of mountain-streams, the blasted tree, the withered leaves, and the thistle’s beard, that flies on the wind of 
autumn. Am I told that it is merely a pleasant, modem fiction ? What then ? If so, it is one of the plea- 
santest fictions that ever were wrought ; and the man who made it, one of the happiest geniuses. For years 
did he toil to acquire the art and the name of a poet ; hut in vain. His conceptions were meagre, his style 
monotonous and common-place ; and through the multitude of verses which he has left, we look in vain for 
aught which might justify the manufacture of them : but, in a happy hour, he burst at once into a most 
original style of poetry — into a language which shows not symptoms of feeling, but melts and glows with it 
into poetic imagery ; which is not scattered sparingly and painfully, but with a full, a free, and an unwearied 
hand. If this be true, it is wonderful; but I shall choose not to believe it true. I shall choose to 
think of Ossian as the ancient and veritable bard, and Macpherson as the fortunate fellow who found his 
scattered lays, and who perhaps added links and amendments (to use the word in a parliamentary sense) of 
his own. Whatever be the opinion of fickle fashion, it is a book pre-eminently fitted for the November 
fire-side ; unrivalled in graphic touches which bring the character of the season before you, and serve to 
touch the heart with an unworldly tenderness, — a boon of no little consequence in these money-getting and 
artificial days. We have not the Alpine glooms and lonely majesty of Ossian’s hilly land ; but we are now 
surrounded by precisely the melancholy images in which he delights. We 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 alterations. The 
flowers are gone ; the long grass stands amongst the woodland 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 brimful; 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 and 
dissipation. To them there is something frightful 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 grief ; to it the projector of some great 
work in art or literature flies to mature his labour, and, while hidden from all eyes, to achieve that which 
shall make his name familiar to all ears ; and to the poet, what is more affluent of imaginative stimulus and 
precious suggestions than strolls through wood-walks, mountain-glens, and along wild sea-coasts, at this 
season ? The universal stillness is felt through the whole soul. Every object is exaggerated, and yet re- 
commended to the eye through the media of gloom and mist ; and while the eye, unseconded by mind, 
would discern nothing but dreariness, he finds something congenial to the loftiest moods of his spirit, and is 
often led into strains which, though solemn, are anything but sad. 
Fieldfares and redwings will be generally seen this month. Sometimes they quit their northern regions 
as early as October, if the season be very severe ; but more frequently they make their first appearance here 
in this month. If the weather be mild, they will be heard, as they sit in flocks upon the trees, wai'bling in 
concert very cheerfully in the same manner as before their departure in spring. Fine days will occasionally 
peep out so spring-like, that the sky-larks attempt their flights, and sing merrily ; but, perhaps, the very 
next morning shows a landscape of frost and snow. 
I saw the woods and fields at close of day 
A variegated show; the meadows green, 
Though faded, and the lands where lately waved 
The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, 
Upturned so lately by the peaceful share. 
I saw, far off, the weedy fallow smile 
With verdure not unprofitable, grazed 
By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each 
His favourite herb ; while all the leafless groves 
That skirt the horizon wore a sable hue, 
Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. 
To-morrow brings a change, a total change, 
Which even now, though silently performed, 
And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face 
Of universal nature undergoes. 
Fast falls the fleecy shower ; the downy flakes 
Descending, and with never-ceasing lapse 
Softly alighting upon all below, 
Assimilate all objects. Earth receives 
Gladly the thickening mantle, and the green 
And tender blade, that feared the chilling blast, 
Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil. Cowper. 
The world, says Leigh Hunt, never feels so cheerless, as when it is undergoing mists and fogs. As 
long as there are objects to look at, it is hard if we cannot find something to entertain our thoughts ; but 
when the world itself is shut out from our observation ; when the same mists, that shut it out, come clinging 
round about us with cold; and when we think what the poor are likely to suffer from the approaching 
winter, we seem to feel, not only that we are dreary, but that we ought to be so. 
