NOVEMBER. 307 



are in a month of darkness, storms, and mists ; of 

 the whirling away of the withered leaves, and the 

 introduction to complete winter. Rain, hail, and 

 wind chase each other over the fields and amongst 

 the woods in rapid alternations. The flowers are 

 gone; the long grass stands amongst the wood- 

 land thickets withered, bleached and sere ; the fern 

 is red and shrivelled amongst the green gorse 

 and broom ; the plants, which waved their broad 

 white umbels to the summer breeze, like skeleton- 

 trophies of death, rattle their dry and hollow kexes 

 to the autumnal winds. The brooks are brim- 

 ful ; the rivers, turbid and covered with masses of 

 foam, hurry on in angry strength, or pour their 

 waters over the champaign. 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 arid 

 dissipation. To them there is something fright- 

 ful in its solitude; yet, to the reflective 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 his grief; to it the 

 projector of some great work in art or literature 



