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.
But we have some other pretty sights belonging to the open country,
which must not be passed over; and one which the whole year, in point of
time, and the whole world, in point of place, can scarcely parallel. The
Sunsets of September in this country are perhaps unrivalled, for their
infinite variety, and their indescribable beauty. Those of more southern
countries may perhaps match, or even surpass them, for a certain glowing
and unbroken intensity. But for gorgeous variety of form and colour,
exquisite delicacy of tint and pencilling, and a certain placid
sweetness and tenderness of general effect, which frequently arises out
of a union of the two latter, there is nothing to be seen like what we
can show in England at this season of the year. If a painter, who was
capable of doing it to the utmost perfection, were to dare depict on
canvas one out of twenty of the Sunsets that we frequently have during
this month, he would be laughed at for his pains. And the reason is,
that people judge of pictures by pictures. They compare Hobbima with
Ruysdael, and Ruysdael with Wynants, and Wynants with Wouvermans, and
Wouvermans with Potter, and Potter with Cuyp; and then they think the
affair can proceed no farther. And the chances are, that if you were to
show one of the sunsets in question to a thorough-paced connoisseur in
this department of Fine Art, he would reply, that it was very
beautiful, to be sure, but that he must beg to doubt whether it was
_natural_, for he had never seen one like it in any of the old masters!
Another singular sight belonging to this period, is the occasional
showers of gossamer that fall from the upper regions of the air, and
cover every thing like a veil of woven silver. You may see them
descending through the sunshine, and glittering and flickering in it,
like rays of another kind of light. Or if you are in time to observe
them before the Sun has dried the dew from off them in the early
morning, they look like robes of fairy tissue-work, gemmed with
innumerable jewels.
Now, too, Thistle-down, and the beautiful winged seeds of the Dandelion,
float along through the calm air upon their voyages of discovery, as if
instinct with life.
Now, among the Birds, we have something like a renewal of the Spring
melodies. In particular, the Thrush and Blackbird, who have been silent
for several weeks, recommence their songs,--bidding good bye to the
Summer, in the same subdued tone in which they hailed her approach.
Finally, in connexion with the open country, now Wood-owls hoot louder
than ever; and the Lambs bleat shrilly from the hill-side to their
neglectful dams; and the thresher's Flail is heard from the unseen barn;
and the plough-boy's whistle comes through the silent air from the
distant upland; and Snakes leave their last year's skins in the
brakes--literally creeping out at their own mouths; and Acorns drop in
showers from the oaks, at every wind that blows; and Hazel-nuts ask to
be plucked, so invitingly do they look forth from their green dwellings;
and, lastly, the evenings close in too quickly upon the walks to which
their serene beauty invites us, and the mornings get chilly, misty, and
damp.
Thanks to the art of the cultivator, we shall find the Garden almost as
gay with flowers as it was last month; for many of those of last month
still remain; and a few, and those among the most gorgeous that blow,
have only just opened. The chief of these latter is the China-aster; the
superb _Reine Marguerite_, whose endless variety of stars shoot up in
rich clusters, and glow like so many lighted catherine-wheels. The great
climbing Convolvulus also hangs out its beautiful cups among its smooth
and clustering leaves; and the rich aromatic Scabious lifts up its
glowing purple flowers on their lithe stems; and the profuse Dahlia,
that beautiful novelty, which was till so lately almost unknown to us,
scatters about its rich double and single blooms, some of them so
intense in colour that they seem to _glow_ as you look upon them. And
lastly, now the pendulous Amaranth hangs its gentle head despondingly,
and tells its tender tale almost as pathetically as the poem to which it
gives a name[3].
[3] "O'Connor's Child; or the Flower of Love lies Bleeding."
Among the flowering Shrubs, too, we have now some of the most beautiful
at their best. In particular, the Althea Frutex, and the Arbutus, or
Strawberry-tree.
As for the Fruit Garden, _that_ is one scene of tempting profusion.
Against the wall, the Grapes have put on that transparent look which
indicates their complete ripeness, and have dressed their cheeks in that
delicate bloom which enables them to bear away the bell of beauty from
all their rivals.--The Peaches and Nectarines have become fragrant, and
the whole wall where they hang is "musical with bees."--Along the
Espaliers, the rosy-cheeked Apples look out from among their leaves,
like laughing children peeping at each other through screens of foliage;
and the young standards bend their straggling boughs to the earth with
the weight of their produce.
