LXXXII. TAKING COMFORT.

1. For the last few days, the fine weather has led me away from books and
papers, and the close air of dwellings, into the open fields, and under
the soft, warm sunshine, and the softer light of a full moon. The
loveliest season of the whole year--that transient but delightful interval
between the storms of the "wild equinox, with all their wet," and the
dark, short, dismal days which precede the rigor of winter--is now with
us. The sun rises through a soft and hazy atmosphere; the light mist
clouds melt gradually before him; and his noontide light rests warm and
clear on still woods, tranquil waters, and grasses green with the late
autumnal rains.

2. One fine morning, not long ago, I strolled down the Merrimac, on the
Tewksbury shore. I know of no walk in the vicinity of Lowell so inviting
as that along the margin of the river, for nearly a mile from the village
of Belvidere. The path winds, green and flower-skirted, among beeches and
oaks, through whose boughs you catch glimpses of waters sparkling and
dashing below. Rocks, huge and picturesque, jut out into the stream,
affording beautiful views of the river and the distant city.

3. Half fatigued with my walk, I threw myself down upon a rocky slope of
the bank, where the panorama of earth, sky, and water lay clear and
distinct about me. Far above, silent and dim as a picture, was the city,
with its huge mill masonry, confused chimney tops, and church spires; near
it rose the height of Belvidere, with its deserted burial place and
neglected gravestones sharply defined on its bleak, bare summit against