In this affectation of the want of affectation they were imitated by the inferior lords and the members of the parliaments. The servants of the members were not far behind, but copied their masters with as stately an anxiety. Every motion had its rules, and every attitude its principles. Even the denizens of the kitchen polished boots with the polish of their masters, and delivered a card, like a provincial actor in a tragedy, with an averted face. Society was as polished as a mirror, looked as profound, but was in reality as shallow. In those happy regions where men live under the first laws of nature, the manners of the individual are not much different from those of the nation. This was the condition of the ancient Saxons, and it is at this day the condition of the people of Araby the Blest. The manners of such nations are homogeneous. Individuality is unknown, except as a more marked development of the national character. As civilisation advances, society insensibly arranges itself into classes, according to pursuits and abilities, and these classes as insensibly acquire different standards of behaviour. In a civilised society how different is the statesman from the ploughman! But in rude societies there is no such discrepancy; a character is only known by his more eager hunting, his more reckless gambling, or for hospitality beyond compare. It is plain, then, that manners, light and unimportant as they may seem to be, are, like every thing else, interwoven some way or other in every thing else, and are connected with the deepest workings of civilisation. It was a saying of a fine mathematician, that the minutest particle of dust that danced in the sunbeam was guided by the same laws which regulated the motions of the mighty systems of the heavens. So, in like manner, the most insignificant gesture is governed by the same laws which bring empires to glory or ruin. Let the student, therefore, forswear his books for a time, and come out and look at the great book of society as it actually is, not as it is represented in books. He will find that the better half even of philosophy is learned out of the study. The mere book-worm is certainly a respectable man, and he is very useful. It is he who tunnels in dark places, and brings to light unknown facts. But he is not a man. He could not be set up as the representative of humanity. His mind is out of proportion; it is plethoric in Greek, and sapless in a sympathy with the universe. It is an intelligent sympathy with the whole universe, and that alone, which makes the true philosopher and the polished gentleman.

MONSIEUR ST ASFRE'S DOG.

by a wonderful perversion of affection, the tendency of his friendships or acquaintanceships was always to diminish. When M. St Asfre came first to dwell at Tarbes, the most respectable and wealthy of the inhabitants had paid their devoirs to him, and had formed quite a club of respectful and interested visiters; but M. St Asfre, from his age, his manners, and habits of life, was a stranger to the allurements of society, and he circumscribed the number of his visits and visiters according to certain ideas of rank and fortune. The general commandant of division, the prefect, and one or two functionaries of the judiciary order, completed the circle of his visiters, if we except young Edward Senard, who, by some mystery in the order of exceptions, was admitted to the old man's house and particular regard. What are the friendships of this world, after all, but pleasant attractions? There are in all men the two elements of attraction and repulsion. There are in all men the qualities which we love or which coincide with ours, and those with which we have no sympathy. Where the affinities are in excess there will be excessive attraction or friendship, and where the repulsions are strong and active there will be coldness and disgust. The general, prefect, and members of judiciary, had few tastes in common with those of St Asfre. They did not care for solitude, for shrubs, and the old authors; and they came to drink St Asfre's wine and show their civility, more than to enjoy his criticisms or listen to his prelections. With Edward Senard the case was infinitely different. The young man was poor, and friendless, and of humble origin, that is, according to the adventitious manner of estimating birth; but he was industrious, patient, high-souled, and virtuous, and intellectual withal, and he regarded his acquaintance with M. St Asfre as one of those lucky interpositions of providence which so often conduce to the education and elevation of the great-minded poor. He listened to M. St Asfre with the most profound respect, stored up his instructions in his heart, and really loved him as a son. M. St Asfre of himself was a most attractive and venerable old man, but by some wonderful operation of inexplicable zoological affection, he had rendered himself, at the same time, one of the most repulsive of old men. If M. St Asfre's taste had induced him, like the Caliph Motakar, to tame a few lions and keep them leaping about his garden, or, like Runjeet Singh, to cultivate amicable relations with a tiger, people might have borne the terror of his acquaintance for the oriental romance connected therewith; but the object

