19. XIX.
ON AUTUMN.
Poets are wont to apostrophize the leafy
month of June, and there is no denying that
if Spring is “some” June is Summer. But
there is a gorgeous magnificence about the
habiliments of Nature, and a teeming fruitfulness
upon her lap during the autumnal
months, and we must confess we have
always felt genially inclined towards this
season. It is true, when we concentrate
our field of vision to the minute garniture
of earth, we no longer observe the beautiful
petals, nor inhale the fragrance of a gay parterre
of the “floral epistles” and “angel-like
collections” which Longfellow (we believe)
so graphically describes, and which
Shortfellows so fantastically carry about in
their button-holes; but we have all their
tints reproduced upon a higher and broader
canvas in the kaleidoscopic colors with
which the sky and the forest daily enchant
us, and the beautiful and luscious fruits
which Autumn spreads out before us, and
“Crowns the rich promise of the opening Spring.”
In another point of view Autumn is suggestive
of pleasant reflections. The wearying,
wasting heat of summer and the
deadly blasts with which her breath has for
some years been freighted, are past, and
the bracing north winds begin to bring
balm and healing on their wings. The
hurly-burly of travel, and most sorts of publicity
(except newspapers), are fast playing
out, and we can once more hope to see our
friends and relations in the happy sociality
of home and fireside enjoyments. Yielding,
as we do, the full force to which Autumn
is seriously entitled, or rather to the
serious reflections and admonitions which
the decay of Nature and the dying year
always inspire, and admitting the poet's
decade:
“Leaves have their time to fall,
And stars to set,—but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!”
there is a brighter Autumn beyond, and
brighter opening years to those who choose
them rather than dead leaves and bitter
fruits. Thus we can conclude tranquilly
with Bryant as we began gaily with another,—
“So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.”
