The Book of Nature

An expatiation of the seasons of the year, or a few chosen leaves from the Book of Nature

Introduction

Some of the most profound, and certainly the most beautiful descriptions of Nature ever penned, were written by clergymen at a time when the Christian Church still numbered men of great intellect, refined sensibilities and genuine spiritual faith among its members. Such a man was the Rev. Henry Duncan, a Scottish minister, author, natural philosopher and philanthropist. Unlike most of his present-day contemporaries Duncan was that rare species, a genuine polymath possessed of many diverse talents. These included (but were not limited to) science, drawing and painting, sculpture, literature, music, history, folklore, architecture, geology and archaeology, and last, but by no means least, landscape-gardening.

It is the latter gift, inspired by Duncan's deep and abiding love of Nature and intuitive understanding of her moods and mysteries which forms the subject of this new article, itself inspired by his Sacred Philosophy of the Seasons; illustrating the perfections of God in the phenomena of the year. The book was published in four volumes between 1839 to 1859 in several editions. Each volume covers one of the four seasons of the year, beginning with Winter (vol.1), following on with Spring (Vol.2), Summer (Vol.3), and concluding with Autumn (Vol.4). Interestingly, Duncan published special editions for the United States which carry the message "with important additions and some modifications to adapt it to American Readers." Ironically, the fourth American volume is still subtitled Autumn and not Fall! We have drawn our material for this article from all four volumes, trying, insofar as this is possible, to retain the richness and majesty of Duncan's prose. In our customary Afterword we review the life and work of this remarkable polymath and natural scientist.

It is during Spring, more than any other season of the year, that we obtain a glimpse of the perfections of Nature to be found in the higher realms of light. There are few better descriptions of those perfections than those depicted in The Golden Star, in which we may read:

"Eternal Spring reigned everywhere; winsome, gentle, and irrepressible in its divine power and miraculous splendour; as if a soothing flow of nectar did slowly drip from rose-leaves upon eyelids worn with care. Vernal Spring; that makes the pulses leap with sense of healing and rebirth and fills with hope and gladness. Spring, that flings its garments wide, and laughingly spreads out upon the firmament above its rosy filmy clouds in misty sprays of lustrous brilliance; calls forth the opening buds and rising flowers with welcoming salute of joy."

We feel sure these words would have found a most appreciative listener in Henry Duncan, had he lived when they were written, for they echo the profound love of Nature which shines forth from every page of his remarkable book. We begin our expatiation with Spring. This season of the year has been celebrated in glowing terms by the poets of all ages, as far back as those of Greece and Rome; the birthplaces and nurseries of European poetry. In his Fasti (the 'Calendar'), The Roman poet Ovid writes:

"And no time of the year was better fit for Venus than spring.
In spring the lands shine, the fields are tender in spring,
The grains raises its heads through the broken earth
And the shoot drives its buds in swollen bark."

But in the fickle climate of our damp and chilly islands; prey to every contrary wind that sweeps across its hills and dells, Spring is by no means so mild and delightful as it was painted by the Roman poet. It is not unheard of for snow to fall in May or even June. On 2 June 1975, an inch of snow covered the cricket pitch at Buxton in Derbyshire. Snowflakes even briefly fell on Lord's cricket ground in London! Yet the writer remembers many a glorious May day when the temperature of the air, the pure blue of the sky, the soft green of opening leaves, the thousand delicate tints of the flowers scattered so profusely over hill and valley, deluged the senses with rapture. But this is unusual. In most years the real English Spring can scarcely be said to be fairly established until the beginning of June.

But, notwithstanding the challenges of our changeable climate, there are not wanting, even at the very commencement of Spring, encouraging proofs of the coming of a more genial season. The day has already encroached on the long and dreary Winter night, as the Sun makes daily a wider circuit in the heavens. The buds of many trees and flowers have begun to swell; the catkins of the hazel and willow display their tiny but elegant forms to the happy gaze of the wanderer. The anemonies are in flower in our gardens; and the crocus, the first shining jewel of Spring, arrays itself in robes of purple and gold, or radiant yellow, along with the hepatica and the white butterbur. But most interesting of all is the appearance of the delicate snowdrop, which had for weeks burst through the rigid soil, and now opens its chaste and delicate blossoms to the chilly breeze, seeming to vie in whiteness with the winding-sheet of Winter, from which it derives its name. Though Winter may yet linger in its icy veins, the nodding snowdrop, responding to Flora's warming breath, by some transforming power has changed an icicle into a flower; the unassuming herald of Spring.

Among the feathered tribes of the air, the rooks are stirring, and their raucous cries announce their forthcoming duties of parenthood. Likewise, the croaking raven, led by a congenial instinct, selects some venerable tree where she may build her nest. Sweeter songs assail the ear from the throats of the woodlark and chaffinch, mixed with the mellow tones of the blackbird and thrush. From the neighbouring groves, the wren, the robin, and the hedge-sparrow, flutter from spray to spray, and utter their varied notes of gladness. The Sun now sheds his warmer rays on wood and field, giving the promise of approaching mildness and fertility.

