NOVEMBER. 371 



red and shrivelled amongst the green gorse and 

 broom; the plants, which waved their broad, 

 white umbels to the summer breeze, like ske- 

 leton-trophies of death, rattle their dry and 

 hollow kexes to the, autumnal winds. The 

 brooks are brimful ; the rivers turbid, and co- 

 vered with masses of foam, hurry on in angry 

 strength, or pour their waters over the cham- 

 pain. Our very gardens are sad, damp, and 

 desolate. Their floral splendours are dead; 

 naked stems and decaying leaves have taken 

 the place of verdure. The walks are unkempt 

 and uninviting; and as these summer friends 

 of ours are no longer affluent and of flourishing 

 estate, we, of course, desert them. 



The country presents, in its silence and 

 gloom, a ghastly scene to those accustomed to 

 towns and dissipation. To them there is some- 

 thing frightful in its solitude ; yet, to the re- 

 flective mind it is, and has been at all times 

 grateful. In its sternest moods, it presents 

 solemn thoughts, and awakens solemn feelings. 

 Great and philosophic minds have in all ages 

 borne but one testimony to the charms of its 

 quietude. In its profound repose the mourner 

 seeks to indulge the passion of grief; to it the 



