Part 12

Now, too, is the time for employing another and an equally fertile and interesting mode of propagation; that by means of offsets, suckers, cuttings, partings, &c. Now, in short, most of the fibrous-rooted perennial plants (regardless of Mr. Malthus's principles of population) put forth more offspring than the ground which they occupy can support; and unless the Government under which they live were to provide them with due means of colonization, they would presently over-run and destroy each other, until the whole kingdom, which now belongs to them jointly, became the exclusive property and possession of some one powerful but worthless family among them: as we see on lands that are left to themselves, and suffered to lie waste: whatever variety of plants may spring up spontaneously upon them during the first season or two, at the end of three or four years all is one unbroken expanse of rank unproductive grass.

It may be a childish pleasure, perhaps, but it is a very unequivocal and a very innocent one, to bid the perennial plants "increase and multiply," and to see how aptly and willingly they obey the mandate. Making plants by this means is a pleasant substitute for making money, to those who have none of the latter to begin with. Indeed I question whether a dozen money-bags, made out of one, ever yet afforded the maker half the real satisfaction that a dozen Daisies have done, multiplied in a similar manner. Not that I can pretend to judge by experience of the comparative merits of these multiplication tables; and I am liberal enough to be willing to give the former a fair trial, on the very first opportunity that offers itself.

But though most of the Garden plants are now busily employed in disseminating themselves by seeds and offsets, many of them are still wearing their merely ornamental attire, and looking about them for admiration as if they were made for nothing else. If the arrangements of the borders have been attended to with a properly prospective eye, they still present us with several of the Amaranths, and particularly the everlasting ones; with some of the finest Dahlias; the great climbing Convolvolus; French and African Marigolds, which have now increased to almost the size of flowering shrubs; Scabious; China-Asters; Golden-rod; the interminable Stocks; and, running about among them all, and flowering almost as profusely and as prettily as ever, sweet-breathing Mignonette.

Among the Shrubs, too, there are still some whose flowers continue to look the coming Winter in the face. In particular, the Arbutus is in all its beauty,--hanging forth, like the Orange, its flowers, fruit, and leaves, all at once. The Ivy, too, is covered with its unassuming blossoms, which are as rich in honey as they are poor in show, and are rifled of their sweets by the all-wooing bees, with even more avidity than the fantastical Passion-flower, or the flaunting Rose.

It is a little singular that the most gorgeous show which the Garden presents during the whole year should occur at this late period of the season, and without the intervention of flowers. I allude to the splendid foliage of the Great Virginian Creeper, which may now be seen hanging out its scarlet banners against some high battlement, or wreathing them into gay and graceful tapestry about the mouldering walls of some old watch-tower, or, still more appropriately, fringing and festooning the embayed windows of some secluded building, sacred to the silence of study and contemplation. If I remember rightly, some beautiful examples of it, under the latter character, may be seen in two or three of the inner quadrangles both of Oxford and Cambridge.

Finally, now, that at once wildest and tamest of birds, most social and most solitary, the Robin, first begins to place its trust in man; flitting about the feet of the Gardener, as he turns up the freshened earth, and taking its food almost from the spade as it moves in his hand; or standing at a little distance from him among the fallen leaves, and singing plaintively, as if practising beforehand the dirge of the departing year.

* * * * *

October is to London what April is to the Country; it is the Spring of the London Summer, when the hopes of the shopkeeper begin to bud forth, and he lays aside the insupportable labour of having nothing to do, for the delightful leisure of preparing to be in a perpetual bustle. During the last month or two he has been strenuously endeavouring to persuade himself that the Steyne at Brighton is as healthy as Bond-street; the _pavé_ of Pall Mall no more picturesque than the Pantiles of Tunbridge Wells; and winning a prize at one-card-loo at Margate as piquant a process as serving a customer to the same amount of profit. But now that the time is returned when "business" must again be attended to, he discards with contempt all such mischievous heresies, and re-embraces the only orthodox faith of a London shopkeeper--that London and his shop are the true "beauteous and sublime" of human life. In fact, "now is the winter of his discontent" (that is to say, what other people call Summer) "made glorious Summer" by the near approach of Winter; and all the wit he is master of is put in requisition, to devise the means of proving that every thing he has offered to "his friends the public," up to this particular period, has become worse than obsolete. Accordingly, now are those poets of the shopkeepers, the investors of patterns, "perplexed in the extreme;" since, unless they can produce a something which shall necessarily supersede all their previous productions, their occupation's gone.

It is the same with all other caterers for the public taste; even the literary ones. Mr. Elliston, "ever anxious to contribute to the amusement of his liberal patrons, the public," is already busied in sowing the seeds of a New Tragedy, two Operatic Romances, three Grand Romantic Melodrames, and half a dozen Farces, in the fertile soil of those _poets_ whom he employs in each of these departments respectively; while each of the London publishers is projecting a new "periodical," to appear on the first of January next; that which he started on the first of _last_ January having, of course, died of old age ere this!

