THE METHODIST

NEW CONNEXION MAGAZINE.

NOVEMBER, 1861.

Essays, &c., on Theology and General Literature.

AUTUMNAL LEAVES.

BY THE REV. THOMAS MILLS.

NATURE abounds in symbols of human life and character, which inspired prophets have employed as instructive and beautiful illustrations of truth. In the germ of vegetation, which is instinct with vitality, which puts forth its suckers in the soil, then sends its green blade peeping out above the surface to drink in moisture from the dew and rain, and which, warmed by sunbeams, finally yields ripe corn, we have a type of the seed of saving truth in a human heart, which, fostered by the influences of heavenly grace, first germinates unseen within, then reveals its presence, beauty, and power without, and in due time bears fruit unto eternal life.

The language of leaves and flowers speaks expressively to men of every tongue. The stinging-nettle, the lacerating thorns of the bramble and the rose-tree, the broad leaves and luscious clusters of the fruitful vine, the ivy, fastening its tendrils on a tree stronger than itself, the stately palm with its crown of verdure, the aspiring poplar, and the massive oak and cedar, all are types whose correspondences are found in humanity. In infant years we behold an opening bud, fraught with mystery, interest, and hope. Manhood is a full-blown flower, whose colours flourish, and whose incense is exhaled for a season; and then the fragrance dies away, and the velvet leaves lose their glories, droop, and decay, fall to the ground, and are trampled under foot, and perish.

The revolving year, which is an important portion of human life, is also an impressive picture of its changing aspects and character, from its opening to its decline. Lovely childhood, full of promise for the future, is our early spring-time. Blooming summer represents our prime; and autumn, with its orchard fruits and golden harvest, our riper years, laden with honours and blessings; while in winter we see the image of old age, with its hoariness and decay, darkening, expiring, and giving place to a successor. The spring came forth with its countless millions of opening leaflets and bursting buds, heralded by lengthening days and brightening skies. Since then all Nature put on her holiday attire, countless myriads of flowers gave forth delicious perfumes to the air, rich foliage and fruit decked the trees with grace and

beauty, "smiling fields of corn" bowed homage to the gale, and communed, in soft whispers, with each passing breeze; and all Nature, big with blessings, breathed poetic joy and inspirations over the soul of man. But all is now changed. The garners have become opulent with the productions of Nature and the bounties of God, and the fields and gardens are naked and desolate. We now feel the chills of a cold and foggy atmosphere, and behold the leaden hues of a cloudy sky. The last flowers which the departed summer left lingering behind it, have faded and fled. Every tree but the evergreen, as though struck with paralysis, is unable to retain its leaves, and stands helplessly dropping them around it. The equally blended rays of blue and yellow in sunlight dressed each young leaflet in bright and living green; but now they all wear sombre and sickly hues. Millions of leaves, all crisped and dead, are spread over the landscape, every gale brings down millions more, and even when the air is calm and still, leaf after leaf from every tree, comes tilting down in gentle eddies and oscillations to the ground; and as we take rural walks we see them strewed along every pathway, and over every garden and field. Reader, dost thou desire to behold a natural photograph of thyself? Look then upon any one of the autumnal leaves which lie at thy feet. Men "fall down as a leaf falleth off from the vine, and as a falling fig from the fig-tree," Isa. xxxiv. 4. They shall soon be cut down as the grass, and wither as the green herb," Ps. xxxvii. 2. "We all do fade as a leaf,"

Isa. lxiv. 6.