These signs may be observed in England as early as February. As Spring advances, more unequivocal indications of awakening Nature daily appear. The Sun continues longer above the horizon, and the weather, though still unsettled, is sufficiently dry to evaporate the superabundant moisture, poured on the earth at the beginning of the season in the form of rain or snow. When we observe the earth gradually exchanging its Winter robes for a mantle of the liveliest green, the flowers springing up in fresh luxuriance at our feet, and every shrub and tree putting forth its buds, which are soon to be beautifully expanded into blossoms and leaves, our first feelings are those of wonder and delight at the marvellous change produced in the general aspect of Nature. If we are at all inquisitive (and who is not?) we then naturally seek to know the causes of such a universal transition. By what mysterious agency, we ask, does the vegetable world suddenly arise from apparent death into all the beauty and exuberance of another Spring? The increased temperature of the earth and atmosphere assist the natural tendency of the plants to embrace the warmth and seek its source — the life-giving Sun. The progress of the Earth in its orbit causes that luminary to ascend higher in the heavens, and to be longer above the horizon, and thus produces longer and warmer days. As we learned from the researches of James Churchward in our investigation of the Occult Sun, the more perpendicularly the Sun's rays fall upon the surface of the earth, the greater is the heat they excite. This is proven by the fact that where the Sun's forces cut the earth's lines of magnetic force at right angles (such as at the poles), we have our frigid zones; where the earth's lines are cut obtusely, we have our temperate zones; and where the earth's lines are cut throughout their whole length, we experience the greatest heat — our equatorial region.

René Charles Edmond His — Pathway by a river — oil on canvas, 1920

Spring! Even the word itself speaks to us of renewal; the sap of life leaping in all creation. Increasing heat produces a universal development of foliage and flowers. The earth opens, as it were, her bosom to the Sun; all her veins feel the genial influence, and a vital energy moves and works in all her blossoms, buds, and leaves. What was lately barrenness becomes fertility; from desolation and death start up life and varied beauty, as if beneath the reviving footsteps of a present Deity. From these causes result all the beautiful and amazing phenomena of Spring. Material science believes this process is merely mechanical, and to a certain extent, it is right to think so. But in excluding the Vital Spark — the living principle which animates all creatures, from the tiny bacterium to the largest mammal — it fails to see the full picture. Hence it also fails to understand the true causes of health and disease, or the mysterious origin of Life itself, which is God in the ultimate. Science remains ignorant of how much depends on the Vital Spark of Life; how it regulates the birth, growth, decay and death of all things. For the amount of life in any creature is not constant; it fluctuates according to cycles and rhythms unknown to the cold eye of science. In Spring it increases in intensity gradually. Its excessive accumulation is frequently checked by atmospheric changes. Herein we see the designing hand of the Creator at work. Were Summer temperatures immediately to succeed the bitter cold of Winter, many of our plants would be greatly injured, if not utterly perish. Their delicate vessels and cells would burst by a too sudden expansion, and the bud, prematurely thrust forth into the light and heat of day, would wither and fall off, or remain an abortive excrescence on its parent stem. We may profitably observe the same processes at work in us. We all have our Spring, our Summer, our Autumn and our Winter. Tis a pity, as many a wit has observed, that it is only in our Winter that we are become wise enough to rue the mess we made of Spring!

How can we withhold our admiration from the matchless skill of the Creator, when we consider all the infinite variety of the phenomena of this season, and all the benefits arising from them. Among other joyful renewals brought to us by the sweet return of Spring, are the delights that intervene between the appearance of the earliest sprout and the full glories of Summer vegetation. What surprising, and beneficent, and varied effects! The cause, how grand and simple! But need we wonder at this, seeing it is but in accordance with the Universal Laws of Nature? We cannot open our eyes, and cast an observant glance upon the flora of the natural world, without being struck with the beautiful and varied phenomena of colour. The fields, the woods, the mountains, the sky, and the ocean, are tinged with a thousand different hues. Whence proceed all those splendid tints that give such variety and beauty to the drapery of Nature? Are they ideal creations of the mind? Do they exist merely in the eye or are they truly qualities of matter? Occult Science answers that, instead of being any of these things exclusively, they result rather from a series of beautiful and appropriate adaptations. Firstly, every beam of light, as Sir Isaac Newton discovered, consists of seven distinct kinds of rays, all fitted to produce different colours. Secondly, the surfaces of all bodies are so constituted as to reflect one or other, all or none, of these classes of rays, or sometimes a mixture of them. Once again the eye is so exquisitely formed, as to be differently affected by the various kinds of reflected rays, and thus to be the faithful organ of the mind in discriminating between them, and thereby giving rise to all the delights of vision.

Colours are spread over all Nature with exquisite beauty and adaptation. The earth is clothed with a mantle of delightful green, interspersed with the more brilliant hues of shrubs, trees, and flowers. In point of refrangibility, green holds the middle place between the two extremes of violet and red. Neither too dark nor too bright, on it the eye, when wearied with livelier or more sombre colours, delights to repose. Were the earth's surface of a black colour, it would be distressing even to look upon. Or, were white the prevailing hue, our eyes would be dazzled with excessive brightness, and would turn away from all objects with pain and weariness. The colour of the sky on a fine Spring day is a deep, cerulean blue, fading into cobalt and ultimately ultramarine the higher we look, contrasting pleasingly with the soft and variegated greens of the earth. Nor is variety of hue wanting in the atmosphere. Clouds of almost all colours and varieties of tint, frequently move before the delighted eye, like the splendid scenes of a vast theatre. The sparkling lustre of universal sunshine, the lurid glare of the thunder cloud, the crimson streaks of morning, and the rich and ever-varying glories of sunset, successively solicit our admiration and delight.

