Part 10

But, enough of philosophy--even of that which is intended to cure us of philosophizing. Let us get into the air and the sunshine again; which can bid us be happy in spite of all philosophy, and _will_ be obeyed even by philosophers themselves,--who have long since found that they have no resource left against those enemies to their art, but to fly their presence, and shut themselves up in schools and studies.

The Swift, whose strange flight has for a moment led us astray from our course, is the only one of its tribe that has yet made any preparations towards departure: though the young broods of House-swallows and House-martins are evidently _thinking_ of it, and congregating together in great flocks, about the tops of old towers and belfries, to talk the matter over, and wonder with one another what will happen to them in their projected travels--if they _do_ travel. Their parents, however, who are to lead them, are still employed in increasing their company, and have just now brought out their second broods into the open air.

Now, on warm still evenings, we may sometimes see the whole air about us speckled with another class of emigrants, who are not usually regarded as such; namely, the flying Ants, whom their own offspring, or their inclinations (for it is uncertain which), have expelled from their birth-place, to found new colonies, and find new habitations, where they can. It is a ticklish task to make people more knowing than they wish to be, and one which, even if I were qualified for the office, I should be very shy of undertaking. But when a race of comparatively foolish and improvident little creatures have for ages enjoyed the credit of being proverbial patterns of wisdom, prudence, and forethought, I cannot refuse to assist in dispelling the delusion. Be it known, then, to the elderly namesakes of the above, that when they bid their little nephews and nieces "go to the Ant, and consider its ways," they can scarcely offer them advice less likely to end, if followed, in teaching them to "be wise:" for, in fact, one of those "ways" is, to sleep ("sluggards" as they are!) all the winter through; another is, never to lay up a single morsel of store even for a day, much less for a whole year, as has been reported of them; and a third is, to do what they are in fact doing at this very moment--namely, to come out in myriads from their homes, and fill the air with that food (themselves) which serves to fatten the _really_ wise, prudent, and industrious Swallows and Martins, who are skimming through the air delightedly in search of it. It is true, the Ants are active enough in providing for their immediate wants, and artful enough in overcoming any obstacles to their immediate pleasures. But all this, and more, the _other_ Aunts, who hold them up as patterns, will find their little pupils sufficiently expert in, without any assistance.

Now, we may observe that pretty pair of rural pictures (not, however, _peculiar_ to this month); first, when the numerous Flock is driven to fold, as the day declines,--its scattered members converging towards a point as they enter the narrow opening of their nightly enclosure, which they gradually fill and settle into, as a shallow stream runs into a bed that has been prepared for it, and there settles into a still pool.--And again, in the early morning, when the slender barrier that confines them is removed, they crowd and hurry out at it,--gently intercepting each other; and as they get free, pour forth their white fleeces over the open field, as a lake that has broken its bank pours its waters over the adjoining land: in each case, the bells and meek voices of the patient people making music as they move, and the Shepherd standing carelessly by (leaning on his crook, even as shepherds did in Arcady itself!) and leaving the care of all to his half-reasoning dog.

As I have again got my pencil in hand, instead of my pen, let me not forget to sketch a copy of that other pretty picture, at once so still and yet so lively, which may be had this month for the price of looking at, and than which Paul Potter himself could not have presented us with a sweeter: and indeed, but that he was a mere imitator of Nature, one might almost swear it to be his, not hers.--Fore-ground: on one side, a little shallow pond, with two or three pollard willows stooping over it; and on the other a low bank, before which stand as many more pollard willows, with round trim heads set formally on their straight pillar-like stems: between all these, the sunshine lying in bright streaks on the green ground, and made distinguishable by the straight shadows thrown by the thick stems of the trees. Middle distance: a moist meadow, level as a line, and on it half a dozen cattle; three lying at their ease, and "chewing the cud of sweet" (not "bitter") herbage--two cropping the same--and one lifting up its grave matronly face, and lowing out into the side distance; while, about the legs of all of them, a little flock of Wagtails are glancing in and out merrily, picking up their delicate meal of invisible insects; and upon the very back of one of the ruminators, a pert Magpie has perched himself. Of the extreme distance, half is occupied by dim-seen willows, of the same stunted growth with those in front; and the rest shows indistinctly, and half hidden by trees, a little village,--its church spire pointing its silent finger straight upward, as if bidding us look at a sky scarcely less calm and sweet than the scene which it canopies.--How says the connoisseur? Is this a picture of Paul Potter's, or of Nature? But no matter,--for they are almost the same. There is only just enough difference between them to make us feel (as the possessor of twin children does) that we are blessed with _two_ instead of _one_.

