as a sign of God's :ld promise in Egypt,-like a pillar of cloud, by day,-and of fire, by night.

And when all these are done;-and in the paved, and noisy aisles of the city, the ailanthus, with all its greenness gone,-lifts up its skeleton fingers to the God of Autumn and of storms, the dog-wood still guards its crown; and the branches which stretched their white canvass in April, now bear up a spire of bloody tongues, that lie against the leafless woods, like a tree on fire.

Autumn brings to the home, the cheerful glow of 'first fires.' It withdraws the thoughts from the wide and joyous landscape of summer, and fixes them upon those objects which bloom, and rejoice within the household. The old hearth that has rioted the summer through with boughs and blossoms, gives up its withered tenantry. The fire-dogs gleam kindly upon the evening hours; and the blaze wakens those sweet hopes, and prayers, which cluster around the fireside of home.

The wanton and the riot of the season gone, are softened in memory, and supply joys to the season to come; just as youth's audacity and pride, give a glow to the recollections of our manhood.

At mid-day, the air is mild and soft; a warm, blue smoke lies in the mountain gaps; the tracery of distant woode upon the upland, hangs in the haze, with

a dreamy gorgeousness of coloring. The river runs low with August drought; and frets upon the pebbly bottom, with a soft, low murmur,- -as of joyousness gone by. The hemlocks of the river bank, rise in tapering sheens, and tell tales of Spring.

As the sun sinks, doubling his disc in the October smoke, the low, south wind creeps over the withered tree-tops, and drips the leaves upon the land. The windows that were wide open at noon, are closed; and a bright blaze-to drive off the Eastern dampness, that promises a storm,-flashes lightly, and kindly, over the book-shelves and busts, upon my wall.

As the sun sinks lower, and lower, his red beams die in a sea of great, gray clouds. Slowly, and quietly, they creep up over the night-sky. Venus is shrouded.

The Western stars blink faintly,

then fade in the

mounting vapors. The vane points East of South. The constellations in the Zenith, struggle to be seen ;— but presently give over, and hide their shining.

By late lamp-light, the sky is all gray and dark: the vane has turned two points nearer East. The clouds spit fine rain-drops, that you only feel, with your face turned to the heavens. But soon, they grow thicker and heavier; and, as I sit, watching the blaze, anddreaming they patter thick and fast under the driving wind, upon the window,-like the swift tread of an army of MEN!

I.

A

ND has manhood no dreams? Does the soul

wither at that Rubicon, which lies between the Gallic country of youth, and the Rome of manliness? Does not fancy still love to cheat the heart, and weave gorgeous tissues to hang upon that horizon, which lies. along the years that are to come? Is happiness so exhausted, that no new forms of it lie in the mines of imagination, for busy hopes to drag up to-day?

Where then would live the motives to an upward looking of the eye, and of the soul;-where, the beckonings that bid us ever-onward ?

But these later dreams, are not the dreams of fond boyhood, whose eye sees rarely below the surface of things; nor yet the delicious hopes of sparkling

blooded youth they are dreams of sober trustfulness, of practical results, of hard-wrought world-success, and -may be of Love and of Joy.

Ambitious forays do not rest, where they rested once hitherto, the balance of youth has given you, in all that you have dreamed of accomplishment,—a strong vantage against age: hitherto, in all your estimates, you have been able to multiply them by that access of thought, and of strength, which manhood would bring to you. Now, this is forever ended.

There is a great meaning in that word-manhood. It covers all human growth. It supposes no extensions, or increase; it is integral, fixed, perfect-the whole. There is no getting beyond manhood; it is much to live up to it; but once reached, you are all that a man was made to be, in this world.

It is a strong thought-that a man is perfected, so far as strength goes;-that he will never be abler to do his work, than under the very sun which is now shining on him. There is a seriousness, that few call to mind, in the reflection, that whatever you do in this age of manhood, is an unalterable type of your whole bigness. You may qualify particulars of your character, by refinements, by special studies, and practice; but, once a man,-and there is no more manliness to be lived for.

This thought kindles your soul to new, and swifter

dreams of ambition than belonged to youth. They were toys; these are weapons. They were fancies; these are motives. The soul begins to struggle with the dust, the sloth, the circumstance, that beleaguer humanity, and to stagger into the van of action.

Perception, whose limits lay along a narrow horizon, now tops that horizon, and spreads, and reaches toward the heaven of the Infinite. The mind feels its birth, and struggles toward the great birth-master. The heart glows: its humanities even, yield and crimple under the fierce heat of mental pride. Vows leap upward, and pile rampart upon rampart, to scale all the degrees of human power.

Are there not times in every man's life when there flashes on him a feeling-nay, more, an absolute conviction, that this soul is but a spark belonging to some upper fire; and that by as much as we draw near by effort, by resolve, by intensity of endeavor, to that upper fire,-by so much, we draw nearer to our home, and mate ourselves with angels? Is there not a ringing desire in many minds to seize hold of what floats above us in the universe of thought, and drag down what shreds we can, to scatter to the world? Is it not belonging to greatness, to catch lightning, from the plains where lightning lives, and curb it, for the handling of men?

Resolve is what makes a man manliest;-not puny