TWELFTH WEEK-SATURDAY. THE LANDSCAPE AT THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN. THE weather of each season not only differs from that of another, in its main features and characteristics, but in many minute circumstances, which are not so frequently the subject of remark. In spring and autumn, for example, though the length of the days, and the amount of sunshine are nearly equal, yet the state of the atmosphere, and the composition of the whole landscape, are, in most respects, entirely dissimilar. The fields, relieved of their various produce, at present wear a brown and withered aspect. Occasionally, an aftergrowth of tender grass sprinkles the decaying stubble with its verdure; but the farmer soon disperses his cattle over the field, and they immediately graze it bare. The hawthorn hedges have lost nearly all their foliage, though many of their ripe and ruddy haws still survive, to be mellowed by the earlier winter frosts. They now discover the bird-nests which, the summer long, they concealed from the schoolboy's curious eye. The woods are almost stripped of their robes, and the long, rank, but now withering grass beneath the trees, is matted with the multitude of putrefying leaves. The brooks, of all sizes, are now much less limpid and gentle in their flow, during the dry days of summer. They are sensibly swollen with rains; and, as the soil is now bare and miry, their hitherto stainless waters have become turbid and discolored. than The morning, at this period of the year, is in general moist and raw. The full-formed and pearly dew, so common in summer, is seldom seen; but the ground is wetted by the chilling and uncomfortable fog. As the day advances, however, the sky brightens, the sun shines forth, and the ground gets drier. Yet a soft, white haze broods over the scene, and covers, as with a thin veil, the brows of the loftier hills. There is a calmness in the air, and in the woods,-a melancholy and even mournful tranquillity, that is, perhaps, the distinguishing characteristic of the season. The wild winds of winter have not yet begun to blow; but the land seems to lie in silent expectation of their desolating blasts; and we feel as during the ominous pause, before the full outbreak of the tempest. The earth has matured and yielded up to man her yearly produce; and the energies of that "all-bearing mother," as if exhausted, seem to demand the repose. of winter. Vegetation almost ceases, and universal death (which, however, is but the predecessor of another life) is fast spreading over all the families of flowers, shrubs, and trees. The brilliant tints lately assumed by the woods, and which at first might appear to indicate a new and brighter foliage, are rapidly fading into a sombre hue, where the boughs are not yet bleak and leafless. Here and there only, some hardier or later tree still flares, amidst a mass of naked branches, in its brightest autumnal robes. There is a sad beauty in the scene, which cannot well be hid even from the common eye. Traces of summer loveliness are still every where to be seen; and the few flowers that yet bloom in the hedges, or by the walls, or on the sheltered woodland bank, have a singular sweetness, a forlorn and surviving beauty of their own. The transition from autumnal richness to the desolation of winter, is gradual, gentle, and even beautiful. The nature-loving eye can even be pleased with the last signs of vegetation still hanging upon the branches, or silently dropping to the ground. "The beauty of decay Charms the slow-fading year, And sweetly fall away The flowers and foliage sere ; In every half-dismantled tree." But little singing of birds disturbs the still life of a day in the close of autumn. What birds still remain with us are almost dumb, and seem to feel and mourn the approaching rigors of the season. A few feeble and plaintive notes, alone express their sadness. But for the rousing echoes of the sportsman's gun by day, and the cawing of the "blackening train" of crows, flying in the twilight to their roost in the distant woods, scarcely a sound would break the deathlike and all-pervading stillness. The farmer, with his crop now gathered in, and his winter wheat sown, enjoys his consciousness of security, and, like the sailor who foresees the impending storm, is prepared for the severity of the coming season. His well-filled and neatly trimmed barn-yard is a striking sign of rustic plenty, the object and precious reward of all his toils. Yet, though rejoicing over the riches of the year, he, not unmindful of another, is ploughing his stubble fields, that the soil may be exposed to the pulverizing effects of the winter's frost. Behind him, settling upon the newly-turned up furrow, flock the hungry crows, in quest of worms, and other food. If we look from the farm to the garden, here too we see nothing but symptoms of past fertility, and preparations for the coming ungenial frost and snow. The delving of the cleared soil, the planting of a few hardy greens for winter use, and the pruning of