of M. St Asfre's affection was an animal of the canine species, even more disgusting than that most disgusting of all dogs, Marryat's 'Snarley Yow.' The dog of the president was old and ugly, and, in remembrance of a parliaIn a little town of one of the southern departments of France mentary antipathy, he had called him Maupeou, the name there lived, a few years ago, an old man, whose retired life of Louis XV.'s chancellor, who was the first to wield the was a subject of much wonder and speculation to the vulgar. axe of reform in the parliament of Paris, and was judged M. de St Asfre, ancient President of the Faculty of Advo- on that account, by the old ex-magistrate, to be the preeates of Bourdeaux, after having gathered together the cursor of the Revolution. The dog Maupeou, then, was old remnants of an immense fortune from the revolutionary and ugly, quarrelsome and diseased. It was like some of chaos, had ensconced himself in an old Gothic mansion Shakspeare's heroes-full of bad humours and fierce antiin the town of Tarbes, where, without other domestic than pathies. The heels of men and calves of human legs were an old and faithful servant, he devoted his life to the culti-objects of its fierce detestation, or rather of its fierce attachvation of a large garden well-stocked with precious shrubs, and consecrated the time he was not so engaged to read ing and to the study and contemplation of those great authors who adorned the earlier epochs of French literature. M. St Asfre was a man of rare accomplishments, and he still preserved the prestige of his meridian powers, although he had now attained his eighty-fifth year. He had been the contemporary and friend of the President Montesquieu; he had known in his younger days the President Henault; in his riper years he had carried on an intimate correspondence with Malesherbes, with Chalotais, and with all the illustrious members of the French magistracies. The conversations of the old man retained all the influences of his precious friendships. The hours which he had been privileged to pass amongst these illustrious relics of the old court days had enabled him not only to cultivate the intellect but to refine the heart; but few were admitted into the modest retreat of M. St Asfre, and,

ment, for it intermitted few opportunities of fixing its tusks in all that presented themselves to it, and M. St Asfre, usually so discriminating and just, smiled at these dental manifestations of his favourite, and consoled the sufferers by assuring them that Maupeou acted thus in accordance with his nature. However satisfactory this explanation might seem, Maupeou at last drove away everybody from M. St Asfre's house but General St Grou, the prefect, and young Edward Senard. M. Tomas, the prefect, was a little fat man, with a round, rubicund face. He looked as if he had carried a tun of wine to the house of M. St Asfre every time that he visited him. His form was compressed into most athletic proportions, just as if he had grown up, like a Carian, in spite of the compressive weights he had borne on his head from infancy. To this functionary Maupeou had paid most marked attentions, by frequently leaving the marks of his teeth in his flesh. M. Tomas bore the abominable inflictions referred to with much temper. until,

losing command over himself one day, he kicked Maupeou through below a table, over a stool, and right to the foot of M. St Asfre's fauteuil, and forthwith bade farewell to the old Gothic tower of Tarbes in a fuming pas sion.

If M. Tomas was short and thick, General St Grou was his very opposite. He was tall, thin, and grim, and looked as if he had been nursed in a hot-house and watered every morning. His long grey moustaches hung over his upper lip like a hedge of furze, and he could move them like the whiskers of a cat. His grey eyes were full of choler and pride, and his face foreboded great severity of character. Maupeou had made many attacks upon the heels of the general's military boots, which of course the gene ral had treated with military contempt. He had indeed made sundry disparaging reflections upon Maupeou's disgusting appearance, character, and odour, which had called forth M. St Asfre's not very amicable rejoinders, but the general had never come to an open rupture with the favourite of his friend. While engaged in discussing some point of history one day, however, General St Grou allowed his hand to drop carelessly by his side, at which Maupeou, ever on the watch, made a furious munch. With the speed of lightning, St Grou caught him by a convenient extremity of his body, and with a vigorous and herculean swing, sent him through a window, carrying sash and glass with him in his flight, until he lay hors de combat in the garden.

