The next day I bade farewell to Haworth. It is now frequently included in the route of American tourists, by many of whom the memory of Charlotte Bronte is as fondly cherished as by her own countrymen and women; and Haworth is no longer the quiet, unknown Yorkshire hamlet that it was a few years ago. THORWALDSEN'S CHRIST. BY THE REV. E.A. WASHBURN. Silent stood the youthful sculptor Gazing on the breathing stone From the chaos of the marble Into godlike being grown. But a gloom was on his forehead, In his eye a drooping glance, And at length the heavy sorrow From the lip found utterance: "Holy Art! thy shapes of beauty Have I carved, but ne'er before Reached my thought a faultless image, Still unbodied would it soar; Still the pure unfound Ideal Would ensoul a fairer shrine; In my victory I perish, And no loftier aim is mine." Noble artist! thine the yearning, Thine the great inspiring word, By the sleepless mind forever In its silent watches heard; For the earthly it is pleasure Only earthly ends to gain; For the seeker of the perfect, To be satisfied is pain. Visions of an untold glory Milton saw in his eclipse, Paradise to outward gazers Lost, with no apocalypse; Holier Christ and veiled Madonnas, Painted were on Raphael's soul; Melodies he could not utter O'er Bethoven's ear would roll. Ever floats the dim Ideal Far before the longing eyes; Ever, as we travel onward, Boundless the horizon flies; Not the brimming cups of wisdom Can the thirsty spirit slake, And the molten gold in pouring Will the mould in pieces break. Voice within our inmost being, Calling deep to answering deep, Midst the life of weary labor Thou shalt waken us from sleep! All our joy is in our Future And our motion is our rest, Still the True reveals the Truer, Still the good foretells the Best. JUNE TWENTY-NINTH, EIGHTEEN FIFTY-NINE. BY CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND. To talk about the weather is the natural English and American mode of beginning an acquaintance. This day--the one that glares upon us at our present writing--is eminently able to melt away what is called the frost of ceremony, and to induce the primmest of us to throw off all disguises that can possibly be dispensed with. It is a day to bring the most sophisticated back to first principles. The very thought of wrapping anything up in mystery, to-day, brings a thrill like the involuntary protest of the soul against cruelty. We are not even as anxious as usual to cover up our faults. We hesitate at enveloping a letter.