There is a pleasure peculiar to Spring in the contemplation of Nature rising, as it were, from the tomb, and bursting into life, light, and joy. But that which belongs to Summer is no less intense, although of a different kind. The principal delight of this season arises from beholding the full development of the powers and processes which began in Spring. The plants, which had just pierced the earth at the commencement of that season, have now shot forth their stalks, and expanded their blades, and opened their beautiful flowers to the Sun. The trees rejoice in their leafy pride; the fields luxuriate in the abundance of their vegetable stores; and animated Nature is instinct with life and enjoyment. The whole scene is full of delight; but it is only when it is associated with feelings of awe and reverence, and when it raises the joyous mind in gratitude to the Father and Mother of All, who brought all this loveliness forth, and whose unseen presence and mysterious energies cheer and bless the world They have made, that we can fully appreciate all this beauty.

There is an analogy between the world of Nature and the world of Faith. In both there is a Spring and a Summer; an infancy and a manhood. The first breathings of Divine love on the heart are often faint and fitful. They come like the first breeze of Spring, imbued with warmth, and the promise of future fruit, but pass over a dead and barren region, to which they seem unallied and uncongenial. They are generally succeeded by wintry gloom and tempest, which, from contrast and disappointed hope, they render only the more dismal and dispiriting. But still gentler breezes arise, and longer light and a warmer Sun shed their genial influences, till the mind is renewed, and the germs of the Deity, hitherto dormant, spring into life, revealing the creative power of that Mighty Spirit which moved on the face of the Deep, and gave order and beauty to the formless void of the material world. The work proceeds amidst alternate sunshine and showers; the warmth and illumination increase; the virtues and graces grow and expand. What was wavering becomes steady; what was feeble becomes strong; what was barren fertile; the dark brightens; ugliness is transformed into beauty. Where there was deadness, there is animation; where there was taint and corruption, there is health and soundness. Spring is past, and Summer reigns supreme. The Sun of Righteousness shines in all his glory, and the mind is rejuvenated, buoyant with spiritual life, and teems with good fruit. In this and similar ways does the awakened mind perceive the mystic analogies between the inner and outer life; between Man and Nature, for we must never lose sight of the fact that Man is the child of Nature in more ways than one.

If Spring may be said to be the season of reproduction and Summer the season of growth, then Autumn is the season of preparation for the long sleep of Winter. It is not merely the increase of heat, but the increase of light, which characterises Summer weather. The latter property is almost as necessary to organized life as the former, and its abundance at this season, produces an important effect both on the vegetable and animal world. In the increased light as well as in the increased heat of Summer, we find a beautiful adaptation to the peculiar properties of vegetable production. In its progress towards maturity, the vegetable world stands peculiarly in need of powerful excitement and healthy nourishment. This, Nature has provided for it, not merely in the additional warmth, but in the additional brilliancy, and lengthened influence of the solar rays. In a gloomy season, such as oftimes blights our English Summers, when the light of the Sun is much obscured by clouds, vegetable nature puts on a sombre hue, corresponding with the occluded aspect of the atmosphere. All nature seems to droop. The flowers become pale, and hang their heads. Their fragrance and their beauty fade away and decay. Fruits ripen slowly and imperfectly, lacking vigour and flavour. Herbs, plants, and trees, seem all equally to mourn the absent Sun. But so soon as the clouds disperse, and the Sun once more shines forth in his strength, all nature regains its loveliness. The colours of the flowers brighten, and their perfume fills the air. The fruit blushes on the trees, and seems to invite the hand of the passerby. The productions of the gardens and the fields are invigorated, and their peculiar properties are heightened and improved. Every thing seems to revive and to rejoice in the genial beams of the luminary shedding benedictions upon the renascent earth.

But there are other factors besides increased warmth and light, which constitute Summer weather. One of the most important is the state of the atmosphere. The mechanism of this is both complicated and poorly understood, despite the much vaunted 'advances' of science and the mixed blessings of 'computer modelling'. The air, which forms the chief part of the atmosphere, is composed mainly of two elements — nitrogen and oxygen — held together by forces as little understood as those which drive the clouds. These two gasses have very different properties, and yet when united in the precise proportion they bear to each other in the air we breathe, sustain all animal and vegetable life. Were that proportion altered even in a slight degree, the air would be instantly converted into a deadly poison. Breathing pure oxygen for any length of time can be harmful and sometimes even toxic. Breathing pure nitrogen is equally deadly. This is because the gas displaces oxygen in the lungs, resulting in asphyxiation. Material science supposes that these fortuitous arrangements of matter are the result of blind forces, but Occult Science sees the designing hand of the Creator in their constitution as well as in their operation. The present attempts of man to meddle with these processes is fraught with danger which, if not curtailed, could lead to the extinction of all life on Earth. Please do not imagine we exaggerate. We have watched the futile attempts of scientists, egged on by the pecuniary greed of their evil paymasters, to 'control' the climate with mounting disquiet. This is not the time or place to discuss such concerns, which in any case guest writer Gabrielle Annunziato addressed in her superb article about climate change published in June 2024.