General St Grou sprung to his feet, as if he had been shot, and the red flush of rage overspread his countenance in a moment. Oh, I see!' he cried, stamping up and down the room, M. St Asfre never forgave me for that throw, and this is his revenge. I would only take the eur for the pleasure of shooting him.'

The conditions are that you take care of him,' said M. St Grammont, calmly, or you do not have him.' Then all the care I would take of him would be till we reached a tanpit,' said the ferocious old soldier. 'Perhaps M. Tomas would accept?' said the cool lawyer, turning to the corpulent prefect.

'I would almost accept the office of public executioner for the nonce to hang him,' cried the indignant functionary. To leave his ugly snarling dog to me! I thought he knew me better?' and M. Tomas stalked up and down the room also in a furious heat, and in distant imitation of the general.

'Poor Maupeou!' said Edward Senard, stepping for ward, and smiling, then I suppose he now falls to me? Then let me have him, M. St Grammont; I accept with pleasure the legacy of my dear old friend.'

Indeed, he will be both a burdensome and a disagreeable gift' said the attorney, looking fixedly at the poor youth. "I loved his masLet me have the

'Not to me,' said Edward, frankly. ter, and I shall keep him for his sake. dog, please.'

Nobody could bear Maupeou, but all who knew him made vehement protestations of loving M. St Asfre. M. Tomas and General St Grou had been unable to love the dog, but they professed solemnly to love the man, and intermitted no opportunity, even after these ruptures, of asking him what they could do to serve him. Independently of hating Maupeou, the prefect and general had mutually imbibed a perfect detestation of Edward Senard, and their anti-room. pathy increased in proportion to the increase of M. St Asfre's love. He is a human Maupeou,' they would exclaim; what a pity it is that he and the brute do not fall out every day.' If ever the dull eye of the dog fell kindly on any human being save his master, it was on Ed-ingly, as he pointed to the ugly cur. ward Senard; but, as necessity dissolves the friendships of both dogs and men, the poor youth, who had some times dreamed of honour and fame, was at last constrained to leave Tarbes, and go to Paris, in order to earn his bread, and so Maupeou and M. St Asfre were left alone.

You hear, gentlemen, he accepts,' said the attorney, turning with a quiet smile to the prefect and general. 'A gift that must be extremely acceptable to one of his nature,' was the almost simultaneous response of M. Tomas and his friend.

The attorney made no answer, but threw open a door, when Maupeou, snorting and wheezing, staggered into the

Perhaps the most friendless creature in this world is an ugly ill-natured dog, who has lost a doating master. Let the gentle-hearted reader, then, judge of Maupeou's condition when M. St Asfre died. The old parliamentarian had not died, however, without making an effort to provide for his canine favourite a friend. He had left him to M. Tomas, General St Grou, or Edward Senard conditionally, and that condition was, 'whichever of them desired most to keep him for his master's sake.' M. Tomas was reclining in his fauteuil, with his napkin thrown over his head; Gene ral St Grou was sententiously discussing a question of fortification with the Abbe Pierre; and Edward Senard was sitting penning a sonnet in his garret in the Place de la Concorde, when an intimation was handed to each to appear as heirs and legatees to M. St Asfre at Tarbes, when the state of the deceased's affairs would be administered by his attorney. General St Grou and M. Tomas smiled grimly as they saluted each other in M. St Asfre's parlour; they bowed distantly to Edward, shook hands cordially with M. St Grammont the attorney, and then sented themselves upon the chairs which they had often occupied, and which they had only vacated when Maupeou had become intolerable.

