Part 13

Perhaps I may now safely return to my duty, of depicting the several unamiable aspects which the face of November is apt to assume; and which, in my lover-like disposition to "see Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt," I had serious thoughts of either passing over altogether, or denying the existence of outright!

Now, then (there is no denying it), cold rains do come deluging down, till the drenched ground, the dripping trees, the pouring eaves, and the torn ragged-skirted clouds, seemingly dragged downward slantwise by the threads of dusky rain that descend from them, are all mingled together in one blind confusion; while the few Cattle that are left in the open Pastures, forgetful of their till now interminable business of feeding, turn their backs upon the besieging storm, and hanging down their heads till their noses almost touch the ground, stand out in the middle of the Fields motionless, like dead images.

Now, too, a single rain-storm, like the above, breaks up all the paths and ways at once, and makes home no longer "home" to those who are not obliged to leave it; while, _en revanche_, it becomes doubly endeared to those who are. What sight, for instance, is so pleasant to the wearied Woodman, who has been out all day long in the drenching rains of this month, as his own distant cottage window, seen through the thickening dusk, lighted up by the blazing faggot that is to greet his sure return at the accustomed minute? What, I say, is so pleasant a sight as this, except the window of the village alehouse, similarly seen, and offering a similar greeting, to him who has _no_ home?

The name of home warns us that we are too long delaying our approach to its environs, even though they have little to offer us different from the comparative desolation that prevails elsewhere.

In short, the Fruits of the Orchard are all gathered in, and all but the keeping ones are gone; and the Flowers of the Garden are gradually growing thinner and thinner, and the places where they lately stood are forgotten.

Still, however, of the former we have the Winter store, laid by in fragrant heaps in the low-roofed loft over the Granary; and of the latter we have yet left some that scatter their till now neglected beauties up and down the half-deserted Parterre, and gain that admiration by their rarity, which in the presence of their more fleeting rivals they were fain to do without; and even a few that have not ventured to show their faces to the hot sun of Summer, but are bold enough to bare them before the chilling winds of Winter. Of these the most various and conspicuous are the Chrysanthemums, shooting out their sharp rays of different lengths, like stars--purple, and pink, and white, and yellow, and blue; but all pale, faint, and scentless, and looking more like artificial flowers than real ones.

Some of the rich Dahlias, too, still remain, unless the killing frosts have come; and the Geraniums, that have been turned out of their winter homes into the open earth, still keep flowering profusely. But a single night's frost makes sad havoc among both these bright ornaments of the Autumn Flower-garden; and what is to-day a rich cluster of green leaves, interspersed with gay groups of flowers, may to-morrow become, by an invisible agency, an unsightly heap of corruption.

* * * * *

London is so perfect an antithesis to the Country in all things, that whatever is good for the one is bad for the other. Accordingly, as the Country half forgets itself this month, so London just begins to know itself again. Not that I would insinuate any thing so injurious to the reputation of the high fashionables, as that they have as yet began to entertain the remotest thought of throwing themselves into the arms of one another, merely because they have become wearied of themselves. On the contrary, persons of fashion are perpetual martyrs to the selfdenying principles on which they act, of doing every thing for or with a reference to other people. Every body knows, that if there _is_ a month of the year in which the Country puts forth less claims than usual to the undivided love of her admirers, it is November. But people of fashion never yet pretended either to love or admire any thing--even themselves;--any thing but that abstraction of abstractions from which they take their title. Accordingly, to them the Country is as much the Country in November as ever it was, simply because London is not yet London. In short, to be in London, is to be _in the world_; and to be in the Country, or any where else but in London, is to be _out of the world_; and therefore, to say that one is "in the Country," when it is not decorous to be in London, is a mere _façon de parler_, exactly equivalent to that of "not at home," when one does not choose to be seen; so that there is no difficulty whatever in being "in town" all the year round, and yet "out of town," exactly when it is proper and becoming to be so.

But if the world of fashion belongs exclusively to London, luckily London does not belong exclusively to the world of fashion; and if that has not yet began to enlighten London with its presence, all the other worlds have. Accordingly, now its streets revive from their late suspended animation, and are alive with anxious faces, and musical with the mingled sounds of many wheels.

Now, the Shops begin to shine out with their new Winter wares; though as yet the chief profits of their owners depend on disposing of the "Summer stock" at fifty per cent. under prime cost.

Now, the Theatres, admonished by their no longer empty benches, try which shall be the first to break through that hollow truce on the strength of which they have hitherto been acting only on alternate nights.

Now, during the first week, the citizens see visions and dream dreams, the burthens of which are Barons of Beef; and the first eight days are passed in a state of pleasing perplexity, touching their chance of a ticket for the Lord Mayor's Dinner on the ninth.

