Suppose now that this party of observers can remain a little longer at their post, and see, in a short time, that some sick person is brought to the Saviour to be healed. Another and another comes. A crowd gradually collects around him. He retreats slowly up the rising ground; and, after a little time, he is seen to take his place upon an elevated spot, where he can overlook and address the throng which has collected around him.

If this could be done, how strong and how lasting an impression would be made upon those minds! Years, and perhaps the whole of life itself, would not obliterate it.

Even this faint description, though it brings nothing new to the mind, will probably make a much stronger and more lasting impression, than merely reading the narration would do. And what is the reason? How is it that what I have here said has impressed this scene upon your minds more distinctly than the simple language of the Bible? It is only because I have endeavoured to lead you to picture this scene to your minds, - to conceive of it strongly and clearly. Now, any person can do this for himself, in regard to any passage of Scripture.

It is not necessary that I should go on, and delineate, in this manner, the whole of the account. Each reader can, if he will task his imagination, -paint for himself the scenes which the Bible describes. And if he does bring his intellect and his powers of conception to the work, and read, not merely to repeat, formally and coldly, sounds already familiar, but to bring to his mind vivid and clear conceptions of all which is represented there, he will be interested. He will find new and striking scenes coming up continually to view, and will be surprised at the novelty and interest which this simple and easy effort will throw over those very portions of the Bible, to which the ear has become most completely familiar.

EXERCISE CXIV.

SUNDAY EVENING. Anon.

I SAT, last Sunday evening,
From sunset even till night,
At the open casement, watching
The day's departing light.

The sun had shone bright all day,
His setting was brighter still;
But there sprang up a lovely air,
As he dropped down the western hill.

Such hours to me are holy,

Holier than tongue can tell : They fall on my heart like dew On the parched heather-bell.

The steer and the steed in their pastures,
Lie down with a look of peace,
As if they knew 'twas commanded

That this day their labours should cease.

The lark's vesper song is more thrilling, As he mounts to bid heaven good night; The brook sings a quieter tune;

The sun sets in lovelier light;

The grass, the green leaves, and the flowers Are tinged with more exquisite hues; More odorous incense from out them Steams up with the evening dews.

I watched the departing glory,
Till its last red streak grew pale,
And earth and heaven were woven
In twilight's dusky veil.

Then the lark dropped down to his mate,
By her nest on the dewy ground;

And the stir of human life

Died away to a distant sound:

All sounds died away;

the light laugh,

The far footstep, the merry call; - the pulse of one's heart Might have echoed a rose-leaf's fall.

To such stillness,

And, by little and little, the darkness
Waved wider its sable wings,
Till the nearest objects and largest
Became shapeless, confused things;

And, at last, all was dark:—then I felt
A cold sadness steal over my heart;
And I said to myself, "Such is life!
So its hopes and its pleasures depart."

But I lifted mine eyes up; and, lo!
An answer was written on high,
By the finger of God himself,

In the depths of the dark-blue sky.

OUR visit to Retsch, -the poet-illustrator of Shakspeare, Schiller, and Goethe,* in his well-known outlines, was a genuine Arcadian episode, a dip into the fine simplicity of poetical existence, passed in the bosom of nature, a refined rusticity, a fragment of the golden age. This noble artist has a house at Dresden, where, in winter, he receives his friends, and where a most interesting class of persons is to be met; but in summer he retires to his "weinberg," that is, his vineyard, at Tosnitz, six or seven miles down the valley.

* The oe in Goethe, (or the ö in Göthe,) sound nearly like au in the French word cœur ; the h is silent; and the e final sounds like ay in day, but shorter in quantity..

They who would know exactly where his abode there is, may readily see it by standing on the fine airy bridge at Dresden, and looking down the valley to the next range of hills. On their ridge, at Tosnitz, stands a tower; directly below it, at the foot of the hills, is a white house; and there nestles Retsch in his poetical retirement, maturing those beautiful conceptions which have given him so wide a fame.

A pleasant drive down the valley, brought us into the region of vineyards, which, in the bright colours of autumn, did not want for picturesque effect. In the midst of these, we found the very simple cottage of the artist. His wife and niece compose all his family; and he can muse on his fancies at will. His house was furnished as German houses often are, somewhat barely, and with no trace of picture or print upon the walls; but a piano and heaps of music told of the art of which his wife is passionately fond. While noticing these things, a very broad and stout-built man, of middling stature, and with a great quantity of gray hair, stood before us. By portraits which we had seen of him, and which are like and yet unlike, we immediately recognized him. Though polite, yet there was a coldness about his manner, which seemed plainly to say, "Who are these who come to interrupt me out of mere curiosity? for they are quite strange to me."

When, however, he understood that Mrs. Howitt was the English poetess in whom he had expressed so much interest, a mist seemed to pass from his eyes; he stretched out his arms, grasped her hand in both of his, and shook it with a heartiness that must have been felt for some minutes after. He then gave one hand to our daughter and another to myself, with equally vigorous demonstrations of pleasure, and set about to display to us every thing that he thought could gratify us. Through various narrow passages, and up various stairs of his rustic abode, he conducted us to his own little study, where he showed to us from the window, his vineyard running up the hill, pulled from the shelf a copy of Mrs. Howitt's "Seven Temptations," and sat on a table, where he told us he had sketched most of the outlines of Faust and Shakspeare. He exhibited to us drawings and paintings in profusion, till his niece appeared with a tray bearing splendid wine and grapes from his own vineyard; a perfect little picture in itself, for in the pretty and amiablelooking niece we could see the prototype of a good many of his young damsels in his sketches. He then drew forth from under a heap of drawings, the album of his wife, a book

which, from Mrs. Jameson's interesting description, we had a great desire to see.

This is most unquestionably the most valuable and beautiful album in the world. It is filled with the most perfect creations of his fancy, whether sportive or solemn, as they have accumulated through years; and it is a thousand pities that they are not published during his lifetime, while he could superintend their execution, and see that justice was done them. It is a volume of the poetry of sublimity, beauty, and piety; for, while he is the finest illustrator of the ideas of great poets, he is also a great poet himself, writing out his imaginations with a pencil. The zephyrs besetting his wife on a walk, fluttering her dress, and carrying off her hat, is a charming piece of sportiveness; the Angel of Goodness blessing her, is most beautiful with the heavenly beauty of love; Christ as a youth, standing with an axe in his hand, before the shop of Joseph, with children about him, to whom he is pointing out the beauties of nature, and thence unfolding to them the Creator, is full of the holiest piety and youthful grace; the Angel of Death, "severe in youthful beauty," and the sublime figure of Imagination advancing on its way, and looking forward into the mysteries of futurity, are glorious creations. In short, this gem of a book, with its truly wonderful drawings, not merely outlines, but most delicately and exquisitely finished, will one day raise still higher the true fame of this great original artist.

-

We had gone so far with the Herr Professor, (as he is there called,) into the fairy land, or rather heaven of poetry, that we were startled to find the day going fast over. As we turned over these charmed leaves, the artist sat by, and read to us his written description of the various sketches, ever and anon breaking away into half-moralizing, half-sentimental and poetical observations, quite in the spirit of his fancies. We were extremely sorry that the arrangements for our farther journey did not allow us once more to return to this simple and happy retreat of the muses of poetry and painting. With true country cordiality, himself, his wife, and lovely niece, accompanied us to our carriage; and as we whirled away through the ocean of vines, the good-hearted man stood and waved his cap to us, till the last turn shut out from view him and his house.