'Gentlemen,' said M. Grammont, smiling, 'the legacy of M. St Asfre is conditional, and that condition of course renders its acceptance a voluntary act. It is a singular legacy, I do confess, but our departed friend was a singuHe was singularly learned, singularly rich, and singular in his attachments. He bequeaths to you, General St Grou, his dear dog Maupeou.'

lar man.

At sight of St Grou and M. Tomas, the latent energies of his canine nature flashed up, and he uttered several most discordant and menacing growls.

'You see, my young friend,' said the attorney, admonish

Yes, I see,' said the youth, as he patted him on the head. 'Poor Maupeou! poor Maupeou! I'll provide a warm corner for thee for thy master's sake, or it shall go hard with me.'

The old animal turned his eyes to the young man, wagged his tail in sign of recognition; then uttering a sudden growl, he rushed at the legs of M. Tomas and the general; and the ardour of his nature having carried him beyond the limits of prudence in his passion, he expired with his teeth in M. Tomas's stocking.

'Come,' cried the young man, as he disengaged the dog from the leg of the furious M. Tomas. Come, old Maupeos you must learn good manners;' and he patted him kindly on the head.

'He is dead,' said the attorney. He is dead,' grinned General St Grou. He has taken his last bite now,' cried M. Tomas, as he administered his last kick.

'I congratulate you, M. Senard,' said the attorney; 'you have lost the dog but have gained a fortune. Listen, gentlemen, by what chances the fates try us;' and he read the following extract :-To whoever of the three friends specified willingly accepts Maupeou, and promises to cherish him for my sake, without other idea of reward, I bequeath, at the poor dog's death, the sum of ninety thou sand francs.' These are yours, monsieur,' said the attor ney, shaking hands with the poor young poet.

M. Senard now occupies one of the most pleasant little retreats in France. His house is a model of beauty, his garden one among a thousand, his wife as sweet as a China rose, and his children as beautiful and sprightly as canary birds. In his parlour, dining-room, and bed-chamber, are portraits of M. St Asfre; and in the garden, in a beautiful cage, is the stuffed effigy of old Maupeou. M. Tomas and General St Grou never forgave M. St Asfre, although they tried to console themselves by cracking jokes on M. Senard, and calling him a dog's heir.

THE FADING LEAF.

Ir is in the nature of our mental constitution to receive ideas and convey them to others, by emblems. The evident reason of this is because there is no other way in which ideas can be so easily comprehended, or so clearly unfolded. The mind, therefore, is continually searching for objects which may be held up to view as visible and clear indices to its conceptions.

The painter knows no other language but that of emblems. He spreads them out upon his canvass; we gaze upon the picture, and while not a word is spoken, the most thrilling story may be unravelled to us. The poet, it is true, depends much upon the beauty of his language-his flowing numbers. But what would the perfection of his style gain him, were it not for the striking imagery which he draws from the great storehouse of emblems ? Nor can the philosopher do without them. He even constructs a miniature planetary system, and by it describes the various evolutions and relative positions of those great bodies which are hanging in space. Even truths once clearly seen, may come to us with a tenfold power, if accompanied with some striking analogy. We may receive from the mouth of another a correct description of some noted building which we have never seen; but if we can look upon a picture of that edifice, we can more distinctly imagine the reality. Just so is it with comparisons. Suitable emblems always make the outlines of the ideal more definite; and even where we have visible demonstrations of truth, the effect of suitable comparisons is never lost. Nor has our benevolent Creator been unmindful of this fact in his construction of the material universe. He has created innumerable objects, and ordained various operations of nature, which assist us in our inquiries after truth-especially those truths connected with the eternal welfare of the immortal soul.

the fairest flowers would appear cold and sepulcbral. Their delicate texture would be the lifeless beauty of a corpse. No zephyr's breath would ever visit this dreary world, but, instead of their gentle whisperings, sad tones would fall upon the ear, as the tall naked branches of the forest move to and fro in their loneliness. Even the music of waters would lose half its sweetness, for there would be nothing to soften their wild ragings, nor send back to us gentle echoes. Every song of nature would be a fit requiem for the dead, and the weary eye could find nothing of life or beauty on which to rest.

