They represent facts which, perhaps, will never be understood.

The circumstances, as far as we can trace them, appear to have been these:-The change in the countenance of our Lord seems to have taken place "as he prayed." The apostles, as in Gethsemane, are heavy with sleep, their drowsiness being accounted for, in both instances, by the fact that it was night. The glory of the Lord awakens the sleeping disciples, and they become aware of the presence of two men, whom they find to be talking with the Saviour. Listening, they discover the topic of conversation to be the subject which had been brought before them a week ago; and, perhaps from the manner in which it is treated by the two strangers, they perceive that they are none other but Moses and Elijah.

Strange and incredible as the doctrine of a suffering Messiah was to the disciples, it was thus shown to be an accepted, though inexplicable fact with the inhabitants of the invisible world. "The decease to be accomplished at Jerusalem" would still be a mystery to the representatives of the Law and the Prophets; for the angels themselves are represented in Revelation as looking into the scheme of human redemption, desiring to comprehend what evidently passeth their knowledge.

It is worthy of note, that while the disciples were evidently awed by the glory of Christ, they were not entirely overwhelmed. Peter, though he hardly knows what he is saying, is still able to speak; and it was while he was talking, and the vision was fading, that the ancient symbol of the Divine presence appears. The Shechinah, the "bright cloud" of the wilderness, sweeps over the mountain, the apostles (like the keepers at the Saviour's tomb, and like John in Patmos, when he saw the Lord) are smitten down, and become as dead men. "And a voice came out of the cloud, which said,

This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased. Hear ye him."

This is the moment of the picture. The very instant has been seized. Two of the apostles are completely blinded. John is shown shading his eyes, and in the act of falling. Peter and James have been flung to the ground. James crouches, and with folded hands deprecates the death which he feels must follow the presence of God. Moses and Elias, after ages of glory, can "see his face and live." With unblenched gaze they still are "looking unto Jesus, the Author and Finisher of their faith."

"The glory of the Lord," which we learn from the record of previous and following appearances, was as full of motion as it was of light (hovering as a dove or flickering as a flame), catches Moses and Elijah, and makes them the sport of its power. Our Lord remains stationary. Unmoved and rapt for a moment, listening to His God who has not forsaken Him, He is displayed in unclouded splendour. The shameful death of the cross is despised and forgotten in the vision of the glory of the Father.

It is probable that the peculiar length of the pictures required for altar-pieces, may have led Raphael to his design for the Transfiguration. Necessity is the mother of invention. It is certain that our painter must have been somewhat perplexed with the exceptional proportions of the panel, and having determined upon a subject where the scene is laid on a mountain, he would hardly see, at first, how it would be possible and expedient to overcome the effect of a blank elevation. His knowledge of Scripture and the spirituality of his purpose would come to his rescue. In a moment of inspiration, we can imagine, the finished picture would be presented to his mind's eye, and with the confidence of genius, supported both by the spirit and letter of revelation, he would

determine to risk the penalty of transgressing artistic law, if by any means he could embody his idea.

Reading the record, he would find that the failure of the nine apostles to cast out the devil from the demoniac boy, synchronized with the Transfiguration of our Lord. He would thus be in possession of matter which he might legitimately introduce, and he could see at once that the circumstances connected with the scene would more than supply all his need. There would be furnished, for instance, the element of contrast. He would be able, also, to suggest to the spectator the greater height of the mountain by crowding its base with numerous figures; and what is of more importance, at any rate, to us, he would be able to expound the practical character of this revelation, so painting the text and the context for our learning, that we, through patience and comfort of this Scripture, might have hope.

The scene depicted in the lower portion is not, as some of those have supposed who have objected to the double action, the cure of the demoniac; nor is it the presentation of the woful case to the apostles. The crowd are not bringing the child, nor are the disciples attempting to cast out the devil. Those moments have passed. The despair painted on the face of the father, the turbulent and malicious rejoicing of the scribes, and, above all, the disappointment and confusion of the apostles, plainly point to another period. The apostles have tried their power, and are here represented as having failed.