Now, all the little boys give thanks in their secret hearts to Guy Faux, for having attempted to burn "the Parliament" with "Gunpowder, treason, and plot," since the said attempt gives them occasion to burn every thing they can lay their hands on,--their own fingers included: a bonfire being, in the eyes of an English schoolboy, the true "beauteous and sublime of human life."

Finally,--now the atmosphere of London begins to thicken overhead, and assume its _natural_ appearance--preparatory to its becoming, about Christmas time, that "palpable obscure" which is one of its proudest boasts; and which, among its other merits, may reckon that of engendering those far-famed Fogs of which everybody has heard, but to which no one has ever done justice. A London Fog in November is a thing for which I have a sort of natural affection;--to say nothing of an acquired one, the result of a Hackney-coach adventure, in which the fair part of the fare threw herself into my arms for protection, amidst the pleasing horrors of an overthrow.--As an affair of mere breath, there is something tangible in a London Fog. In the evanescent air of Italy, a man might as well not breathe at all, for any thing he knows of the matter. But in a well-mixed Metropolitan Fog there is something substantial, and satisfying. You can feel what you breathe, and see it too. It is like breathing water,--as we may fancy the fishes to do. And then the taste of it, when dashed with a due seasoning of sea-coal smoke, is far from insipid. It is also meat and drink at the same time; something between egg-flip and omelette soufflée, but much more digestible than either. Not that I would recommend it medicinally,--especially to persons of queasy stomachs, delicate nerves, and afflicted with bile. But for persons of a good robust habit of body, and not dainty withal--(which such, by the by, never are)--there is nothing better in its way. And it wraps you all round like a cloak, too--a patent water-proof one, which no rain ever penetrated.

No--I maintain that a real London Fog is a thing not to be sneezed at--if you can help it.

_Mem._ As many spurious imitations of the above are abroad,--such as Scotch Mists, and the like--which are no less deleterious than disagreeable,--please to ask for the "True London Particular," as manufactured by Thames, Coal-gas, Smoke, Steam, and Co. No others are genuine.

DECEMBER.

My pleasant task approaches to its pleasant close; for it is pleasant to approach the close of _any_ task--even a pleasant one. The beautiful Spring is almost forgotten in the anticipation of that which is to come. The bright Summer is no more thought of, than is the glow of the morning sunshine at night-fall. The rich Autumn only just lingers on the memory, as the last red rays of its evenings do when they have but just quitted the eye. And Winter is once more closing his cloud-canopy over all things, and breathing forth that sleep-compelling breath which is to wrap all in a temporary oblivion, no less essential to their healthful existence than is the active vitality which it for a while supersedes.

Of the mere external appearances and operations of Nature I shall have comparatively little to say in connexion with this month, because many of the former have been anticipated in January, while the latter is for the most part a negation throughout the whole realms of animate as well as inanimate nature.

The Meadows are still green--almost as green as in the Spring, with the late-sprouted grass that the last rains have called up, since it has been fed off, and the Cattle called home to enjoy their winter fodder. The Corn-fields, too, are bright with their delicate sprinkling of young autumn-sown Wheat; the ground about the Hedge-rows, and in the young Copses, is still pleasant to look upon, from the sobered green of the hardy Primrose and Violet, whose clumps of unfading leaves brave the utmost rigour of the season; and every here and there a bush of Holly darts up its pyramid of shining leaves and brilliant berries, from amidst the late wild and wandering, but now faded and forlorn company of Woodbines and Eglantines, which have all the rest of the year been exulting over and almost hiding it, with their quick-growing branches and flaunting flowers. The Evergreens, too, that assist in forming the home enclosures, have altogether lost that sombre hue which they have until lately worn--sombre in comparison with the bright freshness of Spring and the splendid variety of Autumn; and now, that not a leaf is left around them, they look as gay by the contrast as they lately looked grave.

Now, the high-piled Turnip cart is seen labouring along the narrow lanes, or stands ready with its white load in the open field, waiting to be borne to the expectant Cattle that are safely stalled and sheltered for the season; while, for the few that are still permitted to remain at the mercy of the inclement skies, and to make their unwholesome bed upon the drenched earth, the moveable Hay-rack is daily filled with its fragrant store, and the open shed but poorly supplies the place of the warm and well-roofed stalls of the Straw-yard.

Now, too, some of the younger members of the herd (for the old ones know by experience that it is not worth the trouble), seeing the tempting green of the next field through the leafless Hedge-rows, break their way through, and find the fare as bitter and as scanty as that which they have left.

