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"After these things Jesus went over the Sea of Galilee, which is the Sea of Tiberias. And a great multitude followed him, because they saw his miracles which he did on them that were diseased."

How familiar, now, this sounds to every reader! Every phrase comes upon the ear like an oft-told tale; but it makes a very slight impression upon the mind. The next verse, though perhaps few of my readers know now what it is, will sound equally familiar, when they read it here.

"And Jesus went up into a mountain, and there he sat with his disciples."

Now, suppose this passage and the verses which follow it, were read at morning prayer by the master of a family; how many of the children would hear it without being interested, or receiving any clear and vivid ideas from the description! And how many would there be, who, if they were asked, two hours afterward, what had been read that morning, would be utterly unable to tell!

But now suppose that this same father could, by some magic power, show to his children the real scene which these verses describe. Suppose he could go back through the eighteen hundred years which have elapsed since these events occurred, and taking his family to some elevation in the romantic scenery of Palestine, from which they might overlook the country of Galilee, actually see all that this chapter describes.

"Do you see," he might say, "that wide sea which spreads out beneath us, and occupies the whole extent of the valley? That is the Sea of Tiberias; it is also called the Sea of Galilee. All this country which spreads around it, is Galilee. Those distant mountains are in Galilee, and that beautiful wood which skirts the shore, is a Galilean forest."

Why is it called the Sea of Tiberias?" a child might ask. "Do you see at the foot of that hill, on the opposite shore of the lake, a small town? It extends along the margin of the water, for a considerable distance. That is Tiberias; and the lake sometimes takes its name.

“But look, — there is a small boat coming round a point of land which juts out beautifully from this side of the lake. It is slowly making its way across the water, we can almost hear the splashing of the oars. It contains the Saviour and some of his disciples. They are steering towards Tiberias, now they approach the shore, they stop at the landing, and the Saviour, followed by his disciples, walks upon the shore "

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;

To such stillness, the pulse of one's heart
Might have echoed a rose-leaf's fall.

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.

There appeared a sign in the east,
A bright, beautiful, fixed star!
And I looked on its steady light
Till the evil thoughts fled afar;-

And the lesser lights of heaven

Shone out with their pale, soft rays,-
Like the calm unearthly comforts
Of a good man's latter days.

And there came up a sweet perfume
From the unseen flowers below,
Like the savour of virtuous deeds, —
Of deeds done long ago.

EXERCISE CXV.

THE ARTIST'S WIFE'S ALBum. Howitt.

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..

-J

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;

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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;

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the light laugh,

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

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