NOVEMBER. 



With clouds he covereth the light ; and commandeth it not to shine 

 by the cloud that cometh betwixt. 



JOB xxxvi. 32. 



" AUTUMN is dark on the mountains ; gray 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 quotation from a bard who, more 

 than all others, abounds in that wild and sombre 

 imagery congenial 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 delights woods, 

 green fields, sweet songs, and all the pleasantness of 

 flowers, breezes, and sunshine, which tempt me to 

 loiter among them : but in the autumnal and wintry 

 months, I habitually cast my eyes upon a small 