This may appear to many as vain fancyings, with no meaning whatever. But who can tell what would be the effect, if every tree and shrub were to stand year after year leafless, never showing a single sign of life? Even during the brief desolations of winter, who does not feel the sad change, though there is a certainty of a speedy resurrection? but what would it be if there were no returning spring? The most gifted poets speak of nature as dying when the first leaf begins to fade, and of the earth as desolate when they have all fallen lifeless upon the ground;-and to the reflecting mind there is stern reality amid all the imagery with which poets invest the idea.

We ever connect with the fresh green foliage of summer in its light and airy appearance, the idea of life, of joyousness, and of beauty. But, with the contrast as viewed in autumn, there comes a throng of gloomy associations, sad musings of the fading nature of all earthly things. There is that in summer scenery-its perfect animation-its profusion-which tends to banish all thoughts of death. There is scarcely a token of mortality around us. Here a flower fades, there a leaf falls, but so much life remains it makes but little impression upon the mind. A friend dies, but we gather fragrance and animation from nature, and strew the emblems of the living upon his bier. We then bear God not only plainly declares to us those truths so im- him along to his final resting-place, and lay him down portant for us to know; but, in the same sacred book, he where birds sing so sweetly, and flowers and leaves are so seeks to impress our minds more deeply by presenting them full of life—we hardly realise that death is there. We go through the medium of emblems familiar to us. The trans- away half believing that the loved one is only reposing forming power of the Holy Spirit is compared to wind. from the toils and strifes of the world. We know that be 'The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the has gone no more to return; but we have not considered sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh and that he is fading, and will blacken and crumble to dust whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit.' like the sear and yellow leaf of autumn. But it is even The wicked are likened to a 'troubled sea whose waters so. And are we not sensible of it at this season of the year? cannot rest, but cast up mire and dirt.' But in regard to Are we not conscious that the garb of life which nature no one truth is there such a profusion of figures applied, has been wearing, sent forth enchantments to draw us as the wasting away and death of the body, and the con- away from the real enchantments that are now being dissequent vanity of all earthly things. Life is compared to pelled? We knew all to be mortal and fading, frail in their a flying post, a weaver's shuttle,—a flower that blooms textures and soon to pass away, yet the enchantment had its and quickly dies,-to clouds that vanish away. We are effect upon us, and the truth was forgotten while it lasted. of yesterday and know nothing, because our days upon earth Even the soft rustling of summer leaves, and their luxu are a shadow.' The striking emblems which nature pre- riance, shed brightness around a grave-yard, clothing the sents are frequently brought forward, and we are urged by cold marble with beauty. But we love to be thus lured the lesson they teach to be mindful of the frail tenure by along, that we may forget as much as possible our owu which we hold this earthly existence. But, reader, there mortality, for it is not a pleasing subject to contemplate. is one emblem which at this season of the year is conWe dread to be reminded that soon we must lie down and tinually appealing to us in the most solemn manner. It be chained by the iron hand of death, and then be carried comes with soul-stirring eloquence, and, though we refuse away from present scenes never more to mingle in them. to be admonished, we cannot be unmindful of the truth, We make no efforts to blot out or change the false colourfor we see it everywhere. We cannot open our eyes with-ing, but on the contrary strive to make its hues more brilout reading it. Wherever we go, the declaration is before us. It is engraved upon all around that we do fade as a leaf.' But what is there in leaves that shadows forth man's earthly career, and in what respect does their fading remind us of our own wasting away? Leaves bloom out fresh and fair, appearing as though they could never die. They murmur the sweetest melody, and dance to the faintest wind that blows. They spread a beauty over the forest whose magnificence can neither be equalled nor transferred by the hand of art. They are the gorgeous attire of objects which, without them, present only a dreary picture-conveying to the mind desponding ideas. In their full verdure, they fill up a vacuum upon which no joyous heart can look with pleasure. Without them nature seems dying, while with them she has the appearance of springing into perfect life. Were there no green leaves, earth would seem but a vast charnel-house, and the blooming of

