewer find it.

If we dared so far to scrutinise the design of creation as to think that certain spots had been formed expressly for certain events and certain actors, rather than that man had fitted himself and his acts to the plan of nature, we should have believed that the plain of Olympia had been designed as an amphitheatre for the gathering and assemblage of the Greek people, so perfectly is it in unison with the Greek character. We can imagine the Greek eye dwelling with the fulness of delight on the symmetry of its formation, on the beautiful proportions of its features, on the graceful undulations by which hill, plain, and river were preserved from the ruggedness and the straight lines so abhorrent to his taste, on the clear defined effect of light and shade, and recognising therein his ideal stamped in nature.

When the Greek no longer wanted an arena, the plain fell back into the hands of nature, and is now so covered with wild luxuriance and richest vegetation, that it is hard to fancy how men could there have driven their chariots, coursed their horses, and ran their races. We saw it, perhaps, in greater beauty than the Greek ever did; for there must ever be more or less of sand and sawdust in all the spots where man sets up his exhibitions. Less soft than the Vega, the plain of Olympia is more luxuriant, and more perfect in form. We cannot define that form; its beauty consists in the absence of regularity, and in the harmony of the whole. The hills encircle it,

but not with rampart or barrier aspect. Each hillock of the chain seems to stand by itself, raising up its peak with a gentle swell towards the clear sky, and shooting out its spurs with a gentle curve into the plain; whilst betwixt them, deep green hollows, alcove-shaped, still more break the line into slopes and undulations. The plain itself teems with vegetation. The eye finds nowhere a bare spot. Even the patches of corn are overshadowed by the exuberance of the herbage and the wildlings which grow around. Far enough apart from each other to prevent their being taken for clumps or avenues, stand great grand old oaks the generations perchance of oaks which had been marks and goals during the Olympic games. Covered by their own goodly garb of leaves, and garlanded and festooned by creepers, which hang around and from them, they stand grandly, like old priests with their wreaths and fillets. Throughout flows a river, winding and meandering in gentle turns, which might have suggested to the Greek the line of beauty he so loved to use in all his works. The clear bright sky from above throws here and there a welldefined, delicate contour of light, but does not, as in the Vega, suffuse the scene with the fulness of sunshine.

Olympia was more classical-more strictly beautiful; the Vega softer, warmer, more sunny. In the one we would have read heroic history-in the other, dreamed over poetry.

Ere we were half sated with the glory of the place, the flesh cried out, "I thirst;" and we turned to seek water up one of the hollows, which is supposed to have been the stadium of the foot-race. The ground was, however, so thickly wooded, so matted with undergrowth, that we could trace no outline. After a while we came on a small stream, but the water was so tepid and brackish that it repelled our thirst, and we turned away in loathing. At this moment we felt a touch on our shoulder, and on turning round saw standing beside us the wild ragged figure of a man, with matted beard, torn cloak, and holding a staff in his hand-a solitary herdsman of the

plain. He pointed with his finger to his throat, to show us that he understood our want, and then waved us onwards. We followed until he stood still by the edge of the same stream, and then scarcely a foot from it we saw a tiny fountain bubbling up from the sand. The water was delicious, pure, and cold as ice. We drank and drank, and ever as we stopped, our guide invited us by bow and wave of the hand to fresh draughts. It was his possession, and he was doing the honours as a host. These touches of courtesy, thrown over a dry crust or cup of cold water, have for us the truest grace of hospitality; and the simple, personal presentation of a poor gift like this has for us a greater charm than the parade of butler and footman and beat of gong, by which we are ushered to a banquet that is left to speak for itself.

Beside the plains we would place one picture of a valley, a scene in the sister isle, as scarcely second even to them. We had explored Killarney and Glengariff, and were seeking some more work for the wandering foot. Our host suggested the Blackwater, and it was then debated whether, starting from a cer-* tain point, we should go up or down the stream. Chance led us downwards, and thus gave us one of our most beautiful memories in the valley of Lismore. The view is here a leading feature, a chief beauty, not an accessory.

We looked first on the vale from the old castle, which is built on a precipitous rock, and so near the edge that the turret window overhangs the deep waters which flow beneath. Dark and sullen lies the river there, yet how bright it glistens far away upwards to the west, in the rays of the setting sun, its waters rolling on the splendour in a broad sheet of liquid light, through belts of verdure and tree-clad slopes, all kindling with the same glow. With majestic sweep they roll onwards towards that barrier bank, and then, breaking into a dozen branches, form a fairy-like lake, with its cluster of tiny islets, each scarcely large enough for an eiderduck's home, yet gleaming with the hues of tufted herbage and emerald

shrubs. Then again the waters unite and settle in the gloomy pool which reflects the castle walls, and the overhanging boughs that cover its foundation; for not a foot of the old basement is to be seen, so many trees have sprung forth from its crevices, to tapestry the rock with a leafy tracery. Blithely, and with freer, brighter impulse, the stream rolls on again through many a league of meadow, lawn, and park, now skirting the edges of thick plantations, now stretching boldly across the champaign. A silver gleam is seen resting at the foot of the wooded height which bounds the horizon, and the river is lost to the eye.