As to the external appearance of London this month, the East End of it shows symptoms of reviving animation, after the two months' trance which the absence of its citizens had cast over it; and Cheapside, though it cannot boast of being absolutely impassable, is sufficiently crowded to create hopes in its inhabitants that it soon will be.

But the West End is as melancholy as the want of that which ever makes it otherwise can render it: for the fashionables, though it is more than a month since they retired from the fatiguing activity of a London Winter in July, to the still more fatiguing repose of an October Summer in the Country, pertinaciously refuse themselves permission to return to the lesser evil of the two, till they have partaken of the greater to such a degree of repletion as to make them fancy, when the former is on the point of being restored to them, that it is none at all; thus making each re-act upon the other, until, to their enfeebled and diseased imaginations, "nothing is but what is not;" and being in London, they sigh for the Country; and in the Country, for London.

But has London no one positive merit in October, then? Yes; one it has, which half redeems all its delinquencies. In October, Fires have fairly gained possession of their places, and even greet us on coming down to breakfast in the morning. Of all the discomforts of that most comfortless period of the London year which is neither winter nor summer, the most unequivocal is that of its being too cold to be without a fire, and not cold enough to have one. At a season of this kind, to enter an English sitting-room, the very ideal of snugness and comfort in all other respects, but with a great gaping hiatus in one side of it, which makes it look like a pleasant face deprived of its best feature, is not to be thought of without feeling chilly. And as to filling up the deficiency by a set of polished fire-irons, standing sentry beside a pile of dead coals imprisoned behind a row of glittering bars,--this, instead of mending the matter, makes it worse; inasmuch as it is better to look into an empty coffin, than to see the dead face of a friend in it. At the season in question, especially in the evening, one feels in a perpetual perplexity, whether to go out or stay at home; sit down or walk about; read, write, cast accounts, or call for the candle and go to bed. But let the fire be lighted, and all uncertainty is at an end, and we (or even _one_) may do any or all of these with equal satisfaction. In short, light but the fire, and you bring the Winter in at once; and what are twenty Summers, with all their sunshine (when they are gone), to one Winter, with its indoor sunshine of a sea-coal fire?

Henceforth, then, be Winter my theme; and if I do not grow warm in its praise, it shall not be for want of inditing that praise beside as pleasant a fire as nubbly Wall's Ends, a register-stove (not a Cobbett's-Register one, I am sorry to say[4]), and a slim-pointed poker, can produce.

[4] I modestly propose, that the stoves lately introduced by Mr. Cobbett, and recommended in his Register, be henceforth known by no other than the above style and title:--Cobbett's-Register Stoves. And if they are, it shall never be said that, anonymous as I am, I have lived or written in vain; for the next best thing to _having_ a name, is the being able to _give_ one, even to a fire-place. Let me add, for fear of being taxed with that meanest of all our mental propensities, the habit of joking at the expense of justice, that I offer the proposed name as any thing but a "nick" one. In fact, nothing but that change of climate which the Quarterly Reviewers have promised us can prevent Mr. Cobbett's stoves from one day or other gaining him almost as sure a passport to immortality, as any other of his works.

NOVEMBER.

Of the twin maxims, which bid us to "Welcome the coming, speed the going guest," the latter is better appreciated than practised. The over refinements of modern life make people afraid of giving in to it, who yet feel it to be an excellent one. The truth is, that when a guest, of no matter how agreeable a presence, or how attractive an air, has made up his mind to go, the sooner he goes the better. Let him go at once, therefore. Do not press him to stay, or detain him at the door, but "speed" him on his way. It is best for both parties, if they like each other. When, indeed, an unpleasant intruder is about to depart, there is a kind of satisfaction in detaining him a little. We dally with the prospective pleasure of having him gone, till we forget that he is present. But when those we love are leaving us, the best way is, to wink, and part at once; for to be "going" is even worse than to be "gone."

Thus let it be, then, with that delightful annual guest, the Summer (under the agreeable alias of Autumn), in whose presence we have lately been luxuriating. We might perhaps, by a little gentle violence, prevail upon her to stay with us for a brief space longer; or might at least prevail upon ourselves to believe that she is not quite gone. But we shall do better by speeding her on her way to other climes, and welcoming "the coming guest," gray-haired Winter. So be it, then.

