ALLEGORY.

SHESHBAZZAR'S FIG TREE.

SHESHBAZZAR sat under "his vine and his fig tree," as in the days of old; solitary, but not disconsolate; infirm in body, but not enfeebled in mind. His friends called to congratulate him upon his safe arrival. The time of the evening sacrifice was just ended, and they found him sitting under his fig tree. It was, like himself, an aged tree; but, unlike him, it was barren! It had not only ceased to bring forth fruit in its season, but its leaves also were withering, and many of its branches were bare. The nightingale had forsaken it as an unsafe shelter for her young, and the turtle-dove felt too much exposed amidst its scanty foliage. The raven of Tadmor alone perched on its topmost bough, and the wind from the wilderness moaned amongst its branches: but still Sheshbazzar continued to sit under it. He had sat under its verdant canopy with the wife of his youth, and

with the children of his old age; and the tree seemed to him to have decayed as they died one by one, and to be dying with himself. It was, therefore, dear to him, although barren. All his tenderest associations and recollections hung upon it. But his friends disliked it, even to aversion, because it was an emblem to them of nothing but his bodily infirmity and domestic desolation. In his character, he was still as a tree planted by the rivers of water, and bearing fruit in his old age. His spirit was still stately as the cedars of Lebanon, flourishing as the palms of Olivet, and dewy as the mulberry trees of Baca. His friends saw and felt all this, and said to him, "Let us cut down the fig tree; why cumbereth it the ground? You cut down the fig trees on the hill of the vineyard, when they became barren; why spare this tree in the valley?" Sheshbazzar looked up to it, and saw that there was nothing in its visible aspect to plead for it. A shower of withered leaves fell from it, as the startled raven on the top flapped his heavy wings, and flew away towards

the wilderness. The old man was silent. He

"Cut it

seemed to his friends about to say, down." One of them sprang up, saying, " I will bring the axe;" another said, "Bring it quickly;" and all were prepared to cut down the barren fig tree.

Sheshbazzar became unusually agitated. The tender recollections of the days of the years of ancient times thronged in upon his heart. The spirits of his "DEAD" seemed to gather around the tree, and to encircle and enshrine it as with a wall of fire." Their looks appeared to say, "Spare it another year!" At that moment, the fatal axe gleamed upon his eye. He had not spoken, and his silence was regarded as consent. But when he saw the axe about to be laid to the root of the tree, he sprang forward, clasped the hoary trunk in his arms, and exclaimed, "You must cut me down with it-for we can only fall together!" His friends were amazed and melted. The man who had lifted up the axe, dropped it as Abraham did the sacrificial knife at the altar on Moriah. For a

time, none knew what to say-for the old man clung in silence to the fig tree. At length they ventured to repeat their former saying,—“ You did not spare the barren fig trees on the hill of the vineyard; why spare this one in the valley?" Sheshbazzar turned round and said, "Depart in peace, my children, for the night. I am too much agitated to explain or improve this event now. Come to me again after the time of the morning sacrifice."

They came agreeably to his appointment, and found that he had been up early in the morning digging about the tree, and enriching the soil around all its roots. He wiped the sweat from his furrowed brow, and welcomed his friends with his usual smile, and sat down under his vine with them, and took up his parable thus: "The period was, when the vast universe was an utter blank- -a vacant wilderness of space, unplanted and unsown. Then the ELOHIM (the Godhead) alone existed in its own unfathomed essence. Its bliss was its own being. But the Elohim had planned from eternity to render the

universe one vineyard, planted with "trees of righteousness" which should bear fruit to the glory of God. He spake, and it was done. Intelligent beings, of all orders, sprung up in space, like the trees of Paradise. Angels and archangels, cherubim and seraphim, covered the hills of immortality, as the cedars cover Lebanon. The sun of divine benevolence shone impartially on them all; the dew of heaven lay on their branches; and the fertile soil of motives was rich and deep about all their roots. No winters wasted their vital energy; no storms tarnished their beauty; no mildew fell upon their leaves or buds. The Elohim walked amongst this angelic hierarchy, in all the calmness of complacent majesty, seeking fruit; and, for a time, finding it in rich and ripe abundance. The harvests of glory were glorious for ages of ages! But, lo, on one occasion, God came into that quarter of the celestial vineyard where LUCIFER, an archangelic fig tree, grew; He came and sought fruit thereon, but found none.' He looked around, and saw, with indig