Summer is followed by Autumn which has a remarkable character of its own, that 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 his highest altitude in the heavens; but although, from this period, he begins to recede, the heat does not cease to accumulate till the end of July or even August, after which the effects of the decreasing intensity of his rays, and of the lengthening nights, become more perceptible. One peculiarity of Autumn is a diminution both in the varieties and the profusion of its flowers. The blossoms of June have long since gone to seed under the excessive heat of July, and have been succeeded by other flowers. The humble daisy, however, still ornaments many English lawns, and the beautiful purple blossoms of the heath shed a rich glow over the uncultivated commons and craggy hills. The unassuming daisy is commonly overlooked in favour of its larger and showier relatives, such as the Aster, Dahlia and Chrysanthemum. This is a great pity, for quite apart from its medicinal properties (such as wound healing) its Latin name of Bellis perennis has a special meaning for occultists and mystics.

The conventional consensus is that the name 'Bellis' comes to us from the Latin bellus, meaning "beautiful," or possibly bellum, meaning "war" — a reference to the flower’s use in healing battlefield wounds, especially among the Roman soldiery. But 'Bel' means the Sun in many ancient languages, and it was under the name Belenus that the Celts worshipped the luminary. 'Perennis' is Latin for continual, everlasting, perpetual, and so on and so forth. Hence, for an occultist, the name of this common little flower means 'the ever-coming Sun'. The significance of this appellation will not be lost on some of our readers. The daisy has the peculiarity that, no matter how heavily we tread upon it, or how often we mow off its head, it still comes up smiling! In fact the only way this lovely flower can be completely eradicated from lawns is by digging it up, which sadly, all too many gardeners do! This also, is a great pity. The golden heart and snowy-white petals — oftimes blushed with soft pink — of the daisy are a fitting symbol of the Sun that sustains all life on Earth. Its English name is derived from the Anglo-Saxon daes eage, meaning "the days' eye," referring to the way the flower opens and closes with the sun. This behaviour is called heliotropism, and not all flowers exhibit it. The daisy is foremost among those that do, together with buttercups, dandelions and poppies. William Wordsworth, in his poem To the Daisy wrote:

"In youth from rock to rock I went
From hill to hill in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy;
But now my own delights I make, —
Thirst at every rill can slake,
And gladly Nature's love partake,
Of Thee, sweet Daisy!"

As the Summer season advances, its character changes. At first it's full of enjoyment. An exhilarating softness suffuses the air; serenity and beauty reign in the cerulean sky; the fields, chequered with gold and lively green, speak of plenty and enjoyment. The sheep grazing on the hills, the cattle ruminating in the shady woodlands; the birds silently flitting from bough to bough, or sporting in flocks through the perfectly transparent air. Some are preparing their young for the long migrations which instinct teaches they will soon have to make to escape the rigours of Winter. The spectators of all this abundance, freed temporarily from the din and smoke of the city, come to breathe health and refreshment in the country and to partake of the general happiness of Nature at her most fruitful time of the year. But as Autumn approaches, a deeper sentiment occupies the mind. The warmth and brightness gradually diminish; night slowly steals hours from the day, and the bustle and cheerfulness which pervaded the fields ceases. The yellow grain, which betokened plenty, has been reaped and safely housed; and the ground, which lately shone in gold, lies withered and bare. The once green 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 we now behold. It is impossible to resist the spirit of melancholy which rests on the land and on the waters. A sadness now broods over the silent forests, motionless under a grey curtain of the swelling clouds. The decay of Nature reminds us of our own decline. Our body too must fade, pass and fall away. Shakespeare, that incomparable observer of character, expresses this loss in his unmatchable prose:

"Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?"

The beauty of the woods at this season is seen in their fading glory. 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 believer departs this world for a better one. Nothing, indeed, can be more indicative of a Designing Cause than the fact, that all living things, from the tiny infusorium to the largest whale, so soon their annual growth and reproduction have been accomplished, decay, either in whole or in part. In the great majority of instances these purposes are only consummated a short time before the coming severity of Winter would, had their cycle been protracted, have prematurely checked their progress, and rendered the labours of the year abortive. There is no season which, in every age, has been attended with more rejoicing than that in which the labours of harvest are completed, and all the produce of the fields is safely stored away. The attractions of the woods are not diminished during the autumnal months, although they are much changed. Every tree and shrub is now in the full flush of its vegetable pride, and while it waves in the gentle breeze, displays the peculiar characteristics of its species, not merely in the form of its varied outline, but in the shape and colour of its leafy garments. The delicate green, which pleased the eye when the leaves first unfolded themselves from the bud, has, before the arrival of Autumn, been exchanged for a deeper shade; and the whole company of trees now assumes a graver cast, indicating maturity, and already pointing to the period of approaching decay. Of all the hues of Autumn, those of the oak are commonly the most colourful and harmonious. As its vernal tints are more varied than those of other trees, so are its autumnal colours. In an oaken wood, you see every variety of green, and every variety of brown, owing either to the different exposure of the tree, its different soil, or its different nature. The beech however, is not to be outshone. The deep orange tint of this noble tree is, perhaps, after all, the most beautiful of all the variegated autumnal colours.

