Transcriber's Note: I have closed contractions in the text, e.g., "didn't" becoming "didn't" for example; I have also added the missingperiod after "caress" in line 11 of page 61, and have changed "ever" to"over" in line 16 of page 121.
Our August life rushes by, in Oldport, as if we were all shot from themouth of a cannon, and were endeavoring to exchange visiting-cards onthe way. But in September, when the great hotels are closed, and thebronze dogs that guarded the portals of the Ocean House are collectedsadly in the music pavilion, nose to nose; when the last four-in-handhas departed, and a man may drive a solitary horse on the avenuewithout a pang,—then we know that "the season" is over. Winter is yetseveral months away,—months of the most delicious autumn weather thatthe American climate holds. But to the human bird of passage all thatis not summer is winter; and those who seek Oldport most eagerly fortwo months are often those who regard it as uninhabitable for the otherten.
The Persian poet Saadi says that in a certain region of Armenia, wherehe travelled, people never died the natural death. But once a year theymet on a certain plain, and occupied themselves with recreation, in themidst of which individuals of every rank and age would suddenly stop,make a reverence to the west, and, setting out at full speed towardthat part of the desert, be seen no more. It is quite in this fashionthat guests disappear from Oldport when the season ends. They also areapt to go toward the west, but by steamboat. It is pathetic, onoccasion of each annual bereavement, to observe the wonted looks andlanguage of despair among those who linger behind; and it needs somefortitude to think of spending the winter near such a Wharf of Sighs.
But we console ourselves. Each season brings its own attractions. Insummer one may relish what is new in Oldport, as the liveries, theincomes, the manners. There is often a delicious freshness about theseexhibitions;