forest-trees, dressed in their garb of autumnal glory. The sun shone
directly upon them; and sunlight is like the breath of life to the pomp
of autumn. In its absence, one doubts whether there be any truth in what
poets have told about the splendor of an American autumn; but when this
charm is added, one feels that the effect is beyond description. As I
beheld it to-day, there was nothing dazzling; it was gentle and mild,
though brilliant and diversified, and had a most quiet and pensive
influence. And yet there were some trees that seemed really made of
sunshine, and others were of a sunny red, and the whole picture was
painted with but little relief of darksome lines, only a few evergreens.
But there was nothing inharmonious; and, on closer examination, it
appeared that all the tints had a relationship among themselves. And
this, I suppose, is the reason that, while nature seems to scatter them
so carelessly, they still never shock the beholder by their contrasts,
nor disturb, but only soothe. The brilliant scarlet and the brilliant
yellow are different lines of the maple-leaves, and the first changes
into the last. I saw one maple-tree, its centre yellow as gold, set in a
framework of red. The native poplars have different shades of green,
verging towards yellow, and are very cheerful in the sunshine. Most of
the oak-leaves have still the deep verdure of summer; but where a change
has taken place, it is into a russet-red, warm, but sober. These colors,
infinitely varied by the progress which different trees have made in
their decay, constitute almost the whole glory of autumnal woods; but it
is impossible to conceive how much is done with such scanty materials.
In my whole walk I saw only one man, and he was at a distance, in the
obscurity of the trees. He had a horse and a wagon, and was getting a
load of dry brushwood.


Sunday, October 10th.--I visited my grapevine this afternoon, and ate the