liant still, by the part we act upon the stage of life. We seek to throw round the gloom of dying a gorgeous display, and while our own hearts are beating funeral marches to the grave' we hurry along upon the awful precipice, as if scorning the gulf that is ready to swallow us up. We come into being, and spring into youth and manhood with that sprightliness and vigour that characterise the living forms of nature. The brightest smiles are now, and joyous words are spoken, though the heart be ill at ease. We tax the energies of mind to invent new sources of pleasure, that all thoughts of passing away may be drowned; and then we engage in those scenes of mirth with the whole soul. If we have wealth, we surround ourselves with a magnificence which has exhausted the power of invention to create, and which gold only can procure. Everything about us is gaudy. We dwell in palaces, know nothing of toil and care, while every luxury that is pleasing to the sense or taste is enjoyed.

Shutting out all gloomy objects, we sit down in repose, unconscious that at every moment the silver cord is being loosed, and the golden bowl broken. Or, if we have but little of the things of this world, we go forth with the busy throng to gain them; we rise early, and sit up late, eat the bread of carefulness, that we may gain gold, and thus win the bright things of earth. In short, everything is conducted with reference not to the truth, but to the fascinating charms of that fiction which nature in her summer time weaves for us. We constantly act in harmony with the idea which leaves and flowers present to the mind. Carried away by it, we imagine earth to be a paradise, and ourselves its eternal possessors. Imagination tells us all we have to do is to add to its beauty and enjoy it for

ever.

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and paleness creeps silently over the countenance. Can we tell when the bright eye begins to grow dim, the full pulse to beat languidly, and the bounding heart to throb feebly? As we take hold of the trembling hand that once grasped ours with energy, but whose pressure we can Dow scarcely discern, are we able to say when the power to give this token of friendship its full force was taken away? The voice was once rich and full as the sweet tones of harp-it is now hollow and can scarcely articulate—it has lost its music. But can we point to the time when the mournful change began ? It came like a spectral illusion. It passed our pathway like a shadow, though in reality¦¦ disappearing only, when, like the leaf, the dear one has faded and fallen. The church-bell may then toll the departure of a spirit, and make known that there is another occupant for the grave; but it never sends out its peals, telling that the destroyer will come at such an hour. Are the light-hearted and pleasure-seeking throng ever arrestnext year, the fairest and loveliest of the number will pass away, to join in their festivities no more? Does a friendly voice ever whisper in the ear of the child, as it engages in its innocent sports, that soon, very soon, it will weep over the new-made graves of its parents? Or is that mother who fondly clasps to her bosom her darling babe, told that the idol of her heart will wear an infant's shroud, and be laid in her own coffin? What voice, reader, dare proclaim, that your winding-sheet is woven, the boards for your coffin sawn, and the stone polished that is to be set up over your ashes? Yet it may be even so, for 'we all do fade as a leaf." The leaf droops silently away, we cannot foretell when. And thus is it with you and the gay world. The work of decay must ere long commence. The fading process will begin, and it will be completed. But the summons will be sent in silence, and we will wear the impress ere we are conscious of it.

Yes, man, like the leaves, exists for a while in health and prosperity, gaily dancing at every breeze of fortune. Like them he has his summer-time, when the world smiles upon him, and his projects are accomplished. Every rilled in their wild career, by a message that to-morrow, or sends joy to his bosom, every gale bears on its wings the sweetest odours. He bows to the illusion and worships at the shrine of the charmer, whose poisonous sting he must ere long feel, for he is mortal, and the summer hours of his existence will soon be over. They pass on rapid wings and stay not in their flight though every fountain of pleasure be exhaustless. A change comes. Leaves fade and fall to the ground; and so with man. He goes to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets. Leaves are reft of their life and beauty, and scattered by the rude autumnal winds. Man also must close his eyes in the sleep of death, his freshness torn from him, and his gayest attire exchanged for a shroud-his palace for a coffin-bis gilded equipage for the dark-curtained hearse, which is to bear him to the cold damp vault, where he is laid silently down by the mouldering ashes of the dead.