In the Plantation and Flower-garden we must hardly expect to find much of novelty, after the profusion of last month. And in fact there are very few flowers the first appearance of which can be said to be absolutely _peculiar_ to this month; most of those hitherto unnamed choosing to be the medium of a pleasant interchange between the two months, according as seasons, and circumstances of soil and planting, may dispose them. It must be admitted, however (though I am very loth, even by implication, to dissever this month from absolute summer), that many of the flowers which do come forward now are _autumn_ ones. Conspicuous among those which first appear in this month, is the stately Holyoak; a plant whose pretensions are not so generally admitted as they ought to be, probably on account of its having, by some strange accident, lost its character for _gentility_. Has this (in the present day) dire misfortune happened to it, because it condescends to flower in as much splendour and variety when leaning beside low cottage porches, or spiring over broken and lichen-grown palings, as it does in the gardens of the great? I hope not; for then those who contemn it must do the same by the vaunted Rose, and the rich Carnation; for where do _they_ blow better than in the daisy-bordered flower-beds of the poor? The only plausible plea which I can discover, for the reasonableness of banishing from our choice parterres this most magnificent of all their inhabitants, is, that its aspiring and oriental splendour may put to shame the less conspicuous beauties of Flora's court. I hope the latter have not, through envy, been entering into a conspiracy to fix an ill name upon the Holyoak, and thus stir up in the hearts of their admirers a dislike to it, that nothing else is so likely to produce: for, give even a flower "an ill name," and you may as well treat it like a dog at once. In fact, I do not think that any thing short of calling it _ungenteel_ could have displaced the Holyoak from that universal favour with us which it always acquires during our youth, in virtue of its being the only flower that we can distinguish in "garden scenes" on the stage.

As the Holyoak is at present a less _petted_ flower than any other, perhaps the Passion-flower (which blows this month) is, of all those which bear the open air, the most so; and, I must say, with quite as little reason. In fact, its virtue lies in its name; which it owes, however, to its fantastical construction suggesting certain religious associations, and not to any romantic or sentimental ones; which latter, when connected with it, have grown out of its name, and not its name out of them. If, however, it has little that is beautiful and flower-like about it, it has something bizarre and recherchée, which is well worth examining. But we examine it as we would a watch or a compass, and not a flower; which is its great fault. It is to other flowers, what a Blue-stocking is to other women.

Among the other flowers that appear now, the most conspicuous, and most beautiful, is that one of the Campanulas which shoots up from its cluster of low leaves one or more tall straight spires, clustered around from heel to point with brilliant sky-blue stars, crowding as closely to each other as those in the milky way,--till they look like one continuous rod of blue, or like the sky-blue ribbons on the mane of a Lord Mayor's coach-horse. These are the flowers that you see in pots, trained into a fan-like shape, till they cover, with their brilliant galaxy of stars, the whole window of the snug parlour where sits at her work the wife of the village apothecary. Of course I speak of a not less distance from town than a long day's journey: any nearer than that, all flowers but exotics have long since been banished from parlour windows, as highly ungenteel.

There are a few other very noticeable flowers, which begin to show themselves to us late in this month; but as they by rights rank among the autumn ones, and as I am not willing to admit that we have as yet arrived even on the confines of that season, I must consider that they have chosen to come before their time, and treat them accordingly.

In the Shrubbery, too, we shall find little of novelty. We will, therefore, at once pass through it, and reach the Orchard and Fruit Garden; merely observing as we go, that the Elder is beginning to cast a tinge of autumnal purple on its profuse berries; that those of the Rowan, or Mountain Ash, are on the point of putting on their scarlet liveries, which they are to wear all the winter; and that the Purple Clematis is heavy with its handsome flowers.

Perhaps the Fruit-Garden is never in a more favourable state for observation than at present; for most of its produce is sufficiently advanced to have put on all its beauty, while but little of it is in a state to disturb: so that there it hangs in the sight of its satisfied owner--at once a promise, and a fulfilment, without the attendant ills of either.

The inferior fruit, indeed (so at least it is reckoned with us, though in the East Indies a plate of Currants is sometimes placed in the centre of the table, as a Pine-apple is here, and holds exactly the same relative value in respect to the rest of the dessert), the Currants and Gooseberries are now in perfection, and those epicures from the nursery, who alone condescend to eat them in their natural state, may now be turned loose among them with impunity. A few of the Apples, too, are now asking to be plucked; namely, the pretty little, tender, and pale-faced Jeannotin (vulgaricè _Gennettin_); the rude-shaped, but firm, sweet, and rosy-cheeked Codling; and the cool, crisp, and refreshing Nonsuch,--eating, when at its best, like a glass of Apple-ice; and with a shape and make which entitles it to be called the very Apollo of Apples.

