The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1870-10-11
OCTOBER ONCE MORE.

It must be admitted whatever patriotic
paDgs the confession may occasion, that, with
the best political institutions in the world,
we have most untrustworthy climate. The
spring of our poets is the English spring,
and not our cold, dilatory and, we may even
say, sloppy season; our summers oftenest are
either too hot or too wet; and our winters, If
too cold, are inexpressibly tedious, or, If
''open,n not only occasion epidemics, but
compel premature and not seldom ruinous
vegetation. One season, however, we have
reaching from the last of September partly
into November, which is probably as produc-
tive of delicious physical sensations as any in
the world. 1t is s season when, in the early
cool of the morning, we recognize the first
breath of winter, which is yet afar off, and our
fevered frames welcome the invigorating at
mosphere as the lips of travellers in Sahara
greet thankfully the longed-for cup of cold
water. Bodily exertion is no longer wearily
oppressive; upon the contrary, there is an ex-
hilaration in the air which will not suffer us
to remain quiet. As we stalk past the varie
gated panorama of changing foliage, we begin
to ask ourselves if we too were not destined
for pedestrian exploits and the winning of
prize cups for ten miles now are easier of
accomplishment than one was under the old
solar radiance Coming out of the summer
enervated listless, and ceronically lazy, we
find ourselves suddenly in the possession of
fresh muscular forces, and our enjoyment of
their use seems to be for time Unsuitable
1t appears to have been settled by the
poets, if we may credit their elegiac writings,
that autumn is a season of sadness and of
unavailing regret. Mr.. Bryant, in one of the
most charming of his minor pieces, speaks of
these as ''the melancholy days, the saddest of
the year" We persist in sonding our sighs
after the withered leaf ''down floating upon
the clustering gale" 1t is considered to be
4 L. e..
blighted flowers blackening upon their stalks,
and to shed a tear or two for 1.-THE last rose
of summer" We suspect that in this minor
mood there is good deal of conventionality,
and, we may venture to say, a little atfecta-
tion. Upon a clear October day, with its sky
cloudess from the rise to the set of sun, its
invigorating temperature and its variety of
color, the natural feeling is one of exultation.
Mr.. Emerson speaks of a temper when walk
ing, in which he was almost afraid to think
how glad he was 1t is thus that the fine
October day, with that brilliancy which,
under high temperature, might sink us into
a dreamy Incidence, makes every sense so
keen that each moment has its new and sepa-
rate pleasure The animal spirits rather rise
than sink, unless, indeed, we are bent. like
clever boys of fifteen, upon being obstinately
| Byronical the eye is clear to catch the mag
nitcence of the landscape and the glory of
| sounds as they become fewer; the fruitage is
always cheering lesson Of the recuperative
| force of Nature; and the few flowers which
! the early frost has spared have value which
we did not accord to the gay and populous
| parterre.
1t is in these few weeks Of the last genial
month of the year that we are able to exist
without over consciousness and prepense ex-
ertion. All the others are seasons of wrap
| and vNyNI xNf hat fN fhn
kindling of fires or the opening of windows,
of decisions between housekeeping and going
abroad, of watching the weather glass and of
cultivating patience when inopportune in
clemencies mar our little prospects. But
October is, in the main, not only trust
worthy month, bat its moderation enables us
to enjoy nature without resolutely preparing
ourselves for it as for business. The serene
sky, the clear atmosphere, the silver haze
which fringes the woodlands, the imperial
splendor of the occident, the rustic hustle
of the harvest, the tree bending under
its load of ruddy and golden fruit,
each feature of the landscape, however
minute, greets us as we go forth and waits
neither for our scrutiny or salutation. Our
receptivity becomes boundless Just in pro-
portion to its ouiescence, and the less we
| look for the more do our eyes behold. We
are, for a time, released from that constant
care of the body which is incompatible with
calm and complete sensation. Emancipated
alike from the necessity of hurry or of loiter-
ing, we can go about leisurely and take what
the beautiful earth offers, without spelling
the feast by our hungry importantly. We
know well enough that these pleasures, ex-
quisite and invigorating as they are, will soon
remain with us only as priceless recollec-
tions. There is the dali dreariness of
November, with all its leaden inertia, before
us; but we do not care to anticipate. The
shortening days, replete with a wealth of
solar brightness, are too precious to be
wasted in unavailing forebodings of their
speedy and final flight 1t is enough that we
have found the relief which through swelter-
ing July and sjmmering August we cried out
for sincerely and not energetically, only be-
cause we had no energy remaining. Once
more we feel our virility and comprehend the
purpose of the muscular system. Once more
we cease to complain that Nature made us
such sensitive barometers. For all his bluster,
and fretting, and frowning, and freezing, we
can bid the young Winter welcome with q
CHEEKY laugh.