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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; 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 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 recess, filled with books, and, amongst

them, upon Ossian ; and if I remember any hours of peculiar enjoyment, I do those thus occupied. The days and feelings of my boyhood are at once brought back again. I connect the scenes and the heroes of the "Voice of Cona" in some mysterious manner with the memory of those with whom I was wont to admire them; and am snatched from a world of cold calculation and selfishness, in which we all too willingly participate, to one of glory and generosity. We are often asked wherein consists the peculiar charm of Ossian. It is in the graceful delicacy and refined affection of his female characters; the reckless bravery, lofty sentiment, and generous warmth of his warriors, and the wildness of the scenery in which they dwell. We are delighted to find his lovely and noble beings on their rude heaths, or in their rude halls, exhibiting a poetical refinement of mind far transcending the tone of modern society, with all the beautiful set-off of the simplicity of ancient manners. And then, what a pathos is in their sorrows! The harp of Ossian is truly a " harp of sorrow." It breathes perpetually of melancholy tenderness. It is the voice of age lamenting over departed gloryover beauty and strength cut down in their prime; and it comes to us from the dimness of antiquity, and from a land of hills and woods,

of mists and meteors,-from the heath of mossy and grey stones, the roaring of mountainstreams, 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, modern fiction? What then? If so, it is one of the pleasantest 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; but 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

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