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

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. 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.

SOFTLY the blended light of evening rests Upon thee, lovely stream! Thy gentle tide, Picturing the gorgeous beauty of the sky, Onward, unbroken by the ruffling wind, Majestically flows.-Oh! by thy side, Far from the tumults and the throng of men, And the vain cares that vex poor human life, "Twere happiness to dwell, alone with thee, And the wide solemn grandeur of the scene! From thy green shores, the mountains that enclose In their vast sweep the beauties of the plain, Slowly receding, toward the skies ascend, Enrobed with clustering woods, o'er which the smile Of Autumn in his loveliness hath passed, Touching their foliage with his brilliant hues, And flinging o'er the lowliest leaf and shrub His golden livery. On the distant heights Soft clouds, earth-based, repose, and stretch afar Their burnished summits, in the clear blue heaven, Flooded with splendour, that the dazzled eye Turns drooping from the sight. - Nature is here Like a throned sovereign; and thy voice doth tell, In music never silent, of her power.

Nor are thy tones unanswered, where she builds
Such monuments of regal sway. These wide,
Untrodden forests eloquently speak,

Whether the breath of Summer stir their depths,
Or the hoarse moaning of November's blast
Strip from the boughs their covering.

All the air

Is now instinct with life. The merry hum
Of the returning bee, and the blithe song
Of fluttering bird, mocking the solitude,
Swell upward; and the play of dashing streams,
From the green mountain side, is faintly heard.
The wild swan swims the water's azure breast
With graceful sweep, or startled, soars away,
Cleaving with mounting wing the clear bright air

which continued as thick and sharp as hail, while, notwithstanding, every arrow had its individual aim, and flew, by scores together, against each embrasure and opening in the parapets, as well as at every window where a defender either occasionally had post, or might be suspected to be stationed, - by this sustained discharge, two or three of the garrison were slain, and several others wounded. But, confident in their armour of proof, and in the cover which their situation afforded, the followers of Front-de-Bœuf and his allies, showed an obstinacy in defence, proportioned to the fury of the attack, and replied with the discharge of their large cross-bows, as well as with their long bows, slings, and other missile weapons, to the close and continued shower of arrows; and, as the assailants were necessarily but indifferently protected, did considerably more damage than they received at their hand. The whizzing of shafts and missiles, on both sides, was only interrupted by the shouts which arose when either side inflicted or sustained some notable loss.

“And I must lie here like a bedridden monk," exclaimed Ivanhoe," while the game that gives me freedom or death, is played out by the hand of others! - Look from the window once again, kind maiden; but beware that you are not marked by the archers beneath, look out once more, and tell me if they yet advance to the storm."

With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which she had employed in mental devotion, Rebecca again took post at the lattice, sheltering herself, however, so as not to be visible from beneath.

"What dost thou see, Rebecca?" again demanded the wounded knight.

66

Nothing but the cloud of arrows, flying so thick as to dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them." "That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe; "if they press not right on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the knight of the fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see how he bears himself; for as the leader is, so will his followers be."

"I see him not," said Rebecca.

"Foul craven!" exclaimed Ivanhoe; "does he blench from the helm when the wind blows highest?

"He blenches not! he blenches not!" said Rebecca; "I see him now; he leads a body of men close under the outer

EXERCISE CXVII.

FEMALE COURAGE. Lady Stanhope.

I SET Out, one day, from Damascus, to visit Balbec and its ruins. My friend the Pacha had referred me to the charge of the Sheik Nasel, who was the chief of fifty Arabs. My people followed me at the distance of a day's journey.

We travelled on, sometimes in the night, and sometimes in the day; and the sun had thrice risen since my departure, when a messenger, mounted on a dromedary, sped forward towards our caravan. He addressed a word to the Sheik Nasel, who became troubled, and changed countenance.

"What is the matter?" said I. "Nothing," he replied, and we proceeded on our route. Presently a second dromedary reached us; and the result much increased the depres sion evinced by Nasel. I insisted on knowing the cause of it.

66

'Well, then, Cid Milady," answered he, "since I must tell you, my father is pursuing me with a force three times superior to mine, and will shortly overtake us. He seeks my life, I am certain. The offence demands blood; but you have been intrusted to my care; and I will rather die than abandon you.".

"For me,

I will

"Make your escape; fly!" exclaimed I. sooner abide singly in the desert, than see you slain by your father's hand. I will await his coming, and attempt your reconciliation. In any case, Balbec cannot be far off; and the sun shall be my guide." With these words I quitted him. He sprang forward, and disappeared with his fifty Arabs.

I had been left alone, nearly an hour, with no other com pany than the animal that carried me, and no other protection than my dagger, when a cloud of dust showed itself in the horizon: horsemen approached at full gallop; and, in a few moments, Nasel was at my side.

"Honoured be the Cid Milady!" was his exclamation, "he wears the heart of a warrior! All that I have pretended to him, has only been to prove his courage. Come, my ather is at hand to receive you.'

*

Forgetting her sex, in the hardihood and fearless bearing which sometimes almost concealed it, the wild Arabs were accustomed, it seems, to address Lady Stanhope in the masculine gender.