It is with a pensive, perchance a melancholy feeling, that we turn from the contemplation of the gay, the verdant springtide, to observe the decline of the year. And yet it should not be so: for we must be conscious that all which is connected with this our fleeting home partakes of its transitory nature. We are slow to learn this; the thought would deprive us of many of our imaginary pleasures, and therefore it is driven from the mind. But there are times when it will intrude itself upon our notice; and never more frequently, nor more effectually, than at this time, when the first inroads of the spoiler-death, appear among the works of God.

But there are persons, to whom this period of the year brings a very different feeling. More happily constituted, they overlook the symptoms of decay and ruin, and look with pleasure and satisfaction upon the appearance of perfection that clothes the face of nature. Nor is theirs an idle speculation; they lift up their souls in gratitude to the Almighty Being, who has now again fulfilled his word, so long ago spoken, and so little remem→ bered by man; has sent a rich "harvest" to follow a generous "seed time," and has filled all things living with plenteousness. Now, come we to the "signs of the times."

The love which inspired the songs of the feathered tribes has passed away with the spring; and with it has ceased the melody. Before the end of July, the incubation of the warblers is pretty

well over, and, according to White's "maxim" that so long as that goes on there is music, we find this fail at the same time. The yellow hammer and the swallow yet continue to sing cheerily; and, to supply the failing songs of the old birds, the young ones of the first brood "record," as it is technically termed, that is, try their throats in the first songs.

Chateaubriand remarks, "that the world is like a vast inn, always in motion; travellers are continually arriving, or departing; "—except for the space of two or three weeks around the solstices, this is the case here. The swift and the cuckoo, two of the most remarkable of our summer visitants, return to their winter countries about the end of this month. The latter of these, now that his song has ceased, is little noticed: but the swift is more missed; his screams of joyance, which, resounding through the hot days of summer, formed a most characteristic sound of the season, and the unequalled power of wing he displays, occasion his departure to be noticed and his absence to be felt. The early retreat of this bird is one of the anomalies of nature, that baffles all theories, and "mocks man's prying pride.” The cold does not compel them to retreat—it is usually the warmest part of the year: nor, as far as we can judge, does the want of food urge their flight, for insects are now most abundant. So that we must join the naturalist of Selborne, in the exclamation,

"The God of nature is their secret guide!"

Starlings and lapwings are already seen in flocks, and sparrows (most frequently young birds) go in small parties, foraging into the corn fields. But they make ample amends for the grain they steal, by destroying vast quantities of noxious insects, both in the garden and the fields. It will be found to be a general fact, that those birds usually stigmatized as "vermin" do most important service to man; which he, with his accustomed selfishness and injustice, overlooks, and thinks only of the small returns which they take of his crop.

It is at this time that partridges moult, and their young ones begin to be seen in the fields. On marshes young lapwings are seen, those also of the swift appear; the first brood of the other species of our hirundinidæ congregate on chimney tops, usually their natal ones, and chirp and sing in concert with the parent birds.

Insects, especially of the dipterous class, are more abundant and more numerous than at any time of the year. The most beautiful of our butterflies, the purple emperor, appears in this month; and many common moths, the drinker, the tiger, the vaporer and lackey moths, appear also. It is at this time that bees kill the drones, or expel them from the hive; and male and female ants emigrate from their subterraneous abodes; and that destructive-to-hazel insect the nut-weevil appears.

We described June as being rich in flowers. July produces at least an equal share, and with almost all its predecessor's it has a most splendid train. In fields and on roadsides we have the mulleins, blue-bell, succory, knapweed, yarrow, teasel, agrimony, tufted vetch, musk mallow, vervain, goat's beard, fleabane, rest harrow, and black horehound. On boggy heaths, there are the calathian violet and the sundews, some of the most beautiful of our British flowers; and in the river the white and yellow water lilies, and the poisonous water hemlock. On wall tops there are the houseleek and the house crops, (sedum;) the former however, very rarely flowers.

Those most singular tribes of vegetation, the mushrooms. (Agarici) begin to appear.

The harvest frequently commences in July, but it is always very near the close of the month.