fruit-trees, form the chief occupations of the gardener, professional or domestic. The calm and settled weather invites him to his work, and gives ample scope to his habits of precaution. Thus gracefully and gently wanes the dying year. There is something in the gradual coming on, the calmness, and the beauty of the transition, which powerfully suggests to us the goodness and wisdom of the Author and Controller of the seasons. Were the air suddenly to assume a winter temperature, and the forests and fields all at once, in a single night, we shall say, to lose their beautiful foliage, how, even with the greatest precaution, would this rapid change invade our comforts, endanger our health, and derange our agricultural operations. under the present constitution of things, our frames are insensibly prepared for the winter's cold. There is a seasonable pause for the farmer and the gardener to set about their preparatory processes, and a gradual removal from our sight of the splendid decorations of autumn. The beauty of the woods lingers ere it finally departs, But, and each much-loved autumnal flower seems frequently to bid us farewell, in gradually sinking to the earth. In all this, every heart, not steeled to natural emotion, must feel a designed goodness, and gratefully acknowledge the unremitting care of a kind and bountiful Father. It were easy to point out, in this gentle decay of the year, many analogies to what we daily witness in human life; as, for example, that which obtains between the said decay, and the quiet ebbing of life in the aged and almost ripened Christian, whose gray hairs fall peacefully like the undisturbed leaves, and whose time-worn frame is imperceptibly, and by slow degrees, fitted for the undreaded winter of the grave. But I enter not upon this pleasing and solemn subject: the reader requires no instruction to make of it a profitable theme of meditation.* J. D. THIRTEENTH WEEK-SUNDAY. THE FALL OF THE LEAF. He LET us suppose a stranger to visit some beautiful valley in summer, when the cloudless sun looks down on a mass of verdant and seemingly unfading umbrage. wanders delighted through its pleasant woods, rustling with unnumbered leaves, loading the air with sweetly blending odors, and all echoing with the voice of song and the murmurs of streams. He especially fixes his eye upon the varied foliage that forms the canopy over his head, and admires its freshness and symmetry. He sees, in the millions of leaves "above, around, and underneath," the main element of that beauty and pleasing shade which render the whole scene delightful to his eye * [On this subject, see, among other beautiful compositions, a hymn entitled 'The Autumn Evening,' by Rev. Mr. Peabody, of Springfield, and the Death of the Flowers,' by Bryant, one of the sweetest little poems in the language.-AM. ED.] and heart. He departs, almost wishing them to be immortal. But suppose, again, that he returns at the latter end of autumn, and retraces his former steps. Where are now the leaves that beautified the silvan scene, and formed, as it were, its life and joy? They have disappeared from the trees, and are lying shrivelled and decayed at his feet, while the branches which they formerly adorned are lifeless and bare. How vividly is he impressed with the unceasing changes of Nature, and with the mortality diffused like an attribute through all her kingdoms. Now, let us compare with this stranger some heavenly visitant, sent down to view this earth, and its busy inhabitants. On his first arrival, he beholds the various generations of men swarming in the fertile valleys and plains, some contending with the toils of life, others enjoying its delights, but all mingling in one vast and bustling community. He wonders at their ceaseless activity, and their splendid works. In their glory and strength they seem destined to live for ever. A century rolls away,—a mighty age upon earth, but scarcely a moment before the throne of God,-and again the angel descends upon our globe. He looks for the race he formerly beheld, but he only beholds their tombs. Their energy, their glory, and their gladness are gone; they have fleeted away, and the places that knew them once know them no more. Every one must be struck with the moral of this comparison. Even the unobservant and thoughtless can see their destiny imaged forth by the fall of the forest leaves. Yet how few apply to their hearts and lives the lesson here so impressively taught, and muse, as the Christian observer ought, upon the evanescence of all sublunary things, their own inevitable decay, and their latter end. I would here address a solemn warning to all, and invite them to pause in devout meditation, while they behold the present state of the woods, and their fallen generations of leaves. The luxuriant verdure of summer, and the glowing tints of autumn, have vanished from the silvan scene. The night-frost has now dismantled the umbrageous forest, and strewn its withered garments upon the breeze. Our woodland walks, lately overarched with |