THE ADMONITORY SEASON, OR LESSONS FROM AUTUMN: ISAIAH Ixiv. 6. And we all do fade as a leaf.

EVERY circumstance calculated to better the heart should be noticed and improved. Even those things which tend to beget sadness should not be avoided, inasmuch as they harmonize with the actual state of human existence. "Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward;" yet his great aim seems to be to defeat this repulsive decree, and whatsoever savors of it, or whatsoever seems to remind him of it, is generally an unwelcome topic of conversation. But this avoidance of every thing sombre in its aspect is not a politic measure; for, when evil comes-as come it must upon all-it falls upon us with the more overwhelming shock. It seems to be with many, a main object to drive away from the mind all consideration of the certainty and circumstances of their mortality. They cannot endure a book that paints its moral by a reference to such subjects. Even the gathering gloom of autumn is to such minds often disagreeable, and would if possible be avoided. But, happily, the Creator has so arranged the vicissitudes of the seasons, as to convey through the eye a salutary lesson upon the heart. From this none can escape. It addresses its wholesome instruction to the dark and skeptical mind, and to the careless votary of the world. They, who would scorn to be moved to seriousness by the plain admonition of a gospel minister, are awe-struck and sedate, as they witness the departing glories of the year, and see a funeral-pall silently spreading itself over the face of nature. Can they fail to recur to their own dissolution? Such was the effect upon the pious and poetical mind of the prophet, when he witnessed the autumnal leaf fading and falling, to be swept away by the blasts of winter. He thought at once of the mortality of man. He saw in this leaf a striking emblem of our frailty, and he exclaimed, " We all do fade as a leaf, and our iniquities like the wind have taken us away."

The subject is appropriate for two reasons. It is the season when VOL. XI. No. 4.

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our thoughts should be seriously impressed by the lesson which our Creator is reading to us from his works. It seems but yesterday, that the surrounding hills and valleys were clad in verdant beauty. Every thing was fresh and full of promise. The eye, and the ear, and all the senses were cheered and regaled. But how great a change has now passed upon them! The autumnal frosts have invaded their glories, and after a transient flush-like the hectic of death-they begin to decay and depart forever. Soon the fierce blasts of winter will come and sigh through the naked branches, and whirl in eddies these fallen leaves of the forest.

My hearers, is there not an admonitory voice in all this? You must surely admit a striking analogy between this and the desolating stroke of death, which will send us all to the tomb like the leaves of the forest, and bury us in as deep an oblivion.

But there is another reason why this subject is appropriate. It is not the leaves ONLY that are falling in this season of general decay. There seems to be a fall also of vigorous manhood and of youthful beauty, and the grave is gathering in its harvest from among the fairest and firmest of our community. God is thus giving us a two-fold lesson. Most impressively does he speak to us, and say, "All flesh is grass, and the glory of man is as the flower of grass."

The text presents us with the idea of a progressive decay, preparatory to the actual fall. It declares, that as the leaf withers and then dies, so man fades away and is gone. The places that knew him shall know him no more forever.

The comparison is as beautiful as it is solemn, and I shall call your attention to several particulars showing its appropriateness.

First; As to our corporeal powers, we fade like the leaf.

Our bodies are of such make and material, that their continuance should be more a matter of surprise than of expectation. The pliant flesh, the brittle bones, the countless channels of the blood, the delicate. nerves issuing from the brain; the heart, with rapid action, making the whole physical machinery fearfully to vibrate; the lungs, in contact often with unwholesome air-all these, amid the innumerable casualties of life, make the continuance of our bodies for a term of years a sort of standing miracle.

But whilst these powers are in play, it is evident there must be some waste of the vital principle-some wear and tear of the mortal framework. And this is admitted to be the case.

In infancy and youth-which is the forming state-the body expands and acquires tone rapidly. But soon it arrives at its acme. It reaches with wonderful rapidity its full development. Then it seems, for a brief moment, to wave like the well expanded leaf in all its matured glories; and then it shows evidences of decay.

I am sure, my hearers, you must have been struck with the rapid transition from childhood to maturity, and from maturity to speedy decline. You have seen the face that yesterday wore no trace of care, coupled with a form from which a statuary might have framed his designs-where all was youth, and health and serenity-sink, as it were,

* Several interesting youth in the congregation had been suddenly called away by death.

of a sudden, into incipient decay, and reveal the melancholy fact, that "all flesh is as the grass that withereth."

And this has taken place where there was no violent assault, no racking pains, nor intemperate indulgences, to hasten on a premature fall. It is simply that natural decline and waste of the corporeal powers, which indicates the speedy dissolution of the body.

