The Fallen Leaf.

"THE fallen leaf!" Again and again I repeated this sentence to myself, when, after traversing the avenue for some time, I had inadvertently stepped into a heap of these mementoes of the departing year. This trivial incident broke in upon a gay and buoyant train of thought; and, as for a single moment I stood fixed to the spot, the words of the prophet fell with a deep and painful meaning upon my heart. I resumed my walk, and would have resumed with pleasure the train of thought that had been broken, but in vain; and when I again reached the place where the fallen leaves were collected, I made a longer pause. With how loud a voice did they speak of the end of all things! how forcibly remind me, that those busy projects which at that moment agitated my heart, would, like them, fade, and be carried away in the tide of life! The leaves fade away, and leave the parent stem desolate: but, in a few short months, they will bud and bloom again; other leaves, as gay as those were, will supply their place, and clothe the forest with as bright a green. And is it not so with the heart? We are separated from those who are now most dear to us, or they fade away into the tomb; new interests are excited, new friendships contracted, and every former image is effaced and forgotten.

My eye now rested on the venerable pile of building before me: it seemed but as yesterday, since the master of that stately mansion stood at the gate to welcome my arrival; and now, where was he?-Gone-and for ever! The accents of his voice were never again to be heard; my eye was to behold him no more. As these thoughts passed through my mind, a slight breeze for a moment agitated the naked branches: it helped to complete the work of desolation; and several of the still remaining leaves were wafted to my feet. How indiscriminately were here mingled-the pride of the forest, the majestic oak, the trembling aspen, the graceful poplar, with all the tribe of inferior shrubs! Here lay all that remained of their once-gay foliage-one undistinguishable mass of decay; with no mark to point out to which they had originally belonged. And shall not Death, the great leveller, reduce us to the same state of equality? The great, the noble, the learned, the beautiful—when they lay down their heads in the grave-what are they more than the mean, the

lowly, and the worthless? They leave a name behind them for a short time, and then-how soon are the best beloved forgotten! Feelings such as these must have been felt by thousands; and, whilst they serve to temper the enjoyment of prosperity, they contribute also to smooth the rugged path of life, and calm the sufferings of the wounded spirit. Since, whether one day has been bright or cloudy, spring and summer must, ere long, give place to autumn; and then comes the winter, when we, too, must fade as the leaf. Anonymous.

Happiness.

WHAT is earthly happiness?—that phantom, of which we hear so much and see so little; whose promises are constantly given, and constantly broken, but as constantly believed; that cheats us with the sound instead of the substance, and with the blossom instead of the fruit. Anticipation is her herald, but disappointment is her companion; the first addresses itself to our imagination, that would believe; but the latter to our experience, that must. Happiness, that grand mistress of the ceremonies in the dance of life, impels us through all its mazes and meanderings, but leads none of us by the same route. Aristippus pursued her in pleasure, Socrates in wisdom, and Epicurus in both; she received the attentions of each, but bestowed her endearments on none of them. Warned by their failure, the stoic adopted another mode of preferring his suit: he thought, by slandering, to obtain her; by shunning, to win her; and proudly presumed, that, by fleeing her, she would turn and follow him. She is deceitful as the calm that precedes the hurricane; smooth as the water at the edge of the cataract; and beautiful as the rainbow, that smiling daughter of the storm: but, like the image in the desert, she tantalizes us with a delusion, that distance creates, and that contiguity destroys; yet, often, when unsought she is found, and when unexpected, often obtained: while those who search for her the most diligently, fail the most, because they seek her where she is not. Anthony sought her in love; Brutus, in glory; Cæsar, in dominion. The first found disgrace; the second, disgust; the last, ingratitude; and each, destruction.

To some she is more kind, but not less cruel: she hands them her cup, and they drink even to stupefaction, until they doubt whether they are men--with Philip, or dream

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that they are gods--with Alexander. On some she smiles, on Napoleon, with an aspect more bewitching than that of an Italian sun; but it is only to make her frown the more terrible, and, by one short caress, to embitter the pangs of separation. Ambition, avarice, love, revenge, all these seek her, and her alone: alas! they are neither presented to her, nor will she come to them. She despatches, however, to them her envoys. To ambition, she sends power; to avarice, wealth; to love, jealousy; to revenge, remorse:-alas! what are these, but so many other names for vexation or disappointment! Neither is she to be won by flatteries nor bribes: she is to be gained by waging war against her enemies, much sooner than by paying any particular court to herself. Those that conquer her adversaries, will find that they need not go to her; for she will come unto them.

