surfaces, so an inclination of the axis of any planet to the plane of its orbit, occasions the vicissitudes of the seasons. Jupiter, whose axis is nearly perpendicular to the plane of his orbit, has equal days and nights, continually, on every part of his surface; their length being each four hours and twenty-eight minutes. But Venus, the Earth, and Mars, having their axes inclined to the plane of their orbits, in angles considerably less than that of 90 degrees, are subject to an annual change of their seasons, and a great variety in the length of their days and nights. But a But a more scientific discussion on this subject would carry me into too wide a field, and could not be rendered intelligible to my readers without the assistance of some plates, and a variety of references to them. I shall refer, therefore, for a more copious illus tration of the subject, to the ingenious author to whom I am indebted for some of these observations 1. Each season of the year has its incipient, confirmed, and receding state; and each, like the prismatic colours, is undistinguishably blended, in its origin and termination, with that which pre cedes and that which follows it. A simple train, Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, THOMSON. Our favourite poet of the Seasons has not been inattentive to these circumstances in the conduct of his delightful poem. His Spring begins with a view of the season, while yet unconfirmed, and 1 1 Bonnycastle's Introduction to Astronomy. See also the annual volumes of Time's Telescope. partaking of the roughness of Winter; and it is not till after several steps in progression, that it breaks forth in all its ornaments, as the favourite of love and pleasure. His Autumn, after a rich prospect of its bounties and splendours, gently fades into the sere, the yellow leaf,' and, with the lengthened night, the clouded sun, and the rising storm, sinks into the arms of Winter. To produce something of a similar effect in his Summer, a season which, on account of its uniformity of character, admits not of any strongly-marked gradations, he has comprised the whole of his description within the limits of a single day, pursuing the course of the sun from its rising to its setting. A summer's day is, in reality, a just model of the entire season. Its beginning is moist and temperate; its middle, sultry and parching; its close, soft and refreshing. By thus exhibiting all the vicissitudes of Summer under one point of view, they are rendered much more striking than they could have been in a series of feebly contrasted and scarcely distinguishable periods. Spring is characterized as the season of the renovation of nature; in which animals and vegetables, excited by the kindly influence of returning warmth, shake off the torpid inaction of Winter, and prepare for the continuance and increase of their several species. The vegetable tribes, as more independent and self-provided, lead the way in this progress. The reviviscent plants emerge, as soon as the genial showers have softened the ground, in numbers beyond the power of the botanist to reckon up their tribes.' The opening blossoms and flowers soon call forth, from their winter retreats, those industrious insects, which derive sustenance from their nectareous juices. As the beams of the sun become more potent, the larger vegetables, shrubs, and trees, unfold their leaves; and soon as a friendly concealment is thus provided for the various nations of the feathered race, they joyfully begin the course of laborious but pleasing occupations, which are to engage them during the whole season. The delightful series of pictures, so truly expressive of that genial spirit that pervades the Spring, which Thomson has formed on the variety of circumstances attending the passion of the groves, cannot escape the notice and admiration of the most inattentive eye. Affected by the same soft influence, and equally indebted to the renewed vegetable tribes for food and shelter, he represents the several kinds of quadrupeds as concurring in the celebration of this charming season with conjugal and parental rites. Even man himself, though, from his social condition, less under the dominion of physical necessities, he properly describes as partaking of the general ardour. A soft and pleasing languor, interrupted only by the gradual progression of the vegetable and animal tribes toward their state of maturity, forms the leading character of Summer. The active fermentation of the juices, which the first access of genial warmth had excited, now subsides; and the increasing heats rather inspire faintness and inaction than lively exertions. The insect race alone seem animated with peculiar vigour, under the more direct influence of the sun. In Autumn, the promise of the Spring is fulfilled. The silent and gradual progress of maturation is completed; and human industry beholds with triumph the rich productions of its toil. The vegetable tribes disclose their infinitely various form of fruit; which term, while, with respect to common use, it is confined to a few peculiar modes of fructification, in the more comprehensive language of the naturalist, includes every product of vegetation by which the rudiments of a future progeny are devoloped, and separated from the parent plant. These are in part collected and stored up by those animals for whose sustenance, during the ensuing sleep of Nature, they are provided. The rest, furnished with various contrivances for dissemination, are scattered by the friendly winds which now begin to blow over the surface of the earth which they are to clothe and decorate. The groves now lose their leafy honours; but, before they are entirely tarnished, an adventitious beauty, arising from that gradual decay which loosens the withering leaf, gilds the Autumnal landscape with a temporary splendour, superior to the verdure of Spring, or the luxuriance of Summer. The infinitely various and everchanging hues of the leaves at this season, melting into every soft gradation of tint and shades, have long engaged the imitation of the painter, and the contemplation of the poet and the philosopher'. These unvarying symptons of approaching Winter now warn several of the winged tribes to prepare for the aerial voyage to those happy climates of perpetual Summer, where no deficiency of food or shelter can ever distress them; and, about the same time, other fowls of hardier constitution, which are contented with escaping the iron winters of the arctic regions, arrive to supply the vacancy. Thus, the striking scenes afforded by that wonderful part of the economy of Nature, the migration of birds, present themselves at this season. The thickening fogs, the heavy rains, the swoln rivers, while they deform this sinking period of the year, 'See No. LXI. on the Decay and Fall of the Leaf. 2 See No. LXV. and LXVII. on the Migration of Birds. add new subjects to the pleasing variety which reigns throughout its whole course. From the fall of the leaf, and withering of the herb, an unvarying death-like torpor oppresses almost the whole vegetable creation, and a considerable part of the animal, during this entire portion of the year. The whole race of insects, which filled every part of the summer landscape with life and motion, are now either buried in profound sleep, or actually no longer exist, except in the unformed rudiments of a future progeny. Many of the birds and quadrupeds are retired to concealments, from which not even the calls of hunger can force them; and the rest, intent only on the preservation of a joyless life, have ceased to exert those powers of pleasing, which, at other seasons, so much contribute to their mutual happiness, as well as to the amusement of their human sovereign. Their social connections, however, are improved: by their wants. In order the better to procure their scanty subsistence, and resist the inclemencies of the sky, they are taught by instinct to assemble in flocks; and this provision has the secondary effect of gratifying the spectator with something of novelty and action, even in the dreariness of a wintry prospect. But it is in the extraordinary changes and agitations which the elements undergo during this season, that the Contemplative Philosopher must principally look for relief from the gloomy uniformity which reigns through other parts of the crea-› tion. Scenes are presented to the view, which, were they less frequent, must strike with wonder and admiration the most incurious spectator. The effects of cold are more sudden, and, in many instances, more extraordinary and unexpected, than those of heat. He who has beheld the vegetable productions of even a northern summer, will not |