The Cherries, too, have most of them acquired their "cherry-cheeks," and are looking down temptation

"Unto the white upturned wond'ring eyes Of _school-boys_, that fall back to gaze on them,"

as they hang over the garden-wall, next to the road.

As to the other fruits, they look almost as handsome and inviting as ever they will. But we must be content to let them "enjoy the air they breathe" for a month or so longer, if we expect them to do the same by us.

* * * * *

Of London what shall we say, at this only one of its seasons when it has nothing to say for itself? when even the most immoveable of its citizens become migratory for at least a month, and permit their wives and daughters to play the parts of mermaids on the shores of Margate, while they themselves pore over the evening papers all the morning, and over the morning ones all the evening?--when 'Change Alley makes a transfer of half its (live) stock every Saturday to the Steine at Brighton, to be returnable by Snow's coaches on Monday morning?--nay, when even the lawyers' clerks themselves begin to grow romantic, and, neglecting their accustomed evening haunts at the Cock in Fleet-street, Offley's, and the Cider Cellar, permit themselves to be steamed down from Billingsgate to Broadstairs, where they meditate moonlight sonnets to their absent Seraphinas (not without an eye to half-a-guinea each in the magazines), beginning with "Oh, come unto these yellow sands!"

What _can_ be said of the Town at a time like this? The truth is, I am not disposed to quarrel with London (any more than I am with my "bread and butter," and for a similar reason) at any season; so that the less I say or think of it now the better. Suffice it, that London in August is a species of nonentity, to all but those amateur architects who "go partnerships" in candle-lit grottos at the corners of courts. But, _en revanche_, it is to them a month that, like May to the chimney-sweepers, "only comes once a year."

SEPTEMBER.

I am sorry to mention it, but the truth must be told, even in a matter of age. The Year, then, is on the wane. It is "declining into the vale" of months. It has reached "a certain age." Its _bloom_ (that indescribable something which surpasses and supersedes all mere beauty) is fled, and with it all its pretensions to be regarded as an object of passionate admiration.

A truce, then, to our treatment of the Months as mistresses. But let us henceforth look upon them as the next best thing, as dear and devoted friends: for

"Turn wheresoe'er we may, By night or day, The things which we have seen we now can see no more."

'Tis true that still

"The Rainbow comes and goes,

* * *

The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth;-- But yet we know, where'er we go, That there hath passed away a glory from the Earth."

Let me be permitted to make use of a few more words from the same poem; for by no others can I hope so well to kindle in the reader, that feeling with which I would fain have him possessed, on the advent of this still delightful season of the year, if it be but received and enjoyed in the spirit in which it comes to us.

"What," then----

"What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from our sight-- Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not--rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which, having been, must ever be;

* * * *

In the faith that looks through death; In thoughts that bring the philosophic mind."

I cannot choose but continue this strain a little longer; and I suppose my readers will be the last persons to complain of my doing so; it is the poet alone who will have cause to object to his meanings throughout, and in one or two instances his words, being diverted from their original purpose, but I hope not degraded in their application, nor disenchanted of their power.

"And oh! ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Think not of any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might.

* * * *

The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That watches o'er the Year's mortality.

* * * *

Thanks to the human heart by which we live; Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears; To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."

Reader, this is said by the greatest poet of our age, and one of the deepest, wisest, and most virtuous of her philosophic sages. And it is said by him even in the sense in which it is here applied, _now that it has been once so applied_: for much of his words have this in common with those of Shakspeare, that you may turn them to an almost equally apt and good account in many different ways, besides those in which they were at first directed. Let them be received, then, in the spirit in which they are here uttered, and we shall be able and entitled to continue our task, of following the year through its vicissitudes, and still (as we began it) "pursue our course to the end, rejoicing."

The youth of the year is gone, then. Even the vigour and lustihood of its maturity are quick passing away. It has reached the summit of the hill, and is not only looking, but descending, into the valley below. But, unlike that into which the life of man declines, _this_ is not a vale of tears; still less does it, like that, lead to that inevitable bourne, the Kingdom of the Grave. For though it may be called (I hope without the semblance of profanation) "The Valley of the _Shadow_ of Death," yet of Death itself it knows nothing. No--the year steps onward towards its temporary decay, if not so rejoicingly, even more majestically and gracefully, than it does towards its revivification. And if September is not so bright with promise and so buoyant with hope as May, it is even more embued with that spirit of serene repose, in which the only true, because the only continuous enjoyment consists. Spring "never _is_, but always _to be_ blest;" but September is the month of consummations--the fulfiller of all promises--the fruition of all hopes--the era of all completeness. Let us then turn at once to gaze on, and partake in, its manifold beauties and blessings, not let them pass us by, with the empty salutation of mere praise; for the only panegyric that is acceptable to Nature is that just appreciation of her gifts which consists in the full enjoyment of them.

