NOVEMB E R. 



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

 shine by the cloud that comtth betwixt. 



Job xxxvi, 32. 



" 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 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 sur- 

 rounded 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 



