IM PRES' SION, idea; notion.
AT TRAC' TIONS, allurements.
SA TI' E TY, excessive fullness.
SAT' ED, glutted; satiated.
PAM' PER ED, over-fed.
SUC' CU LENT, full of sap; juicy.
UM BRA' GEOUS, shady.
GOR' GEOUS, showy; brilliant.
DREAR' I NESS, gloominess.
REG' IS TER, record; note down.
SUG GEST' IVE, giving signs.
DEC LA RA' TION, announcement.
EX TREM' I TIES, ends.
DRA' PER Y, hangings; decorations.
EN CHANT' MENT, charms; fascination.
FRET' TED, furnished with frets, of ornamental raised work.
DEC O RA' TIONS, adornments.
[Headnote 1: AR' A BESQUES, is a word, denoting ornaments after the Arabian manner, often intricate and fantastic, from the intermingling of foliage, fruits, &c., with other objects real or imaginary.]
WINTER BEAUTY.
HENRY WARD BEECHER.
1. It is the impression of many, that only in summer, including spring and autumn, of course, is the country desirable as a residence. The country in summer, and the city for the winter. It is true, that the winter gives attractions to the city, in endless meetings, lectures, concerts, and indoor amusements; but it is not true that the country loses all interest when the leaves are shed and the grass is gone. On the contrary, to one who has learned how to use his senses and his sensibilities, there are attractions in the winter of a peculiar kind, and pleasures which can be reaped only then.
2. It appears to me, that winter comes in to relieve the year of satiety. The mind grows sated with greenness. After eight or nine months of luxuriant growths, the eye grows accustomed to vegetation. To be sure, we never are less pleased with the wide prospect; with forms of noble trees, with towns and meadows, and with the whole aspect of nature. But it is the pleasure of one pampered. We lose the keen edge of hunger. The eye enjoys, without the relish of newness. We expect to enjoy. Every thing loses surprise.
3. Of course, the sky is blue, the grass succulent, the fields green, the trees umbrageous, the clouds silent and mysterious. They were so yesterday, they are so to-day, they will be so to-morrow, next week, next month. In short, the mind does not cease to feel the charm of endless growths; but needs variety, change of diet, less of perpetual feasting, and something of the blessings of a fast. This winter gives. It says to us: You have had too much. You are luxurious and dainty. You need relief and change of diet.
4. The cold blue of the sky, the cold gray of rocks, the sober warmth of browns and russets, take the place of more gorgeous colors. If, now, one will accept this change in the tone of nature, after a time a new and relishful pleasure arises. The month formed by the last fortnight of November and the first two weeks of December, is, to me, the saddest of the year. It most nearly produces the sense of desolateness and dreariness of any portion of the year.
5. From the hour that the summer begins to shorten its days, and register the increasing change along the horizon, over which the sun sets, farther and farther toward the south, we have a genial and gentle sadness. But sadness belongs to all very deep joys. It is almost as needful to the perfectness of joy, as shadows in landscapes are to the charm of the picture. Then, too, comes the fading out of flowers,—each variety in its turn, saying, "Farewell till next summer."
6. Scarcely less suggestive of departing summer are the new-comers, the late summer golden-rod, the asters, and all autumnal flowers. Long experience teaches us that these are the latest blossoms that fall from the sun's lap, and next to them is snow. By association we already see white in the yellow and blue. Then, too, birds are thinking of other things. No more nests, no more young, no more songs,—except signal-notes and rallying-calls; for they are evidently warned, and go about their little remaining daily business, as persons who expect every hour to depart to a distant land.