One of the most characteristic features of July is the thunder storm. In the preceding sketches of the months, we have not noticed them meteorologically; but the storm is a phenomenon of such a nature that it must be mentioned. The deep and holy feeling, which the contemplation inspires, has sown the seeds of a love of nature in many a breast. Indeed, all minds feel its influence, though in very various ways. It is a cause of dread and horror to the conscience-stricken sinner, but of humble and devout adoration to the pious believer: it is a theme of speculation and experiment to the philosopher, and a cause of wonder and admiration to all.

The storm is always a subject of interest. Whether we watch the first gathering of the clouds, while the sunbeams struggle between the dark masses, and give a murky red light, and the first flash is seen in the horizon, and the muttered peal of the distant thunder is barely audible;-or, whether our observation is, when the furious blast drives the black curtain over

the face of the sky, converting the soft twilight into a palpable darkness; and the heavy rain falls in torrents, and the broad glare and the vivid flash are incessant, and crash succeeding crash, keeps up an unintermitted roar:-it is a grand, an awful exhibition of the power of Jehovah. Yet, this is but "the hiding of his power:" what then must be his open, full display of might.

The philosopher who first examined the nature of the flash, and the cause of the reverberated roar, had, doubtless, a soul restless to assert its exalted nature, but it fell miserably short in the bold attempt ;—" the thunder of his power, who can understand."

But to the Christian, the sight of the storm produces the most happy meditations. He sees in the lightnings and thunderings, a lively representation of the state of the sinner under "the law," at "the mount that burned with fire, where were blackness, and darkness, and tempest, with the sound of a trumpet, and the voice of words." But when, after the storm has rolled off, and above the dark clouds which enshroud the horizon, the moon and the stars shine forth from the deep blue firmament, and shed their sweet and gentle radiance over the scene, that just before was so disturbed, he feels in a more delightful manner the blessing of the gospel. The threats and curses of the law sound harmlessly in his ear, and he feels assured that indeed "there is now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus."

July 1st.

RURICOLA.

SKETCHES.

No. V-OLD AGE.

It is a distinguished example of the wise economy of God, that no other disposition of the earth we inhabit, with respect to the other planets, could have afforded so commodious a distribution of light and heat, or imparted fertility and beauty to so large a portion of a revolving sphere. With equal truth it may be remarked by the moralist that our globe seems peculiarly fitted to be the residence of a being, placed here only for a short time, whose home is a higher and happier world.

That this nobler destination may be ever present to his mind, all the appearances of nature seem uniformly to conspire. No terrestrial object is unmarked by the blighting hand of Time. Rome, the once peerless mistress of the world, whose fleets rode triumphant on the illimitable ocean, and whose sons gathered laurels on every shore, sits now, the "Niobe of nations," on her seven-hilled throne, in desolation and decay. The splendid columns which recorded the glories of the polished Athenian have been dashed to the dust, and his land thrown back to primitive barbarity. The character of a great continent has been changed, and a whole people swept for ever from its face. The Indian of lion-bearing and eagle-eye is no more; his race is withered from the land, his council-fire has gone out along the shore, his war-cry is fast dying to the untrodden west. But these are "tales of other times;" they stand recorded now as events in the great history of the world; there are numberless examples which come home to our own feelings and firesides, declaring the ravages of time.

Trace the course of human life. The little stranger is born into the world; as he wakes to beauty and intelligence, how eagerly do his fond parents drink delight from the first smile of recognition-the first accents of love. The powers of his mind become expanded, and as he advances in the path of life, in the bloom of health and luxury of spirits, he believes it to be enlightened by a perpetual sunshine, and strewed with unfading flowers. Yet further on and he is devoting his "soul's idolatry" to the gentle being who loves and lives for him. The fiery

effervescence of youthful feeling passes away, and, with all his faculties rife about him, he is acting his part in the great drama of existence. A few short years, and his prime is past-the snows of age settle on his head-the brightness of his eye dimmed-the fire of his spirit quenched.

is

The language of inspiration has characterized the strength which supports a man to the evening of existence as "labour and sorrow. It is not enough that the current of life flows but languidly through the frame,—that the hand is palsied, and the eye dim, and the once manly form bowed down to the earth; the warm and unreined gush of feeling, the sunshine of the spirit, the golden hopes, the fond anticipations, the dreams of beauty, the thousand sensations of delight peculiar to youth are