Supposing ourselves, as usual, in the middle of the month, we shall find the seed Harvests quite completed, and even the ground on which they stood appearing under an entirely new aspect,--the Plough having opened, or being now in the act of opening, its fragrant breast, and exposing it for a while to the genial influence of the sun and air, before it is again called upon to perform its never-failing functions.

There are other Harvests, however, which are still to be gathered in; in particular, that most elegant and picturesque of all with which this country is acquainted, and which may also be considered as _peculiar_ to this country, upon any thing like a great scale: I mean the Hop Harvest. In the few counties in which this plant is cultivated, we are now presented with the nearest semblance we can boast, of the Vintages of Italy and Spain.

The Apple Harvest, too, of the Cider counties takes place this month; and though I must not represent it as very fertile in the elegant and picturesque, let me not neglect to do justice to its produce, as the only one deserving the name of British Wine; all other so-called liquors being, the reader may rest assured, worse than poisons, in the exact proportion that specious hypocrites are worse than open, bold-faced villains.

I hope the good housewives of my country (the only country in the world which produces the breed) need not be told, that, in thus placarding the impostor above-named, I have not the slightest thought of hurting the high reputation of her immaculate "home-made," which she so generously brings out from the bottom division of her shining beaufet, and presses (somewhat importunately) on every morning comer. She shall never have to ask me twice to taste even a second glass of it, always provided she calls it by its true and trustworthy name of "home-made"--to which, in _my_ vocabulary, Montepulciano itself must yield the pas. But if, bitten perhaps by some London Bagman, she happen to have contracted an affection for fine phrases, and chooses to call her cordial by the style and title of "_British wine_"--away with it, for me! I would not touch it,

"Though 'twere a draught for Juno when she banquets."

In fact, she might as well call it _Cape_ at once!

The truth is, I once, to oblige an elderly lady at Hackney, _did_ taste two glasses of "British wine" at a sitting; and my stomach has had a load (of sugar of lead) upon its conscience ever since.

It must be confessed, that the general face of the country has undergone a very material change for the worse since we left it last month; and none of its individual features, with the exception of the Woods and Groves, have improved in their appearance. The Fields are for the most part bare, and either black and arid with the remains of the Harvest that has been gathered from them, or at best but newly furrowed by the plough. The ever green Meadows are indeed still beautiful, and the more so for the Cattle that now stud them almost every where; the second crops of grass being long since off. The Hedge-rows, too, have lost much of their sweet tapestry of flowers, and even their late many-tinted greens are sobered down into one dull monotonous hue. And the berries and other wild fruits that the latter part of the season produces, do not vary this hue,--having none of them as yet assumed the colours of their maturity. It is true the Woodbine again flings up, here and there, its bunches of pale flowers, after having ceased to do so for many weeks. But they have no longer the rich luxuriance of their Spring bloom, nor even the delicious scent which belonged to them when the vigour of youth was upon them. They are the pale and feeble offspring of the declining life of their parent.

It follows, from this general absence of wild flowers, that we are now no longer greeted, on our morning or evening wanderings, by those exquisite odours that float about upon the wings of every Summer wind, and come upon the captivated sense like strains of unseen music.

Even the Summer birds, both songsters and others, begin to leave us--urged thereto by a prophetic instinct, that will not be disobeyed: for if they were to consult their _feelings_ merely, there is no season at which the temperature of our climate is more delightfully adapted to their pleasures and their wants.

But let it not be supposed that we have nothing to compensate for all these losses. The Woods and Groves, those grandest and most striking among the general features of the country, are now, towards the end of the month, beginning to put on their richest looks. The Firs are gradually darkening towards their winter blackness; the Oaks, Limes, Poplars, and Horse-chestnuts, still retain their darkest summer green; the Elms and Beeches are changing to that bright yellow which produces, at a distance, the effect of patches of sunshine; and the Sycamores are beginning, here and there, to assume a brilliant warmth of hue almost amounting to scarlet. The distant effect, therefore, of a great company of all these seen together, and intermingled with each other, is finer than it has hitherto been, though not equal in beauty and variety to what it will be about the same time next month.