The following article is transcribed from the New-York Mirror of October 28, 1837, pg. 139. I had recently erroneously misattributed the article to the editors of the New-York Mirror; however, Netherlands scholar Ton F— kindly directed me towards the author and provided the following statement, which I feel is beneficial to the article in its own right,
The real author was James B. Marshall from Louisville KY, at the time editor of the Western Weekly Magazine in Ohio. The piece first appeared in the Louisville City Gazette of Sept 1, 1837, but was written one year earlier. It was called ‘September’, and renamed several times (for instance as Autumn: a Morceau) in many reprints. Marshall wrote the following polite introduction to his piece:“The season of fruits and falling leaves is here; and seasonably is it ushered in. We have a bright, fresh and balmy day – and a breeze slightly spiced, braced and invigorating, after the heat of summer. One year ago we scribbled a short invocation to autumn. Is it less worthy than it was then? It was but the outpouring of feelings long and still cherished. Some of our cotemporaries flattered its naturalness and made mention of it in complimentary terms. May we be pardoned for repeating this brief evocation?”
Autumn! thou art with us. Already we feel the prickles in the morning air; and the stars shine out with a peculiar lustre. Shortly we shall see the rich tints which thou flingest on the woodlands, and then thy russet livery. And if thou art now bright, and gay, and beautiful, thou art not less lovely when thy hazy atmosphere spreads a voluptuous softness over nature; when the sun himself is shorn of his beams, and, like a pale planet, wanders through the sky. Autumn! with its fields of ripening corn, and its trees laden with fruit, and its vines with the clustering grapes,
“Reeling to earth, purple and gushing;”
and clear, sparkling streams, and salmon-fishing, and field sports is here. Out in the autumn woods! The broad leaf of the sycamore hath fallen upon the streamlet, and hath passed on with its tumbling waters, or disports them where it has rested against some obstruction. The buckeye is bare; the maple is golden-leaved, save where is spread on a field of orange, the hectick [sic] flush which marks approaching decay, or where the sap is yet faintly coursing and a delicate green remains. The oak is of a deep crimson, and the gum even yet of a bloodier hue. Far off on the tall cliff is the spiral pine and cedar, in their eternal green. Out in the autumn woods! when leaves are falling like the flakes in the snow-storm. It is a time for reflection; it is a time for lofty contemplation. The soul is full, if it have the capacity to feel, and it gushes forth, though the tongue speak not. And yet it is irresistible to roam the autumn woods, and listen to the thousand whispering tongues which fill the air. The fulness [sic] of feeling must be relieved by the merry shout and loud halloo. We welcome thee, Autumn! Thou art the dearest to us of the seasons—save the flower-month. We hail thy coming now, not as has been our wont. Since thou were last here, we have lost friends; and in thy wailing winds, and out beneath thy sky, and roaming through thy varied gorgeous liveried wood, our thoughts shall be turned to their memories.