Autumnal leaves depict the brevity of our life. How frail an object is a withered leaf, now held to its native bough by an attenuated thread, and then torn off and borne away by a mere breath of wind! In the early summer it formed part of a little budding tuft, whose diminutive foldings were closely compressed together; and under the genial influences of successive days, it gradually opened, until, being fully expanded, its several gases were exhaled and absorbed. For a few brief months it was faithful to its functions in relation to the atmosphere and the tree. Sunbeams and vapours ministered to its health. Every shower refreshed it. Each day's sunshine deepened its tint. It constantly reciprocated the friendly action and influence of its parent tree, and added a modicum of beauty to its appearance, and to that of the landscape. Insects gave repose to their little pinions on its surface, and were there rocked to sleep by the wind. But advancing age slowly changed its colour. Its ability and aptitude to drink in its liquid food from without, and to receive sap from within, daily diminished, and autumn winds dried up its juices, debilitated its stem, and finally shook it to the ground. Here is a beautiful emblem of man.

Even human infancy is beset with perils. Why is each fond mother tremblingly apprehensive for the young floweret to which she clings with jealous and tenacious love? The plump rotundity of its limbs and cheeks, the vivacity of its eyes, and the mottled complexion of its skin, are indications of robust health; and, as it slumbers in the cradle or the cot, it is the very image of incarnate innocence and peace. But that precious babe is so dependent and helpless that, though subject to a variety of wants, it is unable to supply or to give expression to one. It is hedged all round with dangers of which it is unconscious, and which, even if it knew, it could not avert or avoid;

and, unless some watchful eyes and tender hands are ever nigh, to guard and nurture its liminutive form, it speedily perishes, for it is frail as a leaf.

But the young man, whose form is upright and whose face is ruddy, has escaped the perils of childhood. Health glows all over his frame. No evergreen looks more vigorous than he. Can his locks of hair, black as a raven's plumage, ever become white as snow? Can that rosy face ever wrinkle with age, or wear the marble hues or ghastliness of death? Will his erect form bend under the burden of years? or his athletic limbs, which stand firm as pillars, and are able to leap like the hart, be subject to paralytic trembling? Gaiety now flutters merrily around his heart, and sanguine hope has spread enchantments over the distant prospects of life. May age ever transform him into a sere and yellow leaf? Possibly it may not, but, if not, it must be because some untimely blight has wasted and withered his strength, so that paleness spreads over his cheek, charms and graces wither, and manly beauty and life disappear. In the very spring-time of life that youthful form is laid low, and children play on the grassy mound that covers him.

The vigour and pride of the full-grown man give promise of longevity. He has walked unhurt along a path in which every step has been taken amidst "gins and man-traps." While some playmates of his childhood, and companions and fellow-students of his youth, have fallen before the ravages of the ministers of death. he has stood unscathed, and the pillars and bulwarks of life wear an impregnable aspect. But, alas! thou also, strong man, art only a fading leaf, and must inevitably wither away in thy season. Though no disease now riots in his blood, and no agonies bathe his brow with sweat, "man at his best estate is altogether vanity," Ps. xxxix. 5.

Would you see the human evergreen? Then look on a hale old man. So lightly has the last decade of years left its imprint on his complexion, bulk, and form, that one's imagination might almost regard him as an "everlasting flower." But, "evergreen" though he be, he is one of our autumnal leaves. Others which grew on his stem have dropped away. The generation to which he belonged formed a host of the vanished apparitions of the past. The verdant contemporaries of his youth have long been trampled under foot by a forgetful and thoughtless world. Their merry voices are hushed as completely as if they had never been heard. Heart-urns which glowed with immortal fires are now little handfuls of crumbled dust. "Your fathers, where are they? and the prophets, do they live for ever?" Zech. i. 5. Tenacious life, hitherto invincible in that patriarchal form, must by-and-by succumb. Premonitory voices from supernatural worlds have long been sending forth faint echoes within his heart, and now they draw nigh and speak more distinctly in his ear. The shadows of death shrank back, receding from his firm, elastic, and advancing step; but now they rapidly approach, and are gathering and deepening around his feet. What means the growing dimness of his vision, and the deafness which finds it more and more difficult to hear the singing birds in the grand aviary of Nature, and those sweet voices of family love which constitute the music of home life? Oh, that dimness is the darkness, and that deafness is the stillness of death and of the grave,