become saddened by his sins and frailty—by his pains, his toils, his cares; and it thenceforward presents itself as if in shining fragments, commingled with the ruins of purposes frustrated—hopes shattered.
Within and around the patriarchal encampment, near to the springs and the palms of the sultry wilderness, we are to find—in the place of Innocence—Virtue—put to the proof, and not always triumphant in its conflict with temptation. Within this enclosure, instead of unsullied, uncontradicted Love, there are yet heard the deep yearnings of domestic affection, rendered intense by tearful sympathies; perhaps by resentments that strike into the very roots of human feeling. Around this enclosure are assembled, not the wild animal orders in awe of their lord—doing homage to man; but flocks and herds, the product of his provident and laborious care. Instead of a garden, wildly luxuriant in flowers and fruits, there are trim enclosures of esculent plants—flowers and perfumes giving way to roots and fruits:—there may be heard the singing of birds;—yet this is less heeded than the lowing of kine. Human existence is in its state of transition—conserving as much of its primaeval felicity as shall be the solace and excitement of a life which still may be happy, if man be wise; and the wisdom, which is to ensure his welfare, is that to which the patriarchal altar gave its sanction. The Divine favour is there pledged to the obedient and devout; but it