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The pervading sense of beauty left by this scene did not make us wholly insensible to the prospects of supper, as we returned to the inn in the town. "Could we have anything for supper?" we asked of our host. Yes, shure!-what would yer honours like?" "Is there any bacon?" "Bacon-och! devil a bit; isn't the mate of the old pig all gone, and the young one isn't kilt yet?" Eggs?" "Eggs! shure there were hundreds, this morning, but hadn't Judy carried them all to the Youghall market bad luck to it!" "Fish?" At the word Pat's face brightened. "Is it fish you'd be liking?-shure yer honours shan't want a supper while there's a salmon in the Blackwater; and maybe the sweet evening air, and the ripple of the waters will give ye a better relish in ating it." Away went Pat with his tackle, and we followed, rather despondent at the thought that our supper was then waiting for us at the bottom of the Blackwater. However, Pat's hopes were realised much sooner than Irish hopes generally are, and in less time than we could have thought, he had hooked, gaffed, and landed his fish, which, by a process almost magical for an Irish kitchen, was soon served before us in rich creamy steaks. Whether it was the effect of Pat's romance, we know not, but the shadow of the scene without did follow us to our meat, giving it a relish and piquancy which come not of the palate alone.

Adventure and curiosity will carry thee to the mountain, thorough

fares lead thee across the plains, brother! but thou must seek the valleys. Leave not one behind thee, or thou mayst lose a gem. How many arise before us now; rocky valleys; happy valleys; deep savage glens in eastern lands; the sunny vine-clad valleys of Italy; the wild dells of Cornwall and Wales; the soft vales of Devon. We dare not stay to picture them, or our paper would be a Marlborough House, too small and limited for the collection. They will fit hereafter, perchance, as scenes and backgrounds to our incidents of travel.

We need not advise thee of wood and forest. There is in our northern race a general love, real or feigned, true or romantic, for forest life and woodland scenery. Few men are so wedded to clubs, 'Change, or counter, but that they fancy once a-year, or at least once in their lives, that they could live like Robin Hood in the wild greenwood, or should like gypsywise to set up their kettle in some woodland glade, and lie rolling on the grass and basking in the sun, a sort of sylvan Diogenes. It may be perhaps that this is the old instinct surviving from Teutonic migrations; one of those instincts which centuries of civilisation cannot wholly rub out. If there be one luxury of nature sweeter, purer, and more unalloyed than another, it is that of holding commune with her under the greenwood tree. We know no delight to equal that of wandering in an old wood, sitting here, and lying there watching how

wildlings "looks up and laughs," and all the while the song of birds makes sweet melody; insects pass humming through the air; the leaves rustle gently, and the light slants softly and delicately through the foliage from bough to bough, to play in dancing, trembling shades on the sward beneath.

What could a man, whose soul and body were at ease, desire more than to lie thus, until hunger, cold, sleep, or some of the necessities of humanity, drive him forth? Did we wish to nerve our hearts for stern work or great enterprise, we would pitch our tent amid the mountains. Were we nourishing Arcadian visions or philanthropic schemes, we would associate them with the plenty and fertility of the plains. Did we seek impressions of peacefulness and beauty, we would bide in the valleys; but to gain true tranquillity of soul, to revive gentleness and lovingness in the heart, to infuse a healthy vein of poetry into the thoughts, there is nought like a day in the woods.

Had we sinned against our brother seventy times seven, and craved his forgiveness, we would seek it at such a time and place.

We remember once casting off the burden of a materialism which had hung on our mind for months, and entered like iron into the soul, by a day's ramble through a cork wood in Spain. The shade, the stillness, the forms of the huge old trees which threw their gnarled arms into the air, or knit them together in leafy arcades; the vistas made by forest openings and windings, had all an exorcising influence on the dark spirit within, and thoughts came forth, and feelings were stirred, which had long been strangers to us. Little groups of rural life strayed occasionally across the solitude. The tinkle of a bell would be heard, and then would appear a mule, the leader of a long train, all laden with charcoal, and attended by villanous-looking carboneros. There would be a rustle amid the brambles, and a herd of swine followed by a rising Gurth would burst forth grunting and scrambling for the acorns which fell from the boughs, and crunching them betwixt their jaws with all

the gusto of gourmandise. Now and then we should cross a wretched venta with a slatternly hostess knitting at the window, and a group of contrabandistas eating, drinking, or gambling inside. Towards eve, deep in the forest glades, we came upon a convent, ruinous and almost desolate. The gateway was destroyed, the outer walls broken down, the bell had been torn from the tower. Within, the picture was just as melancholy. The pavement was torn up, the cloisters were deserted, weeds grew around the well. One poor priest was now the sole occupant of the place; he was the last of sixteen brethren, and seemed as though he should soon follow-sickness and poverty were fast wearing him away. Why should he tarry? what was there left for him, save to cry the Ichabod over the desolation of his house?

