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Friday, 24 October, 1828

Mornings begin to feel rather northernish and indicate an overcoat as necessary for pleasant riding. The leaves are falling to the ground and the melancholy season is now at hand; the winds begin to send forth a hollow and deathlike moan as they pass through the few naked trees scattered through the woods. Indeed my feelings partake largely in the representations of nature, and all my reflections are mournful and melancholy. Even the endearing thoughts of a home can scarcely enliven them, or the presence of H., who to me seems all in all. But stop, pause and reflect again, before you venture on unknown scenes.