in sleep, and she never slept without dreading the waking. Wearied as she was when she laid herself down on her mat, she was apt to sleep as long as the old people; and if she ever failed to jump up when the gong sounded, Robert was sure either to throw cold water over her, or to touch her feet with a blazing piece of wood from the fire, and to laugh at her start and cry.

However tired, at noon, she must cook the mess of vegetables, and feed the pigs, and run hither and thither in the broiling sun. However dewy the evening, she must stand in the grass and pluck as much as she could carry; and, having carried it, must be kept the last, as she was the youngest, before she was relieved of her burden. When she came home, damp and shivering, she was thrust from the fire; and, creeping under her mat, lay awake until the smoke hung thick enough round her to warm her, and make her forget her bodily hunger, and her cravings of the heart, in sleep.

These cravings of the heart were her worst misery; for she had known what it was to be cherished, and to love in return. Of her father she remembered little. He had been executed for taking part in an insurrection when she was very young; but her mother and she had lived together till lately. She had seen her mother die, and had stood by the grave where she was buried; yet she awoke every morning expecting to see her leaning over the mat.

She dreamed almost every night that her arm was round her mother's neck, and that her mother sang to her, or that they were going together to find out the country where her father was waiting for them; but as often as she awoke, she saw old Robert's ugly face instead, as he stood with his red and blue cap on, mocking her, or heard both shouting the hymns which she hated because they were sung on Sundays, when she was more unhappy than on other days, being tormented at home, and just as much overworked as in the field, without any one to pity her or speak for her.

Cassius now and then took her into his ground and gave her some fruit; and he had once stopped Sukey when he thought she had beat the girl enough; but his respect for the aged prevented his seeing how cruel these people were ; and, supposing that the poor child would be a slave all her days, he did not make her discontented with her condition.

LESSON XVIII.

The Murdered Traveller.-BRYANT.

SOME years since, in the month of May, the remains of a human body, partly devoured by wild animals, were found in a woody ravine, near a solitary road passing between the mountains west of Stockbridge, Massachusetts. It was supposed that the person came to his death by violence; but no traces could be discovered of his murderers. It was only recollected that one evening, in the course of the previous winter, a traveller had stopped at an inn in the village of West Stockbridge, that he had inquired the way to Stockbridge, and that, in paying the innkeeper for something he had ordered, it appeared, that he had a considerable sum of money in his possession.

Two ill-looking men were present, and went out about the same time the traveller proceeded on his journey. During the winter, also, two men, of shabby appearance, but plentifully supplied with money, had lingered for awhile about the village of Stockbridge. Several years afterwards, a criminal, about to be executed for a capital offence in Canada, confessed that he had been concerned in murdering a traveller in Stockbridge for the sake of his money. Nothing was ever discovered respecting the name or residence of the person murdered.

When spring, to woods and wastes around,
Brought bloom and joy again,

The murdered traveller's bones were found,
Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch, above him, hung

Her tassels in the sky;

And many a vernal blossom sprung,

And nodded careless by.

The red-bird warbled as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead,
And, fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away,
And gentle eyes, for him,

With watching many an anxious day,
Were sorrowful and dim.

They little knew, who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,

When shouting o'er the desert snow,
Unarmed, and hard beset ;-

2

Nor how, when round the frosty pole
The northern dawn was red,
The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole
To banquet on the dead ;—

Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
They dressed the hasty bier,

And marked his grave with nameless stones,
Unmoistened by a tear.

But long they looked, and feared, and wept,
Within his distant home;

And dreamed, and started as they slept,
For joy that he was come.

So long they looked-but never spied
His welcome step again,

Nor knew the fearful death he died,
Far down that narrow glen.

LESSON XIX.

On Intellectual Taste.-JANE TAYLOR.

WHEN Adam and Eve first awoke to existence, and beheld the fair creation, it is not very difficult to imagine what must have been the principal subjects of their thoughts and their discourse. The Scriptures, which never descend to those particulars that are merely calculated to gratify curiosity, are silent on this subject. Yet we may infer, without any doubt, that the perfections of their Maker were

the primary objects of their regard; and that to adore and praise him was their highest and most delightful employ

ment.

Next to this, we may reasonably conclude that their attention was awakened to a contemplation of his works; both in admiration of their grandeur and beauty, and in investigating both their principles and laws. When the sun, descending in a golden mist, sunk behind the groves of Paradise, can we suppose that our first parents were unaffected by the sublimity of the spectacle? or that they beheld, without emotions of wonder, and delight, and intelligent curiosity, the moon rising in her beauty, and shedding her tender light on their peaceful plains? When they arose, at early dawn, from tranquil sleep, while the morning stars yet sang together, would not they feel disposed, like all the sons of God, to shout with joy?

The representations of our great poet on this subject, although they claim not the authority of inspiration, yet are so natural and affecting, that we can scarcely suppose them to differ widely from the reality. When

"Morn, her rosy steps in th' eastern clime

Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl,"

Milton supposes the innocent and happy pair to unite in that sublime hymn in which the "glorious works" of the "Parent of good" are invited to be "vocal in his praise." In this, and in all their discourses, he represents them as susceptible of all the refined pleasures of taste, and alive to high intellectual enjoyments. Indeed, to suppose them insensible to the beauties of creation, indifferent and inattentive to the grand appearances of nature, would be to conclude that, instead of being formed rational and intelligent, they were sent into existence in the condition of untaught savages. It is true that, even during their state of innocency, they were not exempt from manual employments. For, although the ground, before the curse, brought forth neither thorns nor briers; yet Adam, we are told, was placed in the garden to till it, and to dress it; and Eve had, doubtless, her appropriate task in preparing the simple meal, adorning the leafy bower, and tending the luxuriant growth of her fruits and flowers. But that these domestic offices did not engross her so much as to diminish her taste for more elevated pursuits, is beautifully intimated by the poet :

when, after relating how, modestly retiring from the philosophical discourse between Adam and the angel, she

he adds,

"Went forth among her fruits and flowers,

To visit how they prospered,-"

"Yet went she not, as not with such discourse
Delighted, or not capable her ear

Of what was high."

That such were the feelings and interests of our first parents, few will dispute; for it would have been strange, indeed, if, under such favorable circumstances, when all to them was new, and when they were just come from the hands of their Creator, perfect and intelligent, they had been unmindful of him and his works. This being granted, may it not fairly be inquired, whether any such essential difference exists between their circumstances and ours, as to render a meaner taste, and lower objects of pursuit, reasonable in us, their descendants.

If Milton had represented our mother Eve, when not occupied by the concerns of the domestic bower, as devoting her leisure hours to binding flowers in wreaths and garlands, wherewith to adorn herself; if he had told us that she and Adam spent their evenings in playing with pebbles, dancing on the turf, or in idle conversation; and that they rose and retired to rest without any devout acknowledgments to their Maker, we should, certainly, have considered it a most absurd, unfair and degrading representation, even after they had fallen from their first estate.

Yet how many of their descendants are there, even in the most civilized and evangelized parts of the globe, whose time is spent to no better purpose! A young lady who rises without prayer, or with only a heartless performance of it, who spends her morning in preparing ornaments of dress, or in pursuits equally trifling, and devotes her evening to gay amusements, or even to the more creditable recreation of sober visiting, and, returning weary or dissipated, forgets to call upon God, is surely no less unmindful of the dignity of her nature, and the great end of her existence.