The last storm of Autumn, or the first of Winter, call it which you will, has strewed the bosom of the all-receiving earth with the few leaves that were still clinging, though dead, to the already sapless branches; and now all stand bare at once,--spreading out their innumerable ramifications against the cold, gray sky, as if sketched there for a study, by the pencil of your only successful drawing-mistress--Nature. Of all the numerous changes that are perpetually taking place in the general appearance of rural scenery during the year, there is none so striking as this which is attendant on the falling of the leaves; and there is none in which the unpleasing effects so greatly predominate over the pleasing ones. To say truth, a Grove, denuded of its late gorgeous attire, and instead of bowing majestically before the winds, standing erect and motionless while they are blowing through it, is "a sorry sight," and one upon which we will not dwell. But even this sad consequence of the coming on of Winter, sad in most of its mere visible effects, is not entirely without redeeming accompaniments; for in most cases it lays open to our view objects that we are glad to see again, if it be but in virtue of their association with past years; and in many cases it opens vistas into sweet distances that we had almost forgotten, and brings into view objects that we may have been sighing for the sight of all the Summer long. Suppose, for example, that the summer view from the windows of a favourite sleeping-room is bounded by a screen of shrubs, shelving upward from the turf, and terminating in a little copse of Limes, Beeches, and Sycamores--the prettiest boundary that can greet the morning glance, when the shutters are opened, and the Sun slants gaily in at them, as if glad to be again admitted. How pleasant is it,--when, as now, the winds of Winter have stripped the branches that thus bound our view in,--to spy beyond them, as if through net-work, the sky-pointing spire of the distant village church, rising from behind the old Yew-tree that darkens its portal; and the trim parsonage beside it, its ivy-grown windows glittering perhaps in the early sun! Oh--none, but those who _will_ see the good that is in everything, know how very few evils there are without some of it attendant on them.

But though the least pleasant sight connected with the coming on of Winter in this month is, to see the leaves, that have so gladdened the groves all the Summer long, falling everywhere around us, withered and dead,--that sight is accompanied by another which is too often overlooked. Though most of the leaves fall in Winter, and the stems and branches which they beautified stand bare, many of them remain all the year round, and look brighter and fresher now than they did in Spring, in virtue of the contrasts that are everywhere about them. Indeed the cultivation of Evergreens has become so general with us of late years, that the home enclosures about our country dwellings, from the proudest down to even the poorest, are seldom to be seen without a plentiful supply, which we now, in this month, first begin to observe, and acknowledge the value of. It must be a poor plot of garden-ground indeed that does not now boast its clumps of Winter-blowing Laurestinus; its trim Holly-bushes, bright with their scarlet berries; or its tall Spruce Firs, shooting up their pyramid of feathery branches beside the low, ivy-grown porch.

Of this last-named profuse ornamenter of whatever is permitted to afford it support (the Ivy), we now too everywhere perceive the beautifully picturesque effects: though there is one effect of it, also perceived about this time, which I cannot persuade myself to be reconciled to: I mean where the trunk of a tall tree is bound about with Ivy almost to its top, which during the Summer has scarcely been distinguished as a separate growth, but which now, when the other leaves are fallen, and the outspread branches stand bare, offers to the eye, not a contrast, but a contradiction.

But let us not dwell on any thing in disfavour of Ivy,--which is one of the prime boasts of the village scenery of our island, and which, even at this season of the year, offers pictures to the eye that cannot be paralleled elsewhere. Perhaps as a single object of sight, there is nothing which gives so much innocent pleasure to so many persons, as an English Village Church, when the Ivy has held undisputed possession of it for many years, and has hung its fantastic banners all about it. There is a charm about an object of this kind, which it is as difficult to resist as to explain the secret of. _We_ will attempt neither; but instead, continue our desultory observations.

Now, as the branches become bare, another sight presents itself, which, trifling as it is, fixes the attention of all who see it, and causes a sensation equally difficult with the above satisfactorily to explain. I mean the Birds' nests that are seen here and there in the now transparent hedges, bushes, and copses. It is not difficult to conceive why this sight should make the heart of the schoolboy leap with an imaginative joy, as it brings before his eyes visions of five blue eggs lying sweetly beside each other, on a bed of moss and feathers; or as many gaping bills lifting themselves from out what seems one callow body. But we are, unhappily, not all schoolboys; and it is to be hoped not many of us ever _have been_ bird-nesting ones. And yet we all look upon this sight with a momentary interest, that few other so indifferent objects are capable of exciting. The wise may condescend to explain this interest, if they please, or if they can. But if they do, it will be for their own satisfaction, not ours, who are content to be pleased, without insisting on penetrating into the cause of our pleasure.

Now, the felling of Wood for the winter store commences; and, in a mild still day, the measured strokes of the Woodman's axe, heard far away in the thick Forest, bring with their sound an associated feeling, similar to that produced by a wreath of smoke rising from out the same scene: they tell us a tale of

"Uncertain dwellers in the pathless Woods."