* * * * *
Quitting the Country, we shall find London but ill qualified to
compensate us for the losses we have sustained there; and if there be
any reason in betaking oneself to places at the seaside, that are
neither London nor the Country, now is the time to do it--as the
citizens of London, and the liberties thereof, know full well.
Accordingly, now the mansions in Finsbury and Devonshire Squares on the
East, and Queen and Russell on the West, are changed for mouse-traps
(miscalled marine villas); and the tradesman who does not send his wife
and family to wash themselves in sea-water cannot be doing well in the
world. Now, therefore, the Brighton boarding-houses bask in the sunshine
of city favour, always provided their drawing-rooms look upon the sea;
and if you pass them on a warm afternoon about five o'clock, you may see
their dining-room windows wide open, and their inmates acting a
picturesque passage in one of Mr. Wordsworth's pastorals:
"There are forty feeding like one."
But if the citizens (because they cannot help it) permit their wives and
daughters to be in their glory, _out_ of London at this period, they
permit their apprentices, for the same reason, to be so _in_ it: for now
arrives that Saturnalia of nondescript noise and nonconformity, Bartlemy
Fair;--when that Prince of peace-officers, the Lord Mayor, changes his
sword of state into a sixpenny trumpet, and becomes the Lord of Misrule
and the patron of pickpockets; and Lady Holland's name leads an
unlettered mob instead of a lettered one; when Mr. Richardson maintains,
during three whole days and a half, a managerial supremacy that must be
not a little enviable even in the eyes of Mr. Elliston himself; and Mr.
Gyngell holds, during the same period, a scarcely less distinguished
station as the Apollo of servant-maids; when "the incomparable (not to
say _eternal_) _young_ Master Saunders" rides on horseback to the
admiration of all beholders, in the person of his eldest son; and when
all the giants in the land, and the dwarfs too, make a general muster,
and each proves to be, according to the most correct measurement, at
least a foot taller or shorter than any other in the fair, and, in fact,
the only one worth seeing,--"all the rest being impostors!" In short,
when every booth in the fair combines in itself the attractions of all
the rest, and so perplexes with its irresistible merit the rapt
imagination of the half-holiday schoolboys who have got but sixpence to
spend upon the whole, that they eye the outsides of each in a state of
pleasing despair, till their leave of absence is expired twice over, and
then return home filled with visions of giants and gingerbread-nuts, and
dream all night long of what they have _not_ seen.
_Au reste_, London must needs be but a sorry place in September, when
even its substantial shopkeepers are ashamed to be seen in it, and when
a careful porter may, if he pleases, carry a load on his head from Saint
Paul's to the Mansion House, without damaging the heads of more than
half a dozen pedestrians.
As for the West End at this period, it looks like a model of itself,
seen through a magnifying glass--every thing is so sad, silent, and
empty of life. The vacant windows look blank at each other across the
way; the doors and their knockers are no more at variance; the porters
sleep away the heavy hours in their easy chairs, leaving the rings to be
answered from the area; and if you want to cross the street, you look
both ways first, for fear of being run over--thinking, from the absolute
stillness, that the stones of the pavement have been put to silence by
the art-magic of Mr. Macadam.
But notwithstanding all this, the Winter Theatres, having permitted
their Summer rivals to play to empty benches for nearly three months,
now put in their claim to share this pleasing privilege, lest it should
be supposed that they too cannot afford to lose a hundred pounds a night
as well as their inferiors. Accordingly, every body can have orders now
(except those who ask for them); and the pit is the only place for those
who are above sitting on the same bench with their boot-maker.
Let us not forget to add, that there is _one_ part of London which is
never out of season, and is never more _in_ season than now. Covent
Garden Market is still the Garden of Gardens; and as there is not a
month in all the year in which it does not contrive to belie something
or other that has been said in the foregoing pages, as to the
particular season of certain flowers, fruits, &c. so now it offers the
flowers and the fruits of every season united. How it becomes possessed
of all these, I shall not pretend to say: but thus much I am bound to
add by way of information,--that those ladies and gentlemen who have
country houses in the neighbourhood of Clapham Common or Camberwell
Grove, may now have the pleasure of eating the best fruit out of their
own Gardens--provided they choose to pay the price of it in Covent
Garden Market!