Now, the Hazels throw out their husky blossoms from their bare branches,--looking, as they hang straight down, like a dark rain arrested in its descent; and the Furze flings out its bright yellow flowers upon the otherwise bare common, like little gleams of sunshine; and the Moles ply their mischievous night-work in the dry meadows; and the green Plover "whistles o'er the lea;" and the Snipes haunt the marshy grounds; and the Wag-tails twinkle about near the spring-heads; and the Larks get together in companies, and talk to each other, instead of singing to themselves; and the Thrush occasionally puts forth a plaintive note, as if half afraid of the sound of his own voice; and the Hedge-sparrow and Titmouse try to sing; and the Robin does sing still, even more delightfully than he has done during all the rest of the year, because it now seems as if he sang for us rather than for himself--or rather _to_ us, for it is still for his supper that he sings, and therefore for himself.

There is no place so desolate as the Orchard this month; for none of the fruit-trees have any beauty _as trees_, at their best; and now, they have not a leaf left to cover their unsightly nakedness.

Not so with the Kitchen Garden; _that_, if it has been duly attended to, is full of interest this month,--especially by comparison with the scenes of decay and barrenness by which it is surrounded. The Fruit Trees on the walls are all nailed out with the most scrupulous regularity; and by them, as much as by any thing else, may you now judge of the skill and assiduity of your gardener. Indeed this is of all others the month in which _his_ merits are put to the test, and in which they often seem to vie with those of Nature herself. Anybody may have a handsome garden from May to September; but only those who deserve one can have it from September to May. Now, then, the walls are all covered with their wide-spread fruit fans; the Celery beds stretch out their unbroken lines of fresh-looking green; the late-planted Lettuces look trim and erect upon the sheltered borders where they are to stand the Winter, and be ready, not to open, but to shut up their young hearts at the first warm breath of Spring; the green strings of autumn-sown Peas scarcely lift their tender downward-turning stems above the dark soil; the hardy Endives spread out their now full-grown heads of fantastically curled leaves, or stand tied up from the sun and air, doing the penance necessary to acquire for them that agreeable state of unhealthiness without which (like modern fine ladies who contrive to blanch themselves in a similar manner, and by similar means) our squeamish appetites could not relish them; the Cauliflower, Brocoli, and Kale plants, maintain their unbroken ranks; and, finally, even the Cabbages themselves (Mr. Brummel being self-banished to Boulogne, and therefore not within hearing, I may venture to say it), even the young Cabbages themselves contrive to look genteel, in virtue of their as yet heartless state; which is, in fact, the secret of all gentility, whether in a Cabbage or a Countess.

As to the Flower-garden this month, it looks a picture either of pleasantness or of poverty, according to the degree of care and skill which has been bestowed upon it; for though Nature wills that we shall enjoy her beauties during a certain period of the year, whether we use any efforts towards the obtaining them or not, yet she lays it down as a general principle, in regard to her gifts, that to seek them, is at once to deserve, to have, and to enjoy them; and that without such seeking, we shall only have just enough to make us sigh after more. Accordingly, her sun shines with equal warmth upon the Gardens of the just and the unjust; and her rains fertilise the Fields of all alike. In short, as it is with the loveliest of her works, Woman, her favours are to be obtained by assiduous seeking alone; her love is the reward, not of riches, nor beauty, nor power, nor even of virtue, but of love alone. No man ever gave a woman his entire love, and sought hers in return, that he did not, to a certain extent, obtain it; and no man ever paid similar court to Nature, and came away empty handed.

But we are wandering from the Garden; which should not be, even at this least attractive of all its seasons; for though the honours which it offers to the close of the year cannot vie with those which it scatters so profusely about the footsteps of the Spring, we shall find them full of interest and beauty, where we find them at all.

Now, then, if the frosts have not set in, the Garden contains, or ought to contain, a numerous variety of the Chinese Chrysanthemums, which resemble and take the place of the more glaring, but less delicately constructed China-asters. The most beautiful of these is the Snow-white, looking, with its radii of different lengths, like a lighted catherine-wheel. To have these in any perfection, however, their growth must have been a little retarded by art; for their natural time of blowing is during the last month. But it must be remembered, that the Winter Garden is an affair of Art assisted by Nature, rather than of Nature assisted by Art. So that I doubt, after all, whether I shall not be overstepping the path I had marked out for myself, in describing what a Winter Garden _may be_. As this is what I would, above all things, avoid, let me at once refrain from pointing out any thing but what _must_ be found in my prototype, Nature, under ordinary circumstances; for I would rather omit from my portraits much of what their originals do contain, than introduce into them any thing that they do not. And, even with this restriction, we shall find the Garden replete with pleasant objects.

