THE CONCLUSION AND THE FAREWELL.

Here, courteous Reader, our pilgrimage to the shrines of genius must end. In our visits to these last homes of many whom the world has variously regarded in life and death, how chequered have been the reflections which these visits have called up! We have lingered together by many a grave over which tears have fallen, but not despairingly. We would not, if we could, arouse from their slumber those we have found sleeping: they have but retired into another chamber. We are like those who have overslept the hour-when we rejoin our friends "there is only the more joyance and congratulation." We have been impressed by the solemn stillness of these resting-places, and have in fancy seen the shades of the departed hovering over and around them. First came the Poets "the men of the million, born from out the crowd"-who have been described as torch-bearers, guiding us through the track of life. It is mental power and worthy acts that outlive the fleeting years; and these pupils of wisdom have a claim upon the remembrance of posterity. They battled for human rights, and their inspirations have impressed us with the infinite beauty of Truth and Virtue. By listening to their voices man has been awakened to a sense of his own lofty nature, and humanity has gained new forces in its righteous cause.

The Painter, too, tells us of the beautiful. His

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pictured thoughts can elevate the mind, and bid us think kindly of human nature. Paintings have been produced in poverty, and speak to us now of triumph and success the footprints left upon the sand, which hereafter some struggling artist "seeing may take heart again." Pictures have possessed more than human power: one, we are told, was being painted when the blood of war was flowing in the streets. The soldiers entered the studio, but stayed upon the threshold to gaze upon the ideal art, and finally set a watch that no unholy foot should approach to injure the "created beauty."

The " poor Player" has not been forgotten in our rambles. He needs, more than the Poet and the Painter, to be occasionally brought into remembrance; for how fugitive is the bloom of the histrionic laurel! Harmonious elocution cannot, like poetry, be its own record; and animated graces glimmer faintly only through the memory of a few surviving spectators, who themselves are journeying to where the voice of the children of song is hushed.

The graves we have visited have taught us that pride, and pomp, and power are nothing there-we must look beyond!

"Though fade the laurel leaf by leaf away,
The soul has prescience of a fadeless day;
And God's eternal promise, like a star,
From faded hopes, still points to hopes afar,
Where weary hearts for consolation trust,
And bliss immortal quickens from the dust.
On this Great Hope, the painter, actor, bard,
And all who ever strove for Fame's reward,
Must rest at last-and all that earth have trod
Still need the grace of a FORGIVING GOD."