This picture of the monk and his house was little in keeping with the verdant, self-renewing vitality around, and yet the sadness and loneliness of the scene toned well with the sentiment of forest inspirations.

We love the trees in their corporations as woods and groves, and we love them, too, singly and individually Many an old talking oak, garrulous beech, and gossiping hawthorn, "mere babblers in the land," have we met and held pleasant intercourse with. There have been old yewtrees, too, full of saws and maximis, which have preached us many a homily. As utilitarians, too, and political economists, we have had discourse with the trees which bear food for man, though we must confess that our practical philosophy has generally oozed away before our admiration for the beauty which many of these possess, spite of the axiom that utility and beauty seldom go together. Those old chestnuts-do we not think more, when looking on them, of the rich bursting blossom, and the fresh green scalloped leaves, than of the brown fruit which they shower down so liberally, and which is afterwards converted into those hand-to-mouth meals, eaten in squares and at the corners of streets? We fear, too, that we have often prized the cocoa palm more for its form and

carriage than for the materials it furnishes for man's use, or for the fecundity which supplies crop after crop to meet the wants of simple appetites. It is otherwise with the date. We never see it without our fancy being carried away to the history of those whirlwind warriors, who shook the kingdoms of the East; and who, in all their rapid marches and conquests, lived on a few dates and a little muddy water.

We have seen much of the olive in its own land, and love it for old acquaintanceship. Even the dull grey leaves when lit into silvery gleams by the sunshine, have a charm for us. Whatever beauty it has, however, is of the sombre religious cast, and we should of our self regard it rather as the symbol of celibacy and seclusion, than of the fatness which makes man of a cheerful countenance, and of the fruitfulness which fills so many mouths with pleasant unctuous food. What oiliness, fatness, and fulness have come from that grave grey tree! A goodly jovial tree is the fig. It is a very type of plenty, a sign of fruit-bearing power. It seems to laugh in its lustihood, and to rejoice in the strength which throws forth leaves and fruit in

such profusion. We remember being once much struck with a gigantic fig at Santa Maura, which grew beside a fountain amid a wilderness of briers and underwood. As it stood towering aloft, ample and portly, flinging its strong limbs covered with broad fat leaves into the air, it seemed the very picture of a veteran rejoicing in the fulness of years, the fulness of vigour and productiveness, and delighting to cast far and wide the shadow of his own richness.

Rest we awhile from the contemplation of nature! We have tarried long amid the scenes which have fed our own soul with bright pleasant impressions, and for which we bless the wandering foot which led us among them. But to thee, brother pilgrim, we can only say as at first, "See everything-see for thyself." Only roam amid them with the seeking eye and hungry heart, and mountain, plain, valley, wood, will not only have beauty for thee, but affinities and interpretations. Look on them as fitted and formed for this great drama of ours, and thou wilt better comprehend the purposes of God and the destinies of man. Turn we next to man and his works.

Whatever man touches he marks with his glyph. On all his works, whether done by a single hand or by the collective will of a race, he leaves his sign, and stamps the impress of the feeling in which they were created; and this he does so unconsciously and instinctively, that they bear often a truer record of his character and purposes than his creed or code, chronicle or chronology. The more earnest man's feelings are, the more certain will be the mark he sets on his works. He stamps his faith with a deeper seal than his pleasures or his politics. He writes himself more strongly in his burial-places than in his marts or palaces. Such works, bearing such record, the wandering foot will find scattered over the earth in monuments and relics, tombs, cairns, and old ruined temples; laid up in

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cabinets and collections; standing patient and present in the palaces, cathedrals, hoines, bourses, and workshops of yesterday and to-day. so often have the revolutions of the world swayed man to and fro, from barbarism to civilisation, that we can ever and again trace him through all the stages of his rise, progress, and decline. So multiplied, so varied, and so distinct are the records of his religion throughout the world, that it would seem as though every symbol of his faith, every form in which he had expressed his worship, had been preserved. From the mumbo jumbo of the poor African to the glorious temple of the Greek, there is no link wanting. From image to altar, from altar to temple, we can track him through every phase of belief.

Of the ruder forms we know none