The Annuals, even the latest blowing, have all been rooted up, and their straggling stems cleared away; all, except perhaps a few lingering Marigolds, and some clumps of Mignonette, that will go on blowing till the frost cuts them off. The Geraniums that were turned into the open ground in the Autumn, to fill up the vacancies left by the falling off of the early annuals, are still in flower, always provided there has not yet been a night's sharp frost: if there has, they have all withered beneath its (to them) baleful influence, as if by magic. The same may be said of the Dahlias, with this difference,--that the destruction of their luxuriant upper and visible growth is but the renewal of the vigorous vitality that lies hid for a season in their self-generating roots.

Now, the Monthly, or China Rose, begins to be again appreciated. It has been flowering all the Summer long for its own peculiar satisfaction, and almost unnoticed amidst the flush of fresher looking beauty that surrounded it. But now, its pale blossoms, with their faint perfume, are the favourites of the Garden; and a whole company of them, wreathing about a low trellised porch, make a momentary Summer in the most wintry of scenes.

Finally, now, every here and there, start up those stray gifts which have "no business" to be seen at this season, but which, like fragments of blue sky scattered among black overhanging clouds, remind us of the beautiful whole to which they belong. I mean the little precocious Primroses, Snowdrops, &c. that sometimes during this month find, or rather lose, their way from their Winter homes, where they ought now to be hiding, and peep up with their pale faces, as if in search of that Spring which they will now never see.

* * * * *

If there is no denying that the Country is at its worst during this much abused month, it must be conceded, in return, that London is at its best: for at what other time is it so difficult and disagreeable to get along the streets? and when are they so perfumed with the peculiar odour of their own mud, and is their atmosphere so rich in the various "choice compounds" with which it always abounds?

But even these are far from being the prime merits of the Metropolis, at this season of its best Saturnalia. The little boys from school have again taken undisputed possession of all its pleasant places; and the loud laughter of unchecked joy once more explodes on spots from whence, with these exceptions, it has long since been exploded. In short, Christmas, which has been "coming" all the year (like a waiter at an inn), is at last actually come; and "merry England" is, for a little while, no longer a phrase of mockery and scorn.

The truth is, we English have fewer faults than any other people on earth; and even among those which we have, our worst enemies will not impute to us an idle and insane levity of deportment. We still for the most part, as we did five hundred years ago, _nous amusons tristement, sêlon l'usage de notre pays_. We do our pleasures, as we do our duties, with grave faces and solemn airs, and disport ourselves in a manner becoming our notions of the dignity of human nature. We feel at the theatre as if it were a church, and consequently at church as if it were a theatre. Our processions to a rout move at the same rate as those to a funeral, and there are, in proportion, as many sincere mourners at the former as the latter. We dance on the same principle as that on which our soldiers do the manual exercise; and there is as much (and as little) of impulse in the one as the other. And we fight on the same principle as we dance; namely, because circumstances require it of us.

All this is true of us under ordinary circumstances. But the arrival of Christmas-time is _not_ an ordinary circumstance; and therefore _now_ it is none of it true. We are merry-makers once more, and feel that we can now afford to play the fool for a week, since we have so religiously persisted in playing the philosopher during all the rest of the year. Be it expressly understood, however, by all those "surrounding nations" who may happen to meet with this candid confession of our weakness in the above particular, that we permit ourselves to fall into it in favour of our children alone. They (poor things!) being as yet at so pitiable a distance from "years of discretion," cannot be supposed to have achieved the enviable discovery, that happiness is a thing utterly beneath the attention of a reasoning and reasonable being. Accordingly, they know no medium between happiness and misery; and when they are not enjoying the one, they are suffering the other.

But that English parents, generally speaking, love their children better than themselves, is another national merit which I must claim for them. The consequence of this is natural and necessary, and brings us safely round to the point from which we started: an English father and mother, rather than their offspring should not be happy at Christmas-time, will consent to be happy at that time themselves! It does not last long; and surely a week or so spent in a state of foolish felicity may hope to be expiated by a whole year of unimpeachable indifference! This, then, is the secret of the Christmas holiday-making, among the "better sort" of English families,--as they are pleased somewhat invidiously to call themselves.

Now, then (to resume our details), "the raven down" of metropolitan darkness is "smoothed" every midnight "till it smiles," by that pleasant relic of past times, "the waits;" which wake us with their low wild music mingling with the ceaseless sealike sound of the streets; or (still better) lull us to sleep with the same; or (best of all) make us dream of music all night long, without waking us at all.

Now, too, the Bellman plies his more profitable but less pleasant parallel with the above; nightly urging his "masters and mistresses" to the practice of every virtue under heaven, and in his own mind prospectively including them all in the pious act of adding an extra sixpence to his accustomed stipend.