There is something in the approach of autumn, the border land of
summer, that is depressing, just as if the shadow of death were
brooding over the future. There are dark clouds in the sky which cut
off the sunshine; there is a gloom in the heart which darkens hope and
makes life "scarcely worth living." The wind has a mournful cadence,
and the trees saw as if the motion were a sigh of sorrow. Everything
seems to harmonize with the prevailing spirit of sadness, and animate
nature moans forth a dirge. Dew drops seem like tears, and the evening
breeze is a sigh. The moon itself seems to wear a garb of grief and
floats among the clouds, a tear-stained Diana. It is a season for men
to grow mad, for anguish to gnaw at the heart, and for melancholy to
usurp the throne of reason. The retina only receives dark impressions,
the tympanum transmits none but doleful sounds. One is feasted on
dismal thoughts on every hand until it becomes a regular symposium of
sorrow. Those imps, the Blues, that feed one on dejection, are in
their heyday, implacable as a Nemesis, persistent as a Devil. They
revel in gloom and drag one down to the Slough of Despond. Work is
performed mechanically, and what in its nature is amusement, is now a
bore. One "sucks melancholy from a song as a weasel sucks eggs," and
longs for night that he may seek forgetfulness in sleep--the
twin-sister of Death. A miserable world this, when the year is falling
"into the sear and yellow leaf;" and there is a lingering wish that
the shadows which come from the West would bring that icy breath that
gives forgetfulness and rest.