Charles Leaver — Kings Norton, Warwickshire — oil on canvas, 1874

Winter is not the death of Nature, neither is it merely the season of Nature's sleep after the labours of the vegetable world are finished. Concealed from the casual walker, a thousand secret operations are in progress, by which the seeds, buds, and roots of future plants and flowers are not only preserved but elaborated, so that, when the prolific months of Spring arrive, they may burst into life in all the freshness and vigour of a new birth. This, which is both a truer and a more interesting view than that which is commonly entertained, represents Winter as the first stage in the processes and developments of the revolving year, and fixes it as the natural commencement of a Creative Work, which has for its object the evolution of all things. It is primarily for this reason that Henry Duncan begins his book with the season of Winter and not Spring, as logic and sentiment might dictate. Moreover, we need look no further than the comforts of sitting before a roaring log fire to know that Winter has charms no other season can boast. Who, having experienced these, will allege that Winter is inferior to Summer in its manifold enjoyments? When early night has spread its shade over external nature, and no more is heard the sound of busy feet along the streets; when the noisome background hum of motor traffic is stilled, the curtains drawn, and the fire blazes in the grate, a united family, shutting out the world, retire within their own beloved circle, to enjoy the social hours. Or rather they did, until not so very long ago. Nowadays, one is more likely to find Mum and Dad glued to the television while their children are even more firmly adhered to their smart phones. Is this a sign of progress or the contrary? Let the reader decide! The writer can vividly recall the cosy Winter evenings of his youth when his parents occupied the chimney corner, and he, together with his siblings, listened attentively to a fairy-tale, or the gripping adventures of some intrepid hero. Who can deny that there are advantages in this quiet, domestic intercourse which the longer days and more genial atmosphere of Summer cannot equal? Nowadays, of course — as hinted at above — most of us lead such unnatural lives that the passing of the seasons is a matter of supreme indifference to us. This is one reason (there are many others) why we have written this article; to remind ourselves and our readers that to live in harmony with Nature and to seek to know her ways is to draw nearer to the Author of whom she is the reflection and the veil.

It cannot be denied that the general aspect of Winter is forbidding. It is the night of the year; the period when, under a mitigated light, nature reposes, after the exertions of Spring and Summer have been crowned with the rich harvest of Autumn. We now no longer survey with admiration and delight those wonders of creative power which arrested our attention in that youthful season when plants and trees awoke from their sleep and started into new life. Then, under the kindly influences of warmer suns and gentler breezes the feathered tribes made the fresh-clothed woods and lawns, and the blue sky itself, vocal with their music. Nor do we now behold the maturer beauties of Summer, when light and heat flushed the glowing heavens and smiling earth, and when the clouds distilled their grateful showers, or tempered the intense radiance by their flitting shade. Now mellow Autumn, too, has passed away, and instead of these genial influences, our lengthening nights and shortening days shed their gloom over the face of Nature. Dark clouds now lour over the land; the chilling rain descends in torrents; and, as the season advances, the earth becomes rigid, as if struck by the frigid wand of an enchanter. The waters, spell-bound, lie motionless bound in crystal chains while the north wind pours forth its icy blast and nature is entombed in a vast white, cemetery.

The Winter landscape has been accused of monotony; and certainly all nature has at this season a less animated and varied aspect than at any other. Unless when sprinkled over with hoar-frost, or covered with a cold mantle of snow, the surface of the earth is of a bleak and faded hue. The woods have long lost the variegated foliage that had previously been their Autumnal ornament; and the branches of the trees present one uniform appearance of death and decay. The howling of the long-continued storm and the few faint bird-notes heard at intervals in the thickets or hedges are monotonously mournful. The devastation of the earth, and the sounds that seem to bewail it, are general and unvaried. A few hardy plants and flowers, in defiance of the bitter cold, begin to swell their buds and expand their petals. Such, at a cursory glance, appears to be the aspect and tone of our Winter scenery. But the keenly observant eye discovers, even at this desolate season, and in the midst of seeming monotony, that endless variety which characterizes every province of creation.

The dead of the year may well impress us with a sense of melancholy, and incline us to set a limit to the usual prodigality of Nature; but this is to be misled by appearances. True wisdom, aided by quick and active observation, easily draws the dull veil of uniformity aside, and reveals to the admiring eye, boundless diversity, even in the ravaged and gloomy scenery of Winter. Are the woods as truly and uniformly dead as they appear? It is true that the oak, the ash, the beech, and most of our forest trees have lost their varied foliage; but the numerous varieties of the fir and the pine retain their leaves, and variegate the disrobed grove with their unfading verdure. In the woodland copse, or lonely dell, the beautiful holly still gladdens the eye with its shining, dark-green leaves and ruby-red berries. Nor are our shrubberies without their living green. The noble bay defies the blasts of Winter, and continues to shelter and beautify the frozen land. The flowers have not all vanished. One of the fairest, and seemingly one of the most delicate of all, the Christmas rose, blooms among the dull or shrubbery, unhurt by the chilling influences of the season. Before the severity of Winter is over, the snowdrop emerges from the reviving turf, the lovely and adventurous herald of the coming plenty.