None bid so high for her as kings; few are more willing, none more able, to purchase her alliance at the fullest price. But she has no more respect for kings, than for their subjects; she mocks them, indeed, with the empty show of a visit, by sending to their palaces all her equipage, her pomp, and her train; but she comes not herself. What, then, detains her? She is travelling incognito, to keep a private assignation with contentment, and to partake of a conversation and a dinner of herbs, with some humble, but virtuous peasant, in a cottage. Anonymous.

The Idiot.

A POOR widow, in a small town in the north of England, kept a booth or stall of apples and sweetmeats. She had an idiot child, so utterly helpless and dependent, that he did not appear to be ever alive to anger or self-defence. He sat all day at her feet, and seemed to be possessed of no other sentiment of the human kind, than confidence in his mother's love, and a dread of the schoolboys, by whom he was often annoyed. His whole occupation, as he sat on the ground, was in swinging backwards and forwards, singing "pal-lal" in a low pathetic voice, only interrupted at intervals on the appearance of any of his tormentors, when he clung to his mother in alarm. From morning to evening he sung his plaintive and aimless ditty; at night, when his poor mother gathered up her little wares to return home, so deplorable did his defects appear, that, while

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she carried her table on her head, her stock of little merchandise in her lap, and her stool in one hand, she was obliged to lead him by the other. Ever and anon, as any of the schoolboys appeared in view, the harmless thing clung close to her, and hid his face in her bosom for protection. A human creature so far below the standard of humanity, was nowhere ever seen: he had not even the shallow cunning which is often found among these unfin. ished beings; and his simplicity could not even be measured by the standard we would apply to the capacity of a lamb. Yet it had a feeling rarely manifested even in the affectionate dog, and a knowledge never shown by any mere animal. He was sensible of his mother's kindness, and how much he owed to her care. At night, when she spread his humble pallet, though he knew not prayer, nor could comprehend the solemnities of worship, he prostrated himself at her feet; and, as he kissed them mumbled a kind of mental orison, as if in fond and holy devotion. In the morning, before she went abroad to resume her station in the market-place, he peeped anxiously out to reconnoitre the street; and, as often as he saw any of the schoolboys in the way, he held her firmly back, and sung his sorrowful "pal-lal.”

One day the poor woman and her idiot boy were missed from the market-place; and the charity of some of the neighbours induced them to visit her hovel. They found her dead on her sorry couch, and the boy sitting beside her, holding her hand, swinging and singing his pitiful lay more sorrowfully than he had ever done before. He could not speak, but only utter a brutish gabble; sometimes, however, he looked as if he comprehended something of what was said. On this occasion, when the neighbours spoke to him, he looked up with the tear in his eye; and, clasping the cold hand more tenderly, sunk the strain of his mournful "pal-lal" into a softer and sadder key. The spectators, deeply affected, raised him from the body; and he surrendered his hold of the earthly hand without resistance, retiring in silence to an obscure corner of the room. One of them, looking towards the others, said to them, Poor wretch! what shall we do with him?" At that moment, he resumed his chant; and, lifting two handfuls of dust from the floor, sprinkled it on his head, and sung, with a wild and clear heart-piercing pathos, "pal-lal— pal-lal." Blackwood's Magazine.

85

PULPIT ELOQUENCE.

The Departed Spirits of the Just are Spectators of our Conduct on Earth.

FROM what happened on the Mount of Transfiguration', we may infer', not only that the separated spirits of good' men' live' and act', and enjoy' happiness'; but that they take some interest in the business of this' world, and even that their interest` in it has a connection' with the pursuits and habits' of their former life. The virtuous cares which occupied them on earth', follow them into their new abode. Moses' and Elias` had spent the days of their' temporal pilgrimage in promoting among their brethren', the knowledge and the worship' of the true God'. They are still' attentive to the same great object; and, enraptured at the prospect of its advancement', they descend' on this occasion' to animate' the labours' of Jesus', and to prepare him for his victory' over the powers of hell.

What a delightful subject of contemplation' does this reflection open' to the pious' and benevolent' mind! what a spring' does it give to all the better energies of the heart`! Your labours of love', your plans of beneficence', your swellings of satisfaction' in the rising reputation of those whose virtues you have cherished', will not, we have reason' to hope, be terminated' by the stroke' of death'. No! -your spirits will still linger around the objects of their former attachment'; they will behold with rapture, even the distant' effects of those beneficent' institutions' which they once' delighted' to rear'; they will watch with a pious satisfaction over the growing prosperity of the country' which they loved'; with a parent's fondness', and a parent's exultation, they will share' in the fame of their virtuous' posterity'; and-by the permission of God'-they may descend', at times', as guardian' angels', to shield them from danger', and to conduct' them to glory'!