The "busy flail," too, which is now in full employment, fills the air about the homestead with a pleasant sound, and invites the passer by to look in at the great open doors of the Barn, and see the Wheatstack reaching to the roof on either hand; the little pyramid of bright Grain behind the Threshers; the scattered ears between them, leaping and rustling beneath their fast-falling strokes; and the flail itself flying harmless round the Labourers' heads, though seeming to threaten danger at every turn; while, outside, the flock of "barn-door" Poultry ply their ceaseless search for food, among the knee-deep straw; and the Cattle, all their summer frolics forgotten, stand ruminating beside the half-empty Hay-rack, or lean with inquiring faces over the gate that looks down into the Village, or away towards the distant Pastures.

Of the Birds that have hitherto made merry even at the approach of Winter, now all are silent; all save that one who now earns his title of "the Household Bird," by haunting the thresholds and window-cills, and casting sidelong glances indoors, as if to reconnoitre the positions of all within, before the pinching frosts force him to lay aside his fears, and flit in and out silently, like a winged spirit. All are now silent except him; but _he_, as he sits on the pointed palings beside the doorway, or on the topmost twig of the little Black Thorn that has been left growing in the otherwise closely-clipt Hedge, pipes plaintive ditties with a low _inward_ voice,--like that of a love-tainted maiden, as she sits apart from her companions, and sings soft melodies to herself, almost without knowing it.

Some of the other small Birds that winter with us, but have hitherto kept aloof from our dwellings, now approach them, and mope about among the House-sparrows, on the bare branches, wondering what has become of all the leaves, and not knowing one tree from another. Of these the chief are, the Hedge-sparrow, the Blue Titmouse, and the Linnet. These also, together with the Goldfinch, Thrush, Blackbird, &c. may still be seen rifling the hip and haw grown hedges of their scanty fruit. Almost all, however, even of those Singing-birds that do not migrate, except the Redbreast, Wren, Hedge-sparrow, and Titmouse, disappear shortly after the commencement of this month, and go no one knows whither. But the pert House-sparrow keeps possession of the Garden and Court-yard all the Winter; and the different species of Wagtails may be seen busily haunting the clear cold Spring-heads, and wading into the unfrozen water in search of their delicate food, consisting of insects in the _aurelia_ state.

Now, the Farmer finishes all his out-of-door work before the frosts set in, and lays by his implements till the awakening of Spring calls him to his hand-labour again.

Now, the Sheep, all their other more natural food failing, begin to be penned on patches of the Turnip-field, where they first devour the green tops joyfully, and then gradually hollow out the juicy root,--holding it firm with their feet, till nothing is left but the dry brown husk.

Now, the Herds stand all day long hanging their disconsolate heads beside the leafless Hedges, and waiting as anxiously, but as patiently too, to be called home to the hay-fed Stall, as they do in Summer to be driven afield.

Now, (for they will not be overlooked or forgotten, do what we will to dwell on other things), now come the true disagreeables of a Winter in the Country; and perhaps at no other time are they so determinate in making themselves felt, or is it so difficult to escape from them. And yet what are they after all, (_i. e._ after they are over) but wholesome bitters thrown occasionally into the cup of life, to keep the appetite in health, and give a true tone to those powers of enjoyment, upon which the luxuries of Summer would pall, if they were not frequently to pass away in fact, and exist only in fancy? We may talk as much as we will about the perpetual blue skies of Southern Italy, and enjoy them, if we please, in imagination. And we may even _wish_ for them here, without any great harm, provided we are content to do without them. But no Englishman, who was at once a lover of external Nature, and an attentive observer of her effects on his own heart and mind, ever, by absolute choice, determined to live away from his own variable climate, even _before_ he had tried that of other countries, still less after. Even if there were nothing else to keep him at home, he would never consent to part with the perpetual _green_ of his native Fields, in exchange for that perpetual _blue_ with which it cannot coexist: and this, if for no other reason, because green is naturally a more grateful colour to the eye than blue. But, in fact, to those who have the means of enjoying all that England has the means of offering for enjoyment, its climate is the best in the world; and it is even that which, upon the whole, gives rise to the greatest number of beautiful natural appearances. We boast, not without reason, of our unrivalled skill in gardening, and our taste in taking advantage of the natural beauties of picturesque scenery. But we claim too much credit for ourselves, and give too little to our climate, for the creation of this taste. If we had lived under Italian or French skies, our Gardens and Pleasure-grounds would have been Italian or French. Where can the Sunsets and Sunrisings of England be equalled in various beauty? But that beauty depends, in a great measure, on her mists, clouds, and exhalations. The countries of clear skies and unbroken sunshine scarcely know what a Rainbow is: and yet what pageant of the earth, the air, or the water, is like it? In short, the climate of England, like her people, is the best in the world; and what is more, the latter are the best precisely _because_ the former is. And that this can be said with perfect sincerity, in the heart of the country during the heart of November, is a proof, not to be gainsaid, that the joint proposition is true.