But yet awhile the hoar-frost spangles the ground with a white and brilliant coverlet, or the snow, falling softly, covers the wide expanse of mountain, and wood, and plain, with a mantle of dazzling purity. Then the dark branches of the trees, bending under a load of white and feathery flakes, take on a picturesque aspect, and seem to rejoice in the substitute for their lost foliage. And how fantastically beautiful are the infinitely variable effects of frost! Water is transmuted into solid forms, of a thousand different shapes, rivalling the finest jewellery made by the hand of man. The lake, and even the river itself, becomes a crystal floor, and the house-eaves are decorated with rows of icicles, each of varying dimensions, reflecting and refracting the rays of the Sun. The earth is bound in magical fetters, and rings beneath the tread of booted feet. The air is pure and keen, yet not insufferably cold. Calm and clear frosty days, succeeded by nights that unveil the full glory of the starry firmament, are intermingled with magnificent tempests, that sweep over land and sea, and make the grandest music to the ear that is attuned to the harmonies of Nature. But let us leave the strange charms of Winter behind us and end our survey of the seasons, as we began, with a final look at Spring.

René Charles Edmond His — Le trou d'eau tranquille — oil on canvas, 1919

Once more the smaragdine sward is spotted with white clover and crimson-tipped daisies; the meadows are bestrewed with glowing buttercups, and the dandelion sheds its feathery seeds upon the breeze. Further afield, the bosky woods are dressed in their fresh Spring verdure. Gone now are their flaming autumnal robes; and the mountains, at one time bathed in a deep azure, at another shining with golden sunlight, all exhibit the marvellously varied touches of that brush which none but the unseen servants of the Creator can wield. We mean, of course, the inhabitants of Fairy-Land, a myth to many; an improbable fiction to most; yet a living reality to those who possess the Sight. So let us end this expatiation on the beauties of Nature as we began it, with the words of Jean Michaud, this time taken from his short story, The Elfin Queen.

"Perched upon the beams of heaven's golden Light, like a Bird of Paradise, the great god of all the fairies keeps his eternal Vigil, pouring joy and good fortune upon that happy Realm and everlasting Life. For the Harmony of the Soul and Mind is ever reflected in our environment, like a mirror may become the reservoir of those archetypal beatitudes towards which its external part is directed, pouring back that glory upon the veiled Universe of Fairies...and, mayhap, upon some awakened beings in the world of Man."

Search our website

Henry Duncan (1774-1846)

In our Afterword we review the life and work of Henry Duncan, the author of the Sacred Philosophy of the Seasons; illustrating the perfections of God in the phenomena of the year.

Henry Duncan was born on 8th October 1774 at Lochrutton, Kirkcudbrightshire, in Scotland, where his father, George Duncan, was the minister. He began his early education at Dumfries Academy. Now a rather undistinguished comprehensive school, it dates back to the 14th century, making it the earliest school in the area. In Duncan's time it was a prestigious academy attended by J. M. Barrie, the author of Peter Pan.

After graduating from St. Andrews University, Duncan was sent to Liverpool to begin commercial life under the patronage of his relative, Dr. James Currie, the biographer of Robert Burns. Although his prospects of success were good; his heart was not in business, and he soon left the city to study at Edinburgh and Glasgow for the ministry of the Church of Scotland.

In 1798 he was ordained and one year later became Minister at Ruthwell in Dumfriesshire. Here, in this quiet Scottish village numbering just 200 souls, he spent the rest of his life. From the beginning of his ministry, Duncan was distinguished for the breadth of his views, especially in regard to the welfare of those under his care. The courage and zeal with which he promoted measures not usually considered to fall within the purview of a minister of the Church, set him apart from his fellow ecclesiastics. In a time of scarcity he brought Indian corn from Liverpool to alleviate the wants of the distressed. When a French invasion was threatened he raised a company of volunteers, of which he served as captain.

In 1804 Duncan married Agnes Craig with whom he had two sons and a daughter. After 28 happy years together, she succumbed to influenza and died in 1832. Four years later in 1836, Duncan married Mary Grey, the sister of John Grey of Dilston, an English land agent and agriculturist. She was a lady of considerable accomplishments and force of character, and herself the author of several books.

In 1815 he published The Cottage Fireside Or The Parish Schoolmaster, a highly entertaining account of the social conditions of the poor constituting a sort of vade mecum for the literate peasant. In his preface, Duncan writes: "The object of the following Book is to give, in familiar language, such instructive advice as may be not only useful, but interesting to those for whose perusal it was intended."

The book is written in the form of a dialogue between a grandmother and her granddaughter, Jenny. The following chapter headings provide a flavour of the contents: "Filial love; Scandal; Economy of Time; Potatoes; The Pig; Vaccination; Sickness; Cleanliness; and Tea-drinking."

