in the heavens; but although, from this period, he begins to recede, the heat ceases not to accumulate till the middle or end of July, after which the effects of the decreasing intensity of his rays, and of the lengthening nights, become slightly perceptible. At the commencement of autumn, therefore, the earth and the atmosphere still remain heated, and, although the periodical rains about this time create a copious evaporation, which serves to diminish its fervour, it is still sufficiently powerful to prevent those extremes, which mark the whole of the spring quarter, and sometimes even the commencement of summer. The peculiar feature of autumnal weather, therefore, is that of tranquillity, though it must not be supposed that this is stated without allowing for numerous exceptions,

When we turn from the atmosphere to the surface of the earth, we find a still greater peculiarity. The vegetable tribes, speaking generally, have advanced through the various stages of production and maturity, and, at the commencement of the season, are approaching the verge of old age. The bountiful earth, however, is still full of beauty, and vegetation appears yet to be in its vigour. The hay has been cut, and gathered into the barnyard, and the young clover has again covered the mown fields with the liveliest green, or adorned them with its various tinted flowers of red, white, and yellow. The crops of corn are beginning to beam with gold, about to invite the joyous labours of the reaper bands. The pastures still teem with a profusion of succulent herbage, on which the flocks and herds luxuriate, without anticipating the coming rigours of winter,-happy at once - in the protection of man, and in their own ignorance of the future.

The woods, which have long exchanged the soft green of spring for the more sober shades that indicate maturity, still retain all their leafy pride, and hide in their shady bosom myriads of the feathered tribes, which have not yet left our shores, to seek for that subsistence

in warmer climes, about to be denied them in the land of their birth. They have, however, in general, ceased to sing; and the little redbreast, and the mellow-toned wood-lark, thrush, and blackbird, which, after a period of silence, resume their notes early in this season, continue almost alone to render our groves vocal with their sweet music, while the lark still ascends to meet the coming morning in the upper air, and sing its cheerful matins to hail the new-born light.

Another peculiarity of autumn is a diminution both in the varieties and the profusion of our flowers. The blossoms of June have long run to seed, under the excessive heat of July, and have been succeeded by other flowers, chiefly of aromatic, thick-leaved, and succulent plants, and of those called compound flowered; but now, even these are in general casting their petals, and taking the form of seed. The meadow-saffron and Canterbury-bells, however, still ornament our lawns, and the beautiful purple blossoms of the heath shed a rich glow over our uncultivated commons and craggy hills, clothed with sheep.

This is peculiarly the season of ripeness. It is true, that, during the whole summer, herbs and fruits of various kinds have in succession been coming to maturity, and have thus diffused labour and enjoyment over a wider space. Not only is hay-harvest past, but several productions of the garden have already been gathered; among which, the strawberry and the gooseberry have yielded their grateful and wholesome fruits, to add to the pleasures of the summer months. But the vegetable productions capable of being stored for use, have been chiefly reserved for the autumnal season. It was not requisite, and would, in various respects, have been attended with disadvantage, both to man and the lower animals, for Nature to give forth her superabundant productions before that period when it should be necessary to lay them up for future supply. According to that admirable forethought, which the inquiring mind never

ceases to perceive in the arrangements of the Creator, we find the ripening of corn and of various fruits immediately preceding the sterility of winter, not only that seeds fit for the sustenance of the wild tribes of granivorous animals might thus be more profusely scattered over the surface of the earth, but also that man might hoard in his storehouses whatever is necessary during the unproductive season, for his own subsistence and that of the animals he domesticates for his use.

It was formerly observed, that labour is most beneficently diffused over the year, so as not to cause too great a pressure of agricultural employment in any one season; and this remark, which is true when applied to the whole year, is equally true when stated respecting the season of harvest. Harvest, indeed, is the busiest period for the farmer, but he is seldom overwhelmed with his labours, which follow in succession; and many hands, which, at other times, are engaged in different kinds of employment, are now found unoccupied, and ready to aid in the useful task. The season of reaping oats succeeds that of reaping barley; and this again is followed by the wheat harvest, while the time for gathering peas and beans, potatoes and turnips, is still later, so as not to interfere with the former important operations. Thus it happens that, while the farmer is enabled to store his produce in safety, the peasant obtains a desirable share of the toil and emolument arising from the operations of the season.

As the season advances, its character changes. At first it is full of enjoyment; an exhilarating softness is in the air; serenity and beauty is in the bright blue sky; the fields, chequered with gold and lively green, speak of plenty and enjoyment; every living thing is glad. The flocks browsing on the hills, the cattle ruminating in the shaded woodlands; the birds silently flitting from bough to bough, or sporting in flocks through the perfectly transparent air, while they prepare their young for the long migrations which instinct teaches them now

to meditate; and not less the bands of reapers plying their task in the harvest field, and the spectators, who, emancipated from the din and smoke, and artificial employments of the city, come to breathe health and refreshment in the country;-all partake of the general joy of Nature in its most joyous season.

Toward the close of autumn, however, a deeper sentiment occupies the mind. The warmth and brightness have gradually diminished; night has stolen slowly, but sensibly, on the day; the bustle and cheerfulness which pervaded the fields have ceased; the yellow grain, which betokened plenty, has been reaped and housed; and the ground, which lately shone in gold, lies withered and bare; the pastures have assumed a darker hue; the woods, although their varied and harmonizing tints are inexpressibly beautiful, speak of decay; and the sober stillness of an autumnal sky sheds a gentle sadness over the scene. It is impossible for a mind of sensibility to resist the spirit of melancholy which rests on the land and on the waters, which broods over the forests, which sighs in the air, which sits in silence on the motionless curtain of the grey clouds. Yet it is a melancholy not unmixed with enjoyment, and nearly allied to deep moral and religious feeling. The decay of Nature reminds us of our own. We too must pass into "the sere and yellow leaf,” and fall away. The beauty of the woods, even in their fading, the sober grandeur of the earth and sky, the mild serenity which breathes around, on the mountain, the valley, and the placid lake,—all speak of the solemn but cheerful hour, in which the dying Christian falls asleep in the arms of his Saviour,-all seem to shadow forth the new heavens and new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness,-all fill the soul with sublime musing on Him, the touch of whose finger changes every thing-himself unchanged!

FIRST WEEK TUESDAY.

AUTUMN IN THE CITY.

How often have British hearts swelled with pride on the view of those tokens of commercial wealth and industry, which, in union with her liberty, form the distinguishing characteristics of our country. Harbours crowded with vessels that import the produce of distant lands, or distribute on remote shores what we have manufactured; rivers, canals, and railways, groaning under the merchandize of many a city; highways thundering under the hurrying wheels of vehicles of all descriptions; and people of all ranks thronging along, each in eager pursuit of some object, and each bearing on his countenance the expression of business and lively interest: such is the view which meets us on approaching any of our maritime towns, and it is complicated an hundred-fold when we draw near to the metropolis. If we enter the huge aggregate of buildings, and consider the palaces, the public offices, the cathedrals, the churches, the monuments, the magazines, these, too, lead the heart to exultation, and we say what a wonderful creature is man! How indefatigable, how ingenious, how aspiring, how powerful. Walk we the thronged pavements, where our way is threaded through countless masses of human beings, under the influence of all varieties of passion, sordid or generous, vengeful or merciful, how little do we meet with to offend the eye or even the taste of the fastidious. How orderly, how cleanly, how sober. For even in this great wilderness of earthly appetites and passions, order is the rule, the infringement of it the exception. That which shocks and disgusts is met with but rarely, while that which pleases or aids our purposes is frequent and at hand. Or, if we venture to tread the