God" and the minstrelsy of angel or of man! How depraved and grovelling the taste that would push the latter prominently into the foreground, to thrust the former invidiously into the distance, gathering up sedulously and ostentatiously the crumbs, the refuse, of Greek and Roman feasts, but leaving the loaves of shew-bread to grow cold on the Golden Table, parading with puerile forwardness a punctilious connoisseurship of the minutiae of the mockery, but relegating the reality into the honourable exile of a hypocritical reserve! This is no way to remove or mitigate the scruples that exist against the utility or necessity of "the letters Cadmus gave:" this is not the course likely to recommend the imperishable interests of ancient literature, or to beautify it into a blessing, instead of blighting it into a curse.

We will conclude by quoting a counsel of Wordsworth's (whom no one ever suspected of being a bigot to antiquity,-whose leanings were all on the other side), in his advice to his nephew at the University :— "Do not trouble yourself with reading modern authors at present; confine your attention to ancient classical writers; make yourself master of them. When you have done that, you will come down to us; and then you will be able to judge us according to our deserts." It is not Dr. Arnold, but Wordsworth, who writes.

Where was ever litterateur so modern-so multitudinous in his manifestations of intellect-so catholic in the cast and complexion of his mind, as Southey? He, too, at the close of a lengthened career, and in the maturity of a manly judgment, divulges this secret :

"My thoughts are of the dead: with them

I live in long-past years:

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
And share their hopes and fears:
From all their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.
My never-failing friends are they,

With whom I commune night and day."

In a word, the problem of Education is this:-How shall we be best equipped for duty, and furnished with weapons against temptation? To solve this is to decide everything.

QUIN ABBEY, COUNTY OF CLARE.

PASS through

I.

This wide, but low gateway, and pause not to view
The whitening bones

That are piled on the right to the window-stones.
Uncharnel'd, exposed to the vulgar stare,

Are the bones of the Brave and the skulls of the Fair,
Around,

Though their progeny dwells, yet no hands can be found
To lay those remains in the quiet ground,

From the sun's fierce glare, from the mocking air;
Ah! stay not there!

II.

But follow:

Shrink not at thy footsteps sounding hollow;

For every one

Treads o'er the dust of a spirit gone.

Fear not the glooms,

'Tis the ivy that waves, like a warrior's plumes,

On the iron wall,

And casts o'er the Abbey-aisle, flagged with tombs,

A shadowy pall;

And the wind through the tall-arch'd casement sighs.
And, moaning, flies

To the Living without from the Halls of Death,
With tainted breath!

III.

Behold

The stubborn walls, that with might enfold

This nave, are old;

They are roofed with the clouds which above are rolled.

The dark, square tower,

Battered by Age's resisted power,

And gray with slime,

Casts on the Abbey beneath a frown,

Because its stone roofing had crumbled down,
And kiss'd

The feet of his mortal antagonist,

Old Time!

IV.

Look, here

Are the broken slabs, and the mouldering bier;
The cells of prayer,

In the cloistered court for the monks that were;

And here was sung,

When the warning notes from the tower were rung,

The vesper hymn,

Which rose on the wings of the twilight dim!

Open the ear

Of Fancy, and dream that the Past is near,
And hear!

To the left

A doorway opes, like a cavern's cleft:
Enter, and mount the spiral stair,

By monkish feet worn smooth and bare.
But, soft!

Here is a garden of grass aloft;

'Tis the only roof

Of this hoary pile that has been time-proof.

Around it has ivy her vesture thrown

And in the parapet fixed her clamp;

The grass sucks food from the floor of stone
And mildew damp!

VI.

We know

That within the cloisters abode Repose;

But where below

Is the mortal freed from the passion that glows?

The fires are nursed

In the hood of concealment, until they burst
Into light with a hideousness accursed,
And then 'tis worst!

Ah! who can say,

To what tortured agony crime gave birth,

'Mid the depths of this labyrinth under the earth In the olden day!

VII.

Beneath!

A figure stoops o'er the spoil of Death,
On bended knees in her lonely woe!

Her darling son in his grave is hid,

And the clay has rained on his coffin-lid

Three days ago!

Alas! none feel the destroyer more

Than the feeble poor!

The spirit that grieved for her pain has fled;

The hands that the widow and mother have fed

Are dead!

VIII.

She prays:

She holds in her quivering hand the beads,

While her heart in the throes of anguish bleeds;

But a filmy glaze

Comes o'er her sight, and she, fainting, moans;

But the cold revives her, the chill, cold stones! Ah! me!

Yon leafless and lifeless elder-tree

Bends o'er the vault not more drearily

Than she!

IX.

Do thou

Steal every thought from the mournful Now:
Let Fancy row back, with her feathery oar,

Up the tide of time,

To freight her bark with forgotten lore

Of the golden prime :

Recline

On this grass-cushioned wall where the creepers twine,

ALBERT was not in the least excited, but quite self-possessed; and in this manner he spoke and acted. He considered now as coolly as pos sible whether he should turn his back to the young man, whom he considered as almost a child in comparison to himself; whether he should give him an answer that would be followed by a pair of pistols; or whether he should get rid of him quietly, as one does of a beggar who has been caught in the act of stealing, and to whom one gives a piece of bread, pushing him gently out of doors for the sake of convenience. This latter seemed to him to be the best plan.

"Yes, I am engaged to Miss Emma," answered he, quietly, to Herr von M.

"But does Emma love you ?"

This was uttered in a more passionate tone.

"That is not a fair question," said he, sharply.

"But I put it to you."

"I hear it, Herr Von M."

Albert could have laughed aloud, so ridiculous did the whole conversation appear to him.

"But I tell you she does not love you," cried Emile, thrown into the greatest excitement by the coolness with which he was treated. But this time his self-possession lost its triumph at the tone in which Emile had spoken the last words. His blood mounted, and began to throb violently in his temples.

"What gives you a right," he cried, "to speak to me about a lady