The advice about keeping a pig is priceless: "Hardly any one is so poor, but they can make out the price of a pig; its food will cost them very little for six or eight months; potato skins, the water potatoes are boiled in, cabbage-leaves, boiled or raw, are good food for them." Overly sensitive vegetarians and vegans may wish to skip the next two paragraphs.

What a pity the custom of keeping a pig (or two) has fallen out of favour. Not only would it save the local council the cost and trouble of recycling our waste veggies, but provide welcome additional income and nourishing meat for a large family! Or, as the canny Scottish grandmother tells Jenny: "A very small piece of salt pork will relish a great pot of cabbage, and give a large family a comfortable meal; meantime, the owner of the pig has the offal all to himself.

"The jaw, in bacon, is the nicest part of the pig, and will sell high; lard will produce money, if the owner chooses to sell it; if not, it will, in most cases, supply the place of butter, which is very dear, and the head will give the whole family a great meal. When I consider what a valuable creature this is, how easily purchased and maintained, I cannot help thanking God, for having given us such a profitable animal."

The grandmother's views about the country's favourite beverage were quite scathing. "If you would take your grandmother's advice, you would give up tea-drinking altogether; for, if you indulge yourself with it now and then, you may grow so fond of it as to be unable to do without it, and every one knows what a great deal of money it carries off. I know servants, who, if they were out of their place tomorrow, have not saved a penny out of their wages; every halfpenny they can earn going for tea and sugar, as fast as they can get it."

Some readers will be disappointed; others delighted, depending on their particular persuasion, by the grandmother's forthright views on a contentious subject of topical interest to many — vaccination.

"The doctors are right. Jenny," the aged lady announced, "and a thousand pities it is, that there are some people so mistaken, as to set their faces against the cow pock, which we are told is a way of keeping it off. There is our neighbour, Mary Cassidy, who never would consent to have her children vaccinated, as it is called; and you know what was the consequence; all her children took the small-pox at once. Poor woman, though she might be said to have brought her troubles on herself by her obstinacy, I pitied her, and many a night I sat up with her, when the disorder was at its very height. What a frightful sickness it was!"

'Cow pock' was the term used in the 18th and early 19th centuries for the vaccination method of injecting a small amount of purulent matter from a cow infected with cowpox into the arm of a patient to prevent smallpox. This medical procedure was pioneered by Edward Jenner (1749-1823), an English physician considered by many to be "the father of immunology."

Two years after the publication of The Cottage Fireside Henry Duncan received the degree of Doctor of Divinity (D.D.) from the University of St. Andrews, in Scotland.

In 1821 he published another tale of Scottish life — The Young South-Country Weaver, subtitled or, A journey to Glasgow: a tale for the radicals; and, Maitland Smith, the murderer: a true narrative. The book explores the social and economic challenges of living in early 19th century Scotland through the eyes of a young weaver who becomes involved in the radical movement of the time.

This was followed in 1826 by William Douglas; or, The Scottish Exiles. This fictitious work, published anonymously, was intended to counteract the aspersions cast on the radical religious movement known as the Covenanters by Sir Walter Scott in his novel Old Mortality.

The Covenanters were members of a 17th-century Scottish religious and political movement, who supported a Presbyterian Church of Scotland and the primacy of its leaders in religious affairs. It originated in disputes between James VI and his son Charles I over church organisation and doctrine, but expanded into political conflict over the limits of royal authority.

Duncan's novel was well received by the Scottish public who hailed it as a work of genius. In 1836 he published the first volume of the book which was to secure his lasting fame, the Sacred Philosophy of the Seasons: Illustrating the Perfections of God, in the Phenomena of the Year. It is this remarkable book which forms the subject of our article.

The book ultimately extended to four, large volumes, published between 1836 and 1847. It was so popular that it ran through several editions, both in England and the United States. We know of no other book in which the arts and sciences are so thoroughly and harmoniously intertwined as to present a complete picture of the natural world. A world moreover, which Duncan was at pains to show as the production of the Deity, not the accidental and haphazard result of the 'blind forces' of material science.

Duncan himself made many valuable contributions to the sciences, including geology. In a paper presented to the Royal Society of Edinburgh in 1831 he described the discovery of the fossil footmarks of four legged animals in the red sandstone of Corncockle Quarry, near Lochmaben, in Scotland, thought to be over 250 million years old.

After some vacillation between the moderate and evangelical parties in the church, Duncan finally sided with the latter, and became the intimate friend of such men as Dr. Thomas Chalmers, who has been called "Scotland's greatest nineteenth century churchman." In the earlier stages of the controversy connected with the Church of Scotland he corresponded with Lord Melbourne, the then Home Secretary, on the subject.

In 1839 Duncan became Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland. At the time of the Disruption of 1843 he became one of the founding ministers of the Free Church of Scotland. The Disruption, also known as the Great Disruption, was a schism in which 450 ministers broke away from the Church of Scotland to form the Free Church of Scotland.

The innovation for which Henry Duncan is best known and justifiably famous, was the institution of savings banks. But he did not originate these financial institutions; that honour is claimed by the French who are said to have founded a savings bank in the town of Brumath, near Strasbourg in 1765.

