Salmagundi; or, The whim-whams and opinions of Launcelot Langstaff, esq. [pseud.] and others. By William Irving, James Kirke Paulding and Washington Irving. Printed from the original ed., with a preface and notes by Evert A. Duyckinck.

SYMPATHIES OF THE SEASONS. 337
uninterrupted, except by the plaintive whistle of the quail, the
barking of the squirrel, or the still more melancholy wintry
wind, which, rushing and swelling through the hollows of the
mountains, sighs through the leafless branches of the grove, and
seems to mourn the desolation of the year.
To one who, like myself, is fond of drawing comparisons between the different divisions of life, and those of the seasons,
there will appear a striking analogy, which connects the feelings
of the aged with the decline of the year. Often, as I contemplate the mild, uniform, and genial lustre with which the sun
cheers and invigorates us in the month of October, and the
almost imperceptible haze which, without obscuring, tempers all
the asperities of the landscape, and gives to every object a
character of stillness and repose, I cannot help comparing it
with that portion of existence, when, the spring of youthful hope
and the summer of the passions having gone by, reason assumes
an undisputed sway, and lights us on with bright, but undazzling
lustre, adown the hill of life. There is a full and mature luxuriance in the fields that fills the bosom with generous and disinterested content. It is not the thoughtless extravagance of
spring, prodigal only in blossoms, nor the languid voluptuousness of summer, feverish in its enjoyments, and teeming only
with immature abundance-it is that certain fruition of the
labors of the past-that prospect of comfortable realities, which
those will be sure to enjoy who have improved the beauteous
smiles of heaven, nor wasted away their spring and summer in
empty trifling or criminal indulgence.
Cousin Pindar, who is my constant companion in these expeditions, and who still possesses much of the fire and energy of
youthful sentiment, and a buxom hilarity of the spirits, often,
indeed, draws me from these half-melancholy reveries, and makes
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