In expounding the meaning of the picture, and in our reading of some of its details, we are aware that we shall lay ourselves open to the charge of being wise above what is written. While, however, it would ill become us to be positive about the purpose of the painter, there is no reason that we should be diffident in our acknowledgment of his power.

In the two scenes brought before us, we seem to be reminded not only of the mixed character of this life, but by the strange nearness of the top of the mountain to the ground; we have evidently set forth the fact, that the higher and lower worlds are more nearly connected than some people suppose. In looking at the picture, the eye catches now the glorified figure of our Lord, and then the distorted form of the demoniac. In a moment (and as no words could describe it) we see the same human nature evidently under the power of the devil, and as evidently under the power of God. We find ourselves standing where we can almost see into the heights of heaven and into the depths of hell.

In the writhing limbs and knotted muscles of the possessed child, whose very hair seems to be rolling in agony-whose countenance is out of keeping with ordinary madness, and whose whole body is shaken with something else beside ordinary convulsions-who is struggling with a supernatural strength in the arms of his wretched parent, we have the devil incarnate. We are filled with fear and trembling as we remember that this is but a faint picture of that more awful possession, by which the spirit of evil works in the children of disobedience, and leads them about captive at his will.

Turning in the direction in which the demoniac has unconsciously thrown up his arm as he groans, (travailing in pain with the whole of creation), we are brought face to face with our Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ. In his glorified body, as it is evidently transfigured before us, we see God incarnate; we are reminded of the faith and hope of the gospel, that the Son of God was manifested to destroy the works of the devil. We know that, on the morrow, the boy was cured; and as we agonize under our own sins and sorrows, and the sins and sorrows of others, waiting for our redemption,

the picture helps us in patience to possess our souls. We are saved from staggering through unbelief by "that blessed hope, even the glorious appearing of our Lord."

The women kneeling in the foreground has been introduced for the sake of effect. It is said by some that no historical picture can be perfect without the female form. Raphael however here, perhaps, wished to relieve the feelings of the spectator from the distress occasioned by the sight of so much misery. He has thus introduced the flowing lines of the woman's face, hair, and drapery as a foil, just as in his cartoon of "The Beautiful Gate" he has placed a lovely babe in juxtaposition with the gnarled head of the old beggar.

The woman has been taken for a sister of the demoniac. We know, however, that he was an only child, and if we did not, it might be easily seen that neither this woman is a relation, nor even the one who is on his other side. The fornorina is said to have sat for this portrait, and Raphael appears to have been think

ing of her while he was painting this figure, much more than of the purpose of his picture.

The face of the father speaks volumes; he looks as if he had long borne his burden alone. His trouble and desolation seem to have made him half a woman, and if we may judge the character of his companions from their appearance, we can easily account for that expression of selfcontained misery which has settled upon his countenance.

The picture is blacker than even in three hundred years it ought to have been. This is accounted for by the nature of a pigment used by Raphael, which, while producing a temporary transparency, quickly and irremediably deadened and darkened his work.

Kneeling, half-hidden under the trees on the mount, there are two figures which are unquestionably out of place. They are two ecclesiastics, St. Julian and St. Lawrence, introduced at the request of Cardinal de Medici, in honour of his father, Julian, and his uncle, Lorenzo the Magnificent.

An

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WHEN I look from this window across the lawn to the meadows beyond, in summer time jewelled with flowers more various than the garden produces, and always delicious for the wavy line of their slope-I understand my Lord Bacon's enthusiasm when he wrote, "Nothing is more pleasant to the eye than green grass kept finely shorn.” And if I can quietly sit here for an evening hour, the window open, the green light of the young ivy twinkling about the casement, and the scent of invisible flowers breathing upwards in each motion of the air, I am soothed and satisfied-lose the antipathies that the irritation and weariness of common life occasion, and fall into the calmest of all possible conditions. You, perhaps, remember that old Burton, in setting forth the influences and exercises that may assist the cure of Melancholy, gives an honourable place to the country garden-" the very being in the country (he says) -that life in itself, is a sufficient recreation to some men, to enjoy

