DEVOTED TO AGEICDTiTITRB ANT> ITS KINDRED ARTS AND SCIENCES. 



VOL. XIII. 



EOSTON, NOVEMBER, 1861. 



NO. 11. 



NOURSE, EATOX & TOLMAN, Peopeietors. cTivffoiM -oo^wtvt •pnTTr.-tj FRED'K HOLBROOK, ) Associatb 



Office.... 34 Merchants' Row. biMurj iJKUWJM, JjUIIUK. HENRY F. FRENCH, | Editors. 



SUGGESTED BY NOVEMBER. 



" 'Tis easy to resign a loilsome place, 

 But not to manage leisure with a grace; 

 Absence of occupation is not rest, 

 A mind quite vacant is a mind distressed. 

 The veteran steed, his task excused at length, 

 In kind compassion of his failing strength. 

 And turned into the park or mead to graze, 

 Exempt from future service all his days, 

 There feels a pleasure, perfect in its kind, 

 Ranges at liberty, and snuffs the wind ; 

 But when his lord would quit the busy road. 

 To taste a joy like that he has bestowed, 

 He proves, less happy than his favored brutes, 

 A life of ease a difficult pursuit." 



OVEMBER has 



been denomi- 

 nated " the 

 month of sui- 

 cides." It 

 comes to us 

 shrouded in 

 loom, and 

 borne on a 

 car of storm — 

 cold, dreary 

 and inhospit- 

 able in aspect, 

 but not unac- 

 companied by 

 many enjoy- 

 ments and 

 pleasures pe- 

 culiar to it- 

 self. The po- 

 ets have gen- 

 erally, oblivi. 

 ous of the fact that some of the most enchanting 

 days of autumn are found in this month, depict- 

 ed it as cheerless, gloomy, and depressing. 

 Thus»,,x)ne says : — 



'r " 'Tis the year's eventide. 



The mind, like one that sighs in pain. 

 O'er joys that ne'er will bloom again^ 



Moans on the far hill -side. 



The air breathes chill and free : 

 A spirit in soft music calls 

 From Autumn's gray and moss-clad halls, 



And round her withered trees, 



Lsaves that the light wind bears 

 To Earth's cold bosom with a sigh. 

 Are types of our mortality, 



And of our fading years." 



Brainard speaks of it in a more pathetic, if 

 not more gloomy strain : 



"The dead leaves strew the forest walk, 



And withered are the pale wild flowers j 

 The frost hangs blackening on the stalk. 



The dew-drops fall in frozen showers ; 

 Gone are the spring's green sporting bowers, 



Gone summer's rich and mantling vines, 

 And Autumn, with her yellow hours. 



On hill and plain no longer shines." 



We have generally, in the month of Novem- 

 ber, an interval of fine weather known as the •'In- 

 dian Summer," which comes to us with all the 

 golden and winning attractions that accompany 

 the finely pencilled and dream-like glories of 

 September. It is a beautiful and fairy-like sea- 

 son, — the tops of the lofty trees, which have worn 

 their green robes with so much humility through 

 the summer — like modest merit obscured by pov- 

 erty — glowing in all the colors of the rainbow, 

 and fading off" into distance, — the oblique rays of 

 the sun gleaming through the many-hued foliage, 

 suggesting, at times, the idea of a forest aglow 

 with fire, or of 



"Garments rolled In blood," — 



the deep, yet mellow azure of the distant uplands, 

 over which there is suspended a sky that mocks 

 the brightest conceptions of the poet, and turns 

 to ridicule, in comparison, the richest coloring of 

 a Claude, — the deepening blue of the mountain- 

 framed lake, and the silvery radiance of the 

 stream, flowing like molten silver, but with a 

 merry song — present a picture of quiet and sub- 

 dued loveliness, that comes over the spirit with a 

 sort of dreamy beauty, inspiring feelings akin to 