The first English savings bank was not established until twelve years later in 1799 in Wendover, Buckinghamshire. Interestingly, this too was started by a clergyman, one Joseph Smith who had acted on the suggestion of the English philosopher and social reformer, Jeremy Bentham.

The origin of savings banks lies in the liberal and philanthropic aspirations that motivated men like Henry Duncan to create non-profit establishments intended to promote financial thrift and prudence among the lower classes, using savings and the lure of compound interest as incentives to lift the poor out of their hand-to-mouth existence.

Henry Duncan was the foremost of these pioneers in Scotland, and formed the country's first savings bank in Ruthwell — a tiny village on the Solway Firth between Dumfries and Annan — as early as 1810. The bank occupied one half of a small, single-story cottage. The building still exists today, as we can see in the photograph shown below.

Establishing a savings bank was a considerable achievement at a time when commercial banks required an initial deposit of £10 to open an account. This sum was far beyond the means of a lowly agricultural worker. Adjusted for inflation, this would be roughly equivalent to £1,000 today; an amount still beyond the means of a low-paid worker.

Henry Duncan, on the other hand, fixed the initial deposit for his bank at just sixpence, equivalent to 2½ pence in British decimal currency, or roughly £2.50 in today's money. Interest rates at the time and for some years afterwards fluctuated between 5% to 6% — a slightly better rate than those on offer today, especially given that inflation during the same period hovered around 2%, whereas at the time we wrote this article the 'real' figure was closer to 10%.

Henry Duncan's savings bank was also the first to offer women full control over their own private finances. This was an unheard of novelty in 1810. It was not until the introduction of the Married Women's Property Act of 1870 that married women were allowed to own the money they earned and inherit property.

This principle was extended to all property, regardless of its source or the time of its acquisition, in the Married Women's Property Act of 1882. It took nearly another hundred years for the same rights to be extended to single women. Only with the passage of the Sex Discrimination Act of 1975 was it possible for unmarried women to finally own money and property in their own name. Duncan also was very much ahead of the times when it came to equality between the sexes by allowing women to deposit money in his bank.

Unsurprisingly, at first this new bank was met with some scepticism from the locals. For one thing, Duncan had to convince them that he wasn't going to run off with their money! The fact that he was their minister certainly helped. Once he had overcome these initial barriers people really took to the idea. It was the first time they had been given 'free money' by way of interest. Word quickly spread that the "nice Scottish minister was giving away free money."

The impact of his bank on the financial prospects of the local people was nothing short of remarkable. He wrote a pamphlet called An Essay on the Nature and Advantages of Parish Banks, for the Savings of the Industrious. In it he cited examples of real people and what they had done or intended to do with their savings.

One such anecdote concerned a servant in a well-to-do household who managed to save enough money to buy her own shop. Others used their savings to pay their passage to Australia, America and Canada to begin new lives. He encouraged employers to open savings accounts for their employees and put a proportion of their wages into the savings account. The fortunate employee ended up with a healthy bank balance on which they also earned interest. For the first time, ordinary working men and women were making money on their bank accounts: a thoroughly revolutionary idea at that time.

So important was the institution of savings banks to Duncan, that he devotes a whole chapter to them in The Cottage Fireside. "Savings Banks," the grandmother tells Jenny soberly, "will never close till the world is turned upside down; the plan of them is laid wholly for the benefit of the poor, to encourage industry, economy, and a prudent foresight among them, and a spirit of independence, which procures respect for either man or woman."

What a pity the cultivation of prudence and thrift has today been replaced by a culture of maxed-out credit cards and payday loans among the poor. One cannot argue with the sensible advice Duncan puts in the mouth of the wise old grandmother. "Now, those banks," she continues, "are designed for the good of all who can afford to lay by even a tenpenny a month. Yet, they seem best calculated for the young and single, who certainly can spare something if they are but frugal; they will, therefore, be inexcusable if they do not take the advantage which is offered: and only think, in case of sickness, or any other accident to which we all are liable, how comfortable it is to have a little stock of one's own to go to: depend on it, Jenny, such a little store would procure you more respect than all the finery you will ever be able to put on your back."

With suchlike advice and his savings bank, Henry Duncan improved the lives of thousands of his fellow human beings. His bank thrived and eventually became part of the Trustee Savings Bank (TSB), a British financial institution that operated for over 180 years until it was taken over by Lloyds Bank in 1995. The story of Henry Duncan's bank is testament to his perspicacity, benevolence and wisdom; qualities that shine through all his many activities, but are most evident in what we believe is his finest work and lasting testament — the Sacred Philosophy of the Seasons.

As we have seen in our article, Henry Duncan was a man of the most varied and remarkable accomplishments — manual, intellectual, social, and spiritual. He was as much at home with a pencil and brush as he was with a chisel, a spade, or compass. His knowledge of literature and science was prodigious, both in its variety and extent.

He was an inestimable husband to both his wives and a loving father to his children, while his ministerial work was carried on with great earnestness and delight. It is somehow fitting that this inspired Man of God departed this world while conducting a religious service in the cottage of one of his poor parishioners on 19th February 1846.

occult mysteries