SACRED PHILOSOPHY OF
THE SEASONS
AUTUMN.
FIRST WEEK - MONDAY.
GENERAL CHARACTER OF AUTUMN.
ON considering the autumnal quarter in Britain, as
indicated by the calendar, we shall find it more various in its character than
any of the other seasons of the year. It seems, indeed, if we only regard its
temperature, to form a kind of softened epitome of all the rest, in an inverted
order. First, we have, in August, the warmth, and gentleness, and brilliancy of
summer; in September, the “etherial mildness,” the elasticity, the
variety of spring; in October, many of the features of a mitigated winter, -
its gloom, its hoar-frosts. its chilling breath, its howling storms, -
alternating, however, with days, and even weeks, of the calm repose peculiarly
characteristic of the season. For, let it be observed, that although, in a
general view, the analogy we have noticed holds good, yet autumn has a
remarkable character of its own, which distinguishes it from all the other
seasons. It has succeeded a period of intense heat, from which it has only
begun to emerge.
Soon after the middle of June, the sun arrives at its
highest altitude 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, making aliowance for numerous exceptions, is that of tranquillity.
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 barn-yard, 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 wintcr, - happy at once in the protection of man, and in their 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 theft 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 uppet air, and sing its cheerful matins to hail the newborn light.
Another peculiarity of autumn is a diminution both in the varieties and the
profusion of its 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-saffiron 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, covered 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.
Several productions of the garden have already been gathered; among which, the
strawberry and the gooseberry have yielded their grateful 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 that corn and various kinds of fruit come to maturity at the period
which immediately precedes the sterility of winter, not only for the purpose of
causing seeds fit for the sustenance of the wild tribes of granivorous animals
to be more profusely scattered over the surface of the earth, but also to
enable man to 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 of
the whole year, is equally true of autumn. Harvest, indeed, is the
farmer’s busiest season; but he is seldom overwhelmed with his labours,
which follow in succession; and many hands, at other times 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, and seldom interferes 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 grazing on the hills; the
cattle ruminating in the shaded woodlands; the birds silently flitting from
bough to bough, or sporting in flocks through the beautifully transparent air,
while they prepare their young for the long migrations which instinct teaches
them now to ~editate; 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.
Towards the close of autumn, however, a deeper sentiment occupies
the mind. The warmth and brightness have gradually diminished; night has stolen
slowly, but funsibly, 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 stffluess 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 now 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
gray 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.
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