consecrated the spot we were in. His solitude and silence, with the feelings that these sad events awakened, fitted him for meditation; and, retiring to a cave by the side of the fount, he resolved to sit there until 1 should return from the garden, which was on a level, immediately over head. As the fruit of the garden was all under the earth, or lying on the ground, there was no beauty to tempt me to linger there. My companion with the hammer, who seemed to know the whereabouts' of every production, chipped away at a great rate. 'This,' said he, is a melon,-here is a peach,-here are oranges,-pomegranates,and, lo! a famous bunch of grapes.' They were all put into the bag to add to the collection of the convent; for I could not carry weight in my journey. The resemblance to the different fruits was exceedingly strong; those most prized are the grapes, which are sometimes found in large bunches, each firmly fastened together, and so hard, that it would be impossible to divide them.

"We had scared a herd of wild gazelles from the place as we ascended, and I soon suspected the origin of the grapes. I found some, too, turning into stone, that plainly put the matter beyond a doubt. The boar also, is instrumental in the deposit of a larger description of fruit. Pleased with my specimens of growing petrifactions. I returned to the Superior with the ungrateful purpose of setting the whole miracle to fight; but he received my attacks with so much pain, and pity, I thought, for my observation, that I would not urge my proofs upon him but quietly put them in the bag to work their way in the convent.

"Padre Camillo was unwilling to leave his cave; and, as the rain had again commenced, we remained there for an hour or two longer. What a place for uninterrupted contemplation!' cried he. 'Here indeed,' spouting out a passage from his favourite historian, he continued, the plants, the rugged rocks, the moaning of the wind, the prospect of the ocean, the murmuring of the streams, the lowing of the herds, the frisking of the flocks, the shady valley, the singing of the birds, the delightful clime, the variety of flowers, the odour of the aromatic herbs, how they refresh the soul! This sounded very sweetly in Italian; and as he delivered it with all his heart, standing at the mouth of the cave, as if he had been before an altar, from the very spot where so much was assembled too, it came with great force, for the catalogue is not overcharged,"

The charm of these "Adventures" consists in the fact, that the author describes what he saw and felt with the utmost ingenuousness, He meets all the troubles of the way with composure. Should any of our readers sigh to ascend

-the secret top

Of Oreb, or of Sinai

or should they be anxious to gaze entranced on

-Siloa's brook that flowed

Fast by the oracle of God ;

they will learn from these volumes, the price at which such a gratification is to be procured. Our advice is, read Major Skinner's "Adventures," and stay at home!

THE BURNED FLY.

POOR fly! the brightness lures thee,
Thy death is near;

Thou thinkest that the morn is come,
And thou would'st take thee to thy home;
Thou know'st no fear.

Thy fluttering wings can tell
How glad thou art;

Hadst thou a soul I should conclude

That thou art in a joyous mood,

And hope entwines thy heart.

If hope was there 'tis fled;
Thou feel'st the burning.

Dark thoughts pass through thy soul,
It is not thine to reach the goal,
From feasts of flowers returning.

Thy dying groans I hear,
Thy life has fled;

Thy wondrous fabric perished,
And all the hopes thou cherished,

Are numbered with the dead!

So have I seen a being
Would thee despise,
Ensnared by forms he knew
Were not to virtue true;-
He gazes-loves-and dies!

Higgins, Printer, Dunstable.

"Crowned with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf,
While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain
Comes jovial on; the Doric reed once more,
Well pleas'd, I tune."-

THOMSON.

Six months ago we presented our readers with some meditations on SPRING. That delightful season has passed; SUMMER also has rolled away, and AUTUMN, the time of the "sear and yellow leaf," is again rapidly conducting us to the frosts and storms of WINTER. And a pleasant conductor it is to that period of social fire-sides and evening parties; with the utmost politeness and gallantry, Autumn takes away one by one the fading beauties of the year, so that desolation and sterility steal upon us unawares.

Spring, the season of nature's resurrection, was hailed by us as harmonizing most tunefully with the lively and aspiring hopes of the human heart. Who would then be dull, unless confined by sickness from the young beauty of the scene, or deprived by corroding cares of the power of sympathizing with it? Spring is the gay world of childhood and youth; the eye then sparkles with the light of the lengthening day, and the emotions and mental faculties spring up with the elasticity of new leaves and flowers. The voice of this season is life-giving and cheerful, like the ceaseless melody of the birds, who pour forth their joy "from morn to dewy eve."

But Autumn gives birth to a very different class of associations, more in unison with those melancholy musings in which men are often compelled to indulge. It is true, the busy world cares little for the changes of seasons, except so far as they may affect the shipping interest, or raise and depress the public funds.

But there are multitudes notwithstanding, who open their spirits to the various influences which their Creator sheds around them; who are joyous in Spring, and sad and pensive in Autumn. All reflecting minds must admit at this season, a train of thought more allied to melancholy than to gladness; they need not be unhappy when they do this; far from it; a gentle pleasant thought

fulness steals over the soul, and disposes it to solemn and profitable musing. But there are many to whose hearts Autumn is really more congenial. Having experienced the blasting of expectations which were not irrational, and been robbed, one by one, of the objects around which they once twined their affections, the close of the year seems to put on mourning for them, and to weep for their sorrows. Spring mocked them with its laughing glee; and Summer was too boisterous in its mirth for their chastened spirits; but Autumn expresses for them a fellow-feeling, and helps them to brood over their calamities.

To such persons, the brown hue of what was once so brightly green, coincides with the tarnish which sorrow has thrown over their spirits. The cessation of the music of the groves, appears like a tribute of respect for their anxieties; and the rapid approach of a still colder and more desolate time, is indicative of that further barrenness, which adversity is to create in their hearts. These are gloomy lines for any one to read in the fair book of nature, but the eye of melancholy beholds them clearly inscribed there. It even becomes envious of the bleak scene, which is so quickly to regain its mantle of verdure, when perhaps the heart which then feels has ceased to be. This jealousy is beautifully described by Beattie :