expressly to mark the good man's tillage. Tall mullein-stalks, thistles, and weeds fill the place where the old husbandman gathered his little crop of maize and potatoes; every season the traces of tillage become more and more faint in the little field; a portion of the log fence has fallen, and this summer the fern has gained rapidly upon the mulleins and thistles. The silent spirit of the woods seems creeping over the spot again.
Wednesday, 11th.—Autumn would appear to have received generally a dull character from the poets of the Old World; probably if one could gather all the passages relating to the season, scattered among the pages of these writers, a very large proportion would be found of a grave nature. English verse is full of sad images applied to the season, and often more particularly to the foliage.
“The chilling autumn, angry winter,”
are linked together by Shakspeare.
“The sallow autumn fills thy laps with leaves,”
writes Collins.
| “ | O pensive autumn, how I grieve |
| Thy sorrowing face to see, | |
| When languid suns are taking leave | |
| Of every drooping tree!” |
says Shenstone.
“Ye trees that fade when autumn heats remove,”
says Pope.
“Autumn, melancholy wight!”
exclaims Wordsworth. And hundreds of similar lines might be
