NOVEMBER. 



" AUTUMN is dark on the mountains ; grey 

 mist rests on the hills. The whirlwind is heard 

 on the heath. Dark rolls the river through 

 the narrow plain. The leaves whirl round 

 with the wind, and strew the grave of the 

 dead/' I commence this month with a quo- 

 tation from a bard, who, more than all others, 

 abounds in that wild and sombre imagery con- 

 genial to the season. Ossian is a book to be 

 read amid the gloomy silence, or the loud, 

 gusty winds of November. There is an ancient 

 dwelling, in a sylvan and out-of-the-world 

 part of the country, which I frequent about as 

 often as there are months in the year. In the 

 summer it is surrounded by out-of-doors de- 

 lights, woods, green fields, sweet songs, and all 

 the pleasantnesses of flowers, breezes, and sun- 

 shine, which tempt me to loiter among them ; 



