riding on the ass which had belonged to the cottager, and when the little boy, who had been looking for his murdered father, thinking that he had now returned, rushes out to caress the animal.

'He sees the ass-and nothing living Had ever such a fit of joy

As hath this little orphan boy

For he has no misgiving.

"Towards the gentle Ass he springs,
And up about his neck he climbs ;

In loving words, he talks to him,
He kisses, kisses face and limb,—

He kisses him a thousand times!

When the boys reached home, and were gathered around the bright coal-fire, with the tea-urn smoking on the table, and the curtains down, and the glow of cheerful health in every countenance, they talked over their evening's walk, and agreed that there is profit and pleasure to be derived from the humblest objects. This is only a specimen of the way in which this pleasant old man was accustomed to give instructions. It was part of his creed, that the Bible should be put into the hands of youth from the beginning, and that they should be taught to connect every thing with the Bible. Hence his scholars became thoroughly

acquainted not only with the narrative, but the chronology, the geography, and the natural history of the Scriptures. The method of Mr. Early is not an imaginary one, and it is worthy of being tried by every reader of these pages.

TO JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ.,

OF THE MOUNT, NEAR SHEFFIELD, ENGLAND.

DEAR SIR,

In your interesting letter, just received, you say you have read, what you are pleased to call, "The beautiful stanzas Morn,' "—and to add, "The critics who have mistaken them for mine, have done me honour; but I willingly forego the claim, and am happy to recognise a sister-poet in the writer, to whom, though a stranger, I offer my respectful regards."

Such kind and unexpected notice from my favorite muse, and one who has ministered perhaps more than any other, in kindling within me the poetic flame, induces me to inscribe to you the following lines, not because of their merit, but merely as connected with that subject which in another part of your letter you say, "refreshed your mind with the revival of long forgotten, though early known circumstances in the history of that Christian people (the United Brethren) among

whom I was born." Among that "Christian people," Sir, I spent part of my youthful days, and received my education, together with impressions, concerning their worth and wisdom, which time only deepens. To that early bias, and the affections which it generates, may be ascribed this poem; and were it only worthy of the subject, to whom could it be dedicated with so much propriety as him who has even added to the honour with with which the Moravian name and character is regarded in all the earth?

Yours with great respect,

Easton, Pa.

THE AUTHOR OF

"MORN."

GNADENHUTTEN.

Many years before the revolutionary war, and while the Aborigines held possession of all but the frontier settlements of Pennsylvania, the United Brethren, or Moravians, those hardy and indefatigable missionary pioneers, had formed and occupied a station on the river Lehigh, then known as a branch of the Delaware, about thirty miles above the Borough of Easton. This flourishing town, which has since been erected, lies in a beautiful amphitheatre, washed on three sides by rivers and

surrounded by hills, at the confluence of the Delaware and Lehigh, on the very spot which Brainerd, in his journal, calls the "Forks of the Delaware."

Easton and its immediate vicinity constitute the centre of one of the most interesting regions of scenery and history, whether to the poet or painter -the moral or natural philosopher, which this country possesses. On the lovely spot, where the town now stands, did the Indians in days of yore, erect their bark booths, and while the whole circumjacent region was literally "a howling wilderness," did the apostolic Brainerd make his home among them, for the pious purpose of telling them of Him, whose blood "taketh away the sin of the world ;" and here, on this very spot, did that holy man, as he tells us in his journal, retire to his tent, faint and weary and disappointed, to pour out his tears and prayers before God, on account of the apparently utter failure of all his labours, inasmuch as they continued to worship devils. And yet, how great the change! On this same spot we have now a number of flourishing churches in which the doctrines of the cross are preached from Sabbath to Sabbath. Indeed, this entire place known as "the Forks of the Delaware," in which Easton lies, as if consecrated by the abode and doings of