It would be a most impressive scene, if the passage of a whole generation to the tomb, were as simultaneous and sudden as the fall and dissolution of the vegetable world-if some invisible cause, like the unseen blight of autumn, were to come suddenly upon us, paralyzing our strength, and spreading over us all a paleness premonitory of our fall. If a whole generation were thus to have affixed upon them the signet of death, and then, as by one fearful blast, be swept into the grave, how solemn and impressive would be the scene! Who then could look forward to the autumn of their existence, and not tremble? But, my hearers, is it less solemn as a personal consideration, that we drop away singly and silently into eternity? To me, it is even more for I have been accustomed to suppose, that when men die in company, as in a general sickness, or on the field of battle, there is less intimidation and dread. Even in a calamity so awful as death, the social principle operates to disrobe it of some of its horrors.

so;

But the body is, like a plant or leaf, never stationary. There is not a moment when either is so. They are in progress to maturity, or they are on the decline. We have scarcely time to admire their opening beauties, before they have sensibly parted with some of their freshness and bloom, and then, but a short interval occurs, and they have gone into the sere and yellow leaf. God has put the stamp of vanity on every bright and beautiful object of earth. He means to make us feel, that here we have no abiding habitation, that we are pilgrims and strangers, and must not build our hopes on so shifting a soil.

Secondly; How soon do our intellectual powers become enfeebled. So intimate is the connection between the body and the mind, when the former suffers, the latter, in most instances, suffers by sympathy along with it. But the powers of the mind do not generally indicate weakness so soon as the body shows symptoms of decay. It seems to be gathering strength sometimes when the corporeal powers are declining. But, even this nobler part feels indirectly the shock which falls on the clay tenement. The bodily functions connecting it with the external world, are the instruments which it uses in enlarging its sphere of knowledge; consequently, when they are enfeebled, the mind loses those auxiliaries without which it cannot efficiently improve. It hence often sinks into supineness-evincing no longer its wonted vigor and sprightliness. It is obliged to wait until death knocks off these rusty chains, ere it can again spread its wings and soar unfettered in its flight. When the eye grows dim, the inlet to external nature is obscured. The page of knowledge cannot be traced with the same satisfaction as formerly, and the effort to acquire being greater, whilst the physical capacity is becoming less, there is a sensible diminution of mental interest and activity. When the ear is deaf, and sounds are either not per ceived or have become indistinct, another source of mental improvement is gone; and the disappointed soul must content herself, in a great

measure, with her own solitary musings. These great inlets to knowledge being obstructed, it is natural to suppose the mind will be weakened, or whatever be its real, its apparent vigor is evidently not the same.

And how soon is this the case! It takes but a few revolutions of the sun to dim the eye, and dull the hearing, and line the features with the marks of a countenance as inexpressive as if it had lost its interest in the passing scenes of earth. All must come to this. Even a Newton or a Locke, whose Herculean intellects seemed stamped with eternal durability, must sink away under the gathering infirmities of age, and then, as with an autumnal blight, go down to the shades of death. This is the natural course of things. But some are visited prematurely, as it would appear, with intellectual weakness. Like the oak in its great strength and its leafy pride, riven by a stroke of lightning and soon loosing all its verdure, some giant intellects have been suddenly overcast, and a settled melancholy or raving madness has succeeded.

So common is it for age to debilitate the mind, that exceptions are noticed and spoken of as something extraordinary. Yet, be it remembered, these exceptions are very important, as they evince the fallacy of that reasoning which the materialist employs to prove that mind and matter decay together. This cannot be true; and the fact that they seem in many cases simultaneously to decline, is to be accounted for on the grounds mentioned-viz. that the corporeal functions are the media through which the mind acts. These being obstructed, the mind will, of course, be affected by their loss.

Thirdly; Our social powers soon decline, they "fade as a leaf." In youth the imagination is lively, the passions strong, and the love of society often intense. It is the season of frank and confiding friendship. Soon, however, selfish aims begin to narrow the circle, and the competition of the world renders man suspicious of his fellow-man. The pleasures that are purely social are then very few. But as old age comes on, the circle still diminishes. Death has thinned the ranks of contemporaries, and a new generation has but few sympathies with the past. The old man begins to feel himself alone in the world. Topics of interest to him, he finds uninteresting to others, and he is soon driven back upon himself for enjoyment; whilst the busy mass are moving on, in their plans, and purposes, and pleasures.

It is astonishing how soon this solitude of old age is upon us; and if any appeal, founded on merely selfish considerations, could weigh with us to seek God in our youth, this, it appears to me, ought to have weight. What can an old man expect from this bustling age! So soon as he is unable to struggle personally in the general direction, he will inevitably be thrown aside. Men will not stop to attend to his social wants. If he has depended on the world alone, he will find himself deserted by it. But let him choose God for his portion, and he has a resting-place. His staff then cannot be broken. He is independent of the cold-hearted throng. He has resources which will make the winter of life serene and happy.

Lastly; How soon does a man's influence decline.

A grand object with man is to acquire influence. This is sought by all; and few are so weak, or so insignificant, as not, in some degree, to succeed. But only here and there one attains to great influence.