Strange that in this country, where that same season is so peculiarly
radiant with a glory all its own, there should be no special expression
in the language with which to accurately name it.

So we needs must call it "fin d'ete": the ending of the summer; not the
absolute end, nor yet the ultimate departure, but the tender lingering
of a friend obliged to leave us anon, yet who fain would steal a day
here and there, a week or so in which to stay with us: who would
make that last pathetic farewell of his endure a little while longer still,
and brings forth in gorgeous array for our final gaze all that he has
which is most luxuriant, most desirable, most worthy of regret.

And in this year of grace 1793, departing summer had lavished the
treasures of her palette upon woodland and river banks; had tinged
the once crude green of larch and elm with a tender hue of gold, had
brushed the oaks with tones of warm russet, and put patches of
sienna and crimson on the beech.

In the gardens the roses were still in bloom, not the delicate blush or
lemon ones of June, nor yet the pale Banksias and climbers, but the
full-blooded red roses of late summer, and deep-coloured apricot
ones, with crinkled outside leaves faintly kissed by the frosty dew. In
sheltered spots the purple clematis still lingered, whilst the dahlias,
brilliant of hue, seemed overbearing in their gorgeous insolence,
flaunting their crudely colored petals against sober backgrounds of
mellow leaves, or the dull, mossy tones of ancient, encircling walls.

The Gala had always been held about the end of September. The
weather, on the riverside, was most dependable then, and there was
always sufficient sunshine as an excuse for bringing out Madam's last