New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1873-10-17
OGTOBER,

The uipOing nights since the equinoctal
storm have driven almost all wanderers on
sea-beach or mOuntain-tops back to the region
where furnace-heated rooms and hot baths are
possible A few twice-blessed mOrtals, VINO
have full pockets to back their love OF Nature,
yet lnger in their country seats to watch the
crowned year put on the royal purple OF Dc
tober; but to the most of us, the reelection Of
a yellower sunset than usual over the tops OF
the houses, or the red stain on the half-with-
cred leaves blown across the square pavements,
are the only far-otf hints of the vast pomp
without. Nobody heeds such hints. The fact
that the watermelons at the green -grOcero'
doors make MS SILVER and that the dinner
table is loaded with grapes, are the only ways
i'm which we know that Summer il gone. Rich
autumnal tints OH the hats and clothes of the
pretty girls as they 90 by, the curling plumes
over bright eyes, the cOlOrs of fallen leaves
clasping and making white the delicate throat,
interest us more than any ruby splendOrs of
far-off forests and the opening of the season,
Salvini's going or Missions coming, concern
us much more deeply than the brOnzed meadow
yonder where Autumn, grape-crowned' and
with her scepter of golden corn, sits down
queen. A month ago, we were all out like the
bees in the fields, pursuing our special sort of
honey; extracting from salt water or pine
woods, or scarped cliff. ideas, good appetite,
devotion, newspaper letters or Irritation; now
we have left Nature to the bees and hotel
keepers, and go to panics and Alliances for
our mental and moral supplies
We can hardly understand how Nature in
her vast quiet should 90 on with her eternal
processes Just as though it were the season."
and countless aching eyes and OverwOrked
brains were her audience. Mists redden deeper
over the water courses every day, the sumach
darkens its crimson balls, the tish-hawk on
the bleak beach warns its clan Of tOadying
black-brds of the day of its fight south. as
regardless of man az they were before Adam
and Eve began human history in that garden
on the under side of the world.
Men, too, have an odd distaste for drawing the
apparent lesson which the Autumn thrusts upon
them in every ripened grain or yellOwed leaf.
Springs smlitudes we all know by heart; it
il not only the youth of the year but human
youth. Is not May always maiden crowned
with coumbines When the birds pair and
build their nests does not every young mans
fancy turn the same wayf Are not the tints
of youth pale, uncertain, full of promise, like
ApriIsf Are not its ideas weak. its opinions
acid, like unripened fruit 7 All of us, whether
our notions run into poetry or prose, have car
ried Oh the likeness. Summer is middle age
the fair young matron, the man in his strength;
the crude buds of ideas have become fruit. the
temper is sunny, the days are long, and busy,
and calm with content; 1T is high noon; and
Winter is Old Age covered with white bair,
going to lie down and sleep in the grave un-
til the resurrection.
But Autumn is in Nature the fullness of life /;
the grain keeps until then its richest juice !;
the tree draws with the whole force of its ma
ture on earth and trunk and leaf for sap 10
enrich its perfect fruit; the flowers whose col
oring is the deepest unfold only in this late
day; the very sky robs the sun of tints which
the Summer could not borrow; the cold air Is
vital with energy unknown before; 1t Is as
though Nature having finished her work and
being ready for death. gathered all her beauty
and power to utter her life in one glad TIL
umphant hymn. Now, the average American,
whether man or woman, very naturally lodges
this similitude; for when his work is done and
he il looking forward to death there is very
little beauty or power left in him. and if he
does express his life in hymns, they are neither
clad nor triumphant. nor anyways pleasant for
men 10 listen to. Take the men past sixty IN
any circle of society. and the women whose