Camden journal. [volume] (Camden, South-Carolina) 1852-1852, 1852-11-23
AUtumn.
"The melancholy days have come -
The saddest Of the year"

Even to tie dweller in the pent up city, there
arc numerous and constantly occurring indca-
tions that the glory of summer is past. The
lightcst touch Of the wind brings down the green
gories of the shade trees-iaing and rustling
upon the pavement to their own sad music, and
speaking lesson of wisdom to the heart and
soul of those who have an eye and an ear open
to the voices of Nature. The shortening DAYS.
the leugti,..;y nigiits tiie netucilt ara moan
ing winds, the leaves goldcn-hucd and Drowned
by tie fingers of the Frost-King, the bcseeching
looks Of the few faded flowers yet visible, seeming
to say: "Love me well, am the last Of the sis
terhood that you can love"-in every object
around us, We can behold the dying Summer,
and the near approach Of desolating Winter
Little by little the sky is losing its summer as
pect, the air its breath Of fame, while the mel
low autumnal coloring, which sheds its Joy of
grief over all things, awakens those sweet but
mournful associations which render Autumn the
dearest and the saddest of all the seasons.
Poets in all ages have delighted in the mellow
picturesque of Autumn, and the feelings it 50
naturally inspires-from the days of blind old
Homer, who sang of the race of man, like leaves
on trees
"Now green in youth, now rusting on the ground"
to our own American Bryant, who has moralized
his song by the mournful fall Of the wilhered leaf
Tennyson asks: a
"And is there any moral shut
Within the bosom Of the rose2"@
And answers his question in strain Of melody
not less pleasing than instructive The faded
bud and tie billy ghted blossom have their own
H. Al,
which rustes along the ground with the dry end
crspy leaves. There are "airy tongues" in trees,
which if they do not syllable mems names"
preach the moral of their tires.
Autumn has its pleasures and its advantages,
as have the other seasons; and with many it is
the favorite. Better than Spring with its winds,
showers and varying caprices; better than Sum-
mer, with its heat, dust and sultry sun; better
than Winter with its cold blasts and frozen flu
gers. Autumn has its mild skies, mellow fruit
age, and its many-tinted forests. The sportmans S
rifle is busy in the woods and in the still fields.
There is much to make Autumn pleasant to those
who dwell in the country; ana there are many,
even in the populous city rent, who can appre-
ciate the beauties of this golden season. Tosuch
walk in the old forest with its winding paths,
carpetted with unsoiled fallen leaves-crossing
the branch whose banks are fresh and green
beyond their time-gazing up into the many
hued boughs and out upon the far away, dim
defined horizon, forest and field and river, village,
quiet cottage, and the city, whose busy hum,
mellowed by distance, seems almost to be drum
ming in your ear-to such, a walk in an Au-
tumn evening is greatly enjoyable Nunc est
ambulandum-now is the time for walking. And
to the denizen of the city, the very privilege of
walking is thing to be thankful for. TO the
invalid, it is worth, in these Autumnal days, any
quantity ofsmall bottles from the Drug Store;
and to the "writer chiel," who emerges from his
sanctum with the smell of newspapers in his hair
and a slight heaviness in his temples the exer-
cse the fresh, bracing breeze, and the constant
variety afforded by the ever-varying landscape,
give him fine thought of exhIiaration. The
walk never fails to have a curious feeling of old
times in it; and when he turns from it, he brings
back an idea, a metaphor, or something of the
kind, with which he may enrich his next good
natured inAiction upon his pensive readers,