The summer of nature will again appear. Buds will burst forth, and new leaves will clothe the forest fresh and fair as ever. They will send out the same rich tones and wear the same bright aspect. But man's summer, once past, never reappears. There is no budding anew of his existence, unless it be in a brighter and a better world. Seasons may come and go-go and come; but he reappears not upon the stage with mortals. He crumbles to his native dust, which mingles with that of the leaf. The leaf fades, he fades, and both return to the earth from whence they came.

But, reader, let us examine more closely and view some particulars in which fading leaves are striking emblems of death. We all do fade as a leaf. But how does a leaf fade? It fades silently, without a single premonition; not a note of warning is given, until it has received the shock of death. The poisoning of its fountain of life is done in secret. We cannot mark the moment when leaves begin to fade. We look upon them-they are fair; we look again, and their freshness is gone-they are drooping, languishing away. We may stand in an unbroken forest and watch these changes. We know that death is at work around us, for one by one are these eloquent monitors of the grave deposited in their last resting-place, until the ground is covered, and the branches above become bare. But who, or what tells us of this change? We see there have been ravages, but no voice proclaims it. The wind whispers it, but only in faint intimations-our own footsteps tell it when the sad work is almost done. But we know not when and how it is that leaves begin to fade. We are ignorant of all, until they bear upon themselves the impress that tells us they must die. Thus fades the leaf, and experience as well as revelation declares that we fade in like manner. Who knows when that messenger, who sitteth upon the pale horse, and whose name is death, makes ready his bow and speeds his arrows? Does he ever send a herald to tell us there is need of making ready, for at such a moment the shaft will enter our vitals? We feel the stroke, but he who gives it comes with a noiseless tread; he is not seen, nor is he heard; but his aim was unerring, and the victim fades like a leaf. We know not of that moment when the bloom of health begins to depart,

But there is another point in which the fading of leaves resembles the dying of these bodies of ours. Leaves fade gradually. They do not all pass away at once. Some droop while others remain fresh and green; and yet before the work commences, we know not which will fade quickest. There is no mark to designate them. But ere long we see that one after another turns pale, and drops from among their fellows. And is not this the way we leave our places in the family circle and in society? We look upon the bright cheerful circle that surround the paternal hearth. We scan the parents, then their offspring, from the eldest down to the little prattler they are caressing. But we know not which seat will become vacant first, and its occupant be carried through the portals of that homestead, a cold corpse! Will it be the parents who have passed the meridian of life, or the elder son beside them, who is just entering upon the busy scenes of the world;-or will it be the little one, who like the bursting rose begins to claim admiration? God only knows. But like the leaves of the forest, they will soon fade. First one goes, and then another, until, finally, they are all laid side by side in the churchyard, and the hearthstone is forsaken. You look about upon society, but you cannot name the individual whose funeral will be first attended. Yet some one of us! must go first. It may be the aged and care-worn, who is expecting his summons, or the young and beautiful who has never thought seriously of dying. It may be the warmhearted Christian who keeps his lamp trimmed and burning, ready to meet the bridegroom, or the worldly-minded professor who is slumbering at his post. And oh, it may be the child of many prayers, and of Sabbath school instruction, but who has not made his peace with God. You may be called for this week-before another Sabbath dawns your mortal remains may lie in the ground.

Many leaves have faded and fallen, but those that remain must drop also. Thousands with whom we began life have gone into eternity before us. But we must go too. Gradually do we pass from these airy scenes, following each other in rapid succession. Friend after friend departs; generation after generation goes; and thus it will continue until the end of time.