such pleasures as those old patriarchs did." By the way, I do not suppose he meant the Biblical "old patriarchs;" but gives the name to Dioclesian, Lysander, Cincinnatus, Cato, Tully, "and many such like," whom he adduces as having taken wholesome delight in rural recreations, or in the "theorick

of husbandry. There is a heartiness and a humour in his personal confession as to love of the country, that one always enjoys greatly-but I cannot remember his quotation, so must reach the volume.

It is the folio of 1660: I suppose you know the plate, and the descriptive verses, which in this copy are as perfect as when they came from the hands of the printer and engraver, of whom the " Argusays:

ment

"If't be not as 't should be,,, Blame the bad cutter, and not me." But the "cutter" has done his work very well; and you'll hardly find a more characteristic engraving

in any work of the period than this; especially the figure of "Inamorato,"

"there doth stand
Inamorato with folded hand;

Down hangs his head, terse and polite,
Some ditty sure he doth indite.
His lute and books about him lie,
As symptoms of his vanity.
If this do not enough disclose,

To paint him, take thyself by the nose." But, we were to look for Burton's comparison of himself with others as to the appreciation of the country. Here is the passage:-"If my testimony were ought worth, I could say as much of myself; I am verè Saturnus; no man ever took more delight in springs, woods, groves, gardens, walks, fishponds, rivers, etc. But,

Tantalus a labris sitiens fugientia captat Flumina: And so do I; Velle licet, potiri

non licet."

There is another admirable passage, from Saint Bernard-who probably wrote it amidst exercises for the mortification of his flesh, while living on oat bread, millet, and a little milk, and suffering a bodily debility, which rather gave effective contrast than occasioned restraint to the great vigour of his spirit, burning equally with the fire of genius and with quenchless love to Christ. The monastery of Clairvaux stood in a gloomy valley; but Bernard learned to love its fields and forests, and its deep solitudes; and there, meditaing on the Scriptures, under the pure and subduing influences of nature--"The oaks and beech-trees are my teachers," he said to his friends gained to himself clear insight into eternal truth, and held warm and lively communion with his God. And so, "in the description of his monastery, he is almost ravished with the pleasures of it: 'A sick man (saith he) sits upon a green bank, and when the dog-star parcheth the plaines, and dries up rivers, he lies in a shadie bowre, and feeds his eyes with variety of objects, hearbs, trees, to comfort his misery;

he receives many delightsome smels, and fils his ears with that sweet and various harmony of birds: Great God, (saith he) what a company of pleasures hast thou made for man!" It might have been expected that the country and its modes of life would be more prominent in quaint Burton's discoursings; for it is both a cause and a cure of melancholy. But, even as it is, he has furnished some of the rarer things of the feast that others have more largely spread.

When we were walking in the garden, I told you that some of its original flowers were obtained through the friendliness of Hartlib, when they were scarcer than they are now. Here is a book of his, "The Compleat Husbandman," (1659), in which, you see, the margins are fairly covered with notes, making application of its principles and facts to this locality, and recording their results on this estate. Hartlib's name may not perhaps be found in popular biographical dictionaries ; but he is a historical person, and one of considerable interest. He was, I think, a Pole by birth; but in mature life came over to England, and seems to have settled and died here. He became the friend of Archbishop Usher, and of the learned Joseph Mede; and wrote several theological tracts, and a treatise on rearing the silkworm in the woods of Virginia, besides this and other valuable works on gardening. His many public services received ready recognition. Sir Richard Weston, an ambassador of ours to one of the continental courts, dedicated to him that great work on the agriculture of Flanders, which is said to have profited England many millions in the increased value of lands. The Protector encouraged him, and interested himself greatly in the improvement of agriculture and the more useful branches of gardening

showing the large-minded devotedness to his country's advancement, which is the great glory of