all besides is still.-The gray and quiet scene invites reflection. Wishing the reader to participate in our meditations, we were in the very act of committing to paper some sage considerations on the departure of another summer-but a very small and elegant moth, attracted by the candles, has this moment descended on the sheet, within an inch of our pen, and with the light stroke of his wing has broken our thread of thought-will the reader excuse it if it break his also? The delicacy and perfection of its form, the exquisite lace-work of its airy wing, its swift and noiseless movements, a body nearly as ethereal and unincumbered as if it were a soul, its independence, its innocence, awaken admirationand (contrasted with the inertness and languor with which our cumbrous frames are often oppressed) might excite envy too. Who can guess what are its imaginings concerning the extensive plain on which it has just arrived? Is it a field of dazzling light, an enchanted region of pleasure and brightness? He flutters his wings as though his dreams of joy were at length realized. From the dun shades of the evening without, he has suddenly launched into a new world of magic splendor, illumined with radiant suns. How little does he think (of this at least we may be sure) that this shining plain is no other than a sheet of foolscap! that those glorious suns are inglorious can dles!-such are the illusions of moths! It would be very desirable, some young reader may think, if it were possible, to undeceive him; and supposing him capable of understanding it, to rectify all his mistakes, by addressing him in some such language as this:-"You are only a moth; and you have no idea what insignificant things moths are! you know nothing at all: you can't imagine what an astonishing number of things there are that you have not even heard of. We think nothing of you; we are really of importance; but you are of no importance, you are only an insect. You sometimes do us mischief by eating holes in our clothes, and very tiresome it is that such little creatures as you should be able to do us mischief: having this opportunity, I must desire you not to do so any more, for what you eat is not at all nice; it is cloth, not food; why should you eat cloth? I wish you would mention this to all your relations: and as to the place that you now are upon, it is nothing in the world but a sheet of paper that a person is writing on: but you don't know what writing means, I dare say; indeed it is no use talking to you, you are so extremely ignorant, moth."-With a few variations, how suitable would be such an address to some things that are not moths! And to beings a little higher than ourselves in the scale of reason, how similar to those of the moth must appear the illusions of men? How many of the objects of our ardent pursuit are as destitute of intrinsic excellence, as empty of happiness as we know the glare of the light to be in which an insect so joyously flutters its wings! It does not, indeed, require the intellect of an angel to know thisexperience teaches it, at last, even to dull scholars. Children can laugh at the folly of an insect: youths soon learn to ridicule the toys and sports of children; men smile at the vanities of youth; wise men at the pleasures of weak men—and not seldom at their own; while angels look down with surprise and pity on all-smiling most at the mistakes of the man, and least at those of the moth! Fortunately enough for our moral, the little hero of the piece has this moment expired in the flame of the candle, and that in spite of the most praiseworthy exertions on our part to deter him from the rash adventure. In vain we whisked our quill in every dissuasive attitude; (an employment, by the way, to which we are but too much accustomed) he was resolved-and could he have given utterance to his feelings, no doubt he would have expressed his certain persuasion that it must be a desirable and a delightful thing to sport in that elegant flame. Who can witness this common catastrophe without observing the analogy, and reading the oft-told moral ? Even if it had not scorched a single feather, if he could have lived there, still, we could assure him, he could not find happiness in a candle. He would have been a thousand times more comfortable, as well as more safe, hid in the dark folds of the curtain, or fixed within the protection of some broad shadow on the wall, or in any of the natural and customary haunts of his species. So is it with all unsanctioned pleasures; even if they were not dangerous they would be disappointing-but we know they . are both the one and the other. How quickly was that most complete and delicate machine destroyed! an engine which not the united sagacity and ingenuity of man could restore! No wonder that so fine and fragile a creature should be liable to swift destruction:but let not the strong glory in their strength, for behold " we are crushed before the moth." THE MOTH'S SONG. Ah! what shall I do, To express unto you What I think, what I feel, what I know and pursue! With my elegant face, How lightly the motes of the evening I chase! Though I am but a moth And feed upon cloth, To me it is pleasant and nourishing both. And this region of light, So broad and so bright, It makes my heart dance with a strange delight! If dismal to you, "T is the best of the two, For O! it is pleasant, this wide-shining view! There are lights afar, More bright than a star, You say they are candles—I 'll see if they are, 1 go, and I fly, And so good-by! Ah me! what is it?-I die! I die! XXXIII. THE WONDERFUL BIRD. SIGNOR PASQUALINI, just arrived from the continent, announced to the inhabitants of a certain village his intention of amusing them, for one evening only, with a variety of entertaining exhibitions and performances, of unrivalled excellence and ingenuity; amongst these, the manœuvres of "THE LEARNED BIRD," and accomplished German bull-finch, were particularly specified, and largely described in his advertisement. What this bird could do, seemed not so much to be the question, as what it could not do: so rare were its professed |